y. He
loved the Church. If she tried to get out of him, what he
believed, then they were both soon in a white rage.

Did he believe the water turned to wine at Cana? She would
drive him to the thing as a historical fact: so much
rain-water-look at it--can it become grape-juice, wine? For
an instant, he saw with the clear eyes of the mind and said no,
his clear mind, answering her for a moment, rejected the idea.
And immediately his whole soul was crying in a mad, inchoate
hatred against this violation of himself. It was true for him.
His mind was extinguished again at once, his blood was up. In
his blood and bones, he wanted the scene, the wedding, the water
brought forward from the firkins as red wine: and Christ saying
to His mother: "Woman, what have I to do with thee?--mine
hour is not yet come."

And then:

"His mother saith unto the servants, 'Whatsoever he saith
unto you, do it.'"

Brangwen loved it, with his bones and blood he loved it, he
could not let it go. Yet she forced him to let it go. She hated
his blind attachments.

Water, natural water, could it suddenly and unnaturally turn
into wine, depart from its being and at haphazard take on
another being? Ah no, he knew it was wrong.

She became again the palpitating, hostile child, hateful,
putting things to destruction. He became mute and dead. His own
being gave him the lie. He knew it was so: wine was wine, water
was water, for ever: the water had not become wine. The miracle
was not a real fact. She seemed to be destroying him. He went
out, dark and destroyed, his soul running its blood. And he
tasted of death. Because his life was formed in these
unquestioned concepts.

She, desolate again as she had been when she was a child,
went away and sobbed. She did not care, she did not care whether
the water had turned to wine or not. Let him believe it if he
wanted to. But she knew she had won. And an ashy desolation came
over her.

They were ashenly miserable for some time. Then the life
began to come back. He was nothing if not dogged. He thought
again of the chapter of St. John. There was a great biting pang.
"But thou hast kept the good wine until now." "The best wine!"
The young man's heart responded in a craving, in a triumph,
although the knowledge that it was not true in fact bit at him
like a weasel in his heart. Which was stronger, the pain of the
denial, or the desire for affirmation? He was stubborn in
spirit, and abode by his desire