How Green Was My Valley by Richard Llewellyn July 21, 2022

 

How Green Was My Valley, first edition cover 1939

How Green Was My Valley (HGWMV) was quite a phenomenon as a novel in 1939, and later as a film directed by John Ford in 1941. The novel kept the author, Richard Llewellyn, in clover. He who once worked as a dishwasher in Claridges Hotel, later lived in a suite at the same hotel after his commercial success.

He claimed to be Welsh, a miner’s son, but inquiry has shown he was born in London to an innkeeper and had no first-hand experience of the life of coal miners. His real name was Vivian Lloyd. What knowledge he had of Welsh miners came from a family who ran a bookshop in London. Their three sons would regale Llewellyn with stories of their father's experiences in a Welsh coal mine. More remarkable even is the fact that it was written in India while the author was stationed there with the British military just before WWII.

Richard Llewellyn did his research, as novelists are meant to do. These days critics look askance at authors or musicians appropriating from cultures other than their own. But this may be shortchanging the imaginative artist who can be from anywhere, but with sufficient gathering of knowledge and study can enter into a different time, a different culture and dwell so long in imagination there that it becomes their own. 

The village highlighted in How Green Was My Valley may have been based on Gilfach Goch in southern Wales

Th novel does romanticise the miserable lives which real miners led in those times in the pits, but that is an author’s prerogative to spin a story with imaginative recreation. The factual errors and the varnishing that the author wilfully wrote to make the novel more appealing is documented in this article in The Guardian. 

Clearly the story as told attracted the public even if the Welsh miners did not recognise themselves in the novel. It not only charmed the readers who have kept it in print, but it also became a multiple Oscar winning film in 1941. The novel has been translated into scores of languages. The film starred Maureen O'Hara (as Angharad) and a young Roddy McDowell as Huw, and was filmed in Malibu, California. It won six Oscars and was adapted twice for BBC television. A musical was also made.

Maureen O'Hara as Angharad, Walter Pidgeon as the pastor, Mr. Gruffydd

In the modern context of Climate Change, coal is the worst fossil fuel that causes global warming. Where it once was the major source of power generation in UK, new policies such as European Union’s directives for clean air have succeeded in limiting coal to a few percent in terms of power generation in UK. It is as good as dead there although it thrives in markets like India where the percentage of power generation from coal was ~80% in 2021, in China ~64%, and in the United States ~20%.

A brooch, set with a garnet, on a lover's knot of gold – the present that Huw gave Bron

Some of the readers noted the bucolic scenes of nature painted in words by Richard Llewellyn. They make good reading. But all the romances in the novel are ill-fated and presage the unhappy ending. Three sequels followed but none had the success of HGWMV. 

Several of the readers were familiar with the novel from their youth, but reading it again decades later made the poignancy of the story and the complexity of the inner lives of the characters stand out. There was humour too and everyone enjoyed the readings and discussions … many thanks to Shobha and Zakia who selected the novel.

Dai Bando and Cyfartha Lewis are appointed to teach Huw how to box

Full Account and Record of the Reading on July 21, 2022

Richard Llewellyn (Richard Dafydd Vivian Llewellyn Lloyd) 1907-1983

(National Portrait Gallery photo by Howard Coster)

Author Bio

(by Shoba)
Richard Llewelyn was a British novelist. He was born on Dec 8, 1906 and died on Nov 30, 1983 in Dublin. His parents were Welsh and his grandparents lived in Wales. The author had spent time Wales with his grandparents. Several of his novels dealt with a Welsh theme. 

How Green Was My Valley (HGWMV ) was written in 1939. Three sequels followed. HGWMV was made into a Hollywood film in 1941, directed by John Ford. The fictional village in the film is based on Gilfach Goch where Llewellyn spent many summers visiting his grandparents, and it served as the inspiration for the novel. The film was nominated for ten Academy awards and won five, beating Citizen Kane and The Maltese Falcon for the best picture. It was deemed culturally, historically, and aesthetically, significant and preserved in the Academy’s Film Archive.

HGWMV is a nostalgic depiction of the large family of a Welsh coal miner, and describes the way of life in a coal mining village at the close of the nineteenth century. A young boy Huw recounts the events in his large family, his school life and growing up. The problems faced by the people and the social and environmental issues confronting them, such as low wages, and the accumulation of slag (the waste from coal mines) which spoils the beauty of the valley, are mentioned in the book.

The Welsh are a Celtic race, whose ancestors also occupied Ireland, Scotland and Brittany in France. They are proud of Welsh, a Celtic language. Saint Lucius, a legendary 2nd-century King of the Britons is traditionally credited with introducing Christianity into Britain in the tenure of Pope Eleutherius (ca. 180 CE), although this is disputed. 

Singing in chorus is a significant part of Welsh national identity and the region is traditionally referred to as the “Land of Song.” Choral singing in male voice choirs and arena singing during sporting events are famous Welsh traditions to this day. Singing is a prominent feature in the film also.

Pamela

Pamela chose to read from chapter 4 where Huw is questioned by his dad why he went up the mountain.

This passage brings out the beautiful relationship between father and son, similar to what she had with her father in childhood. She too behaved exactly like this whenever she disobeyed her father and went against his command.

Every time she was caught and admonished, she only loved him more because he would deal with the situation gently but firmly.

Pamela liked the last part of the passage the best: “But thinking back now, I hear my father's voice as he spoke then, so sad and soft, as though he had known and seen.” Huw's father had probably seen him going out and knew why he had gone, but as a loving father, he waited for him to get back to explain: that he would understand matters better when he became a man. Until then he should stay away from harm as a boy.

Later on, towards the end of the book, Huw says “Men like my father cannot die. They are with me still, real in memory as they were in flesh, loving and beloved forever. How green was my valley then.”

Huw’s deep feeling for his father had developed from the incident related in this passage. 

Thomo

Thomo said that he had first read How Green Was My Valley while he was still in school which was more than 50 years ago. He admitted that he quite enjoyed reading it again. He also enjoyed the movie – the 1941 film directed by John Ford starring Walter Pidgeon. Apparently Twentieth Century Fox wanted to shoot it in colour and film it in Wales, where the story is set. But the onset of WWII put paid to both ideas.

John Ford is well known for The Grapes of Wrath and westerns like Stagecoach, which may be why they chose the hills of Malibu, California, when they could not film it in Wales.

Malibu Hills, California, only 40 miles from Hollywood

The passage Thomo selected, which is at the end of Chapter 5, interested him for two reasons. One, it describes the several ways Huw’s father had of clearing his throat. Thomo admitted that he didn’t know there could be so many ways of hawking.

Second, we are privy to the reason the father asked his sons to leave their home, but is reconciled to their returning – as lodgers though, himself included. This was rather interesting and revealing about the father-son relationship. 

Saras

HGWMV is a coming-of-age story set in an unnamed Welsh mining village in the late 19th and early 20th century.  The story is narrated by teen-aged Huw Morgan, the youngest son in a family of eight where his father, Gwilym Morgan, is the staunch patriarch but it is the loving mother, Beth, who holds the family together. Huw, gifted and scholarly, is expected to acquire an advanced education and enter on a professional career, away from the mines. However, events lead to his deciding to join his father and brother in the mines, though ultimately, he turns to carpentry as a profession.

The novel gives us a glimpse of life in the peaceful mining village and how the events that take place in the wide world outside, affect the quiet rhythm of life there. The unionisation of the mines is one of the major issues, an issue over which the family is sharply divided. The father and the elder brother Ivor represent the old guard which wants changes but slowly, with reason, patience and prayer, whereas the younger guard led by the impetuous son Davy, one of the leaders of the union, wants change and wants it fast.

Faith, love, village life, music, Welsh identity, poverty, the migration of a community, and the effects of pollution are all topics brought out beautifully in the book. Huw is very disturbed about the ever-increasing slag heap within their village and the contamination of the rivers. It is a recurring topic in the novel. In the beginning of the book, where Huw is presumably a young man leaving his village, the slag heap has reached outside Morgan house and will soon swallow it. In fact, Saras felt that even 120 years later, pollution continues with its detrimental effect on the environment. Things have changed, but at bottom everything remains the same. Big industry has its tentacles everywhere.  

The passage Saras chose to read is the part where the preacher Mr Gruffydd, takes Huw on his first trip out of the house after being bed-ridden for nearly two years, to see the early daffodils. It is a testament to the determination of young Huw and an indication of how close the preacher is to the members of this little village. Apart from sermons on Sundays in the church, he also is a part of each family there and very involved in their lives. Truly a shepherd of the flock. 

Huw (Roddy McDowell) and Grufydd (Walter Pidgeon)  go to pick daffodils

Huw’s determination to get out of the bed he has been lying in for the past 2 years is shown by having his clothes ready to wear, under his pillow, when the preacher said he was coming to take Huw to see the daffodils. The mother, though apprehensive, does not object, not wishing to contradict the preacher. It says much about the trust they have in him.

Copy of the novel identical to the one that belonged to Saras’ grandmother. 

A Welsh poppy flower

The description of the scene where Huw sees the daffodils on the hill reminded Saras of Wordsworth’s poem on daffodils, I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud.

HGWMV is a lyrical book, with beautiful descriptions about a way of life that has all but disappeared. It has been criticised for historical inaccuracy and cultural misrepresentation, but Saras felt ultimately it is a work of fiction and should be judged as such.

Zakia

Zakia chose an incident that takes place in the chapel. The deacons are very harsh on a young woman, Meillyn Lewis, who goes up the mountain to meet her lover, a married man. The deacons with their head Mr. Parry as their spokesman treat her as a harlot and condemn her before the congregation:

“Your body was the trap of the Devil and you allowed temptation to visit you. Now you bring an illegitimate child into the world against the commandment of God: Thou shalt not commit adultery. Prayer is wasted on your sort and you are not fit to enter the House of God. You shall be cast forth into the outer darkness until you have learned your lesson.”

Meillyn Lewis replies: “Oh, there is sorry I am. Have pity. I will never do it again, God knows.” But the head deacon promises she shall have no mercy.

At this point Huw in bold, and pipes up using his knowledge of the Scriptures:

“Thou hypocrite,” I shouted up at him, and indeed surprised at my high voice. “First cast out the beam out of thine own eye and then shalt thou see clearly to cast out the mote out of thy brother’s eye. But woe unto you, Scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites, for ye shut up the Kingdom of Heaven against men, for ye neither go in yourselves, neither suffer ye them that are entering to go in. Woe unto you, Scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites, for ye are like unto whited sepulchres, which indeed appear beautiful outward, but are within full of dead men’s bones, and of all uncleanness. Even so ye also outwardly appear righteous unto men, but within ye are full of hypocrisy and iniquity. Ye serpents, ye generation of vipers, how can ye escape the damnation of Hell? Behold your house is left unto you desolate.”

Huw can’t understand why the woman’s lover is let off.

His father upbraids him for speaking out: “You rascal,” he said, “you rascal. You would dare do such a thing?” 

He shuts up Huw. But his mother, Beth, has a contrary response: “Good,” she said. “Good, my little one. Your Mama is so glad, she could scream.”

Later Mr Gruffydd,, the pastor, speaks to Huw: “Something happened yesterday in the House,” he said, “which I still think I dreamt. A boy spoke in a matter of which he was ignorant. He raised his voice. He spoke without permission. He interrupted. He was offensive.”

But Huw is not convinced:

“They were cruel to her,” I said, and the heat was in my throat again to think of it. “And all those men were groaning and nodding to make her hurt more. That was not the Word of God. Go thou, and sin no more, Jesus said.” 

“You know your Bible too well and life too little,” said Mr. Gruffydd. “Let there be moderation in all things, Saint Paul said, and a more sensible man never trod the earth.” 

“But why did you allow it, Mr. Gruffydd?” I asked him, and I was feeling injustice stiff in me. “Because I am a pastor,” said Mr. Gruffydd, with sadness in his voice. “But I will change their foolishness in my good time and without the help of Huw Morgan.”

Zakia felt she could have read more than her short dialogue between Huw and Mr. Gruffydd, including the  fine descriptions of the Valley. She related the incident to our present value systems where we too were not allowed to speak up even when we knew something was wrong. There was a tradition the elders felt they had to follow. But sometimes, young or old, you have to speak up when you see a great injustice. Huw did make a wave. Saras remarked that things have not really changed, a point that struck her throughout while reading the novel. Zakia agreed that structure of family and society hasn’t changed – perhaps it’s ingrained in us. We are not bold enough to make the changes. They had to maintain a structure in their community in the mining town in order to quell violations of the norm.

KumKum added it reflects a time from the past; it is not like that today anywhere in the West. Adultery between willing adults is within the civil law.

Devika

Devika really enjoyed the session on HGWMV. She found the chosen passage very amusing. Here was Beth Morgan who had the final say in all matters concerning her home and family. A super confident woman, she was totally lost when her son Huw had to learn decimals, It annoyed her that her husband and son understood decimals but she just couldn't grasp the concept. Persistent she is, trying to understand but fails miserably which peeved her. She blamed the French for having discovered decimals. Beth finally wonders whether Queen Victoria knows her decimals!

Discussion

When Devika reads she makes a note, particularly of humorous passages she can go back to and select. She decided right then that she wanted to read this passage. Shoba mentioned the arithmetic problem of filling the bathtub with a hole that drains water at a certain rate, and how Beth pooh-poohs the very idea – how stupid to think of filling a bathtub that has holes! 

It was hilarious. Queen Victoria knows about decimal points and has to worry about such things along with all her other responsibilities! Beth thinks the decimal points have to belong to somebody; that’s silly thought her husband, but he names the French as the source of the ideas on decimals – which is all wrong, of course. Representing fractions as decimals dates back to antiquity and it was part of the Hindu and Chinese numeral systems, which finally arrived in Europe, via the Arabs, after they had assimilated it. Recall that decimals are impossible without the idea of zero. 

Welsh speech is structured differently; often in the book terms like ‘there is silly’ are used for ‘it is silly’; ‘there is an old beauty you are’ which would be written in standard English as ‘ you are an old beauty’, etc. These peculiar locutions of Welsh speech, apart from the sing-song intonation, are quite evident when Huw goes to the English-established national school in a nearby town. 

Saras said the downgrading of the local dialect took place wherever the English dominated in the British Isles – it took place in Ireland, in Scotland, etc. That’s the way an overbearing nation lords it over others, said Joe, trying to erase the culture of the local indigenous people via language tyranny. He took the example of the Tamil rebellion in NE Sri Lanka – it all started by the refusal to give local autonomy and self-governance over language, over education, etc to the Tamils. That’s how it starts. Take the Ukraine War. The Ukraine Parliament in 2019 excluded Russian language use for official purposes, even in the eastern region where Russian speakers are in a majority.

Shoba

The passage Shoba selected contains two significant events. Angharad gets her head stuck in a window and is rescued by pastor Gruffydd. A relationship develops, but it does not lead anywhere. Huw repairs his wooden pencil box and is complimented by Gruffydd, who remarks prophetically “You are a carpenter Huw.”

The ending remark of the passage “You are a carpenter Huw,” confirms the later fact that Huw takes on carpentry as his trade in life.

Joe said while one has sympathy for the situation of Angharad, ultimately just like Huw, she is not forced to do anything. She accepts what she thinks is her fate, whereas it was not necessarily her fate: she could have gone out and done something to change her circumstances even if the first choice did not work out. Shoba interjected that what Angharad wanted was to marry Gruffydd. Priya remarked how conservative the society was then. Someone hinted that Gruffydd was much older than her. She might have been thinking of her father also; what would people think if she married the pastor, exclaimed Arundhaty. Saras pointed out that his vocation as pastor stood in the way, as well as his lack of adequate means to sustain a family on his meagre pastor’s stipend. 

Joe said that she could have migrated to America, for instance, with Gruffydd, and married him there, if the local society refused to accept their relationship. But Gruffydd would not leave. Yet finally he is compelled to leave. People were sitting there to point fingers at them, although as Thomo pointed out nothing except conversation had been exchanged between them, yet the gossips were busy with their wagging tongues.

Geetha

Geetha chose an incident which lends comic humour to the narrative. It occurs when two prizefighter comrades, Dai Bando and Cyfartha Lewis, make a visit to the National School where Huw had been punished after joining in the 4th grade. This is taken from Chapter 19. 

Huw was made most unwelcome as a new student, his situation compounded by the fact that he was Welsh in a school where speaking the Welsh dialect was forbidden. He became a victim of bullying by his classmates. The last straw was his tormentors ruining his new pencil box, a prized possession gifted him by the pastor, Mr Gruffydd, another central character in the story. This final insult roused the fighter in Huw, and he challenged the offenders to a fistfight.

Huw took a beating. His mother groaned in despair when he got home, but his father and brothers were riled and encouraged Huw to fight back. His father teaches him the basics in boxing, and later his brother Davy engages Dai and Cyfartha to coach Huw on a regular basis. Huw's retaliation after all the training he received gave him satisfactory revenge, but the teacher, Mr Jonas, gives him a vicious caning for starting a fight.

Dai notices the welts on Huw's back during the next practice and gleans from him the source of the lacerations. Dai Bando and Cyfartha Lewis lost no time in visiting the school and what follows has been described masterfully in the selected portion. Not only can the reader not help but laugh at the comic situation when they deal with Mr Jonas in a fitting manner, but we also feel a sense of vindication for our little hero.

The community of miners in the novel has been described as close-knit, rough in their ways, hospitable beyond words, enduring hardships stoically, and fiercely loyal to their own. This is one such occasion, and they have no qualms in taking the law into their own hands to set right a horrible wrong.

Another more severe incident was the fate of Idris Atkinson who cruelly rapes and murders the little daughter of Cynlais Pritchard. No police, no courts; the community decided the fate of the offender quickly and unsparingly. ‘May no one dare perpetrate such evil’ was the belief. In the same vein, the handling of the goose thief also brings to us the sense of righteousness of this community, and their direct settling of such offences.

Geetha feels that we often feel the urge to see offenders in society dealt with in such summary fashion – be they politicians, criminals, or big time business fraudsters. And while our current legal system is undeniably more civilised, the incidents of mob justice in these stories do evoke a sense of righteous satisfaction that is often missing in real life.

Priya

The 1939 novel HGWMV by the British author Richard Llewellyn opens at a poignant moment when Huw Morgan, the teenage hero of the novel, now grown older, is packing to leave his childhood home. With a few clothes wrapped in a memorable blue kitchen cloth that was worn by his mother on her head as a bandana, he steps out.  He relives in his mind the times and lives of the Morgan family who lived in this house, where he grew up.  He muses:

“You have gone now, all of you, that were so beautiful when you were quick with life. Yet not gone, for you are still a living truth inside my mind. So how are you dead, my brothers and sisters, and all of you, when you live with me as surely as I live myself?”

Set in a picturesque valley in the mountains of South Wales, where most families were engaged in coal mining, the novel is critical of advancing industrialisation that changes the character of the land and its people, and finally wrecks their lives. The valley, symbolic of divine Nature, slowly loses its beauty and purity to man’s greed as mountains are excavated for coal – livelihoods are lost as wages fall and the black slag waste from the mines piles up and flows into the green valley.

A typical slag heap from a coal mine

“Soon, perhaps in an hour, the house will be buried, and the slag heap will stretch from the top of the mountain right down to the river in the Valley. Poor river, how beautiful you were, how gay your song, how clear your green waters, how you enjoyed your play among the sleepy rocks.” 

The selected passage, which appears in Chapter 20, concerns a friendly teasing exchange between Huw’s parents, Gwilym Morgan, the head of the family and his wife Elizabeth, called Beth in the novel. Readers are introduced to them in the first chapter when Huw reminisces about how his parents fell in love at first sight.

Three decades before, then 16-year-old Beth fell in love with 20-year-old Gwilym when she caught sight of him as he walked the street below, singing away merrily. The two got married, set up home in the valley, and had a family of six boys and three girls, Huw being the youngest. The novel expands on the lives of the family members held together by the deep bond between Beth and Gwilyn.

A deeply religious and conservative couple, the Morgans have sterling values and groom their children in the Biblical morality they live by. They are seen dealing jointly with issues faced by each child, punishing or rewarding them as the case may be. Beth is seen as a pillar of support, standing solidly behind her husband, and Gwilym, a responsible, loving head of the family with a patriarchal streak.

The two are seen as serious, sober, parents, happy, but living a hard life that allows few indulgences. They lead by example. The selected passage is about Beth and Gwilym having a light moment, teasiing each other in good humour.

On return from a victorious negotiation between the Unions and the colliery management, the strike has been called off and workers are set to return to work, and there is widespread relief. Gwilym who has led the negotiations is satisfied and happy. The family prays together, after which Gwilym asks Beth for food and a warm bed. Beth acts tough and offers Brandy Broth and an icy bed! The children watch this love tiff between their parents and it finally ends with Gwilym running up the stairs and Beth chasing him with a shovel.

Set in a cold, frosty landscape with biting winds and abounding loneliness HGWMV delights the reader with such warm and loving scenes.

The novel can be compared in some respects with DH Lawrence who deals with the life and conditions of families working in collieries in some of his novels.  

A memorable line in this context is when Gwilym tells Beth “And no man is happy who is without a good wife.” Gwilym, of course, is lucky, as he has the ideal wife who loves him, but will stand her ground when she differs!

KumKum

KumKum read this novel for the first time, many years ago. The book was loaned to her by a young Irish woman, Ruth who lived opposite her house in New Delhi. Her husband Tony Llewellyn had a 2-year posting in India from his company Siemens. They were newly married. 

KumKum liked the book even then. But reading it again with KRG, was instructive. She understood the book better. Having had the experience of living in the state of West Virginia where coal is still King., she has seen the underbelly of jobs in coal mines. Black-lung disease, not mentioned in this novel was very prevalent because mine-owners did not provide masks according to the certified standard. Poverty and illiteracy were common. In the novel Richard Llewellyn barely talks about these matters. Even the slag heaps lead to no accidents, only a scar on the countryside.

Huw's recounting of coal country is quite idyllic but he does tell you of the hunger that goes with long strikes. We read about the beauty of the Valley in all seasons, we read about the simple, yet satisfying lives of the coal-miners. Though they earned modest salaries from their hard jobs as miners, it was ample for their aspirations. Men worked in the mines, women kept their homes, kept their bathtubs ready with warm water, soap and scrubs. They raised children who, most often, wished to be miners when grown. Even the scholarly Huw decides to earn in the mines and then finds a different satisfying life as a carpenter. 

The pastor lived a poverty-stricken life, with a minimum stipend that barely met his needs. There was romance, of course! The boys of the Valley did meet girls, they got married, started new families with the support of the elders and the community. The sentimental tone of the novel is unmistakable, documenting a disappearing way of life. 

KumKum  chose to read a passage where Huw, the bright, youngest son of the Morgan family, goes down a mine with his brother Ivor. These paragraphs describe his first day in the depths of a coal mine. His family wanted him to do justice to his intellectual gifts by becoming a doctor or lawyer. Only Beth, his mother, wished that he too should follow the profession of his father and the brothers and earn his living as a coal-miner. 

“I shall be down the colliery with my father. And not long to wait, either” was his response when a well wisher wanted him to go to the University and prepare for a white collar job.

Joe

In HGWMV we are introduced to a patriarchal family where it is poetically said the father is the head but the mother is the heart. All the children obediently say ‘Yes Dada’ or ‘Yes Mama’ and are not expected to speak until spoken to. When one of the boys, Owen, at dinner table says “the way they are working the coal now is not only stupid but criminal,” he is told to mind his manners, and though Dada agrees with the opinion it was not Owen’s turn to speak. 

This leads to a degree of rebellion and some of the sons decide that have had enough, and leave to stay on their own. One of them Ianto proclaims a standard of freedom of expression that would pass today in societies that claim to be free: he says, “I will speak to you of a wrong as long as you will stand to listen. That is my right. And if you think I am wrong, stand to speak against me. That is your right, and I will never question it.”

The novel narrates the growing up of Huw, the youngest son, from primary school age to the time when he starts working as a teenager in the coal mine, forsaking his scholarly gifts to take up the same underground profession as his father and brothers. His remembered childhood is sprinkled with episodes of strikes, his budding affection for his sister-in-law Bronwen after she is widowed, the misdirection of his sister Angharad’s love, his mentorship by the pastor Gruffydd, and his schooling at the national school where we are witness to the colonial repression of the Welsh by the English.

The author seems to have had a genuine feeling for the Welsh countryside, as the title reveals. Many passages are quite lyrical:

My Valley, O my Valley, within me, I will live in you, eternally. Let Death or worse strike this mind and blindness eat these eyes if thought or sight forget you. Valley of the Shadow of Death, now, for some, but not for me, for part of me is the memory of you in your greens and browns, with everything of life happy in your deeps and shades, when you gave sweet scents to us, and sent for spices for the pot, and flowers, and birds sang out for pleasure to be with you.

We know from the beginning the novel is heading toward no good end. Priya would guess why Joe was driven to choose this passage. He merely wanted to lighten up the reading with a passage about Huw meeting Ceinwen on the mountain. Going up on the mountain has several implications in this novel, and one of them is exemplified in the passage – to meet your sweet love away from the gaze of vulgar people.

Huw (Roddy McDowell) and Ceinwen (Ann Todd) make out

A passage Joe would have like to include is Huw’s discourse on kissing, delivered after he pecks his widowed sister-in-law Bronwen on the mouth:

… we kiss with the mouth because it is a part of the head and of the organs of taste and smell. It is temple of the voice, keeper of breath and its giving out, treasurer of tastes and succulences, and home of the noble tongue. And its portals are firm, yet soft, with a warmth, of a ripeness, unlike the rest of the face, rosy, and in women with a crinkling red tenderness, to the taste not in compare with the wild strawberry, yet if the taste of kisses went, and strawberries came the year round, half of joy would be gone from the world. There is no wonder to me that we kiss, for when mouth comes to mouth, in all its silliness, breath joins breath, and taste joins taste, warmth is enwarmed, and tongues commune in a soundless language, and those things are said that cannot find a shape, have a name, or know a life in the pitiful faults of speech.

Shoba in her commentary had mentioned there were only two romantic episodes in the novel, that between Huw and Bronwen (constrained by the nature of their relationship in a pre-Victorian society), and the affair between Angharad and Gruffydd (constrained by the minister’s threadbare means). Here’s a third one which Shoba must have missed, between Huw and Ceinwen which had every prospect of flourishing, except that the girl was made to disappear from the scene by the author! 

All were about unrequited love said Priya, except the marital bliss shared by Mr and Mrs Morgan. And therefore, more poignant, said Joe – unrequited love is always what authors write about in all the famous novels. That’s more interesting than shared, consummated love, suggested Arundhaty. But it’s more painful, and sad, volunteered Priya. Two of the women readers said they were in favour of ‘romcoms.’ Someone referred to the case of Marged, a girl whom one of the brothers, Owen, seemed to be fond of – but she dies in flames. The happy love is that enjoyed by the eldest brother Ivor and Bronwen, but he dies too. It’s a hard life. Priya said. Huw and Bronwen live as man and wife without formally marrying. You could term that a very chaste relationship, said Joe, by restraint on the part of Huw, and by Bronwen’s key turning in the lock when she went to her bedroom upstairs. 

Arundhaty

How Green Was My Valley  is a coming-of-age novel where the protagonist Huw, who is only 12 years old at the beginning of the book, tells the story of his life in retrospect, when is ready to leave his home. He is now a grown man, unattached.

 

The book is written in prose that veers to poetry occasionally and the language is truly charming. For example, phrases such as : 

"Drunk with beauty. There is lovely". 

“There is beautiful you look in your long trews." 

 It explores family and human  relationships with uncanny insight. In the passage chosen Huw goes to Bron to tell her about the malicious gossip he has heard in the market about his sister Angharad and the preacher Gruffydd, from her own housekeeper. They decide to split up and warn the two separately. 

 

At this time Huw feels it is not right that his sister should see the preacher, as she was married to another man. Yet he gives news to Angharad about the preacher‘s return from London and tells the the preacher too that Angharad is sick at heart. 

Angharad and Gruffydd (played by Maureen O'Hara and Walter Pidgeon) in the 1941 film by John Ford

Huw also stood up for the girl who was denounced and condemned by the deacon at the Church for meeting her lover on the hill in spite of having a husband. He felt that the man was equally responsible in tempting the young girl to adultery, and should be punished too . 

Bron points out to him that he himself looks at her as a man would look at a beautiful woman, and is living with her in her house! She admonishes him for criticising others. She also defends Angharad and the preacher. 

Whenever Huw is confused or hurt he runs to Bron instead of his own mother. Huw was in love with Bron, his widowed sister-in-law, and finally feels ashamed when she tells him that she cares for Huw, but only as her husband Ivor‘s little brother and sees Ivor in him all the time. 

The author sketches Bron's character with great sensitivity and portrays her as a mature, compassionate woman. She sympathises with Angharad and the pastor. 

As Huw grows up she tells him she understands his feelings towards her and handles it with great prudence, neither encouraging nor admonishing, and treating the matter with a lightness that may have hurt Huw but teaches him the limits. 

 

While Huw's confusion on many issues of life and society are described, Bron's character is shown to be that of a strong and brave woman possessed of great clarity of thought, and a readiness to contend with societal taboos. 

The Readings

Pamela – Ch 4 Huw is questioned by Dada on why he went up the mountain

“Where have you been?” he asked again, and shaded his eyes with his hand. He was still dressed, and sitting on my bed.

“Up the mountain, Dada,” I said, though it is a mystery to me to this day how I got it out. 

“Did I tell you about minding your own business?” he said. 

“Yes, Dada,” I said. 

“Do you expect your mother to clean that mess you are in?” he asked me. 

“No, Dada,” I said. 

“Go downstairs and clean yourself and be sharp about it,” he said. 

Off I went like a black-beetle, dripping all over the floor, expecting a clout that would stretch me senseless. But nothing happened. 

The kitchen fire was banked all night, so I had no trouble drying my clothes. But blacking and polishing my boots was another matter. For minutes I stood there rubbing and brushing my boots, naked in front of the fire, knowing my father was still sitting upstairs, wondering what I was going to get from him, and what Mama would say in the morning, and if Gwilym would come in before I could give him a sign to wait on. 

When I went upstairs again I carried my dry clothes and my polished boots to show my father. He looked at them all very carefully, one by one, nodding. 

“Look,” he said, when he had finished, pointing to the puddles on the floor. “Look at the mess Mama will have with her in the morning. Go you and get a cloth.” 

Down I went again and up I came with a cloth and rubbed all the puddles dry, and very careful I was to look along the floor to see if I could find any more wet places, knowing all the time that those grey eyes were upon me, and on that account being so careful in my work, and so vigorous when I found some to do, that my father got impatient. 

It is strange how you will do a job with more than ordinary care when you have a fault upon your conscience. It is almost as though you thought to make your industry a form of penitence. 

“Come here, Huw,” my father said at last. 

I put down the cloth and stood in front of him, hanging my head. 

“Why did you go up the mountain when I told you not?” my father asked, and to my surprise his voice was quite ordinary, and not angry a bit. 

“I wanted to help Davy, Dada,” I said. 

“Help Davy?” my father said. “And how about your poor Mama? What would have happened to her if you had come to harm? Did you stop to think?” 

“No, Dada,” I said. “Think in future,” he said. “Now go to bed and sleep. And mind you, no more of this Davy nonsense out of you.” 

“No, Dada,” I said. 

My father lifted me into bed and put the clothes over me, and patted me on the head. 

“You will be a man soon, my son,” he said, “and you will find all the troubles you are wanting in plenty. Plenty, indeed I am afraid you will have it more than us, now. So till then, be a good boy and think of your Mama. She is the one to help Good night, my son. God watch over you.” 

“Good night, Dada,” I said. 

I was so glad he had gone before Gwilym came in through the window. I fell off to sleep at once then. 

But thinking back now, I hear my father’s voice as he spoke then, so sad and soft, as though he had known and seen.

Thomo – Ch 5 Dada becomes a lodger in his own house because his word is no longer obeyed 

My father it was who woke me up properly, even though he spoke very quietly, as though Mama had made a sign to the bed that I was in there and sleeping. Several ways he had of clearing his throat, and well I knew them. He had one way for singing, one way for speaking in Chapel, one way for reading the Bible, and another for reading anything else, except a story book, and that was different again. But he had a special way of doing it when he had something to say that was serious. That was how he woke me up.  

‘Davy,’ he said, ‘you are the eldest here, and to you I will talk.’  

‘Yes, Dada,’ said Davy, and I knew his eyes would be watching my father in the shadow of his hair.  

‘I asked you to leave this house,’ my father said, ‘because I thought I was doing the best. I thought you were a bad influence on the other boys. But I found that the others were as bad as you, and even a baby like Huw was going out of the house at night. . 

That is not the way a house should live, and I said so. I have that authority because I am your father.’  

‘I will never question that, Dada,’ said Davy.  

‘Good,’ said my father. ‘It was hurting me to have to do it. I am proud of my family, and I am proud to think that you are prepared to make sacrifice for what you think is right. It is good to suffer in order that men shall be better off, but take care that what you are doing is right and not half-right. My sense is against what you are doing. If you were right, you would not have had such a disgraceful meeting up there to-day. There would have been a different spirit. But that is not what I want to say. I would, not have asked you in the house again if your mother had not begged me, and I only said I would because she told me you were living with pigs. I will have you make a sacrifice and I will have you suffer. It will do you good. But no man ever made himself more useful to himself or his fellow men by living in filth and dirt, and I am surprised that a son of mine would allow it.’  

‘They were lodgings, Dada,’ said Davy, moving in his chair, ‘and we could get nowhere else. By the time we had finished work and collected the men, there was little time.’  

‘Where there is little time,’ my father said, ‘there is little use. Leave it, now. I will have Mrs Beynon spoken to. As for you, as I said, your mother told me about it, and I said I would have you back. But only on one condition.’ There was quietness for a time.  

That hot, still feeling grew and grew till I thought I would burst. ‘What is that, Dada?’ asked Davy.  

‘We are all to be lodgers here,’ said my father.  

I could hear from the sounds that my brothers were all sitting up and staring at my father, and I could feel the pale straining.  

‘But, Dada,’ said Davy, ‘how are you a lodger?’  

‘Because I am staying here,’ said my father. ‘But l am not a father because I have no authority. No man shall say he is father of a house unless his word is to be obeyed. Mine is not, so I am not a father, but somebody paying for his keep. I am a lodger, and so are you and the boys, and your mother will look after you and me. That is all.’

Saras – Ch 9  Gruffydd the pastor takes the convalescing Huw on his back up the mountain to bring a posy of daffodils, and they discuss the environmental damage of coal mines

“Where are your clothes, Huw?” he asked me, but quiet, and looking at my mother’s back. 

“Under my pillow, sir,” I said. 

“Your pillow?” he said. 

“For these months,” I said, “ready for to-day.” 

“Come you, then,” he said, and smiling he was. “You shall bring back a posy fit for a queen for your brave mother, is it?” 

“Indeed I will,” I said, and back I pulled the pillow, and out came my clothes that I had made ready ever since I had put my mind to the matter. 

Pain there was, and a helpless feeling in all my bones, but I was determined to have those clothes on. On they went, and no nonsense, though the stockings were big and the trews too short, but I had grown and got thin, so it was no use to grumble. 

There is a sight I must have looked when I put my legs out and stood up. But neither Mr. Gruffydd nor my mother looked at me, so I was spared to blush and very thankful. 

“Up on my back, Huw,” Mr. Gruffydd said, and bent his knees so that I could put my arms about his neck. I shall never forget how shocked I was to find myself up on the shoulders of a minister. It seemed wrong to be so familiar. But there I was, and carried to the door. 

“He will be back in two hours, Mrs. Morgan, my little one,” said Mr. Gruffydd. 

“God bless you,” my mother said, and still not looking. 

“Good-bye, our Mum,” I said, with my legs falling about at the back. “Get ready the big pot for the daffodils. I will have an armful for you, and some for Bron.”

….“Is the pit allowed to do this to us, Mr. Gruffydd?” I asked him. 

“Do what, my son?” Mr. Gruffydd asked. 

“Put slag here,” I said. 

“Nowhere else to put it, my son,” he said. “Look up by there at the top of the mountain, by the Glas Fryn. There are the daffodils, see.” 

And indeed, there they were, with their green leaves a darker sharpness in the grass about them, and the yellow blooms belling in the wind, up by the Glas Fryn and all along the Valley, as far as I could turn my head to see. 

Gold may be found again, and men may know its madness again, but no one shall know how I felt to see the goldness of daffodils growing up there that morning.

….“Will the salmon come up this year, Mr. Gruffydd?” I asked him. 

He was quiet a moment, feeling for his pipe. 

“I am told,” he said, “that no salmon have been seen these two years.” 

“And no trout either, then?” I said. 

“I am afraid not, Huw,” he said. “They cannot face that black stretch, there.” 

“Good,” I said. “No one shall tell me again that fish have got no sense with them. Pity, I do think, that more of us are not thinkers like the fish.” 

“Collect your flowers, Huw,” he said. “Two hours I said to your Mama. She will be waiting.” 

There is pity that we cannot dig all round the growing flowers and take earth and all with us. It is hurting to have to break the stems of blossoms and see them lose their rich white blood only for the pleasure of putting them in a pot of water. Still, I had promised, and there it was. So break them I did, an armful of them, and up on Mr. Gruffydd’s back, and off home, down the mountain.

Zakia – Ch 11 Huw, having spoken up in Chapel against the public denunciation of Meillyn Lewis for being a slut, gets a talking to from Mr Gruffydd

I must think, and then speak. I must consider what is to be done and then choose my time to do it. Not like Master Huw Morgan, or I would be out in the street to preach in the hedges. And no chance to make changes or to do good. Now, do you see?” 

“Yes, Mr. Gruffydd,” I said. “And I am sorrier, now, too.” 

“Well, now, Huw,” said Mr. Gruffydd, smiling wide and showing good long teeth. “For that handsome apology I will tell you that I thought you were a brave boy, but misguided in your bravery. Never mind what you feel. Think. Watch. Think again. And then one step at a time to put things right. As a mason puts one block at a time. To build solid and good. So with thought. Think. Build one thought at a time. Think solid. Then act. Is it?”

“Yes, Mr. Gruffydd,” I said. 

“Come, you,” he said, up on his feet. “Home. I can smell your mother’s good bacon from by here, indeed.”

Devika – Ch 16 Dada Gwil and Mama Beth have a discussion about decimals 

Decimals, then. And the look on my mother’s face when the decimal point started his travels up and down the line was something to see.

In bed that night I heard my mother come upstairs and speak to Angharad, and then my father came up with the lamp, and left their door open a bit to hear the clock.

“Gwil,” my mother said, “who is in charge of this decimal point?”

“Who?” my father said, and flap went his braces on the cupboard door.

“Decimal point,” my mother said, “this thing Huw has got downstairs.”

“More of this again, now,” my father said, and laugh strong in his voice. “Look, Beth, my little one, leave it, now. Or else it will be morning and us fit for Bedlam, both.”

“But what is it?” my mother said. “Why is a small boy allowed to know and I am such a fool?”

“Beth, Beth, Beth,” my father said, “bless your sweet face, there are things for boys and things for girls. Decimal point makes fractions out of a whole. Instead of saying one and a half, you say one point five. Because five is half of ten, a one and a nought. The one is a whole one and nought is nothing. Now you are wiser.”

Minutes went, and only the sound of clothes coming off and somebody late walking up the hill outside.

“But whose is it?” my mother said, as though a gate had been loosed. “Does it belong to somebody?”

“Well, Beth,” my father said, “there is silly. Why should it belong to somebody? It is a decimal point, a dot on the paper. How can an ink dot belong to somebody?”

“Then who knows what is to be done with it?” my mother asked. “Multiply by ten, move the point, add a nought.”

“No, girl,” Dada said, “not add a nought. That is division. Multiplying, move the point down. Dividing, move the point up.”

“Go on with you,” Mama said, “it can stop where it is. I would like to know who found it out, anyhow.”

“The French, I think,” my father said, “and leave it now, will you?”

  “Well, no wonder,” my mother said, and glad to blame someone, see. “Those old Frenchies, is it? If I had known that, the book would never have come inside the house.”

“O, Beth,” said Dada, “there is an old beauty you are. Go now, before I will push you on the floor.”

“Frenchie, indeed,” my mother said, “and decimal points, move up and down. Like monkeys. With Frenchies and old baths full of holes, what will come to the boy?”

“A scholarship,” said my father, “that is what I would like.”

“Scholarship? Well, I hope so, indeed,” my mother said, for the sound of the word was like the name of an anthem. “What the world is coming to, I cannot tell you.”

“Sleep, now then,” my father said, “not for you to worry about the world, is it? Think of the old Queen with a Jubilee of worry to think about, and be thankful.”

“I wonder does she know about this decimal point?” my mother said.

“Oh, hell open and crack,” said my father, and out went the lamp. “The poor old lady is asleep these hours. Let us follow. Good night, now.”

Shoba – Ch 16 Gruffydd, the pastor, rescues Angharad stuck in a window frame and Huw mends the pencil box broken by bullies at school

Outside in the back we went, with lamps, and poor Angharad still with her head stuck in the window. 

“Who is this?” Mr. Gruffydd asked, with the lamp high to see. 

“Angharad,” I said. 

Mr. Gruffydd smoothed the hair from her eyes and she looked up at him, with the light of the lamp throwing gold upon her. 

I knew she was laughing, but she looked as though she were crying, with golden tears unsteady in her eyes, and her eyes gone lovely blue to call for pity, big, and round, like a little girl wanting to be carried, and turning down her mouth, only a little not to be ugly, and a tremble in the chin, and with hair almost the colour of a new penny about her face and hanging down three feet, with stray ones shining like the strings of a harp across her eyes and down her cheeks. 

Mr. Gruffydd looked at her and I saw his face move, but how it moved there is no saying. He put down the lamp and took the bar above her neck in one hand. 

“Say if I hurt,” he said, but Angharad shook her head. 

He put his feet flat after making little moves to find the right hold, and then with one pull he tore the bar and the top of the frame clean out of its place, nails, screws, and all. 

“Now then,” he said to me, not looking at Angharad, “you mend the box and I will mend the window.” 

“Yes, sir,” I said.

 “Thank you, Mr. Gruffydd,” Angharad said, looking in where the window had been, and feeling her neck. “There is strong you are.” 

“Good,” said Mr. Gruffydd, “I will have the pincers after you, Huw, my son.” 

Sandpaper took the ink stains from the bare white wood on the inside of the box, and made it white as a sheet again, but only with hard rubbing and patience at the corners. A new screw for the pivot, and a splice for the second tray, and my box was together again, but still chipped on the outside and scratched on the lid. That was another job altogether. Small pieces of wood, so small they were hard to see, I put in all the chips, and the scratches I filled in with splinters of the same colour as the woods in the pattern. Indeed, when I had finished there was nothing to show that the little box had come to harm. But I knew, and Mr. Gruffydd knew, and so did his father and grandfather, for there were little marks all over it that had never been there, and should never have been there, the marks of little wounds that would never heal. For wood is jealous of its age, and quick to make a new-comer feel its place. 

Mr. Gruffydd had been watching, for quite a long time, but I knew nothing of it until I had finished and put the box in a clean place to look at it, and then looked at him and found him sitting on the bench and smiling. 

“You are a carpenter, Huw,” he said.

Geetha – Ch 19  Prizefighters Dai Bando and Cyfartha try to teach a lesson to the master Jonas who caned Huw, but the master has no appetite for knowledge

Then, shouting came from the hall, and got louder, Mr Motshill’s voice, and Mr Jonas’, and furniture being broken, somebody screaming, heavy steps running in the hall and more shouts and screams, and all the girls in school started screaming, but nobody knew why. Everybody in class ran out of their desks to the door, but then the door burst open and Mr Jonas ran in, with Dai Bando and Mr Motshill, three of the masters behind, and Cyfartha Lewis just leading Mr Tyser, who stood in the doorway clapping hands with one side of his collar loose.  

Mr Jonas was torn in pieces, collarless, with a piece of his tie hanging like a rag, his coat ripped, his trousers torn all the way down, and his face white, and watery in the eyes, and purple in the cheeks from flat-handers that Dai gave him whenever his head came up, slap, slap, one, two, almost as quick as you can count, not with the knuckles, but with the palm.  

Mr Motshill was trying to stop Dai hitting, but Dai was taking no notice, not a bit, and Mr Motshill was dancing with anger and shouting, and hitting Dai’s broad back with his lists, but nothing could be heard in the screaming of the girls. Cyfartha put one of the masters on the floor with a hook, and the other two dropped their hands and stood watching Dai. As soon as he was sure there was no danger of the other masters joining in, Dai off with his belt and gripped Mr Jonas about the neck and bent him over his knee, with his foot on the step of the desk platform. The way that belt slashed and cracked, and the way Mr Jonas shouted was a marvel, although he could barely be heard, for the screaming from the girls when Dai took him by the neck could not have been bettered beyond the bounds of purgatory.  

Dai was finished and Mr Jonas crying limp, then he winked to Cyfartha, and they gripped him, shoulders and feet, and swung: him right through the open trap of the coal locker and shut the lid. … 

Although he saw me, nothing was in his eye, and I will swear nothing was in mine.  

‘You bully,’ Mr Motshill was shouting. ‘You cowardly brute. You dare come in here to this school and assault a master. You shall be dealt with by the law. If I were younger you would carry my mark with you.’  

‘I am paying a call,’ Dai said, soft, and almost as though he was saying he was sorry. ‘I had thought to have him up on the mountain, and not in here. I asked him to come, see? Eh, Cyfartha?’  

‘Invited he was,’ Cyfartha said, ‘and not polite to say no. either.’  

‘He ran from me,’ Dai said, ‘so I had to run after him. I came a long way to find him, but I was willing to go through hell to China to have him. And I had him in by here. So what is the odds? Eh, Cyfartha?’  

‘Yes, yes,’ Cyfartha said. ‘Nice and comfortable, he is, now, see? Nothing more he could want in the world. So home for a pint, is it, Dai, my little one?’  

‘A good pint said Dai, ‘would do me a blessing of good, indeed to God. A dusty old place you have got in here, sir, dusty indeed. Dry on the throat, and useless for a song, eh, Cyfartha?’  ‘

A frog would have it hard to get a note,’ said Cyfartha.  

Priya – Ch 20 Mama Beth washes up Dada Gwil before they have dinner, followed by some fun

“For all that has happened, Heavenly Father,” my father said when he came in, and went to his knees with my mother beside him, “for the mercies, and the guidance to-day, I do give thanks from my heart. Yesterday I gave thanks, and to-day, thanks again, and tomorrow I will give thanks again, from the heart. In the Name of Jesus the Son.” 

“Amen,” said we all. 

“Gwilym,” my mother said. “Bed, you.” 

“Will I have a bit to eat first, then?” my father said. “Starving we are.” 

“Wash and bed,” said my mother, as though from far away. “You have always starved in this house. I know you have had a long way to come, but, of course, there is nothing in the house for you.” 

“Well, Beth,” my father said, trying to find his way into her good books again, “not that I meant, only saying, I was, girl.” 

“Have you got a nose?” my mother asked, cold still. 

“If not screwed off by that old ice on the mountain,” my father said, and holding the tip with his finger and thumb. 

My mother looked at him while we laughed. Her face was straight and her eyes cold, to let him see how insulted she was that he should think to come home and find nothing for his comfort. But Mama could never keep straight her face when Dada was funny, and now you could see the smile coming to her eyes and then she put her hand to his face. 

“Oh, Gwil, my little one,” she said, “there is tired you are looking. Wash, and to bed, and when you are warm, I will bring what there is.” 

“What, then?” my father asked, and trying to put his arm round her, but she pretended she was still cross, and pushed him away, but not hard. 

“Hot water, boy,” she said, and impatient. 

“I will wash in that,” said my father. “With soap. Is that all I am to have? Hot old water?” 

“Smell, boy, smell.” my mother said, right out of patience. 

My father had a sniff, but he was too cold. 

“If I was going to have what I can smell.” he said, “there is no need for a pot to be washed in the house.” 

“O, dammo,” my mother said, and took him by the shoulders to put him in his chair to undo his boots. “Hot water you are having, with an old chicken from the farm, and a bit of old beef and lamb, and old rubbish with it. What, now?” 

“Beth,” my father said, “I will give thanks till I die that I married you. Brandy broth, I will bet you. Let me go to bed.” 

“I have got a good mind to pour it down the drain,” my mother said. 

“Bring a bowl of it upstairs,” said my father, “and a spoon, and you shall pour it to your heart’s content. Is the bed warm?” 

My mother smacked his foot, so angry she pretended to be. 

“No, boy,” she shouted. “Have I got the sense to warm your old bed? Angharad and Bronwen and me have been running up and down stairs all night with blocks of ice, melt one, put the other. Now then, for you.” 

“Good,” said my father, and winking at us. “I do love a good block of ice in bed, indeed.” 

“Hisht,” said my mother, and turned on us. “You are standing there grinning like a lot of monkeys in the circus. Are you washed?” 

“Yes, Mama,” we said. 

“Come to the table,” said Mama. “And no more nonsense from you or your father. Gwilym?” 

“Yes, my sweet love?” said my father, straight in the face, with gems in his eyes. 

“Bed,” said my mother.

“Yes, Beth,” said my father, and went to the door, and turned round. “Will I have a block of ice, Mrs. Morgan?” he said, in a little boy’s voice. 

And he flew up the stairs with my mother behind him with the shovel, and us laughing the paint from the ceiling. 

KumKum  Ch 29 – Huw learns how coal is cut with a pickaxe

“Now then,” Ivor said, “I will cut the coal, and you will push the lumps down the chute. Then go down and load all you find down there into my tram, is it?” 

“Yes, Ivor,” I said. 

“Right,” he said, and his pick punched deep into the seam. 

So I started to work. Ivor was a good workman, quick with his pick, untiring, and stopping only to move slag that fell when the coal was loosed. When he stopped, I stopped, but not to stop altogether, for we banked the slag against the sides and packed it tight to act as a prop for the roof.

For hour after sweating hour, bent double, standing straight only when we were flat on our backs, we worked down there, with the dust of coal settling on us with a light touch that you could feel, as though the coal was putting fingers on you to warn you that he was only feeling you, now, but he would have you down there, underneath him, one day soon when you were looking the other way. I used to look at the shining black strip in the orange light of our two candles, and think to myself that this might be the mourning band of the earth, and us taking it from her to burn, and she looking at us with half-shut eyes, waiting to have a reckoning. But there was always a fear in me, down there, that I never lost.

I always seemed to hear a voice in the heavy quiet, beyond the punch, punch, punch of Ivor’s pick, and the rolling echoes of coal sliding down the chute. And I always thought I saw a face in the glitter of the coal face, and never mind how much Ivor cut from it, it always seemed to be there.

The muscles of the belly might feel to be tearing apart long before the end of the day, so bent we were. Ivor would kneel, lie on his side, stand sideways and bent, or on his back, with sweat making his skin into black silk, but never a pause, never a stop, till it was time for eating, or for a swill of tea to take dust from the throat.

Joe – Ch 30 A rough and tumble on the mountain. There is a sweet time between Huw and Ceinwen. A momentary moment of beauty.

“Why do you want to go?” I asked her. 

“O, Huw,” she said, and came close to me, like a little girl, with a pouting, and her eyes blinking, but slow, and opening them wide, wide, to show them big, and grey, of a deep greyness, with a blessing of softness and something of tears and a smile far down. 

I turned from her, with the hammers striking the white hot steel in my middle, and a fire withering my spine and sending tears to my eyes, with reason perished and sense gone, and only sight left, but crippled, so that the greens of trees and grass were a mixing of green without shape, and in the ears, only the turmoil of my blood, and from far away, her voice. You live within yourself as king when you become a man. 

“I want to be an actress,” she said. 

“Why?” I asked her, and put reins about my voice. 

“Because I want it,” she said. “No why, only I want it. I am sick to the heart with the coal yard and hands black with coal. I want to be an actress.” 

“There will be no place at home for you when you go,” I said. 

“No matter,” she said. “Not a tear would come if I never saw them again.” 

“You will have a hard life,” I said. “And wicked people, too.” 

“If Mr. Irving is wicked,” she said, “I will be wicked, too.” 

“Who is he?” I asked her. 

“Good God, boy,” she said, as though the mountain was going from under us, “who is he? They are going mad to see him up there.” 

“Where?” I asked her. 

“In London,” she said. 

“Are you going to London?” I asked her, and hoping with cold hope that she would say no. 

“Yes,” she said. “In time to come. They will come to the stage door for me, too. With flowers.” 

“When is the acting?” I asked her, hoping again that I would be safe in work down below. 

“Next Wednesday and Thursday, seven o’clock, fourpence, sixpence, and a shilling,” she said. “And you will be in time, so no good to say you are working. I have got a list of your shifts.” 

“O,” I said, “making sure, were you?”

“I made well sure,” she said, and laughing. “Will you come? Say yes, Huw.” 

How to say no, when she was saying yes in that voice, would tax the will of a shift of prophets. No use to struggle for there was a laziness coming heavily upon me, and all I wanted to do was stretch my muscles and lie near her, to breathe her scent, to be near her mouth, in reach of the softnesses of her. 

“Yes,” I said. “O, Huw,” she said, and put an arm slowly about my neck and pulled me down to kiss me, with strength that was savage, and sounds were in her throat, and round movements tormented her body, and the grip of her fingers left bruises for days to come. And I had a madness hot within me that was of the mouth and the fingers and the middle. No man shall know what gods are working in him, then. 

The mouth reaches for newer fruit that seems to be near, but never to be tasted. The fingers are intent on searching to soft places, but the senses are too far from their tips and impatient of their fumblings. And at the middle, where the arrow steel is forged, there is a ruination of heat that seems to know, within itself, that coolness will come only in the hotter blood of woman.

Arundhaty – Ch 33 Bron and Huw discuss whether Angharad is right to be seeing the pastor Gruffydd when she is married to Iestyn Evans who is away to South Africa

“Up still?” I said, but not looking at her. 

“We were going to talk,” she said, with smile in her voice, “so I stayed. Did you see Mr. Gruffydd?” 

“Yes, he only said you cannot stop people from talking and thinking,” I said. “He is going to think about it.” 

“Angharad is off back to London, first train,” Bron said. 

“Was she angry?” I asked her. 

“No,” Bron said. “She knew about it.” 

“She knew?” I said. 

“Has she been living all her life here, and no sense?” Bron said. 

“But did she let Mr. Gruffydd go there and go there all this time and no word?” I asked her. 

“Do you think Mr. Gruffydd knew nothing?” she said, and busy with plates. 

“Then what use to tell them, or worry for even a moment?” I asked her, and feeling wronged to the heart. 

“Have what there is to be had while there is time,” she said, and put a bowl of soup in front of me. “They have done harm to nobody.” 

“But he is a preacher and she is Mrs. Iestyn Evans,” I said. “Surely it is wrong, Bron?” 

“Why?” Bron asked me. “Why is it wrong for Mr. Gruffydd to see Angharad?” “Well,” I said, and steam from the soup wetting my face, and glad to make it an excuse to pull out my handkerchief to have a good wipe to have time to think. 

“Yes, well?” Bron said, with sharpness, and the knife halfway through the loaf. “Shall I say? Because your mind is like those beauties down by there. Like Mrs. Nicholas. A fine brother you are. And a fine one to talk. Strangle her, you wanted. Strangle yourself for a change.” 

“Well, Bron,” I said, “there is nasty you are. Only asking why, I was.” 

“Is Mr. Gruffydd to be treated any different from other men only because he is a preacher?” she asked me, and angry. “Is he any less a man? Has he fewer rights?” 

“But with another man’s wife, I am saying,” I said, and ready to break the house to pieces in temper. 

“With another man’s wife, what?” Bron said, in a voice to put ice to hang from the stove. “Harm to who, if he talks to her, and she has benefit from his company?” 

“No harm.” I said. 

“Then?” she asked me, with the smile that was not a smile. 

“O, to hell,” I said. “It is none of my business.” 

You should have heard Bron laughing. In fits and helpless, trying to cut bread, but too weak to hold the knife. 

“Eh, dear, dear,” she said, and wiping the tears, “there is a silly old boy you are, man.” 

“Why am I silly?” I asked her, and trying to smile, but finding it hard to work against the soreness. 

“Because you are doing what Mr. Gruffydd has been doing.” she said, “and sleeping in the house, too. Would you like others to talk about you?” 

Well. Like sunlight coming to blind. 

“Nobody could say anything about me or you either,” I said. “I would only like to hear them.” 

“You shall, before long,” she said, certain as bricks. 

“Well, Bron,” I said. “I will go, then.” 

“You shall stay,” she said. “Let them talk, with their minds like a cess, and mouths like pots, with them. And think well about yourself before to talk of others. I told you this afternoon about the way you looked at me. Think of it a little more, and ask is it right before to ask questions of others.” 

So I sat like a dog with hurts after a good kicking, and went to bed, feeling the weight of her eyes, and her smile warm in the room, but not looking at her and unwilling to smile back.