Hilda Doolittle - Asphodel

“We’re not engaged, George?” “Gawd forbid.” “I thought you felt that way about it George. Mrs. Merrick and Stephen Merrick sent their love. He expects to be back in Rome in a year or so and wants to see you. Do you like Rome? Or have you ever been there? Everything’s so odd, exciting. I don’t know where I have been. I don’t know where I haven’t. Those pictures in the Louvre transported one and I felt the same way about the Nike. The winged Victory. I told the Rabbs I didn’t. I don’t mean that. What do I mean? I mean seeing the Elgin marbles this morning gave me the same feeling and I didn’t know, don’t know whether I’m in Rome or Paris. I mean the Louvre and the British Museum hold one together, keep one from going to bits. For one is all in bits. I even like awful things, awful (I believe they are awful) like Delacroix and the Lancrets. I saw Napoleon’s snuff box and the Corots. There was a little bad picture of a ship in a storm, simply awful but like one in our attic like Eugenia did once. . but you never liked Eugenia’s funny pictures. I — love — Europe.”

“Its so quaint, she loves London.” “Yes, isn’t it odd — she loves London.” “This is Miss Gart — they call her Her short for Hermione — she loves London.” “O I am — so — glad. Why do you love London?” “O let me really tell you Bertie, that Miss Her Gart loves London. Such a quaint person—” “Yes, I love London.”

“This is Miss — O did you know what her name is? — but you love London—” O Walter .

Coming across the room, bowing to someone. Someone different, out of something that never was that never could be. It was too bad about Walter, acted as if he were, as if he were something like the first aeroplane ever invented or a dug-up Dinosaur. All hushing down, fluttering down, sinking down into arm-chairs pushed aside and jumbled in little knots, islands of arm-chairs. Walter comes across the room, people fall, all turned toward him, sun-flowers to the sun. Sunflowers to the sun, whispering, whispering “Dowel you know. Only Delia in all London can procure him.” Procure? How did Delia procure Walter? And where was Delia? Hermione had been jostled through crowds of people and hadn’t got near Delia. Delia standing somewhere, somewhere far away, crowds and she was always interrupted, George at her elbow, “no you come here Dryad, here’s another prize specimen.” George produced prize specimens. They cropped up on the stairs, upstairs and when she got upstairs to find Delia George pronounced that Delia had gone downstairs and “you needn’t worry about your book of etiquette, dear Dryad. Don’t be so provincial.” Was it provincial to find Delia, Lillian Merrick’s sister Delia, all mixed up, one with another, the Merricks, school at Rome, people in the legations, poets. Everything at Delia’s was like that. “Where is Delia?” It was George who had told her how to say it. “Don’t be so provincial Dryad. Don’t let me hear you saying Lady Prescott that way again. It’s back-stairs. Everybody calls her Delia.”

Where then was Delia? Delia had invited her. She had had lunch alone with Delia. Delia had said she would be bored with the crush but Walter had asked her to be sure to come. Walter had asked her to come so that he could hate them all in peace and yet play nicely. There was Walter. But she must first find Delia. What an odd Walter, like some one in an elegant Pinero revival, coming forward, one hadn’t even imagined Walter (even) could be so elegant. “Huh,” from George. “Old Forgeron is in fine professional form.” Forgeron came forward, bowing a little. Who was he bowing to, eyes so colourless, amber and flecked grey amber. Walter’s eyes were a brook’s eyes, not a deep wood brook but one that has escaped from a glacier. Warmth came and went in Walter’s eyes, warmth not his own, one felt, but the warmth that came to a glacial stream that runs over clear amber. Walter.

Walter would play now and this was funny She didn’t want to hear Walter play. How odd that she resented Walter, hated even Walter a little. Now she saw, felt with the consciousness of all these people who so hated Walter. Hermione had found in London what all along she knew prophetically she would find. She had sunk (with the first exquisite uprising of early autumn) under, into it. She had sunk into London as one sinks into a down cushion, into a series of excellent down cushions, all blurred, all exquisitely of a piece yet blurred. She had let go her astute hold on things of intellect (even the Elgin marbles) after her first conscientious three weeks. “We’ve seen all London. We’ve seen the Tower.” This seemed to amuse people at Delia’s, other odd people, friends of George’s, of Delia’s, who asked her to their houses. “We’ve seen the Soane museum.” “The what, darling?” (People even in the beginning patronised, petted her.) “Soane. Sir John Soane—” “What?” “Why it’s a little museum with some lovely odd things. Some odd lovely intaglios, cameos and things.” “Where?” “Off — off somewhere off Lincoln’s—” “Not Inn, darling?” “Well, I think so.” “Fancy. The poor darling has been to Lincoln’s Inn. We must rescue her. What brutes her friends are.

“Darling” had been somewhat rescued lately. Too much so. She was tired, getting blurred with it. How could it be otherwise? “I tell you Fayne that you must stay with me.” “I can’t. I can’t leave Madre.”

Fayne Rabb and Clara going home soon. Too late already. They had already out-stayed their time. Boats sailing. Grubby wharfs. Hooting of sirens. O let me shut it all out, all out in Delia’s beauty.

Delia, you are so beautiful. You are beautiful with the rightness that comes with antecedents and with wisdom. Delia you are good. Delia your house is full of everyone from everywhere, you don’t shut out anyone. Funny Delia. “Delia is above suspicion” someone said when someone said, “how odd of Delia to invite that Dalton woman here.” Who was the Dalton woman? Someone crowding through chairs, making herself very thin though she was thin enough in all consciousness. There was the Dalton woman and even Walter paused, his two hands poised and then began an ironic little run up and down, up and down as much as to say, “you fiend, you fiend woman, you have driven me mad, now listen.” Walter was running up and down, up and down. People were frightened but still the Dalton woman held the audience. The Dalton woman and Walter. But Walter won. The Dalton woman with a frisson (she would have said a frisson) sank into half the end of a Chesterfield that was pulled out at an odd angle and everyone began again to breathe. But Walter was standing. Walter was looking at the Dalton woman.

“O this sort of thing. This always happens,” the voice was going on and Hermione turned to meet a pair of half familiar eyes, yes she had met this somewhere, rather nice with a petunia-coloured hat a little rakish over one eye and enormous jade ear-rings and odd sleek ivory-smooth white hair showing under the hat above the jade ear-rings. Odd, patrician. A petunia. Not a flower of her preference but Hermione liked to see a thing being itself. A petunia. Not a flower of her preference but with an autumn richness, no fragrance, rather heady with all but right, doing the right thing. A petunia would. The petunia seemed to know everyone, seemed to know everything. “Dear Redforth, a shocking woman. Now you watch. For two bob, our demi-god will stalk out. You wait and see if he doesn’t. He told old Langstreath that he wouldn’t be found dead in her house again. Shocking old snob. She had asked Dalborough to drop in and he dropped in the middle of the Après Midi d’un Faune. It was no après midi for poor frazzled Lydia. Her lion lept and roared and finally departed.” “Sh-uuh—”