Hilda Doolittle - Asphodel

“Then you have decided not to do it?” “No. George decided.” “What then exactly happened?” “I went to the station as arranged with bags and baggage and found George had waited, seen me, seen the things coming through, countermanded the order, got the ticket back from Morrison—” “All while you waited?” “Most of it before I had arrived. I don’t know how he did it.”

Could she see Fayne again after this? Fayne’s last word had been with odd theatrical little lift of brows, “O I hadn’t realised it had gone so far with George Lowndes.” The husband was all suavity but she saw, they let her see, what they thought of her. Whispers. Innuendoes. Burning scar of blame that wasn’t right though George had kissed her. George being (as she had never seen him) rude to everyone. “Her mother cabled—” He had made that up and other things but shame had burnt across her. A wilted, worn Hermione lifted her tea-cup, smiled at Darrington. “I don’t think I can stay now in London. Everything looks different and my room’s changed.” “Changed?” “I mean it used to be full of light, rose colours. All your letters. If I go across to Paris will you write me?”

There was no separation in this. She was in Paris but there was no separation. Things existed in different planes. She was had moved into a train, out of a train, into a boat, off a boat, onto a train. The real life she was living might have been the same anywhere, Shanghai, New Orleans or Rotterdam. It only happened she was now in Paris. She moved instinctively (knowing Paris) to the Rue Jacob, the right side (being the wrong side) of the river, their side of the river but in a different hotel, not one of the old ones, not talking to the same people, “but where is your aunt? Where is your cousin?” She wouldn’t tell them that her aunt was in Shanghai or Amsterdam. She wouldn’t have the heart to make up stories. But she must make up, all the same, stories, other stories, “waiting for a boat. Yes Mademoiselle Moore gave me your address. Yes, I knew Miss Moore in Philadelphia.” Books, note books, addresses from some one, from some one else, all people in Philadelphia (unto the angel in Philadelphia, write. .) that she had forgotten. She had forgotten all those people, had made a point of quite forgetting. How odd she had never “looked up” as they say, anyone, all the little sheaf of letters, introductions, having Fayne Rabb, seeing Walter, had been enough. George too asking her to see people. The same street. “Yes thank you madame. I am very tired.” Yes the room was pretty. Yes Miss Moore was a great friend. Yes she had been at school with Miss Moore’s sister, the other Miss Moore. Yes she knew Miss Mira Thorpe. Yes we were all so proud of Mira Thorpe, she had taken the prix de something or other and yes she knew Miss Thorpe, the other one too in Philadelphia. Yes she would stay until she heard from her friends who were due over, maybe one week, maybe three, maybe all the summer. Yes she liked her petit déjeuner in bed, in the morning, about eight, no not later. Yes she knew this part of Paris, had been here before, yes it was last summer.

Was it last summer? It seemed impossible. Late last summer. Not a year past. Not a year past, it had seemed many centuries. Centuries with painted emblems like heralds’ banners. All the months had banners, painted signs, emblems of time spent and time lost and time perhaps forgotten. Emblem banners, all lost, all taken in a moment in some unfair badly arranged tournament. Fayne had taken all the banners simply. Fayne had entered unfairly pitched lists and had simply walked off with everything, George with his vermillion and orange lilies, Darrington with his rose light and his streaks of flaming passion. Lilies. Lilies. There were lilies in the street. Muguet. It was muguet everywhere. Why was it muguet everywhere? It is, don’t you know, mademoiselle, have you never known, mademoiselle, the first of May. We have muguet. She bought muguet. Why did she buy muguet? She walked swift and erect and reckless past the Institut de France. The world’s good word the Institute. The Institut de France. She belonged to the Institut de France because Carl Gart had had books from there and she had torn the wrapping off and helped catalogue the books. Other books. . the hounds of spring are on winter’s traces. . Poems. You are a poem though your poem’s naught . To the left ladies and gentlemen we have the famous Notre Dame. The Isle of de France. The island of France, all France. Islands. All the world’s a stage . Muguet (why?) tucked into her light spring jacket. “Hello Her- mi -o-ne.”

Who the—? It was a voice. Someone who knew her. Not as bad as she had expected. “O hello.” It wasn’t as bad as it might have been, in fact it wasn’t bad at all. “I didn’t know you were here.” “Well, I don’t know myself that I am. I mean I rushed off from London, only stayed there to see some people, love Paris, London hateful.” Hermione had learned this early. You must say you hate London to most Paris-Americans. “Awful place. I only stayed because I have some friends there.” “George?” “O yes, dear old George. But he’s coming over. They all are. Walter’s due to give another concert.” Not a bad sort, looking younger than she was, a pretty flat the right side of the river. Hermione had heard all about her, had been once to see her, crowding in for a moment one day when the Rabbs were busy. Pretty flat. Pretty apartment. Woman too old to be young, not young enough to be old. Didn’t seem old. What was the matter with her?

Hermione stopped to look straight into Shirley Thornton’s eyes. A pretty name Shirley. But she had never seen her. Why had Shirley Thornton who didn’t know her, stopped her, called her Hermione? What did she want of her. Shirley Thornton standing in the full glare of May day splendour looked thin, peaked, the right sort of clothes, a hat shading her almond shaped eyes. Her skirt tailored and fitting beautifully. But come to think of it, Shirley hardly knew her. Didn’t know her. Why did she speak, why had she spoken to her? “I wanted to write you last year — I was busy—” Had she wanted to? She had forgotten all about her, had particularly not wanted to see her. Shirley had taken one of those precious hours, when hours were very precious. Hours. Did they exist now any longer? What was life? Muguet. “Yes. I was so casual. George so awfully anxious I should know you.” Why had George wanted Hermione to know her? Hermione had not stopped to ask, nor cared to. “Come to see me. Soon. You have the address?” “Yes — Shirley.” “You didn’t seem to remember me.” “O I did, I did perfectly.” “You seemed lost, vague, uncertain somehow. That’s why I spoke, called you Hermione.” “Yes.” “Do come. George will soon be over. We’ll all dine together.”

. . That odd spectacle would in no way leave her. That spectacle of George heaving a summer overcoat toward a departing train, pronouncing, “sic transit gloria mundi.” Hermione didn’t want so simply to see George, to dine à trois with George Lowndes and another, someone who wore the right clothes, lived in the right street, had the right food, hung the right pictures, boasted even the very right piano, the baby-grand taking up more than his share of room, making the rest of the room all the more cosy and compact for his unwieldly baby bulk and the bulk of the things he stood for. Hermione recalled her little visit there with Shirley, talking about something, talking about nothing, wondering if she would be too late for the Rabbs at the little Rue du Four crémerie where they always had their supper. Rue du Four, the wrong side of the river, not caring what the girl had said or who she was, having come because George sent her for some reason, making polite adieux, writing that she couldn’t come again, was called suddenly to London. All the same it was part of that wrong side of Paris life that now escaped her. Escaped her? But it never did. Little rows of communicants were passing in the streets, set there to remind her. Little rows of little girls with long trains and veils. . God, God, what a farce and she wasn’t (George said so) even “married.” Bride’s veils, muguet and the parks a paradise of chestnuts. That year the pink and rose shell chestnuts broke across her like shells from some forgotten paradise. Shells from some sea. Aphrodite. But Fay wasn’t. O if she only were, if she only had been, if Hermione could have fallen at her feet, O Fay, you’re grown up now in your bride things. . a lovely mother. O Fay, let me be your first child. But she hadn’t. Couldn’t. But it wasn’t true, couldn’t be true what George had told her. How she hated George Lowndes. Why had she anyhow presumed his tale true? Fayne carrying on a “vulgar intrigue” (it was George’s phrase) with this Welshman, this fascinating Llewyn that they all knew, had known (but O so distantly) in Philadelphia. Llewyn with his Oxford affectation and his brilliant pronouncements on literature. “Browning in lavender gloves.” It gave one a new idea, destructive, dominant, domineering. Fancy Fay having met him by accident, somewhere (where?) and his falling for her. Little Fay rather wistful with her hatred (her then hatred) of all men. “But you can’t marry him.” But it wasn’t true. George was vulgar, base. George had betrayed her. It was George who was vulgar.