Hilda Doolittle - Asphodel

Walter said, “I shouldn’t exactly say that Vérène. She had ideas.” “What sort of ideas?” “O, things that you — wouldn’t — follow—” And someone laughed, was it Vérène simply, blind in her arrogance, full and blown open like a summer rose? The wind had ruffled her petal, the lordly king-wind had stooped from the North, had swept down from the cold irradiance of glaciers to embrace her. Vérène might laugh proud in her little moment. Rose that the wind must pass.

“O I thought her rather odd — her eyes — charming—” Hermione said this. She had thought her odd, began to see her as charming now that she was wreathed about with smoke, with lilac-blue that was the odd and prevalent image of the vague sensation of rest and of recognition Darringtons voice brought her. It had been that way from the first. Darrington had been a voice before he was a presence. He was a presence now, permeated as white wine with alcohol. Alcohol was crude, a poison without the white wine. Darrington’s voice was the distillation of pure aether. What was his voice? Again it broke across her musings. “Old Lowndes, it appeared, was one time thick with her.”

The thing that Darrington said was not exactly the right thing to say on the verge of George Lowndes’ engagement. But that was the nice thing about Darrington. He said the wrong thing in the right voice. There was something piquante, engaging in his manner. He said these things deliberately, one felt he knew he said them, not crudely like George, with his “for Gawd’s sake don’t,” when they had asked Shirley to play for them. Walter said, “yes, we thought here, she was going to marry him.”

Talk about Shirley, about nothing, about something. It appeared suddenly to Hermione cruel, petty, unmitigatedly mean to talk this way about Shirley. She supposed, with a little shiver of apprehension that this is the way they would (obviously) go on about her if she stayed hanging on much longer, alone, not with her people, a bit of drift-wood. But there was Darrington. “Darrington to the rescue.” There was Darrington. But she must do something — do something. Smoke of cigarette. Let me smoke, forget. Let me forget simply. What was it that she wanted to forget and was forgetting? She tried numbly to recall the thing she was forgetting. Walter spoke anticipating her thought, her half remembered image, “funny that girl marrying.” “What girl?” It was Vérène asking. “That friend of Hermione’s. Fayne Rabb.”

“Mademoiselle is dead.” The maid said this simply. She made no gesture of apology. Something was lacking. People didn’t say in French, “Mademoiselle is dead.” They didn’t say in English “Miss est morte.” “Mademoiselle est morte.” That is what she said. Was it possible that Hermione had mistaken it. Was she saying, Mademoiselle is out, or had she forgotten her French, did morte mean asleep or gone away to the country or married or engaged or writing a grand opera? It might, it appeared mean any of these things but it couldn’t possibly mean what the word meant in the dictionary. Hermione had never to her knowledge heard this word, pronounced so blatantly. Morte. Or was it Morgue? Morgue, a place for dead people. The idea did not enter her head. Her heart stopped beating. “But Mademoiselle asked me here for tea; it is Sunday?”

The maid in her ordinary voice assured Hermione that it was Sunday. Hermione assured the maid that she had been asked for Sunday. They continued in their odd detached way to argue for it couldn’t be true what she said. Shirley wasn’t dead.

Shirley wasn’t dead. It was impossible. There were a thousand things she might have said to her. Shirley with eyes gone wide like a crystal gazer’s. Hermione had suspected something terrible. What was terrible? Was marriage — no it was death — terrible? “But we thought she was going to marry George.” Little May day communicants going to church in long veils and long frocks and white slippers and hands crossed over prayer-books. Brides of God. Little wise virgins. Virgins. Shirley was a virgin. That was what made them laugh, asking why she didn’t marry George Lowndes. Soon they would laugh at Hermione who hadn’t married George Lowndes. “But of course you can’t marry him.” Marry. No. Dress up and parade like a vulgar midinette in a bride’s veil and let your mother-in-law (by proxy) hold up the long glove with the severed finger. “But its for the bride’s ring .” Let them all do that. Chestnuts had never been so glorious. Trois sous la botte. Livre. But that was muguet. It wasn’t a pound, it was a book. France little book like in the revelation for her to devour simply. Bitterness of things too sweet. O broken singing of the dove. What was it all about? Was this why she couldn’t go to Vérène’s and Walter had said why worry so about her. Wide rose, Vérène, with little intuitions, with a conscience. Did she know this was about to happen? Monday. This was Sunday. “But this is — Sunday.” Hermione repeated it to the maid who was standing ghouling at her. “She asked me to come Sunday.” Still the heavy figure with its impassivity blocked the door way. Black beetle. That was it simply. Black beetle. Insensitive. Grasping. Did one tip people? What for? She didn’t want to go in. “What, wh-aaat did Mademoiselle die of?” The face looked at her. Face blurred. Vérène pitied them all. All bride’s of God. Little communicants. Wise virgins. But she was with God. Afternoon spoiled. Late for tea. She had hurried but she needn’t have hurried. She was too late anyhow. “What did Mademoiselle die of?” Faces blurred. Fayne Rabb. What was it all about anyway? The maid leaned toward her whispering.

But who killed her? Walter was looking at Vérène, Vérène was looking at Walter. The letter lay between them. Shadows in the room. “How dreadful for you, Hermione.” Someone was saying it was dreadful for Hermione. Someone was breaking the silence that lay between Vérène and Walter, the silence that became tighter and harder like an ice floe that becomes harder the harder the river presses on it. Someone should say something. Someone did. It was Darrington. “But poor Hermione rushed out to tea. I was to meet her there. I met her coming back — on the stairs.” Someone had met someone. Who? Darrington had met Hermione. “Darrington to the rescue.” Someone was thinking in all this of Hermione. But Hermione looked at Walter, looked at Vérène. Walter though he did not turn his head, felt Hermione. He felt Hermione staring as he had felt her in his music. He knew Hermione was there though he was looking at Vérène. Must they all feel sorry for Vérène because Vérène had done it? But had Vérène done it? Who had killed Shirley. The letter lay on the floor. Walter was twisting one great hand with great strong fingers. Fingers that had begun at three, tiny fingers, going on and on and Walter had that kind of power, detached power. It was detached power that had killed Shirley. Walter simply. It was Walter’s music. “But how was — I—to — know—” Walter was asking this of the void though Vérène as usual thought anything addressed to the void by Walter was meant for her. She would mother Walter. O don’t let me see her mothering Walter. “It wasn’t — your — fault— Vrrralter.” No. Don’t let him know it was his fault for it was his fault. The letter said so though she had not read the letter. She had found Walter reading the letter as she stumbled in to Clichy. She had rushed to them. . a letter had reached Walter. What did the letter say? It was on the floor there. Pick up the letter, someone, its shameful lying on the floor — no, I didn’t see her. She was lying on the floor. Anyone could look at her, inspectors, horrible people for she was outside the law. She couldn’t be cremated. She had killed herself. She had left another letter asking to be cremated. Did it matter? But she couldn’t be. All these letters, meaning nothing, meaning everything. They had all killed her.