Hilda Doolittle - Asphodel

“Keep quiet. Don’t talk. Don’t talk about it, darling.” “I can’t think. Can’t think about anything else and yet all night (is it night?) my head has been going round and round. You remember that girl I almost forgot.” “Which girl Astraea?” “That American girl that crossed with me — when just was it?” “You mean when you first crossed, two years before the war.” “Yes two years before the war. Where was it?” “Where was what?” “Someone, something got — killed.” “Hush darling — don’t talk about killed.” “I don’t mean the nursing home. I don’t mean the horror of the nurses. I can talk of that now. I don’t mean their taking me into the cellar — while — it — was happening. I know they took me into the cellar. I know the baby was dead. I know all that. I’m not afraid of talking about it. Really Jerrold.” “Hush. Hush darling.” “I mean long ago, something happened long and long ago — the other side of a chasm. Someone. Something. A silver bullet—” “Don’t talk of bullets darling.”

“Read Browning to me.” “What just do you want dear and the room’s too dark; can’t turn on the electricity till the raid’s over.” “Read anything — your voice — it was always your voice — sometimes in the worst times, I hear your voice. I wouldn’t have minded if they hadn’t been so horrid to — you—” “Do keep still. Don’t fidget. Now rest there.” Darrington pulled the cushion to a flat plateau, lifted her by the shoulders, pushed her into the down cushions, “now don’t talk.”

“What shall I read, darling?” “That thing about Fortù—Fortù, was it? The Englishman in Italy, you know what I mean. It takes me back to Sorrento, to Ana-Capri. It makes things come right. Gaudy melon flower . I said those things over and over and over before — it — before it arrived, I was going to say. But it didn’t. I used to think I would keep all Italy, the melon flowers, the gold broom above Amalfi. It wasn’t England I loved having it. How could I have loved England? God — God — God—” “Stop talking. . stop. . stop, darling.” “I can’t stop talking. I’ve been quiet for weeks, all those weeks in that filthy place. They didn’t kill me anyhow. Their beastliness at least made me glad for one thing. I was glad, so glad it was killed, killed by them, by their beastliness, their constant nagging. The Queen brought Atkinson’s eau-de-cologne. But would eau-de-cologne mean anything to anyone who was having a baby, having I say a baby , while her husband was being killed in Flanders? They got exaltées, those nurses and their cheeks flushed with ardour and they said. . O Mrs. Darrington, how lucky for you to have your husband when poor Mrs. Rawlton’s husband is actually now lying wounded. . and Mrs. Dwight-Smith’s husband is MISSING. Their cheeks went pink with almost consumptive joy and fervour while they drove and drove and drove one toward some madness. Why isn’t Mr. Darrington in Khaki? What is khaki? Khaki killed it. They killed it. Italy died and eras amet and I send you Rhodocleia for your hair and swiftly walk o’er the western wave, spirit of night. Italy died with it— Why isn’t Mr. Darrington in khaki? Good old ecstatic baby-killers like the Huns up there. What is khaki?” “Hush hush—” “Another gun. Perhaps we’ll go this time — read Fortù.”

“ Fortù, Fortù, my beloved one,

Sit here by my side .”

“Go on, go on reading. Don’t let anything stop you. Go on. It will make things come right. Go on reading. Don’t let anything stop you. After all percussion or something only broke all the upstairs windows last time. . they may do better this time. .”

“ Pomegranates were chapping and splitting

In halves on the tree. . straight out of the rock side

Some burnt sprig of bold hardy rock-flower. . great

 butterflies fighting, some five for one cup . .”

“Butterflies fighting makes me forget. Funny my being alone. And it was gone, all Italy was gone. Amalfi was gone. . Amalfi’s gone with that crash. They’re trying for Euston station but they’ve got Amalfi. . the things one didn’t know were real, until shattered by unreality. . guns, guns, guns, guns. Our own gun makes more noise but it rattles nicely, just over us that anti-aircraft. . Amalfi. They’ve got Amalfi this time. The zeppelins and the anti-aircraft guns are both shattering Amalfi. Butterflies fighting, some five for one cup. . did you say some five for one cup? Somewhere butterflies are fighting. . but what butterfly can fight against this thing any longer? I should never have dreamed five butterflies could fight some five for one cup. And why did we come here? Because that plaster Flora was spilling her plaster basket of plaster rose rosette roses like the one (almost) on the long road to Ana-Capri. Do you remember why we took these rooms? That was why. No. Don’t speak. Hold me closer. They always try for Euston. It was because that plaster Flora spilled her plaster flowers and we remembered she was just a little like the one in the Signorina’s garden. Oranges were in flowers. . winter blossom and winter Hebridean apples, gold winter oranges above Mediterranean water. My grandfather said of all the things he wanted to see in Europe (we always spoke of Europe in those days, not France, not England, not Germany, just Europe) was the Bay of Naples. The Bay of Naples. . . that was near enough. I can’t get any exaltation out of bombs bursting. God knows I’ve conscientiously tried to do it. Perhaps it’s because I’m not English, not European. I feel Europe is splitting like that pomegranate in halves on the tree , Europe, all of it that I so love. . how long have we been married?”

“Why do you ask that? It’s almost three years now.” “One year before the war. Italy and coming back just in time and everything broken, everyone scattered. . everything different. Italy. . is Italy different? But it can’t be. Italy would be the same if all the Huns of all the universe (who exactly are Huns?) should over-run it. Things now are like Gibbon. The decline and Fall. This is history, I suppose. Go on reading.”

“ . . about noon from Amalfi. . his basket before us

All trembling alive

With pink and grey jellies, your sea-fruit . .”

“Yes. And lizards everywhere. Flowers burnt out of rocks, like volcanic embers. Those red anemones. O yes. Everything will come right. Everything has come right. Open my heart and you will see engraved inside of it Italy . But I love France too. But Italy is to France what a red ember is to a polished gem. Yes France is a gem polished and cold and flawless and beautiful I can’t think of men dying, only of France, la patrie a polished amethyst or some eighteenth century cameo. No, no Hun (what is a Hun anyway?) should break and steal and plunder. A pity though it’s happened. That’s because I’m not English I suppose. We always spoke of Europe. I love Europe.”

“ Meantime, see the grape-bunch they’ve brought you ,

The rain-water slips

O’er the heavy blue bloom on each globe

Which the wasp to your lips, still follows

Still follows with fretful persistence:

Nay taste, while awake . .”

“I did taste. . but it’s gone. They’ve broken it. .”

“ Next, sip this weak wine

From the thin green glass flask, with its stopper

A leaf of the vine. ”

“It was you who taught me to love those things, Capri Nero, Capri Bianco, cigarettes, the pear trees against Solaro were a mass of blossom and there were prickly pear and cactus. The small goats scampered before us and there was that singular goat-herd (for a long time we thought we’d dreamed it) piping under that one clump of cool willows. Cool willows and below, so far below that one could for a breath have flung oneself down, the sea. The sea. Thalassa. Yes, it was Greece, not like Tuscany. We had Greece, having Italy.”