Hilda Doolittle - Asphodel

“What darling?” “How can you — go on — with — this? You’re looking more and more ill. It’s killing you.” “It — has — killed—” O God. Hermione was forgetting. So many were dead. She had forgotten that Tony whom she hardly knew was out of it, “gone west,” but he was away so much, the house always seemed Delia’s property and Delia was above suspicion though people had a way (as people did in those days) of a little pitying Delia. Women would, of course, Delia being so beautiful, so chaste in that odd American-Greek manner in spite of what people said, when Americans were like that, they were high and pure and divine and Delia was like that and Lillian Merrick was like that. Tall and cold, new England, that was another name for a transplanted England that was more English than England, more Greek than Greek. Delia was like that. Lillian was like that. Hermione had forgotten Tony, there were so many Englishmen (had been so many Englishmen) like that and Tony was so often in Africa and so often he was running across to France. France. Tony was in France for good. Hermione had forgotten Tony. “Delia?” “Darling—” But what could she say to Delia? She couldn’t now say chuck it, they’re exploiting you, they’re killing you, they’re beasts, devils, they are more cruel than the wasp-devils who fly low over London and at least have their courage, their panache, what are these devils? Nothing. They don’t even have children for the other devils to kill. We are in it. Killing and being killed. Who are these? Obscene rows of suppressed women, not women, but some of them have lost sons. O, don’t let me be cruel. I am so muddled. Poor Tony. “I never — knew — Tony.” “He was like that, Hermione. No one ever knew him. He said I was aloof and—” “Cold, Delia?” “Cold, darling. Yes, how did you know?” “It’s the sort of thing they say.” “ They say, Hermione?” “I mean — Jerrold.”

O put it on, put it on, how funny I look, like a doll now. I am a doll but it will amuse him. He said Merry Dalton was so “cute,” he said cute like that not knowing it was so silly, so full of silly school-girl silliness to an American. English people picked up American words, used them in such an odd way, “cute.” He said little Mary Dalton looked “cute” and Mary (they called her Merry now) was setting the pace for everything. Poor Merry. Hermione had suddenly got across to her, saw her in one tremendous instant. But it was wrong Merry sympathizing with the Irish (though she was half-Irish) it was all wrong. But one was so tired of this disciplined death, this row of people one loved gone, all gone, nice people who did the right thing gone, one might as well find out how the others lived, for one couldn’t believe that Delia’s, that Lady Prescott’s red-cross section represented the whole of life. Being good, being good, rolling, unrolling lint until her fingers ached and she knew she would go mad but anything was excused when one’s husband came back, “no. I won’t be here for another ten days, five days, three days, (what was it) my husband is due across.” Husband. Husband. But this wasn’t a husband. One might as well sleep with a navvy from the street only there weren’t any, they were all soldiers, but this person was as strange, more strange to her than Captain Ned Trent whose father had been the General Trent of Ladyburg and Captain Ned was an Irish rebel and had reacted from the right thing to this extent, the police might call at any moment and it was all going round and round and round. “You are more beautiful than Merry Dalton,” he had said, “but you haven’t her charm.” Was that it? Dash eau de cologne across black lidded eyes, make up, funny thing, how different she looked, it didn’t look right, she looked hectic, ill with the bright stain but the others did it and Jerrold said she must brighten things up, make things hum, it was his last leave, he was sure it was his last leave. The old house, the big room, faster, faster, they could dance, pull the rug up, they could dance 1918, they could dance. 8,8,8. It was nineteen eighteen. 1918. Let them dance. Darrington had his commission now. Let them dance. It was bad form, shocking. Really Merry shouldn’t have brought old Trent. Everyone knew what he was up to. It was shockingly bad form but he was such a gentleman. Yes, he was a gentleman like all the others, like Tony Prescott but he had got tired of good form and his father at Ladyburg and he was kicking up a little bit of a row and they couldn’t shoot him because of Ladyburg and Darrington only a lieutenant really ought to be saluting and how funny for Trent was a real officer and a gentleman throwing bombs at the English in Ireland, not getting shot, all very complicated, can’t shoot him, his father Trent of Ladyburg. Boer War Captain, a real soldier beside whom all this was bluster and obscene belching of volcanoes and ash and O God it was funny the taste of it, taste and smell, might as well sleep with a corpse as sleep with Darrington. The red made her eyes darker, brighter, make the red make eyes brighter, dark, dark rings, fatigue, looking dissipated, just fatigue, O God, might as well sleep with anyone as sleep with Darrington. Over the top and the best of luck. They were dancing. Merry had her little head thrown back and Jerrold bent and kissed her. You let them kiss you. They would be going back. The boy in the corner had lost his arm but he was still in uniform. He was wild and shy by turns, had never seen anything like this, Darrington had brought him, seemed puzzled, they seemed ladies but couldn’t be, couldn’t be, ladies don’t dance — that — way — But he adored Darrington. Darrington had brought him and this was Darrington’s wife — widow. She had almost said for Darrington was dead. If only there was someone she could tell about Darrington, would the boy know? She wanted to get to someone, make someone understand. The boy wouldn’t understand. Even the war and the lost arm and the terrors of the trenches would never change him, there were nice women and there were women who weren’t nice. But he must change. She must change him. Hermione wished she hadn’t made up, wished she had her own pallor to confirm her, wished she could get to the boy, reach him, put her arms about him, pull his tired head on to her shoulder, be a mother, a god, a saint. She wanted to cry, O look you are real, the others — but the others were real too. You couldn’t call Lady Prescott’s war-workers real. You really couldn’t. Merry Dalton whom she had always hated was more real than that. Merry was real since she had found her name, since Captain Ned Trent had found her name, Merry, for them. Irish, half Irish. You can’t go on for ever being English. Let her rip. God. Let her burn. Troy town. Over the top. Over the top. Troy town and Delia a sort of Helen, Delia preserving Beauty. Let Delia preserve Beauty for Hermione was tired of beauty, tired of herself, of being reviled, she would fling in with the rest, see, feel, see, hear, Captain Trent said she was as beautiful as Merry and he loved Merry. All going. All gone. The boy leaned forward and lit a cigarette with a child ennui from the smouldering ash of pretty Louise Blake who had suddenly appeared, a friend of a friend of a friend — pretty, was she? Hair drawn tight up from squint oriental eyes. Looked as if she might be a magazine ad for some arcane scent, Fleur d’orient. She was Fleur d’orient. “I’ve found a name for you at last, Louise.” “What — ever?” “Fleur — fleur d’orient. Florient. It’s a name of a powder I think.” “I don’t want names of powders.” Louise was a little hurt. She did so look like an advertisement of some rather obvious slightly risqué powder or scent. American. Something had flooded something, the river no doubt their studio, everybody had pneumonia and bad drains. Louise had come through the floods and the drains with the most chic of pre-war prettiness. All of them looked odd now, different beside Louise with her pre-war chic. How could Louise manage? How could anybody manage? Were they all like that or like Delia? Hermione wanted to be like both. Had to be like both. She was younger than Delia. Delia couldn’t understand exactly.