Hilda Doolittle - Asphodel

One didn’t marry. One did stunts. That was it. That was right. For what had her marriage been, all told? Certainly not a marriage. Racing about Italy and being called Signora, nobody ever thought she was married anyway. Some people were like that. Never got the credit for anything. Anyway Mrs. Darrington and a pension. But he wouldn’t die now. He wouldn’t die now. They didn’t die when they were cast by the roadside. Darrington was dead now. He wouldn’t die. There was no white flower any more to be hoped for but what was this? What was this? “Darling. You’ve slept late.” Someone was kissing her, brushing her face like a nosing puppy. Who was that? Late and far there had been sounds of flutes, olives and olive silver Sirmio so this was somewhere else and someone else but it couldn’t be anywhere else. It was Italy. Open my heart and you will see . It wasn’t anywhere else. There was a plum tree that shed its flower as the irises raised their trumpets, their horns of gold. Gold and fleurs d’or semées. Flowers of gold were strewn upon her banner but they had taken it. Soldiers were fighting and her banner was lost. “Why don’t — you — get — up?” O if now she opened her eyes, she would remember and she wouldn’t remember for she would never open her eyes, was dead simply. “Open your eyes, open your eyes.” “How sweet you look Jerrold, where’s” (for she had never really forgotten) “Mary Dalton?” She sat up and made pretence of wakening though really now she thought she had been asleep, dead-drug of sleep, such sleep as she had not hoped for this side of the grave. “This side of the grave. Isn’t that Landor?” “What precious?” “Fields of asphodel. . something or other this side of the grave?” “I don’t know, why do you ask that?” Darrington had arranged her tray for her as he knew she liked it. O if now he would go, this perfect hour had come, an hour that flowers with the old flowers, the wild cyclamen, the wild olive spray she plucked to wind with it. This is us, she had said, you and me, you the cyclamen, me the olive. “Do you remember that little wreath I made and for fun put it on a round stone and said Hermes, Hermes.” “I remember your saying Hermes and the round stone. How could I forget it?” “I don’t know. It seems — seems — right” (but did it?) “to forget things now.” This was wonderful. She had died simply. Mary Dalton was gone, not even a scarf, a lavender scarf that she could make an excuse to come back for. “Why did Mary go before I got up?” O this is marvellous. I don’t care that she’s gone or that she was with him. I am, it is evident, a most immoral woman. Signora, most little signorissima. Signora. Signorina. “Do you remember how they would always issimo us, you and me.” “They liked us.” “Yes. They liked us.” She liked them too for a moment, drawing them back, drawing them up to the top of the pond of filth, the mire where they had lain, regrettable, dishonourable little souls, hers and his, disreputable and regrettable. “I’m glad it’s over.” “Over? God in heaven what do you mean over?” Hermione sipped her tea. She hadn’t slept so well for months, this side of the grave she had slept, slept, slept. “I’m glad the party and the raids over—” “And my leave, precious?” “O Jerrold—” She could talk like that. She could balance the fine cup (one of their relics) and dispassionately look at Jerrold. “I saved that cup for you. Wouldn’t give it to Merry.” Hermione looking at Jerrold, believed this. There was seriousness, a look she had almost forgotten, some deep root somehow of love, some devotion. Had she regarded his love too lightly? He was younger. His love had been that rapture of some wild young thing and she had liked him, loved him because he was wild and didn’t do the right thing and hated his family and wouldn’t (in the beginning) take a commission as his gov’nor was simply after family kudos. He had hated them, held out against them for they had tried to spoil his writing, hadn’t wanted him to write and perhaps she had mis-judged Jerrold. “I never seem to see you any more.” He was looking at her, his eyes were clear and cool enough in that half-light. The room was dim with a clear blurr of darkness and Jerrold in his uniform, just shaved, fresh, right, somehow the right lover if not the quite-right husband. Husband. Husbands. “Why did we ever get married?” “Well there was no particular reason for it but it saved my life, precious.” “Saved your life?” “I mean I would have been pitched in sooner if I hadn’t been.” “That’s so. That’s why we got married.” There was a reason for everything. “And I couldn’t have stood going back to America and I couldn’t have endured people being horrid though they were anyway.” “They always are horrid.” This was someone else. Something had flowered in the night. Jerrold’s hands were cool, his eyes were wide and undeviating. “I’m sorry dear, for all the hurt I’ve brought you.”

“My dear, you never brought me any hurt. What ever?” He found a cigarette now, lighted it. Her little hour was perfection upon perfection. The waves of clean smoke came over and across her knees drawn up a little and Jerrold found her feet, two long feet which he caught like a hunter in his wide palm. Her feet beneath the clothes were held, caught and his hand was strong, Saxon, strong, a strong hand beautifully modelled, beautiful like his own feet, those statue feet that had pressed so clear and flat and right with the arch curve on the dark trodden paths that wound through olive and along the rock-edged cytisus bushes of the hills above Solaro. Feet, hands. What was more gracious than this? Had she no heart? No conscience? “I’m afraid I’m rather odd. I didn’t mind — Merry—” Jerrold did not turn. Was he used to this sort of thing? Had it happened before? Had Merry been “near” him before? It didn’t matter? Did it matter? If she could drop her head across the bed clothes and cry it would be all right. She couldn’t. She saw that Jerrold Darrington was clear and right and shaved and clean and in the right clothes and his new routine had thinned him again and his cuff was elegant. The cuff that rested across her knees with the new “grip,” the hand under it. He was right. Was she then wrong? “My clothes were so shabby and worthless—” He wasn’t listening. Was he thinking of someone else, something else? But did it matter? Did she care really? “I suppose I am a sort of Undine, George used to say so.” “What did you say, darling?” “I said I suppose I must be rather terrible.” “You are, dear.” “Terrible. Terrible. How am I?” But he was wandering now about the room, finding bits of things. He said, “you’ll be ready. We must clear off now in twenty minutes”. . and she wanted to answer something, couldn’t say it, had no words to say it but if she could wait here with her chin on her drawn up knees, remembering the feel of his wide palm about her feet, she would manage to find voice, to speak, to give him that word, that message, that signal before it was too late. She mustn’t lose all the things that had made her one with classic beauty, Italy, Solaro, the lizards on the sunbaked steps of the House of the Faun and the avenue of cypresses of the road of the dead at Pompeii. There are no fields of asphodel this side of the grave . She wanted to reach out and the time was short, he was buckling his belt, was bending, searching, looking for his little odd things, the thin book he carried, what was he now reading? Did he read nowadays? She never now could ask him, he was sure to flaunt the old things at her, bruise and tear her with some frivolous, silly or destructive jibe, make fun of something sacred, something deep down that she hadn’t known she cared for till he took it, turned it inside out, spat on it. Swiftly walk o’er the western wave , for instance though she didn’t care for Shelley, didn’t ever read him. What had happened? What was done, was now lost? Swiftly walk o’er the western wave spirit of night . Could she manage to find one, one line, one verse? O God, let me remember for words are like the bubbles of clear light on the surface of this mire, this mud pond, this vast wash of débris and death and filth that is our present. The porches of the Temple of the Sun and the little houses of Pompeii held their power though lava swept them and though ashes debouched filthy. A centurion was found standing, waiting at the entrance, at a gate-way, the Roman Legions. Ave Imperator. Senatus Populus. Was she like that centurion, a Keeper of Beauty? Must she stand while the filth burned them fell burying them and must she stand watching the filth, the lava, all the burial of all the beauty? If she could reach, speak to him. She must reach, speak. What should she say, speaking? She spoke, not thinking what she was saying, not knowing what she was saying, “there are no fields of asphodel this side of the grave.” There are no fields. . fields. What is a field? A field is a plot of grass and it is strewn with flowers. There are small sweet pulse, butterfly weed, little thyme heads. Butterflies wing across them, tiny butterflies. You can take a field and spread it like a rug across the floor and you can step on the field, stepping out of your bed. You can stand on the field and you can watch the mark your foot makes, you can see your foot ringed with blue thyme, or with cyclamen, or with gold pulse. This is imagination. Imagination is stronger than reality. For outside is fog, mist and the room is cold but your foot is stepping on a carpet and if you find your stockings you will be thinking all the time of a gilt gauze peplum and the fall of the marble as the sun shines on it and you may stoop down and gather the broken cyclamen where your foot stepped and lay them at the feet of the marble Nereid. The room of the Nereids. The room of the Nereids where Darrington had sought her, found her, where Darrington had brought her violets and across the room of the Nereids the London mist had woven a garment, a veil, the veil of Aphrodite. Now look this is the veil of Aphrodite. It isn’t one lover but if your lover leaves, you stoop down and pick the broken cyclamen and make a border for the veil. Darrington can never be torn from the veil of her Loves. The veil of Aphrodite. She would take that veil and at the last lay it at a shrine but it is hard weaving with Troy town down and my husband has been faithless. No, I am not a Penelope. I know I am not. People reach over, Captain Trent but I won’t go to him, couldn’t because of Merry, anyhow he’s now locked up. The veil must be woven subtly and one flower cannot disown another. Fayne is the very sea-blue edge. The edge of hyacinths is (though I had forgotten her) Fayne. This isn’t everything. I wish my garters matched, this is this and this is this and both wrong anyway. Can’t find warm underthings, does it matter? Put on extra outside jacket. Hat over face. Hat over face. Hat far down and chin only showing. Glass smudged with mist, too many tumblers, will hurry home after the train, wash up tumblers, open window, a little rest, peace. Books, will try to drag some books from shelves, Darrington doesn’t now want books.