Hilda Doolittle - Asphodel

Nevertheless, she knew her own terrain, she prowled up toward the carn height and lay in a hot sun that fell and lay and almost lifted her in its pollen dust of weight massive beauty. The men, men, men, were invading their slopes, were desecrating the rocks, were spreading their magic of desecrating wires and were stopping at their kitchen door for water, for fire, for directions now and again from little farm-girl Hezzie. Hezzie looked upon these barbarians as desecrators. These “foreigners.” Hezzie close in the magic of the house, held them at bay, held on to the magic of the house for things like this had never been done, never “had ought to be.” Things that desecrated, that brought back things. Men, men, men and the strange human heart ache. Must she go back to men, men, men? Men could mar or make her. Men could not. Men could do nothing to her for a butterfly, a frog, a soft and luminous moth larva was keeping her safe. She was stronger than men, men, men — she was stronger than guns, guns, guns. The luminous body within her smote her. It was soft and luminous and the colour of the gold sunlight that fell over her. The body within her was a mysterious globe of softly glowing pollen-light. It would give light in the darkness, she was certain, it would give light in the darkness, would, she was certain, glow pollen-wise in the darkness if the rest of her should be darkness, mysterious glow-worm within her would give light, show her the straight path. . and many there be that go in thereat. Straight is the road. Narrow is the path. God is. God is. . mysterious light that would show her, straight and narrow the road to her redemption. She was stronger than men, men, men, men, guns.

But was she? “I can’t stand it.” She didn’t know what she couldn’t stand. She was ill, tired, she wanted something, she didn’t know what she wanted. Vane looked at her with that odd quizzical expression, the same face that had met hers coming straight toward her through rows of statues, — statues, the odd and lovely and sometimes twisted things that Lechstein made, that were statues, statues. The same quizzical, slightly frigid, slightly imbecile stare of the well-bred annunciation angel. He didn’t understand. He couldn’t. “I must go to London. I must see a doctor.” He looked at her as if she were somehow not very well bred, “there’s a doctor in Penzance.” “No, you don’t understand. I must see my doctor, the one I — saw — before.” Now she was back with it, now she had the clue. She saw, seeing Vane not Vane but Darrington. She saw her old experience. She wanted something that would bring her near to Darrington.

Long ago, seeds were dropped in Egypt’s coffins and thousands and thousands of years passed (we all know this) and seeds brought to the light after thousands of thousands of years, sprouted, germinated, were sheer seeds of grain or barley, or of “some other grain” showing after thousands of thousands of years the inventiveness of God. Barley, grain or “it may be of some other seeding” came to light, some tiny green tips of two upward praying Akhnaton-like sun-hands, little sprouts of grain, praying toward the sun, little twin hands, the same always. The utter uninventiveness of God showed here. Seed dropped into a painted coffin was the same seed, the same germination that had always been and Hermione was now sister with every queen, sister with every queen, sister of Cleopatra, of the mother of Jesus, of Caesar’s patrician parent, of every char-woman. Seed that held the globe of the sun, that pollen-light within her. . “it’s as well you came. You couldn’t have carried it another two weeks.” Ether, all the horrors, all the old fears, all the tempest of terror and this, this note of her choice, even now God gave her the choice, take it or leave it. Draw your ugly old clothes together again, smile in a crisp professional manner, “but my husband is now in France and after the last disappointment — I—want it.” Did she want it? Why did Hermione stare in well-bred, well-feigned correctness (it was the right note, babies in war time) at the woman whom she rather dreaded, the same woman, Lady Hewlett, who had helped her, friend of Delia’s, the old horror of the other time, why had she come back to look at her horror, to regard it, why was she doing this? Why had she come from Cornwall, why had Vane come from Cornwall? There seemed no reason under the sun, in the sun for anything but this thing. She followed it with what little brain she had left and seeing the clue, the gold thread she dared see the labyrinth. Horror was still about her but Darrington wrote, had constantly been writing, “have your child, keep well and I will look after it.” Secure still in her Morgan le Fay little witchcraft, she could look at Lady Hewlett and smile and need not apologize for looking shabby (it was the right note in war-time) and say with mock fervour “O isn’t it all splendid, he writes constantly they have them on the run.” Fritz. Who was Fritz? A cypher in the riddle, a damn bad joke, something you had to grin over, brighten over. “Have him on the run.” Smiling, husband so right, not dead (why wasn’t he, posthumous baby) has Fritz on the run. “Mrs. Darrington with great care and a little discomfort—” O yes, that meant wearing that hateful brace, but what did it matter? God had given her the choice even now, it was a mangy sort of choice for she couldn’t help it. It was like “yes I joined the army as a volunteer.” What was it? She didn’t know what it was. She must be very careful.

“Well, what did the doctor say?” She wouldn’t tell Vane what the doctor said. She would smile at a painted annunciation angel who was now nothing, no one, someone who would conceivably help her. She said, “O things seem to be going jolly well.” Affectedly, using a word she never used, smiling at him, being an imitation of something “county” that he must have hated. Smile at him, let your lips curve over your hard skull for you were a queen two thousand of years ago and it’s still noblesse oblige and queens’ children are very precious children. Horrible. . for a queen. Are you a queen, Morgan le Fay? Yes for God lacks in inventiveness and once a queen (there is no escaping it) always a queen. I was a queen. I can smell the rush of water seeping down, then sweeping down from inland mountains, crossing sand-wastes, dragging trees and bushes along with it, Nile river. Nile river, great river like great inland American rivers, like no European rivers. Rivers were her kin and she was kin of rivers dragging silt down from high plateaus and from rock precipices. Little ugly room (she had borrowed Doris Redfern’s little flat for Doris was away now with her medical corps) and Vane looked wrong and she felt down, down a sort of despising of him for his wrongness, for his wax-annunciation angel look in the midst of all this clutter of books, papers, a general untidy efficiency about Doris’ flat with her medical books and her piles of pamphlets and her tables and chairs all utility proof, firm and yet clean and high, a little box of an office of a flat. Vane had looked right in the great Batenburg Square room with its high ceilings and its elegant Georgian decay, and he had been right in the old house, crouched like a lion. He said, “then aren’t we to be together in London?” and she wondered where and how they could be together and thought how odd it was that places could change people and Vane seemed hyper-critical, leering, critical of this high up little clean box of an office that she had crept into, suddenly sinking to her lowest, being meagre, not noble, finding rest in this matter of fact, familiar, professional atmosphere after the gold and pollen and the weariness of the inhuman loveliness of Cornwall. Fox-gloves were beginning, had put forth great ruby spikes and she was weary of this loveliness, noblesse oblige , she could adapt herself to other circumstance, already felt lighter, better. Why tell him? She knew what Vane would say, would intimate if she told him. Why be uncomfortable, why be braced together? Noblesse oblige . Queens’ children are so precious and queen not so very beautiful. “Then what do you think best? Had I better—” Better? What had he better? This was no moment for lawyers, papers, documents, hard cold facts. She wanted her veil woven subtly, secretly, anyhow did she care a damn now about Cyril Vane? Hypercritical, sensitive face that wasn’t really sensitive. Bad copy of a bad copy — Carrara marble, late honey coloured marble but with no authentic line. He was, had been, authentic in Cornwall. But she didn’t want to marry him. Why this marry? Marry? Why marry? Head bent forward. All the quality had gone, the quality of youth, the gold pear, the gold quattro-cento page, the saint, the young Michael. She hated Cyril Vane intensely. If he felt anything, he could say something, not this “the right thing” touch — marry — lawyers— noblesse oblige —I am not going to stoop to you, wax angel.