Hilda Doolittle - Asphodel

God singularly lacks inventiveness and she found herself in the woods, in the forest, in the little old cottage that Delia had lent her years and years ago, again in the little old cottage and Delia being kind, not knowing what had happened, saying “of course take the cottage, Jerrold has been writing me, we must all take care of you.” No, this is no cheat. Morgan le Fay, you must, by your witch-craft make things come true and this cottage is small and pure and clean like a little built-up Hansel and Gretel hut in an old-fashioned operatic stage-set. Songs sing and I am alone and the woods bank the house and flank the house and there is a great waste of stubble and stumps opposite the house for they have cut down all this slope of the hill for air-service, wood, wood, woods, guns, guns, guns reaching even here in this remote Buckingham valley, so remote yet so near London, remote, far away but you can borrow the farm donkey any time and drive in to the station, five miles away for they all knew Delia in the old days, “how is Lady Prescott, is she never coming again to Chissingham?” Delia a sort of goddess in the machine, very much still in the machine, being ground and ground to pulverized nothingness in the machine, look using you I have used the machine, am greater than the machine. O stretch your limbs on the couch, pile pillows back of your head, balsam pillows, gone a little thread bare, boards showing cracks, little summer-house, not a house at all, how heavenly of Delia to really let me have it. Balsam pillows back of her head and she was alone, only Marion Drake from the big house a mile away, Marion their one neighbour in the old days, who (Delia used to wail) spoiled everything, would make a garden party of their week-ends, not understanding really happiness, umbrellas, striped red and vermillion against the beech trees, walls covered with exotic creepers. A garden a mile away and Marion Drake being friendly as far as her ambulance work in the five mile away Twickham would allow her. Thank God for that. Thank God. Marion Drake’s caught in the machine but my husband’s an officer if he isn’t a gentleman and she will plunge in here once a week at any rate sensing my “condition.” Lie on the long couch, pile balsam pillows behind your tousled head, thank God for this security and all the wood you want, scrape it up yourself for the cuttings are free to anybody but the farm people actually have enough wood and I will burn beech boughs, and beech leaves and make songs in the fumes of smoke. . of smoke. . God lacks in inventiveness for this happened in Arcadia (or was it America, the same number of letters, she counted on her fingers, and they look the same) and we wore a bear pelt and worshipped trees, tree boles and knew that men weren’t worth anything except for this and after this, kill the men, queen bees, let your workers sting the useless males to death. Lie with your head propped up by the balsam pillows (I remember that very summer and how we all shredded off needles for these pillows) and let the breath of balsam go deep down, deep down for you need all this Morgan le Fay. Don’t sing, eat. Gather twigs and burn them. Pray to your near gods for God lacks in inventiveness and this has happened — this has happened.

Marion Drake, nice name, name like twist of brown coloured silk, silk that runs from fawn brown to dead leaf brown to adder-skin brown, one into the other without perceptible break in the subtle brown-brown shade of it. Nice brown taste, nice brown feel about her name, “night candles are burnt out and jocund day” but I have no reason to think of that. I don’t like Marion Drake meddling, why can’t she let me alone? I’ll have to rake out clothes, rake over clothes, can’t go up there to tea in my old garden smock, why not? These things are more comfortable now, can’t do it, will have to find some back-wash of pseudo-artistic finery as Marion writes in the little note (left under the butter and eggs basket) that she would be disappointed as the girl (who is she?) has read my lyrics, has never met a “poet,” wants to meet a poet, has been to Greece. Why Greece? What Greece? Greece is a thing of rocks that jag into you, every Greek line of poetry breaks you, jags into you, Hellenes the supreme masochists, hurting —how did they manage it? A line, a word, the name of a flower, the name of every flower, hyacinth — but that’s smoke blue, like clouded semi-precious stone. What shall I wear? The girl has been to Greece. There’s that old slate-grey blue thing that I can pull about a bit but it means spending the morning sewing and I wanted more wood, sun lies heavy on the rough brambles, berries are almost over, frost makes a veil, the bride of God, the dead bride, Persephone veil over the bushes, over me, Persephone in Hell. Greek dead. I am a Greek dead. Not a dead Greek. Hellenes are the supreme masochists. . and now she saw that the girl was a Hellene and this was odd for she had been so webbed over with the Egypt sand and sun-dust, with the quattrocento angel and the wax loveliness of the annunciation that she had forgotten (it appeared) stark colour, blue colour, colour of a jacinth, a smoke blue translucent stone that was one phase of Hellas. But Hellenes were masochists and when she looked into two blue eyes across the little extra festive bounty of Marion’s tea-table (the girl had driven some ten miles over from Krissenden) Hermione remembered her name, Hermione, my name is Hermione. Hermione was the mother of Helen, or was Hermione the daughter of Helen? Hermione, Helen and Harmonia. Hymen and Heliodora. Names that began with H and H was a white letter. H was the snow on mountains and Hermione (who now remembered that her name was Hermione) remembered snow on mountains, sensed the strong pull-forward of sea-breakers, sensing the foam that was white and the white steed of some race chariot. And white steeds, white flowers, white rocks looked at her out of enormous eyes set wide in a hard, clear, slightly semitic little face, clear skin, wide brows, hair twisted in two enormous coils and that odd commanding look and that certainty and that lack of understanding and that utter understanding that goes with certain types of people, Delia’s sort, people who were simple and domineering, never having known anything of scraping, of terror, of the wrong thing, of the wrong people. Hard face, child face, how can you be so hard? The smile froze across the white large teeth and the white perfect teeth showed the lips as hard, coral red, clear, beautifully cut and yet the child was not beautiful. Each feature was marked with distinction, with some race clarity but taken all in all, she was not beautiful, repellent a little—“How charming. You have really been to Hellas?”

Hellas, Hermione, herons, hypaticas, Heliodora. . did names make people? Was it saying “Hellas” and not “Greece” that was to save her? Speaking herself frigidly (slightly repelled) to this young old creature who had everything (Marion said so) Hermione was repelled and for the same reason strangely lighted, concentrated, brought to some poignant focus. O this was it. This was to be her undoing again, again, again. . she was not to be let drift and merge into the forest, into the cold green, into the cold shadows and the shadows that smelt of grape-blossom though there was never grape flowering in this Buckinghamshire valley forest. Trees smelt of green grape flowers but she was to be recalled, repelled from her musings, brought back; Morgan le Fay smile your little odd twisted smile for another will replace you. Smile and plunge back home into your little forest and say I’ll never see that hateful hard child again, hard, pedantic and so domineering for you are doomed Morgan le Fay. Don’t think you can get out of it. Smile and waste your brain. . try to waste your brain. . you have no brain. . where have I put my Greek Anthology?