Hilda Doolittle - Asphodel

Havre. This was Havre, Havre. Havre. Small boys looking like thin anaemic little girls dressed up in tight short hideous unbecoming little trousers, with curls (some of them) shouting after them, “Engl-eesh. Engl-eeesh. Beef-steak.” “O Clara they think we’re Engl-eesh.” The little boys had persisted and shouted until Hermione had had to turn, stick her tongue out at them, thank them, Messieurs for their hearty welcome to their beautiful patrie where in America they were all taught French children were so polite vous savez till they disappeared and the market was a mass of wine coloured carnations, what were they? “O yes, thank you, Madame Dupont, oeillets, we want some, bunches.” “O God, stick your face in them Fayne Rabb. Where have they come from? Wine, wine, they smell of wine, sops-in-wine.” “O God Clara look, look they’re wet and smell them and how cheap, nothing, all these for only (work it out) about ten cents” and Madame Dupont was scolding “you are always so — extravagant. It is extravagant reckless Americans like you Mademoiselle Hermione who spoil our people.” Sops in wine. I shall go mad with it. Yes, I know I’m too hot and the heat loves me. My head is still going round and round and the salt is sweet from the little clean tide washed canals. They are dreams these Breton women. They are gulls. French. Not frogs. Not hawks. Gulls. Sea-people with wings. How can I ever go further than this? “can’t we have supper on that same little pavement, O damn Madame Dupont. No, we simply can’t trail all that way back to meet her, in order to save a half a franc on the dinner and couverts (all the bread you can eat) compris. I’ll pay the extra. What did it amount to anyhow? The four of us about fifty cents a piece and she said it was too much. I’m too tired. I’ll stay here alone. Let me die here. O yes bring me an omelette like last night. Merci, you are so heavenly to understand my French. How kind of you to understand my French. How heavenly of you to understand. O like last night, exactly, like last night — last night—”

The sunset even like last night, faint flamingo rose touching the sails in the little clean salt-water canal like roses on snow. And the Breton hats, children even, little girls in gull-wing hats. They must wear them. They must wear them. They say it’s for good luck. Someone had told her. Where? Was it Pierre Loti? Something had come true again anyhow, something one had read came true. . Pierre Loti most likely, even the little girls, babies even, wear the gull winged bonnets for good luck.

Sailors like Pêcheur d’Islande with red pom-poms so odd on their blue tam o’shanters that they call berets. O France let me die here, let me die, press me to you, beautiful book, a flower’s leaf floated here by chance, a moth with dried wings spread out. . between your vivid pages.

“Did she die here?” O, but she couldn’t, she couldn’t have died, the smoke wreathing in its hideous obscene whirl upward across these (perhaps) very roofs. “I can’t believe that she died here.” But O horrible, horrible suppose it had never happened. Suppose that it was going to happen. For it never could have happened, but it was true. But it could never really have happened. O it was only a story they told us like old King Cole and the Seven Sisters and the prince who turned into a frog. Frog. Frog. It was only a frog story without even the Black Forest intense wood-reality of Grimms tales. It was not even a legend out of the woods, not a real fairy-story. Something made up and French story books were never any good. So it wasn’t true. It was a bad story. On the floor. Here, here it was they burned . . no, no, no, no, it wasn’t true. Hideous smoke wreathing up. “I wish we hadn’t come to Rouen.” “What?” “I don’t know. So tired, all these cathedrals. Saint Ouen. How about going back there?” “But it was you who said you wanted—” “O don’t say it. Don’t say it. Don’t say it was I who wanted to come, to come here, to come even to Rouen. O it was the Fennels at the Art Academy, friends of Mrs. Anderson (she wanted me to meet them) who put me up to it. He had made a lot of drawings of the rose-window in the Cathedral and the South Kensington (I think they call it) Museum in London bought them. They put me up to it. Everyone has to see Rouen.”

And Madame Dupont, saying good-bye at Havre, said they must come here, putting them on the boat, the river boat, because it was cheaper. For one had to see something. One came to France to see something — but why this? Why had she come to France? It was only a story like the Seven Sisters or was it the Seven Brothers turning into Swans; it was only a story like the little Mermaid who wanted feet. O God, God and she died for it wanting feet. O God don’t you see, it was something real that happened. It was written on the pavement with the date, a circle and the French words. One dared not read them. Not even herself there . She had gone away into the air and she was a Spirit and she was France. O book you are worse than Saint John. I could never read those terrible words and here it is written, all written on the pavement and it happened like the Crucifixion. But one can’t. One can’t think of it. Here eyes looked out under a hat wreathed with corn flowers, a soft hat like they were wearing and her body was strong and small and like Fayne Rabb’s. O don’t, don’t let’s talk about it. Get them away from it. Hermione had spoiled the afternoon (but how much more devastatingly had everyone, had everything spoiled hers) for people had to come, had to stoop over the pavement to see the words written. But it was impossible. It was out of a book. Horrible long pages of French History crowded in between Physical Geography and the Latin or Geometry. . it was only French history, tiresome out of a tiresome book and the print bad and she had wanted to crown the king at Orléans. And they had caught her. Caught her. Trapped her with her armour and her panache and her glory and her pride. They had trapped her, a girl who was a boy and they would always do that. They would always trap them, bash their heads like broken flowers from their stalks, break them for seeing things, having “visions” seeing things like she did and like Fayne Rabb. This was the warning. Joan of Arc. O stop them. Stop them. They’re hurting her wrists. God in Heaven. It was Saint Margaret that she called to. Saints all around Rouen, saints standing rather faint and tenuous on faint long feet. Come down, walk down, see — stop them. Saint Margaret. Saint Michael. Streets and the heat coming back and the reality and Clara reading, “visitors would do well to profit by the neighbourhood — br — br — br—” Hermione could not hear her. Clara was reading out of another book, the wrong sort of book. O France, France, terrible book. Like the revelations. It was like the revelations. Someone had given her a little book and said “eat it.” She must eat the little book. Not scan it like other people. O it wasn’t a question of scanning the little book, France. She must eat it, eat it, honey and worm-wood. “It’s not far. Hadn’t we better see the tower where they imprisoned her?” O God more horrors. Turn away. The English soldier was crossing the two sticks and the thin saint’s hand was reaching for the cross. The cross was in the hands of the witch and people were shouting, “crucify Him, crucify Him.” The witch was very tired and sick with all the noise and sweat of people. Her people. His people. Not that I loved Caesar less — red anemones. Corn flowers. O funny mad moth. O moth with blue wings. They have caught you moth, moth with blue wings. The black smoke shrivels your blue wings. People are shouting, blasphemy. They curse the witch of Orléans. The witch of Rouen. Going. Black. “O don’t touch me. This heat. Get out. No. I am rather disappointed in it. Let’s get back to Saint Ouen where it’s cool anyhow and leave alone these ugly tourist centres.” Tourist centres. O let me find lilies. “Yes. Clara. Thanks ever so much. We didn’t have enough lunch. My fault. Idiot. I wanted to stay in Ouen. Yes. I know I’m fretful. No, I’m not disappointed. It was (wasn’t it) our duty to come and see the spot. It said so in the guide book.” No monument. Nothing. France was all her monument. O queen, Artemis, Athene. You came to life in Jeanne d’Arc. She’s a saint now. I’d be a saint if I let them get to me. So would Fayne Rabb. I don’t want to be burnt, to be crucified just because I “see” things sometimes. O Jeanne you shouldn’t ever, ever have told them that you saw things. You shouldn’t have. France. You loved France. But it was a story. Something out of a book. “Yes, Mrs. Rabb. . Clara. Let’s go back. We had to see the place, certainly. Let’s get out of this heat anyway.”