Mina Loy - Stories and Essays of Mina Loy

The news of this extravagant heroism spread through the fair, everybody came to visit the tent, not only the thousands of sightseers but also the very stall-holders of the fair themselves.

As you can imagine the children earned a large fortune.

Gloria Gammage had arrived at Palms with regulation social intentions — her palace was tremendous and stuffed with things bought in the hurry of a woman with taste — and scattered around in the harmonious untidiness of temperament — erratically weeded in accesses of surfeit it was changing gradually to an ordered setting for what was most durable in her personality—

You could see Mr. and Mrs. Gammage from the States out at official receptions — Mrs. Gammage driving in the park with the most ungetatable dowagers — Mr. Gammage advising young dukes on the treatment of blight on wild oats — Mrs. Gammage spending with other young matrons of her millionheir class — Mr. Gammage drinking at the chosen confectioners where the ripe male generation of Palmian who’s whos ruminated on the women and the cars behind in glass ambush — while the younger coroneted generation leaned up outside supporting the façade — while construing female biology.

But Gloria was one of those who exhaust modes of being in bursts of emptiness — and are early thrown for salvage on their instincts— And her big normal wide-eyed husband had his leisurely life put to it — to see that her instincts didn’t get the better of him.

Having exhausted this marriage and the social prestige in Palms as inspirational agents she flopped herself on the chaise longue — and refused to budge.

She was more organically conscious of the men than most women who are, under their daily ritual of complex sophistication — so rudimentary that they have failed even to get into conscious connection with their own organisms — and function in a tepid pulp — of distantly removed irritations of longings they cannot sensitize—

Gloria’s instinct had come to desire to stuff everything into her vulva to see what marvellous creative modifications it had undergone in the process — before chucking it away—

She had the divine female quality of lending to every latest science or philosophy no matter how mathematical or how austere — a ribald flavour of lubriciousness — with her insidious interest — she at this time was passing round “Bergson” to her friends — discoursing on it with those luscious eyes searching lovingly over their spiritual persons — that seemed to assure them that being was indeed as they had long suspected — an infinite orgy.

To Gloria, life, if only she get under the crust, was a pie, probably sweet — she wanted to stir and dip into it with her fingers — and pull out a plum.

She gave out that strong magnetic current of the “whole vitality” that calls to men and women alike — they required her to varnish their romances with her fuller interpretations—

She was the only woman who had conquered Palms — blown herself up for a voluntary ostracism — in which she could pick out some more bizarre ingredients from which to compound her inquisitive career — nourishment for her inquisitive soul.

She reached out for things and rid herself of them with the self-same amplitude and never meditated on her actions—

The assurance of her states of mind came to her with lightning certainty — when she was bored she was bored—

Between her and Felicity — the little tweeny lawful furbelow bedfellow of the big — (hog-faced) X — who was most her equal in age provenance income and transatlanticness — there had long been a breach — on account of Gloria’s eccentricities— The two husbands being of the same degree of social parity as their wives — were with the slower sociable processes of the male — still in the condition of intimate friendship — and had at last congratulated themselves on engineering a reconciliation between their respective beauties—

Gloria dines with Felicity—

On the evening on which Felicity is to dine with Gloria — she phones her—

Are you going to dine indoors or in the pergola —because I don’t know whether to wear a heavier wrap—

Oh — that’s of no consequence — don’t bother to come at all answers Gloria — who has already acquainted herself with the ultimate possibilities of Felicity’s reactions.

Felicity is still interested in Paris frocks — Gloria has just thrown her Paris frocks all over the bedroom floor — because they have no emotions — and offers them to any of the impecunious types with which she has begun to salt her entertainments—

“It’s all nonsense,” says her husband — standing — extending his pockets — over her chaise longue — where Gloria is smoking herself into a jaundice—“it’s a question of making up one’s mind — anyone can go to bed with anyone — if they have to”—

But Gloria all covered in priceless lace — in which she delights to drop hot ashes — has arranged to fly at midnight with the Ducca degli Cacciatori — and is listless to her husband’s wooing—

She keeps a no man’s land of meaning in these sleek stroking corners of her eyes — and Antony — who will never be able to construe its significance — is anxious that no man else ever shall—

In this way — keeping the secret — of the Sphinx.

And so it comes about that Antony that night — pounces upon the Young Cacciatori with a shotgun — which is not required — so precipitate is his withdrawal — leaving Gloria with something quite circumscribed in its potential “rowiness” to discuss with her Antony.

Now Gloria’s income — though large enough to strike the population of Palms with terror for their prestige — is derived from the pleasure of a fabulously opulent Pappa with the universal dislike of scandal— And Antony’s pleasure is a formidable weapon in Pappa’s hand—

Gloria, knowing that she has invoked a crisis, takes the only possible means of gliding over a crisis — by invoking a more alarming crisis — one in which even such a crisis as that of matrimonial integrity shall pale in significance — and carefully measuring an enormous overdose of something frightfully dangerous — commits suicide — and is horribly sick.

With this commotion of the intestines she has fully paid the debt of threatened honour. The commotion in her extensive household is more than sufficient to drown the promptings of Jealousy—

Antony and Gloria — lounge about on her convalescent bed — and decide that in all probability — her nerves would have been more normal — if only they had had a child — for every month — finds Antony mooing around the golden bedroom — and any stray member of the house party is informed — that Antony is “the cow mooing for its lost calf—”

Daniel had come home to see his Father, whose handwriting had given out when he had been about to fulfill the only patriarchal action that he had been able to fulfill for some time. The signing of a cheque.

This at last produced in his wife signs of consternation.

Sir Somebody Something, the most expensive luxury Mrs. Bundy had ever enjoyed, pronounced upon examination with a —oscope that Mr. Bundy’s brain was rotten away “in patches,” and that he would, after a rapid running down of the clockwork — lie like a log in his bed.

Daniel with a beating heart entered the spare bedroom where the father, hors de combat for the eternal conjugal polemics had, as it were, been put out to grass.

There was about him a sublime and hoary unconsciousness that made Daniel feel for a moment that he was looking at God.

But he was only a volcano that had exploded and fallen in, strewing itself with ashes.