Asphodel

by H. D. (Hilda Doolittle)

  Guns, guns, boats. It kept happening. In the heavy August night, guns, guns, boats. Morgan le Fay smile and draw your invisible veil across your invisible eyes and look through the veil at odd inimical creatures, buff creatures, buff creatures, mud-coloured creatures with high boots, polished boots, polished so that you could stoop and grin, grin back Morganlefayishly from polished leather. Has guns, guns, guns broken even your solitude, house like a lion? Will the “knockers” knock across the waste of years, of wreckage flung here on these rocks? Spars floated and bits of wreckage and barrels and kegs were washed up along the cliffs at the bottom of the garden where the shelves had been for so long impenetrable. Where Hermione had actually climbed down and had actually stood where (she was sure) no one had stood, had ever stood, boats now nosed in and nosing polluted clean sand, sand across which Artemis had stepped, taking the shape of wave on wave for her sandalled foot. Guns, guns look, Morgan le Fay, morganlefayishly through your veil drawn to make you invisible and hide yourself and look again. Men, men, men, men, men. Where had these men come from? A great car was drawn up outside the house, outside the empty ruin of the ruined shaft of grey stone that marked the ancient Phoenician tin mine where the knockers came from; Cornwall, Land’s End, motors of the barbaric, like the Roman great cars rolling serenely over magic, over roads made for Phoenician donkeys. You are new, you Romans with your great chariots, Romans, great men with great shoulders. What do you see here, Romans? Romans in great cars, Romans left great cars to prowl about the house, to post little groups of Romans along their coast, to accost Vane with all deference but with a hard finality. His house. Their house. There was need of something. Was it of their house? Romans accosted Vane politely, did not see her, Morgan le Fay, concealed Morganlefayishly to mock and jeer at Romans, men, men, men, men. Were they part of men, men, men, men? What was Vane doing in his gold and slender inviolate youth? There was no more youth like this. Youth now had wings, slid across the layers of the air, slid across ether and prowled in the very bowels of the mid-earth. Youth no longer walked, held its slim inviolate beauty up toward sunlight. Youth wheeled in mighty armoured chariots, youth lay on the metal decks of hideous gun-boats, youth slew and was slain . . . the house was desecrate.

  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.

  10

  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 com
manding 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?