Asphodel

by H. D. (Hilda Doolittle)

  “The map is rotten.” It was Darrington again saying it. And now the map took form before Hermione’s dazed eyelids. Her eyes seemed to see nothing. Were open, staring like glass eyes, saw nothing, grey glass eyes, but her eyelids seemed pricked with luminous light, seemed to burn, to glow with some light within—eyes and they see not—her glass grey eyes didn’t see anything, would never see anything. “Of course, Jerrold. I understand about the baby. I’ll go at once and register it—naturally—as it should be—” Dodge him. Dodge him. Register it as it should be as it could not possibly other be. Phoebe Darrington by all the laws of spirit, by all the most brute made laws even of brute matter. Roman law. She had heard once half heeding about Roman law—the child born—he had come to see her— She couldn’t get the exact wording of vague but exactly recalled Roman law. But she would—she would— “Of course you know if you make any false statement—” Darrington speaking. False statement. False statement. What now was coming? False statement. Hermione turned eyes from the map on the wall and grey glass eyes saw now Darrington. They saw Darrington—they looked at Darrington—yes and they see now—her eyes (horrible) saw Darrington—Minotaur with bull throat, with head bent forward. Minotaur that was about to brutally destroy her. No. He couldn’t. For her eyes were pricking, with painful realization behind the eyelids—eyelids were white orange petals, other eyes, gold rays behind the eyes—Astraea . . . “of course you know if you make a false statement its perjury and—five years penal servitude.”

  15

  Penal servitude had her by the throat, drove her on. The flurry of snow was ash that spring (do you remember?) and penal servitude had her by the raw edge of her skirt, dragged at her underclothes, grasped up like a slimy hand from fetid water, Dickens, all the horrible things one read about, in London, come true, London come true, Dickens’ London, “my lords and gentlemen” but I thought we had gone on, gone on. They always screamed that they had done away with Victorian things, in London. Grey ash drifted against a grey ash face lifted to grey ash drifting. Penal servitude had her by the hem of the skirt so that she stumbled heavily climbing up the bus steps and the curved steps of the swaying bus (that she used to run up blithely) were the steps of a lighthouse that swayed and swayed. A sort of lighthouse built on a sort of bell-buoy sort of thing, swaying like a bell buoy in a storm when the bell rings and rings. Once in Venice there had been a summer mist and the bell buoys were set loose . . . and bells sounded across Venice as they sounded now in London. Penal servitude. All the bells of London sounded penal servitude for if you have a husband who is an officer and a gentleman he comes back . . . and screams why did you, why did you, like a clock ticking, like a heart beating . . . penal servitude. Captain Darrington. Yes. I am Mrs. Darrington. Penal servitude made Hermione one now with the faces that loomed up out of white ash out of mist of snow and snow of mist, looking up at her from the circle of Piccadilly. Daffodils shone like suns through cold mist. Penal servitude was daffodils in Piccadilly . . .

  “Poor, poor thing.” “Yes . . . Delia!” “But what a dreadful experience for you my dear. Did you say it was her sister?” “Yes, her sister.” “But you my dear . . . with Jerrold just back. What a dreadful sordid little thing to have to happen to you.” “Well . . . no . . . you see her husband was in the army.” “Yes. But even so. Esprit de corps is all right. But you my darling. After your own terrible experience.” “I only wanted to make sure Delia, before I told poor little Winnie what to tell her sister . . . after all, I know nothing of the law (why should I?) if it was straight.” “My darling . . . no law, no judge in England would condemn her.” “Then . . . penal servitude?” “Her husband must be mad.” “Shell shock probably . . .” “Shell shock . . . people of that class get hysterical.”

  To walk carefully because the paving stones were egg-shell, to walk carefully so as not to put down a foot, down a foot too heavily. To walk carefully toward something that was something that was something . . . another bus . . . to Richmond . . . with the same flurry in her face and streets, people, people, people, streets and I am one now with every felon, with every thief, with every Whitechapel beggar who reached out toward a baker’s basket for we knew how tempting (do you remember?) the butt end of a brown loaf could look sticking from a basket. I am one with felons, with thieves, with “sick and in prison and ye visited me.” Sick and in prison, I was visited, Delia was an angel. There are everywhere angels. It started with that bracelet clasp that day I met Vane at Lechstein’s studio. A bracelet to clasp my wrist, to say there was something behind the mist, beneath, beneath are the everlasting, everlasting . . . “come in, Mrs. Darrington.” “I hate to trouble you. Yes, I did manage to get Phoebe’s registration through this morning. So impressive . . . Phoebe Darrington. I must just look at Phoebe.” “Phoebe is doing herself very well these mornings. She will eat soap though.” “O?” “Loves soap though. Really you must tell her not to eat soap though.” Phoebe was sitting up in a basket. Take her away. “I just came to look at Phoebe. No. No I mustn’t touch her. You see I’ve been in a bus (I couldn’t get a taxi to the registrar’s). London is so germ ridden. And I want to ask you . . .” ask you, ask you. Don’t let me look at Phoebe. I am a beast in a cage. The thing is so soft. It would be better to put hands round a throat . . . don’t think, don’t look. “I’d rather walk downstairs.” “Down stairs.” “Our house is a wreck still, these furniture van people are so shocking. No labour . . . of course that’s to be expected. My husband and I were talking it over. It’s such a bitter disappointment . . . we do so want the baby. But could you possibly just as a special favour keep Phoebe for a few days, just a very few days, longer?”

  Downstairs it was “such shocking trouble with the furniture van people . . . all their old officials and these new ex-service men . . . but they will do the moving sometime. In the meanwhile (O it is such a disappointment to us) could you keep the baby?” Tears come to ash eyes sometimes or a sort of thing that is blinking that is not tears, that people think is tears, that is not in the least tears, that is the blinking of eyelids over eyes because grey ash has drifted into eyes and there is a little flick and sting of the ash powder against sensitive dragon-fly great pupils. “No . . . it’s really all right. I have been quite fit. You did such wonders for me.” People, things, things, people. These people had spikes of delft blue hyacinths, of wedgwood blue hyacinths, of hyacinths sticking straight up, growing out of moss, moss set flat on a round earthen pot and hyacinths growing out of earth in a square of a window. England is like that. There is always a square of a window, and looking with the flick of ash powder against her heavily pupiled dragon-fly eyes, she saw the square of garden and the flurry of ash, and knew that here was not ash, that here was petals drifting. “That pear tree was just coming out when I was upstairs.” “The blossom’s almost over.” “Yes . . . but it’s years and years . . . and yet the pear tree is not over.” “What, Mrs. Darrington?” “It seemed so funny . . . I mean all the other with the furniture vans and all that. I suppose having one’s husband come back sets one back . . . I mean it takes one back, all the old books.” Books were toppling out of a book case that a crash and a brrrrrrr and a bang had set sideways and Louise was Florient dancing. “Florient was dancing.” “Mrs. Darrington?” “I mean those flowers—flowers are dancing. I was glad to see them . . . those few hours before . . . before . . .” “Mrs. Darrington . . . we will keep your little Phoebe.” The nurse had returned, had consulted another nurse, the secretary sort of nurse was standing. “O thank you . . . thank you so much.”

  Those people, said Hermione to Hermione, don’t know what they have done. Sick and in prison and ye visited me. For if they had said “take the little girl, we have no room for the little girl” it would have been walking on and walking on in the snow, with snow and petals drifting and walking on and walking on in the snow. It would be like the worst, the very worst imaginable melodrama, Way Down East, or something that here they call East Lynne. Don’t people see since
the war, in the war, that Way Down East and East Lynne was true, are the only truth? And beggars saying, “kind lady for Gawd’s sake, a penny,”—are the truth and things like Jean Jean sent to prison and taking a loaf of bread because he or someone else was starving are the truth? Dickens with “my lords and gentlemen” and “dead my lords and gentlemen” is the truth for how could you go on? How could you go on? You would have had a baby in your arms and stumbled . . . and there is always a river. Melodrama is so awfully funny . . . so terribly funny. Here I am sitting on the top of a bus and it might be anywhere with light snow drifting and little pink almonds all along the fronts of brick houses and behind rusty laurel hedges putting out pink fingers . . . Eos the dawn. Eros. Someone, somewhere makes me think of Eros.

  “Yes. More tea.” Don’t you see that if you go on having tea, then having a wash and changing, everything comes right? In Soho there was no point in ever changing . . . “I would like to stay here.” Rugs under her feet shot up convolvulus tendrils. An atrocious statue in a corner put forth white hands, said “come unto me all ye that are weary.” A footman passed across convolvulus and did not trample out the fronds of blue and hyacinth blue and delft blue and rainbow blue and Canterbury bell blue. Eyes that were as blue as any blue looked at her. “I mean . . . I will stay. I’ll send back to to . . . to the hotel we stayed in for a few clothes. I’d like to stay here with you. Does it suit to stay here with you?” “Mama is away. Jacko is away with mama. I am alone. You can have the little room next my room . . .” then in an agony lest life should slip, lest the footman should step through the bluest of blue convolvulus blue that was the very blue of Bokhara, lest the tray should slip and the little cakes should fall onto the carpet and melt the carpet that was ice that was a film of pure ice, lest the legs and tables and legs of tables should slip and jumble together . . . Hermione held on to something. Hermione held on to this thing. I will wait till the other footman takes the cakes in little baskets (both look thin, both must be “invalided out”). I will wait as they are thin and invalided out and I am thin and invalided out. I will wait as there is esprit de corps between me and the other footman, until the other footman has gone. He has gone. “Has he gone?” “Gone?” “The other footman?” “Yes. Did you want something?” “Yes. I wanted to say this.” Fumes of amber tea melted with fumes of convolvulus blue fragrance. The room was chill with a fire burning at the far, far end, like the far, far blaze of a star, Aldebaran, some Eastern great star or Nineveh so simple. “I want to tell you.” “Yes.” “I make a bargain with you. If you promise never more to say that you will kill yourself, I’m going to give you something. If you promise and promise that you won’t any more smuggle in those frightful and dangerous . . . things . . . I’m going to ask you something. I want to make a bargain with you.” “Yes.” “I want to tell you something. Can you bear me to tell you something?” “Yes.” “The little girl is not my husband’s little girl . . . do you understand these things?” “I hate your Jerrold Darrington. I am so glad.” “I want you to promise me to grow up and take care of the little girl.” “Do you mean—do you mean—” A light is shining at the far end of a long, long tunnel. The glazed eyes of Beryl, the wicked eyes of some child Darius, the eyes that prodded prongs into the eyes, the eyes of intellect turned glazed with knowledge, cold with wisdom, were a wide child’s eyes, were the eyes of an eagle in a trigo triptych, were eyes of an attendant angel on an altar. The eyes were wide eyes, bluer than blue, bluer than gentian, than convolvulus, than forgetmenot, than the blue of blue pansies. They were child’s eyes, gone wide and fair with gladness. “Do you mean . . . for my own . . . exactly like a puppy?” “Exactly . . . like a puppy.”

  Appendix

  Asphodel à clef: Brief Lives of the Persons Behind the Fictions

  Like Huxley’s Point Counter Point (1928) and Lawrence’s Aaron’s Rod (1922), Asphodel is in the tradition of the roman à clef, originally an aristocratic subgenre that invited the reader to open aesthetically locked doors with the keys of privileged knowledge and to savor the piquant tension between the invented and the real. H.D.’s circle of friends was especially given to writing in this form, an extension perhaps of their personal politics and intrigues. Aaron’s Rod, for example, contains an unflattering portrait of H.D. as the self-absorbed Julia Cunningham, and other characters in that novel represent Aldington, Cecil Gray, and Dorothy Yorke. In 1926, H.D.’s friend John Cournos published Miranda Masters, a novel about the H.D.-Aldington marriage and the lives that intersected with it; and Frances Gregg and her husband Louis Wilkinson coauthored The Buffoon (1916), a lampoon of John Cowper Powys and other literary figures, including H.D. who is maliciously caricatured as the American Eunice Dinwiddie. It is worth bearing in mind that at the very time H.D. was creating Her and Asphodel with a cast of characters derived from present and former friends, several of those people were likewise busy fictionalizing her.

  The following is a list of the characters of Asphodel arranged in alphabetical order; the name of each character is given along with a chapter number indicating his or her first appearance or mention in the novel (“I.I” means part 1, chapter 1). This in turn is followed by a brief biography of the person upon whom the fictional character is based. The list also includes significant figures alluded to or discussed in the novel. These biographical capsules are designed to provide dates, facts, and contexts that will help orient the reader and encourage independent research. I have allowed the events of Asphodel and H.D.’s pre-1920 biography to dictate the kind and amount of information in each entry, telescoping the data accordingly. There is a minimum of overlap among the entries, which are designed to interlock with and illuminate each other.

  A few characters in the novel seem to lack clearly identifiable historical counterparts, either because H.D. meant them to be typical (or perhaps composite) rather than referential or because information that might lead to their unmasking has not yet turned up. These characters are omitted here. A few identifications are tentative, and I have indicated this where appropriate.

  H.D. herself provided biographical keys to some of her novels: the typescript of Her contains her pencilled list of the characters and their historical counterparts, and she included similar elucidations in letters to Norman Holmes Pearson. I believe that a knowledge of H.D.’s life enhances the experience of reading Asphodel, yet such knowledge does not “explain” the novel or account for its aesthetic strategies; nor should Asphodel be unquestioningly accepted as thinly veiled autobiography, as some biographers have tended to do. However faithful it may be to the events of H.D.’s life between 1911 and 1919, Asphodel is a highly experimental work of fiction created at a certain point in H.D.’s development, with all the clarities and distortions that this vantage on her past may have introduced.

  I would like to acknowledge here the generous assistance of Louis H. Silverstein, who provided essential information for many of the following biographies. I also wish to thank Charles Timbrell and Caroline Zilboorg.

  Louise Blake (2.3): probably Dorothy (Arabella) Yorke (1891 or 1892–1971), an American who grew up in Philadelphia and as a young woman travelled with her mother to various places in Europe, settling in Paris in 1914. Interested in the arts, she was among H.D’s circle of friends in London during World War I. In 1917 she stayed at H.D. and Aldington’s apartment in Mecklenburgh Square while they were away, later moving to an upstairs room in the same house. An affair developed between Yorke and Aldington when he was home on leave from Officers’ Training Camp after receiving his commission in November 1917. In letters to H.D. from the front, Aldington affirmed his continuing love for her but also said that he desired “l’autre” (Yorke). His relationship with Yorke continued throughout most of the 1920s, after his separation from H.D. Under the name “Arabella Yorke,” Yorke translated Emile Dermenghem’s The Life of Mahomet and Renée Dunan’s The Love Life of Julius Caesar, both published in London in 1930. (For further information, see Richard Aldington and H.D.: The Early
Years in Letters, ed. Caroline Zilboorg [Bloomington: Indiana University Press , 1991].)