I had gone hunting with Eddie and Dolph a few times, though it was not a sport that I enjoyed. When Médor was hunting with them they had to do their best not to hunt in fence country, because Médor had to be helped over. She never learned to jump; she just went up vertically and stiff-legged and came down on the same spot, or just on the barbed wire. And as though that were not enough, another of Monty’s dogs (Eddie and Dolph had bought them) and Bone, Eddie’s favorite dog, had to be helped over because they were too old and grandfatherly to jump, and Médor had to see that I got over, having some idea that she must bring me safely back to Ilsa. Even when she was on a scent and someone else had lifted her over a fence she’d circle right back, leaving the birds completely, and worry at the fence till I was safely over. Eddie and Dolph would be swearing at the damned dog acting as though I were her brood of chicks, and I would do my best to send her on, but Médor hovered helpfully till the fence had been safely navigated. Several times I got hooked up and Médor was distraught, and twice I fell into creeks when the log I was on rolled or twisted. Médor was a nervous wreck by the end of those days, so we had to try to avoid creeks as well as fences. It was like having a critical onlooker peering over your shoulder. Before I’d done it with no trouble and no thinking, but the worried watching made me muff it.
Then there was the time, about two years after Monty’s death when there was the accident. Ilsa remembered it now, too, because she said, “You’ve never gone hunting since, have you?”
“No,” I answered.
54
There has been a hunting accident. There has been an accident at hunting. That was what they said. That was how they told you. In Mamma’s books. In Silver’s books. Madam, I regret to inform you. There has been a hunting accident. She grows very pale. Her fingers fall from the piano keys. Not—she gasps. He nods. His face is very solemn, the color of parchment, a face like a skull, Dolph Silverton’s face, but it is not Dolph, it is from Mamma’s books, from Silver’s books, the paragon in tails bearing a silver salver with a white card, chastely engraved: Henry, Lord Randolph, ninth earl of Porcher. But now there is no salver, now he stands looking with impersonal sorrow at the blanched figure at the piano. Not—she gasps. Yes, Madam. Lord Henry.
O, where have you been wandering, King Henry, my son?
O, where have you been wandering, my pretty one?
Oh, Mamma, my head pains me. Mamma, hold my head
But she turns away in distaste, “You will get blood on my dress,” she says.
One minute I was standing there, Dolph, with his gun leveled, near me, Eddie somewhere not far away; the dogs silent, pointing; Médor squatting, ecstatic; the smell of salt in the air; the sky the color of cotton, and the birds rising, beating their wings against it.
Then there is a flash of lightning and a clap of thunder.
But we do not have thunder in December.
And after it the birds hang suspended against the white, the dogs are petrified in the act of leaping forward, a black pine tree with a crooked branch is nailed like a cross against the sky.
There has been an accident at hunting, Madam. I regret to inform you. The silver salver falls from his hands and clatters on the piano keys. King Henry, Madam, yes, Madam, I regret to inform you. O, where have you been wandering King Henry, my son.
Something hot and sticky, that is what they always say about blood; yes, something hot and sticky drips into my eyes and blinds them. The cotton-colored sky darkens with blood, the dogs drown in a pool of blood, the birds fall, their wings weighted by it, unable to move in the dense crimson heaviness.
Now I must lie down, I say to myself, because I am shot and I am dead. When you are dead you do not remain standing, your gun in your hands, fingers cold against metal, cheek cold against sky. When you are dead you lie down.
So I lie down.
I can feel the sharp grasses against my face as I press into the earth, but there is nothing else, no pain. I feel the sharp grasses, cold and wet; then I feel nothing. I see nothing. Blackness.
Now I know what it is like, I tell her as she rises from the piano and holds her fingers tightly together. Henry! I must go to him! she cries. Now I know what it is like, I tell her—darkness—now I know what it is like for you.
Then the blood is cleaned from my eyes, someone is wiping it away, and the immaculate figure in tails is bending over me the impeccable parchment face.
“Tell her there has been an accident,” I said.
“Henry,” the voice said. “It’s Dolph.”
“Henry,” a voice echoed. “It’s Eddie.”
“Henry,” another voice said. “We’ll get you right home.”
“But I’m not going home.”
“What?”
“I’m not going home.”
“Never?”
“Never.”
“I’m afraid your father will have something to say about that.”
“Please let me stay to supper.”
“I really do not see how Ilsa or I could contaminate you but the Porchers are such rare creatures that they are very afraid of contagion.”
Something was being tied around my head. A handkerchief. I reached up and felt it about my forehead, a tight band like a crown.
O, where have you been wandering, King Henry; my son?
O, where have you been wandering, my pretty one?
I’ve been to my sweetheart, mother, make my bed soon,
For I’m sick to the heart and would fain lay me down.
Someone held me. Someone held my head against the jouncings of those roads, those tracks through the swamp, through the fields; someone held my head against the joltings of Eddie’s sharp-angled hunting Ford. Someone pressed tight fingers against the place on my forehead that was beginning to spread out like flame and consume me, to burn my brain, my mind, my soul, in an intense dry fire.
“I don’t want to go home. I won’t go home,” I said.
“Henry, it’s me, it’s Eddie. I’m taking you home with me. I’m taking you home to Silver.”
“Oh, Henry,” she cried. “Oh, Henry,” Silver cried, and there had been nobody to tell her, nobody to warn her, no one said: There has been an accident at hunting.
Out of the blackness her face flashed above me, pale and anxious, her white face flittered above me. “Oh, Henry,” she cried.
I am like the moon, I thought, as I felt the bed hard under me and my head being held up from eternity by the cool cup of Silver’s hand. I am like the moon on a cloudy night. Sometimes I am alive; I shine clear and bright. Like now. Everything is quite sharp and clarified. There has been an accident. Hunting. There is a bullet in my head. In all probability I am dying. Someone will tell her there has been an accident and she will come to me.
This is when the moon is clear of the clouds. And sometimes it is partly obscured by them. It shines dimly, unable to penetrate the mist.
O, where have you been wandering, King Henry, my son?
Hold my head, Mamma, hold my head. Save me from the buzzards, Mamma, with their naked necks; save me from the white-bellied sharks.
She pulls away her skirts. She holds her hands in the white-kid gloves tight to her body; she will not touch me. “You will get blood on my dress,” she says.
And then there is blackness. There are only the clouds. Dark as mountains, thick as hills, untransparent as high earth and rock. There is no moon. The moon is dead.
Man, that is born of a woman, hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay.
Man, that is born of a woman.…
But I was not born of a woman. I was born of Mamma.
If you are a wicked naughty boy, Henry, the overseer will come for you. He wears boots laced up to the knee and he has a gun in a leather holster on his hip. The chains will clank behind you as you walk, and you will never be allowed to be alone. You will become dirty and you will smell like
the others.
I will be good, Mamma, I will be good!
If you are a wicked naughty boy, Henry, you will be sent out to the lightship. They are waiting for you there. The buzzard sits on the topmost mast, and the sharks circle round and around the ship. They are waiting for you.
“Ilsa!” I cried. “Ilsa! Ilsa!”
“Hush, Henry. Hush, Brother.” Silver’s voice. “Ilsa’s coming.”
The lightship is a strong arm of light, the lightship is the clear eye of courage, the lightship is comfort in darkness.
It has been a long time since Ilsa has seen the lightship. It has been a long time that Ilsa has been in darkness.
“Ilsa!” I cried. “Ilsa, look at me!”
“Hush, Brother. Ilsa is coming. You mustn’t talk. The doctor says you are to be perfectly quiet.”
In the midst of life we are in death.… Thou knowest, Lord, the secrets of our hearts; shut not thy merciful ears to our prayer; but spare us, Lord most holy, O God most mighty, O holy and merciful saviour, thou most worthy Judge eternal.…
Monty lies very quiet, very pale, his eyes closed and more blind than Ilsa’s, his mouth shut to the sun, his ears to those words, his body numb to the clods of earth, thrown on the coffin. I stand next to Ilsa. Silver stands on the other side of her. She cannot see the curious eyes on her, the eager staring people, the white and black clothes, Mrs. Jackson in white, handkerchief to mouth, all the Mrs. Jacksons, Violetta in black, sweating, weeping, all the Violettas in black voile, in white silk, and the sun beating down on us all, see, you were fooled, summer is not over—
Ilsa cannot see the prying, probing eyes but she can feel them, more cruel than the sun, beating her, flaying her; she knows they are there—she knows. Her face is very set, her blue eyes seem to stare fiercely at the words pushing open the humid air, at the grave pushing open the heavy earth. Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God, in his wise providence, to take out of this world the soul of our deceased brother, we therefore commit his body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.…
But the handkerchief, the large silk handkerchief, rolled into a ball and moist Only from the sweat of her palms, moist not at all from tears, that handkerchief belongs to the graceful-limbed Hamlet, the dark-eyed actor, Franz Josef, Franz Josef Werner. Her grief is not for the dead man, the desolation in the blind eyes is not for her widowhood—If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart, Absent thee from felicity awhile, And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain.… No, Henry, no, you are imagining, you are making it up; he was not important, he didn’t matter.…
And we beseech thee, that we, with all those who are departed in the true faith of thy holy Name, may have our perfect consummation and bliss, both in body and soul.…
Mamma’s limbs are stiff in the coffin, in the narrow black box; Mamma’s face is still angry at death, death for having dared to touch her, for having presumed to violate her. Silver stands beside me, her eyes as dry as Ilsa’s. Papa clutches the silver top of his cane.
O, where have you been wandering, King Henry, my son?
And Mamma is bending over me, her hair fragrant against my cheek, her gloved hands gentle against my body.
“I know I was wicked not to love you, but I couldn’t help it,” she says. “I couldn’t help it.”
“That’s all right, Mamma,” I say, awkwardly.
“I know it was wicked to frighten you with the chain gang and the buzzards, but I had to frighten you. I had to frighten you so you would never frighten me.”
“It’s all right, Mamma. I understand,” I say.
“Henry, it’s Silver. Are you in pain?”
“No, go away!” I cry.
Mamma draws back. “You’re sending me away. There is blood on my dress.”
“No, not you!” I cry. “Mamma, come back! Come back!”
But she shakes her head. She puts one hand up to her mouth. Under the gloves the rings bulge. She stands away from the bed and with the other hand she holds her skirts close about her so that they will touch nothing in the room.
O, where have you been wandering, King Henry, my son?
O, where have you been wandering, my pretty one?
I’ve been to my sweetheart, mother, make my bed soon,
For I’m sick to the heart, and would fain lay me down.
And what will you leave your sweetheart, King Henry, my son?
O, what will you leave your sweetheart, my pretty one?
A rope for to hang her, mother! Make my bed soon,
For I’m sick to the heart, and would fain lay me down.
She stands with her eyes blindfolded. You don’t need to do that, I cry, you don’t need to blindfold her eyes; she is blind; she will not be able to see the noose when you slip it over her head.
But we always blindfold them. It is the custom.
Yes—but here we do not hang people.
She speaks. Her words come dark as the ocean at night, calm under a moonless sky. “You said I was to be hanged. Don’t argue. Let’s get it over with as quickly as possible.”
“No, no!” I cry. “I didn’t mean it! Stop! Ilsa! Ilsa!”
Hands were strong against my shoulders. Someone was pushing me. I was falling. In panic I opened my eyes and the four mahogany posts of Silver’s bed struck wildly at the ceiling.
“I am here,” the wine-dark voice said. “Henry, be quiet.”
She pushed me back against the pillows.
“There has been an accident,” I said, “an accident at hunting. Madam, I regret to inform you—”
“Be quiet,” she said.
The moon came out of the clouds.
Her hand rested on the bed but it didn’t touch me. I wanted to reach out for it but I was afraid that if I moved she would disappear. Her hand stayed very still, very steady. The gold band of the wedding ring was strong in the light which pierced the blinds.
“Are we alone?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Where is Silver?”
“Downstairs.”
“There is no one in the room?”
“No one.”
“We are alone?”
“Yes.”
“Will you marry me?”
“No.”
“Monty is dead.”
“Yes.”
“Then you are free.”
“No. I am not free.”
“Your fingernails are not clean,” I said.
She withdrew her hand, with the broad band of the wedding ring, from the bed.
“Don’t feel badly,” I said. “I know you can’t see them.” Then I went on, almost shouting. “Do you love him, then? Do you love him so much?”
“Yes!” she shrieks. “I will defy you all,” she cries, jumping up. “You, Montgomery; you, Cecilia-Jane; and you, Violetta, so pure, so refined! I love him and I will marry him! You are all cold and frigid and dead. But I am alive, and even if you try to kill my love you cannot because it is stronger than you are!”
“Elizabeth, you are out of your mind,” Mamma says, pulling on white-kid gloves. “You are out”—the snap at one wrist is fastened—“of your mind,” and the snap at the other.
“I love, I hate! I love, I hate!” Elizabeth cries. She shakes the four posts of the bed. She beats her head against the walls, and Mamma ties her up so that she cannot move, and she lies there, bound and screaming, groaning, shrieking—animal noises like Mamma fighting death. It is worse when there is a moon. When there is a moon she is not human.
“I am dying,” she whispers. “Anna, hold my hand, don’t let go.”
Man that is born of woman … full of misery … cut down, like a flower … in the midst of life we are in death … who for our sins art justly displeased … Yet, O Lord God most holy, O Lord most mighty, O holy and most merciful Saviour, deliver us not into the bitter pains of eternal death.
“Anna, hold my hand, don’t let go.”
But not once did she say she was afraid.
; “I am dying in childbirth. That is a good way to die, Henry. No. That’s not right. I didn’t die in childbirth. It’s her. The other one. The dancer. Her mother. But I should have been the one. I should have been the one, Henry.”
“O, where have you been wandering, King Henry, my son?”
“Hold my hand, don’t let go.”
Again the moon was out of the clouds.
“Please hold my hand. Please don’t let go.”
She took my hand in both of hers. “Go to sleep, Henry,” she said. “I won’t leave. Go to sleep.”
“Hold my hand, Ilsa. Don’t let go. Don’t let go.”
“I won’t,” she said. “Go to sleep.”
“Will you kiss me good night, then?”
She nodded. She rose from the chair Silver had placed by the bed. She felt for my face with her hands. They moved very lightly, very gently, so that she would not find me with an abrupt movement. For a moment her fingers traveled over me. Then my face was caught between her hands and she bent down and her lips touched mine, warm, and full of life.
“So I am not going to die after all,” I said.
55
Brand collected the empty lemonade glasses and took the tray back to the kitchen.
“Hen?” Ilsa said.
For a moment it was difficult to jerk myself back from my memories. It seemed that I still felt her hands gentle on either side of my face, her mouth strong against mine.
“Yes, I’m here,” I said.
“I’ve only got ten piano pupils for this winter.” She walked restlessly over to one of the windows and leaned against it, trying to catch the breeze. “And only three this summer. The more this town grows the more it’s convinced I can’t teach because I’m blind. This town is the worst size a town can be. I don’t know why we don’t just not pay the mortgage on the house and let the bank take it.”
“Where would we go, and with what?” Brand asked, coming back in and flinging herself down on the sofa.
“To the smallest village or the biggest city. To the ocean. To mountains and snow. Everywhere. Did you hear Miss Corinne Waley’s piano recital at the Woman’s Club last winter, Henry?”
Ilsa Page 28
