Her mind began working. Volumes. What were volumes? George, she remembered, several volumes back had had a mouth like a red hibiscus, had smudged her face with kisses. George like a sponge had smudged her smooth face with kisses, had somehow, now she recalled it, smudged out something. A mouth like a red hibiscus had smudged out something. George had done away with something. The back of her head was at one with the front of her head, a head fitted to a body that belonged to a head.
There had been a sort of firework explosion and Eugenia saying “But you can’t possibly marry George Lowndes” and a sort of cold dynamic explosion, an explosion in a glacier that didn’t show on the top of the glacier but that had been responsible for a sort of landslide in her. Carl Gart calling her “daughter” like a Middle West farmer and saying in different words that she couldn’t possibly marry (or words to that effect) anybody.
There had been that and a fiery determination thwarted by Lillian . . . “Lillian I thought looked beautiful” and hearing her words Her saw the face of George bending over her looking somehow like Lillian.
“I think Lillian looked beautiful tonight at dinner.” Her heard words praising Lillian, she saw George looking in some odd way like her. She said “Lillian is beautiful”; the back of her head and the front of her head acted together and she said again “Lillian looked beautiful.” The back of her head prompted the front of her head, slid a fraction of a fraction (of a tiny measurement on a thermometer or a microscope) away from the front of her head, actually almost with a little click, separated from the front of her head like amoeba giving birth by separation to amoeba. “Some plants, some small water creatures give a sort of jellyfish sort of birth by breaking apart, by separating themselves from themselves.” George’s kisses stopped her. “Oh God, hamadryad, forget all that rot.”
Rot? Was it all rot? Stars revolving above their heads were blotted out by moon and moon would soon be blotted out by sunlight. “I seem to remember something . . .” and sitting up now, straight against George’s shoulder she told him of the boy screaming (it was a few mornings ago, after the last time he had come to see her) on the woodpath just here, with a horrible twisted ankle and “I couldn’t help him.” Her eyes wide open saw the woodpath a trickle of brown by day, a thread of velvet by night, a black irregular line like the river Meander on a Greek Xenophon map in the back of the book, running like the river Meander across the forest, through the forest. “The river Meander runs like that woodpath across the forest.” Her arm was hanging limp and bare from the torn ripped dress stuff. She saw her arm hanging limp and bare in the bright metallic moonlight. “I am like a blue cornflower in water. You said I was a blue flower seen in water.” “I said you were a larkspur, a sort of blue hyacinth or Canterbury bell.” “But they’re all different.” “They are and they ain’t so very. I said you were a larkspur.” “Larkspur,” she repeated, and added “Ritterspuren” recalling the Farrand’s governess who had taught them the names of wild flowers and garden flowers, making two columns of them.
“Ritterspuren,” she repeated to the glazed gilt that was the just perceptibly waning moonlight, “are knight’s-spurs, Georgio” and saying “knight’s-spurs” and remembering blue and larkspur-blue and the blue of cornflowers which George said she wasn’t, she recalled the first time and this is the forest of Arden and how the sunlight then had made Christmas tree tinsel and matted tinsel and tinsel sprinkled carelessly like tinsel on a Christmas tree. And she remembered I am the word Aum and I am Tree and I shall have a new name and I am the word tree. And she remembered (saying Rittenspuren, knight’s-spur) strength and granite and yellow violets against granite . . . the blue that was the blue—that was the blue of . . .
“I remember blue that was the blue of the dark blue of the rainbow.” And George was saying, as if her mind was still one mind, not separated like amoeba giving itself another amoeba, a sort of birth, a sort of twin repeating itself, “You’ve found another blue then?” And the half-tender, half-taunting way he spoke reminded her of Lillian and she said, remembering Lillian and Eugenia on the stair and herself coming down and Eugenia a little half-adoring half-frowning (as mothers will do) at her, “Your mother called me Undine.”
But she knew seated upright by the tree bole, remembering the seven-branched larch boughs and the boy screaming on the woodpath, that Undine was not her name, would never be her name, for Undine (or was it the Little Mermaid?) sold her sea-inheritance and Her would never, never sell this inheritance, this sea-inheritance of amoeba little jellyfish sort of living creature separating from another creature. “I am not Undine,” she said, “for Undine or the Little Mermaid sold her glory for feet. Undine (or the Little Mermaid) couldn’t speak after she sold her glory. I will not sell my glory.”
George helped her to stand, not kissing her, saying “We must get back quickly.”
ten
It seemed now Lillian and George had gone home, standing before the little image, that she had always known what she had known now always. I have always known this, she said to herself, that I can not sell my glory. Hibiscus kisses smudged me over. Yes, I did completely several times let go, give in; I may for a bit let go, give in, but it won’t be forever . . . she heard the boy screaming and knew the woodpath was dyed red because of . . . because of . . . not Undine, not any Mermaid. The woodpath was dyed red because of . . . because of . . . Itylus.
She was an image standing by a crossroad. I saw her with uptilted blue eyes, set like jewels, like sapphires and I never knew her. Hibiscus kisses smudged out my memories but also left me free for . . . memories. The thing I saw was an image with blue eyes standing beneath an oak tree.
Eugenia said “You look better this morning.” Hermione said “Yes,” helping herself to butter. Eugenia said “I like Mrs. Lowndes. She has endearing manners.” Hermione said “I said, I always liked her.” Eugenia said “I don’t understand how people so misread George Lowndes.” Hermione stopped with a bit of buttered toast halfway to her gaping mouth and said “Yes?” Eugenia said “I had no idea they had had a house on the Riviera.” Hermione said “And what mama, has that got to do with anything?” Eugenia said “Hermione you are inhuman sometimes.” Hermione said, biting through the crisp toast, “I am always.”
Eugenia said “I don’t see what has kept the postman. I hate this waiting for letters.” Hermione said (going back some volumes) “I ought to go to the post office for them. I’m getting lazy,” she repeated “I know I ought to go to the post office for them.” Eugenia said “I think that running out before breakfast is a little—a little unwholesome. I mean running out before breakfast is a little erratic. Still it was nice to have the letters.” Hermione said, “I used to do it to keep Minnie quiet morning and toward evening. She used to get so frantic. I used to be glad to get out of the house any time of morning, noon or midnight to get away from Minnie.” Eugenia said, “You shouldn’t Hermione talk that way about your sister.”
Hermione said, “She isn’t and never could be my sister,” and she paused, shoved her coffeecup across the table toward Eugenia, listening to something within herself that sang a lilt from somewhere. Somewhere something within herself heard something like a ouija board that feels something, like that day standing at the piano with the ouija-board feeling running through her fingers. “I sometimes think you drink much too much coffee.” “I do Eugenia.” “I think it would be better if you ate more, didn’t pick at dry toast and really ale something. I think it’s too much coffee.”
Something within her was saying something but she couldn’t comprehend the something that something in her kept repeating . . . a bird dipped as from the house eaves (she saw it) and skimmed across the window. “Do you remember that awful, awful morning?” “What awful, what particular awful morning?” “I mean when it rained so awfully.” “Oh when it rained. You mean when poor Carl lost his microbes.” “They weren’t, mama, microbes.” “Well, you know what I mean, dear.” “Yes, it was that morning.” Something far and far
within kept repeating something that had no words, to which words fitted. A sort of ouija-board sensation to which words fitted. “The birds are screaming and making the usual change of season row about things. You’d think they’d think it’s summer.” “It’s really nearly autumn.” “Yes, isn’t it. Isn’t it funny English people (Lillian told me) think it’s funny when we call the autumn fall. They think it’s funny.” “Yes, Lillian is very well-bred.” “What has well-bred got to do with English people thinking fall is funny?” “Well, you know what I mean, Hermione. She shows she’s been about without seeming to say anything.” “Is that your definition of a well-bred woman?” “It’s one of my definitions.”
Now, helping herself to a fresh bit of toast, ignoring the platter of bacon, helping herself to fresh toast, buttering her bit of toast, she wondered, shall I go on with this conversation or shall I stop this conversation. And she counted one I love, two I love with the strokes of the little butter knife and putting aside the knife thought of Bertrand slicing slices out of the tablecloth. “Just when is Minnie coming back then, Eugenia?” And Eugenia said, “I don’t know. I’m waiting for the letters. She said she would let me know by Monday. This is, isn’t it Wednesday?” A bird repeated its trapeze-turn across the window looking as if it were held aloft on movable wires, making just that odd mechanical curve that birds do make toward autumn. “Do birds make a certain mechanical flight toward autumn?” “What, what, Hermione?” “I was wondering about birds. Have they a special sort of flight toward autumn?”
Then as the postman rang and as they waited and as the odd somewhat dowdy Irish woman (Mandy was still in Georgia) shuffled in and dropped the bundle of ill-assorted unmatched envelopes beside Eugenia’s bacon, Hermione knew what she was saying in that part of her mind that was collecting something, that was apprehending something, that was perceiving something like a dynamo vibrating with electricity from some far distance. Picking up the three or four casual envelopes Eugenia sorted out of the odd bundle for her, she saw Nellie Thorpe had come back from Bridgeport.
“People are all coming back. Now here’s Nellie writing (I didn’t know she was due back) with a West Philadelphia postmark.” Eugenia was saying “Yes, Minnie is well. She wants to stay on a few days. She says they’ll be here by Friday.” And Hermione said “And Bertrand? Is Bert well?” For things dropped from her, you might as well call Bertie Bertie and call mama mama. The ouija board was sifting values for her and a voice, a thing so simply remembered but connected somehow with the bird flight and the sea and the letters on the table and the bit of dry toast and the early morning flights to the post office and Carl Gart and microbes, repeated systematically and went on repeating . . . the world’s division divideth us . . . and sister my sister (she had said, Minnie isn’t and never could be my sister) and sister my sister O singing swallow, the way is long to the sun and the south.
“The way is long to the sun and the south.” “You read too much poetry.” “Did I say anything?” “You keep saying Oh sister my sister, Oh swallow my sister. Oh swallow my sister,” and Eugenia laughed an inane little laugh; “It would be far better Hermione if you would try to swallow this nice bacon.”
And the brown bright nightingale amorous came from somewhere, came from nowhere . . . is half assuaged for Itylus came from somewhere, came from nowhere and to the place of the slaying of Itylus, the Thracian ships and the foreign faces, the tongueless vigil and all the pain.
She couldn’t go on with it (it beat from somewhere outside) till she found the book, till she opened the book, O sister, my sister, O fleet sweet swallow, hast thou the heart to be glad thereof yet . . . she finished the page she leafed over the book . . . the hounds of spring are on winter’s traces . . . she leafed over the book, she turned back pages,
The sound of a child’s voice crying yet,
Who has remembered me, who has forgotten,
Thou hast forgotten, O summer swallow
But the world will end. . . the world will end. . . the world will end . . . when I forget.
“But you know I don’t like your bringing books to the table.” “I didn’t. I mean I thought breakfast was over. I mean anyhow you were reading letters.”
A bird (the same bird?) swung again its trapeze-flight across the sort of little open stage set window. The window was square and they were looking (looking at the window) at a flat screen. Things out of the window, across the window seemed to be on the window, against the window, like writing on the wall. Things, a bird skimming across a window, were a sort of writing on a wall.
“The Greeks made birdflight symbolic. I mean the Greeks said this spelt this. The sort of way the wing went against blue sky was, I suppose, a sort of pencil, a sort of stylus, engraving to the minds of augurers, signs, symbols that meant things. I see by that birdflight across an apparently black surface, that curves of wings meant actual things to Greeks, not just vague symbols but actual hieroglyphics . . . hieroglyphs . . .” “Bert found at the end that the canoe was leaking . . .” “Yes. I said it would go. I said it wouldn’t stand another summer. Minnie was no good at all. You don’t row a canoe. At best she rowed . . .” “And they have already locked up the upstairs. I don’t know that it’s wise. I always wish there were someone who could stay all winter . . .” “Oh mama. Couldn’t I stay there all winter?” Mad, wild against her brain like innumerable white swallows, went beat of sea surf, the heavy growl and thunder of the surf and the out-growl growling of the sea surf. Against that spume and rise and fall of white froth what wouldn’t she give . . . “I’d give anything mama, to see a snowstorm, a real blizzard struggling with the whitecaps. I’d give anything to see snow against swirling waters . . . “My darling child. You’re far too Fujiyama.” “Too—too—?” “Too those sketches, you know Hokusai, whatever his name is, Japanese snowflakes, cherry trees, obvious cherry tree snowflakes on water.”
“My mother is a poet. Cherry flakes on water.” She said to herself “Eugenia is a poet” and started stacking the dishes waiting for Eugenia to say “Don’t touch the dishes, darling, that old thing is getting far too careless.” She stacked the dishes, went on stacking dishes. Eugenia said, “My dear child don’t please touch the dishes,” sweeping from her chair, swirling her flimsy morning gown about her flat-heeled down-and-out cosy bedroom slippers. Standing with her hair done high at the back with her usual fringe, she was démodé but with the curious characteristic touch that made her tea rose, not fashionable like Lillian but with a tea rose sort of atmosphere like that poem on Whistler. “There is a poem in this book that Swinburne wrote to Whistler.” She turned pages, pages, “Oh mama, I can’t find it.” She turned pages, “Why is it when you want something in a hurry you can never find it?” Eugenia said, “And what about your letters?”
“Yes. Oh I forgot my letters.” Her turned pages, pages in the narrow volume. “Oh here—now—mama,” but Eugenia had trailed out not hearing or pretending not to be hearing words that followed, “art thou a ghost my sister, white sister there.” Hermione went on undiscouraged, her voice making a silver pulse and dart in the wide room, “am I a ghost who knows” . . . while somewhere she heard the scuffle that preceded that awful Nora padding from the kitchen . . . “my hand a fallen rose” . . . I think I like the wall-of-Troy pattern better than the double-rose. Someday soon if I don’t dodge Eugenia I’ll be let in for mending linen . . . “lies snow-white on white snows” . . . Eugenia said cherry flakes on water . . . “and takes no care.”
She scraped her letters up and went into the little morning room re-sorting them like a fortune teller with a pack of cards.
Everything is in fortunes, fortunes are in everything. One I love, two I love, three I love, and shuffling the letters like a fortune teller’s cards, she abstracted the one apparently most unprepossessing. “This one looks like a bill or something, all so businesslike.”
Two stiff bits of blue cardboard slipped from the letter and stooping to pick them up from the worn morning room strip of potpo
urri-coloured carpet, she saw blue strips of tickets of some sort, two tickets someone has sent; people are always sending tickets. I hope these aren’t any tiresome charity. Stooping to pick up the blue tickets, she saw they were very blue tickets and the morning room strip of brown worn carpet looked the more brown, almost earth-brown brown (she saw it) of the little woodpath that trickled like the river Meander. I wonder if George actually ever studied anything. He is so frightfully clever. And she remembered blue and hyacinth blue and George saying Canterbury bell blue. And stooping to pick up the bits of two tickets she saw they were plain cardboard with a name, with an address and across them, written across them in this same rather businesslike writing a name, “Compliments of” and a name, she saw as she slanted them toward the wide morning room window across which the Virginia creeper had now finally flung its red, almost a spring red, soft rose.
Looking closer at the name written in the unfamiliar writing Her read “Compliments of Fayne Rabb” and wondering at the oddness of the name Fayne with Rabb so hard and casual, rather nice; there was that Mrs. de Raub at the University, I think they were originally Dutch, this is sort of the same kind of a name. She glanced at the letter that went with the tickets reading, “I am sorry you never told me your name. You asked me to come to see you but you never actually told me how to get to the horrid little station you said was your horrid little Werby. I looked up Werby on several maps at my uncle’s. You said you were a little slant off the Main Line if I remember and perhaps that is why I never found your Werby. Then Nellie turned up a day or two ago and gave me this name, this address, is it possible that your name is Hermione? These are for a sort of ridiculous concert sort of thing with a play to go with it that I am to act in. Will you come to it?”
Hermione Page 12
