Hermione

by Hilda Doolittle

  “I don’t know.” Mrs. Rabb did know. Mrs. Rabb knew everything. Mrs. Rabb was too old. Mrs. Rabb was too young. Nellie was right. Nellie had given Her a picture. It was not this picture but something in Nellie had seen something here. “I mean Mrs. Rabb why should I be surprised? It’s a very pretty part of Philadelphia.”

  Her mind jabbed and beat and clicked against a metallic part of herself that had no meaning. Melic mediocrity. Melic or choriambic and Her Gart was caught in the lurid sort of strange silence that Mrs. Rabb punctured from time to time by her caustic sort of sarcastic sort of belittlings till Fayne Rabb will never come was the one sound, the sound her heart made. Fayne will never come, and she clattered the teacup against the saucer like some sort of miniature castanets, like tiny cymbals, was shocked and frightened, I might break this cup, said “What a pretty cup” and waited for Mrs. Rabb to follow it up with some further tyrannical outbreak, the sort of thing that made you say, against all your better judgment, “But this is such a lovely part of Philadelphia.”

  Heart beat against herself, her heart beat against itself, her heart beat; Fayne will never come, Fayne will never, never, never, never come here. It was incredible anyway. It was impossible that Fayne ever could have come here. Eyes staring were not part of heart beating. The heart and the body were one, they beat one tired eurythmic rhythm, they beat she isn’t coming and she can’t possibly ever come here. The heart beat in a nightmare but the eyes stared steadily. All of Her except the eyes of Her were in a nightmare. “But my dear, you stare so. I suppose you find our poor little wretched things amusing.”

  Now she was at it again. Mrs. Rabb was at it again; our wretched things, our dreary street, us and us and our always with that sniff of her nose in the air, all the time saying we, we, we are so insuperably above you. No, said Her to herself, no Mrs. Rabb isn’t any better than Eugenia. No. No. No. And then she said no again. People needn’t act that way. What is the matter with her? “I was adoring that odd portrait.”

  “Oh that—” with an uplifted voice, with an uplifted face, with eyes uplifted, “Oh that—that little thing.” A shrug and “that little thing” meant “Go on admiring it, we may be poor, but we have our pride, we have our caste, we have our heirlooms.”

  How was I to know she would act this way? Fayne asked me to come, Nellie was right. Her face doesn’t go with her hair or her manner doesn’t go with her face, there is something wrong, disjointed, all this is too preposterous. Her wanted to shake Mrs. Rabb, say don’t be such a damn fool, we’re both intelligent. I am intelligent. I don’t have to sit here making a wax doll of myself anyhow. I came to see Fayne. Who are you anyway?

  “I came to see Fayne.” “Oh—my dear, my dear. Don’t remind me of how bored you are talking to Fayne’s old mother.” “Oh this is impossible. But you’re not—you’re so heavenly—so young. Why the first time I even heard about you, I said (it was to Nellie Thorpe) is she a sort of cloud, is Mrs. Rabb a sort of cloud.” “All cotton-y?” “No. Oh my dear Mrs. Rabb, NO. I said you sounded like some wisp of cloud on a summer day. I saw a cloud against the very bluest—the very most, most blue of summer-blue skies.” “My dear child—” “I did. I did. You can ask Nellie Thorpe. She simply raved about you.”

  The teacup handle may come off the teacup, then where will I be, thought Hermione.

  “Bickering?” A voice from nowhere, a voice from somewhere, a voice somehow in the nightmare, somehow out of the nightmare, the voice of Fayne that seemed incredibly not the voice of Fayne, repeated “bickering?” and Fayne all dramatic, made dramatic entry. Oh if Fayne is like this, Fayne IS like this. She wasn’t at Gart like this, not at Gart Grange. If Fayne is like this in Greenway Avenue, I do wish I hadn’t tried it, I do wish I’d kept her. Fayne is incredible.

  “Pauline.” “Mama?” “Do sit down. I expect you’re tired, my Paulet.” Now this was all wrong. I expect you’re tired Paulet meant, I don’t like this intrusion, I don’t like this thing you asked here. I do hate your asking people here, do you think I like wasting my time serving tea to your friends? Something said all this and Her stood. Well, well, I won’t intrude here. Let them stick together with their pride and their filthy little gimcracks, that Wedgwood that’s cracked and those chairs. I suppose they’re Chippendale. I don’t know what Chippendale is but it’s the sort of thing people who act like Mrs. Rabb have. Chippendale—Chip in the dale. I wish I’d never come. I wish I’d never come here. I do wish I never had come. “I think I’d best be going.” Oh, hell. I came in here, all this jolt and noise with my mind avid and I landed in a nightmare. I came in here all alive and my mind was pulsing and I was going to read my poetry. I wrote (George said) choriambics like some forgotten Melic. Well, I will stay forgotten. “I’m so sorry Mrs. Rabb that I disturbed you.”

  “Oh mama, mama, what have you done to Her Gart? Oh mama you’ve upset her.” There was voice that might be the voice of Fayne. A voice far and far that might be the voice of Fayne. A voice that had said “Hermione you’re like an unborn phoenix.’’ A voice that had said “Hermione is a gull’s name. Were you an albatross, Hermione?” A voice that had said against potpourri-coloured curtains, “You have eyes like Illyrian nights. How many stars in your eyes?” Fayne had drawn her close against blotted-out potpourri colour, against the blurred-out curtains of the upstairs little sitting room and Fayne had said “You are made of this and this—listen. Your eyes are the eyes that made Poppaea furious. If I were a Roman empress, I would put out your eyes.”

  Someone had put out her eyes. Someone had put out the eyes of Her. Her Gart saw a very shabby room furnished in excruciating taste with about three outstanding features to exonerate the horsehair sofa, the crayon portrait, the heavy frame that held the picture of Fayne looking out over a basket of artificial roses. Fayne in the photograph had a fringe, hair frizzed over hidden ears, sleeves over-ornate, the whole thing out of keeping. Fayne in the picture was not Fayne. Fayne is not Fayne. “I think I’d best be going.”

  “Mama.” A voice rasped, cut through Chippendale, cracked Wedgwood, across the heavy ornate frame of a shiny photograph of a child with embroidered wide sleeves. “Mama.” Ma-aaa-ma bleated out it a, a, a, its maaaa-a-ma like some wild thing, like some goat on a hillcrest.

  Fayne had liked the picture of the hillcrest of paint on green paint. The picture was awful, of paint on green paint. Her had known the picture was awful when she was a little grown-up big girl just out of school. All the things people gather about them hold people. The picture was not awful. Fayne had liked the picture. I came here ready to like Mrs. Rabb, to love Mrs. Rabb. Her face is too red now, the colour of turkey gills, turkeys puff up that way. The face does not go with the hair, the hair does not go with the face. Fayne does not go with Mrs. Rabb, not my Fayne. The voice that rasped, that cut, that bleated like a wild thing on a hillcrest was Fayne. Fayne was in the voice that rasped, that bleated. “Now Pauline. Now, none of this Pauline.” The face that did not go with the hair was an angry face, it spurted out “Miss Gart’s insulting to me.” “Oh mama. Oh mama.” The voice that was the voice of Fayne was the voice of a hurt little hill thing, a wild little goat, a small thing cooped up in a cage. The voice was a frightened cooped-up voice. Because of the voice, Her answered “Yes. It must be awful for you. Teaching all day and then having people like me—like me—” The voice that was a small goat voice said from somewhere “Oh mama, can’t you see her?”

  “Your friends, Pauline. They come—your friends, Pauline.” “Mama they’re your friends.” “Oh Mrs. Rabb if only you would be, let me be your friend.” Words from nowhere impelled Her Gart forward. She would have fallen at the knees of Mrs. Rabb, would have wound long arms around knees, would have made a goddess of her. “Why Mrs. Rabb from the very first moment that I heard about you, you were a sort of goddess to me. Nellie Thorpe said you had such a young, young face and such a rare—such a rare, such a sweet way of talking. Nellie told me you were so rare.” Words impelled Her forward; make he
r see, blind her, gag her, throttle her with flattery. People stare at dolls in windows wanting to break windows, to break dolls. What is the matter with her? “Mama, you do see Her Gart?”

  “Pauline. I see Miss Gart. I see that you have put Miss Gart against me. She has had the attitude all afternoon of—of protecting you against me. Against ME. I say all afternoon.” “Yes. I know mama. It’s only that she’s just—just—Her Gart. She’s like that.”

  Crouched in the corner of the slippery horsehair sofa Her would have been taken for a disjointed, broken, utterly useless doll now if Mrs. Rabb had seen her. Now the day had gone away, the autumn day had left Greenway Avenue and day leaving Greenway Avenue brought clamour, the clang clang somewhere of a distant fire engine, the shuffle of innumerable children dragging innumerable toys along the asphalt pavement. “I suppose, I should be going.” Children outside dragged squeaky toys and a crowd of boys stamped the length of the pavement, following (one surmised) a shabby football; ball kicked here, kicked there, finally would be kicked into some empty meadow, some dump heap of a meadow down the street, down the street, away away the boys’ voices were dispersed, were deadened and finally there were no boys’ voices, just the dreary up and down, up and down of some child with some silly toy, some drab duck probably dragged listlessly, dragged lifelessly, might as well drag a duck said the wheels of the little toy, I might as well be dragged said the toy duck, staring hopelessly with hopeless duck eyes down Greenway Avenue.

  “All these children—” “Yes. Isn’t it terrible?” “Oh is it? I don’t think it’s terrible.” “Oh you do, you do think it’s terrible.” “No I don’t. I mean it’s rather—rather—tragic.” “It’s all rather tragic. I am rather tragic.” A voice that was the voice that went with the potpourri-coloured curtains said “I am rather tragic.” It said it again, it repeated it, a sort of utterance that went on mechanically like the squeak squeak of the hopeless little drab duck that stared down Greenway Avenue, that stared up Greenway Avenue, that was turned on its miserable little wheels just once too often to stare up, to stare down. Like a little drab toy that stared, the voice spoke. “You see we have each other.”

  “Yes, yes. I see you have each other.” “You see I never knew—I never knew my father.” “Yes. It must be terrible. Never to know a father.” “You see people wanted to marry mama. Several people. One had a pony. He said I could ride the pony. His name was Langstreeth. He had a farm. Mama said he wasn’t a gentleman. You know what I mean. He was rather common.” “Yes. People who have farms sometimes are but sometimes people who have forms are—are gentlemen. I mean a sort of gentleman farmer. He might have been a gentleman farmer.” “He was. I mean he was a gentleman. He said one day if mama wouldn’t marry him, he would wait for me to grow up and he would marry me. Then mama struck me. I mean it was so funny.” “Yes it must have been funny.” “You see there was something wrong—I mean mama won’t let anyone come near me. I mean she never did let anyone come near me. Then I had to go to school because of the—the board of whatever it is you know. I met Nellie at High School.” “Oh Nellie.” “You may think Nellie is too awful but she was the only thing I had there. There were rows and rows of girls—rows and rows of girls. I got a sort of scholarship to study.” “To study?” “Drawing. I got so far. Then mama said I was ill. That the girls at the academy were bad for me. She made me ill.” “Yes.” “Then nursed me.” “Yes.” “She would make me ill and then nurse me. I used to think and think and think until I saw things. That’s why somedays I see things. You make me see things.”

  Things now crowding out of corners, out of the corner by the dark square of window, across the window did not frighten Her Gart. Things did not frighten Her Gart, noises did not annoy her. Agacé. George should see Fayne. Things are not agaçant now I know her. I know her. Her. I am Her. She is Her. Knowing her, I know Her. She is some amplification of myself like amoeba giving birth, by breaking off, to amoeba. I am a sort of mother, a sort of sister to Her. “O sister my sister O fleet sweet swallow.”“Oh Her, Her what are you saying now in all this cloudy darkness?” “The way is long to the sun and the south.”“I’m glad the noise has stopped now. It’s as if your voice so far and so sweet had stopped it, charmed it quite out, a voice like waters rippling.” “Sursurring, George would call it.” “Sursurring. Yes. George can call it. George, if George calls it sursurring, can’t be so very dreadful.” “He’s not, he’s not so very dreadful.”

  George now standing by a woodpath, George now with his upstanding hair might be of some use. “You must come to see him.” “I would like to see him.” A voice spoke from the depth of the horsehair sofa, a broken voice, a thwarted stricken voice, “I would like to see him. You see it’s so, so difficult ever to see anybody.” “Yes. I do see.” “The sound of a child’s voice crying yet, who has remembered me, who has forgotten”. “Can’t you start and say it all off?” “I’ve forgotten—thou hast forgotten, O summer swallow, but the world will end, the world will end, the world will end when I forget.”

  “Won’t Miss Gart then stay for supper?” Light sprang from somewhere, sudden and violent. It showed the frame, ornate and heavy and the overdressed child staring out shining like a mirror. The surface of the photograph was glazed, gave back light, the ornate frame gave back light, edges and ridges of things gave back light. The rim of the gas jet, the edge of an ash tray, the gilt clasp of some sort of huge old-fashioned album. Things sprang metallic and violent, shining with violent surface. “I am sorry.” “Oh don’t apologize. Do, do stay with us for supper.” The voice now was soft, it saw its mistake, it had hated to be seen seeing its mistake. It strode out fearless. The voice of Mrs. Rabb strode out fearlessly; it said, I know no wrong. I love Paulet. It said I love Paulet in glittering surface, it rammed I love Pauline at you like the surface (hard and glazed) that hid Paulet in the showy old-fashioned photograph. The voice dressed up Paulet like the Paulet in the picture. The voice rasped I am a mother, I am her mother. I am mother, mother, mother. The voice said rather tenderly, “But we must not make your mother anxious.”

  Down the street, down, down, down the street. The street runs and I run with it. The street is running like a spiral staircase that runs up and up and up. The street is moving but in order to get there quicker I will move too. I need not move for the street is a thing that clicks with little metallic click as it moves forward. I will turn the corner. I will run here. Here is where the boys turned off and here is where the fire engine made that hideous clanging. All this street is a sort of stage street, an experiment in perspective. The street as a street is quite magnificent. The little toy duck spoiled it.

  Things spoil things. Mrs. Rabb spoiled her effect by being nice at the last, the very latest minute. Fayne spoiled her effect by bleating at her mother. Fayne made herself out some sort of Pythian priestess who has visions, who sees, who can prophesy. She frightened me against the upstairs curtains. In her own room, she was negated. The album negated her, the window negated her. Mrs. Rabb negated Fayne Rabb. Pauline and Paulet negated Fayne Rabb. Her negated Her and all the poems I slaved over, copied out and out and out were no use. Were all the poems no use? Some poems are useful one way, some poems another (she ran to catch the trolley) and I used one poem. “Thou hast forgotten she chanted in an undertone as she slid into a side seat, “O summer swallow” and I’m glad it’s empty this time. “Do not spit on the floor” she read and “Wear Washable Whalebone” and “Extra, Extra, Extra” a boy shouted and “All about the big fire” above the rumbling wheels. I’ll be late. Eugenia will be furious. “Thou hast forgotten O summer swallow but the world will end when I forget.”

  four

  “They are watching him breathless.” “Yes, Fayne.” “They see and wonder. Steel flashes and there is some sort of long—long—I mean there is that same green lane and the sea step coming down from the sea wall.” “Yes, Fayne.” “You are not of him being pure, apart. You are the cold ice, the radiant stream head, the very waters of
Castilla.” “Yes, Fayne.” “He is beneath you, below you. He has part and parcel of some other fortune. He is not for you.” “Yes, yes Fayne.” Eyes glared across space, across chasms, across valleys and hills. Eyes stared at Her Gart and eyes caught eyes that lifted mist-blue above frozen waters. Waters were frozen in Her Gart. She was bored with what Fayne was saying. I want to take her hand, press it against my eyes. She will say the moment I let go, get away from this thing, “You are just like people. You are like everybody. You can’t follow me.”

  Her Gart lifted eyes and by some dynamic power of readjustment made mist-blue eyes go steel-grey. She felt concentration hold, her head go hard, she would follow Fayne into the space beyond space. “You can’t see what I see.” “No, Fayne. I don’t pretend to.” “Why do you baffle me, escape me?” “I don’t altogether mean to. I don’t exactly want to.” “You seem to see. And then you quite escape me.” Light flung upward, fell on the carpet and Her Gart sitting on the carpet was sitting in light reflected from cold paths, from stripped orchard branches, from box trees static and green, more green but cold against autumn branches. Light cast up from beneath was reminiscent of last spring, was prophetic of next winter. Eyes met eyes and the storm held, storm of ice, some storm in an ice crater. “Yes, Fayne.”

  “But you don’t, you don’t care. You have so many interests.” “I have you, only you Fayne.” “And this—this other—”

  “Other? Do you mean my writing?” “No. Your writing is nothing really. It is the pulsing of a willow, the faint note of some Sicilian shepherd. Your writing is the thin flute holding you to eternity. Take away your flute and you remain, lost in a world of unreality.” “It’s not—I mean—all.” “It is all—all unreal. You accept false, superimposed standards . . . all these people.” “But I’m trying to escape them.” “You turn back. Like Lot’s wife you are a frozen pillar.” “I’m not a frozen pillar. I’m not anything like Lot’s wife. I’m not—not anybody’s wife.” “You jeer at me, make fun of my poor pretences. But there is one grain in me will vanquish, conquer every one of you; one grain, certainly atomic, minute, but very core and center of pure truth. I am pure truth when I am.” “You so often, Fayne, aren’t.” “Now little blasphemer—”