When she said Fayne a white hand took Her. Her was held like a star invisible in daylight that suddenly by some shift adjustment of phosphorescent values comes quite clear. Her saw Her as a star shining white against winter daylight.
Her feet were held, frozen to the cracked ice surface. Her heart was frozen, held to her cracked, somewhat injured body. I am glad I was ill. Her, though remembering illness, recalled the suffocation of steam heat, the fragrance of hothouse lilac. White lilac wafted ineffable remembrance. Like the super note on the violin string, the thing in Her reverberated slightly. She shifted her frozen feet, moved back, slid backward till her heels felt the frozen grass edge of the little river. Then she clambered self-consciously alert back toward the scrubby pathway. Oak saplings tore at skirt and rough coat. Her hands pushed into the wide blue pockets, clenched tight in her fur-lined old gloves. Her head bent back, saw trees etched here in the inner wood, more casually. One branch cut above a mass of tangled branches and made a straight heavy smudge across the dazzling whiteness. Heavy trunks showed furrows and now she heard a squeak almost under her feet; some squirrel in a tree bole or some burrowing rabbit. “Coons, squirrels, once a red fox. But he must have got away from people hunting by Broadstairs.”
Her feet were very cold. She ran for a space, leaping over a fallen log, turning out of her way to avoid some autumn rubbish that the Farrand men must have forgotten to burn or had left there for some purpose. The eaves of the Farrand stable were visible through a break in the branches. She turned into the lower driveway, skirting the wide lawn, dodging under the bushes of their outer driveway. The bushes held definite image, brought clear association. “Their spice-shrub always did better than ours and their magnolia.” Her dodged under a tent of cedar. Great branches made a tent and the outer sweep of them were held fast, frozen in a little ridge of ice-snow. Her pulled at the branches, held there like trapped hands. Snow fell over her, loosened from the flat branch. The place smelt of cones and the little underlayer of needles (she brushed back the half-frozen upper surface) felt (she pulled off her loose glove) warm. “This must be one of those sort of Norwegian pines old Mr. Farrand used to talk so much of.”
The great tree in itself was a world; Olympian. Her under it, looked up and up like a child in some tale of the Black Forest. Scent of snow (has snow a scent? It stings the nostrils, is an anesthetic), scent of needles, different sorts of wood smells. She recalled a red hibiscus with a sort of vicarious shudder. Red hibiscus seemed like a tissue-paper rose in some Nice carnival. Europe as she pronounced it in her consciousness seemed like that. Head bent back tried to recall paintings, pictures upon ceilings. “Old paint, paint peeling off,” she said aloud to the down-sweeping branches, “What’s that to this thing?” Her hands uncurled and she caught at the great tree. George never could love anything quite properly.
“Her.” “Yes?” “I saw you dodge across the lawn. Won’t you come inside?” Her lifted the forehead of a Dodonian neophyte from the great pure tree trunk. Her eyes caught eyes, the eyes of Jimmie Farrand. “Oh Jimmie.” “Come in, won’t you? They said you were quite ill, were you?” “Yes.” “What?” “Sortof—of—” “Nevermind. Come on in, Her.” “Yes.” The eyes of Dodona looked at Jimmie Farrand and saw Jimmie Farrand as part of the whole scheme of things. “If once you let go, give in to everybody, things come right.” “What, Her?” “I was saying things come right.” “Yes, Her. Ought you to be here? Do they know you are here?” “Oh yes. I’ve been going out some time. I was really all right, weeks back.” “I know—but you look—you look—Oh do come.” Jimmie Farrand saw Her as “quaint,” poor Her, those incredible Garts, “What is it?” “Oh nothing. I mean, I was out walking. I mean, I wanted to be alone to—to—see things.” “Well you can see things indoors. We won’t hurt you.”
If Jimmie was part of things and Her having accepted things was part of things, then Her was part of Jimmie. Her argued logically, I am part of things, people are kind if you don’t just go against them and Jimmie is like that. Her looked at Jimmie, recalled a house party, boys home from college, some tangle of favours and a red Columbine costume she had once worn. The Columbine costume was part of favours, was part of paper roses, was part of things that were not. Jimmie had finished college. “I didn’t know you were here.” “Well, I’m not. Not strictly speaking.” He held the branch back like a curtain. The curtain keeps me in here. Here I am safe but I must walk out to people. People won’t hurt you if you try to understand them.
“People won’t hurt you if you try to understand them.” She had said that tentatively stooping to the outer branches and Jimmie had caught it up, repeated it, went on with it. “No. I had such a row with them. They said the boy had cheated.” “Cheated?” “Yes. It’s this beastly idea people have of rightness. He, I suppose had cheated. I mean they found the papers.” “Papers?” “Little rolls. All rather neat. He had all the chemical formulas and his math was a miracle. Tiny rolls of Japanese rice paper, almost invisible. He worked hours to make them. He said if he had the cribs in his pocket it gave him confidence. The funny part was he had never used them.” “Circumstantial evidence.” “Something like that. He’s here.”
Jimmie Farrand stamped snow from his house shoes. “You should have put on rubbers,” and word reaction brought black rose. Why do I think black rose when I think rubbers? Then Her remembered Fayne and Mrs. Rabb. “It was like that.” “Like—?” “I mean I had a friend—I had—a—friend.”
Jimmie was edging Her toward the little room they used to call (before Mr. Farrand died) “the boy’s room.” “Do you still call this the boy’s room?” Her bent her head going down the little stairway. Two lacrosse rackets were perched (as they always had been) above the mantel. Logs were (as they always had been) roaring. “This room was always more like a boathouse or some sort of clubroom.” “Mother had the place put right after the Jetsons left it.” “Yes. We missed you. I suppose though your mother didn’t like coming back after—after—” “No. She and Kitty were away always. That was before Kitty married. Mim’s abroad now on her own.” “Yes. I always liked your mother.” “She sent me on here to look over things—we’re going to sell it.” “Sell Farrand?” “Well what use? I can’t afford to keep it. Kitty’s married. Mim never is here. Yes, sell Farrand.”
Sell a Columbine costume, sell a rice paper rose, sell favours twisted in favours and someone standing on a chair while the boys (home from college) blew out her lighted candle. “Do you remember the cotillions?” “Yes. We never dance now.” “No, I hardly ever dance now.” “What are you doing, Her?” “Oh I—I plod along. I mean I was—I was engaged.” “Yes Mim or Kitty wrote me.” “It didn’t come to anything.” “It never does do.” “I mean I had a—a friend.”
“A—a friend” brought a pulse or beat but it wasn’t her heart. A heart was put away in an ivory box, in a marble urn like Coeur de Lion or whoever it was who had his heart buried at Havre or wherever it was. It wasn’t a heart that beat under a woollen pull-on sort of jumper, under a blue coat. Her pulled at bone buttons on a blue coat. “Oh, take your things off.” “But I can’t stay.” “Why can’t you?” “Well I must get back.” “It’s a pity Mim isn’t here or Kitty. Won’t you have tea?” “Tea?” “There’s old Mrs. Maer (do you remember?) in the kitchen.” “Oh—that old thing that used to tie Kitty’s hair ribbons?” “Yes. She’s still here.” “Yes. I think I remember someone saying (Minnie or Mandy) that your people had kept on someone.” “She stayed on with the Jetsons. She didn’t like it.” “How could she? I suppose mama and I ought to have seen more of them.” “More of?” “The Jetsons. They always seemed so busy.” “They were a noisy crowd. I never liked them. We won’t sell to them.” Her heart had left off pounding. Someone was selling something to someone. She ought to take some interest. After all these people that were coming here would be her neighbors. “These people who are coming, I suppose, will be my neighbors.” “Why—why Her?” “I mean they will be won’t they?
”
The old lady Her had remembered tying Kitty’s ribbons stopped on the small stair, said “Did you ring?” Jimmie Farrand said “Yes, I wish you’d bring in tea. You know, like Kitty liked it.” The old lady who had tied Kitty’s ribbons stooped sideways through the narrow doorway. She came back presently with tea things. Her said “It’s nice of you to do this.”
The old lady who had tied Kitty Farrand’s ribbons didn’t know whether Her meant it nice of her or nice of Jimmie, so she waited. She said “I do miss old times.” Her pulled herself up, remembered a boy with ribbons tangled about him for a harness driving four girls, said “It was a pretty cotillion.” “The cotillions? We never now have dances.” “You always had such nice ones.” The old lady looked as if she would stand there forever, but Jimmie asked for more hot water. “I don’t think Miss Her likes tea so strong.”
“Oh please, I like it this way, don’t take the trouble.” The old lady said “It’s no trouble” and got herself out of the little doorway, a crab turned sideways. “Did you tell me you had friends here?” “I? No. I mean, do you mean Grim?”
Grim like someone in a play came in then. He wore glasses. “Grim, this is Her Gart.” Her Gart put out a stiff long hand. Grim took it, dropped it. “We’re having tea here.” “Yes, it looks darned cosy.” “Won’t you have some?” “Me? Tea? Never.” Grim sat down stuffing a bulbous brier pipe. “Do you mind my smoking?” “Me? Oh no.” Grim offered his flat tobacco pouch to Jimmie Farrand who refused it.
Jimmie Farrand picked up the fallen poker and banged at a log. The log smouldered, gave out sooty flame, gave spark and flame in smoke as Jimmie heaved the poker underneath it. “These things are too wet. They should have put them in the other outhouse. The old shed back of the stable’s leaking. The whole place is, somehow.” The log gave up spurt of volcanic red flame bringing out ridges on the young furrowed face of Grim (it seemed his name was Harold). “What are you going to do Mr. Grim now?” and Her recalled people jabbing at Her, “What are you doing, what are you doing, what are you taking up?” The Grim boy seemed used to it, didn’t seem to mind it. “Old Jimmie told you? Oh, I mean—they found me with rice paper. Miss Gart you must never be so foolish.” “I failed mine,” she was glad and comforted, “without rice paper.” “Oh? Where?” “Bryn Mawr. I flunked the whole lot.”
“Oh Bryn Mawr. I knew a girl at Bryn Mawr. It must have been before your time. Bessie Hollock.” “Oh no. She was very clever. She was Oberon in Midsummer Night’s Dream. She was very pretty.” “Yes. Funny the way girls give up though. She wears pince-nez and is teaching.” “I might have worn pince-nez and be teaching,” her thought caught jagged memories of tables and desks and morning chapel. There was a cherry tree in blossom against a pseudo-old grey turret. “They tried to be so English.” “Yes. That was the trouble with Bryn Mawr. Your dean tried to make English gentlemen of her girls. Did you know Nellie Thorpe?”
“Oh, Nellie. Yes I knew her.” “Her brother was with my brother at the law school.” “Yes. I know her brother is a lawyer.” “People get so lost, don’t they? I’m out now of everything.” “Yes. People do get lost.” “Jim here says he’s taking the car abroad if he sells Farrand and he wants a chauffeur. I said, I’d do the driving. I’m rather good at engineering. I mean a motor isn’t.” “No, not exactly engineering.” “But Jim says if he pulls this deal off, he’s going to Europe.” Jimmie Farrand paid no attention to them. He was sorting out things from a cupboard at the room’s far end, old gloves, a broken oar, some fishing tackle. “It must be rather terrible giving up things.”
Her said “It must be rather terrible giving up things” while an odd elation caught Her seeing Jimmie chuck old treasures aside, as if to make a barn fire. Baseball gloves, tennis rackets, things split and splintered. “Mim kept everything.” Jimmie Farrand drawing near them said, “Mim kept everything,” as if Mim were some sort of sister or even sweetheart. Mim was something that had had a new lease of life, someone grown up with a grown-up son (Jimmie was grown up) who was dancing on the Lido (Jimmie had told Her) and who tired out Kitty. Mim was someone who had grown-up children, who was dancing. Europe in consciousness became a place for grown-up people. Gloves, tennis rackets, what was America? A carnival and boys (from Yale) standing on tip-toe to blow out candles . . . a carnival or desks with stooping shoulders. Gart and the formula and Uncle Sam pressing people down in test tubes. Europe was a room painted over with bright figures and within it people dancing . . . “Why don’t you come with us? You could join Mim in Venice.”
It was odd the moment you gave quite in to people, people came right, came just in true perspective. It was like that dreadful Perseus at the old Academy who had goose wings on his sandals. People of the world brought things in just perspective. Harold Grim brought things in true perspective. He didn’t care (he did care) about the rice paper, about expulsion from his college. It meant everything and it meant nothing. There was nothing in America for them but rows of desks and stabilization and exact formalization (Uncle Sam pressing things down in test tubes), there was nothing but standardization or dancing at a carnival. In between there were no nuances (for them). For them there were no nuances. Things would change; for them it was formalization and exact fitting to one type. College, school, failures and the exact presentation of one type. Jim and Grim and Her. “Yes, it would be funny.” Jimmie Farrand all sophistication was explaining how they could join up with the Wetheralls, Mrs. and Dot and all go together. Her could be one of them. His mother wanted someone. His mother must have someone with her for the winter. She wanted someone to be with her. Would Her talk it over with her people? Jimmie Farrand went on sorting trash out of the hidden cupboard. Grim said, “We’ve all got to the end of something.”
No. She wouldn’t let Grim or Jim see her across the meadow. It was just what she didn’t want. No, really. She wanted just that plunge into grey dusk, just that finding foothold on the half frozen path to help her. “I feel just that walk home is going to change everything.” Grim said he didn’t like it and Jim said “She was always like that. Her knows her own way.” Her left them standing in the doorway, a feeling of elation caught at Her, a sort of atavism having to do with Olympia. “Games,” she said to herself, “I suppose it’s the casual way he hurled things about that brought back things.” Things brought back became a sort of hecatomb, a heap of things, things, all having set symbolism, having some sort of office. Formalization of the lacrosse rackets, crossed above the mantel, the great glove like a Pentathalon boxer’s, the several kinds of running shoes and even the old snowshoes. Things piled up became a sort of hecatomb for some god. Zeus or one of his fleet sons. Hermes more exactly.
Grim and Jim stood there like two gatekeepers, opening a gate, swift thought that so exactly saw things; Jim so swift seeing so exactly. Thought drove Her forward like the avid pulse and beat of some motor in a beached yacht. I have been here, really stagnant. Things come right when you really don’t hurt people . . . I hurt Eugenia. I am sorry. I was terrible to Minnie. Feet pulsed forward, drove Her homeward, her feet were winged with the winged god’s sandal. Everything will be right. I’ll get the money they said they’d give me for my trousseau. I was really going to keep it for the nursing. The money is mine. Gran left it for my marriage . . . this will be my marriage. The thought sustained Her. Practical and at one with herself, with the world, with all outer circumstance, she barged straight into Mandy in the outer hallway. “Oh, Miss. I thought you was back long since. I done left Miss Fayne all alone upstairs in your little workroom.”
A POSTLUDE
Fifty years after the events of HERmione, the author wrote as follows in End to Torment, her memoir of Ezra Pound:
I did not see him [Ezra Pound] at the time of my first confinement, 1915.1 lost that child. The second was four years later, 1919. He hurtles himself into the decorous St. Faith’s Nursing Home, in Ealing, near London. Beard, black soft hat, ebony stick—something unbelievably operatic—directoire ov
ercoat, Verdi. He stalked and stamped the length of the room. He coughed, choked or laughed, “You look like old Mrs. Grumpy” (or some such) “in Wyncote.” Wyncote was where the Pounds had lived, outside Philadelphia. True, I wore a becoming (I thought) black lace cap. Naturally, I looked no sylph. He seemed to beat with the ebony stick like a baton. I can’t remember. Then, there is a sense of his pounding, pounding (Pounding) with the stick against the wall. He had banged that way, with a stick once before, in a taxi, at a grave crisis in my life. This was a grave crisis in my life. It was happening here. “But,” he said, “my only real criticism is that this is not my child.”
. . .
The first time, in the taxi, was before I was married. Frances Gregg [Fayne Rabb] had filled the gap in my Philadelphia life after Ezra was gone, after our “engagement” was broken. Maybe the loss of Ezra left a vacuum; anyway, Frances filled it like a blue flame. I made my first trip to Europe with her and her mother, summer 1911. Frances wrote, about a year after her return to America, that she was getting married (“When this letter reaches you, I shall be married.”) She said that one of the objects of her marriage to this English University Extension lecturer—or in fact the chief object—was a return to Europe so that she could join me; we would all go to Belgium together where “Louis” was lecturing.
Hermione Page 22
