Now looking at Louise, Hermione wished she hadn’t made up, couldn’t do it like Louise. Louise must really help her with some clothes. She was tired of the old old gold and green that swept away from her shoulders. For a breath her body would be bare. Half a league — half a league — half a league — Captain (pre-war) Trent had known that, known all about it. They said he had heat wave, sun stroke, wouldn’t shoot him but the police were after him, all the same and Merry, poor pretty Merry (why did one now like her?) had taken him on — taken him in— But could it matter? Hiding him. Pre-war romance. There is romance. Dance for the candles flicker, the boy with one arm leans forward. Louise tilts back a dark head. Florient.
A goddess is a god less — where did that come from? God and goddess, God and god less — what was going on, round and round and round and there were no two ways about it, you had to be in it or out of it and going on and on and on at Delia’s was stagnation, was not her work, was not her world. She didn’t believe in it, didn’t believe in those hard lipped women (O God forgive me) who worked like that not knowing what love was, not knowing what life was. It was different with Delia but Delia was noblesse oblige and Delia anyhow was older, was that other generation, like Lillian Merrick, just old enough to be a very young mother to her or an elder sister. Delicious older sister. She had never had one. They weren’t, it appeared, delicious. Relatives weren’t. But Delia was a sort of older sister but you couldn’t keep it up, half here, half there, half seeing that Delia was right and being sorry that they had lost sons and the other half saying but damn, damn, damn, why did you let them go, why did you let them go? You have lost sons but what have they lost, what have we lost? Sweet life, sweet life that was over sweet, life, life, life. . is life so light a treasure? How do you feel when the guns go, clutching at life? Life, life, life, they wore it like a white flower to be tossed away. O but you gave them life. I know, mothers, mothers, mothers. But I am a mother. I mean I am not, was not. Don’t let them get you. Who is that boy, French? Someone was asking if the boy was French but everybody knew he wasn’t and someone else said “I thought he was Windsor dele Terre back from Rome.” The boy in the blue wasn’t dele Terre — (half English whom they had all, in the old days, known) but another boy, a stranger, speaking American, in horizon blue, speaking American. “An American fighting for France.” He was an American fighting for France. There were all sorts of Americans. The room going round and round and round and the boy wore his light flower, his life so lightly pinned, so lightly to his horizon blue coat, pinned so lightly. O God don’t let the flower fall out, the flower of his life, who is he anyway? He was a friend of Louise’s, an American fighting for France, permission leave. God, look at them wearing their flowers so lightly. Who are we to be good or bad. What is good or bad for a woman? One thing. The boy with one arm seemed to protest by the very fine slender line of his attenuated child shoulders that there was one way of being good for a woman. Through the smoke, the cigarettes, the glasses ringed on the table and the glasses (little islands of glasses) on the carpet, one frail boy seemed to protest. He was a child really. He had had a nice mother, a young sister. He was too much a child — O God, let me not see. Let me dance on the walls, for Troy is burning, Troy town is down. Where is Delia? But she isn’t so beautiful. Americans can’t stand such glare, such strain, they’re too slim, go out like lamps. Something that had made Delia beautiful was gone. Delia would go on, go on, and then some day they would be surprised when she stopped going on. She was too brittle, Americans were, to stand too much of this. Race. But there’s a different physique, you couldn’t stand too much if you were an American. You saw it all, saw them all, Troy town and the flutes were playing. They were dancing on the walls of Athens; let the Spartans in, for what is life, sweet life that was over sweet? Life is a white flower, a red flower, to be worn becomingly, to be tossed away. Horizon blue. An American fighting for France.
Who are we fighting for? What are we fighting for? Well anyway I’m Darrington’s wife, they’ll give me a little pension. O God, why don’t they all go home now? Can’t they see that we’re all tired but they seem to love staying, the boy with one arm, looks and looks and looks. . what does he see against the wall? What does he see between the books, the other side of the curtains the uneven, untidy rows of books are making? Does he see what I am seeing, what I used to be seeing, the days long ago, 17, 17, 17. Seventeen was long ago but even in seventeen Darrington had plunged in suddenly from the north of England, from his training camp, had plunged in, running his hands along the books as if they were some sleek cat’s back, running his hands over separate books like so many loved kittens. He never took books out now. He said Browning was a bore, he was of course, was he? Fortù, Fortù, my beloved sit here and the gaudy melon flower. What was the boy seeing looking at the books? Was he seeing the books or beyond the books? Going on and on and on. Over the top, certainly, and certainly the best of luck. Napoo fini. Fini la guerre. Napoo fini everything, Fini la guerre, nothing. It would never be. Might as well dance, who was one anyhow to prate of virtue? Going on and on and on, only I wish Florient wouldn’t sit on Captain Trent’s lap, after all he is a gentleman and he treats us somehow (some of us) like what the boy with one arm would have called “ladies.” Gentlemen and ladies, ladies and gentlemen, let me show you the prize secret of the universe, an elephant with two trunks, a fat lady with a beard, a duck with two heads. Monsters. Were they all monsters? No use living in two worlds, got to choose, going on and on but how can I choose, Darrington (lieutenant Darrington) is my husband. Did you know? Look at me, look at me, tall thin emaciated child with one arm, I know, I understand. I feel. I am. I am all those things you stare at. Don’t stare. Don’t stare. Over the top. .
“Why can’t we have some more drinks?” “Drinks. Drinks. You know as well as I.” They were bickering like a navvy and a pub keeper’s wife. Life was like that. You wore life like a white flower to be tossed aside. But she had so tossed it. She had given her life. She was already dead. She felt so sorry for those others who weren’t dead. If only the boy would know that she was dead too. If only he would stop staring at the books, thinking he was the only one. “What, another raid? O damn. I did want some sleep. Best clear out before the damn thing starts.” It was late. Let them stay and they would stay all night. O go away. Can’t you see how I’m dead, tired, dead tired. Can’t you see I’m dead — tired — dead-tired — tired — dead — go home.