“My dear, you never brought me any hurt. What ever?” He found a cigarette now, lighted it. Her little hour was perfection upon perfection. The waves of clean smoke came over and across her knees drawn up a little and Jerrold found her feet, two long feet which he caught like a hunter in his wide palm. Her feet beneath the clothes were held, caught and his hand was strong, Saxon, strong, a strong hand beautifully modelled, beautiful like his own feet, those statue feet that had pressed so clear and flat and right with the arch curve on the dark trodden paths that wound through olive and along the rock-edged cytisus bushes of the hills above Solaro. Feet, hands. What was more gracious than this? Had she no heart? No conscience? “I’m afraid I’m rather odd. I didn’t mind — Merry—” Jerrold did not turn. Was he used to this sort of thing? Had it happened before? Had Merry been “near” him before? It didn’t matter? Did it matter? If she could drop her head across the bed clothes and cry it would be all right. She couldn’t. She saw that Jerrold Darrington was clear and right and shaved and clean and in the right clothes and his new routine had thinned him again and his cuff was elegant. The cuff that rested across her knees with the new “grip,” the hand under it. He was right. Was she then wrong? “My clothes were so shabby and worthless—” He wasn’t listening. Was he thinking of someone else, something else? But did it matter? Did she care really? “I suppose I am a sort of Undine, George used to say so.” “What did you say, darling?” “I said I suppose I must be rather terrible.” “You are, dear.” “Terrible. Terrible. How am I?” But he was wandering now about the room, finding bits of things. He said, “you’ll be ready. We must clear off now in twenty minutes”. . and she wanted to answer something, couldn’t say it, had no words to say it but if she could wait here with her chin on her drawn up knees, remembering the feel of his wide palm about her feet, she would manage to find voice, to speak, to give him that word, that message, that signal before it was too late. She mustn’t lose all the things that had made her one with classic beauty, Italy, Solaro, the lizards on the sunbaked steps of the House of the Faun and the avenue of cypresses of the road of the dead at Pompeii. There are no fields of asphodel this side of the grave. She wanted to reach out and the time was short, he was buckling his belt, was bending, searching, looking for his little odd things, the thin book he carried, what was he now reading? Did he read nowadays? She never now could ask him, he was sure to flaunt the old things at her, bruise and tear her with some frivolous, silly or destructive jibe, make fun of something sacred, something deep down that she hadn’t known she cared for till he took it, turned it inside out, spat on it. Swiftly walk o’er the western wave, for instance though she didn’t care for Shelley, didn’t ever read him. What had happened? What was done, was now lost? Swiftly walk o’er the western wave spirit of night. Could she manage to find one, one line, one verse? O God, let me remember for words are like the bubbles of clear light on the surface of this mire, this mud pond, this vast wash of débris and death and filth that is our present. The porches of the Temple of the Sun and the little houses of Pompeii held their power though lava swept them and though ashes debouched filthy. A centurion was found standing, waiting at the entrance, at a gate-way, the Roman Legions. Ave Imperator. Senatus Populus. Was she like that centurion, a Keeper of Beauty? Must she stand while the filth burned them fell burying them and must she stand watching the filth, the lava, all the burial of all the beauty? If she could reach, speak to him. She must reach, speak. What should she say, speaking? She spoke, not thinking what she was saying, not knowing what she was saying, “there are no fields of asphodel this side of the grave.” There are no fields. . fields. What is a field? A field is a plot of grass and it is strewn with flowers. There are small sweet pulse, butterfly weed, little thyme heads. Butterflies wing across them, tiny butterflies. You can take a field and spread it like a rug across the floor and you can step on the field, stepping out of your bed. You can stand on the field and you can watch the mark your foot makes, you can see your foot ringed with blue thyme, or with cyclamen, or with gold pulse. This is imagination. Imagination is stronger than reality. For outside is fog, mist and the room is cold but your foot is stepping on a carpet and if you find your stockings you will be thinking all the time of a gilt gauze peplum and the fall of the marble as the sun shines on it and you may stoop down and gather the broken cyclamen where your foot stepped and lay them at the feet of the marble Nereid. The room of the Nereids. The room of the Nereids where Darrington had sought her, found her, where Darrington had brought her violets and across the room of the Nereids the London mist had woven a garment, a veil, the veil of Aphrodite. Now look this is the veil of Aphrodite. It isn’t one lover but if your lover leaves, you stoop down and pick the broken cyclamen and make a border for the veil. Darrington can never be torn from the veil of her Loves. The veil of Aphrodite. She would take that veil and at the last lay it at a shrine but it is hard weaving with Troy town down and my husband has been faithless. No, I am not a Penelope. I know I am not. People reach over, Captain Trent but I won’t go to him, couldn’t because of Merry, anyhow he’s now locked up. The veil must be woven subtly and one flower cannot disown another. Fayne is the very sea-blue edge. The edge of hyacinths is (though I had forgotten her) Fayne. This isn’t everything. I wish my garters matched, this is this and this is this and both wrong anyway. Can’t find warm underthings, does it matter? Put on extra outside jacket. Hat over face. Hat over face. Hat far down and chin only showing. Glass smudged with mist, too many tumblers, will hurry home after the train, wash up tumblers, open window, a little rest, peace. Books, will try to drag some books from shelves, Darrington doesn’t now want books.
“There are no fields of asphodel this side of the grave.” “Damn, you might have thought of something cheerful.” “O but I am. I do. I only said it as a joke.” “Joke. You all take this bloody war as a midnight revel.” “We — all?” “Yes. The whole damn lot of you. London gets more randy every time I hit here.” “Is it that—” But why ask it, why say it? Why say, isn’t it you that’s randy? Death ringed their nostrils and there was no taxi and they almost ran the length of King’s Road, making for Euston, not like other leaves, the taxi, the rumble and luxury of it and the smoke in her throat and her eyes stinging with fog and feeling that she was ugly, hopeless and her hat jammed down over her eyes and how odd to look really pretty (would she ever?) again. Trains rumbling. Trains. Rumbling. Smoke to be breathed in layers, breathed in and out, like cotton wadging. Cold. O it was cold that winter. Cold. Winter. There are no fields. . cyclamen was lying and broken horns of cyclamen in that smoke and rumble gave an added fragrance. Trampled flowers smell sweet. Was this the end? Was this the end? Hysteria but suppressed. Hysteria suppressed goes to the head like wine and you make pictures, patterns and she was quiet and she felt her eyes clear and staring. If she could now cry? Was this the last? Broken cyclamen, the sweeter for the crushing. “Don’t you know — I love you?” Faces, people, men, officers, red tape, men, men, men, dragging bundles, dragging packs, hat tilted, swank, officers. Trains. Smoke. A lover. A lover. No one would ever think it was a husband. “Over the top.” Why must he say that, standing in the window? She wasn’t a soldier. Over the top. . going, going, going, going. . Jerrold.