“The map is rotten.” It was Darrington again saying it. And now the map took form before Hermione’s dazed eyelids. Her eyes seemed to see nothing. Were open, staring like glass eyes, saw nothing, grey glass eyes, but her eyelids seemed pricked with luminous light, seemed to burn, to glow with some light within—eyes and they see not—her glass grey eyes didn’t see anything, would never see anything. “Of course, Jerrold. I understand about the baby. I’ll go at once and register it — naturally — as it should be—” Dodge him. Dodge him. Register it as it should be as it could not possibly other be. Phoebe Darrington by all the laws of spirit, by all the most brute made laws even of brute matter. Roman law. She had heard once half heeding about Roman law — the child born — he had come to see her— She couldn’t get the exact wording of vague but exactly recalled Roman law. But she would — she would— “Of course you know if you make any false statement—” Darrington speaking. False statement. False statement. What now was coming? False statement. Hermione turned eyes from the map on the wall and grey glass eyes saw now Darrington. They saw Darrington — they looked at Darrington — yes and they see now — her eyes (horrible) saw Darrington — Minotaur with bull throat, with head bent forward. Minotaur that was about to brutally destroy her. No. He couldn’t. For her eyes were pricking, with painful realization behind the eyelids — eyelids were white orange petals, other eyes, gold rays behind the eyes — Astraea. . “of course you know if you make a false statement its perjury and — five years penal servitude.”
15
Penal servitude had her by the throat, drove her on. The flurry of snow was ash that spring (do you remember?) and penal servitude had her by the raw edge of her skirt, dragged at her underclothes, grasped up like a slimy hand from fetid water, Dickens, all the horrible things one read about, in London, come true, London come true, Dickens’ London, “my lords and gentlemen” but I thought we had gone on, gone on. They always screamed that they had done away with Victorian things, in London. Grey ash drifted against a grey ash face lifted to grey ash drifting. Penal servitude had her by the hem of the skirt so that she stumbled heavily climbing up the bus steps and the curved steps of the swaying bus (that she used to run up blithely) were the steps of a lighthouse that swayed and swayed. A sort of lighthouse built on a sort of bell-buoy sort of thing, swaying like a bell buoy in a storm when the bell rings and rings. Once in Venice there had been a summer mist and the bell buoys were set loose. . and bells sounded across Venice as they sounded now in London. Penal servitude. All the bells of London sounded penal servitude for if you have a husband who is an officer and a gentleman he comes back. . and screams why did you, why did you, like a clock ticking, like a heart beating. . penal servitude. Captain Darrington. Yes. I am Mrs. Darrington. Penal servitude made Hermione one now with the faces that loomed up out of white ash out of mist of snow and snow of mist, looking up at her from the circle of Piccadilly. Daffodils shone like suns through cold mist. Penal servitude was daffodils in Piccadilly. .
“Poor, poor thing.” “Yes. . Delia!” “But what a dreadful experience for you my dear. Did you say it was her sister?” “Yes, her sister.” “But you my dear. . with Jerrold just back. What a dreadful sordid little thing to have to happen to you.” “Well. . no. . you see her husband was in the army.” “Yes. But even so. Esprit de corps is all right. But you my darling. After your own terrible experience.” “I only wanted to make sure Delia, before I told poor little Winnie what to tell her sister. . after all, I know nothing of the law (why should I?) if it was straight.” “My darling. . no law, no judge in England would condemn her.” “Then. . penal servitude?” “Her husband must be mad.” “Shell shock probably. .” “Shell shock. . people of that class get hysterical.”
To walk carefully because the paving stones were egg-shell, to walk carefully so as not to put down a foot, down a foot too heavily. To walk carefully toward something that was something that was something. . another bus. . to Richmond. . with the same flurry in her face and streets, people, people, people, streets and I am one now with every felon, with every thief, with every Whitechapel beggar who reached out toward a baker’s basket for we knew how tempting (do you remember?) the butt end of a brown loaf could look sticking from a basket. I am one with felons, with thieves, with “sick and in prison and ye visited me.” Sick and in prison, I was visited, Delia was an angel. There are everywhere angels. It started with that bracelet clasp that day I met Vane at Lechstein’s studio. A bracelet to clasp my wrist, to say there was something behind the mist, beneath, beneath are the everlasting, everlasting. . “come in, Mrs. Darrington.” “I hate to trouble you. Yes, I did manage to get Phoebe’s registration through this morning. So impressive. . Phoebe Darrington. I must just look at Phoebe.” “Phoebe is doing herself very well these mornings. She will eat soap though.” “O?” “Loves soap though. Really you must tell her not to eat soap though.” Phoebe was sitting up in a basket. Take her away. “I just came to look at Phoebe. No. No I mustn’t touch her. You see I’ve been in a bus (I couldn’t get a taxi to the registrar’s). London is so germ ridden. And I want to ask you. .” ask you, ask you. Don’t let me look at Phoebe. I am a beast in a cage. The thing is so soft. It would be better to put hands round a throat. . don’t think, don’t look. “I’d rather walk downstairs.” “Down stairs.” “Our house is a wreck still, these furniture van people are so shocking. No labour. . of course that’s to be expected. My husband and I were talking it over. It’s such a bitter disappointment. . we do so want the baby. But could you possibly just as a special favour keep Phoebe for a few days, just a very few days, longer?”