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| <poem>
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| SOLDIER
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| <i>‘The hushèd plaint of wind in stricken trees
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| :::::Shivers the grass in path and lane
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| And Grief and Time are tideless golden seas—
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| :::::Hush, hush! He's home again.’<i>
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <code>===CHAPTER ONE (7-55) ===
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| <nowiki><paragraph keywords=""></nowiki>
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| <nowiki><poem></nowiki>
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| <nowiki></poem></nowiki>
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| <nowiki></paragraph></nowiki></code>
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| <poem>
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| 1
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| ACHILLES: Did you shave this morning, Cadet?
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| MERCURY: Yes, Sir.
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| ACHILLES: What with, Cadet?
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| MERCURY: Issue, Sir.
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| ACHILLES: Carry on, Cadet.:::::<i>Old Play (about 19——?)<i>
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| LOWE, JULIAN, number —, late a Flying Cadet, Umptieth Squadron, Air Service, known as ‘One Wing’ by the other embryonic aces of his flight, regarded the world with a yellow and disgruntled eye. He suffered the same jaundice that many a more booted one than he did, from Flight Commanders through Generals to the ambrosial single-barred (not to mention that inexplicable beast of the field which the French so beautifully call an aspiring aviator); they had stopped the war on him.
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| So he sat in a smouldering of disgusted sorrow, not even enjoying his Pullman prerogatives, spinning on his thumb his hat with its accursed white band.
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| ‘Had your nose in the wind, hey, buddy?’ said Yaphank, going home and smelling to high heaven of bad whisky.
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| ‘Ah, go to hell,’ he returned sourly and Yaphank doffed his tortured hat.
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| ‘Why, sure, General—or should I of said Lootenant? Excuse me, madam. I got gassed doing k.p. and my sight ain’t been the same since. On to Berlin! Yeh, sure, we’re on to Berlin. I’m on to you, Berlin. I got your number. Number no thousand no hundred and naughty naught Private (very private) Joe Gilligan, late for parade, late for fatigue, late for breakfast when breakfast is late. The Statue of Liberty ain’t never seen me, and if she do, she’ll have to ’bout face.’
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| Cadet Lowe raised a sophisticated eye. ‘Say, whatcher drinking, anyway?’
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| ‘Brother, I dunno. Fellow that makes it was gave a Congressional medal last Chuesday because he has got a plan to stop the war. Enlist all the Dutchmen in our army and make ’em drink so much of his stuff a day for forty days, see? Ruin any war. Get the idea?’
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| ‘I’ll say. Won’t know whether it’s a war or a dance, huh?’
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| ‘Sure, they can tell. The women will all be dancing. Listen, I had a swell jane and she said, “for Christ’s sake, you can’t dance”. And I said, “like hell I can’t”. And we was dancing and she said, “what are you, anyways?” And I says, “what do you wanta know for? I can dance as well as any general or major or even a sergeant, because I just win four hundred in a poker game,” and she said, “oh, you did?” and I said, “sure, stick with me, kid,” and she said, “where is it?” Only I wouldn’t show it to her and then this fellow come up to her and said, “are you dancing this one?” And she said, “sure, I am. This bird don’t dance.” Well, he was a sergeant, the biggest one I ever seen. Say, he was like that fellow in Arkansaw that had some trouble with a nigger and a friend said to him, “well, I hear you killed a nigger yesterday.” And he said, “yes, weighed two hundred pounds.” Like a bear.’ He took the lurching of the train limberly and Cadet Lowe said, ‘For Christ’s sake.’
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| ‘Sure,’ agreed the other. ‘She won’t hurt you, though. I done tried it. My dog won’t drink none of it of course, but then he got bad ways hanging around Brigade H.Q. He’s the one trophy of the war I got: something that wasn’t never bawled out by a shave-tail for not saluting. Say, would you kindly like to take a little something to keep off the sumniferous dews of this goddam country? The honour is all mine and you won’t mind it much after the first two drinks. Makes me homesick: like a garage. Ever work in a garage?’
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| Sitting on the floor between two seats was Yaphank’s travelling companion, trying to ignite a splayed and sodden cigar. Like devasted France, thought Cadet Lowe, swimming his memory through the adenoidal reminiscences of Captain Bleyth, an R.A.F. pilot delegated to temporarily reinforce their democracy.
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="car model">
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| <poem>
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| ‘Why, poor soldier,’ said his friend, tearfully, ‘all alone in no man’s land and no matches. Ain’t war hell? I ask you.’ He tried to push the other over with his leg, then he fell to kicking him, slowly. ‘Move over, you ancient mariner. Move over, you goddam bastard. Alas, poor Jerks or something (I seen that in a play, see? Good line) come on, come on; here’s General Pershing come to have a drink with the poor soldiers.’ He addressed Cadet Lowe. ‘Look at him: ain’t he sodden in depravity?’
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| ‘Battle of Coonyak,’ the man on the floor muttered. ‘Ten men killed. Maybe fifteen. Maybe hundred. Poor children at home saying “Alice, where art thou?”’
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| ‘Yeh, Alice. Where in hell are you? That other bottle. What’n’ell have you done with it? Keeping it to swim in when you get home?’
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| The man on the floor weeping said: ‘You wrong me as ever man wronged. Accuse me of hiding mortgage on house? Then take this soul and body; take all. Ravish me, big boy.’
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| ‘Ravish a bottle of vinegar juice out of you, anyway,’ the other muttered, busy beneath the seat. He rose triumphant, clutching a fresh bottle. ‘Hark! the sound of battle and the laughing horses draws near. But shall they dull this poor unworthy head? No! But I would like to of seen one of them laughing horses. Must of been lady horses all together. Your extreme highness’—with ceremony, extending the bottle—‘will you be kind enough to kindly condescend to honour these kind but unworthy strangers in a foreign land?’
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| Cadet Lowe accepted the bottle, drank briefly, gagged and spat his drink. The other supporting him massaged his back. ‘Come on, come on, they don’t nothing taste that bad.’ Kindly cupping Lowe’s opposite shoulder in his palm he forced the bottle mouthward again. Lowe released the bottle, defending himself. ‘Try again. I got you. Drink it, now.’
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| ‘Jesus Christ,’ said Cadet Lowe, averting his head.
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| Passengers were interested and Yaphank soothed him. ‘Now, now. They won’t nothing hurt you. You are among friends. Us soldiers got to stick together in a foreign country like this. Come on, drink her down. She ain’t worth nothing to no one, spit on his legs like that.’
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| ‘Hell, man, I can’t drink it.’
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| ‘Why, sure you can. Listen: think of flowers. Think of your poor grey-haired mother banging on the front gate and sobbing her grey-haired heart out. Listen, think of having to go to work again when you get home. Ain’t war hell? I would of been a corporal at least, if she had just hung on another year.’
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| ‘Hell, I can’t.’
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| ‘Why, you got to,’ his new friend told him kindly, pushing the bottle suddenly in his mouth and tilting it. To be flooded or to swallow were his choices so he drank and retained it. His belly rose and hung, then sank reluctant.
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="gasoline">
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| <poem>
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| ‘There now, wasn’t so bad, was it? Remember, this hurts me to see my good licker going more than it does you. But she do kind of smack of gasoline, don’t she?’
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| Cadet Lowe’s outraged stomach heaved at its muscular moorings like a captive balloon. He gaped and his vitals coiled coldly in a passionate ecstasy. His friend again thrust the bottle in his mouth.
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| ‘Drink, quick! You got to protect your investment, you know.’
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| His private parts, flooded, washed back to his gulping and a sweet fire ran through him, and the Pullman conductor came and regarded them in helpless disgust.
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| ‘Ten-shun,’ said Yaphank, springing to his feet. ‘Beware of officers! Rise, men, and salute the admiral here.’ He took the conductor’s hand and held it. ‘Boys, this man commanded the navy,’ he said. ‘When the enemy tried to capture Coney Island he was there. Or somewhere between there and Chicago, anyway, wasn’t you, Colonel?’
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| ‘Look out, men, don’t do that.’ But Yaphank had already kissed his hand.
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| ‘Now, run along, Sergeant. And don’t come back until dinner is ready.’
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="train">
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| <poem>
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| ‘Listen, you must stop this. You will ruin my train.’
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="train">
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| <poem>
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| ‘Bless your heart, Captain, your train couldn’t be no safer with us if it was your own daughter.’ The man sitting on the floor moved and Yaphank cursed him. ‘Sit still, can’t you? Say, this fellow thinks it’s night. Suppose you have your hired man bed him down? He’s just in the way here.’
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| The conductor, deciding Lowe was the sober one, addressed him.
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| ‘For God’s sake, soldier, can’t you do something with them?’
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| ‘Sure,’ said Cadet Lowe. ‘You run along; I’ll look after them. They’re all right.’
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="train">
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| <poem>
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| ‘Well, do something with them. I can’t bring a train into Chicago with the whole army drunk on it. My God, Sherman was sure right.’
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="train, driving, passenger">
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| <poem>
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| Yaphank stared at him quietly. Then he turned to his companions. ‘Men,’ he said solemnly, ‘he don’t want us here. And this is the reward we get for giving our flesh and blood to our country’s need. Yes, sir, he don’t want us here; he begrudges us riding on his train, even. Say, suppose we hadn’t sprang to the nation’s call, do you know what kind of a train you’d have? A train full of Germans. A train full of folks eating sausage and drinking beer, all going to Milwaukee, that’s what you’d have.’
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="train">
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| <poem>
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| ‘Couldn’t be worse than a train full of you fellows not knowing where you’re going,’ the conductor replied.
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="train">
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| <poem>
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| ‘All right,’ Yaphank answered. ‘If that’s the way you feel, we’ll get off your goddam train. Do you think this is the only train in the world?’
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="passenger">
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| <poem>
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| ‘No, no,’ the conductor said hastily, ‘not at all. I don’t want you to get off. I just want you to straighten up and not disturb the other passengers.’
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| The sitting man lurched clumsily and Cadet Lowe met interested stares.
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="train">
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| <poem>
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| ‘No,’ said Yaphank, ‘no! You have refused the hospitality of your train to the saviours of your country. We could have expected better treatment than this in Germany, even in Texas.’ He turned to Lowe. ‘Men, we will get off his train at the next station. Hey, General?’
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| ‘My God,’ repeated the conductor. ‘If we ever have another peace I don’t know what the railroads will do. I thought war was bad, but my God.’
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="train">
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| <poem>
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| ‘Run along,’ Yaphank told him, ‘run along. You probably won’t stop for us, so I guess we’ll have to jump off. Gratitude! Where is gratitude, when trains won’t stop to let poor soldiers off? I know what it means. They’ll fill trains with poor soldiers and run ’em off into the Pacific Ocean. Won’t have to feed ’em any more. Poor soldiers! Woodrow, you wouldn’t of treated me like this.’
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| ‘Hey, what you doing?’ But the man ignored him, tugging the window up and dragging a cheap paper suit-case across his companion’s knees. Before either Lowe or the conductor could raise a hand he had pushed the suit-case out the window. ‘All out, men!’
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| His sodden companion heaved clawing from the floor. ‘Hey! That was mine you throwed out?’
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| ‘Well, ain’t you going to get off with us? We are going to throw ’em all off, and when she slows down we’ll jump ourselves.’
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| ‘But you throwed mine off first,’ the other said.
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| ‘Why, sure. I was saving you the trouble, see? Now don’t you feel bad about it; you can throw mine off if you want, and then Pershing here, and the admiral can throw each other’s off the same way. You got a bag, ain’t you?’ he asked the conductor. ‘Get yours, quick, so we won’t have so damn far to walk.’
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| ‘Listen, soldiers,’ said the conductor, and Cadet Lowe, thinking of Elba, thinking of his coiling guts and a slow alcoholic fire in him, remarked the splayed official gold breaking the man’s cap. New York swam flatly past; Buffalo was imminent, and sunset.
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| ‘Listen, soldiers,’ repeated the conductor. ‘I got a son in France. Sixth Marines he is. His mother ain’t heard from him since October. I’ll do anything for you boys, see, but for God’s sake act decent.’
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| ‘No,’ replied the man, ‘you have refused us hospitality, so we get off. When does the train stop? or have we got to jump?’
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| ‘No, no, you boys sit here. Sit here and behave and you’ll be all right. No need to get off.’
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| He moved swaying down the aisle and the sodden one removed his devastated cigar. ‘You throwed my suit-case out,’ he repeated.
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| Yaphank took Cadet Lowe’s arm. ‘Listen. Wouldn’t that discourage you? God knows, I’m trying to help the fellow get a start in life, and what do I get? One complaint after another.’ He addressed his friend again. ‘Why, sure, I throwed your suit-case off. Whatcher wanta do? wait till we get to Buffalo and pay a quarter to have it took off for you?’
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| ‘But you throwed my suit-case out,’ said the other again.
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| ‘All right. I did. Whatcher going to do about it?’
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| The other pawed himself erect, clinging to the window, and fell heavily over Lowe’s feet. ‘For Christ’s sake,’ his companion said, thrusting him into his seat, ‘watch whatcher doing.’
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| ‘Get off,’ the man mumbled wetly.
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| ‘Huh?’
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| ‘Get off, too,’ he explained, trying to rise again. He got on to his legs and lurching, bumping, and sliding about the open window he thrust his head through it. Cadet Lowe caught him by the brief skirt of his blouse.
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| ‘Here, here, come back, you damn fool. You can’t do that.’
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| ‘Why, sure he can,’ contradicted Yaphank, ‘let him jump off if he wants. He ain’t only going to Buffalo, anyways.’
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| ‘Hell, he’ll kill himself.’
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| ‘My God,’ repeated the conductor, returning at a heavy gallop. He leaned across Lowe’s shoulder and caught the man’s leg. The man, with his head and torso through the window, swayed lax and sodden as a meal sack. Yaphank pushed Lowe aside and tried to break the conductor’s grip on the other’s leg.
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Let him be. I don’t believe he’ll jump.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘But, good God, I can’t take any chances. Look out, look out, soldier! Pull him back there!’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, let him go,’ said Lowe, giving up.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Sure,’ the other amended, ‘let him jump. I’d kind of like to see him do it, since he suggested it himself. Besides, he ain’t the kind for young fellows like us to associate with. Good riddance. Let’s help him off,’ he added, shoving at the man’s lumpy body. The would-be suicide’s hat whipped from his head and the wind temporarily clearing his brain, he fought to draw himself in. He had changed his mind. His companion resisted, kindly.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Come on, come on. Don’t lose your nerve now. G’wan and jump.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="passenger, risk, train">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Help!’ the man shrieked into the vain wind and ‘help!’ the conductor chorused, clinging to him, and two alarmed passengers and the porter came to his assistance. They overcame Yaphank and drew the now thoroughly alarmed man into the car. The conductor slammed shut the window.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Gentlemen,’ he addressed the two passengers, ‘will you sit here and keep them from putting him out that window? I am going to put them all off as soon as we reach Buffalo. I’d stop the train and do it now, only they’d kill him as soon as they get him alone. Henry,’ to the porter, ‘call the train conductor and tell him to wire ahead to Buffalo we got two crazy men on board.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="African American">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Yeh, Henry,’ Yaphank amended to the Negro, ‘tell ’em to have a band there and three bottles of whisky. If they ain’t got a band of their own, tell ’em to hire one. I will pay for it.’ He dragged a blobby mass of bills from his pocket and stripping off one, gave it to the porter. ‘Do you want a band too?’ he asked Lowe. ‘No,’ answering himself, ‘no, you don’t need none. You can use mine. Run now,’ he repeated.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Yas suh, Cap’m.’ White teeth were like a suddenly opened piano.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Watch ’em, men,’ the conductor told his appointed guards. ‘You, Henry!’ he shouted, following the vanishing white jacket.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Yaphank’s companion, sweating and pale, was about to become ill; Yaphank and Lowe sat easily, respectively affable and belligerent. The newcomers touched shoulders for mutual support, alarmed but determined. Craned heads of other passengers became again smugly unconcerned over books and papers and the train rushed on along the sunset.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Well gentlemen,’ began Yaphank conversationally.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| The two civilians sprang like plucked wires and one of them said, ‘Now, now,’ soothingly, putting his hand on the soldier. ‘Just be quiet, soldier, and we’ll look after you. Us Americans appreciates what you’ve done.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Hank White,’ muttered the sodden one.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="car, driving, rural">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Huh?’ asked his companion.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Hank White,’ he repeated.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| The other turned to the civilian cordially. ‘Well, bless my soul if here ain’t old Hank White in the flesh, that I was raised with! Why, Hank! We heard you was dead, or in the piano business or something. You ain’t been fired, have you? I notice you ain’t got no piano with you.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘No, no,’ the man answered in alarm, ‘you are mistaken. Schluss is my name. I got a swell line of ladies’ underthings.’ He produced a card.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Well, well, ain’t that nice. Say,’ he leaned confidentially towards the other, ‘you don’t carry no women samples with you? No? I was afraid not. But never mind. I will get you one in Buffalo. Not buy you one, of course: just rent you one, you might say, for the time being. Horace,’ to Cadet Lowe, ‘where’s that bottle?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Here she is, Major,’ responded Lowe, taking the bottle from beneath his blouse. Yaphank offered it to the two civilians.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Think of something far, far away, and drink fast,’ he advised.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Why, thanks,’ said the one called Schluss, tendering the bottle formally to his companion. They stooped cautiously and drank. Yaphank and Cadet Lowe drank, not stooping.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Be careful, soldiers,’ warned Schluss.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Sure,’ said Cadet Lowe. They drank again.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Won’t the other one take nothing?’ asked the heretofore silent one, indicating Yaphank’s travelling companion. He was hunched awkwardly in the corner. His friend shook him and he slipped limply to the floor.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘That’s the horror of the demon rum, boys,’ said Yaphank solemnly and he took another drink. And Cadet Lowe took another drink. He tendered the bottle.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘No, no,’ Schluss said with passion, ‘not no more right now.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘He don’t mean that,’ Yaphank said, ‘he just ain’t thought.’ He and Lowe stared at the two civilians. ‘Give him time: he’ll come to hisself.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| After a while the one called Schluss took the bottle.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘That’s right,’ Yaphank told Lowe confidentially. ‘For a while I thought he was going to insult the uniform. But you wasn’t, was you?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘No, no. They ain’t no one respects the uniform like I do. Listen, I would of liked to fought by your side, see? But someone got to look out for business while the boys are gone. Ain’t that right?’ he appealed to Lowe.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘I don’t know,’ said Lowe with courteous belligerence, ‘I never had time to work any.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Come on, come on,’ Yaphank reprimanded him, ‘all of us wasn’t young enough to be lucky as you.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘How was I lucky?’ Lowe rejoined fiercely.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Well, shut up about it, if you wasn’t lucky. We got something else to worry about.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Sure,’ Schluss added quickly, ‘we all got something to worry about.’ He tasted the bottle briefly and the other said:
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Come on, now, drink it.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘No, no, thanks, I got a plenty.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Yaphank’s eye was like a snake’s. ‘Take a drink, now. Do you want me to call the conductor and tell him you are worrying us to give you whisky?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| The man gave him the bottle quickly. He turned to the other civilian. ‘What makes him act so funny?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘No, no,’ said Schluss. ‘Listen, you soldiers drink if you want: we’ll look after you.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| The silent one added like a brother and Yaphank said:
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘They think we are trying to poison them. They think we are German spies, I guess.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘No, no! When I see a uniform, I respect it like it was my mother.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Then, come on and drink.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Schluss gulped and passed the bottle. His companion drank also and sweat beaded them.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Won’t he take nothing?’ repeated the silent one and Yaphank regarded the other soldier with compassion.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Alas, poor Hank,’ he said, ‘poor boy’s done for, I fear. The end of a long friendship, men.’ Cadet Lowe said sure, seeing two distinct Hanks, and the other continued. ‘Look at that kind, manly face. Children together we was, picking flowers in the flowery meadows; him and me made the middleweight mule-wiper’s battalion what she was; him and me devastated France together. And now look at him.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Hank! Don’t you recognize this weeping voice, this soft hand on your brow? General,’ he turned to Lowe, ‘will you be kind enough to take charge of the remains? I will deputize these kind strangers to stop at the first harness factory we pass and have a collar suitable for mules made of dog-wood with the initials H.W. in forget-me-nots.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Schluss in ready tears tried to put his arm about Yaphank’s shoulders. ‘There, there, death ain’t only a parting. Brace up; take a little drink, then you’ll feel better.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Why, I believe I will,’ he replied; ‘you got a kind heart, buddy. Fall in when fire call blows, boys.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Schluss mopped his face with a soiled, scented handkerchief and they drank again. New York in a rosy glow of alcohol and sunset streamed past breaking into Buffalo, and with fervent new fire in them they remarked the station. Poor Hank now slept peacefully in a spittoon.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Cadet Lowe and his friend being cold of stomach, rose and supported their companions. Schluss evinced a disinclination to get off. He said it couldn’t possibly be Buffalo, that he had been to Buffalo too many times. Sure, they told him, holding him erect, and the conductor glared at them briefly and vanished. Lowe and Yaphank got their hats and helped the civilians into the aisle.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘I’m certainly glad my boy wasn’t old enough to be a soldier,’ remarked a woman passing them with difficulty, and Lowe said to Yaphank:
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Say, what about him?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Him?’ repeated the other, having attached Schluss to himself.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘That one back there,’ Lowe indicated the casual.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Oh, him? You are welcome to him, if you want him.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Why, aren’t you together?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Outside was the noise and smoke of the station. They saw through the windows hurrying people and porters, and Yaphank moving down the aisle answered:
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Hell, no. I never seen him before. Let the porter sweep him out or keep him, whichever he likes.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| They half dragged, half carried the two civilians and with diabolical cunning Yaphank led the way through the train and dismounted from a day coach. On the platform Schluss put his arm around the soldier’s neck.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Listen, fellows,’ he said with passion, ‘y’ know m’ name, y’ got addressh. Listen, I will show you ’Merica preshates what you done. Ol’ Glory ever wave on land and sea. Listen, ain’t nothing I got soldier can’t have, nothing. ’N’if you wasn’t soldiers I am still for you, one hundred pershent. I like you. I swear I like you.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Why, sure,’ the other agreed, supporting him. After a while he spied a policeman and he directed his companion’s gait towards the officer. Lowe with his silent one followed. ‘Stand up, can’t you?’ he hissed, but the man’s eyes were filled with an inarticulate sadness, like a dog’s. ‘Do the best you can, then,’ Cadet Lowe softened, added, and Yaphank, stopped before the policeman, was saying:
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Looking for two drunks, Sergeant? These men were annoying a whole trainload of people. Can’t nothing be done to protect soldiers from annoyance? If it ain’t top sergeants, it’s drunks.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘I’d like to see the man can annoy a soldier,’ answered the officer. ‘Beat it, now.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘But say, these men are dangerous. What are you good for, if you can’t preserve the peace?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Beat it, I said. Do you want me to run all of you in?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘You are making a mistake, Sergeant. These are the ones you are looking for.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| The policeman said, ‘Looking for?’ regarding him with interest.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Sure. Didn’t you get our wire? We wired ahead to have the train met.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Oh, these are the crazy ones, are they? Where’s the one they were trying to murder?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Sure, they are crazy. Do you think a sane man would get hisself into this state?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| The policeman looked at the four of them with a blasé eye. ‘G’wan, now. You’re all drunk. Beat it, or I’ll run you in.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘All right. Take us in. If we got to go to the station to get rid of these crazy ones, we’ll have to.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Where’s the conductor of this train?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘He’s with a doctor, working on the wounded one.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Say, you men better be careful. Whatcher trying to do—kid me?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Yaphank jerked his companion up. ‘Stand up,’ he said, shaking the man. ‘Love you like a brother,’ the other muttered. ‘Look at him,’ he said, ‘look at both of ’em. And there’s a man hurt on that train. Are you going to stand here and do nothing?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘I thought you was kidding me. These are the ones, are they?’ he raised his whistle and another policeman ran up. ‘Here they are, Ed. You watch ’em and I’ll get aboard and see about that dead man. You soldiers stay here, see?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Sure, Sergeant,’ Yaphank agreed. The officer ran heavily away and he turned to the civilians. ‘All right, boys. Here’s the bell-hops come to carry you out where the parade starts. You go with them and me and this other officer will go back and get the conductor and the porter. They want to come, too.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Schluss again took him in his arms.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Love you like a brother. Anything got’s yours. Ask me.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Sure,’ he rejoined. ‘Watch ’em, Cap, they’re crazy as hell. Now, you run along with this nice man.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Here,’ the policeman said, ‘you two wait here.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| There came a shout from the train and the conductor’s face was a bursting bellowing moon. ‘Like to wait and see it explode on him,’ Yaphank murmured. The policeman supporting the two men hurried towards the train. ‘Come on here,’ he shouted to Yaphank and Lowe.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| As he drew away Yaphank spoke swiftly to Lowe.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Come on, General,’ he said, ‘let’s get going. So long, boys. Let’s go, kid.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| The policeman shouted, ‘Stop, there!’ but they disregarded him, hurrying down the long shed, leaving the excitement to clot about itself, for all of them.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Outside the station in the twilight the city broke sharply its skyline against the winter evening and lights were shimmering birds on motionless golden wings, bell notes in arrested flight; ugly everywhere beneath a rumoured retreating magic of colour.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="season">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Food for the belly, and winter, though spring was somewhere in the world, from the south blown up like forgotten music. Caught both in the magic of change they stood feeling the spring in the cold air, as if they had but recently come into a new world, feeling their littleness and believing too that lying in wait for them was something new and strange. They were ashamed of this and silence was unbearable.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Well, buddy,’ and Yaphank slapped Cadet Lowe smartly on the back, ‘that’s one parade we’ll sure be A.W.O.L. from, huh?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| 2
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Who sprang to be his land’s defence
| |
| And has been sorry ever since?
| |
| ::::::::::::Cadet!
| |
| Who can’t date a single girl
| |
| Long as kee-wees run the world?
| |
| ::::::::::::Kay-det!
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| With food in their bellies and a quart of whisky snugly under Cadet Lowe’s arm they boarded a train.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Where are we going?’ asked Lowe. ‘This train don’t go to San Francisco, do she?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Listen,’ said Yaphank, ‘my name is Joe Gilligan. Gilligan, G-i-l-l-i-g-a-n, Gilligan, J-o-e, Joe; Joe Gilligan. My people captured Minneapolis from the Irish and taken a Dutch name, see? Did you ever know a man named Gilligan give you a bum steer? If you wanta go to San Francisco, all right. If you wanta go to St Paul or Omyhaw, it’s all right with me. And more than that, I’ll see that you get there. I’ll see that you go to all three of ’em if you want. But why’n hell do you wanta go so damn far as San Francisco?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘I don’t,’ replied Cadet Lowe. ‘I don’t want to go anywhere especially. I like this train here—far as I am concerned. I say, let’s fight this war out right here. But you see, my people live in San Francisco. That’s why I am going there.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Why, sure,’ Private Gilligan agreed readily. ‘Sometimes a man does wanta see his family—especially if he don’t hafta live with ’em. I ain’t criticizing you. I admire you for it, buddy. But say, you can go home any time. What I say is, let’s have a look at this glorious nation which we have fought for.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Hell, I can’t. My mother has wired me every day since the armistice to fly low and be careful and come home as soon as I am demobilized. I bet she wired the President to have me excused as soon as possible.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Why sure. Of course she did. What can equal a mother’s love? Except a good drink of whisky. Where’s that bottle? You ain’t betrayed a virgin, have you?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Here she is.’ Cadet Lowe produced it and Gilligan pressed the bell.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Claude,’ he told a superior porter, ‘bring us two glasses and a bottle of sassperiller or something. We are among gentlemen today and we aim to act like gentlemen.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Watcher want glasses for?’ asked Lowe. ‘Bottle was all right yesterday.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘You got to remember we are getting among strangers now. We don’t want to offend no savage customs. Wait until you get to be an experienced traveller and you’ll remember these things. Two glasses, Othello.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| The porter in his starched jacket became a symbol of self-sufficiency. ‘You can’t drink in this car. Go to the buffet car.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Ah, come on, Claude. Have a heart.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘We don’t have no drinking in this car. Go to the buffet car if you want.’ He swung himself from seat to seat down the lurching car.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Private Gilligan turned to his companion. ‘Well! What do you know about that? Ain’t that one hell of a way to treat soldiers? I tell you, General, this is the worst run war I ever seen.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Hell, let’s drink out of the bottle.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘No, no! This thing has got to be a point of honour, now. Remember, we got to protect our uniform from insult. You wait here and I’ll see the conductor. We bought tickets, hey, buddy?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| With officers gone and officers’ wives
| |
| Having the grand old time of their lives—
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| an overcast sky, and earth dissolving monotonously into a grey mist, greyly. Occasional trees and houses marching through it; and towns like bubbles of ghostly sound beaded on a steel wire—
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Who’s in the guard-room chewing the bars,
| |
| Saying to hell with the government wars?
| |
| :::::::::::Cadet!
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| And here was Gilligan returned, saying: ‘Charles, at ease.’ I might have known he would have gotten another one, thought Cadet Lowe, looking up. He saw a belt and wings, he rose and met a young face with a dreadful scar across his brow. My God he thought, turning sick. He saluted and the other peered at him with strained distraction. Gilligan, holding his arm, helped him into the seat. The man turned his puzzled gaze to Gilligan and murmured, ‘Thanks.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Lootenant,’ said Gilligan, ‘you see here the pride of the nation. General, ring the bell for ice water. The lootenant here is sick.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Cadet Lowe pressed the bell, regarding with a rebirth of that old feud between American enlisted men and officers of all nations the man’s insignia and wings and brass, not even wondering what a British officer in his condition could be doing travelling in America. Had I been old enough or lucky enough, this might have been me, he thought jealously.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| The porter reappeared.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘No drinking in this car, I told you,’ he said. Gilligan produced a bill ‘No, sir. Not in this car.’ Then he saw the third man. He leaned down to him quickly, then glanced suspiciously from Gilligan to Lowe.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘What you all doing with him?’ he asked.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Oh, he’s just a lost foreigner I found back yonder. Now, Ernest—’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Lost? He ain’t lost. He’s from Gawgia. I’m looking after him. Cap’m,’—to the officer—‘is these folks all right?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Gilligan and Lowe looked at each other. ‘Christ, I thought he was a foreigner,’ Gilligan whispered.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| The man raised his eyes to the porter’s anxious face. ‘Yes,’ he said slowly, ‘they’re all right.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Does you want to stay here with them, or don’t you want me to fix you up in your place?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Let him stay here,’ Gilligan said. ‘He wants a drink.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘But he ain’t got no business drinking. He’s sick.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Loot,’ Gilligan said, ‘do you want a drink?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Yes. I want a drink. Yes.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘But he oughtn’t to have no whisky, sir.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘I won’t let him have too much. I am going to look after him. Come on, now, let’s have some glasses, can’t we?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| The porter began again. ‘But he oughtn’t—’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Say, Loot,’ Gilligan interrupted, ‘can’t you make your friend here get us some glasses to drink from?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Glasses?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Yeh! He don’t want to bring us none.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Does you want glasses, Cap’m?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Yes, bring us some glasses, will you?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘All right, Cap’m.’ He stopped again. ‘You going to take care of him, ain’t you?’ he asked Gilligan.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Sure, sure!’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| The porter gone, Gilligan regarded his guest with envy. ‘You sure got to be from Georgia to get service on this train. I showed him money but it never even shook him. Say, General,’ to Lowe, ‘we better keep the lootenant with us, huh? Might come in useful.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Sure,’ agreed Lowe. ‘Say, sir, what kind of ships did you use?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake,’ interrupted Gilligan, ‘let him be. He’s been devastating France, now he needs rest. Hey, Loot?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Beneath his scarred and tortured brow the man’s gaze was puzzled but kindly and the porter reappeared with glasses and a bottle of ginger ale. He produced a pillow which he placed carefully behind the officer’s head, then he got two more pillows for the others, forcing them with ruthless kindness to relax. He was deftly officious, including them impartially in his activities, like Fate. Private Gilligan, unused to this, became restive.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Hey, ease up, George; lemme do my own pawing a while. I aim to paw this bottle if you’ll gimme room.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| He desisted saying ‘Is this all right, Cap’m?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Yes, all right, thanks,’ the officer answered. Then: ‘Bring your glass and get a drink.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Gilligan solved the bottle and filled the glasses. Ginger ale hissed sweetly and pungently. ‘Up and at ’em, men.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| The officer took his glass in his left hand and then Lowe noticed his right hand was drawn and withered.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Cheer-O,’ he said.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Nose down,’ murmured Lowe. The man looked at him with poised glass. He looked at the hat on Lowe’s knee and that groping puzzled thing behind his eyes became clear and sharp as with a mental process, and Lowe thought that his lips had asked a question.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Yes, sir. Cadet,’ he replied, feeling warmly grateful, feeling again a youthful clean pride in his corps.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| But the effort had been too much and again the officer’s gaze was puzzled and distracted.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Gilligan raised his glass, squinting at it. ‘Here’s to peace,’ he said. ‘The first hundred years is the hardest.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Here was the porter again, with his own glass. ’::’Nother nose in the trough,’ Gilligan complained, helping him.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| The Negro patted and rearranged the pillow beneath the officer’s head. ‘Excuse me, Cap’m, but can’t I get you something for your head?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘No, no, thanks. It’s all right.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘But you’re sick, sir. Don’t you drink too much.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘I’ll be careful.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Sure,’ Gilligan amended, ‘we’ll watch him.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Lemme pull the shade down. Keep the light out of your eyes?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘No, I don’t mind the light. You run along. I’ll call if I want anything.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| With the instinct of his race the Negro knew that his kindness was becoming untactful, yet he ventured again.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘I bet you haven’t wired your folks to meet you. Whyn’t you lemme wire ’em for you? I can look after you far as I go, but who’s going to look after you, then?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘No, I’m all right, I tell you. You look after me as far as you go. I’ll get along.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘All right. But I am going to tell your paw how you are acting some day. You ought to know better than that, Cap’m.’ He said to Gilligan and Lowe: ‘You gentlemen call me if he gets sick.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Yes, go on bow, damn you. I’ll call if I don’t feel well.’ Gilligan looked from his retreating back to the officer in admiration. ‘Loot, how do you do it?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| But the man only turned on them his puzzled gaze. He finished his drink and while Gilligan renewed them Cadet Lowe, like a trailing hound, repeated:
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Say, sir, what kind of ships did you use?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| The man looked at Lowe kindly, not replying, and Gilligan said:
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Hush. Let him alone. Don’t you see he don’t remember himself? Do you reckon you would, with that scar? Let the war be. Hey, Lootenant?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘I don’t know. Another drink is better.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Sure it is. Buck up, General. He don’t mean no harm. He’s just got to let her ride as she lays for a while. We all got horrible memories of the war. I lose eighty-nine dollars in a crap game once, besides losing, as that wop writer says, that an’ which thou knowest at Chatter Teary. So how about a little whisky, men?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Cheer-O,’ said the officer again.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘What do you mean, Chateau Thierry?’ said Lowe, boyish in disappointment, feeling that he had been deliberately ignored by one to whom Fate had been kinder than to himself.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘You talking about Chatter Teary?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘I’m talking about a place you were not at, anyway.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘I was there in spirit, sweetheart. That’s what counts.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘You couldn’t have been there any other way. There ain’t any such place.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Hell there ain’t! Ask the Loot here if I ain’t right. How about it, Loot?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| But he was asleep. They looked at his face, young, yet old as the world, beneath the dreadful scar. Even Gilligan’s levity left him. ‘My God, it makes you sick at the stomach, don’t it? I wonder if he knows how he looks? What do you reckon his folks will say when they see him? or his girl—if he has got one. And I’ll bet he has.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| New York flew away: it became noon within, by clock, but the grey imminent horizon had not changed. Gilligan said: ‘If he has got a girl, know what she’ll say?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Cadet Lowe, knowing all the despair of abortive endeavour, asked, ‘What?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| New York passed on and Mahon beneath his martial harness slept. (Would I sleep? thought Lowe; had I wings, boots, would I sleep?) His wings indicated by a graceful sweep pointed sharply down above a ribbon. White, purple, white, over his pocket, over his heart (supposedly). Lowe descried between the pinions of a superimposed crown and three letters, then his gaze mounted to the sleeping scarred face. ‘What?’ he repeated.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Shell give him the air, buddy.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Ah, come on. Of course she won’t.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Yes, she will. You don’t know women. Once the new has wore off it’ll be some bird that stayed at home and made money, or some lad that wore shiny leggings and never got nowheres so he could get hurt, like you and me.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| The porter came to hover over the sleeping man.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘He ain’t got sick, has he?’ he whispered.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| They told him no; and the Negro eased the position of the sleeping man’s head. ‘You gentlemen look after him and be sure to call me if he wants anything. He’s a sick man.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Gilligan and Lowe, looking at the officer, agreed, and the porter lowered the shade. ‘You want some more ginger ale?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Yes,’ said Gilligan, assuming the porter’s hushed tone, and the Negro withdrew. The two of them sat in silent comradeship, the comradeship of those whose lives had become pointless through the sheer equivocation of events, of the sorry jade, Circumstance. The porter brought ginger ale and they sat drinking while New York became Ohio.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Gilligan, that talkative unserious one, entered some dream within himself and Cadet Lowe, young and dreadfully disappointed, knew all the old sorrows of the Jasons of the world who see their vessels sink ere the harbour is left behind. . . . Beneath his scar the officer slept in all the travesty of his wings and leather and brass, and a terrible old woman paused, saying:
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Was he wounded?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Gilligan waked from his dream. ‘Look at his face,’ he said fretfully: ‘he fell off of a chair on to an old woman he was talking to and done that.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘What insolence,’ said the woman, glaring at Gilligan. ‘But can’t something be done for him? He looks sick to me.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Yes, ma’am. Something can be done for him. What we are doing now—letting him alone.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| She and Gilligan stared at each other, then she looked at Cadet Lowe, young and belligerent and disappointed. She looked back to Gilligan. She said from the ruthless humanity of money:
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘I shall report you to the conductor. That man is sick and needs attention.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘All right, ma’am. But you tell the conductor that if he bothers him now, I’ll knock his goddam head off.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| The old woman glared at Gilligan from beneath a quiet, modish black hat and a girl’s voice said:
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Let them alone, Mrs Henderson. They’ll take care of him all right.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| She was dark. Had Gilligan and Lowe ever seen an Aubrey Beardsley, they would have known that Beardsley would have sickened for her: he had drawn her so often dressed in peacock hues, white and slim and depraved among meretricious trees and impossible marble fountains. Gilligan rose.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘That’s right, miss. He is all right sleeping here with us. The porter is looking after him—’ wondering why he should have to explain to her—‘and we are taking him home. Just leave him be. And thank you for your interest.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘But something ought to be done about it,’ the old woman repeated futilely. The girl led her away and the train ran swaying in afternoon. (Sure, it was afternoon. Cadet Lowe’s wrist watch said so. It might be any state under the sun, but it was afternoon. Afternoon or evening or morning or night, far as the officer was concerned. He slept.)
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Damned old bitch, Gilligan muttered, careful not to wake him.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Look how you’ve got his arm,’ the girl said, returning. She moved his withered hand from his thigh. (His hand, too, seeing the scrofulous indication of his bones beneath the blistered skin.) ‘Oh, his poor terrible face,’ she said, shifting the pillow under his head.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Be quiet, ma’am,’ Gilligan said.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| She ignored him. Gilligan, expecting to see him wake, admitted defeat and she continued:
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Is he going far?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Lives in Georgia,’ Gilligan said. He and Cadet Lowe, seeing that she was not merely passing their section, rose. Lowe remarking her pallid distinction, her black hair, the red scar of her mouth, her slim dark dress, knew an adolescent envy of the sleeper. She ignored Lowe with a brief glance. How impersonal she was, how self-contained. Ignoring them.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘He can’t get home alone,’ she stated with conviction. ‘Are you all going with him?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Sure,’ Gilligan assured her. Lowe wished to say something, something that would leave him fixed in her mind: something to reveal himself to her. But she glanced at the glasses, the bottle that Lowe feeling a fool yet clasped.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘You seem to be getting along pretty well, yourselves,’ she said.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Snake medicine, miss. But won’t you have some?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Lowe, envying Gilligan’s boldness, his presence of mind, watched her mouth. She looked down the car.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘I believe I will, if you have another glass.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Why, sure. General, ring the bell.’ She sat down beside Mahon and Gilligan and Lowe sat again. She seemed . . . she was young; she probably liked dancing, yet at the same time she seemed not young—as if she knew everything. (She is married, and about twenty-five, thought Gilligan.) (She is about nineteen, and she is not in love, Lowe decided.) She looked at Lowe.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘What’s your outfit, soldier?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Flying Cadet,’ answered Lowe with slow patronage, ‘Air Service.’ She was a kid: she only looked old.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Oh. Then of course you are looking after him. He’s an aviator, too, isn’t he?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Look at his wings,’ Lowe answered. ‘British. Royal Air Force. Pretty good boys.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Hell,’ said Gilligan, ‘he ain’t no foreigner.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘You don’t have to be a foreigner to be with the British or French. Look at Lufbery. He was with the French until we come in.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| The girl looked at him, and Gilligan, who had never heard of Lufbery, said: ‘Whatever he is, he’s all right. With us, anyway. Let him be whatever he wants.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| The girl said: ‘I am sure he is.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| The porter appeared. ‘Cap’m’s all right?’ he whispered, remarking her without surprise as is the custom of his race.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Yes,’ she told him, ‘he’s all right.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Cadet Lowe thought I bet she can dance and she added: ‘He couldn’t be in better hands than these gentlemen.’ How keen she is! thought Gilligan. She has known disappointment ‘I wonder if I could have a drink on your car?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| The porter examined her and then he said: ‘Yes, ma’am. I’ll get some fresh ginger ale. You going to look after him?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Yes, for a while.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| He leaned down to her. ‘I’m from Gawgia, too. Long time ago.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘You are? I’m from Alabama.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘That’s right. We got to look out for our own folks, ain’t we? I’ll get you a glass right away.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| The officer still slept and the porter returning hushed and anxious, they sat drinking and talking with muted voices. New York was Ohio, and Ohio became a series of identical cheap houses with the same man entering gate after gate, smoking and spitting. Here was Cincinnati and under the blanched flash of her hand he waked easily.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Are we in?’ he asked. On her hand was a plain gold band. No engagement ring. (Pawned it, maybe, thought Gilligan. But she did not look poor.)
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘General, get the Lootenant’s hat.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Lowe climbed over Gilligan’s knees and Gilligan said:
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Here’s an old friend of ours, Loot. Meet Mrs Powers.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| She took his hand, helping him to his feet, and the porter appeared.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Donald Mahon,’ he said, like a parrot. Cadet Lowe assisted by the porter returned with cap and stick and a trench coat and two kit bags. The porter help him into the coat.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘I’ll get yours, ma’am,’ said Gilligan, but the porter circumvented him. Her coat was rough and heavy and light of colour. She wore it carelessly and Gilligan and Cadet Lowe gather up their ‘issued’ impedimenta. The porter handed the officer his cap and stick, then he vanished with the luggage belonging to them. She glanced again down the length of the car.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Where are my—’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Yessum,’ the porter called from the door, across the coated shoulders of passengers, ‘I got your things, ma’am.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| He had gotten them and his dark gentle hand lowered the officer carefully to the platform.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Help the lootenant there,’ said the conductor officiously, but he had already got the officer to the floor.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘You’ll look after him, ma’am?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Yes. I’ll look after him.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| They moved down the shed and Cadet Lowe looked back. But the Negro was efficient and skilful, busy with other passengers. He seemed to have forgotten them. And Cadet Lowe looked from the porter occupied with bags and the garnering of quarters and half dollars, to the officer in his coat and stick, remarking the set of his cap slanting backward bonelessly from his scarred brow, and he marvelled briefly upon his own kind.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| But this was soon lost in the mellow death of evening in a street between stone buildings, among lights, and Gilligan in his awkward khaki and the girl in her rough coat, holding each an arm of Donald Mahon, silhouetted against it in the doorway.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| 3
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Mrs Powers lay in her bed aware of her long body beneath strange sheets, hearing the hushed night sounds of a hotel—muffled footfalls along mute carpeted corridors, discreet opening and shutting of doors, somewhere a murmurous pulse of machinery—all with that strange propensity which sounds, anywhere else soothing, have, when heard in a hotel, for keeping you awake. Her mind and body warming to the old familiarity of sleep became empty, then as she settled her body to the bed, shaping it for slumber, it filled with a remembered troubling sadness.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| She thought of her husband youngly dead in France in a recurrence of fretful exasperation with having been tricked by a wanton Fate: a joke amusing to no one. Just when she had calmly decided that they had taken advantage of a universal hysteria for the purpose of getting of each other a brief ecstasy, just when she had decided calmly that they were better quit of each other with nothing to mar the memory of their three days together and had written him so, wishing him luck, she must be notified casually and impersonally that he had been killed in action. So casually, so impersonally; as if Richard Powers, with whom she had spent three days, were one man and Richard Powers commanding a platoon in the —— Division were another.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| And she being young must again know all the terror of parting, of that passionate desire to cling to something concrete in a dark world, in spite of war departments. He had not even got her letter! This in some way seemed the infidelity: having him die still believing in her, bored though they both probably were.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| She turned feeling sheets like water, warming by her bodily heat, upon her legs.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Oh, damn, damn. What a rotten trick you played on me. She recalled those nights during which they had tried to eradicate tomorrows from the world. Two rotten tricks, she thought. Anyway, I know what I’ll do with the insurance, she added, wondering what Dick thought about it—if he did know or care.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Her shoulder rounded upward, into her vision, the indication of her covered turning body swelled and died away towards the foot of the bed: she lay staring down the tunnel of her room, watching the impalpable angles of furniture, feeling through plastered smug walls a rumour of spring outside. The airshaft was filled with a prophecy of April come again into the world. Like a heedless idiot into a world that had forgotten spring. The white connecting door took the vague indication of a transom and held it in a mute and luminous plane, and obeying an impulse she rose and slipped on a dressing-gown.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| The door opened quietly under her hand. The room, like hers, was a suggestion of furniture, identically vague. She could hear Mahon’s breathing and she found a light switch with her fingers. Under his scarred brow he slept, the light full and sudden on his closed eyes did not disturb him. And she knew in an instinctive flash what was wrong with him, why his motions were hesitating, ineffectual.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| He’s going blind, she said, bending over him. He slept and after a while there were sounds without the door. She straightened up swiftly and the noises ceased. Then the door opened to a blundering key and Gilligan entered supporting Cadet Lowe, glassy-eyed and quite drunk.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Gilligan, standing his lax companion upright, said:
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Good afternoon, ma’am.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Lowe muttered wetly and Gilligan continued:
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Look at this lonely mariner I got here. Sail on, O proud and lonely,’ he told his attached and aimless burden. Cadet Lowe muttered again, not intelligible. His eyes were like two oysters.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Huh?’ asked Gilligan. ‘Come on, be a man: speak to the nice lady.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Cadet Lowe repeated himself liquidly and she whispered: ‘Shhh: be quiet.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Oh,’ said Gilligan with surprise, ‘Loot’s asleep, huh? What’s he want to sleep for, this time of day?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Lowe with quenchless optimism essayed speech again and Gilligan, comprehending, said:
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘That’s what you want, is it? Why couldn’t you come out like a man and say it? Wants to go to bed, for some reason,’ he explained to Mrs Powers.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘That’s where he belongs,’ she said; and Gilligan with alcoholic care led his companion to the other bed and with the exaggerated caution of the inebriate laid him upon it. Lowe drawing his knees up sighed and turn his back to them, but Gilligan dragging at his legs removed his puttees and shoes, taking each shoe in both hands and placing it on a table. She leaned against the foot of Mahon’s bed, fitting her long thigh to the hard rail, until he had finished.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| At last Lowe, freed of his shoes, turned sighing to the wall and she said:
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘How drunk are you, Joe?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Not very, ma’am. What’s wrong? Loot need something?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Mahon slept and Cadet Lowe immediately slept.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘I want to talk to you, Joe. About him,’ she added quickly, feeling Gilligan’s stare. ‘Can you listen or had you rather go to bed and talk it over in the morning?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Gilligan, focusing his eyes, answered:
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Why, now suits me. Always oblige a lady.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Making her decision suddenly she said:
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Come in my room then.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Sure: lemme get my bottle and I’m your man.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| She returned to her room while he sought his bottle and when he joined her she was sitting on her bed, clasping her knees, wrapped in a blanket Gilligan drew up a chair.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Joe, do you know he’s going blind?’ she said abruptly.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| After a time her face became a human face and holding it in his vision he said:
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘I know more than that. He’s going to die.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Die?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Yes, ma’am. If I ever seen death in a man’s face, it’s in his. Goddam this world,’ he burst out suddenly.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Shhh!’ she whispered.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘That’s right, I forgot,’ he said swiftly.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| She clasped her knees, huddled beneath the blanket, changing the position of her body as it became cramped, feeling the wooden head board of the bed, wondering why there were not iron beds, wondering why everything was as it was—iron beds, why you deliberately took certain people to break your intimacy, why these people died, why you yet took others. . . . Will my death be like this: fretting and exasperating? Am I cold by nature, or have I spent all my emotional coppers, that I don’t seem to feel things like others? Dick, Dick. Ugly and dead.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Gilligan sat brittlely in his chair, focusing his eyes with an effort, having those instruments of vision evade him, slimy as broken eggs. Lights completing a circle, an orbit; she with two faces sitting on two beds, clasping four arms around her knees. . . . Why can’t a man be very happy or very unhappy? It’s only a sort of pale mixture of the two. Like beer when you want a shot—or a drink of water. Neither one nor the other.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| She moved and drew the blanket closer about her. Spring in an airshaft, the rumour of spring; but in the room steam heat suggested winter, dying away.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Let’s have a drink, Joe.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| He rose careful and brittle, and walking with meticulous deliberation he fetched a carafe and glasses. She drew a small table near them and Gilligan prepared two drinks. She drank and set the glass down. He lit a cigarette for her.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘It’s a rotten old world, Joe.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘You damn right. And dying ain’t the hair of it.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Dying?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘In this case, I mean. Trouble is, he probably won’t die soon enough.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Not die soon enough?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Gilligan drained his glass. ‘I got the low down on him, see. He’s got a girl at home: folks got ’em engaged when they was young, before he went off to war. And do you know what she’s going to do when she sees his face?’ he asked, staring at her. At last her two faces became one face and her hair was black. Her mouth was like a scar.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Oh, no, Joe. She wouldn’t do that.’ She sat up. The blanket slipped from her shoulders and she replaced it, watching him intently.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Gilligan breaking the orbit of visible things by an effort of will said:
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Don’t you kid yourself. I’ve seen her picture. And the last letter he had from her.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘He didn’t show them to you!’ she said quickly.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘That’s all right about that. I seen ’em.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Joe. You didn’t go through his things?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Hell, ma’am, ain’t I and you trying to help him? Suppose I did do something that ain’t exactly according to holy Hoyle: you know damn well that I can help him—if I don’t let a whole lot of don’ts stop me. And if I know I’m right there ain’t any don’ts or anything else going to stop me.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| She looked at him and he hurried on:
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘I mean, you and I know what to do for him, but if you are always letting a gentleman don’t do this and a gentleman don’t do that interfere, you can’t help him. Do you see?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘But what makes you so sure she will turn him down?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Why, I tell you I seen that letter: all the old bunk about knights of the air and the romance of battle, that even the fat crying ones outgrow soon as the excitement is over and uniforms and being wounded ain’t only not stylish no more, but it is troublesome.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘But aren’t you taking a lot for granted, not to have seen her, even?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘I’ve seen that photograph: one of them flighty-looking pretty ones with lots of hair. Just the sort would have got herself engaged to him.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘How do you know it is still on? Perhaps she has forgotten him. And he probably doesn’t remember her, you know.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘That ain’t it. If he don’t remember her he’s all right. But if he will know his folks he will want to believe that something in his world ain’t turned upside down.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| They were silent a while, then Gilligan said: ‘I wish I could have knowed him before. He’s the kind of a son I would have liked to have.’ He finished his drink.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Joe, how old are you?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Thirty-two, ma’am.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘How did you ever learn so much about us?’ she asked with interest, watching him.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| He grinned briefly. ‘It ain’t knowing, it’s just saying things. I think I done it through practice. By talking so much,’ he replied with sardonic humour. ‘I talk so much I got to say the right thing sooner or later. You don’t talk much, yourself.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Not much,’ she agreed. She moved carelessly and the blanket slipped entirely, exposing her thin nightdress; raising her arms and twisting her body to replace it her long shank was revealed and her turning ankle and her bare foot.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Gilligan without moving said: ‘Ma’am, let’s get married.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| She huddled quickly in the blanket again, already knowing a faint disgust with herself.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Bless your heart, Joe. Don’t you know my name is Mrs?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Sure. And I know, too, you ain’t got any husband. I dunno where he is or what you done with him, but you ain’t got a husband now.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Goodness, I’m beginning to be afraid of you: you know too much. You are right: my husband was killed last year.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Gilligan looking at her said: ‘Rotten luck.’ And she, tasting again a faint, warm sorrow, bowed her head to her arched clasped knees.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Rotten luck. That’s exactly what it was, what everything is. Even sorrow is a fake, now.’ She raised her face, her pallid face beneath her black hair, scarred with her mouth. ‘Joe, that was the only sincere word of condolence I ever had. Come here.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Gilligan went to her and she took his hand, holding it against her cheek. Then she removed it, shaking back her hair.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘You are a good fellow, Joe. If I felt like marrying anybody now, I’d take you. I’m sorry I played that trick, Joe.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Trick?’ repeated Gilligan, gazing upon her black hair. Then he said Oh, non-committally.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘But we haven’t decided what to do with that poor boy in there,’ she said with brisk energy, clasping her blanket. ‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Are you sleepy?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Not me,’ he answered. ‘I don’t think I ever want to sleep again.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Neither do I.’ She moved across the bed, propping her back against the head board. ‘Lie down here and let’s decide on something.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Sure,’ agreed Gilligan. ‘I better take off my shoes, first. Ruin the hotel’s bed.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘To hell with the hotel’s bed,’ she told him. ‘Put your feet on it.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Gilligan lay down, shielding his eyes with his hand. After a time she said:
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Well, what’s to be done?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘We got to get him home first,’ Gilligan said. ‘I’ll wire his folks tomorrow—his old man is a preacher, see. But it’s that damn girl bothers me. He sure ought to be let die in peace. But what else to do I don’t know. I know about some things,’ he explained, ‘but after all women can guess and be nearer right than whatever I could decide on.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘I don’t think anyone could do much more than you. I’d put my money on you every time.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| He moved, shading his eyes again. ‘I dunno: I am good so far, but then you got to have more’n just sense. Say, why don’t you come with the general and me?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘I intend to, Joe.’ Her voice came from beyond his shielding hand. ‘I think I intended to all the time.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| (She is in love with him.) But he only said:
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Good for you. But I knowed you’d do the right thing. All right with your people is it?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Yes. But what about money?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Money?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Well . . . for what he might need. You know. He might get sick anywhere.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Lord, I cleaned up in a poker game and I ain’t had time to spend it. Money’s all right. That ain’t any question,’ he said roughly.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Yes, money’s all right. You know I have my husband’s insurance.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| He lay silent, shielding his eyes. His khaki legs marring the bed ended in clumsy shoes. She nursed her knees, huddling in her blanket. After a space she said:
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Sleep, Joe?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘It’s a funny world, ain’t it?’ he asked irrelevantly, not moving.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Funny?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Sure. Soldier dies and leaves you money, and you spend the money helping another soldier die comfortable. Ain’t that funny?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘I suppose so. . . . Everything is funny. Horribly funny.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Anyway, it’s nice to have it all fixed,’ he said after a while. ‘He’ll be glad you are coming along.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| (Dear dead Dick.) (Mahon under his scar, sleeping.) (Dick, my dearest one.)
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| She felt the head board against her head, through her hair, felt the bones of her long shanks against her arms clasping them, nursing them, saw the smug, impersonal room like an appointed tomb (in which how many, many discontents, desires, passions, had died?) high above a world of joy and sorrow and lust for living, high above impervious trees occupied solely with maternity and spring. (Dick, Dick. Dead, ugly Dick. Once you were alive and young and passionate and ugly, after a time you were dead, dear Dick: that flesh, that body, which I loved and did not love; your beautiful, young, ugly body, dear Dick, become now a seething of worms, like new milk. Dear Dick.)
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Gilligan, Joseph, late a private, a democrat by enlistment and numbered like a convict, slept beside her, his boots (given him gratis by democrats of a higher rating among democrats) innocent and awkward upon a white spread of rented cloth, immaculate and impersonal.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| She invaded her blanket and reaching her arm swept the room with darkness. She slipped beneath the covers, settling her cheek on her palm. Gilligan undisturbed snored, filling the room with a homely, comforting sound.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| (Dick, dear, ugly dead. . . .)
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| 4
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| In the next room Cadet Lowe waked from a chaotic dream, opening his eyes and staring with detachment, impersonal as God, at lights burning about him. After a time, he recalled his body, remembering where he was, and by an effort he turned his head. In the other bed the man slept beneath his terrible face. (I am Julian Lowe, I eat, I digest, evacuate: I have flown. This man . . . this man here, sleeping beneath his scar. . . . Where do we touch? Oh, God, oh, God: knowing his own body, his stomach.)
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Raising his hand he felt his own undamaged brow. No scar there. Near him upon a chair was his hat severed by a white band, upon the table the other man’s cap with its cloth crown sloping backward from a bronze initialed crest.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| He tasted his sour mouth, knowing his troubled stomach. To have been him! he moaned. Just to be him. Let him take this sound body of mine! Let him take it. To have got wings on my breast, to have wings; and to have got his scar, too, I would take death tomorrow. Upon a chair Mahon’s tunic evinced above the left breast pocket wings breaking from an initialled circle beneath a crown, tipping downward in an arrested embroidered sweep; a symbolized desire.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| To be him, to have gotten wings, but to have got his scar too! Cadet Lowe turned to the wall with passionate disappointment like a gnawing fox at his vitals. Slobbering and moaning Cadet Lowe, too, dreamed again, sleeping.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| 5
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ACHILLES: What preparation would you make for a cross-country flight, Cadet?
| |
| MERCURY: Empty your bladder and fill your petrol tank, Sir.
| |
| ACHILLES: Carry on, Cadet.
| |
| <i>Old Play (about 19——?)<i>
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Cadet Lowe, waking, remarked morning, and Gilligan entering the room, dressed. Gilligan looking at him said:
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘How you coming, ace?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Mahon yet slept beneath his scar, upon a chair his tunic. Above the left pocket, wings swept silkenly, breaking downward above a ribbon. White, purple, white.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Oh, God,’ Lowe groaned.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Gilligan with the assurance of physical well-being stood in brisk arrested motion.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘As you were, fellow. I’m going out and have some breakfast sent up. You stay here until Loot wakes, huh?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Cadet Lowe tasting his sour mouth groaned again. Gilligan regarded him. ‘Oh, you’ll stay all right, won’t you? I’ll be back soon.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| The door closed after him and Lowe, thinking of water, rose and took his wavering way across the room to a water pitcher. Carafe. Like giraffe or like café? he wondered. The water was good, but lowering the vessel he felt immediately sick. After a while he recaptured the bed.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| He dozed, forgetting his stomach, and remembering it he dreamed and waked. He could feel his head like a dull inflation, then he could distinguish the foot of his bed and thinking again of water he turned on a pillow and saw another identical bed and the suave indication of a dressing-gown motionless beside it. Leaning over Mahon’s scarred supineness, she said: ‘Don’t get up.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Lowe said, I won’t, closing his eyes, tasting his mouth, seeing her long slim body against his red eyelids, opening his eyes to light and her thigh shaped and falling away into an impersonal fabric. With an effort he might have seen her ankles. Her feet will be there, he thought, unable to accomplish the effort and behind his closed eyes he thought of saying something which would leave his mouth on hers. Oh, God, he thought, feeling that no one had been so sick, imagining that she would say I love you, too. If I had wings, and a scar. . . . To hell with officers, he thought, sleeping again:
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| To hell with kee-wees, anyway. I wouldn’t be a goddam kee-wee. Rather be a sergeant. Rather be a mechanic. Crack up, Cadet. Hell, yes, Why not? War’s over. Glad. Glad. Oh, God. His scar: his wings. Last time.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| He was briefly in a Jenny again, conscious of lubricating oil and a slow gracious restraint of braced plane surfaces, feeling an air blast and feeling the stick in his hand, watching bobbing rocker arms on the horizon, laying her nose on the horizon like a sighted rifle. Christ, what do I care? seeing her nose rise until the horizon was hidden, seeing the arc of a descending wing expose it again, seeing her become abruptly stationary while a mad world spinning vortexed about his seat. ‘Sure, what do you care?’ asked a voice and waking he saw Gilligan beside him with a glass of whisky.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Drink her down, General,’ said Gilligan, holding the glass under his nose.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Oh, God, move it, move it.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Come on, now; drink her down: you’ll feel better. The Loot is up and at ’em, and Mrs Powers. Whatcher get so drunk for, ace?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Oh, God, I don’t know,’ answered Cadet Lowe, rolling his head in anguish. ‘Lemme alone.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Gilligan said: ‘Come on, drink her, now.’ Cadet Lowe said, Go away passionately.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Lemme alone; I’ll be all right.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Sure you will. Soon as you drink this.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘I can’t. Go away.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘You got to. You want I should break your neck?’ asked Gilligan kindly, bringing his face up, kind and ruthless. Lowe eluded him and Gilligan reaching under his body, raised him.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Lemme lie down,’ Lowe implored.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘And stay here forever? We got to go somewheres. We can’t stay here.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘But I can’t drink.’ Cadet Lowe’s interior coiled passionately: an ecstasy. ‘For God’s sake, let me alone.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Ace,’ said Gilligan, holding his head up, ‘you got to. You might just as well drink this yourself. If you don’t, I’ll put it down your throat, glass and all. Here, now.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| The glass was between his lips, so he drank, gulping, expecting to gag. But gulping, the stuff became immediately pleasant. It was like new life in him. He felt a kind sweat and Gilligan removed the empty glass. Mahon, dressed except for his belt, sat beside a table. Gilligan vanished through a door and he rose, feeling shaky but quite fit. He took another drink. Water thundered in the bathroom and Gilligan returning said briskly: ‘Atta boy.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| He pushed Lowe into the bathroom. ‘In you go, ace,’ he added.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Feeling the sweet bright needles of water burning his shoulders, watching his body slipping an endless silver sheath of water, smelling soap: beyond that was her room, where she was, tall and red and white and black, beautiful. I’ll tell her at once, he decided, sawing his hard young body with a rough towel. Glowing, he brushed his teeth and hair, then he had another drink under Mahon’s quiet inverted stare and Gilligan’s quizzical one. He dressed, hearing her moving in her room. Maybe she’s thinking of me, he told himself, swiftly donning his khaki.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| He caught the officer’s kind, puzzled gaze and the man said:
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘How are you?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Never felt better after my solo,’ he answered, wanting to sing. ‘Say, I left my hat in her room last night,’ he told Gilligan. ‘Guess I better get it.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Here’s your hat,’ Gilligan informed him unkindly, producing it.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Well, then, I want to talk to her. Whatcher going to say about that?’ asked Cadet Lowe, swept and garnished and belligerent.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Why, sure, General,’ Gilligan agreed readily. ‘She can’t refuse one of the saviours of her country.’ He knocked on her door. ‘Mrs Powers?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Yes?’ her voice was muffled.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘General Pershing here wants to talk to you. . . . Sure. . . . All right.’ He turned about, opening the door. ‘In you go, ace.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Lowe, hating him, ignored his wink, entering. She sat in bed with a breakfast tray upon her knees. She was not dressed and Lowe looked delicately away. But she said blandly:
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Cheerio, Cadet! How looks the air today?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| She indicated a chair and he drew it up to the bed, being so careful not to seem to stare that his carriage became noticeable. She looked at him quickly and kindly and offered him coffee. Courageous with whisky on an empty stomach he knew hunger suddenly. He took the cup.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Good morning,’ he said with belated courtesy, trying to be more than nineteen. (Why is nineteen ashamed of its age?) She treats me like a child, he thought, fretted and gaining courage, watching with increasing boldness her indicated shoulders and wondering with interest if she had stockings on.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Why didn’t I say something as I came in? Something easy and intimate? Listen, when I first saw you my love for you was like—my love was like—my love for you—God, if I only hadn’t drunk so much last night I could say it my love for you my love is love is like . . . and found himself watching her arms as she moved and her loose sleeves fell away from them, saying, yes, he was glad the war was over and telling her that he had forty-seven hours’ flying time and would have got wings in two weeks more and that his mother in San Francisco was expecting him.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| She treats me like a child, he thought with exasperation, seeing the slope of her shoulders and the place where her breast was.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘How black your hair is,’ he said, and she said:
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Lowe, when are you going home?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘I don’t know. Why should I go home? I think I’ll have to look at the country first.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘But your mother!’ She glanced at him.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Oh, well,’ he said largely, ‘you know what women are—always worrying you.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Lowe! How do you know so much about things? Women? You—aren’t married, are you?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Me married?’ repeated Lowe with ungrammatical zest, ‘me married? Not so’s you know it. I have lots of girls, but married?’ he brayed with brief unnecessary vigour. ‘What made you think so?’ he asked with interest.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Oh, I don’t know. You look so— so mature, you see.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Ah, that’s flying does that. Look at him in there.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Is that it? I had noticed something about you. . . . You would have been an ace, too, if you’d seen any Germans, wouldn’t you?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| He glanced at her quickly, like a struck dog. Here was his old dull despair again.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said with quick sincerity. ‘I didn’t think: of course you would. Anyway, it wasn’t your fault. You did your best, I know.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake,’ he said, hurt, ‘what do you women want, anyway? I am as good a flyer as any ever was at the front—flying or any other way.’ He sat morose under her eyes. He rose suddenly. ‘Say, what’s your name, anyway?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Margaret,’ she told him. He approached the bed where she sat and she said: ‘More coffee?’ stopping him dead. ‘You’ve forgotten your cup. There it is, on the table.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Before he thought he had returned and fetched his cup, received coffee he did not want. He felt like a fool and being young he resented it. All right for you, he promised her and sat again in a dull rage. To hell with them all.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘I have offended you, haven’t I?’ she asked. ‘But, Lowe, I feel so bad, and you were about to make love to me.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Why do you think that?’ he asked, hurt and dull.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Oh, I don’t know. But women can tell. And I don’t want to be made love to. Gilligan has already done that.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Gilligan? Why, I’ll kill him if he has annoyed you.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘No, no: he didn’t offend me, any more than you did. It was flattering. But why were you going to make love to me? You thought of it before you came in, didn’t you?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Lowe told her youngly: ‘I thought of it on the train when I first saw you. When I saw you I knew you were the woman for me. Tell me, you don’t like him better than me because he has wings and a scar, do you?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Why, of course not.’ She looked at him a moment, calculating. Then she said: ‘Mr Gilligan says he is dying.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Dying?’ he repeated and ‘Dying?’ How the man managed to circumvent him at every turn! As if it were not enough to have wings and a scar. But to die.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Margaret,’ he said with such despair that she gazed at him in swift pity. (He was so young.) ‘Margaret, are you in love with him?’ (Knowing that if he were a woman, he would be.)
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘No, certainly not. I am not in love with anybody. My husband was killed on the Aisne, you see,’ she told him gently.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Oh, Margaret,’ he said with bitter sincerity, ‘I would have been killed there if I could, or wounded like him, don’t you know it?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Of course, darling.’ She put the tray aside. ‘Come here.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Cadet Lowe rose again and went to her. ‘I would have been, if I’d had a chance,’ he repeated.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| She drew him down beside her, and he knew he was acting the child she supposed him to be, but he couldn’t help it. His disappointment and despair were more than everything now. Here were her knees sweetly under her face, and he put his arms around her legs.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘I wanted to be,’ he confessed more than he had ever believed. ‘I would take his scar and all.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘And be dead, like he is going to be?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| But what was death to Cadet Lowe, except something true and grand and sad? He saw a tomb, open, and himself in boots and belt, and pilot’s wings on his breast, a wound stripe. . . . What more could one ask of Fate?
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Yes, yes,’ he answered.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Why, you have flown, too,’ she told him, holding his face against her knees, ‘you might have been him, but you were lucky. Perhaps you would have flown too well to have been shot down as he was. Had you thought of that?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘I don’t know. I guess I would let them catch me, if I could have been him. You are in love with him.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘I swear I am not.’ She raised his head to see his face. ‘I would tell you if I were. Don’t you believe me?’ her eyes were compelling: he believed her.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Then, if you aren’t, can’t you promise to wait for me? I will be older soon and I’ll work like hell and make money.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘What will your mother say?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Hell, I don’t have to mind her like a kid forever. I am nineteen, as old as you are, and if she don’t like it, she can go to hell.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Lowe!’ she reproved him, not telling him she was twenty-four, ‘the idea! You go home and tell your mother—I will give you a note to her—and you can write what she says.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘But I had rather go with you.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘But, dear heart, what good will that do? We are going to take him home, and he is sick. Don’t you see, darling, we can’t do anything until we get him settled, and that you would only be in the way?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘In the way?’ he repeated with sharp pain.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘You know what I mean. We can’t have anything to think about until we get him home, don’t you see?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘But you aren’t in love with him?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘I swear I’m not. Does that satisfy you?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Then, are you in love with me?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| She drew his face against her knees again. ‘You sweet child,’ she said; ‘of course I won’t tell you—yet.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| And he had to be satisfied with this. They held each other in silence for a time. ‘How good you smell,’ remarked Cadet Lowe at last.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| She moved. ‘Come up here by me,’ she commanded, and when he was beside her she took his face in her hands and kissed him. He put his arms around her, and she drew his head between her breasts. After a while she stroked his hair and spoke.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Now, are you going home at once?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Must I?’ he asked vacuously.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘You must,’ she answered. ‘Today. Wire her at once. And I will give you a note to her.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Oh, hell, you know what she’ll say.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Of course I do. You haven’t any sisters and brothers, have you?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘No,’ he said in surprise. She moved and he sensed the fact that she desired to be released. He sat up. ‘How did you know?’ he asked in surprise.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘I just guessed. But you will go, won’t you? Promise.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Well, I will, then. But I will come back to you.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Of course you will. I will expect you. Kiss me.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| She offered her face coolly and he kissed her as she wished: coldly, remotely. She put her hands on his cheeks. ‘Dear boy,’ she said, kissing him again, as his mother kissed him.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Say, that’s no way for engaged people to kiss,’ he objected.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘How do engaged people kiss?’ she asked. He put his arms around her, feeling her shoulder-blades, and drew her mouth against his with the technique he had learned. She suffered his kiss a moment, then thrust him away.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Is that how engaged people kiss?’ she asked, laughing. ‘I like this better.’ She took his face in her palms and touched his mouth briefly and coolly. ‘Now swear you’ll wire your mother at once.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘But will you write to me?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Surely. But swear you will go today, in spite of what Gilligan may tell you.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘I swear,’ he answered, looking at her mouth. ‘Can’t I kiss you again?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘When we are married,’ she said, and he knew he was being dismissed. Thinking, knowing, that she was watching him, he crossed the room with an air, not looking back.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Here were yet Gilligan and the officer. Mahon said:
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Morning, old chap.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Gilligan looked at Lowe’s belligerent front from a quizzical reserve of sardonic amusement.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Made a conquest, hey, ace?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Go to hell,’ replied Lowe. ‘Where’s that bottle? I’m going home today.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ‘Here she is, General. Drink deep. Going home?’ he repeated. ‘So are we, hey, Loot?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>/><annotations>
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| = = = CHAPTER TWO (56-94) = = =
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| 1
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| JONES, JANUARIUS JONES, born of whom he knew and cared not, becoming Jones alphabetically, January through a conjunction of calendar and biology, Januarius through the perverse conjunction of his own star and the compulsion of food and clothing—Januarius Jones baggy in grey tweed, being lately a fellow of Latin in a small college, leaned upon a gate of iron grill-work breaking a levee of green and embryonically starred honeysuckle, watching April busy in a hyacinth bed. Dew was on the grass and bees broke apple bloom in the morning sun while swallows were like plucked strings against a pale windy sky. A face regarded him across a suspended trowel and the metal clasps of crossed suspenders made a cheerful glittering.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::The rector said: ‘Good morning, young man.’ His shining dome was friendly against an ivy-covered wall above which the consummate grace of a spire and a gilded cross seemed to arc across motionless young clouds.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::Januarius Jones, caught in the spire’s illusion of slow ruin, murmured: ‘Watch it fall, sir.’ The sun was full on his young round face.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="plane">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::The horticulturist regarded him with benevolent curiosity. ‘Fall? Ah, you see an aeroplane,’ he stated. ‘My son was in that service during the war.’ He became gigantic in black trousers and broken shoes. ‘A beautiful day for flying,’ he said from beneath his cupped hand. ‘Where do you see it?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘No, sir,’ replied Jones, ‘no aeroplane, sir. I referred in a fit of unpardonable detachment to your spire. It was ever my childish delight to stand beneath a spire while clouds are moving overhead. The illusion of slow falling is perfect. Have you ever experienced this, sir?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘To be sure I have, though it has been— let me see— more years than I care to remember. But one of my cloth is prone to allow his soul to atrophy in his zeal for the welfare of other souls that—’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘—that not only do not deserve salvation, but that do not particularly desire it,’ finished Jones.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::The rector promptly rebuked him. Sparrows were delirious in ivy and the rambling façade of the rectory was a dream in jonquils and clipped sward. There should be children here, thought Jones. He said:
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘I must humbly beg your pardon for my flippancy, Doctor. I assure you that I—ah—took advantage of the situation without any ulterior motive whatever.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘I understand that, dear boy. My rebuke was tendered in the same spirit. There are certain conventions which we must observe in this world; one of them being an outward deference to that cloth which I unworthily, perhaps, wear. And I have found this particularly incumbent upon us of the—what shall I say—?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| :::::‘Integer vitae scelerisque purus
| |
| :::::non eget Mauris iaculis neque arcu
| |
| :::::nec venenatis gravida sagittis,
| |
| :::::Fusce, pharetra—’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::began Jones. The rector chimed in:
| |
| :::::‘—sive per Syrtis iter aestuosas
| |
| :::::sive facturus per inhospitalem
| |
| :::::Causasum vel quae loca fabulosus
| |
| :::::lambit Hydaspes,’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::they concluded in galloping duet and stood in the ensuing silence regarding each other with genial enthusiasm.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘But come, come,’ cried the rector. His eyes were pleasant. ‘Shall I let the stranger languish without my gates?’ The grilled iron swung open and his earthy hand was heavy on Jones’s shoulder. ‘Come let us try the spire.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::The grass was good. A myriad bees vacillated between clover and apple bloom, apple bloom and clover, and from the Gothic mass of the church the spire rose, a prayer imperishable in bronze, immaculate in its illusion of slow ruin across motionless young clouds.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘My one sincere parishioner,’ murmured the divine. Sunlight was a windy golden plume about his bald head, and Januarius Jones’s face was a round mirror before which fauns and nymphs might have wantoned when the world was young.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Parishioner, did I say? It is more than that: it is by such as this that man may approach nearest to God. And how few will believe this! How few, how few!’ He stared unblinking into the sun-filled sky: drowned in his eyes was a despair long since grown cool and quiet.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘That is very true, sir. But we of this age believe that he who may be approached informally, without the intercession of an office-boy of some sort, is not worth the approaching. We purchase our salvation as we do our real estate. Our God,’ continued Jones, ‘need not be compassionate, he need not be very intelligent. But he must have dignity.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::The rector raised his great dirty hand. ‘No, no. You do them injustice. But who has ever found justice in youth, or any of those tiresome virtues with which we coddle and cradle our hardening arteries and souls? Only the ageing need conventions and laws to aggregate to themselves some of the beauty of this world. Without laws the young would reave us of it as corsairs of old combed the blue seas.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::The rector was silent a while. The intermittent shadows of young leaves were bird cries made visible and sparrows in ivy were flecks of sunlight become vocal. The rector continued:
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Had I the arranging of this world I should establish a certain point, say at about the age of thirty, upon reaching which a man would be automatically relegated to a plane where his mind would no longer be troubled with the futile recollection of temptations he had resisted and of beauty he had failed to garner to himself. It is jealousy, I think, which makes us wish to prevent young people doing the things we had not the courage or the opportunity ourselves to accomplish once, and have not the power to do now.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::Jones, wondering what temptations he had ever resisted and then recalling the women he might have seduced and hadn’t, said: ‘And then what? What would the people who have been unlucky enough to reach thirty do?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘On this plane there would be no troubling physical things such as sunlight and space and birds in the trees—but only unimportant things such as physical comfort: eating and sleeping and procreation.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::What more could you want? thought Jones. Here was a swell place. A man could very well spend all his time eating and sleeping and procreating, Jones believed. He rather wished the rector (or anyone who could imagine a world consisting solely of food and sleep and women) had had the creating of things and that he, Jones, could be forever thirty-one years of age. The rector, though, seemed to hold different opinions.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘What would they do to pass the time?’ asked Jones for the sake of argument, wondering what the others would do to pass the time, what with eating and sleeping and fornication taken from them.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Half of them would manufacture objects and another portion would coin gold and silver with which to purchase these objects. Of course, there would be storage places for the coins and objects, thus providing employment for some of the people. Others naturally would have to till the soil.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘But how would you finally dispose of the coins and objects? After a while you would have a single vast museum and a bank, both filled with useless and unnecessary things. And that is already the curse of our civilization—Things, Possessions, to which we are slaves, which require us to either labour honestly at least eight hours a day or do something illegal so as to keep them painted or dressed in the latest mode or filled with whisky or gasoline.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Quite true. And this would remind us too sorely of the world as it is. Needless to say, I have provided for both of these contingencies. The coins might be reduced again to bullion and coined over, and’—the reverend man looked at Jones in ecstasy—‘the housewives could use the objects for fuel with which to cook food.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::Old fool, thought Jones, saying: ‘Marvellous, magnificent! You are a man after my own heart, Doctor.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::The rector regarded Jones kindly. ‘Ah, boy, there is nothing after youth’s own heart: youth has no heart.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘But, Doctor. This borders on borders upon lese-majesty. I thought we had declared a truce regarding each other’s cloth.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::Shadows moved as the sun moved, a branch dappled the rector’s brow: a laurelled Jove.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="road">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘What is your cloth?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Why—’ began Jones.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘It is the diaper still, dear boy. But forgive me,’ he added quickly on seeing Jones’s face. His arm was heavy and solid as on oak branch across Jones’s shoulder. ‘Tell me, what do you consider the most admirable of virtues?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::Jones was placated. ‘Sincere arrogance,’ he returned promptly. The rector’s great laugh boomed like bells in the sunlight, sent the sparrows like gusty leaves whirling.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Shall we be friends once more, then? Come, I will make a concession: I will show you my flowers. You are young enough to appreciate them without feeling called upon to comment.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::The garden was worth seeing. An avenue of roses bordered a gravelled path which passed from sunlight beneath two overarching oaks. Beyond the oaks, against a wall of poplars in a restless formal row were columns of a Greek temple, yet the poplars themselves in slim, vague green were poised and vain as girls in a frieze. Against a privet hedge would soon be lilies like nuns in a cloister and blue hyacinths swung soundless bells, dreaming of Lesbos. Upon a lattice wall wistaria would soon burn in slow inverted lilac flame, and following it they came lastly upon a single rose bush. The branches were huge and knotted with age, heavy and dark as a bronze pedestal, crowned with pale impermanent gold. The divine’s hands lingered upon it with soft passion.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Now, this,’ he said, ‘is my son and my daughter, the wife of my bosom and the bread of my belly: it is my right hand and my left hand. Many is the night I have stood beside it here after having moved the wrappings too soon, burning newspapers to keep the frost out. Once I recall I was in a neighbouring town attending a conference. The weather—it was March—had been most auspicious and I had removed the covering.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="train, driving, driver">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘The tips were already swelling. Ah, my boy, no young man ever awaited the coming of his mistress with more impatience than do I await the first bloom on this bush. (Who was the old pagan who kept his Byzantine goblet at his bedside and slowly wore away the rim kissing it? there is an analogy.) . . . But what was I saying?—ah, yes. So I left the bush uncovered against my better judgement and repaired to the conference. The weather continued perfect until the last day, then the weather reports predicted a change. The bishop was to be present; I ascertained that I could not reach home by rail and return in time. At last I engaged a livery man to drive me home.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘The sky was becoming overcast, it was already turning colder. And then, three miles from home, we came upon a stream and found the bridge gone. After some shouting we attracted the attention of a man ploughing across the stream and he came over to us in a skiff. I engaged my driver to await me, was ferried across, walked home and covered my rose, walked back to the stream and returned in time. And that night’—the rector beamed upon Januarius Jones—‘snow fell!’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::Jones fatly supine on gracious grass, his eyes closed against the sun, stuffing his pipe: ‘This rose has almost made history. You have had the bush for some time, have you not? One does become attached to things one has long known.’ Januarius Jones was not particularly interested in flowers.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘I have a better reason than that. In this bush is imprisoned a part of my youth, as wine is imprisoned in a wine jar. But with this difference: my wine jar always renews itself.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Oh,’ remarked Jones, despairing, ‘there is a story here, then.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Yes, dear boy. Rather a long story. But you are not comfortable lying there.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Whoever is completely comfortable,’ Jones rushed into the breach, ‘unless he be asleep? It is the fatigue caused by man’s inevitable contact with the earth which bears him, be he sitting, standing, or lying, which keeps his mind in a continual fret over futilities. If a man, if a single man, could be freed for a moment from the forces of gravity, concentrating his weight upon that point of his body which touches the earth, what would he not do? He would be a god, the lord of life, causing the high gods to tremble on their thrones: he would thunder at the very gates of infinity like a mailed knight. As it is, he must ever have behind his mind a dull wonder how anything composed of fire and air and water and omnipotence in equal parts can be so damn hard.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘That is true. Man cannot remain in one position long enough to really think. But about the rose bush—’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Regard the buzzard,’ interrupted Jones with enthusiasm, fighting for time, ‘supported by air alone: what dignity, what singleness of purpose! What cares he whether or not Smith is governor? What cares he that the sovereign people annually commission comparative strangers about whom nothing is known save that they have no inclination towards perspiration, to meddle with impunity in the affairs of the sovereign people?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘But, my dear boy, this borders on anarchism.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Anarchism? Surely. The hand of Providence with money-changing blisters. That is anarchism.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘At least you admit the hand of Providence.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘I don’t know. Do I?’ Jones, his hat over his eyes and his pipe projecting beneath, heaved a box of matches from his jacket. He extracted one and scraped it on the box. It failed and he threw it weakly into a clump of violets. He tried another. He tried another. ‘Turn it around,’ murmured the rector. He did so and the match flared.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘How do you find the hand of Providence here?’ he puffed around his pipe stem.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::The rector gathered the dead matches from the clump of violets. ‘In this way: it enables man to rise and till the soil, so that he might eat. Would he, do you think, rise and labour if he could remain comfortably supine over long? Even that part of the body which the Creator designed for sitting on serves him only a short time, then it rebels, then it, too, gets his sullen bones up and hales them along. And there is no help for him save in sleep.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘But he cannot sleep for more than a possible third of his time,’ Jones pointed out. ‘And soon it will not even be a third of his time. The race is weakening, degenerating: we cannot stand nearly as much sleep as our comparatively recent (geologically speaking of course) forefathers could, not even as much as our more primitive contemporaries can. For we, the self-styled civilized peoples, are now exercised over our minds and our arteries instead of our stomachs and sex, as were our progenitors and some of our uncompelled contemporaries.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Uncompelled?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Socially, of course. Doe believes that Doe and Smith should and must do this or that because Smith believes that Smith and Doe should and must do this or that.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Ah, yes.’ The divine again lifted his kind, unblinking eyes straight into the sun. Dew was off the grass and jonquils and narcissi were beginning to look drowsy, like girls after a ball. ‘It is drawing towards noon. Let us go in: I can offer you refreshment and lunch, if you are not engaged.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::Jones rose. ‘No, no. Thank you a thousand times. But I shan’t trouble you.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::The rector was hearty. ‘No trouble, no trouble at all. I am alone at present.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::Jones demurred. He had a passion for food, and an instinct. He had only to pass a house for his instinct to inform him whether or not the food would be good. Jones did not, gastronomically speaking, react favourably to the rector.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="derrick">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::The divine, however, overrode him with hearty affability: the rector would not take No. He attached Jones to himself and they trod their shadows across the lawn, herding them beneath the subdued grace of a fanlight of dim-coloured glass lovely with lack of washing. After the immaculate naked morning, the interior of the hall vortexed with red fire. Jones, temporarily blind, stumbled violently over an object and the handle of a pail clasped his ankle passionately. The rector, bawling Emmy! dragged him, pail and all, erect: he thanked his lucky stars that he had not been attached to the floor as he rose a sodden Venus, disengaging the pail. His dangling feet touched the floor and he felt his trouser leg with despair, fretfully. He’s like a derrick, he thought with exasperation.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::The rector bawled Emmy again. There was an alarmed response from the depths of the house and one in gingham brushed them. The divine’s great voice boomed like surf in the narrow confines, and opening a door upon a flood of light, he ushered the trickling Jones into his study.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘I shall not apologize,’ the rector began, ‘for the meagreness of the accommodation which I offer you. I am alone at present, you see. But, then, we philosophers want bread for the belly and not for the palate, eh? Come in, come in.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::Jones despaired. A drenched trouser leg, and bread for the belly alone. And God only knew what this great lump of a divine meant by bread for the belly and no bread for the palate. Husks, probably. Regarding food, Jones was sybaritically rather than aesthetically inclined. Or even philosophically. He stood disconsolate, swinging his dripping leg.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘My dear boy, you are soaking!’ exclaimed his host. ‘Come, off with your trousers.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::Jones protested weakly. ‘Emmy!’ roared the rector again.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘All right, Uncle Joe. Soon’s I get this water up.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Never mind the water right now. Run to my room and fetch me a pair of trousers.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘But the rug will be ruined!’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Not irreparably, I hope. We’ll take the risk. Fetch me the trousers. Now, dear boy, off with them. Emmy will dry them in the kitchen and then you will be right as rain.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::Jones surrendered in dull despair. He had truly fallen among moral thieves. The rector assailed him with ruthless kindness and the gingham-clad one reappeared at the door with a twin of the rector’s casual black nether coverings over her arm.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Emmy, this is Mr— I do not recall having heard your name— he will be with us at lunch. And, Emmy, see if Cecily wishes to come also.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::This virgin shrieked at the spectacle of Jones, ludicrous in his shirt and his fat pink legs and the trousers jerked solemn and lethargic into the room. ‘Jones,’ supplied Januarius Jones, faintly. Emmy, however, was gone.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Ah, yes, Mr Jones.’ The rector fell upon him anew, doing clumsy and intricate things with the waist and bottoms of the trousers, and Jones, decently if voluminously clad, stood like a sheep in a gale while the divine pawed him heavily.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Now,’ cried his host, ‘make yourself comfortable (even Jones found irony in this) while I find something that will quench thirst.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::The guest regained his composure in a tidy, shabby room. Upon a rag rug a desk bore a single white hyacinth in a handleless teacup, above a mantel cluttered with pipes and twists of paper hung a single photograph. There were books everywhere—on shelves, on window ledges, on the floor: Jones saw the Old Testament in Greek in several volumes, a depressing huge book on international law, Jane Austen and Les Contes Drolatiques in dog-eared amity: a mutual supporting caress. The rector re-entered with milk in a pitcher of blue glass and two mugs. From a drawer he extracted a bottle of Scotch whisky.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘A sop to the powers,’ he said, leering at Jones with innocent depravity. ‘Old dog and new tricks, my boy. But your pardon: perhaps you do not like this combination?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::Jones’s morale rose balloon-like. ‘I will try any drink once,’ he said, like Jurgen.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Try it, anyway. If you do not like it you are at perfect liberty to employ your own formula.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::The beverage was more palatable than he would have thought. He sipped with relish. ‘Didn’t you mention a son, sir?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘That was Donald. He was shot down in Flanders last spring.’ The rector rose and took the photograph down from above the mantel. He handed it to his guest. The boy was about eighteen and coatless: beneath unruly hair, Jones saw a thin face with a delicate pointed chin and wild, soft eyes. Jones’s eyes were clear and yellow, obscene and old in sin as a goat’s.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘There is death in his face,’ said Jones.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::His host took the photograph and gazed at it. ‘There is always death in the faces of the young in spirit, the eternally young. Death for themselves or for others. And dishonour. But death, surely. And why not? why should death desire only those things which life no longer has use for? Who gathers the withered rose?’ The rector dreamed darkly in space for a while. After a time he added: ‘A companion sent back a few of his things.’ He propped the photograph upright on the desk and from a drawer he took a tin box. His great hand fumbled at the catch.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Let me, sir,’ offered Jones, knowing that it was useless to volunteer, that the rector probably did this every day. But the lid yielded as he spoke and the divine spread on the desk the sorry contents: a woman’s chemise, a cheap paper-covered ‘Shropshire Lad’, a mummied hyacinth bulb. The rector picked up the bulb and it crumbled to dust in his hand.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Tut, tut! How careless of me!’ he ejaculated, sweeping the dust carefully into an envelope. ‘I have often deplored the size of my hands. They should have been given to someone who could use them for something other than thumbing books or grubbing in flower beds. Donald’s hands, on the contrary, were quite small, like his mother’s: he was quite deft with his hands. What a surgeon he would have made.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::He placed the things upon the desk, before the propped photograph like a ritual, and propping his face in his earthy bands he took his ruined dream of his son into himself as one inhales tobacco smoke.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Truly there is life and death and dishonour in his face. Had you noticed Emmy? Years ago, about the time this picture was made. . . . But that is an old story. Even Emmy has probably forgotten it. . . . You will notice that he has neither coat nor cravat. How often has he appeared after his mother had seen him decently arrayed, on the street, in church, at formal gatherings, carrying hat, coat, and collar in his hands. How often have I heard him say “Because it is too hot.” Education in the bookish sense he had not: the schooling he got was because he wanted to go, the reading he did was because he wanted to read. Least of all did I teach him fortitude. What is fortitude? Emotional atrophy, gangrene. . . .’ He raised his face and looked at Jones. ‘What do you think? was I right? Or should I have made my son conform to a type?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Conform that face to a type? (So Emmy has already been dishonoured, once, anyway.) How could you? (I owe that dishonoured one a grudge, too.) Could you put a faun into formal clothes?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::The rector sighed. ‘Ah, Mr Jones, who can say?’ He slowly replaced the things in the tin box and sat clasping the box between his hands. ‘As I grow older, Mr Jones, I become more firmly convinced that we learn scarcely anything as we go through this world, and that we learn nothing whatever which can ever help us or be of any particular benefit to us, even. However! . . .’ He sighed again, heavily.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| 2
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Emmy, the dishonoured virgin, appeared, saying: ‘What do you want for dinner, Uncle Joe? Ice-cream or strawberry shortcake?’ Blushing, she avoided Jones’s eye.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::The rector looked at his guest, yearning. ‘What would you like, Mr Jones? But I know how young people are about ice-cream. Would you prefer ice-cream?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::But Jones was a tactful man in his generation and knowing about food himself he had an uncanny skill in anticipating other people’s reactions to food. ‘If it is the same to you, Doctor, let it be shortcake.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Shortcake, Emmy,’ the rector instructed with passion. Emmy withdrew. ‘Do you know,’ he continued with apologetic gratitude, ‘do you know, when a man becomes old, when instead of using his stomach, his stomach uses him, as his other physical compulsions become weaker and decline, his predilections towards the food he likes obtrude themselves.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Not at all, sir,’ Jones assured him. ‘I personally prefer a warm dessert to an ice.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Then you must return when there are peaches. I will give you a peach cobbler, with butter and cream. . . . But ah, my stomach has attained a sad ascendency over me.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Why shouldn’t it, sir? Years reave us of sexual compulsions: why shouldn’t they fill the interval with compulsions of food?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::The rector regarded him kindly and piercingly. ‘You are becoming specious. Man’s life need not be always filled with compulsions of either sex or food, need it?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::But here came quick tapping feet down the uncarpeted hall and she entered, saying: ‘Good morning, Uncle Joe,’ in her throaty voice, crossing the room with graceful effusion, not seeing Jones at once. Then she remarked him and paused like a bird in mid flight, briefly. Jones rose and under his eyes she walked mincing and graceful, theatrical with body-consciousness to the desk. She bent sweetly as a young tree and the divine kissed her cheek. Jones’s goat’s eyes immersed her in yellow contemplation.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Good morning, Cecily.’ The rector rose. ‘I had expected you earlier, on such a day as this. But young girls must have their beauty sleep regardless of weather,’ he ended with elephantine joviality. ‘This is Mr Jones, Cecily. Miss Saunders, Mr Jones.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::Jones bowed with obese incipient grace as she faced him, but at her expression of hushed delicate amazement he knew panic. Then he remembered the rector’s cursed trousers and he felt his neck and ears slowly burn, knowing that not only was he ridiculous looking but that she supposed he wore such things habitually. She was speechless and Jones damned the hearty oblivious rector slowly and completely. Curse the man: one moment it was Emmy and no trousers at all, next moment an attractive stranger and nether coverings like a tired balloon. The rector was saying bland as Fate:
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘I had expected you earlier. I had decided to let you take some hyacinths.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Uncle Joe! How won—derful!’ Her voice was rough, like a tangle of golden wires. She dragged her fascinated gaze from Jones and hating them both Jones felt perspiration under his hair. ‘Why didn’t I come sooner? But I am always doing the wrong thing, as Mr—Mr Jones will know from my not coming in time to get hyacinths.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::She looked at him again, as she might at a strange beast. Jones’s confusion became anger and he found his tongue.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Yes, it is too bad you didn’t come earlier. You would have seen me more interestingly gotten up than this even. Emmy seemed to think so, at least.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘I beg your pardon?’ she said.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::The rector regarded him with puzzled affability. Then he understood. ‘Ah, yes, Mr Jones suffered a slight accident and was forced to don a garment of mine.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Thanks for saying “was forced”,’ Jones said viciously. ‘Yes, I stumbled over that pail of water the doctor keeps just inside the front door, doubtless for the purpose of making his parishioners be sure they really require help from heaven, on the second visit,’ he explained, Greek-like, giving his dignity its death-stroke with his own hand. ‘You, I suppose, are accustomed to it and can avoid it.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::She looked from Jones’s suffused angry face to the rector’s kind, puzzled one and screamed with laughter.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Forgive me,’ she pleaded, sobering as quickly. ‘I simply couldn’t help it, Mr Jones. You’ll forgive me, won’t you?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Certainly. Even Emmy enjoyed it. Doctor, Emmy cannot have been so badly outraged after all, to suffer such shock from seeing a man’s bare—’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::She covered up this gaucherie, losing most of the speech in her own words. ‘So you showed Mr Jones your flowers? Mr Jones should be quite flattered: that is quite a concession for Uncle Joe to make,’ she said smoothly, turning to the divine, graceful, and insincere as a French sonnet. ‘Is Mr Jones famous, then? You haven’t told me you knew famous men.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::The rector boomed his laugh. ‘Well, Mr Jones, you seem to have concealed something from me.’ (Not as much as I would have liked to, Jones thought.) ‘I didn’t know I was entertaining a celebrity.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::Jones’s essential laziness of temper regained its ascendency and he answered civilly: ‘Neither did I, sir.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Ah, don’t try to hide your light, Mr Jones. Women know these things. They see through us at once.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Uncle Joe,’ she cautioned swiftly at this unfortunate remark, watching Jones. But Jones was safe now.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘No, I don’t agree with you. If they saw through us they would never marry us.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::She was grateful and her glance showed a faint interest (what colour are her eyes?).
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Oh, that’s what Mr Jones is! an authority on women.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::Jones’s vanity swelled and the rector saying, ‘Pardon me,’ fetched a chair from the hall. She leaned her thigh against the desk and her eyes (are they grey or blue or green?) met his yellow unabashed stare. She lowered her gaze and he remarked her pretty selfconscious mouth. This is going to be easy, he thought. The rector placed the chair for her and she sat and when the rector had taken his desk chair again, Jones resumed his own seat. How long her legs are, he thought, seeing her frail white dress shape to her short torso. She felt his bold examination and looked up.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘So Mr Jones is married,’ she remarked. She did something to her eyes and it seemed to Jones that she had touched him with her hands. I’ve got your number, he thought vulgarly. He replied:
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘No, what makes you think so?’ The rector filling his pipe regarded them kindly.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Oh, I misunderstood, then.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘That isn’t why you thought so.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘No?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘It’s because you like married men,’ he told her boldly. ‘Do I?’ without interest. It seemed to Jones that he could see her interest ebb away from him, could feel it cool.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Don’t you?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘You ought to know.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘I?’ asked Jones. ‘How should I know?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Aren’t you an authority on women?’ she replied with sweet ingenuousness. Speechless he could have strangled her. The divine applauded:
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Checkmate, Mr Jones?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::Just let me catch her eye again, he vowed, but she would not look at him. He sat silent and under his seething gaze she took the photograph from the desk and held it quietly for a time. Then she replaced it and reaching across the desk-top she laid her hand on the rector’s.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Miss Saunders was engaged to my son,’ the divine explained to Jones.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Yes?’ said Jones, watching her profile, waiting for her to look at him again. Emmy, that unfortunate virgin, appeared at the door.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘All right, Uncle Joe,’ she said, vanishing immediately.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Ah, lunch,’ the rector announced, starting up. They rose.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘I can’t stay,’ she demurred, yielding to the divine’s hand upon her back. Jones fell in behind. ‘I really shouldn’t stay,’ she amended.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::They moved down the dark hall and Jones watching her white dress flow indistinctly to her stride, imagining her kiss, cursed her. At a door she paused and stood aside courteously, as a man would. The rector stopped also as perforce did Jones and here was a French comedy regarding precedence. Jones with counterfeit awkwardness felt her soft uncorseted thigh against the back of his hand and her sharp stare was like ice water. They entered the room. ‘Made you look at me then,’ he muttered.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::The rector remarking nothing said:
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Sit here, Mr Jones,’ and the virgin Emmy gave him a haughty antagonistic stare. He returned her a remote yellow one. I’ll see about you later, he promised her mentally, sitting to immaculate linen. The rector drew the other guest’s chair and sat himself at the head of the table.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Cecily doesn’t eat very much,’ he said, carving a fowl, ‘so the burden will fall upon you and me. But I think we can be relied upon, eh, Mr Jones?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::She propped her elbows opposite him. And I’ll attend to you, too, Jones promised her darkly. She still ignored his yellow gaze and he said: ‘Certainly, sir,’ employing upon her the old thought process which he had used in school when he was prepared upon a certain passage, but she ignored him with such thorough perfection that he knew a sudden qualm of unease, a faint doubt. I wonder if I am wrong? he pondered. I’ll find out, he decided suddenly.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘You were saying, sir,’—still watching her oblivious shallow face—‘as Miss Saunders so charmingly came in, that I am too specious. But one must always generalize about fornication. Only after—’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Mr Jones!’ the rector exclaimed heavily.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘—the fornication is committed should one talk about it at all, and then only to generalize, to become—in your words—specious. He who kisses and tells is not very much of a fellow, is he?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Mr Jones,’ the rector remonstrated.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Mr Jones!’ she echoed. ‘What a terrible man you are! Really, Uncle Joe—’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::Jones interrupted viciously. ‘As far as the kiss itself goes, women do not particularly care who does the kissing. All they are interested in is the kiss itself.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Mr Jones!’ she repeated, staring at him, then looking quickly away. She shuddered.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Come, come, sir. There are ladies present.’ The rector achieved his aphorism.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::Jones pushed his plate from him, Emmy’s raw and formless hand removed it and here was a warm golden brow crowned with strawberries. Dam’f I look at her, he swore, and so he did. Her gaze was remote and impersonal, green and cool as sea water, and Jones turned his eyes first. She turned to the rector, talking smoothly about flowers. He was politely ignored and he moodily engaged his spoon as Emmy appeared again.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::Emmy emanated a thin hostility and staring from Jones to the girl she said:
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Lady to see you, Uncle Joe.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::The rector poised his spoon. ‘Who is it, Emmy?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘I dunno. I never saw her before. She’s waiting in the study.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Has she had lunch? Ask her in here.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::(She knows I am watching her. Jones knew exasperation and a puerile lust.)
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘She don’t want anything to eat. She said not to disturb you until you had finished dinner. You better go in and see what she wants.’ Emmy retreated.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::The rector wiped his mouth and rose. ‘I suppose I must. You young people sit here until I return. Call Emmy if you want anything.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::Jones sat in sullen silence, turning a glass in his fingers. At last she looked at his bent ugly face.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘So you are unmarried, as well as famous,’ she remarked.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Famous because I’m unmarried,’ he replied darkly.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘And courteous because of which?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Either one you like.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Well, frankly, I prefer courtesy.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Do you often get it?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Always . . . eventually.’ He made no reply and she continued: ‘Don’t you believe in marriage?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Yes, as long as there are no women in it.’ She shrugged indifferently. Jones could not bear seeming a fool to anyone as shallow as he considered her and he blurted, wanting to kick himself: ‘You don’t like me, do you?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Oh, I like anyone who believes there may be something he doesn’t know,’ she replied without interest.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘What do you mean by that?’ (are they green or grey?) Jones was a disciple of the cult of boldness with women. He rose and the table wheeled smoothly as he circled it: he wished faintly that he were more graceful. Those thrice unhappy trousers! You can’t blame her, he thought with fairness. What would I think had she appeared in one of her grandma’s mother hubbards? He remarked her reddish dark hair and the delicate slope of her shoulder. (I’ll put my hand there and let it slip down her arm as she turns.)
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::Without looking up, she said suddenly: ‘Did Uncle Joe tell you about Donald?’ (Oh, hell, thought Jones.) ‘Isn’t it funny,’ her chair scraped to her straightening knees, ‘we both thought of moving at the same time?’ She rose, her chair intervened woodenly, and Jones stood ludicrous and foiled. ‘You take mine and I’ll take yours,’ she added, moving around the table.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘You bitch,’ said Jones evenly and her green-blue eyes took him sweetly as water.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘What made you say that?’ she asked quietly. Jones, having to an extent eased his feelings, thought he saw a recurring interest in her expression. (I was right, he gloated.)
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘You know why I said that.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘It’s funny how few men know that women like to be talked to that way,’ she remarked irrelevantly.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::I wonder if she loves someone? I guess not—like a tiger loves meat. ‘I am not like other men,’ he told her.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::He thought he saw derision in her brief glance, but she merely yawned delicately. At last he had her classified in the animal kingdom. Hamadryad, a slim jewelled one.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Why doesn’t George come for me!’ she said as if in answer to his unspoken speculation, patting her mouth with the tips of petulant, delicate fingers. ‘Isn’t it boring, waiting for someone?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Yes. Who is George, may I ask?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Certainly, you may ask.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Well, who is he?’ (I don’t like her type, anyway.) ‘I had gathered that you were pining for the late lamented.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘The late lamented?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘That fox-faced Henry or Oswald or something.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Oh, Donald. Do you mean Donald?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Surely. Let him be Donald, then.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::She regarded him impersonally. (I can’t even make her angry, he thought fretfully.) ‘Do you know, you are impossible.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘All right. So I am,’ he answered with anger. ‘But then I wasn’t engaged to Donald. And George is not calling for me.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘What makes you so angry? Because I won’t let you put your hands on me?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘My dear woman, if I had wanted to put my hands on you I would have done it.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Yes?’ Her rising inflection was a polite maddening derision.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Certainly. Don’t you believe it?’ his own voice gave him courage.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘I don’t know . . . but what good would it do to you?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘No good at all. That’s the reason I don’t want to.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::Her green eyes took him again. Sparse old silver on a buffet shadowed heavily under a high fanlight of coloured glass identical with the one above the entrance, her fragile white dress across the table from him: he could imagine her long subtle legs, like Atalanta’s reft of running.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Why do you tell yourself lies?’ she asked with interest.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Same reason you do.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘I?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Surely. You intend to kiss me and yet you are going to all this damn trouble about it.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Do you know,’ she remarked with speculation, ‘I believe I hate you.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘I don’t doubt it. I know damn well I hate you.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::She moved in her chair, sloping the light now across her shoulders, releasing him and becoming completely another person. ‘Let’s go to the study. Shall we?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘All right. Uncle Joe should be done with his caller by now.’ He rose and they faced each other across the broken meal. She did not rise.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Well?’ she said.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘After you, ma’am,’ he replied with mock deference.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘I have changed my mind. I think I’ll wait here and talk to Emmy, if you don’t object.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Why Emmy?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Why not Emmy?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Ah, I see. You can feel fairly safe with Emmy: she probably won’t want to put her hands on you. That’s it, isn’t it?’ She glanced briefly at him. ‘What you really mean is, that you will stay if I am going out of the room, don’t you?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Suit yourself.’ She became oblivious of him, breaking a biscuit upon a plate and dripping water upon it from a glass. Jones moved fatly in his borrowed trousers, circling the table again. As he approached she turned slightly in her chair, extending her hand. He felt its slim bones in his fat moist palm, its nervous ineffectual flesh. Not good for anything. Useless. But beautiful with lack of character. Beautiful hand. Its very fragility stopped him like a stone barrier.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Oh, Emmy,’ she called sweetly, ‘come here, darling. I have something to show you.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::Emmy regarded them balefully from the door and Jones said quickly: ‘Will you fetch me my trousers, Miss Emmy?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::Emmy glanced from one to the other ignoring the girl’s mute plea. (Oho, Emmy has fish of her own to fry, thought Jones.) Emmy vanished and he put his hands on the girl’s shoulders.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Now what will you do? Call the reverend?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::She looked at him across her shoulder from beyond an inaccessible barrier. His anger grew and his hands wantonly crushed her dress.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Don’t ruin my clothes, please,’ she said icily. ‘Here, if you must.’ She raised her face and Jones felt the shame, but his boyish vanity would not let him stop now. Her face a prettiness of shallow characterless planes blurred into his, her mouth was motionless and impersonal, unresisting and cool. Her face from a blur became again a prettiness of characterless shallowness icy and remote, and Jones, ashamed of himself and angry with her therefore, said with heavy irony: ‘Thanks.’
| |
| ‘Not at all. If you got any pleasure from it you are quite welcome.’ She rose. ‘Let me pass, please.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::He stood awkwardly aside. Her frigid polite indifference was unbearable. What a fool he had been! He had ruined everything.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Miss Saunders,’ he blurted, ‘I—forgive me: I don’t usually act that way, I swear I don’t.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::She spoke over her shoulder. ‘You don’t have to, I suppose? I imagine you are usually quite successful with us?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘I am very sorry. But I don’t blame you. . . . One hates to convict oneself of stupidity.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::After a while hearing no further sound of movement he looked up. She was like a flower stalk or a young tree relaxed against the table: there was something so fragile, so impermanent since robustness and strength were unnecessary, yet strong withal as a poplar is strong through very absence of strength, about her; you knew that she lived, that her clear delicate being was nourished by sunlight and honey until even digestion was a beautiful function . . . as he watched something like a shadow came over her, somewhere between her eyes and her petulant pretty mouth, in the very clear relaxation of her body, that caused him to go quickly to her. She stared into his unblinking goat’s eyes as his hands sliding across her arms met at the small of her back, and Jones did not know the door had opened until she jerked her mouth from his and twisted slimly from his clasp.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::The rector loomed in the door, staring into the room as if he did not recognize it. He has never seen us at all, Jones knew, then seeing the divine’s face he said: ‘He’s ill.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::The rector spoke. ‘Cecily—’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘What is it, Uncle Joe?’ she replied in sharp terror, going to him. ‘Aren’t you well?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::The divine balanced his huge body with a hand on either side of the doorway.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Cecily, Donald’s coming home,’ he said.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| 3
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| There was that subtle effluvia of antagonism found inevitably in a room where two young ‘pretty’ women are, and they sat examining each other with narrow care. Mrs Powers, temporarily engaged in an unselfconscious accomplishment and being among strangers as well, was rather oblivious of it; but Cecily, never having been engaged in an unselfconscious action of any kind and being among people whom she knew, examined the other closely with that attribute women have for gaining correct instinctive impressions of another’s character, clothes, morals, etc. Jones’s yellow stare took the newcomer at intervals, returning, however, always to Cecily, who ignored him.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::The rector tramped heavily back and forth. ‘Sick?’ he boomed. ‘Sick? But we’ll cure him. Get him home here with good food and rest and attention and we’ll have him well in a week. Eh, Cecily?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Here’s the medicine for him, Mrs Powers,’ he said with heavy gallantry, embracing Cecily, speaking over her head towards the contemplative pallor of the other woman’s quiet watching face. ‘There, there, don’t cry,’ he added, kissing her. The audience watched this, Mrs Powers with speculative detached interest and Jones with morose speculation.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘It’s because I am so happy—for you, dear Uncle Joe,’ she answered. She turned graceful as a flower stalk against the rector’s black bulk. ‘And we owe it all to Mrs—Mrs Powers,’ she continued in her slightly rough voice, like a tangle of golden wires, ‘she was so kind to bring him back to us.’ Her glance swept past Jones and flickered like a knife towards the other woman. (Damn little fool thinks I have tried to vamp him, Mrs Powers thought.) Cecily moved towards her with studied impulse. ‘May I kiss you? do you mind?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::It was like kissing a silken smooth steel blade and Mrs Powers said brutally: ‘Not at all. I’d have done the same for anyone sick as he is, nigger or white. And you would, too,’ she added with satisfying malice.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Yes, it was so sweet of you,’ Cecily repeated, coolly non-committal, exposing a slim leg from the arm of the caller’s chair. Jones, statically remote, watched the comedy.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Nonsense,’ the rector interposed. ‘Mrs Powers merely saw him fatigued with travelling. I am sure he will be a different man tomorrow.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘I hope so,’ Mrs Powers answered with sudden weariness, recalling his devastated face and that dreadful brow, his whole relaxed inertia of constant dull pain and ebbing morale. It’s too late, she thought with instinctive perspicuity. Shall I tell them about the scar? she pondered. Prevent a scene when this—this creature (feeling the girl’s body against her shoulder) sees it. But no, I won’t, she decided, watching the tramping rector leonine in his temporary happiness. What a coward I am. Joe should have come: he might have known I’d bungle it some way.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::The rector fetched his photograph. She took it: thin-faced, with the serenity of a wild thing, the passionate serene alertness of a faun; and that girl leaning against the oaken branch of the rector’s arm, believing that she is in love with the boy, or his illusion—pretending she is, anyway. No, no, I won’t be catty. Perhaps she is—as much as she is capable of being in love with anyone. It’s quite romantic, being reft of your love and then having him returned unexpectedly to your arms. And an aviator, too. What luck that girl has playing her parts. Even God helps her. . . . You cat! she’s pretty and you are jealous. That’s what’s the matter with you, she thought in her bitter weariness. What makes me furious is her thinking that I am after him, am in love with him! Oh, yes, I’m in love with him! I’d like to hold his poor ruined head against my breast and not let him wake again ever. . . . Oh, hell, what a mess it all is! And that dull fat one yonder in somebody else’s trousers, watching her with his yellow unwinking eyes—like a goat’s. I suppose she’s been passing the time with him.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘—he was eighteen then,’ the rector was saying. ‘He would never wear hat nor tie: his mother could never make him. She saw him correctly dressed, but it mattered not how formal the occasion, he invariably appeared without them.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::Cecily rubbing herself like a cat on the rector’s arm: ‘Oh, Uncle Joe, I love him so!’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::And Jones like another round and arrogant cat, blinking his yellow eyes, muttered a shocking phrase. The rector was oblivious in speech and Cecily in her own graceful immersion, but Mrs Powers half heard, half saw, and Jones looking up met her black stare. He tried to look her down but her gaze was impersonal as a dissection so he averted his and fumbled for his pipe.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::There came a prolonged honking of a motor horn from without and Cecily sprang to her feet.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Oh, there’s—there’s a friend of ours. I’ll send him away and come straight back. Will you excuse me a moment, Uncle Joe?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Eh?’ The rector broke his speech. ‘Oh, yes.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘And you, Mrs Powers?’ She moved towards the door and her glance swept Jones again. ‘And you, Mr Jones?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="car">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘George got a car, has he?’ Jones asked as she passed him. ‘Bet you don’t come back.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::She gave him her cool stare and from beyond the study door she heard the rector’s voice resume the story again—of Donald, of course. And now I’m engaged again, she thought complacently, enjoying George’s face in anticipation when she would tell him. And that long black woman has been making love to him—or he to her. I guess it’s that, from what I know of Donald. Oh, well, that’s how men are, I guess. Perhaps he’ll want to take us both. . . . She tripped down the steps into the sunlight: the sunlight caressed her with joy, as though she were a daughter of sunlight. How would I like to have a husband and wife, too, I wonder? Or two husbands? I wonder if I want one even, want to get married at all. . . . I guess it’s worth trying, once. I’d like to see that horrible fat one’s face if he could hear me say that, she thought. Wonder why I let him kiss me? Ugh!
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="car">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::George leaned from his car watching her restricted swaying stride with faint lust. ‘Come on, come on,’ he called.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::She did not increase her gait at all. He swung the door open, not bothering to dismount himself. ‘My God, what took you so long?’ he asked plaintively. ‘Dam’f I thought you were coming at all.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘I’m not,’ she told him, laying her hand on the door. Her white dress in the nooning sun was unbearable to the eye, sloped to her pliant fragility. Beyond her, across the lawn, was another pliant gesture though this was only a tree, a poplar.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Huh?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Not coming. My fiancé is arriving today.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Aw hell, get in.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Donald’s coming today,’ she repeated, watching him. His face was ludicrous: blank as a plate, then shocked to slow amazement.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Why, he’s dead,’ he said vacuously.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘But he isn’t dead,’ she told him sweetly. ‘A lady friend he’s travelling with came on ahead and told us. Uncle Joe’s like a balloon.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Ah, come on, Cecily. You’re kidding me.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘I swear I’m not. I’m telling you the God’s truth.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::His smooth empty face hung before her like a handsome moon, empty as a promise. Then it filled with an expression of a sort.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Hell, you got a date with me tonight. Whatcher going to do about that?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘What can I do? Donald will be here by then.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Then it’s all off with us?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::She gazed at him, then looked quickly away. Funny how only an outsider had been able to bring home to her the significance of Donald’s imminence, his return. She nodded dumbly, beginning to feel miserable and lost.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="car">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::He leaned from the car and caught her hand. ‘Get in here,’ he commanded.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘No, no, I can’t,’ she protested, trying to draw back. He held her wrist. ‘No, no, let me go. You are hurting me.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘I know it,’ he answered grimly. ‘Get in.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Don’t, George, don’t! I must go back.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Well, when can I see you?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Her mouth trembled. ‘Oh, I don’t know. Please, George. Don’t you see how miserable I am?’ Her eyes became blue, dark; the sunlight made bold the wrenched thrust of her body, her thin taut arm. ‘Please, George.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Are you going to get in or do you want me to pick you up and put you in?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘I’m going to cry in a minute. You’d better let me go.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Oh, damn. Why, sugar, I didn’t mean it that way. I just wanted to see you. We’ve got to see each other if it’s going to be all off with us. Come on, I’ve been good to you.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="car part">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::She relaxed. ‘Well, but just around the block then. I’ve got to get back to them.’ She raised a foot to the running board. ‘Promise?’ she insisted.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Sure. Round the block it is. I won’t run off with you if you say not.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="driving, car">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::She got in and as they drove off she looked quickly to the house. There was a face in the window, a round face.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| 4
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="driving, road, tree, parking">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| George turned from the street and drove down a quiet lane bordered by trees, between walls covered with honeysuckle. He stopped the car and she said swiftly:
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘No, no, George! Drive on.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="car part, parking">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::But he cut the switch. ‘Please,’ she repeated. He turned in his seat.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Cecily, you are kidding me, aren’t you?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="car part">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::She turned the switch and tried to reach the starter with her foot. He caught her hands, holding her. ‘Look at me.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::Her eyes grew blue again with foreboding.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘You are kidding me, aren’t you?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="car part">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘I don’t know. Oh, George, it all happened so suddenly! I don’t know what to think. When we were in there talking about him it all seemed so grand for Donald to be coming back, in spite of that woman with him; and to be engaged to a man who will be famous when he gets here—oh, it seemed then that I did love him: it was exactly the thing to do. But now . . . I’m just not ready to be married yet. And he’s been gone so long, and to take up with another woman on his way to me—I don’t know what to do. I—I’m going to cry,’ she ended suddenly, putting her crooked arm on the seat-back and burying her face in her elbow. He put his arm around her shoulders and tried to draw her to him. She raised her hands between them straightening her arms.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘No, no, take me back.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘But, Cecily—’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘You mustn’t! Don’t you know I’m engaged to be married? He’ll probably want to be married tomorrow, and I’ll have to do it.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘But you can’t do that. You aren’t in love with him.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘But I’ve got to, I tell you!’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Are you in love with him?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Take me back to Uncle Joe’s. Please.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::He was the stronger and at last he held her close, feeling her small bones, her frail taut body beneath her dress. ‘Are you in love with him?’ he repeated.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::She burrowed her face into his coat.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Look at me.’ She refused to lift her face and he slipped his hand under her chin, raising it. ‘Are you?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Yes, yes,’ she said wildly, staring at him. ‘Take me back!’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘You are lying. You aren’t going to marry him.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::She was weeping. ‘Yes, I am. I’ve got to. He expects it and Uncle Joe expects it. I must, I tell you.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Darling, you can’t. Don’t you love me? You know you do. You can’t marry him.’ She stopped struggling and lay against him, crying. ‘Come on, say you won’t marry him.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘George, I can’t,’ she said hopelessly. ‘Don’t you see I have got to marry him?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::Young and miserable they clung to each other. The slumbrous afternoon lay about them in the empty lane. Even the sparrows seemed drowsy and from the spire of the church pigeons were remote and monotonous, unemphatic as sleep. She raised her face.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Kiss me, George.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::He tasted tears: their faces were coolly touching. She drew her head back, searching his face. ‘That was the last time, George.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘No, no,’ he objected, tightening his arms. She resisted a moment, then kissed him passionately.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Darling!’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Darling!’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::She straightened up, dabbing at her eyes with his handkerchief. ‘There! I feel better now. Take me home, kind sir.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘But, Cecily,’ he protested, trying to embrace her again. She put him aside coolly.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Not any more, ever. Take me home, like a nice boy.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘But, Cecily—’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Do you want me to get out and walk? I can, you know: it isn’t far.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="driving, engine">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::He started the engine and drove on in a dull youthful sorrow. She patted at her hair, her fingers bloomed slimly in it, and they turned on to the street again. As she descended at the gate he made a last despairing attempt.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Cecily, for God’s sake!’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::She looked over her shoulder at his stricken face. ‘Don’t be silly, George. Of course I’ll see you again. I’m not married—yet.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::Her white dress in the sun was an unbearable shimmer sloping to her body’s motion and she passed from sunlight to shadow, mounting the steps. At the door she turned, flashed him a smile, and waved her hand. Then her white dress faded beyond a fanlight of muted colour dim with age and lovely with lack of washing, leaving George to stare at the empty maw of the house in hope and despair and baffled youthful lust.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| 5
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="driving">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| Jones at the window saw them drive away. His round face was enigmatic as a god’s, his clear obscene eyes showed no emotion. You are good, you are, he thought in grudging, unillusioned admiration. I hand it to you. He was still musing upon her when the mean-looking black-haired woman, interrupting the rector’s endless reminiscences of his son’s boyhood and youth, suggested that it was time to go to the station.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="parking, car, road condition">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::The divine became aware of the absence of Cecily, who was at that moment sitting in a stationary motor-car in an obscure lane, crying on the shoulder of a man whose name was not Donald. Jones, the only one who had remarked the manner of her going, was for some reason he could not have named safely non-committal. The rector stated fretfully that Cecily, who was at that moment kissing a man whose name was not Donald, should not have gone away at that time. But the other woman (I bet she’s as mean as hell, thought Jones) interrupted again, saying that it was better so.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘But she should have gone to the station to meet him,’ the rector stated with displeasure.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘No, no. Remember, he is sick. The less excitement the better for him. Besides, it is better for them to meet privately.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Ah, yes, quite right, quite right. Trust a woman in these things, Mr Jones. And for that reason perhaps you had better wait also, don’t you think?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘By all means, sir. I will wait and tell Miss Saunders why you went without her. She will doubtless be anxious to know.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="taxi">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::After the cab had called for them and gone Jones, still standing, stuffed his pipe with moody viciousness. He wandered aimlessly about the room, staring out the windows in turn, puffing his pipe; then pausing to push a dead match beneath a rug with his toe he crossed deliberately to the rector’s desk. He drew and closed two drawers before finding the right one.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::The bottle was squat and black and tilted took the light pleasantly. He replaced it, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. And just in time, too, for her rapid brittle steps crossed the veranda and he heard a motor-car retreating.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::The door framed her fragile surprise. She remarked, ‘Oh! Where are the others?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘What’s the matter? Have a puncture?’ Jones countered nastily. Her eyes flew like birds, and he continued: ‘The others? They went to the station, the railroad station. You know: where the trains come in. The parson’s son or something is coming home this afternoon. Fine news, isn’t it? But won’t you come in?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::She entered hesitant, watching him.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Oh, come on in, sister, I won’t hurt you.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘But why didn’t they wait for me?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘They thought you didn’t want to go, I suppose. Hadn’t you left that impression?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::In the silence of the house was a clock like a measured respiration, and Emmy was faintly audible somewhere. These sounds reassured her and she entered a few steps. ‘You saw me go. Didn’t you tell them where I was?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Told them you went to the bathroom.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::She looked at him curiously, knowing in some way that he was not lying. ‘Why did you do that?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘It was your business where you were going, not mine. If you wanted them to know you should have told them yourself.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::She sat alertly. ‘You’re a funny sort of a man, aren’t you?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::Jones moved casually, in no particular direction. ‘How funny?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::She rose. ‘Oh, I don’t know exactly . . . you don’t like me and yet you told a lie for me.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Hell, you don’t think I mind telling a lie, do you?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::She said with speculation:
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘I wouldn’t put anything past you—if you thought you could get any fun out of it.’ Watching his eyes she moved towards the door.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::The trousers hampered him but despite them his agility was amazing. But she was alert and her studied grace lent her muscular control and swiftness, and so it was a bland rubbed panel of wood that he touched. Her dress whipped from sight, he heard a key and her muffled laugh, derisive.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Damn your soul,’ he spoke in a quiet toneless emotion, ‘open the door.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::The wood was bland and inscrutable: baffling, holding up to him in its polished depths the fat white blur of his own face. Holding his breath he heard nothing beyond it save a clock somewhere.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Open the door,’ he repeated, but there was no sound. Has she gone away, or not? he wondered, straining his ears, bending to the bulky tweeded Narcissus of himself in the polished wood. He thought of the windows and walking quietly he crossed the room, finding immovable gauze wire. He returned to the centre of the room without trying to muffle his steps and stood in a mounting anger, cursing her slowly. Then he saw the door handle move.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘He sprang to it. ‘Open the door, you little slut, or I’ll kick your screens out.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::The lock clicked and he jerked the door open upon Emmy, his trousers over her arm, meeting him with her frightened antagonistic eyes.
| |
| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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|
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|
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| ::::‘Where—’ began Jones, and Cecily stepped from the shadows, curtsying like a derisive flower.
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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|
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|
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| ::::‘Checkmate, Mr Jones.’ Jones paraphrased the rector in a reedy falsetto. ‘Do you know—’
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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|
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|
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| ::::‘Yes,’ said Cecily quickly, taking Emmy’s arm. ‘But tell us on the veranda.’ She led the way and Jones followed in reluctant admiration. She and the baleful speechless Emmy preceding him sat arm in arm in a porch swing while afternoon sought interstices in soon-to-be lilac wistaria: afternoon flowed and ebbed upon them as they swung and their respective silk and cotton shins took and released sunlight in running planes.
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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|
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|
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| ::::‘Sit down, Mr Jones,’ she continued, gushing. ‘Do tell us about yourself. We are so interested, aren’t we, Emmy dear?’ Emmy was watchful and inarticulate, like an animal ‘Emmy, dear Mr Jones, has missed all of your conversation and admiring you as we all do—we simply cannot help it, Mr Jones—she is naturally anxious to make up for it.’
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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|
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|
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| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
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| ::::Jones cupped a match in his palms and there were two little flames in his eyes, leaping and sinking to pin points.
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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|
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|
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| ::::‘You are silent, Mr Jones? Emmy and I both would like to hear some more of what you have learned about us from your extensive amatory career. Don’t we, Emmy darling?’
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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|
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|
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| ::::‘‘No, I won’t spoil it for you,’ Jones replied heavily. ‘You are on the verge of getting some first-hand information of your own. As for Miss Emmy, I’ll teach her sometime later, in private.’
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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|
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|
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| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
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| ::::Emmy continued to watch him with fierce dumb distrust. Cecily said: ‘At first-hand?’
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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|
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|
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
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| ::::‘Aren’t you being married tomorrow? You can learn from Oswald. He should certainly be able to tell you, travelling as he seems to with a sparring partner. Got caught, at last, didn’t you?’
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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|
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|
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| <paragraph keywords="">
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| <poem>
| |
| ::::She shivered. She looked so delicate, so needing to be cared for, that Jones, becoming masculine and sentimental, felt again like a cloddish brute. He lit his pipe again and Emmy, convicting herself of the power of speech, said:
| |
| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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|
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|
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| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Yonder they come.’
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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|
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|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="taxi">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::A cab had drawn up to the gate and Cecily sprang to her feet and ran along the porch to the steps. Jones and Emmy rose and Emmy vanished somewhere as four people descended from the cab. So that’s him, thought Jones ungrammatically, following Cecily, watching her as she stood poised on the top step like a bird, her hand to her breast. Trust her!
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| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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|
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|
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| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::He looked again at the party coming through the gate, the rector looming above them all. There was something changed about the divine: age seemed to have suddenly overtaken him, unresisted, coming upon him like a highwayman. He’s sure sick, Jones told himself. The woman, that Mrs Something-or-other, left the party and hastened ahead. She mounted the steps to Cecily.
| |
| </poem>
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| </paragraph>
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|
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|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Come darling,’ she said, taking the girl’s arm, ‘come inside. He is not well and the light hurts his eyes. Come in and meet him there, hadn’t you rather?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘No, no: here. I have waited so long for him.’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::The other woman was kind but obdurate. And she led the girl into the house. Cecily reluctant, with reverted head cried: ‘Uncle Joe! his face! is he sick?’
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
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|
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| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::The divine’s face was grey and slack as dirty snow. At the steps he stumbled slightly and Jones sprang forward, taking his arm. ‘Thanks, buddy,’ said the third man, in a private’s uniform, whose hand was beneath Mahon’s elbow. They mounted the steps and crossing the porch passed under the fanlight, into the dark hall.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘Take your cap, Loot,’ murmured the enlisted man. The other removed it and handed it to him. They heard swift tapping feet crossing a room and the study door opened letting a flood of light fall upon them, and Cecily cried:
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::‘‘Donald! Donald! She says your face is hur—oooooh!’ she ended, screaming as she saw him.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
| |
|
| |
|
| |
| <paragraph keywords="">
| |
| <poem>
| |
| ::::The light passing through her fine hair gave her a halo and lent her frail dress a fainting nimbus about her crumpling body like a stricken poplar. Mrs Powers moving quickly caught her, but not before her head had struck the door jamb.
| |
| </poem>
| |
| </paragraph>
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|
| |
|
| |
| </annotations>
| |
