Asphodel by Hilda Doolittle

Author:Hilda Doolittle [Doolittle, Hilda]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: S
Publisher: Duke University Press
Published: 2012-09-30T20:00:00+00:00

But who killed her? Walter was looking at Vérène, Vérène was looking at Walter. The letter lay between them. Shadows in the room. “How dreadful for you, Hermione.” Someone was saying it was dreadful for Hermione. Someone was breaking the silence that lay between Vérène and Walter, the silence that became tighter and harder like an ice floe that becomes harder the harder the river presses on it. Someone should say something. Someone did. It was Darrington. “But poor Hermione rushed out to tea. I was to meet her there. I met her coming back—on the stairs.” Someone had met someone. Who? Darrington had met Hermione. “Darrington to the rescue.” Someone was thinking in all this of Hermione. But Hermione looked at Walter, looked at Vérène. Walter though he did not turn his head, felt Hermione. He felt Hermione staring as he had felt her in his music. He knew Hermione was there though he was looking at Vérène. Must they all feel sorry for Vérène because Vérène had done it? But had Vérène done it? Who had killed Shirley. The letter lay on the floor. Walter was twisting one great hand with great strong fingers. Fingers that had begun at three, tiny fingers, going on and on and Walter had that kind of power, detached power. It was detached power that had killed Shirley. Walter simply. It was Walter’s music. “But how was—I—to—know—” Walter was asking this of the void though Vérène as usual thought anything addressed to the void by Walter was meant for her. She would mother Walter. O don’t let me see her mothering Walter. “It wasn’t—your—fault— Vrrralter.” No. Don’t let him know it was his fault for it was his fault. The letter said so though she had not read the letter. She had found Walter reading the letter as she stumbled in to Clichy. She had rushed to them . . . a letter had reached Walter. What did the letter say? It was on the floor there. Pick up the letter, someone, its shameful lying on the floor—no, I didn’t see her. She was lying on the floor. Anyone could look at her, inspectors, horrible people for she was outside the law. She couldn’t be cremated. She had killed herself. She had left another letter asking to be cremated. Did it matter? But she couldn’t be. All these letters, meaning nothing, meaning everything. They had all killed her.

George had killed her certainly. It was Walter saying it, “But we thought she was going to marry—George.” George must be blamed, scape-goat. He was a scape-goat. Kissing them all. Let all the sins of all the kisses be upon him. For this was a sin. Kisses that had killed Shirley. Vérène was making it right, was trying to make it right. “She should have married—someone.” She should have married. Then it would have been all right. Then she wouldn’t have been a virgin, gone mad, simply, like Cassandra. Shirley was like Cassandra smitten by the sun-god.

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