Middle of the Journey, The by Trilling Lionel

Author:Trilling, Lionel [Trilling, Lionel]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Novel, Modern Classics
ISBN: 9781590175521
Publisher: New York Review Books
Published: 2014-03-17T21:28:32+00:00

7

“AND DID those feet in ancient time

Walk upon England’s mountains green?”

When she mentioned feet Susan Caldwell’s hand swept down to indicate her feet. When she referred to mountains, it swept upward and suggested a mountain.

“‘And was the holy Lamb of God’”—and now with cradling arms and downward gazing eyes she indicated a lamb and its tender care—“‘On England’s pleasant pastures seen?’” Her widely separating hands suggested both the extent of the pastures and the breadth of the question.

Laskell, holding the book, was appalled.

But he had already questioned her twice and did not like to do it again. He had been writing in his room that afternoon and had seen her drifting vaguely up and down the Folgers’ lawn, looking at the upper windows, carrying in her arms—in much the same way she was to “carry” the Lamb—the big book. He came down to her, thinking that she might possibly want him, and it turned out that she had come on a visit to him. The visit was not wholly social. Or at least she did not present it as wholly social. She wanted Laskell to “hear” the poem she was to recite at the Bazaar. But her intention to make use of him did not diminish and even increased the odd little flattery of the visit. They sat down on the lawn together and Laskell addressed himself very seriously to the duty she had imposed upon him.

She handed him the book. It was a big college anthology of English literature. She opened to the place marked by a slip of paper and gave him the volume at a double page of Blake’s songs.

“Which one is it?” he said.

She stood over him and pointed to one of the poems on the page. It was not a Song of Innocence or a Song of Experience, but the four stanzas that Blake had prefixed to Milton.

“Why are you reciting this one?” Laskell asked.

“Is it wrong?” said Susan, her eyes wide.

“Wrong? Oh, no. I just wanted to know why.”

She explained. “For the entertainment we can each do anything we want. It’s a very informal entertainment. One of the girls is going to play the piano and render the ‘Parade of the Wooden Soldiers.’ Did you ever hear that piece?”

“Yes, I have,” Laskell said.

“And one is going to sing. And I’m going to recite this poem. Mother read me a lot of poems and I liked this one. She said I could choose one I liked. I liked this one. So I chose it.” The logic could not have been clearer. She went beyond logic to explain. “It’s an easy poem to recite because of the gestures. It has a lot of gestures.”

“Gestures?” But Laskell was not so young that he could pretend to ignorance of the tradition of recitation with expression and gestures. He said, “Oh, I see.”

And now Susan took her stance. But first she shook herself from the shoulders, her wrists loose. She agitated them violently and very seriously, as if she were giving herself over to the uncontrollable spasms of a dreadful neurological disorder.

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