her. He only felt strong
and capable when he tackled huge masses, strong features, heavy bodies. Djuna’s
image was too tenuous for him.
But when she was there he painted better.
Silently she seemed to be participating, silently she seemed to be transmitting
forces.
Where did her force come from? No one knew.
She merely sat there and the colors began to
organize themselves, to deepen, as if he took the violet from her eyes when she
was angry, the blue when she was at peace, the gray when she was detached, the
gold when she was melted and warm, and painted with them. Using her eyes as a
color chart.
In this way he passed from the eyes of Lillian
which said: “I am here to warm you.” Eyes of devotion.
To the eyes of Sabina which said: “I am here to
consume you.”
To the eyes of Djuna which said: “I am here to
reflect your painter’s dream, like a crystal ball.”
Bread and fire and light, he needed them all.
He could be nourished on Lillian’s faith but it did not illumine his work.
There were places into which Lillian could not follow him. When he was
tormented by a half-formed image he went to Djuna, just as once walking through
the streets with her he had seen a child bring her a tangled skein of string to
unravel.
He would have liked the three women to love
each other. It seemed to him that then he would be at peace. When they pulled
against each other for supremacy itwas as if different parts of his own body
pulled against each other.
On days when Lillian accepted understanding
through the eyes of Djuna, when each one was connected with her role and did
not seek to usurp the other’s place he was at peace and slept profoundly.
(If only, thought Lillian, lying in the
disordered bed, when he moved away I could be quiet and complete and free. He
seems bound to me and then so completely unbound. He changes. One day I look at
him and there is warmth in him, and the next a kind of ruthlessness. There are
times when he kisses me and I feel he is not kissing me but any woman, or all
the women he has known. There are times when he seems made of wax, and I can
see on him the imprint of all those he has seen during the day. I can hear
their words. Last night he even fraternized with the man who was courting me.
What does this mean? Even with Edgar who was trying to take me away from him.
He was in one of his moods of effusive display, when he loved everybody. He is
promiscuous. I can’t bear how near they come, they talk in his face, they
breathe his breath. Anyone at all has this privilege. Anyone can talk to him,
share his house, and even me. He gives away everything. Djuna says I lack
faith… Is that what it is? But how can I heal myself? I thought one could get
healed by just living and loving.)
Lying in bed and listening to Jay whistling
while he shaved in the bathroom, Lillian wondered why she felt simultaneously
in bondage and yet unmarried, unappeased, and all her conversations with Djuna
with whom she was able to talk even better than to monologue with herself once
more recurred to her before she allowed herself to face the dominant impulse
ruling her: to run away from Jay.
Passion gathered its mometum, its frenzy, from
the effort to possess what was unpossessable in reality, because it sprang from
an illusion, because it gained impetus from a secret knowledge of its
unfulfillable quality, because it attacked romantic organisms, and incited to
fever in place of a natural union by feelings. Passion between two people came
from a feverish desire to fuse elements which were unfusable. The extreme heat
to which human beings subjected themselves in this experiment, as if by
intensity the unfusable elements could be melted into one—water with fire, fire
with earth, rock and water. An effort doomed to defeat.
Lillian could not see all this, but felt it
happening, and knew that this was why she had wept so bitterly at their first
quarrel: not weeping over a trivial difference but because her instinct
and capable when he tackled huge masses, strong features, heavy bodies. Djuna’s
image was too tenuous for him.
But when she was there he painted better.
Silently she seemed to be participating, silently she seemed to be transmitting
forces.
Where did her force come from? No one knew.
She merely sat there and the colors began to
organize themselves, to deepen, as if he took the violet from her eyes when she
was angry, the blue when she was at peace, the gray when she was detached, the
gold when she was melted and warm, and painted with them. Using her eyes as a
color chart.
In this way he passed from the eyes of Lillian
which said: “I am here to warm you.” Eyes of devotion.
To the eyes of Sabina which said: “I am here to
consume you.”
To the eyes of Djuna which said: “I am here to
reflect your painter’s dream, like a crystal ball.”
Bread and fire and light, he needed them all.
He could be nourished on Lillian’s faith but it did not illumine his work.
There were places into which Lillian could not follow him. When he was
tormented by a half-formed image he went to Djuna, just as once walking through
the streets with her he had seen a child bring her a tangled skein of string to
unravel.
He would have liked the three women to love
each other. It seemed to him that then he would be at peace. When they pulled
against each other for supremacy itwas as if different parts of his own body
pulled against each other.
On days when Lillian accepted understanding
through the eyes of Djuna, when each one was connected with her role and did
not seek to usurp the other’s place he was at peace and slept profoundly.
(If only, thought Lillian, lying in the
disordered bed, when he moved away I could be quiet and complete and free. He
seems bound to me and then so completely unbound. He changes. One day I look at
him and there is warmth in him, and the next a kind of ruthlessness. There are
times when he kisses me and I feel he is not kissing me but any woman, or all
the women he has known. There are times when he seems made of wax, and I can
see on him the imprint of all those he has seen during the day. I can hear
their words. Last night he even fraternized with the man who was courting me.
What does this mean? Even with Edgar who was trying to take me away from him.
He was in one of his moods of effusive display, when he loved everybody. He is
promiscuous. I can’t bear how near they come, they talk in his face, they
breathe his breath. Anyone at all has this privilege. Anyone can talk to him,
share his house, and even me. He gives away everything. Djuna says I lack
faith… Is that what it is? But how can I heal myself? I thought one could get
healed by just living and loving.)
Lying in bed and listening to Jay whistling
while he shaved in the bathroom, Lillian wondered why she felt simultaneously
in bondage and yet unmarried, unappeased, and all her conversations with Djuna
with whom she was able to talk even better than to monologue with herself once
more recurred to her before she allowed herself to face the dominant impulse
ruling her: to run away from Jay.
Passion gathered its mometum, its frenzy, from
the effort to possess what was unpossessable in reality, because it sprang from
an illusion, because it gained impetus from a secret knowledge of its
unfulfillable quality, because it attacked romantic organisms, and incited to
fever in place of a natural union by feelings. Passion between two people came
from a feverish desire to fuse elements which were unfusable. The extreme heat
to which human beings subjected themselves in this experiment, as if by
intensity the unfusable elements could be melted into one—water with fire, fire
with earth, rock and water. An effort doomed to defeat.
Lillian could not see all this, but felt it
happening, and knew that this was why she had wept so bitterly at their first
quarrel: not weeping over a trivial difference but because her instinct
Similar Books
