“I wish it weren’t so
hot,” she said.
She drifted towards the windows. Merton
stared at his plate. Albertine’s eyes were full of tears, a nakedness which
thrilled and embarrassed him.
“Just think,” Laura said, also rising, “if
there were a ghost, we should have to call one of those village priests to
exorcise it.” She crossed to stand behind Ashburn’s chair, and set one hand
very lightly on his shoulder. “Do you know,” she said, “they are praying for
rain—actually praying. And never in my life did I hear such pagan screaming as
emanates from the Catholic church. Come now, Robert, we will take a walk in the
garden, you and I, and you shall tell me what you are writing.”
Sibbi said: “Yes, the garden, I think I
shall come with you—”
Laura smiled at her. “I have a much
better idea. I heard you playing earlier. You have such a delicate touch and
yet, I believe, that latest piece would benefit from practice—why not practice
now, Sibbi? It’s a little cooler, I think.”
Sibbi narrowed her cat’s eyes as Laura
and Ashburn strolled into the garden. She stalked to the piano and began to
play very loudly and brilliantly. “How do you stand that woman, Albertine?” she
demanded. “Does she suppose she owns everything?”
Albertine sat in the wicker chair by the
veranda doors. Her dress spilled about her feet like a pool of milk. “Never
mind,” she said soothingly, as if to a child. She watched Ashburn and Laura go
up and down the walks among the burning green with its little filigree flickers
of shade. The brazen clangour of heat was mulling, darkening, lying down like
lions under the trees. Albertine could imagine Laura saying to Ashburn:
“Yes, I know what I am to you. Albertine
is your heart, and this silly little Sibbi your appetite. And I am your brain.
Do you think you can relinquish me?”
Albertine imagined she saw how the poet
became animated, speaking of what he wrote to Laura. She sat very still in the
wicker chair, watching them. A whole procession with its banners travelled
through her mind, the first meeting, the first dream, the first embrace, the
green graves, the seascapes, the hot gipsy summers with, superimposed upon it
all, Laura, with her sharp dark gown slashing at the grass.
Suddenly Sibbi jumped up. “Why didn’t I
think of it before? We must hold a séance. There is an ideal little table, and
I recall there is something one does with a wineglass—” She ran to the veranda
doors and called out. Ashburn turned at once. Sibbi stood, like a slender
flower stalk, holding out her hand to him across the lawn.
And shortly they all sat round a table,
like figures inscribed on a clock.
They held hands, the obdurate glass
discarded. Nothing had happened, but it was too hot to move. Merton, seated between
Sibbi and Laura, fell suddenly asleep and woke as suddenly with a wild grunt.
As it had mummified the flowers, the earth, the island, the heat mummified the
two men and three women at the table.
Only the eyes of the women sometimes
darted, like needles stabbing between their lashes, observing the poet. Sibbi
held one of his hands, Albertine the other. Ashburn, blinded by the heat, shut
his eyes and experienced the sensation of two leeches, one on either palm,
sucking his blood from him. He thought he had fallen asleep for a moment as
Merton had done; he could not resist looking down at his hands. Albertine’s
hand was cold as ice, Sibbi’s warm and dry. A peculiar stasis had fallen over
them all. The poet glanced up and saw the clock had fittingly stopped on the
mantelshelf. The eyes of the three women and of the man, as always, were on
him.
“This is very irksome,” Laura said. “Really,
Sibbi, can’t you use some blandishment to persuade your ghostie to appear? I
have three letters to write—”
“I could sing,” Sibbi said; her hand
moved in his. “If Robert thinks I should.”
“That should charm any ghost, I’m sure,”
stung Laura. They had
hot,” she said.
She drifted towards the windows. Merton
stared at his plate. Albertine’s eyes were full of tears, a nakedness which
thrilled and embarrassed him.
“Just think,” Laura said, also rising, “if
there were a ghost, we should have to call one of those village priests to
exorcise it.” She crossed to stand behind Ashburn’s chair, and set one hand
very lightly on his shoulder. “Do you know,” she said, “they are praying for
rain—actually praying. And never in my life did I hear such pagan screaming as
emanates from the Catholic church. Come now, Robert, we will take a walk in the
garden, you and I, and you shall tell me what you are writing.”
Sibbi said: “Yes, the garden, I think I
shall come with you—”
Laura smiled at her. “I have a much
better idea. I heard you playing earlier. You have such a delicate touch and
yet, I believe, that latest piece would benefit from practice—why not practice
now, Sibbi? It’s a little cooler, I think.”
Sibbi narrowed her cat’s eyes as Laura
and Ashburn strolled into the garden. She stalked to the piano and began to
play very loudly and brilliantly. “How do you stand that woman, Albertine?” she
demanded. “Does she suppose she owns everything?”
Albertine sat in the wicker chair by the
veranda doors. Her dress spilled about her feet like a pool of milk. “Never
mind,” she said soothingly, as if to a child. She watched Ashburn and Laura go
up and down the walks among the burning green with its little filigree flickers
of shade. The brazen clangour of heat was mulling, darkening, lying down like
lions under the trees. Albertine could imagine Laura saying to Ashburn:
“Yes, I know what I am to you. Albertine
is your heart, and this silly little Sibbi your appetite. And I am your brain.
Do you think you can relinquish me?”
Albertine imagined she saw how the poet
became animated, speaking of what he wrote to Laura. She sat very still in the
wicker chair, watching them. A whole procession with its banners travelled
through her mind, the first meeting, the first dream, the first embrace, the
green graves, the seascapes, the hot gipsy summers with, superimposed upon it
all, Laura, with her sharp dark gown slashing at the grass.
Suddenly Sibbi jumped up. “Why didn’t I
think of it before? We must hold a séance. There is an ideal little table, and
I recall there is something one does with a wineglass—” She ran to the veranda
doors and called out. Ashburn turned at once. Sibbi stood, like a slender
flower stalk, holding out her hand to him across the lawn.
And shortly they all sat round a table,
like figures inscribed on a clock.
They held hands, the obdurate glass
discarded. Nothing had happened, but it was too hot to move. Merton, seated between
Sibbi and Laura, fell suddenly asleep and woke as suddenly with a wild grunt.
As it had mummified the flowers, the earth, the island, the heat mummified the
two men and three women at the table.
Only the eyes of the women sometimes
darted, like needles stabbing between their lashes, observing the poet. Sibbi
held one of his hands, Albertine the other. Ashburn, blinded by the heat, shut
his eyes and experienced the sensation of two leeches, one on either palm,
sucking his blood from him. He thought he had fallen asleep for a moment as
Merton had done; he could not resist looking down at his hands. Albertine’s
hand was cold as ice, Sibbi’s warm and dry. A peculiar stasis had fallen over
them all. The poet glanced up and saw the clock had fittingly stopped on the
mantelshelf. The eyes of the three women and of the man, as always, were on
him.
“This is very irksome,” Laura said. “Really,
Sibbi, can’t you use some blandishment to persuade your ghostie to appear? I
have three letters to write—”
“I could sing,” Sibbi said; her hand
moved in his. “If Robert thinks I should.”
“That should charm any ghost, I’m sure,”
stung Laura. They had
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