Lilith (34 page)
“That was some storm we had last night. Did you see any of it?”
“Yes, a shutter broke loose around three o’clock and woke me up. I never saw it rain so hard.”
“There’s a tree down in the pond. One of the poplars.”
“Really? I was going to take a group down for a swim this afternoon, but I guess I’d better call it off.”
“Yes, the water’s full of rubbish. By the way, did you get Lilith out yesterday?”
“Yes. It went very well, I think. I’ve never seen her better.”
“Good. Have you got a minute? Walk down to the Lodge with me.”
I fell in beside him and we walked slowly under the dripping trees.
“Behaved herself, did she?” he asked.
“Very well. I left the report on the floor.”
“Yes, I haven’t had a chance to look at them yet. How do you feel about yourself? Any more secure?”
“Oh, I think so. Maybe it was all imagination, I don’t know. Or beginner’s nerves, or something. I felt perfectly comfortable with her yesterday. I think I just needed to talk it over a little; I’m so afraid of making a mistake, you know.”
“Well, it’s a good thing to feel that way. But it’s perfectly natural. I don’t think you’ve got anything to worry about. She still wants to go to the tournament?”
“She seems to, yes.”
“Good. I think we’ll let her, then. I’m quite pleased with her, on the whole. She’s been out several times this last week or two, with different O. T.s, and they all give good reports. Are you still getting a lot of fantasy?”
“No, not so much yesterday. I mentioned that in my report.”
“No personal talk of any kind?”
“No.”
“Well, keep in touch with me. Thanks very much. I think you’re doing a good job with her, Vincent.”
I watched him walk up the veranda steps, a quiet, modest, devoted man, my mentor, my patron! And all the while I was talking to him, in spite of my terrible excitement, my swiftly, corruptly functioning intelligence—a sense of ease, of perfect exterior calm, of effortless improvisation; even a kind of craftsman’s pride in my skillfully constructed imposture. I know that if I stop to think of what I am doing, if I for a moment relinquish the excitement or momentum of my course, I will collapse with shame. But I feel within myself a ferocious energy, a faint incessant furor which is like a fuel; it gives me a vitality I have never had before. I long to do some heroic thing—climb mountains, charge and shatter phalanxes with my sword, produce in an instant epics out of my swarming mind. Indeed if it were not for the quaintness of the phrase, I could call myself possessed.
I did not see Lilith all day. What a monstrous effort of will it took to prevent myself from stopping, even for a moment, at her door! Perhaps it was a subtle form of self-chastisement for my dishonesty this morning. I must not stay away too long, however, or there is no telling what she will do. And yet I must not seem too eager to escort her; that could create a fatal suspicion. We must await our hour, Lilith. (How quickly I am learning the art of discretion!) But there is a tournament a week away—I saw it advertised this evening on a poster in Wingate’s window! Can I wait so long to have you to myself again? Perhaps we can invent some other way. Truly, I am beginning to understand the uses of intelligence!
THURS., MAY 28:
. . .
It is sickening, sickening. When I read back through these last few pages I am horrified. Can I have written these words? I can’t recognize my own personality in them.
What has happened to all that splendid energy? I have been so hopelessly weary all day; weary with shame, I suppose. I feel weak with fatigue, bruised, abased—as if I had been trampled by horses. I have even dreamed about them. When was it I saw them so clearly—last night? No, the night before. Black stallions with swollen necks, great rolling eyes, bared teeth and livid gums, charging over me, their hoofs lifted, falling, lifting again, now stained and splashed with gore from my shattered head; and far off, on a plain behind them, one lone white horse with a mane as pure as snow, galloping off into the distance, his saddle empty.
It is not too late to put an end to it. Tomorrow I shall tell Dr. Lavrier everything and give him my resignation. Thank God I shall be able to sleep tonight.
FRI., MAY 29:
. . .
I was prepared for anything, I think, except her tears. But when I came into her room she was weeping, sitting on the floor beside her loom, her forehead pressed against the wall, her face and shoulders shrouded by her yellow hair, which trembled softly while she sobbed. I knelt beside her, helpless, burning with wild tenderness. “Lilith, Lilith, what is it? Why are you sad?”
“Oh, Vincent,” she said. “I’m afraid they will leave me. They have threatened never to come back again. Oh, my beautiful people! What will I do if they leave me alone?”
The door was open; there were attendants passing in the hall. I did not dare to lay my hand on her head. I could only say in a soft, demented whisper, “Don’t cry. Don’t cry, Lilith. I’m here. I’m here, if you want me.”
After several minutes she stifled her sobbing and asked if I would read to her.
“Yes. What shall I read?”
“I don’t know. There’s nothing here that you can read. Do you know some poetry?”
“No.”
“Then speak to me. Anything. Invent it, if you like.”
So I began to speak to her. A great long, fantastic speech that it seemed to me I had always yearned to make. Rambling, passionate nonsense. What on earth did I say? I can’t remember all of it: “Once, when I was a boy, I tried to fly. I fell down, stunned, from the porch banisters; and just in front of me in the grass, where I was lying, there were two little green lizards making love. Their bodies were joined together, utterly motionless except for their breathing, which was perfectly in unison. I thought for a moment that I was dead, and that this was my first glimpse of heaven: a place where green monsters lay locked together in eternal, motionless ecstasy. A terrible vision of Paradise; so terrible that I thought immediately, No, it isn’t heaven; it’s hell, of course. But I was dazed, you see, not really thinking well; so that I could not be sure which of them it was, or if there was any difference between them. A moment later, when I had recovered my senses a bit, I thought, Oh, it’s only earth. I am not dead. But I was neither very convinced nor very reassured; I don’t think I have ever been, because I am still haunted by those spellbound monsters. I have always wanted to tell that to someone.
“And also about my mother’s grave: I went there one day and planted an azalea, one of those beautiful pale salmon-colored ones. But while I was planting it the gardener came—he had been working in another corner of the cemetery—and made me dig it up. ‘No, you can’t plant it here,’ he said. ‘Nothing must be planted in the cemetery.’ ‘Oh. Why?’ I asked. ‘Because of the mowing. How do you expect me to mow the grass if there are bushes planted everywhere?’ It was something I had never thought about before, but he was right, of course. I suppose they have to mow it. But it gave me a terrible feeling about dead people: that even after they’re dead they’re not really free, they haven’t really escaped. There are still all kinds of rules that they have to abide by; they have to be mowed regularly, and made to look tidy. And there are those awful tidy words that they put on their headstones—I hate them. I should think when you’re dead, at least, you shouldn’t be expected to be neat any more. My mother was never very neat. She always had yellow ribbons hanging down all over her; she could never keep them tied. And when she was alive there were always little gold-colored hairpins lying around, all over the house. It’s awful to think of them making her lie there like that, so neatly, forever . . .”
I went on and on, for five or ten minutes, I think, sitting beside her on the floor, saying any kind of nonsense that came into my mind. And I was supposed to be comforting her—my God! It must be the strangest declaration of love that was ever made. But the odd thing is that I think she understood me, because she listened so attentively, so appreciatively, as if I were saying the most eloquent piece of poetry ever written. And when I had finished she laid her head against my knee, closing her eyes and smiling softly. She had stopped crying.
MON., JUNE 1:
. . .That inscription on the wall above her bed will drive me mad. What in God’s name can it mean? HIARA PIRLU RESH KAVAWN. I lie and whisper it to myself for hours, seeing the great black letters in my mind. Sometimes there is a gathering sense of revelation, a hectic intensification, as of growing insight, and I feel that in a moment its meaning will burst open in my mind like a great white flower of light, an exploding star; and then I shall know the answer! But it never finishes; always it fades with a ghostly waning grace, like the moon on a cloudy night, and I am left rigid with terrible suspense. What must I do to learn it? She will not tell me—no matter how I threaten or cajole her. This morning I asked her again, and she said, “I can’t tell you, Vincent; please don’t ask me any more. Do you want me to be punished? They would punish me dreadfully.” Looking at me with those great plaintive eyes. Some day I will take her hand and twist and bend her fingers—even if she screams with pain—until she tells me. She has as much as promised me, and by Heaven I mean to know. Arrogant, tormenting creature!
TUES., JUNE 2:
. . .
I could not help being amused by Bea this morning. I am sure she was trying to outwit me: “I’m worried about Warren; do you think you could persuade her at least to be civil to him?” Now how on earth did she expect me to react to that? Certainly not with such polished self-possession! “I’ll try, if you like. Perhaps I could get her to the tea dance this week, and have her dance with him.” Oh, I have far too much at stake to be deceived by that sort of trumpery! It’s disturbing, however, to think that they may be aware of what I feel. They are very perceptive people, and it would be easy for me to betray myself. I must be extremely cautious. . . .
Tomorrow I am to take her to the tournament at Kingston! I am blazing, feverish with excitement. I have walked back and forth from the window to my desk twenty times, clenching my hands, pressing my knuckles against my mouth, smiling with delight at the surprise I have in store for her! Yesterday evening when I was coming home I met Howie Elliot in front of the drugstore, his arm in a cast. He is about my age, and used to ride sometimes at the county fair before the war. We chatted for a few minutes, and I asked if he was going to the tournament tomorrow.
“I’m going,” he said, “but I can’t do no more than watch, now. I was going to ride till I broke this damn thing rabbit hunting last week. You going to ride?”
“No, I haven’t got a horse any more,” I said.
“Well, hell, ride mine! He’s all trained and ready to go. I got him entered, anyway.”
“Do you mean it?”
“Sure! I’m going to take him over, anyway. You can just ride for me. I’d like to see him win. He’s a real nice little stallion—five years old and real sweet to run.”
“By gosh, I’d like to!” I said. “But I haven’t ridden since before the war. I’m probably rusty as an old nail.”
“Hell, you won’t have no trouble. Take a crack at it, anyway. I’d like for somebody to run him. I’ll bring you a lance and all.”
“All right, I will!” I said. “I’d really like to. Thanks a million, Howie.”
“That’s the idea. I’ll meet you up there about eleven, then. It don’t start till noon.”
So I am going to ride for her, after all! There must have been Providence in such an opportunity—there’s really no other way to explain it! I can’t believe my good fortune. It gives me a feeling of pride which is quite unlike anything I’ve ever felt before—but of apprehension, too. I’m so out of practice that I’m afraid I’ll perform disgracefully in front of her, which is too terrible to think about. I don’t expect to win, of course, but if I could come in at least third or fourth, and win a ribbon for her—even a yellow one—it would be the most wonderful day of my life, I think! . Lord, help me win a ribbon for my love!
What an odd-looking young man! I thought with a delightfully artificial naïveté. His nose is too large, his lashes are too long. And yet how I wish I were him! His face has a look of importance about it. He will do something of consequence today! And I remember a pathetic look of mortified surprise that came into my eyes at the sudden devastating intimation of my own vanity—vanity of a dimension I had never before suspected in myself. I set my razor down with a little clink on the side of the enamel basin and stood with my eyes closed for a moment in desolate awareness of the things a man may do in the hunger to distinguish himself before his fellows, or before God. But when I had had my coffee in the silent kitchen and stepped out into the moist cool stir of morning I felt myself reclaimed by the passions of the day, and all the way down the street to Poplar Lodge I gathered invisible reins in my clenched hand and hoisted a heavy lance beneath my armpit, sighting and leveling it adroitly while with my knees I steadied my galloping, ghostly steed.
As it was known that I would be “specialing” most of the day, I was excused from the morning meeting to make preparations for our trip. I fueled the staff limousine at our private gasoline pump and went down to the kitchen to order a special luncheon for Lilith: honey and watercress sandwiches, a Thermos of milk, and tangerines, all of which I knew she liked especially. I began to be very afraid that she would decide, at the last minute, not to go; but when I arrived at the door of her room I found her not only prepared but as nearly eager to go as I had ever seen her. She was barefoot, however.
