called the sleeping swans to pass
by them on the lake in the park and the coachman flicked the whip over the horse’s ears.
“Why did you want to take me home?” she asked.
“I’m fond of the color of your hair and eyes.”
Stella felt nothing near her, could feel no man orbeast
or spirit lurking under the rain, no hand crept towards hers. She could not even feel or
hear his breathing, only the steady turning of the axletree. No man in the world, sitting as
Cromwell sat, soft felt brim curling with rain, fine straight features and wide nostrils
drinking in the lavender, no such man or leader of men could have caused a single ripple in
her even tone.
“Why didn’t you stay home, in your English home?” Her hair was becoming damp
and heavy.
“Home? Why I don’t really have a home, and in fact, I don’t believe anyone
has.” Now, with a change of wind, she could smell his scented breath, but he was foreign,
unreal, was a humor she could brush away with her white hand. “I feel that I am one of those
middle-aged men whom, in a little while, people will call an expatriate.” In full light he
looked a little old, resembled a smart but tottering wolfhound guarding its own grave. And
Cromwell, like a change of mind or a false impression, like an unexpected meeting or a
mistake in the dark, filled Ernie’s place and caused in Stella a fleeting disbelief; she
expected to see the lacerated face aloof in the corner of her carriage. He rode as an
Archduke, unconsciously wiping the rain from his waistcoat, smiling slightly with lonely
intoxication. Stella looked beyond the figure of the fat coachman to see the angular street
unwind.
“I think that everyone has a home.” Her voice was musical like the
axletree.
When he spoke, it was not quite as if he wanted to talk to her. His throat
was hidden by an upturned flowing collar.
“I, for one, don’t even remember my mother’s face. England is a land of
homeless people, but theGermans, though just as homeless, are a little
slow in realizing it. And besides, they have a beautiful capacity for ideals of conquest, a
traditional heroism.” His mouth was becoming heavy with a very sour taste of sleep, a taste
of finding it still dark beyond the raised shade, the sourness accumulated from many
unwanted meals, and still he kept his head in a smiling manner, looked into the flowering
darkness with a pleasant friendly way of practiced youth.
“The bedclothes, curtains, my mother’s gowns, the very way I looked as a
child, were always unfamiliar. Unfamiliar.”
The slight layer of accent beneath his perfect speech began to disrupt her
isolation. The soft ribbon of street started to break up into glaring bricks, into actual
corners, into black patches of shadow against the curb, the horse stumbling and nodding. The
rain shook in the linden trees.
“You should have stayed home,” she said. Stella thought that she was too
precious for this journey and counted, one by one, the statues of Heroes that lined the
street on the park side and wished she could recognize the stone faces. They seemed like
metal behind an angry crowd, as if they might step out to march up the stifling street, rain
falling from their foreheads. Almost like man and wife they plodded along in silence, the
late night growing smoky, their clothes wet as if they had been playfully wading in the park
lake. How wonderful that they had all liked her singing, that they had clapped and looked
after her, that she could sing to State heroes. Somehow she thought that Cromwell had not
clapped at all. Again she could almost feel the three claws just above her knee, would offer
her firm legto their frightened touch. Cromwell, though he seemed to be
easily considering the black early morning, found that he could not settle back, resigned to
the rain, easily riding in the Duchess’ carriage, but felt a vague general pain as if the
Heroes
by them on the lake in the park and the coachman flicked the whip over the horse’s ears.
“Why did you want to take me home?” she asked.
“I’m fond of the color of your hair and eyes.”
Stella felt nothing near her, could feel no man orbeast
or spirit lurking under the rain, no hand crept towards hers. She could not even feel or
hear his breathing, only the steady turning of the axletree. No man in the world, sitting as
Cromwell sat, soft felt brim curling with rain, fine straight features and wide nostrils
drinking in the lavender, no such man or leader of men could have caused a single ripple in
her even tone.
“Why didn’t you stay home, in your English home?” Her hair was becoming damp
and heavy.
“Home? Why I don’t really have a home, and in fact, I don’t believe anyone
has.” Now, with a change of wind, she could smell his scented breath, but he was foreign,
unreal, was a humor she could brush away with her white hand. “I feel that I am one of those
middle-aged men whom, in a little while, people will call an expatriate.” In full light he
looked a little old, resembled a smart but tottering wolfhound guarding its own grave. And
Cromwell, like a change of mind or a false impression, like an unexpected meeting or a
mistake in the dark, filled Ernie’s place and caused in Stella a fleeting disbelief; she
expected to see the lacerated face aloof in the corner of her carriage. He rode as an
Archduke, unconsciously wiping the rain from his waistcoat, smiling slightly with lonely
intoxication. Stella looked beyond the figure of the fat coachman to see the angular street
unwind.
“I think that everyone has a home.” Her voice was musical like the
axletree.
When he spoke, it was not quite as if he wanted to talk to her. His throat
was hidden by an upturned flowing collar.
“I, for one, don’t even remember my mother’s face. England is a land of
homeless people, but theGermans, though just as homeless, are a little
slow in realizing it. And besides, they have a beautiful capacity for ideals of conquest, a
traditional heroism.” His mouth was becoming heavy with a very sour taste of sleep, a taste
of finding it still dark beyond the raised shade, the sourness accumulated from many
unwanted meals, and still he kept his head in a smiling manner, looked into the flowering
darkness with a pleasant friendly way of practiced youth.
“The bedclothes, curtains, my mother’s gowns, the very way I looked as a
child, were always unfamiliar. Unfamiliar.”
The slight layer of accent beneath his perfect speech began to disrupt her
isolation. The soft ribbon of street started to break up into glaring bricks, into actual
corners, into black patches of shadow against the curb, the horse stumbling and nodding. The
rain shook in the linden trees.
“You should have stayed home,” she said. Stella thought that she was too
precious for this journey and counted, one by one, the statues of Heroes that lined the
street on the park side and wished she could recognize the stone faces. They seemed like
metal behind an angry crowd, as if they might step out to march up the stifling street, rain
falling from their foreheads. Almost like man and wife they plodded along in silence, the
late night growing smoky, their clothes wet as if they had been playfully wading in the park
lake. How wonderful that they had all liked her singing, that they had clapped and looked
after her, that she could sing to State heroes. Somehow she thought that Cromwell had not
clapped at all. Again she could almost feel the three claws just above her knee, would offer
her firm legto their frightened touch. Cromwell, though he seemed to be
easily considering the black early morning, found that he could not settle back, resigned to
the rain, easily riding in the Duchess’ carriage, but felt a vague general pain as if the
Heroes
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