Chapter 11
HELIODORA He and I sought together over the spattered table, rhymes and flowers, gifts for a name. He said, among others, I will bring, and the phrase was just as good, but not as good as mine, the Narcissus that loves the rain. We strove for a name, while the light of the lamps burnt thin and the outer dawn came in,
a ghost, the last at the feast, or the first to sit within, with the two that remained, to quibble in flowers in verse over a girl's name. He said, the rain-loving, I said, the Narcissus, drunk, drunk with the rain. Yet I had lost, for he had said, the rose, the lover's gift, is loved of love. He said it, loved of love.
I waited, even as he spoke, to see the room filled with a light, as when in winter the embers catch in a wind, when a room is dank, so it would be filled. I thought, our room with a light, when he said, and he said at first, the rose, the lover's delight, is loved of love. But the light was the same.
Then he caught, seeing the fire in my eyes, my fire, my fever, perhaps, for he leaned with a purple wine stained in his sleeve, and said this, did you ever think a girl's mouth caught in a kiss is a lily that laughs? I had not, I saw it now, as men must see it forever afterwards, no poet could write again. The red lily, a girl's laugh, caught in a kiss.
It was his to pour in the vat from which all poets dip and quaff, for poets are brothers in this. So I saw the fire in his eyes, it was almost my fire, he was younger. I saw the face so white, my heart beat, it was almost my phrase. I said, surprise the muses, take them by surprise, it is late, rather it is dawn rise, those
ladies sleep, the nine, our own king's mistresses. A name to rhyme, flowers to bring to a name, which was one girl faint and shy, with eyes like the myrtle? I said, her underlids are rather like myrtle, divide with the nine. Let him take the name, he had the rhymes, the rose, loved of love, the lily, a mouth
that laughs, he had the gift, the scented crocus, the purple hyacinth, what was one girl to the nine. He said, I will make her a wreath, he said, I will write it thus, I will bring you the lily that laughs, I will twine with soft narcissus, the myrtle, sweet crocus, white violet, the purple hyacinth, and last, the rose, loved of love, that these may drip on your hair,
the less soft flowers may mingle sweet with the sweet of Heliodora's locks, myr-curled, he wrote, myr-curled, I think the first. I said, they sleep, the nine, when he shouted swift and passionate, that for the nine, above the mountains, the sun is about to wake, and today white violets shine beside white lilies, adrift on the mountainside, today the narcissus opens that loves the rain.
I watched him to the door, catching his robe as the wine bowl crashed to the floor, spilling a few wet leaves, ah, his purple hyacinth, I saw him out of the door, I thought there will never be a poet in all the centuries after this, who will dare write, after my friend's verse, a girl's mouth is a lily kissed.
