Both Beautiful, One A Gazelle

Constance can't find the sketch in her bum bag.

Never mind, says Gaius.

Why not describe it, says Proust.

Constance settles back into the puddle of melted ice cream on her lounge chair.

Buggeration! says Constance. My last clean pair of knee shorts!

I was eating that, says Daniel O'Connell.

Constance ignores him, and tries to conjure the sketch in her head and find words to describe it.

Well..... says Constance. It's me as a young woman. With a hat on, and my black hair fixed up underneath it, but spilling from under the hat to frame the top half of my face. I had a sweet face then. The rest of me is all scribbly, but gives an impression of a coat with big sleeves and a collar. I am leaning forward and looking up to the right, with large eyes, full of provocation. Underneath it is inscribed, Madame Markiewicz.

I thought you said you were a countess, says Proust.

My husband claimed he was a count, says Constance. A Polish one. You know how they are. Dear Casimir. After we married he went back to Poland. Not immediately of course....

No of course not, says Proust. And what did Yeats call you?

Con, says Constance. He always called me Con.

And I'll be betting he wrote a fine poem about Con, says Daniel O'Connell. Did it go like this now:

O how I love Con
For leading me on.

No, says Constance, It was far more lovely and sad, and my dear sister Eva was in it.

Can you recall it? asks Proust. I should like to hear it.

If it isn't too long, says Gaius.

I'll just do the first part, says Constance.

She closes her eyes and recites:

Light of evening, Lissadell,
Great windows open to the south,
Two girls in silk kimonos, both
beautiful, one a gazelle.

And which one was the gazelle? asks Proust.

I was, says Constance.

Congratulations, says Gaius. It's a fine conceit, but his rhyme and metre are atrocious.

Philistine! says Daniel O'Connell. Can't you see that 'both' falls in the third line, and rhymes with 'south'! Am I not right there, Mrs Con?

I'm not sure it helps, says Constance. He was always tricky with the rhyme and metre.

You said it was sad, says Proust. What happens in it?

We grow old, says Constance. Withered old and skeleton gaunt. But hey! That was a long time ago. Here I am at Neptun in the sunshine sitting in a sticky patch of blueberry ice cream, and watching the young people in the water. Look at them out there. I wonder what Albertine and Gilberte are doing for swim suits?

There's a question neither Gaius nor Proust had thought of.

But they are both thinking of it now.