V-2 - Chapter 9 - Clockwork Eye

[alice wellintown]

The blood would flow, perhaps with some anxiety to young Pynchon's
cheeks, perhaps with a chuckle to old Pynchon's jowls, if he were to
read a critic's trail of that tendril of blood past the masque of the
red death to a gable on a roof in another Poe ROMANCE.


The pillars of the piazza were enwreathed in jasmine and sweet
honeysuckle; while from the angle formed by the main structure and its
west wing, in front, sprang a grape-vine of unexampled luxuriance.
Scorning all restraint, it had clambered first to the lower roof—then
to the higher; and along the ridge of this latter it continued to
writhe on, throwing out tendrils to the right and left, until at
length it fairly attained the east gable, and fell trailing over the
stairs.

The whole house, with its wings, was constructed of the old-fashioned
Dutch shingles—broad, and with unrounded corners. It is a peculiarity
of this material to give houses built of it the appearance of being
wider at bottom than at top—after the manner of Egyptian architecture;
and in the present instance, this exceedingly picturesque effect was
aided by numerous pots of gorgeous flowers that almost encompassed the
base of the buildings.

The shingles were painted a dull gray; and the happiness with which
this neutral tint melted into the vivid green of the tulip tree leaves
that partially overshadowed the cottage, can readily be conceived by
an artist.

>From the position near the stone wall, as described, the buildings
were seen at great advantage—for the southeastern angle was thrown
forward—so that the eye took in at once the whole of the two fronts,
with the picturesque eastern gable, and at the same time obtained just
a sufficient glimpse of the northern wing, with parts of a pretty roof
to the spring-house, and nearly half of a light bridge that spanned
the brook in the near vicinity of the main buildings.

I did not remain very long on the brow of the hill, although long
enough to make a thorough survey of the scene at my feet. It was clear
that I had wandered from the road to the village, and I had thus good
traveller's excuse to open the gate before me, and inquire my way, at
all events; so, without more ado, I proceeded.

The road, after passing the gate, seemed to lie upon a natural ledge,
sloping gradually down along the face of the north-eastern cliffs. It
led me on to the foot of the northern precipice, and thence over the
bridge, round by the eastern gable to the front door. In this
progress, I took notice that no sight of the out-houses could be
obtained.

As I turned the corner of the gable, the mastiff bounded towards me in
stern silence, but with the eye and the whole air of a tiger. I held
him out my hand, however, in token of amity—and I never yet knew the
dog who was proof against such an appeal to his courtesy. He not only
shut his mouth and wagged his tail, but absolutely offered me his
paw-afterward extending his civilities to Ponto.

As no bell was discernible, I rapped with my stick against the door,
which stood half open. Instantly a figure advanced to the
threshold—that of a young woman about twenty-eight years of
age—slender, or rather slight, and somewhat above the medium height.
As she approached, with a certain modest decision of step altogether
indescribable. I said to myself, "Surely here I have found the
perfection of natural, in contradistinction from artificial grace."
The second impression which she made on me, but by far the more vivid
of the two, was that of enthusiasm. So intense an expression of
romance, perhaps I should call it, or of unworldliness, as that which
gleamed from her deep-set eyes, had never so sunk into my heart of
hearts before. I know not how it is, but this peculiar expression of
the eye, wreathing itself occasionally into the lips, is the most
powerful, if not absolutely the sole spell, which rivets my interest
in woman. "Romance, provided my readers fully comprehended what I
would here imply by the word—"romance" and "womanliness" seem to me
convertible terms: and, after all, what man truly loves in woman, is
simply her womanhood. The eyes of Annie (I heard some one from the
interior call her "Annie, darling!") were "spiritual grey;" her hair,
a light chestnut: this is all I had time to observe of her.

On Sat, Oct 16, 2010 at 5:16 PM, Michael Bailey
<michael.lee.bailey at gmail.com> wrote:
>> ah, goodness, this is the type of thing I routinely miss.
>> Thank you!
>>
>
> with that detail in place, the sanguinary nature of the place comes
> home right quickly.
> In a well-ordered microcosm, the blood in the courtyard would itself
> be a major mojo and corrective action would follow.  Foppl would call
> in van Wijk to investigate. Or fisheye would pack up and go: "you ask
> why I don't live here, honey do you have to ask" (Bob Dylan, "On the
> Road Again")
>
> really never saw that before, and I've been thru V. a few times
> (though I tend to focus anywhere but this chapter)
>
> we don't ever find out whose blood, do we? (guess I gotta look for that)
>