Crambe repetita (42)
They spoke of Lucretius. They spoke of light.
One evening I took down The Parliament of Bees and, flipping through its pages, hearing the men enter the house, I counted seven years. It was seven years since I first sat listening to their talk … and I was as invisible this evening as I’d ever been in Paris. More so, in fact, for I sat dumbly and alone! Can you hide and yet be angry when no one looks at you? Oh, you can, I knew, but it was pointless, exhausting. The watchman shouted nine o’clock. Still their voices carried on. And despite the frost on the window, my cheeks began to burn – I though I might be sick – so shrugging off my shawl, I hastened across the parlor and, throwing open the door, ran smack into Hobbes in the hall. ‘Dear,’ he said backing up, ‘Lady Cavendish.’ He bowed as best he could. To which performance I said something dull about cabbage, something vague about a bad fricassee I’d eaten, and hurried with a candle upstairs.
Once in my room, however, I felt foolish rather than ill.