Lost Lilies

by Joy Curry

The day was as bright as Paris can be—not the harsh brilliance of the Italian sun, or the languid rays in London, but a sparkling, glittering showcase of finery and vigor that all the jewel-box of a city contained. Arthur Hamilton felt it to the tips of his fingers and in the shuddering leaves of the chestnuts above him.

He had left the office earlier that evening and was now greeted by the jovial voices of his friends in the teeming dining room of the Agamemnon. 

“Hamilton! There you are. I just ordered us dinner, all six of us. There’s four of us now, counting you, thank God, and Miss Barge and her horrible companion are somewhere getting flowers to put in their hair—”

“Miss Barge is here?”

“Here? I think not! They’re probably gawking at some lily like a lotus-eater.”

Arthur smiled accordingly and sat down next to one of the empty chairs. Mr. Cecil Worth continued on with his tirade, as Hugh said to Arthur—

“Your Miss B is looking quite lovely this evening.”

Mrs. Worth caught a portion of the stage whisper.

“Why, Arthur, don’t tell me that little vamp has caught you in her web. I tell you, she has as many men caught up by her as a spider has flies. Just last season she jilted at least twenty men from here to New York—and that’s twenty in each city, mind you. And probably some on the seas as well—speaking of, when do you sail?”

Before Arthur had time to answer she was scolding Cecil for scolding the two women who had just arrived with feathers, not flowers, in their hair. Arthur got up immediately and just as Evelyn Barge scanned the table for the empty seats, he caught her eyes. She held his for a moment and discarded his gaze just as she discarded her beaded bag with a clink next to him. 

“The music tonight is hideous, is it not?” She turned her eyes on Hamilton with an exasperated expression on her lovely face.

“Dreadful.” —it was his favorite waltz.

“Evelyn!” Her trilling acquaintance gasped. “Mrs. Worth does not know Gloria Hadley!”

“Oh, but for certain you know Gloria!” Evelyn effusively declared to the table and half the inhabitants of the Agamemnon. She had acquired from a few years of being in society the habit of calling all her acquaintances by their first names, known or unknown by her listeners. Leaning forward eagerly on the tips of her elbows, she said merrily, “A group of us had the very best time in Nice together. Why, she knows nearly every fun place in the city. I remember one night she discovered an enchanting little spot right near the water—what was the name of it? the Euthalia? That's correct! (She nodded triumphantly.) —yes, the view was lovely, but the heat! The heat was dreadful! Can you imagine—”

Her vivid reenactment of the whole evening gradually blended with the palms and the orchestra as the glasses clinked and the silverware shined and suddenly Arthur realized that the most beautiful things were often times the most unattainable.

. . .

I wrote “Lost Lilies” a few years ago. For the accompanying design I chose to use lily-of-the-valley, such a charming, delicate plant that refuses to grow in hot climates. The flowers produce a bright red, berry-like fruit. In the right state, one will often find them grouped near stairs and doorways in the cool shade. I wanted this design to look a bit like a book cover blended with a movie projector. The geometric shapes and sunbursts are inspired by classic Art Deco design motifs. 

A note on the title: I took it from Ernest Dowson’s 1894 poem “Non sum qualis eram bonae sub regno Cynarae” (“I am not what I was under the reign of the good Cynara” —a quote from Horace.) The reason I discovered Dowson’s poem was due to my wholehearted love for Gone with the Wind (1936) by Margaret Mitchell. Mitchell took the title of her epic novel from Dowson’s poem because it had the “far away, faintly sad sound” she wanted. Here are the last two stanzas.

I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind,
Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng,
Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of mind,
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
    Yea, all the time, because the dance was long:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

I cried for madder music and for stronger wine,
But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire,
Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! the night is thine;
And I am desolate and sick of an old passion,
    Yea, hungry for the lips of my desire:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.