She hadn’t had the chance to speak with him again. But a week later she received an envelope containing her first invitation to the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn. It was a pale green card with her name in the corner, announcing an appointment that evening:
144 Bassett Road, 10 PM, Stella Matutina Branch
When Georgie saw Dorothy the same evening at the regular do at Eva Fowler’s, Dorothy said she hadn’t received a card.
“It must be a mistake,” Georgie said. It hadn’t occurred to her she would have to go to a strange house, late at night, alone.
“It’s all right,” Dorothy said. “I don’t mind.” She seemed distracted, continually turning around to look at the newly arriving guests, as if she were expecting someone. Georgie hoped that she didn’t have another plan to set her up with one of the men she knew. Every attempt before now had been embarrassing for Georgie; either the men had clearly preferred Dorothy, or their lack of imagination had offended her. How could Dorothy imagine she would be interested in them? Did Dorothy think so little of her?
“Have you met Hilda?” Dorothy said. A woman was coming over to them, and Georgie could already tell from the way Dorothy was acting that she didn’t like her. The woman was extremely tall, and had an arch expression, like a foal that has learned to gallop and is puzzled by why you are still lying in the grass.
“Hilda is a poet. From Pennsylvania,” Dorothy said, still looking behind them. “Georgie Hyde-Lees, Hilda Doolittle.” Georgie shook the woman’s hand.
“Have you been in London long?” Georgie said politely, but any answer was prevented by a thumping across the room. All heads turned towards the sound, before everyone realised who it was and returned to their conversations. Ezra was always a demanding and slightly ridiculous presence; tonight his side whiskers bloomed from his face, his shirt had enormous pale blue buttons, and he wore, dripping from one ear, a turquoise earring. He was banging his walking stick along the parquet as he entered, announcing his arrival like he was leading a charge. Behind him, W. B. smiled at his young protégé, with a look halfway between appreciation and bemusement.
The poets joined their circle, and before anyone could say anything, Ezra announced the topic for discussion. “The Eagle and I are squabbling about a prize.” W. B. was the more respectable of the pair; by far the senior, his poems were taught in schools; he wore an impeccable velvet jacket and stood with the confidence of a man who was planning to refuse a knighthood.
Another man had joined them and put his arm around Hilda, who kissed him fiercely in front of the group. Georgie averted her eyes and fingered the green card in her pocket.
“I don’t need it,” W. B. was saying.
“It’s not about that,” Ezra said. “It’s about the magazine’s recognition that you are the Greatest Poet in the English Language.”
“It can recognise that without awarding a prize.”
“But a prize makes it clear.”
“There is another man we could give it to. Who needs it more.”
“You can’t give it to anyone else. It’s your prize.” Ezra punctuated his final words with his stick, turning away from W. B. and towards Dorothy and Hilda. “He doesn’t listen.”
Dorothy laughed and Ezra smiled at her. Georgie had often wondered what it would be like to be so absolutely devoid of self-doubt as Ezra Pound seemed to be, almost as if he were gazing at the world from behind a protective film. She imagined it would be magnificent.
As Ezra switched his attention to Dorothy, W. B. said quietly to Georgie, “He’s too much sometimes.”
“Often, I should think,” Georgie said, and she added, “Thank you. For the invitation. It came through.”
He smiled. “You’re very well matched to it, with your interests,” he said. For now he didn’t mention Dorothy, so Georgie didn’t ask.
“Giddyup, Dante,” Ezra called over to him. He was already on his way down the hall, Hilda and the other man behind him, and he was gesturing with his walking stick for W. B. to follow. W. B. started across the room and Georgie started after him, but Dorothy grabbed her elbow.
“Wait,” she said, holding her. “Dear, I have to talk to you.” She paused. “I don’t want to worry you.”
“What?”
“It’s not official yet.” Georgie watched the others leave the room, and turned back to her friend. Dorothy’s pale cheeks were striped with red, as if she were ill. Worried, Georgie took her hand, and Dorothy burst into a kind of wild laughter.
“Ezra and I—we are going to marry.”
“Oh?” Georgie wanted to drop Dorothy’s hand, but instead she clasped it and embraced her. It shouldn’t have been a surprise. But what of their plans—to join the Order, to return to Italy this summer?
“It doesn’t change anything,” Dorothy said.
“Of course it does,” Georgie said, pulling back from the embrace. “Congratulations.” As she smiled, she noticed she was already trying to extricate herself, already guarding her thoughts and feelings. She had planned to ask if Dorothy had enjoyed the parodies of Ezra in the Egoist, but now that Ezra was her fiancé, she could hardly bring up a text that ridiculed him. Not now, anyway. Instead, Georgie swiftly excused herself, pretending not to notice Dorothy’s worried look.
She walked out of the room and towards the front door, and let herself out onto the porch of the Fowlers’ house. What had she thought would happen? That Dorothy would never marry, that they would keep being independent and wandering around the Continent, painting and drinking? Looking out, she could see the darkness which marked the edge of Hyde Park. She walked around the porch until she could see inside the drawing room, which radiated a light that guaranteed that no one would be able to see her outside. She was grateful for the privacy, the invisibility. Inside, Dorothy still stood near where Georgie had left her, but there was Ezra, swooping back in to speak to her, presumably checking to see how their conversation had gone. Of course they would marry. Dorothy admired Ezra, and why wouldn’t Ezra, like everyone else, be unable to resist Dorothy? Behind the glass, Dorothy was making a sweeping gesture, looking concerned, but Ezra reached and caught her hand, and brought the hand up to her cheek, and they smiled at each other.
“It won’t last, you know,” a voice came from behind Georgie. “These things hardly ever do.”
She turned and found W. B. standing there.
“They’re getting married,” she said.
“Really?” He seemed surprised, and he stepped forward to peer more closely at them through the glass.
“I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s not official.” Inside, the couple were laughing together, secure in a delight that was only theirs. “Why did you think they wouldn’t?”
He was still watching them. “I don’t know. I didn’t think Ezra wanted to marry. Too obsessed with work. I think with the keenness of his intellect, his apprenticeship will be long. What do you make of him?”
“I think he’s wonderful,” she said, which was true, but she wanted to add that she didn’t think his work was wonderful, or not yet anyway. She thought it wild and self-conscious, rather like the man himself. It had the man’s bravado but did not show confidence, or consistency. W. B. was a far better poet. She remembered the parody of Ezra in the Egoist that she’d wanted to laugh about with Dorothy: