The turtle dove stayed close to Ashputtle, pecking her ears to make her dance vivaciously, so that the prince would see her, so that the prince would love her, so that he would follow her and find the clue of the fallen slipper, for the story is not complete without the ritual humiliation of the other woman and the mutilation of her daughters.
The search for the foot that fits the slipper is essential to the enactment of this ritual humiliation.
The other woman wants that young man desperately. She would do anything to catch him. Not losing a daughter, but gaining a son. She wants a son so badly she is prepared to cripple her daughters. She takes up a carving knife and chops off her elder daughter’s big toe, so that her foot will fit the little shoe.
Imagine.
Brandishing the carving knife, the woman bears down on her child, who is as distraught as if she had not been a girl but a boy and the old woman was after a more essential portion than a toe. “No!” she screams. “Mother! No! Not the knife! No!” But off it comes, all the same, and she throws it in the fire, among the ashes, where Ashputtle finds it, wonders at it, and feels both awe and fear at the phenomenon of mother love.
Mother love, which winds about these daughters like a shroud.
The prince saw nothing familiar in the face of the tearful young woman, one shoe off, one shoe on, displayed to him in triumph by her mother, but he said: “I promised I would marry whoever the shoe fitted so I will marry you,” and they rode off together.
The turtle dove came flying round and did not croon or coo to the bridal pair but sang a horrid song: “Look! Look! There’s blood in the shoe!”
The prince returned the ersatz ex-fiancee at once, angry at the trick, but the stepmother hastily lopped off her other daughter’s heel and pushed that poor foot into the bloody shoe as soon as it was vacant so, nothing for it, a man of his word, the prince helped up the new girl and once again he rode away.
Back came the nagging turtle dove: “Look!” And, sure enough, the shoe was full of blood again.
“Let Ashputtle try,” said the eager turtle dove.
So now Ashputtle must put her foot into the hideous receptacle, this open wound, still slick and warm as it is, for nothing in any of the many texts of this tale suggests the prince washed the shoe out between the fittings. It was an ordeal in itself to put a naked foot into the bloody shoe, but her mother, the turtle dove, urged her to do so in a soft, cooing croon that could not be denied.
If she does not plunge without revulsion into this open wound, she won’t be fit to marry. That is the song of the turtle dove, while the other mad mother stood impotently by.
Ashputtle’s foot, the size of the bound foot of a Chinese woman, a stump. Almost an amputee already, she put her tiny foot in it.
“Look! Look!” cried the turtle dove in triumph, even while the bird betrayed its ghostly nature by becoming progressively more and more immaterial as Ashputtle stood up in the shoe and commenced to walk around. Squelch, went the stump of the foot in the shoe. Squelch. “Look!” sang out the turtle dove. “Her foot fits the shoe like a corpse fits the coffin!
“See how well I look after you, my darling!”
2 THE BURNED CHILD
A burned child lived in the ashes. No, not really burned—more charred, a little bit charred, like a stick half-burned and picked off the fire. She looked like charcoal and ashes because she lived in the ashes since her mother died and the hot ashes burned her so she was scabbed and scarred. The burned child lived on the hearth, covered in ashes, as if she were still mourning.
After her mother died and was buried, her father forgot the mother and forgot the child and married the woman who used to rake the ashes, and that was why the child lived in the unraked ashes, and there was nobody to brush her hair, so it stuck out like a mat, nor to wipe the dirt off her scabbed face, and she had no heart to do it for herself, but she raked the ashes and slept beside the little cat and got the burned bits from the bottom of the pot to eat, scraping them out, squatting on the floor, by herself in front of the fire, not as if she were human, because she was still mourning.
Her mother was dead and buried, but felt perfect exquisite pain of love when she looked up through the earth and saw the burned child covered in ashes.
“Milk the cow, burned child, and bring back all the milk,” said the stepmother, who used to rake the ashes and milk the cow, once upon a time, but the burned child did all that, now.
The ghost of the mother went into the cow.
“Drink milk, grow fat,” said the mother’s ghost.
The burned child pulled on the udder and drank enough milk before she took the bucket back and nobody saw, and time passed, she drank milk every day, she grew fat, she grew breasts, she grew up.
There was a man the stepmother wanted and she asked him into the kitchen to get his dinner, but she made the burned child cook it, although the stepmother did all the cooking before. After the burned child cooked the dinner the stepmother sent her off to milk the cow.
“I want that man for myself,” said the burned child to the cow.
The cow let down more milk, and more, and more, enough for the girl to have a drink and wash her face and wash her hands. When she washed her face, she washed the scabs off and now she was not burned at all, but the cow was empty.
“Give your own milk, next time,” said the ghost of the mother inside the cow. “You’ve milked me dry.”
The little cat came by. The ghost of the mother went into the cat.
“Your hair wants doing,” said the cat. “Lie down.”
The little cat unpicked her raggy lugs with its clever paws until the burned child’s hair hung down nicely, but it had been so snagged and tangled that the cat’s claws were all pulled out before it was finished.
“Comb your own hair, next time,” said the cat. “You’ve maimed me.”
The burned child was clean and combed, but stark naked.
There was a bird sitting in the apple tree. The ghost of the mother left the cat and went into the bird. The bird struck its own breast with its beak. Blood poured down on to the burned child under the tree. It ran over her shoulders and covered her front and covered her back. When the bird had no more blood, the burned child got a red silk dress.
“Make your own dress, next time,” said the bird. “I’m through with that bloody business.”
The burned child went into the kitchen to show herself to the man. She was not burned any more, but lovely. The man left off looking at the stepmother and looked at the girl.
“Come home with me and let your stepmother stay and rake the ashes,” he said to her and off they went. He gave her a house and money. She did all right.
“Now I can go to sleep,” said the ghost of the mother. “Now everything is all right.”
3 TRAVELLING CLOTHES
The stepmother took the red-hot poker and burned the orphan’s face with it because she had not raked the ashes. The girl went to her mother’s grave. In the earth her mother said: “It must be raining. Or else it is snowing. Unless there is a heavy dew tonight.”
“It isn’t raining, it isn’t snowing, it’s too early for the dew. My tears are falling on your grave, mother.”
The dead woman waited until night came. Then she climbed out and went to the house. The stepmother slept on a feather bed, but the burned child slept on the hearth among the ashes. When the dead woman kissed her, the scar vanished. The girl woke up. The dead woman gave her a red dress.
“I had it when I was your age.”
The girl put the red dress on. The dead woman took worms from her eyesockets; they turned into jewels. The girl put on a diamond ring.
“I had it when I was your age.”
They went together to the grave.
“Step into my coffin.”
“No,” said the girl. She shuddered.
“I stepped into my mother’s coffin when I was your age.”
The girl stepped into the coffin although she thought it would
be the death of her. It turned into a coach and horses. The horses stamped, eager to be gone.
“Go and seek your fortune, darling.”
Alice in Prague
or The Curious Room
This piece was written in praise of Jan Svankmayer, the animator of Prague, and his film of Alice
In the city of Prague, once, it was winter.
Outside the curious room, there is a sign on the door which says “Forbidden”. Inside, inside, oh, come and see! The celebrated DR DEE.
The celebrated Dr Dee, looking for all the world like Santa Claus on account of his long, white beard and apple cheeks, is contemplating his crystal, the fearful sphere that contains everything that is, or was, or ever shall be.
It is a round ball of solid glass and gives a deceptive impression of weightlessness, because you can see right through it and we falsely assume an equation between lightness and transparency, that what the light shines through cannot be there and so must weigh nothing. In fact, the Doctor’s crystal ball is heavy enough to inflict a substantial injury and the Doctor’s assistant, Ned Kelly, the Man in the Iron Mask, often weighs the ball in one hand or tosses it back and forth from one to the other hand as he ponders the fragility of the hollow bone, his master’s skull, as it pores heedless over some tome.
Ned Kelly would blame the murder on the angels. He would say the angels came out of the sphere. Everybody knows the angels live there.
The crystal resembles: an aqueous humour, frozen:
a glass eye, although without any iris or
pupil—just the sort of transparent eye, in
fact, which the adept might construe as apt
to see the invisible;
a tear, round, as it forms within the eye, for
a tear acquires its characteristic shape of a
pear, what we think of as a “tear” shape, only
in the act of falling;
the shining drop that trembles, sometimes, on the
tip of the Doctor’s well-nigh senescent, tending
towards the flaccid, yet nevertheless sustainable
and discernible morning erection, and
always reminds him of
a drop of dew,
a drop of dew endlessly, tremulously about to fall
from the unfolded petals of a rose and, therefore,
like the tear, retaining the perfection of its
circumference only by refusing to sustain free fall,
remaining what it is, because it refuses to become
what it might be, the antithesis of metamorphosis;
and yet, in old England, far away, the sign of the
Do Drop Inn will always, that jovial pun, show an
oblate spheroid, heavily tinselled, because the
sign-painter, in order to demonstrate the idea of
“drop”, needs must represent the dew in the act of
falling and therefore, for the purposes of this
comparison, not resembling the numinous ball
weighing down the angelic Doctor’s outstretched
palm.
For Dr Dee, the invisible is only another unexplored country, a brave new world.
The hinge of the sixteenth century, where it joins with the seventeenth century, is as creaky and judders open as reluctantly as the door in a haunted house. Through that door, in the distance, we may glimpse the distant light of the Age of Reason, but precious little of that is about to fall on Prague, the capital of paranoia, where the fortune-tellers live on Golden Alley in cottages so small, a good-sized doll would find itself cramped, and there is one certain house on Alchemist’s Street that only becomes visible during a thick fog. (On sunny days, you see a stone.) But, even in the fog, only those born on the Sabbath can see the house anyway.
Like a lamp guttering out in a recently vacated room, the Renaissance flared, faded and extinguished itself. The world had suddenly revealed itself as bewilderingly infinite, but since the imagination remained, for after all it is only human, finite, our imaginations took some time to catch up. If Francis Bacon will die in 1626 a martyr to experimental science, having contracted a chill whilst stuffing a dead hen with snow on Highgate Hill to see if that would keep it fresh, in Prague, where Dr Faustus once lodged in Charles Square, Dr Dee, the English expatriate alchemist, awaits the manifestation of the angel in the Archduke Rudolph’s curious room, and we are still fumbling our way towards the end of the previous century.
The Archduke Rudolph keeps his priceless collection of treasures in this curious room; he numbers the Doctor amongst these treasures and is therefore forced to number the Doctor’s assistant, the unspeakable and iron-visaged Kelly, too.
The Archduke Rudolph has crazy eyes. These eyes are the mirrors of his soul.
It is very cold this afternoon, the kind of weather that makes a person piss. The moon is up already, a moon the colour of candlewax and, as the sky discolours when the night conies on, the moon grows more white, more cold, white as the source of all the cold in the world, until, when the winter moon reaches its chill meridian, everything will freeze—not only the water in the jug and the ink in the well, but the blood in the vein, the aqueous humour.
Metamorphosis.
In their higgledy-piggledy disorder, the twigs on the bare trees outside the thick window resemble those random scratchings made by common use that you only see when you lift your wineglass up to the light. A hard frost has crisped the surface of the deep snow on the Archduke’s tumbled roofs and turrets. In the snow, a raven: caw!
Dr Dee knows the language of birds and sometimes speaks it, but what the birds say is frequently banal; all the raven said, over and over, was: “Poor Tom’s a-cold!”
Above the Doctor’s head, slung from the low-beamed ceiling, dangles a flying turtle, stuffed. In the dim room we can make out, amongst much else, the random juxtaposition of an umbrella, a sewing machine and a dissecting table; a raven and a writing desk; an aged mermaid, poor wizened creature, cramped in a foetal position in ajar, her ream of grey hair suspended adrift in the viscous liquid that preserves her, her features rendered greenish and somewhat distorted by the flaws in the glass.
Dr Dee would like, for a mate to this mermaid, to keep in a cage, if alive, or, if dead, in a stoppered bottle, an angel.
It was an age in love with wonders.
Dr Dee’s assistant, Ned Kelly, the Man in the Iron Mask, is also looking for angels. He is gazing at the sheeny, reflective screen of his scrying disc which is made of polished coal. The angels visit him more frequently than they do the Doctor, but, for some reason, Dr Dee cannot see Kelly’s guests, although they crowd the surface of the scrying disc, crying out in their high, piercing voices in the species of bird-creole with which they communicate. It is a great sadness to him.
Kelly, however, is phenomenally gifted in this direction and notes down on a pad the intonations of their speech which, though he doesn’t understand it himself, the Doctor excitedly makes sense of.
But, today, no go.
Kelly yawns. He stretches. He feels the pressure of the weather on his bladder.
The privy at the top of the tower is a hole in the floor behind a cupboard door. It is situated above another privy, with another hole, above another privy, another hole, and so on, down seven further privies, seven more holes, until your excreta at last hurtles into the cesspit far below. The cold keeps the smell down, thank God.
Dr Dee, ever the seeker after knowledge, has calculated the velocity of a flying turd.
Although a man could hang himself in the privy with ease and comfort, securing the rope about the beam above and launching himself into the void to let gravity break his neck for him, Kelly, whether at stool or making water, never allows the privy to remind him of the “long drop” nor even, however briefly, admires his own instrument for fear the phrase “well-hung” recalls the noose which he narrowly escaped in his native England for fraud, once, in Lancaster; for forgery, once, in Rutlandshire; and for performing
a confidence trick in Ashby-de-la-Zouch.
But his ears were cropped for him in the pillory at Walton-le-Dale, after he dug up a corpse from a churchyard for purposes of necromancy, or possibly of grave-robbing, and this is why, in order to conceal this amputation, he always wears the iron mask modelled after that which will be worn by a namesake three hundred years hence in a country that does not yet exist, an iron mask like an upturned bucket with a slit cut for his eyes.
Kelly, unbuttoning, wonders if his piss will freeze in the act of falling; if, today, it is cold enough in Prague to let him piss an arc of ice.
No.
He buttons up again.
Women loathe this privy. Happily, few venture here, into the magician’s tower, where the Archduke Rudolph keeps his collection of wonders, his proto-museum, his “Wunderkammer”, his “cabinet de curiosites”, that curious room of which we speak.
There’s a theory, one I find persuasive, that the quest for knowledge is, at bottom, the search for the answer to the question: “Where was I before I was born?”
In the beginning was … what?
Perhaps, in the beginning, there was a curious room, a room like this one, crammed with wonders; and now the room and all it contains are forbidden you, although it was made just for you, had been prepared for you since time began, and you will spend all your life trying to remember it.
Kelly once took the Archduke aside and offered him, at a price, a little piece of the beginning, a slice of the fruit of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil itself, which Kelly claimed he had obtained from an Armenian, who had found it on Mount Ararat, growing in the shadows of the wreck of the Ark. The slice had dried out with time and looked very much like a dehydrated ear.
Burning Your Boats: The Collected Short Stories Page 52
