MIRANDA MILLER was born in London in 1950. After leaving university she moved to Rome, where she combined writing her first novel with a variety of jobs. Later she lived in Japan, Libya and Saudi Arabia. She has published five novels - including Loving Mephistopheles, also published by Peter Owen - a book of short stories about Saudi Arabia, A Thousand and One Coffee Mornings (Peter Owen), and a work of non-fiction that examines the effects of homelessness on women.
www.mirandamiller.info
By the same author
Novels
Before Natasha Family
Loving Mephistopheles (published by Peter Owen) Smiles and the Millennium
Under the Rainbow
Short stories
A Thousand and One Coffee Mornings (published by Peter Owen)
Non-fiction
Bed and Breakfast: Women and Homelessness Today
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First published in Great Britain 2010 by
Peter Owen Publishers
© Miranda Miller 2010
Excerpt from ‘Theses on the Philosophy of History’ from Illuminations by Walter Benjamin: UK and Commonwealth, published by Jonathan Cape, reprinted by permission of the Random House Group Ltd. North America, copyright © 1955 by Suhrkamp Verlag, Frankfurt am Main, English translation by Hary Zohn copyright © 1968 and renewed 1996 by Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, reprinted by permission of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Company.
All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publishers.
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A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
For Gordon
‘A Klee painting named Angelus Novus shows an angel looking as though he is about to move away from something he is fixedly contemplating. His eyes are staring, his mouth is open, his wings are spread. This is how one pictures the angel of history. His face is turned towards the past. Where we perceive a chain of events, he sees one single catastrophe which keeps piling wreckage upon wreckage and hurls it in front of his feet. The angel would like to stay, awaken the dead, and make whole what has been smashed. But a storm is brewing from Paradise; it has got caught in his wings with such violence that the angel can no longer close them. This storm irresistibly propels him into the future to which his back is turned, while the pile of debris in front of him grows skyward. The storm is what we call Progress.’
- Walter Benjamin,
‘Theses on the Philosophy of History’, from Illuminations
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I should like to thank Colin Gale at the Bethlem Archives and Mike Taylor, who read Jonathan’s chapters from an architect’s point of view. I am also grateful to Peter and Antonia Owen, who like eccentric novels, and to my editor Simon Smith. I should also acknowledge the influence of a wonderful book called London As It Might Have Been by Felix Barker and Ralph Hyde (John Murray, 1982).
I have taken liberties with the character of Dr Hood but have taken some of his words from his own Suggestions for the Future Provision of Criminal Lunatics (1854).
‘The Sultan’s Elephant’ was a show created by the French theatre company Royal de Luxe, which featured a huge mechanical elephant, a giant marionette of a girl and other public-art installations. The show was first staged in 2005 in France and has subsequently appeared in a number of cities around the world, including London in 2006.
THE SULTAN’S
ELEPHANT
WHEN I SEE the elephant I know I am safely in a dream and allow myself to enjoy the spectacle. This delightful creature is as big as several houses, and indeed a couple of quaint windows have been incorporated in its belly. Dancing girls sway on balconies, yet despite all this architectural and human freight the elephant looks happy. His ears wave merrily and his trunk blows steam at the crowd. The girls dancing and the watching multitude are all so scantily dressed that I feel abashed until I remember the etiquette of dreamland. I have often dreamed of my own nakedness - although when I told you, dear Charles, you said you would prefer that I should not dream of such things. In this present dream I have obeyed you to the letter, for I am wearing five times as many clothes as all the others.
One or two stare at me curiously but then turn back to the elephant. There is a loud throbbing sound like music but more savage, which comes from a kind of omnibus where goblins leap and shout upon a stage. The hammer blows of sound make my heart beat faster and stir my feet. I feel quite intoxicated as I pursue the elephant. We are in a park, and the elephant is rolling forward towards a juggernaut.
I am swept forward with the rest of the crowd and feel light-hearted and light-footed. The second carnival figure comes into sight. It is an enormous marionette, and footmen in claret velvet suits who attend this second giant shout in French and swarm all over it as the Lilliputians swarmed over Gulliver. Then I come close enough to see that the giant is a giantess - a vast little girl with long black hair, a short green frock and greenish skin. My eyes fill with tears, for I cannot see any little girl, not even a green one fourteen feet high, without being plunged back into grief for my Bella. I try to turn away, but the crowd presses against me, and as I look into the wall of people I see children everywhere. I do not know if they are girls or boys for they are oddly clothed in their undergarments. They sit in skeletal baby carriages or on the shoulders of their nursemaids or mamas or papas who also seem to have neglected their toilette. Each little face carries some fragment of our darling - a clear blue eye or a charming button of a nose or a tangle of curls. At the thought that the whole wide world both behind and in front of my eyes must now be haunted by Bella, I turn and run and do not stop until I come to another park.
Until I saw Bella’s ghost I could not accept her death. She stood in the shadowy alcove at the bend in the stairs where your surgery becomes our house. I saw her first through the banisters from the top landing where I had been tidying the horrid mess Tommy had made in the nursery. The polished wood of the banisters fell in prison bars across her lonely little figure. Her dark curls were thick and long as they were before you had to shave her head, and she was wearing her best lawn nightgown with lace at the sleeves and cuffs. Her arms were outstretched to me, and for a moment I paused because I was afraid that the vision would flutter away if I came too close. My heart was so thunderous that I thought it would burst out of my black weeds, and I yearned to embrace my child one last time but was afraid to touch death and open my arms to a phantom.
I turned and fled from Bella. I fled from our house down Harley Street and across Cavendish Square into the chaos of Oxford Street. There was a hackney cab so close that I could smell the horse’s yeasty breath and see the face of the driver twisted with rage. My body flung itself forward as if to embrace the black iron wheels and muddy hooves and ordure of the street, and I longed to hug Bella without the shame of a self-willed death.
I do not know what country this is. It may be dreamland or the Garden of Eden. All here are young and free. Some glide past sitting on wheels, and others have wheels attached to their feet. Strangely dressed or half-naked, they run and shout and chatter like birds in a hundred tongues. On the other side of a fence children play in the rigging of a pirate ship marooned in paradise. Beside me on the bench where I am sitting a lady in a veil screeches unintelligibly to a dusky child. Many have dark skins, and I thi
nk they must be freed slaves like the one we saw at the Exhibition. Ladies - but I think modesty has no more meaning here than for our first forefathers in their garden. I am as much stared at as staring in my black bombazine and my weepers and gloves.
All my limbs are aching, and I feel a trifle dizzy as I watch these happy creatures eat and drink. I yearn for a glass of cool lemonade. A tiny barefoot girl is licking a lollipop I long to snatch from her. Young half-naked people - men? women? all wear pantaloons - play with a ball on the grass. The philosophy of Amelia Bloomer seems to have triumphed here, and my petticoats feel quite cumbersome. Other folk sit or lie on the grass listening to invisible music, and I expect Puck or Ariel to appear at any moment.
This is a vast picnic - a feast of brown flesh - but I have not been invited. Alone in all this swift purposeful movement I sit quite still. My stays pinch, and sweat trickles down inside my corset.
A lady passes who is even more encased in black than I. Only her eyes are visible - angry black eyes that meet mine. Here is another grief-stricken one or perhaps a sister of Scheherazade on her way to the Sultan’s palace.
My limbs are still painful as I rise and walk away down the path. I hope to find Bella playing happily with the other children, and when I do I shall shed my dark carapace and dance with my darling in these gardens for ever. Mama, why do you always dress like a black beetle now? Tommy asked.
As if to help me orientate myself in this faery realm I find a tree that is so delightful I laugh aloud. A grand old hollow oak is encrusted with tiny folk - elves and pixies and gnomes peer at me mischievously from caves and nooks and crannies. Merrily they climb and gambol and chatter to each other and to birds bigger than their tiny selves. As I walk around the tree I see some scholar fairies in a book-lined cave - a little lost princess with long golden hair descending the tree - elfin aristocrats enjoying a feast. All these enchanted scenes are enclosed by a round cage as if they are exhibits in the zoological gardens captured on a safari into faeryland.
A little boy holding the hand of a papa as indecently dressed as his charge says plaintively, ‘I wish I lived here.’ He throws a coin into the enclosure to feed magic with filthy lucre as he might feed buns to an elephant.
I come to a sheet of water where swans and pigeons and sparrows fight for bread. Their swarming bird life is comfortingly familiar. Multicoloured angels sit on the grass and on green-and-white striped chairs. Beyond I can see great towers as if we are surrounded by cathedrals - as one would expect in paradise. The birds skimming and swooping over the lake remind me of our excursion to Virginia Water last summer. Do you remember, Charles? The picnic to celebrate Tommy’s sixth birthday, although he was so naughty we had almost to leave him at home.
Bella was exquisite in her white broderie anglaise, and her shining dark curls fell to her pink sash. She took my hand with that dear confiding air, and we walked with our parasols while you and Tommy went ahead with the hamper. A rare Sunday when the beastly invalids as the children called them stayed away from our door and you were just Papa. You looked back at us with such a loving expression, and I basked in your delight. I heard you say to Tommy, ‘Bella is like her mama; she is beautiful in both her external and her inner self.’ Through the trees I saw the love in your face and hugged our darling child closer.
‘Am I really just like you, Mama?’
‘Oh yes, but you will grow up to be clever.’
‘Aren’t you clever?’
‘Your papa calls me his dear little goose.’
‘I can read much better than Tommy. He’s a little goose - no, a disgusting white mouse with pink eyes.’
I smiled because Tommy does have a rodenty look, and Bella was so quick and observant.
‘You mustn’t be unkind to your little brother.’
‘Why not? He’s unkind to me. He pulled my hair again this morning.’
I stand among glorious fountains. Their spray dances and catches the sunlight as I hold out my hand to touch it. Water, like the sky, is unchanging and links me with the little face I long to see. Between the fountains there are stone urns full of flowers and stone nymphs. I touch one to make sure she is not a little girl, but the cold moss on her nose is all too convincing.
How long before warm rosy flesh turns cold and green slime bites into a charming nose? Such a little coffin. Hardly as big as the trunk they have delivered for Tommy’s school things. I walk over to a balustrade overlooking another great expanse of water. Here are more half-naked savages in boats, and on velvety green banks strange creatures lie and stroll and shout. I am a little afraid of their noise and brazen flesh, but I would brave worse terrors than this for my darling and tell myself I will find Bella among them.
So I walk for a long, long time. I search each strange face and look into eyes that stare back and feel that I am the strangest of all in my heavy black mourning. They look at me as if I was a ghost, and I begin to wonder if I am.
I sink down into a deckchair in a state of exhaustion. Perhaps I am dead or dreaming, yet my flesh feels solid. I am the wrong shape and the wrong colour. These others have no waist or bust, and their flaunted flesh is brown instead of white as they walk and eat as carelessly as a herd of antelopes grazing.
In the chair beside mine a man - I think the figure is a masculine one - is speaking to himself. He holds a curious little box to his ear, and I am reminded of Tommy conversing with his invisible friend personified by a cotton-reel. Now here comes a troupe of Brobding-nagian children. Boys and girls alike are dressed in white camisoles and indecently short brown trowsers. Bloomeriana everywhere. I cannot look at their plump forest of limbs without shame. They march and stride and shout in English with the strangest accent. A group behind me on the grass - male? female? - shout out like costermongers.
‘Where you from?’
‘Hooston Tecksass.’
Their words make no more sense than the honking geese that fly above our heads, and yet I feel less alien now I know that some kind of English is the language of paradise. Thank goodness it isn’t Greek or Latin or horrid French. I am so dreadfully hot and hungry and thirsty and have no money to buy refreshments. Do angels use money? The sky at least is familiar. To gauge the time I stare at the sun behind me, which is quite low, and wonder if there is any night here.
I think I sleep - if dreams can be punctuated by more sleep - and dream perhaps of you, my dearest Charles. I wake with a powerful sensation of your arms around me, and my heart beats fast as if we had just been Saying Goodnight. But I am cramped and alone in my deckchair. My mouth is a dry-shrivelled cave and my head is a throbbing wall of pain behind my weepers. I have been in mourning for so long. For Mama and Papa and now for Bella. I am glad of it, for I am tearful and conscious of the advantage of being able to hide my face like many of the other ladies around me. We black beetles relish the protection of our veils, but I peer out of mine to observe that these gardens are not after all timeless. The birds and strange crowds are scattering. They all have nests.
For the first time I feel afraid of the coming darkness. Crows fly angrily across the setting sun, and on the sheet of water ahead of me a toy boat swoops and zooms all by itself with wild insect humming. Are the nights very long in Heaven? Are there footpads among the angels? I wish now I had asked Henrietta, who has an encyclopaedic knowledge of the afterlife.
The gardens are emptying rapidly. The sweet droves of children fade away, and the few people remaining glow in the rosy sunset. I am too tired to move from my deckchair. I think I will spend the night here after all.
‘Love the costume.’
No gentleman would accost an unknown lady. No lady would sit alone as night descends on strange gardens. Flustered by rules I thought had been suspended I stand up. A breeze ripples across the water and billows my skirts around me.
‘Bin filmin’? Fancy a drink?’
I don’t understand the first part of his insolent proposition, and I most certainly do fancy a drink, but I cut him, of course, an
d walk swiftly away across the path. My heart beats dreadfully as I think I am almost alone with this stranger who wears neither hat nor gloves and whose voice is unrefined. The human tide bears me out of the gardens on a broad path where people stare at me and I stare back. They are young, and many of them are half-naked with strange metal rings and studs embedded in their noses and mouths. Perhaps some primitive tribe half-civilized by missionaries?
I relieve myself in the bushes and dry myself on my shift. I emerge to meet disapproving stares - I have never felt so many eyes upon me - a most disagreeable sensation. I wish I could run as I used to when I was a child, but I have no strength. My black silk slippers are in ribbons, for I have already walked for miles. Through them I feel a hard surface as I leave the gardens and cling to railings.
Dearest Charles, how I wish that you were here to protect me. The river of people is a mere trickle now, and beyond it there is a torrent of monstrous traffic. I would like to hail a hackney cab, but I have no money and there are no carriages. There is not a horse in sight, only racing behemoths with dazzling yellow eyes. The sky is streaked with pink now, and above me are hideous orange lights. Behind me in the gardens I can hear shouting and laughter, and I fear that some drunken rabble is about to descend on me. There is a fearful noise like wailing banshees as yellow centaurs with wheels where their limbs should be flash past.
I am shaking like a fox that has been chased for miles by a pack of baying hounds. Darkness falls, but it is sprinkled with yellow lights like eyes, and I fear there may be garrotters. Now the gardens behind me, which were so enchanting a few hours ago, seethe with strange noises. On the other side of the broad highway I see lights and houses. Some of them are large and must be inhabited by the better class of people, so I decide to knock on one of the doors and entrust myself to some kind stranger. But as I stand waiting to cross the formidable road a gang of wild urchins surrounds me. They laugh and tug at my dress. ‘Weird clothes.’
Nina In Utopia Page 1
