“Night fell. I didn’t know where we could pass our wedding night. Agnes had become so pale, so pale from exhaustion. At last, just as we left Paris behind, I saw a café beside the river. I moored the boat, and we walked up to the dark and sinister terrace. There were two wolves and a fox prowling around us. Nobody else …
“I knocked. I knocked on the door, but it remained closed on a terrible silence.
“‘Agnes is tired. Agnes is very tired,’ I shouted with all my might.
“Finally an old crone hung out of the window and said, ‘I don’t know a thing. It’s the fox who’s the landlord here. Let me sleep. You’re getting on my nerves.’
“Agnes began to cry. There was nothing I could do but speak to the fox. ‘Have you any beds?’ I asked him several times. He didn’t reply. He couldn’t speak. Then the crone’s head, now even older than before, came down slowly from the window, at the end of a piece of string.
“‘Speak to the wolves. I’m not in charge here. Please let me sleep.’
“I understood that the crone was mad, and that there was no sense in going on. Agnes was still weeping. I walked around the house several times and in the end managed to open a window through which we entered. We found ourselves in a high-ceilinged kitchen, where there was a large stove, glowing red with fire. Some vegetables were cooking themselves, jumping around in boiling water; this game delighted them. We ate well and afterwards lay down to sleep on the floor. I held Agnes in my arms. We didn’t sleep a wink. There were all sorts of things in that terrible kitchen. A great number of rats sat on the threshold of their holes and sang with shrill, disagreeable little voices. Foul smells spread and dispersed one after the other, and there were strange draughts. I think it was the draughts that finished off my poor Agnes. She was never herself again. From that day on she spoke less and less …”
At that, the owner of the fruit shop was so blinded by his tears that I was able to make my escape with my melon.
(1937–38)
UNCLE SAM CARRINGTON
Whenever Uncle Sam Carrington saw the full moon he couldn’t stop laughing. A sunset had the same effect on Aunt Edgeworth. Between them they caused my poor mother a great deal of suffering, for she had a certain social reputation to keep up.
When I was eight I was considered the most serious member of the family. My mother confided in me. She told me that it was a crying shame that she wasn’t invited anywhere, that Lady Cholmendley-Bottom cut her when they passed in the street. I was grief stricken.
Uncle Sam Carrington and Aunt Edgeworth lived at home. They lived on the first floor. So it was impossible to hide our sad state of affairs. For days I wondered how I could deliver my family from this disgrace. In the end I couldn’t stand the tension and my mother’s tears, they upset me too much. I decided to find a solution by myself.
One evening, when the sun had turned a brilliant red, and Aunt Edgeworth was giggling in a particularly outrageous manner, I took a pot of jam and a fishing hook and set off. I sang, “Come into the garden, Maud, / For the black bat, night, has flown,” to frighten the bats away. My father used to sing that when he didn’t go to church, or else he sang a song called “It Cost Me Seven and Six Pence.” He sang both with equal feeling.
All right, I thought to myself, the journey has begun. The night will surely bring a solution. If I keep count of the trees until I reach the place I’m going to, I shan’t get lost. I’ll remember the number of trees on the return journey.
But I’d forgotten that I could only count to ten, and even then I made mistakes. In a very short time I’d counted to ten several times, and I’d gone completely astray. Trees surrounded me on all sides. “I’m in a forest,” I said, and I was right.
The full moon shone brightly between the trees, so I was able to see, a few yards in front of me, the origins of a distressing noise. It was two cabbages having a terrible fight. They were tearing each other’s leaves off with such ferocity that soon there was nothing but torn leaves everywhere and no cabbages.
“Never mind,” I told myself. “It’s only a nightmare.” But then I remembered suddenly that I’d never gone to bed that night, and so it couldn’t possibly be a nightmare. “That’s awful.”
Thereupon I left the corpses and went on my way. Walking along I met a friend. It was the horse who, years later, was to play an important part in my life.
“Hello,” he said. “Are you looking for something?” I explained to him the purpose of my late-night expedition.
“I can see that this is a very complicated matter from a social point of view,” he said. “There are two ladies living near here who deal with such matters. Their aim is the extermination of family shame. They’re expert at it. I’ll take you to them if you like.”
The Misses Cunningham-Jones lived in a house discretely surrounded by wild plants and underclothes of bygone times. They were in the garden, playing a game of draughts. The horse stuck his head between the legs of a pair of 1890 bloomers and addressed the Misses Cunningham-Jones.
“Show your friend in,” said the lady sitting on the right, speaking with a very distinguished accent. “In the interest of respectability, we are always ready to come to the rescue.” The other lady inclined her head graciously. She was wearing an immense hat decorated with a great collection of horticultural specimens.
“Young lady,” she said, offering me a Louis Quinze chair, “does your family descend from our dear departed Duke of Wellington? Or from Sir Walter Scott, that noble aristocrat of pure literature?”
I felt a bit embarrassed. There were no aristocrats in my family. She saw my hesitation and said with the most charming smile, “My dear child, you must realize that here we deal only with the affairs of the oldest and most noble families of England.”
I had an inspiration, and my face lit up. “In our dining room at home …”
The horse kicked me hard in the backside. “Never mention anything as vulgar as food,” he whispered.
Fortunately the ladies were slightly deaf. I immediately corrected myself. “In our drawing room,” I continued, confused, “there is a table on which, we are told, a duchess forgot her lorgnette in 1700.”
“In that case,” one of the ladies said, “we can perhaps settle the matter. Of course, we shall have to set a rather high fee.”
“Wait here for a few minutes, then we’ll give you what you need. While you are waiting, you may look at the pictures in this book. It is instructive and interesting. No library is complete without it: my sister and I have always lived by its admirable example.”
The book was called The Secrets of the Flowers of Refinement, or The Vulgarity of Food.
When the two ladies had gone, the horse said, “Do you know how to walk without making a sound?”
“Certainly,” I replied.
“Let’s go and see the ladies at work,” he said. “Come. But if you value your life, don’t make the slightest noise.”
The ladies were in their kitchen garden. It was behind their house and was surrounded by a high brick wall. I climbed on the horse’s back, and a pretty astonishing sight met my eyes: the Misses Cunningham-Jones, each armed with a huge whip, were whipping the vegetables on all sides, shouting, “One’s got to suffer to go to Heaven. Those who do not wear corsets will never get there.”
The vegetables, for their part, were fighting amongst themselves, and the larger ones threw the smaller ones at the ladies with cries of hate.
“It’s always like this,” said the horse in a low voice. “The vegetables have to suffer for the sake of society. You’ll see that they’ll soon catch one for you, and that it’ll die for the cause.”
The vegetables didn’t look keen to die an honorable death, but the ladies were stronger. Soon two carrots and a courgette fell into their hands.
“Quick,” said the horse, “let’s go back.”
We had hardly got back and were sitting once more in front of The Vulgarity of Food when the two ladies returned, looking just about a
s poised as before. They gave me a parcel which contained the vegetables, and in return I paid them with the pot of jam and the fishing hook.
(1937–38)
THE HOUSE OF FEAR
One day toward half past midday, as I was walking in a certain neighborhood, I met a horse who stopped me.
“Come with me,” he said, bending his head towards a street that was dark and narrow. “I’ve something I particularly want to show you.”
“I haven’t the time,” I replied, but nevertheless I followed him. We came to a door on which he knocked with his left hoof. The door opened. We went in, I thought I’d be late for lunch.
There were a number of creatures in ecclesiastical dress. “Do go upstairs,” they told me. “There you’ll see our beautiful inlaid floor. It is completely made of turquoise, and the tiles are stuck together with gold.”
Surprised by such a welcome, I nodded my head and made a sign to the horse to show me this treasure. The staircase had enormously high steps, but we went up without difficulty, the horse and I.
“You know, it isn’t really as beautiful as all that,” he told me in a low voice. “But one’s got to make a living, hasn’t one?”
All of a sudden we saw the turquoise paving which covered the floor of a large, empty room. In fact the tiles were well fitted together with gold, and the blue was dazzling. I gazed at it politely, the horse thoughtfully:
“Well, you see, I’m really bored by this job. I only do it for the money. I don’t really belong in these surroundings. I’ll show you, next time there’s a party.”
After due reflection, I said to myself that it’s easy to see that this horse isn’t just an ordinary horse. Having reached this conclusion, I felt I should get to know him better.
“I’ll certainly come to your party. I’m beginning to think I rather like you.”
“You yourself are an improvement on the usual run of customers,” he replied. “I’m very good at telling the difference between ordinary people and those with a certain understanding. I’ve got the gift of immediately getting right inside a person’s soul.”
I smiled anxiously. “And when is the party?”
“It’s this evening. Put on some warm clothes.”
That was odd, for outside the sun was shining brightly.
Going down the stairs at the far end of the room, I noticed with surprise that the horse managed much better than I. The ecclesiastics had disappeared, and I left without anyone seeing me go.
“At nine o’clock,” the horse said. “I’ll call for you at nine. Be sure to let the concierge know.”
On my way home I thought to myself that I ought to have asked the horse to dinner.
Never mind, I thought. I bought some lettuce and some potatoes for my supper. When I got home I lit a little fire to prepare my meal. I had a cup of tea, thought about my day and mostly about the horse whom, though I’d only known him a short time, I called my friend. I have few friends and am glad to have a horse for a friend. After the meal I smoked a cigarette and mused on the luxury it would be to go out, instead of talking to myself and boring myself to death with the same endless stories I’m forever telling myself. I am a very boring person, despite my enormous intelligence and distinguished appearance, and nobody knows this better than I. I’ve often told myself that if only I were given the opportunity, I’d perhaps become the centre of intellectual society. But by dint of talking to myself so much, I tend to repeat the same things all the time. But what can you expect? I’m a recluse.
It was in the course of these reflections that my friend the horse knocked on my door, with such force that I was afraid the neighbours would complain.
“I’m coming” I called out.
In the darkness I didn’t see which direction we were taking. I ran beside him, clinging to his mane for support. Soon I noticed that in front of us, behind us, and on all sides in the open country were more and more horses. They were staring straight ahead and each carried some green stuff in its mouth. They were hurrying, the noise of their hooves shook the earth. The cold became intense.
“This party takes place every year,” the horse said.
“It doesn’t look as if they were enjoying themselves much,” I said.
“We’re visiting the Castle of Fear. She’s the mistress of the house.”
The castle stood ahead of us, and he explained that it was built of stones that held the cold of winter.
“Inside it’s even colder,” he said, and when we got into the courtyard I realized that he was telling the truth. The horses all shivered, and their teeth chattered like castanets. I had the impression that all the horses in the world had come to this party. Each one with bulging eyes, fixed straight ahead, and each one with foam frozen around its lips. I didn’t dare speak, I was too terrified.
Following one another in single file, we reached a great hall decorated with mushrooms and other fruits of the night. The horses all sat down on their hindquarters, their forelegs rigid. They looked about without moving their heads, just showing the whites of their eyes. I was very much afraid. In front of us, reclining in the Roman fashion on a very large bed, lay the mistress of the house—Fear. She looked slightly like a horse, but was much uglier. Her dressing gown was made of live bats sewn together by their wings: the way they fluttered, one would have thought they didn’t much like it.
“My friends,” she said, weeping and trembling. “For three hundred and sixty-five days I’ve been thinking of the best way to entertain you this night. Supper will be as usual, and everyone is entitled to three portions. But apart from that I have thought up a new game which I think is particularly original, for I’ve spent a lot of time perfecting it. I hope with all my heart that all of you will experience the same joy in playing this game as I have found in devising it.”
A deep silence followed her words. Then she continued.
“I shall now give you all the details. I shall supervise the game myself, and I shall be the umpire and decide who wins.
“You must all count backward from a hundred and ten to five as quickly as possible while thinking of your own fate and weeping for those who have gone before you. You must simultaneously beat time to the tune of ‘The Volga Boatmen’ with your left foreleg, ‘The Marseillaise’ with your right foreleg, and ‘Where Have You Gone, My Last Rose of Summer’ with your two back legs. I had some further details, but I’ve left them out to simplify the game. Now let us begin. And don’t forget that, though I can’t see all over the hall at once, the Good Lord sees everything.”
I don’t know whether it was the terrible cold that excited such enthusiasm, the fact is that the horses began to beat the floor with their hooves as if they wanted to descend to the depths of the earth. I stayed where I was, hoping she wouldn’t see me, but I had an uncomfortable feeling that she could see me very well with her great eye (she had only one eye, but it was six times bigger than an ordinary eye). It went on like this for twenty-five minutes, but …
(1937–38)
AS THEY RODE ALONG THE EDGE
As they rode along the edge, the brambles drew back their thorns like cats retracting their claws.
This was something to see: fifty black cats and as many yellow ones, and then her, and one couldn’t really be altogether sure that she was a human being. Her smell alone threw doubt on it—a mixture of spices and game, the stables, fur and grasses.
Riding a wheel, she took the worst roads, between precipices, across trees. Someone who’s never travelled on a wheel would think it difficult, but she was used to it.
Her name was Virginia Fur, she had a mane of hair yards long and enormous hands with dirty nails; yet the citizens of the mountain respected her and she too always showed a deference for their customs. True, the people up there were plants, animals, birds; otherwise things wouldn’t have been the same. Of course, she had to put up with being insulted by the cats at times, but she insulted them back just as loudly and in the same language. She, Virginia Fur, lived in a village
long abandoned by human beings. Her house had holes all over, holes she’d pierced for the fig tree that grew in the kitchen.
Apart from the garage for the wheel, all the rooms were occupied by cats; there were fourteen in all.
Every night she went out on her wheel to hunt; whatever their respect, the mountain beasts didn’t let themselves be killed as easily as all that, so several days per week she was forced to live on lost sheepdog, and occasionally mutton or child, though this last was rare since no one ever came there.
It was one night in autumn when she found to her surprise that she was being followed by footsteps heavier than those of an animal; the footsteps came rapidly.
The sickening smell of a human entered her nostrils; she pushed her wheel as hard as she could, to no avail. She stopped when her pursuer was beside her.
“I am Saint Alexander,” he said. “Get down, Virginia Fur, I want to talk to you.”
Who could this individual be who dared address her so familiarly? An individual, furthermore, of a rare filthiness, there in his monk’s habit. The cats kept a contemptuous distance.
“I want to ask you to enter the Church,” he went on. “I hope to win your soul.”
“My soul?” replied Virginia. “I sold it a long time ago for a kilo of truffles. Go ask Igname the Boar for it.”
He considered this across the whole length of his greenish face. Finally he said with a cunning smile, “I have a pretty little church not far from here. It’s a marvel of location, and what comfort! My friend! Every night there are apparitions and you really have to see the graveyard, really, it’s a dream! There’s a view of the surrounding mountains for a hundred miles and more. Come with me, Virginia.” He continued in a tender voice. “I promise you, on the head of the little baby Jesus, that you’ll have a beautiful spot in my graveyard, right next to the statue of the Holy Virgin. (And believe me that’s the very best place.) I’ll conduct your funeral rites myself. Imagine, funeral rites celebrated by the great Saint Alexander!”
The Complete Stories of Leonora Carrington Page 3
