The evening shadows, long and blue, became thicker around us. Arabelle’s face was in a haze like some landscapes on a summer day. Somewhere from the other side of the lake a bell rang.
“Dinner,” said Arabelle, taking me suddenly by the arm. “And I’m not dressed. Let’s hurry, Dominique is going to scold me again.” She dragged me along, talking all the time.
“He’s so sweet, Dominique, but so nervous…. One has to be careful with such sensitive creatures. He’s been praying all afternoon, and now he’s hungry, and here we are, late. The good Lord help us.”
We went along paths overgrown with grass and moss. We found ourselves in front of the house, a large mansion covered in sculptures and terraces descending from it one beyond the other in a stupefying state of confusion.
When Arabelle opened the front door, we found ourselves in a great marble hall, furnished with fruit trees, which grew everywhere. A long table in the middle of the room was set for dinner.
“I’ll leave you here for a moment while I change my dress,” Arabelle said. “Help yourself to wine and cake while you’re waiting.” She left me with an enormous carafe of red wine and a quantity of rich cakes. I helped myself to some wine and was looking around tranquilly when I realized I was not alone: a young man was standing beside me, looking at me with hostile eyes. This young man was so pale that I could hardly believe he was alive. He was dressed like a priest, a Jesuit I think, and his cassock was spotted with food and all sorts of filth. His presence made me recoil involuntarily.
“Explain yourself,” he said, making the sign of the cross. “I don’t like strangers here. Moreover I’m very nervous and it’s bad for my health.” He poured himself a litre of wine and drank it at a single gulp.
“I don’t know what I’m doing here,” I replied. “My head feels so heavy I can’t think properly, and all I want is to leave immediately.”
“You can’t go … now,” he said. “This isn’t the right time.”
I was disconcerted to see that big tears were rolling down his cheeks. “I understand you so well,” Dominique continued. “Don’t think I don’t know what you are after in this terrible house; I’ve even prayed for you all afternoon.” He hesitated, his voice choked with pain. “I’ve wept so much for your poor soul.”
At this moment Arabelle Pegase made her appearance, dressed in the most extravagant fashion, with ostrich feathers, lace, and jewels, all slightly dirty and very crumpled. She went up to Dominique, took his ear between her lips, and said, “Don’t scold me, Dominique darling, I was making myself beautiful for you,” and then it seemed to me that she suddenly noticed my presence, for she quickly withdrew.
“Dominique is my little son,” she said. “A mother’s heart is so tender.”
“The garden is so beautiful now,” she said. “Dominique, darling, I dream of nothing but walking along the lake with you.” Dominique threw her a terrified look. I thought he would faint.
“We are very close in spirit, my son and I,” said Arabelle, turning to me. “And we share a great feeling for poetry, isn’t that so, Dominique, darling son?”
“Yes, mother of my heart,” replied Dominique in a trembling voice.
“Do you remember how when you were a child we played together, and I was as much of a child as you? You remember, Dominiquino?”
“Yes, darling little mother.”
“They were lovely, those days we had together. You hugged me all day long and called me Little Sister.”
I was embarrassed. I wanted to go, but it was impossible.
“When one has an only son,” continued Arabelle, “one thinks and dreams of nothing else.”
By the light of the candles I suddenly saw a young girl standing beside Arabelle. She had come in silently and mysteriously. She was beautiful. Her black dress blended with the shadows around her, and I had the impression that her face was floating in space. When Dominique saw this girl, he was taken with such a fit of trembling one might have thought his bones would fall apart. Suddenly Arabelle seemed very old. The girl looked at mother and son with a fixed expression. They got up, and I followed without knowing why. Finally the girl walked towards the door. We went out into the garden and arrived at the lake, still in silence. I saw the reflection of the moon in the water, but was horrified to see there was no moon in the sky: the moon had been drowned in the water.
“Let us see your beautiful body,” the girl said, addressing Arabelle.
Dominique gave a cry and fell to the ground. Arabelle began to undress. Quickly there was a heap of dirty clothes beside her, but she kept on taking off more with a sort of rage. At last she was completely undressed, and her body was nothing but a skeleton. The girl, arms crossed on her chest, waited.
“Dominique,” she said, “are you alive?”
“He’s alive,” cried the mother. I had the feeling I was at a spectacle that had already been played out a hundred times.
“I am dead,” Dominique said. “Leave me in peace.”
“Is he dead or is he alive?” asked the girl in a sonorous voice.
“Alive,” cried the mother.
“And yet he’s been buried a long time,” replied the girl.
“Come let me kill you,” the old woman shrieked. “Come let me kill you for the hundred and twentieth time.”
The two women threw themselves upon each other and fought savagely. They went into the water administering ferocious blows to each other.
“The moon is immortal,” the girl shouted, with her hands around the old woman’s throat. “You’ve killed the moon, but she doesn’t rot like your son.”
I saw the old woman growing weaker, and she soon disappeared into the water, followed by the girl. With a sigh, Dominique crumbled into a heap of dust. I was alone in a night without light.
(1937-40)
WHITE RABBITS
The time has come that I must tell the events which began in 40 Pest Street. The houses, which were reddish black, looked as if they had issued mysteriously from the fire of London. The house in front of my window, covered with an occasional wisp of creeper, was as black and empty looking as any plague-ridden residence subsequently licked by flames and smoke. This is not the way that I had imagined New York.
It was so hot that I got palpitations when I ventured out into the streets, so I sat and considered the house opposite and occasionally bathed my sweating face.
The light was never very strong in Pest Street. There was always a reminiscence of smoke, which made visibility troubled and hazy—still it was possible to study the house opposite carefully, even precisely. Besides, my eyes have always been excellent.
I spent several days watching for some sort of movement opposite but there was none, and I finally took to undressing quite freely before my open window and doing my breathing exercises optimistically in the thick Pest Street air. This must have made my lungs as black as the houses.
One afternoon I washed my hair and sat out on the diminutive stone crescent which served as a balcony to dry it. I hung my head between my knees and watched a bluebottle suck the dry corpse of a spider between my feet. I looked up through my long hair and saw something black in the sky, ominously quiet for an aeroplane. Parting my hair, I was in time to see a large raven alight on the balcony of the house opposite. It sat on the balustrade and seemed to peer into the empty window. Then it poked its head under its wing, apparently searching for lice. A few minutes later I was not unduly surprised to see the double windows open and admit a woman onto the balcony. She carried a large dish full of bones, which she emptied onto the floor. With a short appreciative squeak, the raven hopped down and poked about amongst its unpleasant repast.
The woman, who had very long black hair, used her hair to wipe out the dish. Then she looked straight at me and smiled in a friendly fashion. I smiled back and waved a towel. This served to encourage her, for she tossed her head coquettishly and gave me a very elegant salute after the fashion of a queen.
“Do you happen to
have any bad meat over there that you don’t need?” she called.
“Any what?” I called back, wondering if my ears had deceived me.
“Any stinking meat? Decomposed flesh meat?”
“Not at the moment,” I replied, wondering if she was trying to be funny.
“Won’t you have any towards the end of the week? If so, I would be very grateful if you would bring it over.”
Then she stepped back into the empty window and disappeared. The raven flew away.
My curiosity about the house and its occupant prompted me to buy a large lump of meat the following day. I set it on the balcony on a bit of newspaper and awaited developments. In a comparatively short time the smell was so strong that I was obliged to pursue my daily activities with a strong paper clip on the end of my nose. Occasionally I descended into the street to breathe.
Towards Thursday evening I noticed that the meat was turning colour, so waving aside a flight of rancourous bluebottles, I scooped it into my sponge bag and set out for the house opposite. I noticed, descending the stairs, that the landlady seemed to avoid me.
It took me some time to find the front door of the house opposite. It turned out to be hidden under a cascade of something, giving the impression that nobody had been either in or out of this house for years. The bell was of the old-fashioned kind that you pull, and when I pulled it rather harder than I intended, it came right off in my hand. I gave the door an angry push and it caved inwards, admitting a ghastly smell of putrid meat. The hall, which was almost dark, seemed to be of carved woodwork.
The woman herself came rustling down the stairs, carrying a torch.
“How do you do? How do you do?” she murmured ceremoniously, and I was surprised to notice that she wore an ancient beautiful dress of green silk. But as she approached me I saw that her skin was dead white and glittered as if speckled with thousands of minute stars.
“Isn’t that kind of you?” she went on, taking my arm with her sparkling hand. “Won’t my poor little rabbits be pleased?”
We mounted the stairs and my companion walked so carefully that I thought she was frightened.
The top flight of stairs opened into a boudoir decorated with dark baroque furniture and red plush. The floor was littered with gnawed bones and animal skulls.
“It is so seldom that we get a visit.” The woman smiled. “So they all scatter off into their little corners.”
She uttered a low sweet whistle, and transfixed, I saw about a hundred snow white rabbits emerge cautiously from every nook, their large pink eyes fixed unblinkingly upon the woman.
“Come, pretty ones! Come, pretty ones!” she cooed, diving her hand into my sponge bag and pulling out a handful of rotting meat.
With a sensation of deep disgust, I backed into a corner and saw her throw the carrion amongst the rabbits, who fought like wolves for the meat.
“One becomes very fond of them,” the woman went on. “They each have their little ways! You would be surprised how very individual rabbits are.”
The rabbits in question were tearing at the meat with their sharp buck teeth.
“We eat them of course occasionally. My husband makes a very tasty stew every Saturday night.”
Then a movement in the corner caught my attention and I realized that there was a third person in the room. As the woman’s torchlight touched his face I saw he had identical glittering skin, like tinsel on a Christmas tree. He was dressed in a red gown and sat very rigidly with his profile turned towards us. He seemed to be unconscious of our presence or of that of a large white buck rabbit which sat and masticated on a chunk of meat on his knee.
The woman followed my gaze and chuckled. “That is my husband. The boys used to call him Lazarus—”
At the sound of this familiar name, he turned his face towards us and I saw that he wore a bandage over his eyes.
“Ethel?” he enquired in a rather thin voice. “I won’t have any visitors here. You know quite well that I have strictly forbidden it.”
“Now, Laz, don’t start carrying on.” Her voice was plaintive. “You can’t grudge me a little bit of company. It’s twenty-odd years since I’ve seen a new face. Besides, she’s brought meat for the rabbits.”
She turned and beckoned me to her side. “You want to stay with us, do you not, my dear?” I was suddenly clutched by fear and I wanted to get out and away from these terrible silver people and the white carnivorous rabbits.
“I think I must be going, it’s suppertime—”
The man on the chair gave a shrill peal of laughter, terrifying the rabbit on his knee, which sprang to the floor and disappeared.
The woman thrust her face so near to mine that her sickly breath seemed to anaesthetize me. “Do you not want to stay and become like us? In seven years your skin will be like stars, in seven little years you will have the holy disease of the Bible, leprosy!”
I stumbled and ran, choking with horror; some unholy curiosity made me look over my shoulder as I reached the front door and I saw her waving her hand over the banister, and as she waved it, her fingers fell off and dropped to the ground like shooting stars.
(1941)
WAITING
Two old women were fighting in the street, pinching each other like a pair of angry black lobsters. One or two night-hawkers watched them appreciatively.
Nobody knew how the quarrel had begun.
A young woman on the other side of the street also observed the fight but she was more absorbed in the windows above, which went dark one by one. It was the hour of sleep, and with the extinction of each light the night became longer.
People had given up staring at her, she had been standing there for so long. She was like a familiar ghost, but she was strange looking; her clothes were too long and her hair much too untidy, like those of a person barely saved from drowning. Somebody, a little earlier, had quickened his step and looked away because a winged creature was clinging to her mouth and she had not stirred.
Now the creature had flown away on its own mysterious business, leaving the red on her mouth slightly smudged.
She wondered how it was that the people in the street were not dancing, dancing to the monotonous rhythm in her head. It was loud and dangerous and it made wonderful music.
A tall woman came striding around the corner and stopped near her. On a leash she had two big blonde dogs the same colour as her hair, itself like a separate animal sitting on her head.
The dogs were excited and pulled her over to the young woman.
“What are you doing?” she said. “At this hour …”
She bent down and seemed to address the dogs.
“They have been dancing for hours you know, the hounds … they led me here.”
“I am waiting for Fernando.”
“And you have no tears left?”
“No, I haven’t any more,” admitted the young woman. “Although I tried pinching my breasts and thinking of death, it was no good. So I came out here.”
The blonde woman took a sheepskin off her arm and wrapped it around the other. “Come,” she said, “you must get free, free to kill and scream, free to tear out his hair and free to run away only to come back laughing.”
“His hair is so long and straight and almost blue, blue grey, I love it so much.”
She relapsed into infatuated silence.
“Be careful; I shall slap you….” said the blonde woman irritably.
“You can’t love anyone until you have drawn blood and dipped in your fingers and enjoyed it.”
They were being pulled along by the big blonde dogs and occasionally dragged zigzagging across the street to another fascinating stink.
“My name,” said the blonde woman, “is Elizabeth … a beautiful name which suits me admirably.”
“Margaret,” said the young woman sadly, “is my name. Margaret.”
“Musical Margaret,” said Elizabeth, giving a loud triumphant laugh, which sent the dogs bounding forward.
“Not
yet!” screamed Elizabeth. “Not yet…. But they always obey me in small things, although I am directed in others…. They lead me, my trust is implicit.”
They were pulled into a small square, charming with trees and elegantly windowed houses; the dogs went straight to Number 7. In they went and up a rather bleak marble staircase. Up and up to the highest landing and finally in through a small blue door to a diminutive hall littered with beautifully coloured and rather soiled clothes. Their entrance provoked a flight of large moths, which had been grazing peacefully amongst the more mature fur coats.
Somewhere a musical box played a very old song.
“The past,” said Elizabeth, unleashing the dogs. “The adorable living past. One must wallow, just wallow in it. How can anybody be a person of quality if they wash away their ghosts with common sense?”
She turned on Margaret ferociously and laughed in her face.
“Do you believe,” she went on, “that the past dies?”
“Yes,” said Margaret. “Yes, if the present cuts its throat.”
“Those little white hands could cut nobody’s throat.”
Elizabeth laughed so much that she reeled around the room.
“How old is Fernando?” she asked suddenly. “Older than you?”
“Yes,” said Margaret, who looked ill. “Fernando is forty-three.”
“Forty-three, that makes seven … a beautiful number.”
The dogs rolled about voluptuously amongst the silks and furs.
Elizabeth pulled Margaret into the kitchen, where the long-dead stove was littered with cooking utensils or half full of what looked like green food; but Margaret saw that the greenness was a fluffy growth of fungi. Most of the crockery on the floor was covered with the same feathery vegetation.
“We just had dinner,” said Elizabeth. “I always cook too much…. You see, I don’t like meals, I only eat banquets.”
She dipped a spoon into the nearest dish, after having examined it closely….
“It dropped into the lavatory the other day,” she explained, “while I was washing up. Hungry?” she asked.
The Complete Stories of Leonora Carrington Page 8
