Who Was Changed and Who Was Dead

by Barbara Comyns

  WHO WAS CHANGED AND WHO WAS DEAD

  Copyright © Barbara Comyns, 1954

  Introduction copyright © Brian Evenson, 2010

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any manner or in any form without prior permission from the author or publisher.

  First published in England in 1954

  First U.S. edition by Dorothy, a publishing project in 2010

  Second printing, 2015

  ISBN: 978-0-9844693-1-4

  Ebook ISBN: 978-0-9897607-9-9

  The publisher would like to thank Jeremy M. Davies

  Art on cover © Yelena Bryksenkova, 2010

  Design and composition by Danielle Dutton

  Printed on permanent, durable, acid-free recycled paper in the United States of America

  Distributed by Small Press Distribution

  Dorothy, a publishing project

  St. Louis, MO

  dorothyproject.com

  WHO WAS CHANGED AND WHO WAS DEAD

  A NOVEL BY

  BARBARA COMYNS

  INTRODUCTION BY

  BRIAN EVENSON

  DOROTHY, A PUBLISHING PROJECT

  Of what has been and might have been

  And who was changed and who was dead

  LONGFELLOW

  - INTRODUCTION -

  Who Was Changed and Who Was Dead was the first book I read by British novelist Barbara Comyns. I knew nothing about Comyns at the time: I picked up the novel exclusively because of the title, which struck me as promising and intriguing.

  In fact, the book turned out to be a great deal more than that: it was downright astonishing. Beginning mid-flood, with ducks swimming through Grandma Willoweed’s drawing room windows “quacking their approval,” Comyns’ narrator quickly moves on to “[a] passing pig squealing, its short legs madly beating the water and tearing at its throat, which was red and bleeding,” and then the sun comes “out bright and strong and everywhere became silver.” That last fact is a good thing if you side with one of the book’s several astonished children, but bad if you’re Old Ives the handyman, superstitiously convinced that the sun will draw the moisture back into the sky. Inside the house, maids pin up their skirts and try to make breakfast while wading red-legged through the water, laughing and screeching. Meanwhile, the bodies of drowned peacocks eddy round the garden, the hens in one shed commit suicide by falling from their perches into the water, and the hens in the other shed fatalistically sit “on their eggs in a black broody dream until they were covered in water. They squarked a little; but that was all. For a few moments just their red combs were visible above the water, and then they disappeared.”

  All of that happens in the first two paragraphs of the book. None of it is lingered over; each moment is allowed to come and go in Comyns’ distinctive way, and by the time you’ve digested the image or moment and begun to apprehend what lurks behind it, she has moved on to something else. The third paragraph offers a blazing sun and a litany of “[s]trange objects of pitiful aspect” floating past in the flood: more dead peacocks, a drowned sheep with “the wool withering about in the water,” a floating beehive surrounded by “perplexed bees,” a newborn pig “all pink and dead,” among other things. These are indeed pitiful objects, but described with such exacting care and quirky accuracy that the language itself creates a kind of warmth and wonder—there’s nothing else out there quite like the strange and marvelous usage of “wool withering about” for instance, or the tension found between “all pink” and the blunter “dead.” Comyns approaches the world as if everything is worthy of clear-eyed attention. In this novel in particular, she is better than any other writer I know at striking an impossible balance between accuracy, wonder, and disgust. She creates a paradoxical sense of a world that might want to embrace you lovingly—unless instead it wants to smother you. What it will do in the end matters less than the way in which Comyns almost effortlessly engineers that vision of the range of possibility and allows us to maintain our shaky perch suspended above it. The Irish Censorship of Publications Board apparently saw only one part of her vision—disgust, death, and decay—and not its broader sweep: when this novel (Comyns’ third) was first published in 1954 it was banned in Ireland, though it is difficult to understand today what they found offensive.

  At heart, the novel is the story of the Willoweed family, which consists of the wealthy, deaf, and tyrannical Grandmother Willoweed; her shiftless and widowed son Ebin, a former newspaper columnist; Ebin’s three children, Hattie, Emma, and Dennis; the servants that keep the household running; and the village surrounding them. In Comyns’ prose, everything is leveled out: all things are worthy of attention and potentially anything can be examined, and the third person narration is quite democratic in terms of who it chooses to attend to. Sometimes we are close to one of the children, sometimes to Ebin, sometimes a servant or a doctor or the town baker. Who Was Changed and Who Was Dead offers the same meanderings and floods and retreats as the river within the book itself. At times, it feels like an extended daydream; at other times it descends into nightmare. The two events that most shape the book, and indeed the lives of the people within them, are external events: the flood and its aftermath on the one hand, and the odd and initially unexplained outbreak of illness on the other.

  The novel has a progression and a movement forward, though not exactly a plot. Things change, things happen, people make choices, and by the end things are different. Do the characters change and develop? Well, maybe. Though one could also argue that it’s less a question of changing and developing than of simply responding to stimulus. Ebin’s life, for instance, seems radically changed by the outbreak in that it allows him to regain his former profession and escape the tyranny of his mother, but he goes through yet another transformation once his mother dies, one that partially effaces the first one. Dennis and Emma experience far-reaching changes as a result of the outbreak as well, though quite different ones than their father. One has throughout the novel a sense of things happening almost in spite of the characters. Most things that happen in fact happen almost accidentally, and the few definite steps that characters take rarely work out the way they expect them to.

  Comyns is merciless as a portrayer of human relationships as well. She manages to depict the power struggles within the family itself in a way that seems every bit as naturalistic as the events of the flood. The adults in particular get no sympathy from her: their human masks are very damaged and one can see the animal within. The social graces and etiquette that remain often function mainly as means of maintaining power. The grandmother in particular takes a sinister delight in the misfortunes of others, though this is combined with a deafness that makes her detached from the world around her and prone to misunderstandings. Indeed, the older the Willoweeds are, the more they seem to have accepted the viciousness found in nature around them while losing track of its more marvelous and redeeming qualities.

  But that marvelousness permeates the book, which seems as a whole to side with childlike wonder over grown-up viciousness. The novel possesses a remarkable sense of lightness (in Italo Calvino’s usage of the term) despite the floods and deaths and basic human pettinesses found therein. As Comyns has admitted, “I set it in my childhood village [Bidford-on-Avon] and my imagination took hold of me and it almost wrote itself.” It is perhaps for this reason that her evocation of childhood feels so palpable here, so honest. This is all done through language: through the simplicity of the style, forthright and honest; through her tone, which Patricia Craig calls “confident and uncalculating”; through the honesty of the gaze itself; through the way that startling details are rendered in a fashion that captures somethi
ng essential about them before the narrator moves quickly to other things. The results are a kind of hybrid of the pastoral and the naturalistic, an idyllic text about what it’s like to grow up next to a river, a text that also just happens to contain some pretty shocking and sad disasters. That combination shouldn’t work, but in Comyns’ exceptionally capable hands it does.

  Who Was Changed and Who Was Dead strikes me as Comyns’ best and most original book (with The Skin Chairs and The Vet’s Daughter lagging only a little behind it), and it still remains one of my favorites. Comyns’ dark pastoral is an overlooked small masterpiece, and one that has opened pathways that other writers have yet to pursue.

  Brian Evenson, 2010

  WHO WAS CHANGED AND WHO WAS DEAD

  - TIME -

  Summer about seventy years ago

  - PLACE -

  Warwickshire

  - CHAPTER I -

  THE DUCKS swam through the drawing-room windows. The weight of the water had forced the windows open; so the ducks swam in. Round the room they sailed quacking their approval; then they sailed out again to explore the wonderful new world that had come in the night. Old Ives stood on the verandah steps beating his red bucket with a stick while he called to them, but today they ignored him and floated away white and shining towards the tennis court. Swans were there, their long necks excavating under the dark, muddy water. All around there was a wheezy creaking noise as the water soaked into unaccustomed places, and in the distance a roar and above it the shouts of men trying to rescue animals from the low-lying fields. A passing pig squealing, its short legs madly beating the water and tearing at its throat, which was red and bleeding, and a large flat-bottomed boat followed with men inside. The boat whirled round and round in the fierce current; but eventually the pig was saved, and squealed even louder. The children, Hattie and Dennis, watched the rescue from a bedroom window, and suddenly the sun came out very bright and strong and everywhere became silver. Old Ives below said, “It’s a bad thing for the sun to shine on a flood, it draws the dampness back to the sky.” The grandmother came and joined him, and they talked together in the verandah. There was a great smell of mud, and it was the first of June.

  In the kitchens the maids pinned their skirts up high and splashed about in the water trying to prepare breakfast. Their bare legs became quite red. In the large range a fire burnt brightly, and the flames were reflected in the water, but there was a smell of damp and cellars all around. The girls—they were sisters called Norah and Eunice—laughed as they chased a floating basket filled with eggs. Their laughter changed to screeches when a huge, crying shadow passed the window; but it was only the last of the peacocks flying from a tree to the coalshed roof. The other three peacocks had been drowned in the night, and their bodies were floating sadly round the garden; but no one knew this yet, or what had happened to the hens. As the day went on the hens, locked in their black shed, became depressed and hungry and one by one they fell from their perches and committed suicide in the dank water below, leaving only the cocks alive. The sorrowful sitting hens, all broody, were in another dark, evil-smelling shed and they died too. They sat on their eggs in a black broody dream until they were covered in water. They squarked a little; but that was all. For a few moments just their red combs were visible above the water, and then they disappeared.

  Ebin Willoweed rowed his daughters round the submerged garden. He rowed with gentle ineffectual strokes because he was a slothful man, but a strong vein of inquisitiveness kept him from being entirely indolent. He rowed away under a blazing sun; the light was very bright and the water brilliant. Sometimes there would be a bumping and scraping under the boat as it passed over a garden seat or tree trunk or some object only slightly covered by water. Strange objects of pitiful aspect floated past: the bloated body of a drowned sheep, the wool withering about in the water, a white bee-hive with the perplexed bees still around; a new-born pig, all pink and dead; and the mournful bodies of the peacocks. It seemed so stark to see such sorrowful things under the blazing sun and blue sky—a mist of rain would have been more fitting. Now a tabby cat with a distended belly passed, its little paws showing above the water, its small head hanging low. Ebin Willoweed turned his round blue eyes in its direction with interest and poked at it with his oar. His daughters were filled with sadness and asked to be taken back to the house, but he turned the boat towards the river. Then the current became much stronger and there was the sound of swirling water against trees and posts and he had to get one of the girls to take an oar to get the boat back to the safety of the garden. After this exertion he became quite agreeable to returning to the house.

  When they entered the house the grandmother ran down from her bedroom to meet them. She splashed into the watery hall, and cried in her deep, rather nasal voice, “Tell me all about the flood. Has the bridge been damaged? Is the weir still standing? Has anyone been drowned, do you know?” She bombarded them with questions. With one hand she held up her long black skirts; with the other she clutched her large curved ear trumpet. Emma, the eldest grand-daughter, took the trumpet and shouted down it for a few moments. It became filled with beads of moisture, and she handed it back to her grandmother and wiped her mouth on her cotton skirt. The grandmother cried, “Don’t go yet, tell me more. What about my rose beds?” Her son seized the trumpet she was wildly waving above her head and shouted down its black depths, “Dead animals floating everywhere. Your roses are completely covered, you will be lucky if you get a bunch.”

  “Lunch, lunch, what about lunch! Is it ready?” The old lady waded into the dining-room where Dennis was amusing himself floating a fleet of toy boats.

  “Hallo, landlubber!” his father greeted him. The boy didn’t answer, but bent down to float the boat he was holding. His ears became red.

  “Would you like to come out with me and rescue a few sheep?” his father asked in a tone of forced heartiness.

  “No thank you, father. I think I feel rather sick today.”

  His father looked at him with impatient disgust.

  “Christ! Don’t you ever want to do anything, you little cissy! Oh well, I’ll go up to my room; it’s the only comfortable place today. No newspapers, I suppose.”

  He left the room still grumbling and mounted the stairs to his den at the top of the house.

  “Anyone might feel sick,” the small boy said to himself, and went on playing with his boats. He had made them himself and they were his great pride.

  “Don’t mind father,” said Hattie. “Have you realized this flood will put our lessons out of father’s mind for days, perhaps even a week?” She laughed happily and began to splash about in the water with her dark bare feet. The grandmother observed there were no signs of lunch and that she was being unnecessarily splashed, so she hit Hattie on her woolly head and said, “Stop doing that, child. Go into the kitchen and see what those lazy trollops are up to,” and Hattie went off bawling down the passage.

  Upstairs Emma sat on her bedroom window-sill. The casement windows were wide open and she basked in the sun and combed her marmalade-coloured hair. She closed her eyes and forgot the sad, drowned sights of the morning. A feeling of deep satisfaction came over her as she felt the warmth of the sun and combed her hair, dreamily. Then she opened her eyes and examined her hands and pinched her nails at the tip, hoping they would become long and pointed.

  “Oh, how I would love to go to a dance and wear a real evening dress,” she thought, “but nothing like that will happen—no dances, no admirers. I shall just be me, and nothing will happen at all.”

  In his den above, her father sat in his shabby leather armchair and wondered if he had been rather hard on Dennis.

  “Poor little wretch,” he thought, “he’s so damn nervous he drives me crazy. Of course he needs to go to school; but the old woman is so bloody mean she’d never pay the fees. There are not many men who would spend hours teaching their children like I do. People say I’m lazy but it takes a lot of energy to do a thing like th
at.”

  He lit his pipe.

  “It’s a good idea to smoke a pipe, then people don’t expect you to keep offering them cigarettes. I once knew a little nurse, she was a sweet little thing, but smoked like hell and expected me to provide the cigarettes. I had to give her up in the end; it was too expensive. I think that’s what started me on a pipe.”

  He relit it.

  “I like this room. People can laugh at it; but it’s jolly comfortable.”

  He walked across the room to the shabby old cottage piano. Some of the ivories were missing and the ones that remained were yellow. He stood strumming for a few moments, then sat on the round plush stool and played some rather rollicking music which appeared to cheer him up quite considerably. Then his eyes fell on the mantelpiece. It was draped with dark green velvet, complete with pompoms, and on it were a half-empty bottle of beer and a dirty glass with a few dead flies floating about. He emptied the flies into the overflowing ash tray, and poured out a glass of beer. It was rather flat but not undrinkable. As he drank it, rocking backwards and forwards on his toes, he said to himself:

  “After lunch I’ll go out in the boat again; I might see something interesting. There should be a lot of interesting things around after a flood like this. Surely in all this water someone must have drowned. I’ll take Hattie with me; she’s always game for anything. Emma’s strange, damn queer like her mother; but Hattie is so jolly, much the best of the lot. Of course she isn’t my child, I don’t believe in all that village nonsense about her being black because Jenny died before she was born; it’s just an old wives’ tale. The blackness didn’t notice so much when she was born; but it’s unmistakable now. How on earth Jenny found a black lover here, in this lonely village, that is what beats me.”