An Empty Cradle

Is there such a creature as a Russian frog? The young princess presumed there was, for her tutor said he swam like one, with straight arms and bowed legs. She had never seen either, a frog or a man swim. She thought she'd like to, but she wasn't allowed anywhere near lakes, rivers or ponds. The estate grounds didn't contain any, not even a fountain, although apparently this had nothing to do with a frog but an unforgotten curse, which had started with a succession of balls and ended with seven taken girls and later an eighth who on her seventeen birthday went missing.
The young princess had been led to believe there was some family connection: were they cousins? She had no mother to ask, her father was always away and when he was home he had no time for her, and the old princess, her grandmamma, wouldn't say, she wouldn't be drawn on the subject at all and would only purse or nervously wet her lips. The nurse she had remonstrated with already for filling the 'child's head with nonsense' and was told never to repeat, even if begged, that 'ridiculous tale again!'. The old princess could be quite severe when she wanted to and the new nurse was justifiably upset and frightened. She had presumed the story was local knowledge; it was told often enough whenever the estate was mentioned, inside by the servants and outside by the villagers.
The young princess did of course beg every night for two weeks, trying every voice and every method to get her own way. She even tried Cook, a man-servant and a groom, and lots of other hangers-on, Grandmamma's old suitors, when they came to visit, but all to no avail. Their lips were sealed, or more likely had been sealed by Grandmamma's threats.
Time passed, but as she grew older, her interest was again reawakened. So she decided to write down all that she knew and all that she'd heard from whispers behind doors and in the corridors – if it was nonsense, why couldn't it be told? - and from it piece together the full story, but being still a girl, and an unworldly one at that, she wrote it as if it were a fairy tale out of a book. Here is what she wrote:
On a summer night, a princess attended a ball given by a queen. The first of many that summer, though none would be as magnificent or as wonderful as this one. All the guests there were young, beautiful and brave, but the princess found the women boring and the men too fawning, and was more taken with the opulent surroundings: the gold, the marble, the crystal, the silk and jewels on display. She liked lovely things.
In the course of evening, in-between dances, she was drawn to the dark garden with its huge trees and white fountain, its water plashing. There she met a sullen, brooding stranger, who had no airs or graces about him at all. He was polite, but curt. His clothes were fine, but not as adorned as those inside, and his looks were as dark as the night.
The princess fell in love. And there the matter should have ended, for the man she loved had the rank but not the wealth, but no, after a series of garden meetings, there was a wedding. Some gossips said a child was already on the way.
It's true a child was born quite soon, but only eight months or so after, which wasn't uncommon (I'm told) for a first confinement. The child was a girl, a small red screaming bundle, who was there one night, safe in her cradle, and the next gone. The estate was searched and every servant questioned, but the child was not discovered.
The princess was quickly with child again, and another girl was born. But the same occurred; the child was taken from its cradle, never to be seen. Five more – all girls – disappeared, in spite of guards. Until the princess (her confinement cleverly concealed) gave birth to an eighth who for the first two days of her life was kept hidden, watched over and nursed by the princess alone. The estate then rejoiced for the curse it seemed had been broken.
Years passed. The child grew into a girl, a girl about to turn seventeen. On the night of her birth, she took a company of friends on a moonlit river outing. They dressed all in white and boarded a large boat. It is said they met with another party of girls who had called to them from the river bank; the princess hearing them had risen and stepped over the boat's edge.

Picture credit: La Berceuse, Madame Roulin Rocking the Cradle (A Lullaby), 1899, Vincent van Gogh (source: WikiArt).

See First Love by Ivan Turgenev, translated from the Russian by Isaiah Berlin (Penguin Classics). 

Written in lock-down May 2020.

Russian Cinders

In the kitchen I prepared a bubble bath in which to soap and rinse the lunch things, still thinking of Timofey Pnin of a few days earlier and of course my own Pninian escapade. The dancing feet of the voile curtains today were weighed down with dumbbells. A blustery wind was blowing which if left entirely free would have stirred them into a frenzied dance, and that, I could do without.
I dipped, washed and rinsed and fished for knives and spoons and mulled over Pnin, his gestures and locutions and impersonations of, and other trivialities like lunch: an untried vegetarian sausage. Cooked and cold, inside it had been an off-putting salmon pink; it had tasted a little of salmon too (or maybe crab?), or had reminded me of that fishy article being somewhere between a flaked and paste texture. It certainly didn't have a 'sausage' flavour. It wasn't unpleasant but had detracted from my book as half my mind had been given to working out what it thought it was and what it was in actuality. The latter it seemed I still hadn't pinned down.
And Pnin it seemed, despite finishing with his business, was still causing me to mindfully pause whilst mindlessly going on with other tasks. Like considering as Laurence Clements has been, in advance of his book being published, the picture to use as his portrait. He had one in mind by an Old Master which bore a 'stunning likeness' but had been unable to locate it until Pnin's house-warming party. What a good idea, I thought. If I was in the fortunate position of having anything published, in bound form, whose portrait painting would I use in place of my own head and shoulders? Perhaps a van Gogh? Perhaps somebody obscure, like myself? Though I don't think I would look for likeness but liking. Why be truthful when a little white lie in this case wouldn't hurt anybody? And what you pick might give the reader some insight which is what some of them want isn't it? The words contained within not always enough; they want your soul. If you then proved to be a successful writer i.e. more was wanted of you, from you, you could use a different portrait picture for every new book, chosen for your present mood and not necessarily for any similarity in age or appearance.
It's definitely an idea writers who wish to remain pictorially anonymous but not an entire blank should pursue. There's something, in my humble (and unasked for) opinion, in it.
The other matter that had given me particular pause was Pnin's assertion that Cinderella's shoes were not made of glass, but of Russian squirrel fur, a 'beautiful, pale, winter-squirrel fur'. Was the girl herself then Russian too? Was there more than one Cinderella, and if so what shoes did these other Cinders' wear? A cloth slipper? A wedge, that would have made her tower over and totter before the Prince, and take minuscule steps for fear of falling over? Surely it could only have been the French that wore glass? Oh, but I'm forgetting the Italians... Perhaps a very finely crafted sandal? And in some country she must have worn boots, ankle, calf and thigh-high. Quite fascinating...perhaps if I liked shoes (what women doesn't I hear you cry? This one!) it would have fascinated me longer to imagine, because I hadn't now I thought about it exhausted the possibilities of fur. Hadn't Cinderella been around in times more primitive than now? How old was she?
It was at this point however my thoughts took a different Cinderella line, for I had started to reread a different book by a different Russian author, and had been struck by some passages in V. S Pritchett's introduction, which had led me to speculate that Turgenev's mother was perhaps the Russian Cinderella, or at least one of the Cinderellas. Russia it now seemed might have had more than one, though none, I surmised, were handsome or fortunate. They were not pretty and were disappointed in love - the suitors they were matched with were distinguished but penniless - and any charms they possessed (other than wealth) vanished upon their marriage. A Russian Cinderella once caught, netted, landed (pick your term) is a shrew: they rule. Or at least that was said to be the case with Turgenev's mother. A tyrannous Cinders who terrorized the household; now you won't see that in a storybook, but you might just read (if Professor Timofey Pnin is correct) of Russian squirrel fur shoes.

Picture credit: Young Woman with a Pink Shoe. Portrait of Berthe Morisot, 1868, Edouard Manet (source: WikiArt).

Further reading: Pnin, Vladimir Nabokov, and First Love, Ivan Turgenev, translated from the Russian by Isaiah Berlin (Penguin Classics).

Written in lockdown, May 2020.

Sloppy Hysterics

On an exceptional muggy morning I opened the windows wide, thinking only of cool fresh air and nothing else. Stomach grumbling porridge was the next thought and again nothing else (nothing that is of my own musings) until that was satisfied. I read while I spooned and swallowed. My left hand and mouth working together, in time-honoured fashion, as the right held Pnin by Nabokov on only its second outing and already causing twenty or so pages in no end of mirth. Ah, Professor Timofey Pnin, you're so like Mr Bean. A bald bespectacled Russian Mr Bean.
I took my time, and finishing shoved aside the emptied bowl and licked-clean spoon, with a furtive glance at the wall clock, and read more still. There is half an hour yet.
Pnin has had his teeth removed and the metaphors of the mouth, as I continue my wordy stroll, are still rolling round my mind. So clever. The tongue is indeed like 'a fat sleek seal', and the teeth 'familiar rocks' on which it used to 'flop and slide so happily'.
The seal, my own, flops amongst its own worn-down rocks, hoping to dislodge that shred of pineapple stuck in one of its usual clefts. It finally succeeds as I'm learning of a younger sparsely auburn bearded Pnin in Paris, 1925, and just moments before the instrument known as a telephone rang.
Little did I know as I picked up and spoke into its receiver I was about to have my own Pninian trial, for as I talked I surveyed the living room with indifferent eyes - its state being as it always was: tidy and functional – until they strayed to the swaying voile panels. One had attracted to itself a dancing partner. This partner, although very small in size and having more dancing legs than is customary, I knew was going to be a problem, for if that wasn't enough it had wings too and was inside.
Yes, a crane fly.
The phone call, which had started out so pleasantly, was abruptly ended. The matter of the fly must be dealt with. But how?
The gold curtain led, the crane fly clung. I delicately tapped the gold curtain on its shoulder, hoping it would release its new friend to the breeze. I had of course forgotten that this was a very sensitive creature. Naturally upset at being disturbed it crawled upwards until having reached the head of its partner it flew further into the room rather than out.
My instinct as it is with any insect that flies was to panic. It flew towards me, I ran backwards away from it having at some point picked up a magazine which I was now waving madly. My backwards run made me almost fall over Mac, my doorstop Scottish terrier, who I unceremoniously launched out the door with me, slamming it in the self-propelled face and body of the flying intruder. There, it was contained.
Seconds went by, giving my heart ample time to calm its leaping, before I cautiously peeped round the door. No sign. Anywhere. Not on an almond-white wall. Not above a hanged painting. Where was it hiding? I cautiously slunk in and examined the area it had been flying in: the kitchen. There it was splayed out on a kitchen unit. From a safe distance I prepared to whack it with the magically still clutched, still rolled-up magazine. Bam!
Vanished! Again! I hadn't even seen it move, no discernible flutter, no sudden drop to the draining board, and no, (thank god!) not alive and clinging to the magazine's back page.
I lost it for a good forty-five minutes, although realised with dread this was not the end. It was somewhere and if I wasn't careful it would surprise me. It would have very nearly got its way too had I not spotted it on the damp blue dishcloth looped over the tap. Grateful as I was to have located it, its position did pose a dilemma. I determined a quarter-full bowl of water was the best course of action. Perhaps I could with one movement slip the dishcloth into it? That didn't happen. I couldn't. Instead I slopped the bowl at it, whereby it instantly took flight and I too, with it, leapt, throwing the bowl and the water over the floor. I had however followed its path to the wall on which its original entry point the curtains hung. There I got it with a just-remembered killer spray; its crumbled body disposed of I dissolved in a fit of giggles.

Further reading: Pnin, Vladimir Nabokov

Picture credit: Open Window, Carl Holsoe (source: WikiArt).

Written in lockdown, May 2020.

There Was a Time

There was a time when my skin didn't have, as it has now, a spongy base texture. When it wasn't a firm sponge with a tiny bit of give like that of a Jaffa Cake. There was a time when this would have felt less foreign and wouldn't have reminded me of my favourite childhood biscuit.
There was a time when one Jaffa Cake wasn't enough. When one wasn't enough of anything. When very young to this life I had an appetite for it; when that hunger spread to everything.
There was a time when under ten, and alone, you could walk to the shops and buy a can of pop and some sweets. When a fifty pence piece or a pound coin was plenty of pocket money.
There was a time when you could play in the streets, or if on holiday walk to the beach with your cousins, and return home for dinner. When the danger wasn't necessarily less or the community better, but when children were allowed to explore, a little further from their own front door, without parental supervision. When children were trusted.
There was a time when grandparents were more grandparents than parents. When they had more of the joy of grand-parenting than parenting. When children were angels with their grandparents and devils with their parents.
There was a time when my maternal grandfather wore short-sleeved cotton shirts and pullovers with leather elbow patches; when my paternal went everywhere wearing his trilby; my father his flat cap. When my maternal grandmother pinned a brooch to her dress and sprayed scent; when my paternal wore a fur stole and pearls. When my mother's hair was kept away from her face with hair combs, when she also wore clip-on earrings with her smart office wear. A time when her hair was later dyed and bobbed, then dyed and cropped short.
There was a time when shops were closed on Sundays. When my working father complained nothing could ever get done at the weekends! There was a time when this changed, little by little, so now nothing stops.
There was a time when back-seat passengers in cars didn't have seat belts. When I could lie full-length along the seat, the car in motion, and sleep, or lie awake and feel the wheels rolling under me, and under them the bumps, the holes in the roads. When I could travel, for fun, in the car boot with the dog. When seat belts became law, there was a time for car games and walkmans.
There was a time when long distances were driven to Devon, to Dorset, to Wales. When a ferry was taken to France. When holidays were spent with grandparents, uncles and aunts, and cousins. Where bedrooms were fought over and pools splashed in. Where walks were a prerequisite, on which a pub would usually be found and stopped at. Where a cream tea was looked forward to: the adults, the scones; the child, the grated cheese sandwiches cut into triangles.
There was a time when eating out was a treat, an outing. When a takeaway was a rare break for the cook from the kitchen. That time has passed for many.
There was a time when I let myself in with my own key and made my own dinner. When I waited, whilst doing homework, for my parents to come home, weary, from their jobs in London, where later they would doze in front of the telly.
There was a time when bedtime drinks were milky. Hot milk. Cold milk. A mug of, with honey. A glass of, with chocolate digestives. When a song was sung sleepily, legs heavily going up the stairs. Or when I was carried up by two strong arms.
There was a time when...
There was a time when the world was different. Different to my grandparents', different to parents' day. When it was my day.
There was a time before glasses were worn and a time after. There was a time the mind was a child's, and a time it was neither child or adult, and a time, a long old time, when it was all adult.

Picture credit: Clock, 1914, Marc Chagall (source: MarcChagall.net).

Written May 2020.

Goldilocks and the Watering Can

Goldilocks, in a temper, threw her bowl of porridge at Margaret Bear and flicked her spoon, across the table, at James, Margaret's husband. “Too sloppy and too cold!” she howled.
The two Bears looked at each other and offered theirs. “Spoon!” Goldilocks declared, almost triumphantly.
A clean spoon was fetched and each bowl sampled. The first was pronounced “Too stodgy”, and the second, “Tastes funny”, which after a further taste was said to be because “it has yucky cream in it,” and refused with a defiant shake of the golden head.
“Well, no porridge for Goldilocks,” said James, “and more for us.” He had decided this was really too much; he would not rise to it, not when the provoker was a child.
Mrs Bear, meanwhile, was busily tidying up. Scooping up Goldilocks' thrown, though unbroken, bowl and mopping up the congealing porridge with a damp dishcloth. 'All this mess caused by one little girl', she thought as she wiped, 'how does her mother put up with it?'
A frowning Goldilocks watched them silently, 'Why were they not doing what she wanted? Or arguing with her? Her mother usually did.'
Mr Bear had disappeared to shave; the whirr and hum of his electric razor could be heard from the bathroom upstairs, and Mrs Bear was washing up in the kitchen. Goldilocks, her golden curly head resting on her right hand began with her left to drum on the table. Drum, drum, drum, “bored, bored, bored,” drum, drum, she muttered in time with and in-between the drumming.
Mrs Bear on hearing her called out, “You can get down from the table now and come and help.” Goldilocks, giving no sign of hearing her, went on sitting. Drum, drum, “Bored, bored.” Then having judged she'd left long enough between the summons she scooted down from the dining chair and went in search of Margaret (she never called her Mrs Bear), her little feet pattering on the lined flooring until she found her.
Mrs Bear was now plumping cushions, accompanied by the sound upstairs of teeth being brushed. “Ah, there you are,” Mrs Bear said, flushed, in response to the sudden appearance of Goldilocks before her, “I have an important job for you. Come with me.”
Mrs Bear walked purposively ahead, checking every now and then to make sure the little girl was following, and led her into a domed-glassed room with an outside tap, picked up the green watering can beneath it, turned the tap on to a steady stream and filled it partway, then turned the tap off and handed the can to Goldilocks, saying in a bright, clear voice, “The house-plants need a drink, see if you can find them.”
Goldilocks stood there, the sprout dripping a little on her black buttoned boots, with her little mouth open. A job! Mrs Bear almost laughed (and to Goldilocks almost looked pretty instead of drab and mousy), “Go on off you go...BUT no running!”
“The plants need a drink...the plants need a drink...hide and seek....plant, where are you?” chanted Goldilocks, with the watering can gripped in both hands, as she searched high and low, inside the house. “Mustn't spill...mustn't spill...”
A tall potted plant, standing in the cool hallway, was being given a drink when Mr Bear thumped down the stairs, “I know where you can find another,” he said in a mock whisper, to the watchful little girl, motioning with his head towards the stairs he'd just come down from, “in a small room, at the top.”
“Thank you James,” she answered quickly, with a bob, and pushed past him, though still being mindful not to spill, to take the stairs one at a time.
“Bye dear, see you tonight,” called James to his wife, as he headed out the front door.
Goldilocks, on reaching the top, saw first the door to the bathroom standing open; the closed door ahead she knew was Margaret and James' bedroom, and the door to the right was the study. Was she allowed in there? In she went, immediately spotting the plant just behind the desk with the typewriter on it. Hateful thing! Her writer-mother had one just like it. She very deliberately took some earth, clogged its keys, then watered it, and crept out.

Picture credit: A Girl with a Watering Can, 1876, Pierre Auguste Renoir (source: WikiArt). 

Written May 2020.