Because of this, and because she is the prime focus of all attention, the Goose in Mother Goose is the premier animal role, even more so than …
2 Dick Whittington’s Cat: Dick Whittington’s cat is the Scaramouche of Pantoland, limber, agile, and going on two legs more often than on four to stress his status as intermediary between the world of the animals and our world. If he possesses some of the chthonic ambiguity of all dark messengers between different modes of being, nevertheless he is never less than a perfect valet to his master and hops and skips at Dick’s bidding. His is therefore less of a starring role than the Goose, even if his rat-catching activities are central to the action and it is a difficult to imagine Dick without his cat as Morecambe without Wise.
Note that this cat is male almost to a fault, unquestionably a tom-cat, and personated by a man; some things are sacrosanct, even in Pantoland. A tom-cat is maleness personified, whereas …
3 Daisy the Cow is so female it takes two whole men to represent her, one on his own couldn’t hack it. The back legs of the pantomime quadruped are traditionally a thankless task, but the front end gets the chance to indulge in all manner of antics, flirting, flattering, fluttering those endless eyelashes and, sometimes, if the coordination between the two ends is good enough, Daisy does a tap-dance, which makes her massive udder with its many dangling teats dip and sway in the most salacious manner, bringing back home the notion of a basic crudely reproductive female sexuality of which those of us who don’t lactate often do not like to be reminded. (They have lactation, generation all the time in mind in Pantoland.)
This rude femaleness requires two men to mimic it, as I’ve said; therefore you could call Daisy a Dame, squared.
These three are the principal animal leads in Pantoland, although Mother Hubbard, a free-floating Dame who might turn up in any text, always comes accompanied by her dog but, more often than not, Chuckles gets in on the act here, and real animals don’t count. Pantomime horses can crop up anywhere and mimic rats are not confined to Dick Whittington but inhabit Cinderella’s kitchen, even drive her coach; there are mice and lizards too. Birds. You need robins to cover up the Babes in the Wood. Emus, you get sometimes. Ducks. You name it.
When Pantoland was young, and I mean really young, before it got stage-struck, in the time of the sky wolf, when fertility festivals filled up those vacant, dark, solstitial days, we used to see no difference between ourselves and the animals. Bruno the Bear and Felix the Cat walked and talked amongst us. We lived with, we loved, we married the animals (Beauty and the Beast). The Goose, the Cat and Daisy the Cow have come to us out of the paradise that little children remember, when we thought we could talk to the animals, to remind us how once we knew that the animals were just as human as we were, and that made us more human too.
THE PRINCIPAL BOY
What an armful! She is the grandest thing in Pantoland.
Look at those arms! Look at those thighs! Like tree trunks, but like sexy tree trunks. Her hats are huge and plumed with feathers; her gleaming, exiguous little knicks are made of satin and trimmed with sequins. As Prince Charming, she is a veritable spectacle of pure glamour although, as Jack, her costume might start off a touch more pleasant and, as Dick, she needs to look like a London apprentice for a while before she gets to try on that Lord Mayor schmutter. For Robin Hood, she’ll wear green; as Aladdin, the East is signified by her turban.
You can tell she is supposed to be a man not by her shape, which is a conventional hour-glass, but by her body language. She marches with as martial a stride as it is possible to achieve in stiletto heels and throws out her arms in wide, generous, all-encompassing, patriarchal gestures, as if she owned the earth. Her maleness has an antique charm, even, nowadays, a touch of wistful Edwardiana about it; no Principal Boy worth her salt would want to personate a New Man, after all. She’s gone to the bother of turning herself into a Principal Boy to get away from the washing-up, in the first place.
In spite of her spilling physical luxuriance, which ensures that, unlike the more ambivalent Dame, the Principal Boy is always referred to as a “she”, her voice is a deep, dark brown and, when raised in song, could raise the dead. Who, who ever heard her, could ever forget a Principal Boy of the Old School leading the chorus in a rousing military parade and rendition of, say, “Where are the boys of the Old Brigade?”
Come to that, where are the Principal Boys of the Old Brigade? In these anorexic times, there is less and less thigh to slap. Girls, nowadays, are big-bosomed, all right, due to implants, but not deep-chested any more. Principal Boys used to share a hollow-voiced, bass-baritone bonhomie with department-store Father Christmases but “Ho! ho! ho!” is heard no more in the land. In these lean times, your average Principal Boy looks more like a Peter Pan, and pre-pubescence isn’t what you’re aiming for at a fertility festival, although the presence of actual children, in great numbers, laughing at that which they should not know about, is indispensable as having established the success of preceding fertility festivals.
The Principal Boy is a male/female cross, like the Dame, but she is never played for laughs. No. She is played for thrills, for adventure, the romance. So, after innumerable adventures, she ends up with the Principal Girl in a number where their voices soar and swoon together as in the excruciatingly erotic climactic aria of Monteverdi’s L’Incoronazione di Poppaea, performed as it is in the present day always by two ladies, one playing Nero, one Poppaea, due to male castrati being thin on the ground in spite of the population explosion. And, as Principal Boy and Principal Girl duet, their four breasts in two décolletages jostle one another for pre-eminence in the eyes of all observers. This is a thrill indeed but will not make babies unless they then dash out and borrow the turkey-baster from the Christmas-dinner kitchen. There is a kind of censorship inherent in the pantomime.
But the question of gender remains vague because you have to hang on to the idea that the Principal Boy is all boy and all girl at the same time, a door that opens both ways, just as the Dame is Mother Eve and Old Adam in one parcel; they are both doors that open both ways, they are the Janus faces of the season, they look backwards and forwards, they bury the past, they procreate the future, and, by rights, these two should belong together for they are and are not ambivalent and the Principal Girl (q. does not v. in this work of reference) is nothing more than a pretty prop, even when eponymous as in Cinderella and Snow White.
Widow Twankey came out of retirement and, gorged on anthropology, dropped down on stage in Pantoland.
“I have come back to earth and I feel randy!”
She/he didn’t have to say a word. The decor picked up on her unutterance and all the pasteboard everywhere shuddered.
The Dame and the Principal Boy come together by chance in the Chinese laundry. Aladdin has brought in his washing. They exchange some banter about smalls and drawers, eyeing one another up. They know that this time, for the first time since censorship began, the script will change.
“I feel randy,” said Widow Twankey.
What is a fertility festival without a ritual copulation?
But it isn’t as simple as that. For now, oh! now the hobby-horse is quite forgot. The Phallic Mother and the Big-Breasted Boy must take second place in the contemporary cast-list to some cricketer who does not even know enough to make an obscene gesture with his bat, since, in the late twentieth century, the planet is over-populated and four breasts in harmony is what we need more of, rather than babies, so Widow Twankey ought to go and have it off with Mother Hubbard and stop bothering Aladdin, really she/he ought.
Do people still believe in Pantoland?
If you believe in Pantoland, put your palms together and give a big hand to …
If you really believe in Pantoland, put your—pardon me, vicar—
A fertility festival without a ritual copulation is … nothing but a pantomime.
Widow Twankey has come back to earth to restore the pantomime to its original condition.
But
, before scarlet drawers and satin knicks could hit the floor, a hook dropped out of the flies and struck Widow Twankey between the shoulders. The hook lodged securely in her red satin bustier; shouting and screaming, with a great display of scrawny shin, she was hauled back up where she had come from, in spite of her raucous protests, and deposited back amongst the dead stars, leaving the Principal Boy at a loss for what to do except to briskly imitate George Formby and start to sing “Oh, Mr Wu, I’m telling you …”
As Umberto Eco once said, “An everlasting carnival does not work.” You can’t keep it up, you know; nobody ever could. The essence of the carnival, the festival, the Feast of Fools, is transience. It is here today and gone tomorrow, a release of tension not a reconstitution of order, a refreshment … after which everything can go on again exactly as if nothing had happened.
Things don’t change because a girl puts on trousers or a chap slips on a frock, you know. Masters were masters again the day after Saturnalia ended; after the holiday from gender, it was back to the old grind …
Besides, all that was years ago, of course. That was before television.
Ashputtle
or The Mother’s Ghost
THREE VERSIONS OF ONE STORY
I THE MUTILATED GIRLS
But although you could easily take the story away from Ashputtle and centre it on the mutilated sisters—indeed, it would be easy to think of it as a story about cutting bits off women, so that they will fit in, some sort of circumcision-like ritual chop, nevertheless, the story always begins not with Ashputtle or her stepsisters but with Ashputtle’s mother, as though it is really always the story of her mother even if, at the beginning of the story, the mother herself is just about to exit the narrative because she is at death’s door: “A rich man’s wife fell sick, and, feeling that her end was near, she called her only daughter to her bedside.”
Note the absence of the husband/father. Although the woman is defined by her relation to him (“a rich man’s wife”) the daughter is unambiguously hers, as if hers alone, and the entire drama concerns only women, takes place almost exclusively among women, is a fight between two groups of women—in the right-hand corner, Ashputtle and her mother; in the left-hand corner, the stepmother and her daughters, of whom the father is unacknowledged but all the same is predicated by both textual and biological necessity.
In the drama between two female families in opposition to one another because of their rivalry over men (husband/father, husband/son), the men seem no more than passive victims of their fancy, yet their significance is absolute because it is (“a rich man”, “a king’s son”) economic.
Ashputtle’s father, the old man, is the first object of their desire and their dissension; the stepmother snatches him from the dead mother before her corpse is cold, as soon as her grip loosens. Then there is the young man, the potential bridegroom, the hypothetical son-in-law, for whose possession the mothers fight, using their daughters as instruments of war or as surrogates in the business of mating.
If the men, and the bank balances for which they stand, are the passive victims of the two grown women, then the girls, all three, are animated solely by the wills of their mothers, Even if Ashputtle’s mother dies at the beginning of the story, her status as one of the dead only makes her position more authoritative. The mother’s ghost dominates the narrative and is, in a real sense, the motive centre, the event that makes all the other events happen.
On her death bed, the mother assures the daughter: “I shall always look after you and always be with you.” The story tells you how she does it.
At this point, when her mother makes her promise, Ashputtle is nameless. She is her mother’s daughter. That is all we know. It is the stepmother who names her Ashputtle, as a joke, and, in doing so, wipes out her real name, whatever that is, banishes her from the family, exiles her from the shared table to the lonely hearth among the cinders, removes her contingent but honourable status as daughter and gives her, instead, the contingent but disreputable status of servant.
Her mother told Ashputtle she would always look after her, but then she died and the father married again and gave Ashputtle an imitation mother with daughters of her own whom she loves with the same fierce passion as Ashputtle’s mother did and still, posthumously, does, as we shall find out.
With the second marriage comes the vexed question: who shall be the daughters of the house? Mine! declares the stepmother and sets the freshly named, non-daughter Ashputtle to sweep and scrub and sleep on the hearth while her daughters lie between clean sheets in Ashputtle’s bed. Ashputtle, no longer known as the daughter of her mother, nor of her father either, goes by a dry, dirty, cindery nickname for everything has turned to dust and ashes.
Meanwhile, the false mother sleeps on the bed where the real mother died and is, presumably, pleasured by the husband/father in that bed, unless there is no pleasure in it for her. We are not told what the husband/ father does as regards domestic or marital function, but we can surely make the assumption that he and the stepmother share a bed, because that is what married people do.
And what can the real mother/wife do about it? Burn as she might with love, anger and jealousy, she is dead and buried.
The father, in this story, is a mystery to me. Is he so besotted with his new wife that he cannot see how his daughter is soiled with kitchen refuse and filthy from her ashy bed and always hard at work? If he sensed there was a drama in hand, he was content to leave the entire production to the women for, absent as he might be, always remember that it is in his house where Ashputtle sleeps on the cinders, and he is the invisible link that binds both sets of mothers and daughters in their violent equation. He is the unmoved mover, the unseen organising principle, like God, and, like God, up he pops in person, one fine day, to introduce the essential plot device.
Besides, without the absent father there would be no story because there would have been no conflict.
If they had been able to put aside their differences and discuss everything amicably, they’d have combined to expel the father. Then all the women could have slept in one bed. If they’d kept the father on, he could have done the housework.
This is the essential plot device introduced by the father: he says, “I am about to take a business trip. What presents would my three girls like me to bring back for them?”
Note that: his three girls.
It occurs to me that perhaps the stepmother’s daughters were really, all the time, his own daughters, just as much his own daughters as Ashputtle, his “natural” daughters, as they say, as though there is something inherently unnatural about legitimacy. That would realign the forces in the story. It would make his connivance with the ascendancy of the other girls more plausible. It would make the speedy marriage, the stepmother’s hostility, more probable.
But it would also transform the story into something else, because it would provide motivation, and so on; it would mean I’d have to provide a past for all these people, that I would have to equip them with three dimensions, with tastes and memories, and I would have to think of things for them to eat and wear and say. It would transform “Ashputtle” from the bare necessity of fairy tale, with its characteristic copula formula, “and then”, to the emotional and technical complexity of bourgeois realism. They would have to learn to think. Everything would change.
I will stick with what I know.
What presents do his three girls want?
“Bring me a silk dress,” said his eldest girl. “Bring me a string of pearls,” said the middle one. What about the third one, the forgotten one, called out of the kitchen on a charitable impulse and drying her hands, raw with housework, on her apron, bringing with her the smell of old fire?
“Bring me the first branch that knocks against your hat on the way home,” said Ashputtle.
Why did she ask for that? Did she make an informed guess at how little he valued her? Or had a dream told her to use this random formula of unacknowledged desire, to allow blind chance to
choose her present for her? Unless it was her mother’s ghost, awake and restlessly looking for a way home, that came into the girl’s mouth and spoke the request for her.
He brought her back a hazel twig. She planted it on her mother’s grave and watered it with tears. It grew into a hazel tree. When Ashputtle came out to weep upon her mother’s grave, the turtle dove crooned: “I’ll never leave you, I’ll always protect you.”
Then Ashputtle knew that the turtle dove was her mother’s ghost and she herself was still her mother’s daughter, and although she had wept and wailed and longed to have her mother back again, now her heart sank a little to find out that her mother, though dead, was no longer gone and henceforward she must do her mother’s bidding.
Came the time for that curious fair they used to hold in that country, when all the resident virgins went to dance in front of the king’s son so that he could pick out the girl he wanted to marry.
The turtle dove was mad for that, for her daughter to marry the prince. You might have thought her own experience of marriage might have taught her to be wary, but no, needs must, what else is a girl to do? The turtle dove was mad for her daughter to marry so she flew in and picked up the new silk dress with her beak, dragged it to the open window, threw it down to Ashputtle. She did the same with the string of pearls. Ashputtle had a good wash under the pump in the yard, put on her stolen finery and crept out the back way, secretly, to the dancing grounds, but the stepsisters had to stay home and sulk because they had nothing to wear.
Burning Your Boats: The Collected Short Stories Page 51