The Hearing Trumpet

by Leonora Carrington

  “Yes indeed,” I replied. “There is nothing I love so much as snow lit by moonlight. For years I have wanted to go to Lapland just to be able to sail along in a sledge drawn by those white woolly dogs and admire the snow. Further north they use reindeer which also give milk. I suppose they make cheese too, although I fancy it might have a rather goaty taste which never appealed to me.”

  “We really must not allow ourselves to become victims to daydreaming,” said Maude. “Dr. Gambit says daydreaming saps more energy than riding a bicycle. I am sure he must be right, although I am not clever enough to understand the reasons for all he tells us. Still, at our age it is difficult not to indulge a little in small pleasures. Although I know you will think I am silly, I sometimes find myself imagining that I am strolling through a whispering birch forest somewhere in the north. It is early spring and the last frosts make the grass crackle under my feet.”

  “Yes I know,” I said fervently. “Birch trees, silver birch that seem so much more alive than these nasty palm trees.”

  “It is so vivid,” went on Maude, “that it makes up a whole story. Would you mind very much if I told you about it?”

  “I would enjoy hearing about it very much,” I replied, hoping it would not take too long, as I wanted to begin a letter to Carmella before it got too late. Mrs. Gambit insisted that all lights be extinguished by eleven o’clock.

  “Well,” said Maude, “there I am dressed in tweed trousers, leather jacket and strong brogue shoes; I am strolling alone whistling, or rather humming. I cannot whistle since I lost my teeth. The birch forest is full of babbling brooks which I cross on smooth stepping stones. These are sometimes rather slippery and I have to steady myself with a stout bramble walking stick I always carry. Such clear frolicking little brooks. They seem to promise all kinds of innocent fun! A light wind rustles the leaves of the birch trees, the air is fresh and cool. As I stroll along I become aware that I have a purpose, and soon with a thrill of joy I know what it is. I must find a magic cup, hidden somewhere in the wood. Then I come upon a marble statue of Diana and her dogs. She is half-covered with moss, and strides perpetually through the forest. The cup lies at the foot of the statue. It is a silver chalice brimming over with golden honey. I sip the honey and return the cup to Diana with a thankful prayer, or rather it is not quite like that. I make an attempt to sip the honey but it is too thick and I have to look around for a spoon. There are no spoons so after licking the rim of the chalice I return it still nearly full of honey to the Goddess, and then I say my prayer of Thanks.

  “The statue of Diana is not far behind and I find a small iron key lying half-hidden under a stone. I know I shall need this so I put it in my pocket. Sure enough I suddenly find myself in front of a wooden door imbedded in a mossy wall. Just as I am wondering if I ought to open it or not and I am trying the iron key in the lock somebody creeps up behind me and roughly pushes me through the door. The door opens of its own accord and I fall into a strange luxurious bedroom furnished in a style which seems Renaissance. But I am so ignorant about art that it might easily be Gothic or even Baroque. The fourposter bed is occupied by a woman wearing a frilly white nightcap. She is winking at me and I recognize her as the nun in the oil painting that hangs in the dining room.”

  “Very strange indeed,” I said. “That painting has occupied my thoughts since I first saw it. Who is the nun?”

  “Nobody seems to know,” said Maude. “Or rather they pretend they do not know although I often think that Christabel Burns could tell a lot if she wished. She is such a secretive person though and never talks much to anybody.”

  “Perhaps she feels different being a Negress,” I said. “Negresses have different sorts of souvenirs from us. I often wanted to talk to her but she always seems too busy.”

  “Well I suppose I ought to hurry to bed,” said Maude. “I share a bungalow with Mrs. Van Tocht. You know, Vera. She doesn’t like me to go to bed late as she says she can hear me taking my shoes off through the walls. She is a very light sleeper. I do appreciate Vera so much. She is very spiritual. I could never reach her higher plane, I am afraid.”

  “Yes, she tells me you have seances on Wednesday evenings.”

  Maude looked a little surprised. “She told you?” she said. “That means she must think you have possibilities of Initiation. I do hope you will join us on Wednesday?”

  “Thank you,” I replied. “I would be very happy.” I thought perhaps they served light refreshments, possibly liqueurs. Somebody had told me that Mrs. Van Tocht had private means. Something must have kept her fat.

  “What about Natacha Gonzalez?” I asked. “They say she has supernatural powers.” There was a slight hesitation before Maude replied, “Yes she is a very spiritual person too. She has visions. Goodnight, I really must go before Vera gets into bed.”

  She left me wondering why she looked so fearful when I mentioned Natacha Gonzalez. The moon floated high in the heavens. I began to compose my letter to Carmella. It really was a pity that she was not present to enjoy so much mystery. I thought of suggesting that she should come for a weekend, providing I could obtain permission from Mrs. Gambit. Carmella would have some very interesting theories about all these people. Before retiring into the Lookout I stood outside admiring the moon and stars and listening to the night creatures through my trumpet. Anna Wertz was talking to herself in the distance, a cricket chirped and a nightingale sang nearby. Now where, I wondered, had I put my pen and ink? The paper, I knew, was in the closet upstairs.

  When I had written Carmella all the news I could think of I went to bed, leaving the rest for another day. The moon shone in through my window and I could not get off to sleep, but lay half dreaming and half awake, a state which is quite familiar to me now. Souvenirs from the far past rose like bubbles in my mind and things I thought were long forgotten came back as clear as if they had just happened.

  The Luxembourg Gardens and the smell of chestnut trees, Paris. St. Germain des Prés, having breakfast on the terrace of a café with Simon, whose face was as clear and solid as if still full of life, but Simon must be dead for thirty years now, there is nothing left of him as far as I know. Simon talking like the Arabian Nights, Love and Magic. Then I dreamt that I was preparing lunch in a summer house in the hollow of a large garden with Simon. There was something important I had to ask him and I touched his chest. “But you are as solid as I am,” I told him. “O Simon why did you die before you could tell me what it is all about? Simon, what is it like being dead?” That was what I had to ask him and I felt embarrassed, he looked puzzled for a moment then he said:

  “You think it is going to end all the time but it never does.” He had beautiful eyes like a Siamese cat. Simon lost in interminable twilight gardens, never getting free, and he knew so much. Simon. Perhaps I would still be in Paris, oh the joy if I could just walk along the quais and admire the books, or look at the Seine from the Pont Neuf. I would walk up rue St. André des Arts to the market and buy red wine and brie for lunch, that would be plenty for my frugal needs. Pierre, rue des Beaux Arts. Clever Pierre with all his wonderful theories coming to such a sad end. He was drowned in his bath, murdered they say, by a still life painter. Pierre had flown into a rage because he recognized a carrot in one of the paintings of the murderer, Jean Prissard. The outraged artist had crept into Pierre’s apartment and, finding him in the bath, held him under water till he expired. Poor Pierre, I forget if his murderer was sent to the guillotine. Pierre who was so wonderfully clever and sensitive about painting that if a canvas had anything but one colour painted on the same colour he would almost faint with horror. Form, he said, was outdated and vulgar. Therefore the carrot, which may not have been a carrot at all, sent him to an untimely death.

  •

  Monday or Tuesday, I forget which, I was sitting by the bee pond trying to teach myself to crochet. Mrs. Gambit said idleness was the real cause of my terrible greed, so I thought I wo
uld try and crochet a scarf. Maude had given me some green wool and a crochet lesson. It was not nearly as simple as she would have me believe. I had stopped to admire the bees and envy them such efficient industry, when Natacha Gonzalez appeared suddenly. Her head was wrapped in a mauve scarf as if she had toothache.

  “I am entirely exhausted,” she said, rolling her eyes like huge revolving prunes. “Impossible to get any sleep for three days.”

  “Perhaps Mrs. Gambit would give you some Sedebrol if you asked her. I believe it is very effective,” I said kindly. Natacha clasped her head and groaned. “Sedebrol! but of course you do not understand. I am dizzy with sleep, only I dare not close my eyes because of the rats.”

  This gave me a shock, I was always terrified of rats and mice. “How dreadful,” I said, “are there rats in your bungalow?”

  “ENORMOUS rats,” said Natacha. “I would say these rats are almost as big as spaniels. So of course I dare not sleep. They might gnaw off my nose.”

  “How horrible,” I said nervously. “Mrs. Gambit ought to keep cats. She could keep a dozen cats here quite comfortably and they are such beautiful creatures. Rats and mice can’t even stand the smell of cats.”

  “Mrs. Gambit has an allergy to cats,” said Natacha. “They give her pimples.”

  “What nonsense!” I exclaimed. “There is nothing so clean as a healthy pussy. When I was at home I wouldn’t have slept without my cats for anything.”

  “Mrs. Gambit,” said Natacha emphatically, “would not touch a cat to save her life. She wouldn’t have a cat near the place. There is no other remedy but rat poison. I shall ask her to buy me some packets of ‘Last Supper’ rat poisoning. It is the most virulent and they die almost at once.”

  “If they are really as big as spaniels and die under the floor boards you will be stunk out of your bungalow in no time.”

  “I will sacrifice myself to get rid of such frightful creatures,” said Natacha. “Besides, it is better to smell them than have my nose gnawed off.”

  “Not that I want to interrupt,” said Georgina poking her head around the jasmine bush, “but I haven’t seen a mouse or rat since I arrived here ten years ago.”

  “Vipress!” exclaimed Natacha. “I advise you not to talk to Georgina Sykes. She is a dangerous, immoral and malignant woman!” Wrapping her mauve gauze scarf tightly around her lower jaw she pointed a short forefinger at the jasmine bush. “Vipress!” she hissed through the scarf. “Poisonous reptile!” She took herself off still vituperating.

  Georgina sauntered into the close and sat down. “Objectively speaking,” she said, “Natacha Gonzalez stinks. I have my own little pet name for Natacha. I call her Saint Rasputina. All that tale about the rats was absolute poppycock, she was lying. Rasputina would sell her mother to the white slave traders to get a bit of publicity. She has a power complex like Hitler. She invents rats as big as spaniels just as she invents cosy chats with saints as tall as telegraph poles. It all comes to the same thing, power and more power. It is a jolly good thing for humanity that she is shut up in a home for senile females.”

  “I hope you are right about there being no rats here,” I replied, “I have always been afraid of rats and mice, although I believe I am fond of most animals.”

  Georgina suddenly stared curiously at my crochet scarf, “Talking of animals, is that a jerkin for a grass snake you are knitting?” Georgina could hardly be expected to guess it was a scarf. Still it was obvious that I was doing crochet work, not knitting.

  “No,” I said slightly nettled. “It is not.”

  “Where did you get such nauseatingly green wool? It makes my dentures chatter.”

  “There are times when you are far too critical, Georgina. Maude Somers very kindly made me the present of this nice green wool, and I think it has a pleasant springtime colour, like early chestnut leaves.”

  “I hope you don’t intend to wear it eventually?” said Georgina, ignoring my reproach. “You would look like Noah after he was drowned in the flood. Green is not your colour, you are far too green as it is.”

  “Surely you don’t expect me to look like a debutante?” I asked. “Besides Noah was not supposed to have drowned. He had an Ark, you know, full of animals.”

  “Everybody knows that the whole bible is inaccurate. True, Noah did go off in an Ark, but he got drunk and fell overboard. Mrs. Noah went aft and watched him drown, she didn’t do anything about it because she inherited all those cattle. People in the bible were very sordid and a lot of cattle in those days were like a bank account.”

  Georgina got up and threw her cigarette end into the bee pond, it fizzled unpleasantly.

  “Where are you going?” I asked, as I always enjoyed Georgina’s conversation.

  “I am going to read a novel so you can go on knitting your beastly sock.” She stalked off with a certain creaking elegance, leaving a faint scent behind her which reminded me of rue de la Paix.

  A postcard arrived for me by the evening post. It was a colourful picture of the Welsh Guards and a goat marching into Buckingham Palace.

  Madam in fine mettle. We watched the croquet finals yesterday. Very exciting match. Both rather tired. Madam sends her regards. Hoping this finds you as it leaves us in g. health.

  Yours Truly B. Margrave.

  Margrave was most kind the way he kept me informed of Mother’s health. Taking an interest in sport at the age of a hundred and ten was really admirable, but then Mother’s life had been a great deal easier than my own. Ever since she left Ireland at the age of eighteen Mother had lived a constant round of dizzy pleasure. Cricket matches, shooting parties, jumble sales, shopping in Regent Street, bridge parties and face massage at Madame Pomeroy’s, an unfashionable beauty parlour just off Piccadilly Circus. The fact that Mother never quite caught up with fashion was part of her charm. We always arrived too early or too late for everything. Arriving in Biarritz, I remember, in a snowstorm in the month of February. Mother took the weather as a personal insult, she believed the Riviera was on the equator, snowfall in Biarritz convinced her that the poles were changing places and the earth was falling out of its orbit. We were the only clients in a hotel as big as Victoria Station. “No wonder people never come to Biarritz,” said my mother. “It is empty. We will go to Torquay next year, it is much cheaper and the weather is a great deal milder.”

  We went on to Monte Carlo where Mother found her spiritual home in the casino. She forgot about the weather. I had a flirtation with the clerk in a travel agency. He sold us tickets to Taormina and off we went to Sicily. More romance in Taormina with a head waiter called Dante. He sold us a very cheap painting by Fra Angelico which did not turn out to be authentic and was therefore not as cheap as we thought. But the weather was now beautiful and the bougainvillaeas in full bloom.

  Back we went to Rome and admired Italian officers with hats like coal scuttles and gorgeous blue cloaks.

  We drove out to the catacombs in a barouche. We trudged around Saint Peter’s and admired Michelangelo’s Dome. Mother was now satiated with art and decided we must go to Paris and buy clothes. “Parisian clothes,” said Mother, “are famous all over the world.” So we arrived in Paris and went shopping in Au Printemps. Mother was disappointed, she wanted to buy brown satin knickers but they were nowhere to be found. “We might just as well be in London,” said Mother, who bought a sailor hat which didn’t really suit her. “I could find all the same things in Regent Street at half the price.”

  We went to the Folies Bergère as Mother thought I was now old enough to see Mistinguette. “All those naked women bore me, the Greeks did it years ago,” said Mother who was still annoyed about the brown satin knickers. The following evening we went to the Bal Tabarin which we both enjoyed. I danced with a very pleasant Armenian who telephoned me next day at the hotel. Mother bought tickets back to London and we left Paris before the Armenian got the chance to sell us anything.
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  Back in Lancashire I got an attack of claustrophobia and tried to convince Mother to let me go and study painting in London. She thought this was a very idle and silly idea and gave me a lecture about artists. “There is nothing wrong about painting,” she told me. “I paint boxes myself for jumble sales. There is a difference though in being artistic and in actually being an artist. Your Aunt Edgeworth wrote novels and was very friendly with Sir Walter Scott but she would never have called herself ‘an artist.’ It wouldn’t have been nice. Artists are immoral, they live together in attics, you could never get used to an attic after all the luxury and comfort you have here. Besides what is there to prevent you painting at home, there are all sorts of picturesque nooks which would be delightful to paint.”

  “I want to paint nude models,” I said. “You can’t get nude models here.”

  “Why not?” replied Mother with a flash of logic. “People are nude everywhere if they haven’t got any clothes on.” Finally I did go to London to study art and had a love affair with an Egyptian. A pity I never actually got to Egypt but thanks to my mother I did see most of Europe during my youth.

  Art in London didn’t seem quite modern enough and I began to want to study in Paris where the Surrealists were in full cry. Surrealism is no longer considered modern today and almost every village rectory and girl’s school have surrealist pictures hanging on their walls. Even Buckingham Palace has a large reproduction of Magritte’s famous slice of ham with an eye peering out. It hangs, I believe, in the throne room. Times do change indeed. The Royal Academy recently gave a retrospective exhibition of Dada art and they decorated the gallery like a public lavatory. In my day people in London would have been shocked. Today the Lord Mayor opened the exhibition with a long speech about twentieth-century masters and the Queen Mother hung a wreath of gladiola on a piece of sculpture called “Navel” by Hans Arp.