Burning Your Boats

by Angela Carter

  And sometimes there’ll be a dog, often one of those sandy-coloured, short-haired terriers. On the programmes, it will say: ‘Chuckles, played by himself,’ just above where it says: ‘Cigarettes by Abdullah.’ (Whatever happened to Abdullah?) Chuckles does everything they taught him at dog-school – fetches, carries, jumps through a flaming hoop – but now and then he forgets his script, forgets he lives in Pantoland, remembers he is a real dog precipitated into a wondrous world of draughts and pungency and rustlings. He will run down to the footlights, he will look out over the daisy field of upturned, expectant faces and, after a moment’s puzzlement, give a little questioning bark.

  It was not like this when Toto dropped down into Oz; it is more like it was when Toto landed back, alas, in Kansas. Chuckles does not like it. Chuckles feels let down.

  Then Robin Hood or Prince Charming or whoever it is has the titular – and ‘tits’ is the operative word with this one – ownership of Chuckles in Pantoland, scoops him up against her bosom and he has been saved. He has returned to Pantoland. In Pantoland, he can live for ever.

  In Pantoland, which is the carnival of the unacknowledged and the fiesta of the repressed, everything is excessive and gender is variable.

  A Brief Look at the Citizens of Pantoland

  THE DAME

  Double-sexed and self-sufficient, the Dame, the sacred transvestite of Pantoland, manifests him/herself in a number of guises. For example he/she might introduce him/herself thus:

  ‘My name is Widow Twankey.’ Then sternly adjure the audience: ‘Smile when you say that!’

  Because Twankey rhymes with – pardon me, vicar; and,

  Once upon a distant time,

  They talked in Pantoland in rhyme . . .

  but now they talk in double entendre, which is a language all of its own and is accented, not with the acute or grave, but with the eyebrows. Double entendre. That is, everyday discourse which has been dipped in the infinite riches of a dirty mind.

  She/he stars as Mother Goose. In Cinderella, you get two for the price of one with the Ugly Sisters. If they throw in Cinders’ stepmother, that’s a bonanza, that’s three. Then there is Jack’s Mum in Jack and the Beanstalk where the presence of cow and stem in close proximity rams home the ‘phallic mother’ aspect of the Dame. The Queen of Hearts (who stole some tarts). Granny in Red Riding Hood, where the wolf – ‘Ooooer!’ – gobbles her up. He/she pops up everywhere in Pantoland, tittering and squealing: ‘Look out, girls! There’s a man!!!’ wherever the Principal Boy (q.v.) appears.

  Big wigs and round spots of rouge on either cheek and eyelashes longer than those of Daisy the Cow; crinolines that dip and sway and support a mass of crispy petticoats out of which comes running Chuckles the Dog dragging behind him a string of sausages plucked, evidently, from the Dame’s fundament.

  ‘Better out than in.’

  He/she bestrides the stage. His/her enormous footsteps resonate with the antique past. She brings with him the sacred terror inherent in those of his/her avatars such as Lisa Maron, the androgynous god-goddess of the Abomey pantheon; the great god Shango, thunder deity of the Yorubas, who can be either male or female; the sacrificial priest who, in the Congo, dressed like a woman and was called ‘Grandma’.

  The Dame bends over, whips up her crinolines; she has three pairs of knee-length bloomers, which she wears according to mood.

  One pair of bloomers is made out of the Union Jack, for the sake of patriotism.

  The second pair of bloomers is quartered red and black, in memory of Utopia.

  The third and vastest pair of bloomers is scarlet, with a target on the seat, centred on the arsehole, and this pair is wholly dedicated to obscenity.

  Roars. Screams. Hoots.

  She turns and curtsies. And what do you know, she/he has shoved a truncheon down her trousers, hasn’t she?

  In Burgundy, in the Middle Ages, they held a Feast of Fools that lasted all through the dead days, that vacant lapse of time during which, according to the hairy-legged mythology of the Norsemen, the sky wolf ate up the sun. By the time the sky wolf puked it up again, a person or persons unknown had fucked the New Year back into being during the days when all the boys wore sprigs of mistletoe in their hats. Filthy work, but somebody had to do it. By the fourteenth century, the far-from-hairy-legged Burgundians had forgotten all about the sky wolf, of course; but had they also forgotten the orgiastic non-time of the Solstice, which, once upon a time, was also the time of the Saturnalia, the topsy-turvy time, ‘the Liberties of December’, when master swapped places with slave and anything could happen?

  The mid-winter carnival in Old Burgundy, known as the Feast of Fools, was reigned over in style by a man dressed as a woman whom they used to call Mère Folle, Crazy Mother.

  Crazy Mother turns round and curtsies. She pulls the truncheon out of her bloomers. All shriek in terrified delight and turn away their eyes. But when the punters dare to look again, they encounter only his/her seraphic smile and, lo and behold! the truncheon has turned into a magic wand.

  When Widow Twankey/the Queen of Hearts/Mother Goose taps Daisy the Cow with her wand, Daisy the Cow gives out with a chorus of ‘Down by the Old Bull and Bush’.

  THE BEASTS

  1 The Goose in Mother Goose is, or so they say, the Hamlet of animal roles, introspective and moody as only a costive bird straining over its egg might be. There is a full gamut of emotion in the Goose role – loyalty and devotion to her mother; joy and delight at her own maternity; heartbreak at loss of egg; fear and trembling at the wide variety of gruesome possibilities which might occur if, in the infinite intercouplings of possible texts which occur all the time in the promiscuity of Pantoland, one story effortlessly segues into another story, so that Mother Goose twins up with Jack and the Beanstalk, involving an egg-hungry ogre, or with Robin Hood, incorporating a goose-hungry Sheriff of Nottingham.

  Note that the Goose, like the Dame, is a female role usually, though not always, played by a man. But the Goose does not represent the exaggerated and parodic femininity of Widow Twankey. The Goose’s femininity is real. She is all woman. Witness the centrality of the egg in her life. So the Goose deserves an interpreter with the sophisticated technique and empathy for gender of the onnagata, the female impersonators of the Japanese Kabuki theatre, who can make you weep at the sadness inherent in the sleeves of a kimono as they quiver with suppressed emotion at a woman’s lot.

  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 ratcatching 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 Pa
ntoland.)

  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 décor 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

  1 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 step
sisters 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.