Angels and Insects (18 page)
Read Angels and Insects Online
Authors: A. S. Byatt
William stared at his page. He had argued round and round, not really thinking of publication, for if he had been, he thought, ruefully, at least for the large, young audience envisaged by Matty Crompton who might read for improvement, he would have had to pay more attention to the religious susceptibilities of their parents and guardians. He thought of appending that useful tag from Coleridge’s
Ancient Mariner
He prayeth well, who loveth well
Both man and bird and beast.
He decided to give his pages to Miss Crompton, and gauge her response, if he could. It struck him that he knew nothing of her own religious views. A friend of Charles Darwin had once told him that almost no women were prepared to question the truths of religion. He thought, then, that the whole of what he had just written was somehow set against what Harald Alabaster was trying to say—more so than appeared on the surface of the writing, for like almost all his contemporaries, he was half afraid to give full expression, even to himself, of his very real sense that Instinct
was
Predestination, that he was a creature as driven, as determined, as constricted, as any flying or creeping thing. He wrote about will and reason, but they did not
feel
to him, in his bones, in his sense of his own weight in the mass of struggling life on earth, to be very powerful or important entities, as they were for a seventeenth-century divine under the Eye of God, or a discoverer of new stars exulting in his power. His nerve-cells pricked, his hand ached, his head was full of crawling black fog. He felt his life as a brief struggle, a scurrying along dark passages with no issue into the light.
When he gave his final musings to Miss Crompton to read, he found himself waiting anxiously for her opinion. She took the pages away one day, and brought them back the next, saying that they were exactly what was required, just such scrupulous general considerations were what would greatly increase the appeal of the book to a wide audience and lead to its discussion in all circles. She added, ‘Do you think it conceivable that there may be future generations who will be
happy
to believe that they are finite beings with no afterlife—or that their natures may be fully satisfied by the part they play in the life of the whole community?’
‘Such beings exist now, I believe. It is a curious outcome of travel that all beliefs come to seem more—more relative, more
tenuous. I was much struck by the universal incapacity of Amazon Indians to imagine a community which did not reside on the banks of a vast river. They are not capable of asking, “Do you live near a river?” only “What is
your
river like? Is your river quick or slow, do you live near rapids or possible land avalanches?” They picture the Ocean as a river, I know, no matter how we may try to describe it vividly and accurately. It is like trying to tell a blind man the principles of perspective, which I once attempted. And it led me to wonder what do
I
not reflect upon, of what important facts am
I
ignorant in my picture of the world?’
‘Many—most—would not have your intellectual carefulness and humility.’
‘Do you think so? Those who will not accept Mr Darwin’s findings are divided between those who are very angry and quite sure they are right—who kick imaginary stones like Dr Johnson refuting Berkeley—and those, like Sir Harald, whose quest for assurance—reassurance—of Faith is shot through with trouble, indeed anguish.’
‘The wisdom of the serpent might suggest strengthening your case for a possible explanation that might square with Providence.’
‘Do you think I should do that?’
‘I think a man must be truthful, as far as possible, or the whole truth will never be found. You must say nothing you do not think.’
There was a silence. Matty Crompton ruffled through the pages. She said, ‘I liked your passage from Michelet about the depredations of the Sphinx Atropos. It is amazing how much—how much of mystery, of fairy
glamour
—is added to the creatures by the names bestowed upon them.’
‘I used to think of Linnaeus, in the forest, constantly. He bound the New World so tightly to the imagination of the Old when he named the swallowtails for the Greek and Trojan heroes, and the Heliconiae for the Muses. There I was, in lands never before entered by Englishmen, and round me fluttered Helen and Menelaus,
Apollo and the Nine, Hector and Hecuba and Priam. The imagination of the scientist had colonised the untrodden jungle before I got there. There is something wonderful about
naming
a species. To bring a thing that is wild, and rare, and hitherto unobserved under the net of human observation and human language—and in the case of Linnaeus, with such wit, such order, such lively use of our inherited myths and tales and characters. He wished to call the Atropos the Caput mortuum, you know, the Death’s Head exactly—but the system of nomenclature requires a monosyllable.’
‘So he chose the blind Fury with the abhorred Shears. Poor innocent insect, to have its small life burdened with so large an import. I was partly struck by Sphinx Atropos because I too have been writing—and what I have been writing has become strangely involved in just these names selected by Linnaeus—I have derived much instruction both from the
Systema Naturae
and from the copy of Thomas Mouffet’s
Theatrum Insectorum
which is in Sir Harald’s library.’
‘I am amazed at your accomplishments. Latin, Greek, draughtsmanship of a high quality, a thorough knowledge of English Literature.’
‘I was educated with my betters, in the schoolroom of a Bishop. My father was the tutor and the Bishop’s lady was kindly-intentioned. I would be grateful,’ she said, seeming to hurry on past any further personal questions, ‘if you would cast your eye over this writing when you have a spare moment. I meant it for no more than an illustratory fable—you will see—I amused myself by tracing the etymology of Cerura vinula and another Sphinx, Deilephila elpenor, and thought I would write an
instructive fable
around these strange beasts—and found I had got rather carried away, and written something longer than I intended and perhaps, for a simple puzzle-tale,
over-ambitious
—and now I am puzzled what to do with it.’
‘You should publish on your own behalf—a whole volume of such tales.’
‘I did not believe I had an inventive nature. It is the chronicle of our insect cities that has stirred me up to authorship. But I do not think there is much merit in it. I count on you to be ruthlessly honest about its failings.’
‘I am sure I shall be full of admiration,’ said William, honestly, if vacantly. Matty Crompton looked thoughtfully downwards, not meeting his eye.
‘I have already said, in another context, you must say nothing you do not think.’
He read her tale in bed that night, by the light of a new candle. On the other side of the door between his room and his wife’s he could hear a new, regular, comfortable sort of sound—Eugenia’s recent snoring, a ruffling, like a wood-pigeon, a squeak like fingernails on silk, and then a snort like a hungry foal.
THINGS ARE NOT WHAT THEY SEEM
There was once a farmer, who had a hard time tilling his land, which was full of thorns and thistles. He had three sons, too many to inherit his difficult plot, so the youngest, Seth by name, was sent out into the world with a bundle of food and clothing, to seek his fortune. He travelled far and wide, crossing and recrossing the Oceans, until one day he was shipwrecked in earnest, and cast up on a sandy shore with a few companions. They had no idea where they were—they had been blown very far off course—but they put together packets of salvaged rations, and set off to walk up the beach and into the extensive woods which lay before them. They heard the laughter of birds and monkeys, and saw the secret flashings of myriads of wings in the treetops, but they met no sign of human dwellings and were just about to decide that they were
the new rulers of an uninhabited island when they found tracks and a pathway, which opened into a wide ride between the trees, which they followed.
After a time they came to a smooth high wall, too high to see over, with a gate in it, which was locked. They debated a moment or two between themselves, and knocked, and the door swung open before them on smooth, oiled hinges, and swung to behind them with the same facility, although there appeared to be no one there to control it. And they heard the bolts and tumblers fall into place inside the great lock. One was for turning back, at this, and one was for scattering and hiding, but the rest—including Seth—were for continuing boldly forwards. So they walked on, across marble floors, through great cool halls, and heard splashing fountains in courtyards, and spoke in whispers of the sumptuousness of the architecture and domestic appointments.
And finally they found themselves in a banqueting hall, with a great ebony table spread with a fine feast—tasty pies and pastries, fine jellies and blancmanges, heaps of fruit with the bloom on it, and vessels full of sparkling wine. Their mouths watered so at this sight that they sat down without more ado and helped themselves, eating untidily until the juices ran out of the corners of their mouths, for they were half-starved. Only Seth did not partake, for his father had told him always to be sure never to eat anything that was not freely offered. He had been soundly beaten as a boy for trespassing in neighbouring orchards, and he was wary.
When they had been eating for some time, and were half stupid with good feeding, they heard a sound of tinkling bells and harpstrings, and a door at the far end of the hall swung open, and admitted a strange gathering of folk. There was a major-domo, who looked more like a goat than a man, and a very pretty milk-white heifer with roses wound in her horns, and a procession of herons and geese, all wearing collars studded with rubies and sapphires, and some very very pretty
fluffy kittens, silver-blue and rosy-fawn, and an elegant little silver greyhound, with bells round its neck, and the loveliest King Charles spaniel, with long silky russet ears and huge, appealing brown eyes. And in the midst of these was a cheerful,
comfortable
-looking lady, dressed a little like a shepherdess, in a frilly cap and a delightful embroidered apron, with beautiful white ringlets falling to her shoulders. In her hand she carried the prettiest shepherd’s crook, decorated with ribbons, silver and rose and sky-blue, and she had the sweetest smile, and the most dancing eyes. All the shipwrecked mariners were immediately enchanted by her presence and began to smile fatuously amidst the grease and fruit juice on their lips and chins. It was easy to see she was no working shepherdess, but a great lady who chose to dress as one, out of condescension or simplicity of spirit.
‘How
lovely’
, she cried, ‘to have unexpected visitors. Eat your fill, help yourselves to wine till your cups run over. I
love
to have visitors.’
And the mariners thanked her, and set to again, for their hunger had been mightily restored by her words, all except Seth, who, it is true, was now invited, so was not breaking his father’s prohibition. But he still had no appetite for the feast. The delectable lady saw that he was not eating, and the goat held a chair for him, so that he was more or less obliged to sit down. And when she saw that he was not eating, the lovely lady came near with a rustling of her pretty skirts and pressed on him dishes of all manner of dainties, pouring him glasses of cordial julep and fragrant syrups, which looked like dancing flames in the crystal.
‘You must eat,’ she said, ‘or you will be faint with hunger, for I can see you have had a terrible journey, and are salt-stained and gaunt with weariness.’
Seth said he was not hungry. And the lady, without losing her smiling good temper, sliced him a salad of delicate fruits with a silver knife, and laid them out in a fan, like a flower,
shavings of melon, circles of glistening orange, fragrant black grapes and crisp white apples, and slices of crimson pomegranates studded with ebony seeds.
‘I shall think you most obdurate and ill-mannered,’ said she, ‘if you will not taste even a sliver of apple, even a grape with its bloom on it, even a sip of pomegranate-juice.’
So for very shame he took up a slice of pomegranate, which seemed less substantial than the crisp apple-flesh, and ate three of the black seeds in their sweet, blood-coloured jellies.
One of the companions hiccuped and said, ‘You must be some great Fairy, ma’am, or Princess, to have all this plenty in the midst of this wilderness.’
‘Indeed I am,’ she said. ‘I am a Fairy who likes to make things pleasant for mortal men, as you see. My name is Mrs Cottitoe Pan Demos—which means, “for all the people”, you know, and that is what I am. I am for all the people. I keep open house for everyone who comes. You are all so very welcome.’
‘And can you do Magic?’ asked the ship’s Cook, who was no more than an overgrown Boy, and associated Magic with tricks and disappearances and feather dusters and bouquets appearing from nowhere.
‘Indeed I can,’ she said, with a silvery laugh.
‘Show us, show us some Magic,’ said the Cook, licking his lips.
‘Well,’ said she, ‘I can make make this feast vanish in a twinkling.’ And she touched the table with her silver crook, and all was gone, though the scent of the fruit, and the savour of the meat, and the tang of the wine still hung in the air.
‘And I can chain you in your chairs without chains,’ she said, smiling more happily, and she gave a little imperious wave of the crook, and the seamen found they could no longer rise to stand, or lift their hands from the chairs.
‘That is not very nice,’ said the Cook. ‘Let us go, ma’am. We thank you for our good meal—we must go back to mend our ship and move on.’
‘How ungrateful men are,’ said the lady. ‘They will not stay, whatever we give them, they will not rest, they
will
sail away. I thought you might like to stay and make part of my household, for a time. Or forever. I keep an open house for everyone who comes.’
‘No thank you kindly, ma’am,’ said the Cook. ‘I’d like to go now.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said she, and touched him on the shoulder with her silver crook, which lengthened itself for the purpose. And immediately, with a strange half-human cry, the Cook became a great hog, at least as to his head and shoulders, with a damp snout, and great tusks and bristles. Only his poor hands, clamped to his chair, were still hands, hands hard as hoofs, and hairy, and clumsy. And the lady went round the table and touched every one of the sailors, and each of them became a different kind of pig, from the great White Boar to the dapper Black and Tan, from French
sanglier
to Bedford Blue. Seth was interested in the variety of the pig-forms, despite his own great danger. He was the last to be struck by the crook, which sent a kind of electric shock through his whole body, stinging like a snake. He put up a hand to his head to feel his snout and was surprised to find that, unlike his fellows, he could do so. His face felt much the same, his nose, his mouth, his eyebrows. But there was a kind of itching and rushing in his head, and he felt upwards and there was his hair, springing outwards like water from a fountain, into a kind of prancing mane.
Mrs Cottitoe Pan Demos laughed heartily at this sight.
‘I
never
can tell what the effect of my magic will be on those who eat only frugally,’ she said. ‘Your head of hair is very handsome, I think, much more handsome than tusks and bristles. But you must still make one of our
party
, you know. I shall set you to work as my swineherd—my swine are kept deep in the rocky caverns below this palace, for pigs have no need of daylight, and I shall show you how to arrange their fodder, and clean out their sties, and I am very much afraid
you will be horribly punished if you do not do it well. For we must all co-operate, you know, for the good of the household. Come with me, my dear.’
And she drove all the creatures—the new swine and the geese and the herons, the little heifer and the old goat—at a spanking trot through the corridors, laughing musically when they slid about on their awkward hoofs, waving her pretty crook, which stung mercilessly wherever it touched hide or fur. And under the palace they found an enormous succession of pens, caverns and cages, in which languished all sorts of creatures, docile rabbits, gentle palpitating hares, drooping draggle-tailed peacocks, a few donkeys, a few Barbary ducks, even a nest of white mice.
‘You need not listen to the noises they make,’ said Mistress Cottitoe Pan Demos, ‘unless you wish to, and I do advise against it, for they make a very
miserable
mixture of grunting, squealing, braying and honking, which it is best to ignore. I’m afraid I must close you in with them—you may sleep in this fresh straw, and here is a delicious loaf, only a week old, and some excellent spring water to drink, so you will have no reason to grumble about your entertainment. There is
nothing
more wholesome than good bread and clean water, I’m sure you’ll agree. From time to time I shall send you messages by one of the
house
creatures—the geese can carry little baskets, and the spaniel has been trained to bear letters safely in her mouth. You need not worry over how to answer. You
must
do as I say—that is the rule here—and unfortunately any infringement meets—every time I’m afraid—with the most terrible consequences. I will leave those to your imagination. I find that imagination feeds wonderfully well on bread and water in the darkness—quite like little seeds sprouting under the soil—you may imagine
all sorts
of consequences, my dear. I hope your dreams are pleasant.’
And with that, she swept through the cellar gates, going tap, tap, tap, in her little diamond pumps with her great cap
nodding on her snowy curls. And the unfortunate Seth was left in almost darkness, surrounded by staring, mournful eyes, half-human eyes in furry faces, or peering between wrinkles of pigskin, glistening with bright tears.
Poor Seth had a hard time of it in those miserable caverns. He did his best to make things easier for the creatures, partly because he feared the vindictive power of the Fairy, but also because he pitied their hopeless state. He wiped their tears, and tended their sores, and changed their water, and listened to their sobs and moans, which he felt painfully, perhaps the more because he could not translate them into the words they wished to be. From time to time he formed plans of escape. He would rush the gate. He would suborn the King Charles spaniel. One day he did try to speak to the little dog. He said, ‘I suppose you are also an enchanted human being—no doubt a very handsome person, to judge by your present lustrous hair and eyes. I beg you to nod your head if you are prepared to help me to think of a way out of this servitude, which can no more be agreeable to you than to me, even if your lot is easier.’
But the little animal only began to tremble all over: its hair stood on end, and it whined to get out of the gate and back into the corridors. When he approached it, it snarled, still shaking, and bit at his hand.
After this failure, he went into his corner, and sat down on his straw, and wept bitterly. His tears fell rounder and faster, damping the dust at his feet, and trickling darkly away into corners. Suddenly he realized that for the past few moments a small, scratchy voice had been crying out, in a bubbling way, ‘Stop, you are drowning me, stop.’ He looked all round for the invisible speaker, but could see no one.
‘Where are you?’ he finally said.
‘Here, at your feet, in all this salt water.’
So he looked down, and there was a rather large Jet-black Ant, rolled up in one of his tears, with all its thread-like legs
soaked to its body, and its antennae drooping. He broke the tear with a straw and held the straw for the creature to climb on to.
She said, ‘Why are you making all this mud and mess?’
‘Because I am a prisoner, and will never get out of this dark place. My life has come to a stop.’
‘
I
can get in and out.’
‘So I see. But you are a minute creature and I am a great useless lump. It is all quite hopeless.’
‘Don’t start weeping again. I can do you a good turn, for you saved my life, even if it was yourself who put it in jeopardy. Wait there.’
And the little creature ran busily away, and vanished through a crack in the rock of the cavern. So Seth waited. There was not much else he could do, whatever he thought of the capacity of the ant to render him any material assistance. After a considerable time, he saw her waving her feelers agitatedly at the edge of the crack, and then she worked her way through, accompanied by two of her fellows. They were carrying between them a package the size of a large crumb of bread—a good featherbed, by their measure—which they dragged on to his feet, and laid down. Something almost invisible was wrapped very neatly in a fragment of dark leaf, sewn, or tied, with nearly invisible thread.
‘There,’ said the ant. ‘This will help.’
‘What do I do with it?’
‘Eat it, naturally.’
‘What does it contain?’
‘Three fernseeds. Particular fernseeds. Collected beyond-the-wall, of course.’
He hesitated. He was about to say, ‘What will the effect of this be?’ when the ant said, ‘Hurry!’ in a voice quite as determined as that of Dame Cottitoe Pan Demos.