Marianne sat on the mattress with her arms locked around her knees, discontentedly contemplating whatever might happen to her next, for she had no control over it.
‘Open the box, Mrs Green, let me see my dress.’
Mrs Green lifted the creaking lid of the metal chest and unfolded a great deal of thin, yellow paper that crumpled away to dust beneath her fingers. Scooping away the paper, she dug down and unearthed a wedding dress such as Marianne had only seen in surviving photographs of the time before the war. She left the bed and crept near the chest, staring at its contents with amazement and a certain distaste.
The dress had a satin bodice, now fissured with innumerable fine cracks; long, tight, white sleeves that came to a point over the backs of the hands and an endless skirt of time-yellowed tulle. There was a vast acreage of net veil and a small garland of artificial pearls. Most of the pearl coating had detached itself from the surfaces so they were now only little globes of white glass. Mrs Green laid the dress out on the bed with a bemused expression on her face. Marianne screwed up a handful of the hem and watched the fabric shiver to dust between her fingers, just as the paper had done. There were shadows of mildew in every fold of the voluminous skirt and all smelled musty and stale.
‘How perfectly ludicrous!’ said Marianne. She could not control her laughter and Mrs Green laughed, also, though with an undertone of disquiet.
‘Oh, it’ll make an impression,’ she said. ‘It’s the kind of thing they think the Professors wear in the privacy of their own homes, you know.’
‘It’s far too big for me.’
‘Nobody will notice. There’s nothing else to compare it with. It’ll just be generally impressive.’
‘It’s horrible and disgusting,’ said Marianne. ‘And probably full of germs, too.’
‘Well, I don’t know about that,’ said Mrs Green. She lingered at the door. ‘I’ve got to be going, dear, got to get ready a big meal, for afterwards.’
‘Festivities,’ suggested Marianne coldly. ‘Rejoicings.’
‘You just do what you’re told, get that dress on and wait,’ said Mrs Green angrily, her patience suddenly exhausted. ‘I’ll be back to fetch you when it’s time.’
Marianne heard her shift the log of wood against the door and knew she was locked in again. She retreated to the fireside, as far away from the dress as she could get, for she could not help watching it. As the room grew dark, the dress took on a moon-like glimmer and seemed to send out more and more filaments of tulle, like a growth of pale fungus shooting out airy spores, a palpable white infection; viruses of plagues named after the labels on the test-tubes in which they had been bred might survive for years under the briars of a dead city, nesting invisibly in the contents of just such a Pandora’s box as this metal chest, starred with singed stickers of foreign places dating from those times when foreign places had more than an imaginative existence, for where was Paris any more, where they had briefly worshipped the goddess Reason.
She recoiled from the dress. It became an image of terror. Some young woman had worn it before her for a wedding in the old style with cake, wine and speeches; afterwards, the sky opened an umbrella of fire. Marianne pressed herself against the wall, face down on the floorboards, and screwed her eyes shut, clenching her fists, attempting to force herself into a condition of detachment menaced as she was by this crumbling anachronism. When the room was quite dark, the dress was still visible, glowing with the luminosity of hoar frost, or the green light of the evening star, and Mrs Green bustled back with a lamp.
She was flushed and breathless. She brought with her the sharp smell of burned fat and roasting meat. Her apron was splashed with dripping and her hair was coming loose from its coil.
‘You should have put the dress on,’ she said sharply.
She took up the dress, very tenderly, and approached Marianne, carrying it, with the heavy, inexorable tread of a determined old lady. Marianne knew there was nothing for it and she must undergo her ordeal; she began mechanically to unbutton her shirt. She was shaking and sweating but her ruling passion was always anger rather than fear and she turned into a mute, furious doll which allowed itself to be totally engulfed. The satin bodice slid down her flesh with sensations of slime and ice and the skirts rippled out in a friable lake for yards over the floor. But Mrs Green darted round her with pins and the veil finally concealed everything, even Marianne’s face, so at last she was quite transformed, now a pale bundle of aged fabric that disintegrated in little spurts with every movement she made. The bodice crackled and snapped.
‘They’ll have to marry me very quickly or every stitch will come apart and the dress vanish altogether,’ she said.
Mrs Green retreated to the other end of the room and looked Marianne’s yellowish, drifting, spectral figure up and down. The veil shook out in baleful streamers; Marianne extended her small, white, living hand to restrain it.
‘It’s not really very nice, is it,’ said Mrs Green. ‘You could never call me a superstitious woman but even so …’
Marianne saw a stain on the satin sleeve, where the original bride had spilled something, perhaps some wine. And maybe this other girl had been happy when she wore this dress and spilled her wine. Marianne’s hard anger began to melt a little; she was seized with sadness.
‘Who do you think wore it first?’ she asked and tentatively stroked the satin with her forefinger, almost gently, almost as if asking the dress to forgive her for disliking it so.
‘That way lies madness,’ said Mrs Green sententiously. ‘Oh, hell, you’ll make a show. What a show. He’s got the room all ready, candles everywhere, flowers. The snake in its little cage, he puts it on show in a little cage, see.’
‘Is it a phallic snake, tonight?’ asked Marianne.
‘I don’t know anything about that,’ said Mrs Green. She took off her dirty apron and unfastened her dress. Beneath it, she wore a decent, high-necked petticoat cut out of sheeting. She found a clean dress identical with the first one in her private trunk and put it on, smoothing out the fold marks with her fingers. She wound up her hair with the skill of long habit and then she was ready, though she looked sad at heart.
‘I worked for the Professors till I was older than you are now and I always thought they were a heartless lot,’ she said suddenly. ‘Be good to my Jewel, be kind.’
‘Kind?’ exclaimed Marianne, bewildered. ‘Kind?’
‘There you are,’ said Mrs Green with a victorious melancholy. ‘You don’t understand.’
‘Just yesterday he jumped on me with appalling brutality, he has the hands of a butcher and eyes like trick mirrors that can see out but cannot be seen through. We have nothing whatever in common and now you tell me to be kind to him!’
‘You don’t understand at all,’ repeated Mrs Green. ‘Now, put on a haughty face because they think you’re something quite out of the ordinary. Though perhaps you look quite haughty enough, as it is.’
Marianne gathered up her voluminous petticoats disdainfully; Mrs Green’s mouth was turned down in lines of disapproval but, all the same, she felt sorry for Marianne and this offended her most of all.
The ancient chapel was full of wild people in rags and fur. Their hoops, clasps and collars of glass, metal and bone caught the light of hundreds of candles attached to the stonework, so many candles the room was ablaze, everything visible, the flags, the organ, the carving, the lectern, the altar covered with candles and roses, an effigy of a woman in a blue robe made of coloured wax which had melted over the years so she looked dropsical. Somebody had picked every rose in the rose garden and brought them to the chapel; they lay about in dying heaps. The atmosphere, compounded of unwashed flesh, roses and candles, was solid as cheese. It seemed that every member of the tribe was present and all were perfectly still and silent, the babies silent at their mothers’ breasts and children clinging to skirts and peering through the wood of legs at this apparition of another world in a dress as old as their misfortunes, picking its wa
y delicately through them. As soon as Marianne appeared, a susurration of clothing indicated that everyone there except Jewel and his brothers was making the sign against the evil eye.
She was prepared for the unexpected; even so, the bizarre phenomenon of Donally took her by surprise. He was perched on the altar like a grotesque bird. He had donned a mask of carved wood painted with blue, green, purple and black blotches, dark red spots and scarlet streaks which covered all his face but for the bristling parti-coloured beard. He was robed from head to foot in a garment woven from the plumage of birds. In his arms, he carried a plastic and wire cage of the kind in which budgerigars had been kept before the war. This was twined with plastic flowers cracked with age and half-melted, and also ribbons and feathers so the adder presumably inside could not be seen. She wondered if Donally would conclude the ceremony by attaching the snake to her breast, like Cleopatra’s asp. This black fancy gripped her so tenaciously she found the palms of her hands were sweating and wiped them furtively on her net skirts. The texture of the rushes on the floor under her bare feet seemed to her the most ancient sensation in the world, archaic as the taste of cold water.
The brothers stood in a body behind Donally. They were wholly barbarian as she had first seen the Barbarians, nightmare incarnate. Each was painted with black round the eyes, white on the forehead and mouth and red on the cheekbones. Their long hair was as intricately plaited and ringletted as the wigs worn by the kings of Ancient Egypt. They were lavishly garnished with jewellery, some of which was of gold and precious stones, grubbed for in the deepest of the ruins, tarnished or in part reburnished. The three youngest even seemed to be wearing some pieces of armour, of all things, but Jewel had on a stiff coat of scarlet interwoven with gold thread, perhaps once a bishop’s possession; he was as strangely magnificent as an Antediluvian king or a pre-Adamite sultan. Donally must have been robbing museums; perhaps he had been a Professor of History.
There were gold braid and feathers in Jewel’s hair and very long earrings of carved silver in his ears. Darkness was made explicit in the altered contours of his face. He was like a work of art, as if created, not begotten, a fantastic dandy of the void whose true nature had been entirely subsumed to the alien and terrible beauty of a rhetorical gesture. His appearance was abstracted from his body, and he was wilfully reduced to sign language. He had become the sign of an idea of a hero; and she herself had been forced to impersonate the sign of a memory of a bride. But though she knew quite well she herself was only impersonating this sign, she could not tell whether Jewel was impersonating that other sign or had, indeed, become it, for every line of his outlandish figure expressed the most arrogant contempt and it was impossible to tell whether or not this contempt was in his script.
‘Dearly beloved,’ began Donally in a fat voice. ‘We are gathered together …’
And he might as well utilize the Book of Common Prayer as anything else, since whatever he said made no sense to the wild congregation who had ears only for his melodious and hieratic intonation. His voice issued with mysterious hollowness from behind the mask and the tribe sighed. Now Marianne was close to the cage, she could see the spotted snake was sleeping peacefully. The brothers stood still as figures painted on the wall of a cave and watched her. She was glad the veil hid her face. A child grew bored or scared and began to cry; some woman shushed it unsuccessfully and then led it out by the hand. When the door opened, the sudden draught lifted the veil and wafted it right over Donally, momentarily clinging to his wooden brow and feathered shoulders like a sudden snowfall.
Irritation checked his smooth, oratorial flow for a moment and he pettishly brushed the veil aside so that her own face was partly visible. Then Jewel had to lean across and marry her with the first ring he came to on his forefinger, a signet ring with a lock of hair from the head of some dead person set in it. This ring hung so loosely on the fourth finger of her left hand that he jammed it over her thumb, instead, bruising the joint; he looked up at her sharply, as if this gratuitous piece of symbolism annoyed him beyond belief. He caught sight of her face at a new angle, half in shadows; the opaque brown discs of his eyes opened up and, for the first time, transmitted a message to her, a sudden and horrified flash of recognition. He dropped her hand as if it burned him. Meanwhile, the service went on.
She found Donally had incorporated a piece of ritual of his own invention, perhaps derived from a study of the culture of the Red Indians. He spread out his arms and nodded his wooden head, emulating the preening of a winged serpent. His beautiful plumage looked now like feathers, now like scales. All at once, the tribe broke rank and surged up and around the altar to see whatever was going to happen next more clearly, though they left a copious safety margin around Marianne’s dissolving perimeters. Jewel had closed his eyes so she could not see into them any more. Drops of sweat broke through the paint on his forehead. He took out and brusquely offered her the blade of his knife, as though to stab herself with it. She flinched involuntarily. His eyes snapped open; he grimaced and snatched at her hand. She writhed and struggled; she tried to shout but the drifting veil caught in her mouth and gagged her. Donally’s talons gripped her arm and she ceased to struggle, helplessly gazing on as Jewel advanced the blade towards her wrist. He made a little cut in the flesh and a few drops of blood oozed out. She had expected far worse. It hardly hurt at all. There was a tremendous rush of expelled breath in the chapel to see how red her blood was.
Jewel handed his knife to Johnny, who slit his brother’s wrist just as Jewel had slit Marianne’s. Jewel was shaking so much the knife made a dangerous, jagged gash and blood gushed vigorously over his brown skin; she realized he was choking back a fit of hysterical laughter as Donally leaned ceremoniously forward to clasp their two wounds together so that their bloods could be seen to mix. A good deal of blood splashed over her dress. When this rite was satisfactorily accomplished and Jewel was holding back the blood with his free hand, Donally leaped high into the air, screamed loudly once and flung himself down among the rushes, frothing and babbling in a tremendous fit.
He rolled and tossed like a tumultuous river, blowing out an incoherent spume of sound. The tribe pressed back against the walls to allow him room. Many children burst into tears while their parents stared from eyes round with fright and awe. The fit encompassed as many baroque variations as if he were playing the organ and lasted until the candles were half burned down and the snake continued to sleep all the time, even when Donally rolled and jolted against the cage, so Marianne wondered if it were a real snake or perhaps only a stuffed skin.
Spent and exhausted, Donally lay in a heap of plumage. Feathers were shed all over the floor and there was a sense of equal exhaustion in the room, as though the tribe had suffered through his crazy encounter with chaos with him. When he was still at last, the final few twitches done with, the tribe filed slowly out of the room until only the bride and groom, the brothers and Mrs Green were left. The brothers now stood at ease, scratching themselves and yawning.
‘My poor Jen,’ said Mrs Green. ‘She was wailing, ever-so.’
‘Give us a bit of bandage before I bleed to death,’ said Jewel. Mrs Green found a handkerchief and wrapped up his wrist.
‘There’s a feast,’ he added, keeping his eyes on the bandaging. ‘A wedding feast.’
The felled archaeopteryx on the floor reassembled itself briskly.
The table in the kitchen was spread with flat bread, joints of meat and jugs of the crude liquor they brewed themselves. Marianne tasted a little of it and spat it out. Dogs and babies jostled one another on the floor for tidbits while Marianne sat at one end of the table, carefully arranged, laid out upright with the veil thrown back so they could all see her face, and Jewel sat at the other. He fed the food from his plate to a puppy and drank. The red and gold coat formed angular, sculptural folds at his arms; he was like a king on a playing card. When he sensed Marianne’s eyes upon him, he turned away from her and gripped the edge of the table so hard his
knuckles went whiter than his own white paint.
Donally flitted around the table shedding fluff and feathers, smiling, chatting and joking; he had left his mask in the chapel and, with it, his wizardry. He created, as from thin air, a festive board and in his benign presence the Barbarians became simple peasants celebrating any wedding at any time, by the light of a great fire. The mood was thick and coarse. Later, there was music. Donally took up a fiddle and an old man played a mouth-organ. Two or three children had jews’ harps, which they twanged against their teeth. There was dancing. The brothers shone like dark fire and the shining pieces of metal with which they were decorated sent coruscating reflections of light spinning over the walls, though the eldest brother sat as if lost for ever in the scarlet recesses of his coat. He was a coloured structure and, the coat opened, might reveal only the lining of its own back, no body inside.
‘You must go to bed,’ said Mrs Green to Marianne. ‘Have a drop more to drink. You must go where Jewel sleeps.’
‘Will they all come with me to see that justice is done?’
Mrs Green peered at her, bewildered, and shook her head.
‘No, dear, they’ll leave you quite alone. What do you expect, a procession?’
‘I’m prepared for anything,’ said Marianne.
Jewel had found a room for himself high in the oldest part of the house. Through a low arch at the end of a long corridor above the chapel, Marianne found herself in a tower. A spiral staircase wound up and up; the treads were obliquely worn with age and very steep, she clung to the wall for safety as she followed Mrs Green’s guttering lamp. There was no other light. Rooms even the Barbarians left empty opened on either side of the staircase, full of cold, stagnant air; and now the fabric shuddered beneath their feet and she felt the walls grow moist and mossy. Now and then her hands encountered a knot of dripping plants. Her bare feet touched all manner of wet, unseen things. Higher and higher they went, the lamp revealing only black stone before, behind and all around.