Wide Sargasso Sea - Jean Rhys [50]
English trees. I wondered if I ever should see England again.
******
Under the oleanders … I watched the hidden mountains and the mists drawn over their faces. It’s cool today; cool, calm and cloudy as an English summer. But a lovely place in any weather, however far I travel I’ll never see a lovelier.
The hurricane months are not so far away, I thought, and saw that tree strike its roots deeper, making ready to fight the wind. Useless. If and when it comes they’ll all go. Some of the royal palms stand (she told me). Stripped of their branches, like tall brown pillars, still they stand – defiant. Not for nothing are they called royal. The bamboos take an easier way, they bend to the earth and lie there, creaking, groaning, crying for mercy. The contemptuous wind passes, not caring for these abject things. (Let them live.) Howling, shrieking, laughing the wild blast passes.
But all that’s some months away. It’s an English summer now, so cool, so grey. Yet I think of my revenge and hurricanes. Words rush through my head (deeds too). Words. Pity is one of them. It gives me no rest.
Pity like a naked new-born babe striding the blast.
I read that long ago when I was young – I hate poets now and poetry. As I hate music which I loved once. Sing your songs, Rupert the Rine, but I’ll not listen, though they tell me you’ve a sweet voice….
Pity. Is there none for me? Tied to a lunatic for life – a drunken lying lunatic – gone her mother’s way.
‘She love you so much, so much. She thirsty for you. Love her a little like she say. It’s all that you can love – a little.’
Sneer to the last, Devil. Do you think that I don’t know? She thirsts for anyone – not for me …
She’ll loosen her black hair, and laugh and coax and flatter (a mad girl. She’ll not care who she’s loving). She’ll moan and cry and give herself as no sane woman would – or could. Or could. Then lie so still, still as this cloudy day. A lunatic who always knows the time. But never does.
Till she’s drunk so deep, played her games so often that the lowest shrug and jeer at her. And I’m to know it – I? No, I’ve a trick worth two of that.
‘She love you so much, so much. Try her once more.’
I tell you she loves no one, anymore. I could not touch her. Excepting as the hurricane will touch that tree – and break it. You say I did? No. That was love’s fierce play. Now I’ll do it.
She’ll not laugh in the sun again. She’ll not dress up and smile at herself in that damnable looking-glass. So pleased, so satisfied.
Vain, silly creature. Made for loving? Yes, but she’ll have no lover, for I don’t want her and she’ll see no other.
The tree shivers. Shivers and gathers all its strength. And waits.
(There is a cool wind blowing now – a cold wind. Does it carry the babe born to stride the blast f hurricanes?)
She said she loved this place. This is the last she’ll see of it. I’ll watch for one tear, one human teat. Not that lank hating moonstruck face. I’ll listen…. If she says good-bye perhaps adieu. Adieu – like those old-time songs she sang. Always adieu (and all songs say it). If she too says it, or weeps, I’ll take her in my arms, my lunatic. She’s made but mine, mine. What will I care for gods or devils or for Fate itself. If she smiles or weeps or both. For me.
Antoinette – I can be gentle too. Hide your face. Hide yourself but in my arms. You’ll soon see how gentle. My lunatic. My mad girl.
Here’s a cloudy day to help you. No brazen sun.
No sun … No sun. The weather’s changed.
******
Baptiste was waiting and the horses saddled. That boy stood by the clove tree and near him the basket he was to carry. These baskets are light and waterproof. I’d decided to use one for a few necessary clothes – most of our belonging were to follow in a day or two. A carriage was to meet us at Massacre. I’d seen to everything, arranged everything.
She was there in the ajoupa; carefully dressed for the journey, I noticed, but her face blank, no expression at all. Tears? There