I did not look up though I saw him at the window but rode on without thinking till I came to the rocks. People here call them Mounes Mors (the Dead Ones). Preston shied at them, they say horses always do. Then he stumbled badly, so I dismounted and walked along with the bridle over my arm. It was getting hot and I was tired when I reached the path to Christophine’s two-roomed house, the roof shingled, not thatched. She was sitting on a box under her mango tree, smoking a white clay pipe and she called out, “It’s you, Antoinette? Why you come up here so early?”
“I just wanted to see you,” I said.
She helped me loosen Preston’s girth and led him to a stream near by. He drank as if he were very thirsty, then shook himself and snorted. We left him cropping grass and went back to the mango tree. She sat on her box and pushed another towards me, but I knelt close to her touching a thick silver bangle she always wore.
“You smell the same,” I said.
“You come all this long way to tell me that?” she said. Her clothes smelled of clean cotton, starched and ironed. I had seen her so often standing knee deep in the river at Coulibri, her long skirt hitched up, washing her dresses and her white shifts, then beating them against the stones. Sometimes there would be other women all bringing their washing down on the stones again and again, a gay busy noise. At last they would spread the wet clothes in the sun, wipe their foreheads, start laughing and talking. She smelled too, of their smell, so warm and comforting to me (but he does not like it). The sky was dark blue through the dark green mango leaves, and I thought, “This is my place and this is where I belong and this is where I wish to stay.” Then I thought, “What a beautiful tree, but it is too high up here for mangoes and it may never bear fruit,” and I thought of lying alone in my bed with the soft silk cotton mattress and fine sheets, listening. At last I said, “Christophine, he does not love me, I think he hates me. He always sleeps in his dressing-room now and the servants know. If I get angry he is scornful and silent, sometimes he does not speak to me for hours and I cannot endure it any more, I cannot. What shall I do? He was not like that at first,” I said.
Pink and red hibiscus grew in front of her door, she lit her pipe and did not answer.
“Answer me,” I said. She puffed out a cloud of smoke.
“You ask me a hard thing, I tell you a hard thing, pack up and go.”
“Go, go where? To some strange place where I shall never see him? No, I will not, then everyone, not only servants, will laugh at me.”
“It’s not you they laugh at if you go, they laugh at him.”
“I will not do that.”
“Why you ask me, if when you answer you say no? Why you come up here if when I tell you the truth, you say no?”
From Wide Sargasso Sea by Jean Rhys.
Related posts:
- Thursday – Extract from The Man who was Thursday
- The swift ants of India – extract from The Histories
- The island and the wreck – Extract from The Wrecker
Pink and red hibiscus – Extract from Wide Sargasso Sea
I did not look up though I saw him at the window but rode on without thinking till I came to the rocks. People here call them Mounes Mors (the Dead Ones). Preston shied at them, they say horses always do. Then he stumbled badly, so I dismounted and walked along with the bridle over my arm. It was getting hot and I was tired when I reached the path to Christophine’s two-roomed house, the roof shingled, not thatched. She was sitting on a box under her mango tree, smoking a white clay pipe and she called out, “It’s you, Antoinette? Why you come up here so early?”
“I just wanted to see you,” I said.
She helped me loosen Preston’s girth and led him to a stream near by. He drank as if he were very thirsty, then shook himself and snorted. We left him cropping grass and went back to the mango tree. She sat on her box and pushed another towards me, but I knelt close to her touching a thick silver bangle she always wore.
“You smell the same,” I said.
“You come all this long way to tell me that?” she said. Her clothes smelled of clean cotton, starched and ironed. I had seen her so often standing knee deep in the river at Coulibri, her long skirt hitched up, washing her dresses and her white shifts, then beating them against the stones. Sometimes there would be other women all bringing their washing down on the stones again and again, a gay busy noise. At last they would spread the wet clothes in the sun, wipe their foreheads, start laughing and talking. She smelled too, of their smell, so warm and comforting to me (but he does not like it). The sky was dark blue through the dark green mango leaves, and I thought, “This is my place and this is where I belong and this is where I wish to stay.” Then I thought, “What a beautiful tree, but it is too high up here for mangoes and it may never bear fruit,” and I thought of lying alone in my bed with the soft silk cotton mattress and fine sheets, listening. At last I said, “Christophine, he does not love me, I think he hates me. He always sleeps in his dressing-room now and the servants know. If I get angry he is scornful and silent, sometimes he does not speak to me for hours and I cannot endure it any more, I cannot. What shall I do? He was not like that at first,” I said.
Pink and red hibiscus grew in front of her door, she lit her pipe and did not answer.
“Answer me,” I said. She puffed out a cloud of smoke.
“You ask me a hard thing, I tell you a hard thing, pack up and go.”
“Go, go where? To some strange place where I shall never see him? No, I will not, then everyone, not only servants, will laugh at me.”
“It’s not you they laugh at if you go, they laugh at him.”
“I will not do that.”
“Why you ask me, if when you answer you say no? Why you come up here if when I tell you the truth, you say no?”
From Wide Sargasso Sea by Jean Rhys.
Related posts: