Snow

Snow

Three months have passed since he brought me here. Back then, in
November, I was not surprised at the snow, for at home it is common
most winters. But it usually lies only a day or two in the streets,
before turning to muddy slush. Here I marvelled to see such whiteness
day after day, purity unmarred by a single footprint. But after a
while, when every time I looked from the window I saw the same blank
expanse, I grew afraid. Then I longed for the sight of a green shoot,
for a sign that some change was about to take place. Now I have ceased
to look, I no longer expect it.
At first I was woken every night by animal cries in the forest, which
fringes the empty space surrounding the chateau. I did not recognise
them. At home, in the night, I heard only the sound of passersby and
distant revellers. Now I have grown used to them. If I wake, it is
because I am cold, despite the many furs piled on the bed. I feel as if
my blood has frozen. Fires are lit every day and hot pipes run to every
part of the house. But it is as if the snow itself has drifted in here.
The mirrors reflect nothing but the whiteness of the walls. Against
them, the black furniture stands out starkly. When I look in the mirror
and see my white face, paler every time I look, framed by the shadow of
my hair, I think I understand why he chose me.
I did not want to come here. I did not want to leave my mother, my
brothers and sisters and journey to this far away land. I did not want
to leave my home. I think of it every day, visiting the rooms in my
mind, the rooms that my mother made bright with her gift for colour.
This gift she tried to pass on to me, showing me how to see the subtle
differences between the carmines and alizarins of the garden in summer,
teaching me how to love them. I could not paint them as she did, but
she praised my efforts, and said that in time my talent would grow. But
then he came.
My mother did not want me to marry him. She said I was too young. But
I had no choice. I believe he gave my father a very large sum of money.
I wept when I left, clinging to my mother. He waited, impassive, and
then he said, quietly, that it was time to go. He made me leave
everything behind. He said that he would provide everything I needed.
He brought me here to take my place among the rest of his
possessions.
When he desires amusement, he brings me out, his perfect doll, who
matches his perfect d?cor. I play the piano for him and fill the hour
between dinner and sleep. As my fingers fly from the ivory to the ebony
keys, for a while I forget myself. My playing pleases me and, for the
moment, this is enough.
It is not that he is unkind to me. I do not fear that one day I will
open a secret door to a room of torture, where the bodies of his former
wives hang bleeding. No, he is like the alabaster carvings he so
admires, colourless and pure. Such passion is not in him. He has never
come to me in the night. We did not even spend our wedding night
together.
We came straight here from the ceremony. He showed me to my room. All
night I waited. I was afraid. But when morning came and he had not
appeared, I was disappointed. I remembered what my mother told me of
the pleasure of love. Although I do not think she shared this with my
father, she made me believe it was possible and I longed to experience
it for myself.
After seven nights, I could bear it no longer. I was lonely and cold.
I rose from my bed and put on my robe. Along the corridors, I could
feel the chill of the marble floors through the soles of my slippers. I
caught sight of myself in the mirrors, a ghost gliding by.
He was asleep. I slipped in beside him and clung close to his naked
body for warmth. But his limbs were also like marble. Instantly he woke
up.
'What is it, Hel?ne?'
'I am cold.'
'Go back to your room. Send for the maid to bank up the fire.'
'I am lonely. Do you not love me?'
He did not reply at first. He looked sad. Then he said, 'I am sorry,
Hel?ne. . Please, return to your room.'
So I did. What else could I do? I believe that if I break down, make a
scene, weep or shout, that he will simply wait until my emotion is
spent. My passion will call forth no response in him. I think of
running away. But I know he would follow my tracks in the snow and
bring me back. And we would continue as before.
The days are very long. I have enough to occupy me. In that, he is
generous and would give me whatever I want. He brings me books, new
music. He wants me to continue with my painting. But what is there to
paint in this black and white world? I have forgotten what colour is
like.

One night I have a dream. I am standing with my mother, looking at a
painting, one of hers. She is telling me something and I stare at the
picture, trying to understand what she is saying. The colours start to
slide down the canvas. Cadmium, orange chrome, scarlet lake - they drip
under the frame, onto the floor, where they melt away. I turn to my
mother and cry out, appealing to her to help me, but she cannot hear
me.
I wake up. I do not know what has woken me. For a moment, with hope, I
look towards the door of my room. But there is no one there. I hear a
sound outside and go to the window. There in the snow, in the
moonlight, is a splash of deep vermilion. I recognise the creature
although I have seen it only in books. It stands, one paw raised, its
ears pricked, its muzzle thrust forward. It barks, the sharp cry that I
have heard before. And it stares at me.
Without stopping to think what I am doing, I seize my robe and run in
my bare feet, down the stairs out of the door across the snow. When it
sees me coming, the fox turns and lopes towards the forest. Not fast,
not as if it is running away from me. Every now and then, it looks back
over its shoulder to check if I am following. And I am. I am so thirsty
for that brilliant colour, that I do not let it out of my sight. My
feet do not feel the cold bite of the snow. I look back once. In the
white expanse, no tracks are visible leading from the house. Only one
set of tracks emerges from the forest and returns.
In the shadows, under the trees, I can still see my vivid guide,
moving slowly now, letting me travel safely among the dark trunks. At
last, deep in the forest, we come to a clearing. The ground looks
strange to me at first, but then I see that it is because here there is
no snow. I am looking at leaves, a rustling warm brown bed, with here
and there a glint of gold, a splash of crimson.
The fox is waiting for me. His ears lie flat, he lashes his tail. I
unfasten my robe and spread it on the leaves. I am trembling but I do
not feel afraid. I lie down and the fox comes to me. He breathes on my
feet and then his muzzle explores my body slowly, until he reaches my
face. I feel his hot breath on my lips. I look into his topaz eyes but
see only myself.
He stands astride me and gently lowers his weight on to me, pressing
his warm body against mine. I close my eyes, letting myself be
enveloped in his fur, sniffing his sharp animal smell. I feel a sharp
pain, as he enters me, but I bite my lip to stop myself crying out. We
rock together, slowly at first, and then faster and faster. I am
panting now and I hear cries and the cries are coming from my mouth and
I shudder, ripple after ripple, until heat suffuses my body. When I
open my eyes, I see above me the cold light of stars, but I am warm at
last.

On the way back to the chateau, I am aware that I feel different. It is
not just that my blood is flowing freely round my body now. I feel
happy, for the first time since I left my old home. But it is more,
even than that. I can hear tiny sounds, stirrings of night-creatures,
that I did not notice before. I see small movements in the undergrowth.
And the smells! My nostrils pick up a rich and heady mix, in which I
can detect damp earth beneath the snow, acrid animal scents.
It is not until I emerge from the darkness of the forest that I
understand what has happened. As I cross the empty arena, I see my
shadow in the moonlight, a long lean shadow trotting on all fours, with
ears pricked and trailing brush. Strangely, I am not afraid. I stop. I
bend my pointed nose to the snow to greet my shadow's nose and, as I
do, I feel exultant. I look up at the chateau. Hundreds of eyes wink
back at me, as the moon's glitter is reflected in a hundred panes of
glass. But nothing stirs.
I know I have a choice. I could return to the forest. But I know what I
must do.
He is sleeping, still and white, in his white room. I slip beneath the
sheet. He must feel my breath hot upon his face, for he stirs. Slowly,
I start to lick his body, my tongue rasping on his chill flesh. He
opens his eyes but does not speak. Underneath my tongue, his flesh
begins to stir, to come to life. His white skin glows, becomes warm. He
responds to my caresses, running his hands over my russet fur. Stroke
after stroke wakens in me an answering heat. At last, we are riding, my
love and I, in a long long gallop towards the moment when we both cry
out together.
When I wake, I am my own self again. He sleeps beside me, cooler now,
but not the marble he was before. Quietly I rise from the bed and
return to my own room. Everything is as it was, but not the same. I
look from the window. The ground is faintly tinged with pink, an echo
of the sky, where the sun is rising. I see, where all was emptiness
before, a spear of green, thrusting through the snow.

Now the days are even longer. Time passes slowly as I wait for night to
come. But I am patient, content, for now I see the way forward. Night
after night, my fox appears and night after night, I visit my husband.
Nothing is said. But day by day, more green shoots appear and outside,
at least, a slow thaw has begun. Inside, everything appears to be the
same, but I know that it isn't. It is only a matter of time. I have
started to paint again.
I always sleep, knowing that a staccato bark will wake me. But there
comes a night when I don't sleep. I don't know why. I am restless,
anxious. After a while, I rise and sit by the window. It is dull
tonight, the moon concealed by cloud. I strain my eyes to see if he is
coming. At last I see a deeper shadow moving stealthily among the
shadows of the trees. I stand, turn to go. But I stop, frozen, at the
sound of the great door beneath me creaking open. Looking down from my
window, I see silhouetted on the snow the shape of a man. Before I can
cry out a warning, he raises his arm.
Now I am running, running bare-foot in the snow, the report ringing in
my ears. My nightgown flaps against my legs. I stumble in the man's
tracks. Nearly fall. Catch my balance and run. When I reach the man, I
seize his arm. My husband. He shakes off my hand.
'Go back to the house, Hel?ne. You will catch cold.'
'What have you done?'
He does not answer. He turns to look towards the forest. And I run
again, run towards the darkness. A pain in my chest. My mouth open in a
silent scream.
I come to him. He is lying still. His topaz eyes are glazing over.
Dark crimson stains the snow. I kneel down beside him and touch his fur
with the tips of my fingers. Ice crystals are already beading the tawny
coat. A shadow falls over us.
'Come, Hel?ne. It is only a fox.'
I lift my head. 'How did you know?'
'I saw its tracks. It has been hanging around here for a while.'
So, he does not know. He does not know anything.
We go back to the house. He says, 'Will you have a hot drink?'
But I shake my head. I go to my room. All night I lie there, dry-eyed.
In the morning I look out of the window. It is snowing.