little figure she could feel the wild beating of her heart.
“Carrots—dear Carrots . . . I have always loved you.”
The doll turned his head and looked her full in the face. “Do you? But you don’t really love us, Mouche, not really, otherwise you couldn’t go away.”
A moan of pain almost animal in its intensity was torn from Mouche. She cried. “Oh, I do, I do. I love you all. I have loved you so much and with all my heart. It is only him I hate so terribly that there is room for nothing else, not even love any more.”
Standing there in the darkness, lost as it were in the centre of the vast universe of the empty stage, she could bring herself to speak the truth to a doll that she had never spoken to a human.
“I loved him. I loved him from the first moment I saw him. I loved him and would have denied him nothing. He took me and gave me only bitterness and evil in return for all I had for him, all the tenderness and love, all the gifts I had saved for him. My love turned to hate. And the more I hated him, the more I loved you all. Carrots . . . How long can such deep love and fearful hatred live side by side in one human being before the host goes mad? Carrots, Carrots . . . let me go . . .”
Yet she put up her hands and pressed the head of Carrot Top close to her neck and suddenly Mr. Reynardo was there too, and the touch of the two little objects there made her wish to weep endlessly and hopelessly. She closed her eyes wondering if her mind would crack.
She was startled by the shrill voice of Carrot Top, “But who are we, Mouche?”
The remark was echoed by Mr. Reynardo, but when she opened her eyes the pair were gone and instead, Monsieur Nicholas was regarding her from behind the panes of his square spectacles.
The little figure had the effect of calming her momentarily, for the old habits were still strong. Here was her reliable friend and philosopher and counsellor who appeared inevitably in the booth when matters threatened to get out of hand, mender of broken toys and broken hearts.
Yet he too asked the question that brought her again close to panic. “Who are we all, my dear, Carrot Top and Mr. Reynardo, Alifanfaron and Gigi, Dr. Duclos and Madame Muscat, and even myself?”
Mouche began to tremble and held to the side of the booth lest she faint. Worlds were beginning to fall; defences behind which she had thought to live in safety and blindness were crumbling.
Who were they indeed? And what had been the magic that had kept them separate, the seven who were so different, yet united in love and kindness, and the one who was so monstrous?
Monsieur Nicholas spoke again. “Think, Mouche. Whose hand was it you just took to you so lovingly when it was Carrot Top or Mr. Reynardo or Alifanfaron, and held it close to your breast and bestowed the mercy of tears upon it?”
Mouche suppressed a cry of terror. “The hand that struck me across the mouth . . .” she gasped and her own fingers went to her lips as though in memory of that pain . . .
“Yet you loved it, Mouche. And those hands loved and caressed you——”
Mouche felt her senses beginning to swim but now it was she who asked the question. “But who are you then, Monsieur Nicholas? Who are you all?”
Monsieur Nicholas seemed to grow in stature, to fill the booth with his voice and presence as he replied: “A man is many things, Mouche. He may wish like Carrot Top to be a poet and soar to the stars and yet be earthbound and overgrown, ugly and stupid like Alifanfaron. In him will be the seeds of jealousy, greed and the insatiable appetite for admiration and pleasure of chicken-brained arrogant Gigi. Part of him will be a pompous bore like Dr. Duclos and another the counterpart of Madame Muscat, gossip, busybody, tattletale and sage. And where there is a philosopher there can also be the sly, double-dealing sanctimonious hypocrite, thief and self-forgiving scoundrel like Mr. Reynardo.”
And Monsieur Nicholas continued: “The
“Carrots—dear Carrots . . . I have always loved you.”
The doll turned his head and looked her full in the face. “Do you? But you don’t really love us, Mouche, not really, otherwise you couldn’t go away.”
A moan of pain almost animal in its intensity was torn from Mouche. She cried. “Oh, I do, I do. I love you all. I have loved you so much and with all my heart. It is only him I hate so terribly that there is room for nothing else, not even love any more.”
Standing there in the darkness, lost as it were in the centre of the vast universe of the empty stage, she could bring herself to speak the truth to a doll that she had never spoken to a human.
“I loved him. I loved him from the first moment I saw him. I loved him and would have denied him nothing. He took me and gave me only bitterness and evil in return for all I had for him, all the tenderness and love, all the gifts I had saved for him. My love turned to hate. And the more I hated him, the more I loved you all. Carrots . . . How long can such deep love and fearful hatred live side by side in one human being before the host goes mad? Carrots, Carrots . . . let me go . . .”
Yet she put up her hands and pressed the head of Carrot Top close to her neck and suddenly Mr. Reynardo was there too, and the touch of the two little objects there made her wish to weep endlessly and hopelessly. She closed her eyes wondering if her mind would crack.
She was startled by the shrill voice of Carrot Top, “But who are we, Mouche?”
The remark was echoed by Mr. Reynardo, but when she opened her eyes the pair were gone and instead, Monsieur Nicholas was regarding her from behind the panes of his square spectacles.
The little figure had the effect of calming her momentarily, for the old habits were still strong. Here was her reliable friend and philosopher and counsellor who appeared inevitably in the booth when matters threatened to get out of hand, mender of broken toys and broken hearts.
Yet he too asked the question that brought her again close to panic. “Who are we all, my dear, Carrot Top and Mr. Reynardo, Alifanfaron and Gigi, Dr. Duclos and Madame Muscat, and even myself?”
Mouche began to tremble and held to the side of the booth lest she faint. Worlds were beginning to fall; defences behind which she had thought to live in safety and blindness were crumbling.
Who were they indeed? And what had been the magic that had kept them separate, the seven who were so different, yet united in love and kindness, and the one who was so monstrous?
Monsieur Nicholas spoke again. “Think, Mouche. Whose hand was it you just took to you so lovingly when it was Carrot Top or Mr. Reynardo or Alifanfaron, and held it close to your breast and bestowed the mercy of tears upon it?”
Mouche suppressed a cry of terror. “The hand that struck me across the mouth . . .” she gasped and her own fingers went to her lips as though in memory of that pain . . .
“Yet you loved it, Mouche. And those hands loved and caressed you——”
Mouche felt her senses beginning to swim but now it was she who asked the question. “But who are you then, Monsieur Nicholas? Who are you all?”
Monsieur Nicholas seemed to grow in stature, to fill the booth with his voice and presence as he replied: “A man is many things, Mouche. He may wish like Carrot Top to be a poet and soar to the stars and yet be earthbound and overgrown, ugly and stupid like Alifanfaron. In him will be the seeds of jealousy, greed and the insatiable appetite for admiration and pleasure of chicken-brained arrogant Gigi. Part of him will be a pompous bore like Dr. Duclos and another the counterpart of Madame Muscat, gossip, busybody, tattletale and sage. And where there is a philosopher there can also be the sly, double-dealing sanctimonious hypocrite, thief and self-forgiving scoundrel like Mr. Reynardo.”
And Monsieur Nicholas continued: “The
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