Matilda

Part 1: The Beast

It was not a peaceful day.

There lurked in the corner obscurest and darkest of Matilda’s heart, in ambush, a monster so violent, that to keep it harnessed required the power intensest and the will firmest. Had there been a chance, with the utmost vigour and might, like a drowning man tried to clutch at a straw close at hand in the sea, would the monster have crushed the fetters, torn the harness and sprung from its former position towards its long-desired object, determined to rend it into atoms. But such an opportunity was rare. Bang, bang, bang — such were the effects of the beast’s frequent blows on the wall of its cage, its impotent rage, and its yearning desire for a fatal bite on the prey’s neck. She did not want to wait any longer. Had there been a knife handy, or an axe close at hand — Alas! Let the monster guide her, and the devil possess her, and the enemy’s blood be the only dew that could satiate her — she would have seized the weapon, thrust it into her husband’s chest, and killed him, desperately.

Matilda was so odd a mixture of contradictory personalities, that apart from having strong vindictive feelings against her husband, she considered him her guardian angel. The reader must not be so hasty in deprecating her reluctance to fight against her abuser. Her born guardian angel had long forsaken her. To where it had gone she knew not, but some said it was musing elsewhere; some said it was fast asleep; some said it was walking among roses. Be that as it may, she had developed mixed feelings for him — her man, her angel, her devil. Besides, she was no risk-taker. Children so young were her fetters, and chances so meagre her lock, that she was compelled to fling herself despondently into the unfathomable depths of earthly obligations to take care of her children, and above all, to please her husband.

“Matilda, you nitwit!”

Through clenched teeth burst forth her husband’s impatient cries that heralded often the worst woe which would befall her very soon. Accompanied by subsequent cries still louder, would the hardest blows strike her on her head, her arms, her legs, and her stomach. She was bruised all over. She was told often by her parents (paupers as they were) that “herbs, though scentless when entire, yield fragrance when they’re bruised.” Still, she felt that she yielded not a wisp of fragrance. When she was a maiden, as white as snow, and as blank as the sky, like any other maidens, she would wear the whitest frock, wreathe her blonde hair in the loveliest plait, and carrying a basket of primroses freshly plucked on a fine spring morning, take a pleasantest afternoon stroll in the garden. Why was it that humans liked to taint whatever that was clean, embitter whatever that was sweet, and mark whatever that was blank? Matilda was a doomed creature, one could not help believing. Behold! On her body traced lines so coarse; in her beauty’s field dug trenches so deep! O Matilda, thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel!

“Poor Matilda is being hit by her husband again!” exclaimed the neighbour.

Mrs. Brown, whose sole solace was news and rumours, who was married ten years ago to a respected Cambridge graduate in town, and had been Matilda’s neighbour ever since, was sincerely sorry for her hardship. Mrs. Brown esteemed herself a caring person, for she always paid visits to her neighbours, and from one neighbour would she gather news about another. “Oh, what a perverted world we all live in! It’s not fair!” murmured Mrs. Brown audibly after hearing some sad news from her favourite neighbour, Mrs. Smith. Her vulnerable heart was moved, her bright eyes were filled, and her rose-red lips trembled. She was on the verge of tears. She could hold them back no more. Let them fall. Let them drop. Hence a drop or two, delicate, big, slow, crept down her face, prompting Mrs. Smith to cry, “Mrs. Brown! Oh dear, you are too kind! Here, have some tea and biscuits.” The tea was warm, and the biscuits were sweet. “That is all, that is all,” thought Mrs. Brown. One need not trouble oneself with mundane business. Life was taking its own course: the sufferer would be soothed; the pang would be alleviated; the hungry would be fed; the cold would be warmed, eventually. Why should one trouble oneself? Why should one interrupt Nature’s flow? The tears were wiped, news and rumours gathered, tea and biscuits finished, and hence the visit was concluded.

Part 2: The Maiden

Matilda Bell would soon become Matilda Collins.

It was the night before Matilda’s wedding. All was hushed, all was still, save for some gentle breezes that occasionally kissed her cheeks, which blushed from excitement, and bloomed with ardour. Through the space in the boughs overhead a full moon was visible. Bunches of primroses lay in her hand, buds of roses rested on her blonde plait, and loads of berries filled her basket to the brim. She sat and placed the basket on the grass wet with dew. She was felicitous, for she ardently loved him. Handsome, strong, and protective as he was, she was sanguine about their marriage. However, there remained still a thorn in her side. “It’s weird that people envy me,” thought Matilda, placing a strawberry in her mouth. Her best friend, Anna, spoke ill to her of her fiancé on that morning. According to her, he was narcissistic, sadistic and treacherous. Matilda decided to ignore her concoction, for having divorced two years ago, Anna shall end up an old maid, and must be jealous of others’ felicity and prospects. 

The wedding went smoothly. They said a happy marriage was entirely a matter of chance. Matilda sneered at this rubbish, for she held that it was only the weak who believed wholeheartedly in Fate, surrendered themselves to Faith, and swore allegiance to Chance. She who was courageous, smart, and headstrong, shall challenge the boldest, outsmart the wisest, and tame the wildest. There rose in her heart a sudden rapture, mysterious, unknown, but so intense, so powerful, that she felt it swell, degrees by degrees, inches by inches, bigger and bigger. Alas! She was filled; she was full; she was overflowing! “Oh, but my heart will burst I’m afraid!” thought she. But why should she be afraid? Why should she care about others’ reproofs? She was fearless; she was heedless! In a bell jar would she secure her ecstasy, her bliss, her happiness, and at all times keep on it a most vigilant eye, so that the wretched thief would not be able to steal her dearest treasures.  

The day three months before the wedding was worth remembering. It was a gloomy day. She was going on an errand for her mother to pick some wild herbs. There fell upon the forest, a veil of mist so thick, that everything seemed unreal, nebulous, unearthly. She was walking alone on a stony winding path, and carrying a basket filled with freshly picked herbs, the scent of which mingled with the earthy smell of the forest, reminding her of a witch brewing a potion in her little cottage, when suddenly amidst the veil of mist a shadow formed. It resembled at first a human being, but was so disfigured, so distorted, that it looked uncommonly tall and stout, and its lower body abnormally large — nay, it seemed as if its legs were amputated, and replaced by a large animal’s limbs (a horse’s perhaps), so that it looked like a centaur. The centaur advanced. Tramp, tramp, tramp — its metallic footfalls, accompanied by a distant hound bark, and a gentle rustle of leaves, formed a perfect setting for a mysterious folklore. Growing larger and more distinct, there formed on the centaur first a pair of stern eyes, a Roman nose, and lips strained into a thin line, then a human physique, athletic, muscular, stout. The centaur had turned into a man on horseback. At once the veil was lifted, the forest hushed, the witch gone, the old spell broken, and a new spell cast — lovers they declared themselves, not long after.

Part 3: The Tempest

The sun had set.

Time was indeed a virtuous being. He descended most graciously to a wasteland, and brought with him fragrance of primroses, sweetness of berries, beauty of maidens, and liveliness of spring. But Impermanence, who wore always a masquerade mask, would curse whoever Time had blest, trample wherever Time had breezed, and tumble whatever Time had erected. The fragrant primroses would he force to wilt; the sweet berries would he make sour; on the beautiful maidens would he carve creases; the lively spring would he taint with death. “Who are you?” one asked Impermanence. He took off his mask, and — Alas! — he had a face identical to Time’s! “I am virtuous Time,” he sneered. Then he waved his dictatorial sword, removed her husband’s skin, handsome, strong, protective, and revealed his insides, grotesque, rugged, destructive. Her bell jar was shattered, her rapture was crushed, and her treasures were stolen.       

They said to go to sea in a sampan on a cloudy night was an act of sheer folly. O deceitful sea! So calm as you were in the morning. You whose glorious crown was waves so soothing, whose faithful comrades were winds so inviting, and whose firm rampart was seagulls so merry, embraced the seafarers in your bosom so loving. Alas! At night abruptly you forsook your disguise — for a tyrant indeed you were! Waves monstrous were your trident imperious; winds ruthless were your army unwavering; seagulls malicious were your fortress unshakeable. Poor seafarers! In your fortress they were locked; by your army they were attacked; by your trident they were struck!

“Andrew Collins, you sea — you tyrant! Thou art unfit for any place but hell!” groaned Matilda.

Silence ruled, stillness prevailed; darkness flooded; the moon had sunk, it was past midnight. The gentle wind ventured indoors through the open window, flopped the curtain, brushed the walls, stirring the roses in a vase, inquired, “Will you wilt? Will you perish?”, receiving no answer, mounted the stairs, stole into the bedroom, and caressing sleepless Matilda, whispered, “Dearest child, come to us. The heaven is glorious, and the earth is fair. Bring your Andrew thither, your centaur, your love. Let your knife thrust, and your axe sunder. Unleash your monster, your beast, your devil. Your burning thirst shall the red blood quench. O Matilda, forsake your prison!” Kissing the wind, she replied, “You are right, my long-lost angel. At rest we shall lie, and a quiet slumber we shall have, in the homely earth, beneath the church-yard stone.”

“Matilda murdered her husband, and killed herself!” exclaimed Mrs. Brown the next day.