“The Royal Command,” A Surreal Short Story by Leonora Carrington

“The Royal Command”

by

Leonora Carrington

I had received a royal command to visit the rulers of my country.

The invitation, in gold letters in relief and adorned with roses and swallows, was bordered in lace.

I went to look for my car, but the chauffeur, who lacks practical sense, had buried it.

“It’s to grow mushrooms,” he told me. “Nothing better for mushrooms.”

“Brady,” I said to him, “you are an imbecile of the first degree. You have ruined my car.”

Actually, since the car was completely ruined, I had to rent a horse-pulled buggy.

Upon reaching the palace, an impossible servant, dressed in red and gold, said to me: “The queen went crazy yesterday; she is in her bathtub.”

“How unfortunate!” I exclaimed. “How did that happen?”

“It’s the heat.”

“Can I see her in any event?” (I hoped I hadn’t made the long voyage for nothing.)

“Yes,” the servant answered. “You can see her in any event.”

We walked through corridors adorned in false marble (the imitation was admirable), Greek bas relief with Medici style ceilings and wax fruits everywhere.

When I entered, the queen was bathing. I observed that she bathed in goat’s milk.

“Enter,” she said to me. “As you can see, I only use live sponges; it has a more healthful result.”

The sponges swam in the milk; the queen trapped them with a certain difficulty. A servant helped her from time to time, with a large drag-hook.

“Soon I will be done with my bath,” the queen said. “I have a proposition to make you. I want you to take over the government instead of me; I am very tired. They are all imbecils; you will not be prejudiced.”

“I agree to that.”

The main administration room was situated at the other end of the palace. The ministers were seated before a very long and glistening table.

As representative of the queen, I occupied the head of the table. The prime minister got up and struck the table with a little gavel. The table split in two. The servants brought another table. The prime minister exchanged his wooden gavel for a rubber one. He struck again. He said:

“Representative of the Queen, fellow ministers, my friends: our beloved ruler went mad yesterday and we need another. But before this there must be an assassination of the old queen.”

The ministers spoke among themselves in a low voice for some time. The oldest got up and said to the group: “Then a plan is necessary; not only a plan, but a decision; the assassin must be elected.”

All the hands went up at the same time. I didn’t know exactly what to do as representative of Her Majesty.

Perplexed, the prime minister looked at the assistants. “We cannot all do it,” he said. “But a good idea occurs to me. We will play a game of checkers and he who wins will have the right to assassinate the queen,” and, turning towards me, he continued: “Do you play checkers, ma’am?”

I was filled with confusion. I didn’t have the least desire of assassinating the queen, and I foresaw the grave consequences which such an act might occasion. Besides, I have no talent for checkers. As I could not see any danger in this for me, I accepted: “It makes no difference to me,” I answered.

“Then we’re in accord,” said the prime minister. “I have the plan that he who wins must follow. He will take the queen for a walk through the House of Royal Wild Beasts. Upon reaching the lions’ cage (it’s the second on the left), he will push the queen inside. I will advise the guardian not to give the lions anything to eat until morning.”

The queen called me to attend to some matters. She ordered the flowers woven into the sofa to be watered. “Then, have you done that well?” she asked.

“Very thoroughly,” I answered, confused.

“Don’t you want a little bit of soup?”

“You’re very kind,” I said.

“It’s a broth of artificial ox; I make it myself,”“the queen said. “Only there are a few potatoes inside.”

While we ate the soup, the queen’s orchestra played popular and classical music. The queen enjoyed music with madness.

When the meal was ended, the queen went away to rest. I directed myself to the terrace where the checkers game was being played. I was nervous, but I had inherited the sporting spirit of my father. I had given my word to be there, and there I would be.

The immense terrace offered an impressive aspect. In front of the garden, full of the shadows of twilight and of cypress trees, the ministers had gathered. There were about twenty little tables there, with two chairs of thin and fragile legs for each table. When he saw me enter, the prime minister shouted:

“Each to his place!” and all moved toward the”“little tables and began the game with ferocity.

It was played without rest during the entire night; the only noises that interrupted the game from time to time were the furious stomach rumblings of some minister. At the crack of dawn, a trumpet’s sound brusquely ended the game. A voice, that came out of nowhere, shouted: “She has won! She is the only one who has not cheated.”

Horror nailed me to my place.

“Who? I?” I said.

“Yes, you,” the voice answered.

I noticed that it was the tallest cypress which spoke. “One must flee from her,” I thought, beginning to run towards the avenue. But the cypress tore its roots out of the earth throwing garbage around and began to follow me. “It’s stronger than I am,” I thought, and I”“stopped. The cypress did the same, shaking all its branches forcefully since obviously it had not run for a long time.

“I accept,” I said.

And the cypress returned slowly to its hole.

I found the queen stretched out in her huge bed.

“I invite you to take a stroll through the House of Wild Beasts,” I said, very grieved.

“It’s too early,” the queen answered; “it’s not even five o’clock. I never get up before 10.”

“It’s magnificent weather outside.”

“Well, if you insist . . .”

We went down to the quiet garden. In the dawn nothing breathed; it was the peaceful hour, all petrified, only light itself existed. In order to give myself courage, I sang from time to time. What a chill had invaded my bones! The queen had begun to tell me she fed all her creatures sweets.

“This keeps them from being mean.”

“You would have to give sweets to the lions,” I said to myself.

A long avenue, surrounded with fruit trees, led to the House of Beasts. From time to time, a heavy fruit fell to the ground. Plop!

“Colds” said the queen “can be cured easily if you have faith. I take nuts and ox dressed with olive oil. I put them inside the nose, and the following day the cold has disappeared. Or better yet, treated the same way, cold noodles with liver juice (from lamb preferably) acts miraculously to alleviate a headache.”

“You’ll not have any more colds,” I thought.

“But bronchitis is more complicated. My poor husband died in his last bronchitis attack, in spite of the fact that I knit him a jacket. But it didn’t work out.”

The House of Beasts drew nearer each moment. I now heard the beasts agitating in their morning sleep. I had wanted to turn back, but I was frightened of the cypress tree, of all that it could do with its black and hairy branches. And the more I perceived the scent of the lion, the more strongly I sang, to give me courage.