The Ladies of Grace Adieu

by Susanna Clarke

  "Ha!" said I.

  "Oh!" cried Dido.

  Dando gave a scream which if I were to try to reproduce it by means of the English alphabet would possess more syllables than any word hitherto seen. Then he caught up Pandemonium's reins and rode off with that extraordinary speed of which I know him to be capable.

  The death of John Hollyshoes had weakened the spell he had cast on the ivy and Dido and I were able quite easily to tear it away. We rode back to Allhope where I restored her to joyful parent, loving husband, and hungry child. My parishioners came to the cottage to load me with praises, grateful thanks, promises of future aid, etc., etc. I however was tired to death and, after making a short speech advising them to benefit from the example I had given them of courage and selflessness, I pleaded the excuse of a head ach to come home.

  One thing, however, has vexed me very much and that is there was no time to conduct a proper examination of John Hollyshoes' body. For it occurs to me that just as Reason is seated in the brain of Man, so we Fairies may contain within ourselves some organ of Magic. Certainly the fairy's bisected corpse had some curious features. I append here a rough sketch and a few notes describing the ways in which Fairy anatomy appears to depart from Human anatomy. I intend to be in the woods at first light to examine the corpse more closely.

  Dec. 11th., 1811.

  The body is gone. Dando, I suppose, has spirited it away. This is most vexatious as I had hoped to have it sent to Mr Baillie's anatomy school in Great Windmill-street in London. I suppose that the baby in the bare room at the end of the corridor will inherit End-Of-All-Hope House and all John Hollyshoes' estates, but perhaps the loss of Dido's milk at this significant period in its life will prevent its growing up as strong in wickedness as its parent.

  I have not abandoned my own hopes of inheriting my father's estate and may very well pursue my claim when I have the time. I have never heard that the possession of an extensive property in Faerie was incompatible with the duties of a priest of the Church of England – indeed I do not believe that I ever heard the subject mentioned.

  Dec. 17th., 1811.

  I have been most villainously betrayed by the Reverend John McKenzie! I take it particularly hard since he is the person from whom – as a fellow clergyman – I might most reasonably have expected support. It appears that he is to marry the heiress to a castle and several hundred miles of bleak Scottish wilderness in Caithness. I hope there may be bogs and that John McKenzie may drown in them. Disappointed love has, I regret to say, screwed Miss Mary Macdonald up to such a pitch of anger that she has turned upon Henrietta and me. She writes to Henrietta that she is certain I am not be trusted and she threatens to write to Mrs Gathercole and Mrs Edmond. Henrietta is not afraid; rather she exults in the coming storm.

  "You will protect me!" she cried, her eyes flashing with strange brilliance and her face flushed with excitement.

  "My dear girl," said I, "I will be dead."

  Dec. 20th., 1811.

  George Hollinsclough was here a moment ago with a message that I am to wait upon Mrs Gathercole and Mrs Edmond immediately. I take one last fond look around this room…

  Tom Brightwind or How the FairyBridge Was Built at Thoresby

  The friendship between the eighteenth-century Jewish physician, David Montefiore, and the fairy, Tom Brightwind, is remarkably well documented. In addition to Montefiore's own journals and family papers, we have numerous descriptions of encounters with Montefiore and Brightwind by eighteenth- and early-nineteenth-century letter-writers, diarists and essayists. Montefiore and Brightwind seem, at one time or another, to have met most of the great men of the period. They discussed slavery with Boswell and Johnson, played dominoes with Diderot, got drunk with Richard Brinsley Sheridan and, upon one famous occasion, surprized Thomas Jefferson in his garden at Monticello. [1]

  Yet, fascinating as these contemporary accounts are, our most vivid portrait of this unusual friendship comes from the plays, stories and songs which it inspired. In the early nineteenth century "Tom and David" stories were immensely popular both here and in Faerie Minor, but in the latter half of the century they fell out of favour in Europe and the United States. It became fashionable among Europeans and Americans to picture fairies as small, defenceless creatures. Tom Brightwind – loud, egotistical and six feet tall – was most emphatically not the sort of fairy that Arthur Conan Doyle and Charles Dodgson hoped to find at the bottom of their gardens.

  The following story first appeared in Blackwood's Magazine (Edinburgh: September, 1820) and was reprinted in Silenus's Review (Faerie Minor: April, 1821). Considered as literature it is deeply unremarkable. It suffers from all the usual defects of second-rate early-nineteenth-century writing. Nevertheless, if read with proper attention, it uncovers a great many facts about this enigmatic race and is particularly enlightening on the troublesome relationship between fairies and their children.

  Professor James Sutherland

  Research Institute of Sidhe Studies

  University of Aberdeen

  October 1999

  For most of its length Shoe-lane in the City of London follows a gentle curve and it never occurs to most people to wonder why. Yet if they were only to look up (and they never do) they would see the ancient wall of an immense round tower and it would immediately become apparent how the lane curves to accommodate the tower.

  This is only one of the towers that guard Tom Brightwind's house. From his earliest youth Tom was fond of travelling about and seeing everything and, in order that he might do this more conveniently, he placed each tower in a different part of the world. From one tower you step out into Shoe-lane; another occupies the greater part of a small island in the middle of a Scottish loch; a third looks out upon the dismal beauty of an Algerian desert; a fourth stands upon Drying-Green-street in a city in Faerie Minor; and so on. With characteristic exuberance Tom named this curiously constructed house Castel des Tours saunz Nowmbre, which means the Castle of Innumerable Towers. David Montefiore had counted the innumerable towers in 1764. There were fourteen of them.

  On a morning in June in 1780 David Montefiore knocked upon the door of the Shoe-lane tower. He inquired of the porter where Tom might be found and was told that the master was in his library.

  As David walked along dim, echoing corridors and trotted up immense stone staircases, he bade a cheerful "Good Morning! Good Morning!" to everyone he passed. But the only answer that he got was doubtful nods and curious stares, for no matter how often he visited the house, the inhabitants could never get used to him. His face was neither dazzlingly handsome nor twisted and repulsive. His figure was similarly undistinguished. His countenance expressed neither withering scorn, nor irresistible fascination, but only good humour and a disposition to think well of everyone. It was a mystery to the fairy inhabitants of Castel des Tours Saunz Nowmbre why any one should wish to wear such an expression upon his face.

  Tom was not in the library. The room was occupied by nine fairy princesses. Nine exquisite heads turned in perfect unison to stare at David. Nine silk gowns bewildered the eye with their different colours. Nine different perfumes mingled in the air and made thinking difficult.

  They were a few of Tom Brightwind's grand-daughters. Princess Caritas, Princess Bellona, Princess Alba Perfecta, Princess Lachrima and Princess Flammifera were one set of sisters; Princess Honey-of-the-Wild-Bees, Princess Lament-from-across-the-Water, Princess Kiss-upon-a-True-Love's-Grave and Princess Bird-in-the-Hand were another.

  "O David ben Israel!" said Princess Caritas. "How completely charming!" and offered him her hand.

  "You are busy, Highnesses," he said, "I fear I disturb you."

  "Not really," said Princess Caritas. "We are writing letters to our cousins. Duty letters, that is all. Be seated, O David ben Israel."

  'You did not say that they are our female cousins," said Princess Honey-of-the-Wild-Bees. "You did not make that plain. I should not like the Jewish doctor to run away with the idea that we write to any
other sort of cousin."

  "To our female cousins naturally" said Princess Caritas.

  "We do not know our male cousins," Princess Flammifera informed David.

  "We do not even know their names," added Princess Lament-from-across-the-Water.

  "And even if we did, we would not dream of writing to them," remarked Princess Alba Perfecta.

  "Though we are told they are very handsome," said Princess Lachrima.

  "Handsome?" said Princess Caritas. "Whatever gave you that idea? I am sure I do not know whether they are handsome or not. I do not care to know. I never think of such things."

  "Oh now, really my sweet!" replied Princess Lachrima with a brittle laugh. "Tell the truth, do! You scarcely ever think of any thing else."

  Princess Caritas gave her sister a vicious look. "And to which of your cousins are you writing?" asked David quickly.

  „To Igraine…“

  "Nimue…"

  "Elaine…"

  "And Morgana."

  "Ugly girls," remarked Princess Caritas. "Not their fault," said Princess Honey-of-the-Wild-Bees generously.

  "And will they be away long?" asked David.

  "Oh!" said Princess Flammifera.

  "Oh!" said Princess Caritas.

  "Oh!" said Princess Honey-of-the-Wild-Bees.

  "They have been sent away," said Princess Bellona.

  "For ever…" said Princess Lament-from-across-the-Water.

  "… and a day," added Princess Flammifera.

  "We thought everybody knew that," said Princess Alba Perfecta.

  "Grandfather sent them away," said Princess Kiss-upon-a-True-Love's-Grave.

  "They offended Grandfather," said Princess Bird-in-the-Hand.

  "Grandfather is most displeased with them," said Princess Lament-from-across-the-Water.

  "They have been sent to live in a house," said Princess Caritas.

  "Not a nice house," warned Princess Alba Perfecta.

  "A nasty house!" said Princess Lachrima, with sparkling eyes. "With nothing but male servants! Nasty, dirty male servants with thick ugly fingers and hair on the knuckles! Male servants who will doubtless shew them no respect!" Lachrima put on a knowing, amused look. "Though perhaps they may shew them something else!" she said.

  Caritas laughed. David blushed.

  "The house is in a wood," continued Princess Bird-in-the-Hand.

  "Not a nice wood," added Princess Bellona.

  "A nasty wood!" said Princess Lachrima excitedly. "A thoroughly damp and dark wood, full of spiders and creepy, slimy, foul-smelling…"

  "And why did your grandfather send them to this wood?" asked David quickly.

  "Oh! Igraine got married," said Princess Caritas.

  "Secretly," said Princess Lament-from-across-the-Water.

  "We thought everyone knew that," said Princess Kiss-upon-a-True-Love's-Grave.

  "She married a Christian man," explained Princess Caritas.

  "Her harpsichord master!" said Princess Bellona, beginning to giggle.

  "He played such beautiful concertos," said Princess Alba Perfecta.

  "He had such beautiful…" began Princess Lachrima.

  "Rima! Will you desist?" said Princess Caritas.

  "Cousins," said Princess Honey-of-the-Wild-Bees sweetly, "when you are banished to a dark, damp wood, we will write to you.

  "I did wonder, you know," said Princess Kiss-upon-a-True-Love's-Grave, "when she began to take harpsichord lessons every day. For she was never so fond of music till Mr Cartwright came. Then they took to shutting the door – which, I may say, I was very sorry for, the harpsichord being a particular favourite of mine. And so, you know, I used to creep to the door to listen, but a quarter of an hour might go by and I would not hear a single note – except perhaps the odd discordant plink as if one of them had accidentally leant upon the instrument. Once I thought I would go in to see what they were doing, but when I tried the handle of the door I discovered that they had turned the key in the lock…"

  "Be quiet, Kiss!" said Princess Lament-from-across-the-Water.

  "She's only called Kiss," explained Princess Lachrima to David helpfully. "She's never actually kissed any one."

  "But I do not quite understand," said David. "If Princess Igraine married without her grandfather's permission, then that of course is very bad. Upon important matters children ought always to consult their parents, or those who stand in the place of parents. Likewise parents – or as we have in this case, grandparents – ought to consider not only the financial aspects of a marriage and the rank of the prospective bride or bridegroom, but also the child's character and likely chances of happiness with that person. The inclinations of the child's heart ought to be of paramount importance…"

  As David continued meditating out loud upon the various reciprocal duties and responsibilities of parents and children, Princess Honey-of-the-Wild-Bees stared at him with an expression of mingled disbelief and distaste, Princess Caritas yawned loudly and Princess Lachrima mimed someone fainting with boredom.

  "… But even if Princess Igraine offended her grandfather in this way," said David, "why were her sisters punished with her?"

  "Because they did not stop her of course," said Princess Alba Perfecta.

  "Because they did not tell Grandfather what she was about," said Princess Lament-from-across-the-Water.

  "We thought everybody knew that," said Princess Bird-in-the-Hand.

  "What happened to the harpsichord master?" asked David.

  Princess Lachrima opened her large violet-blue eyes and leant forward with great eagerness, but at that moment a voice was heard in the corridor.

  "… but when I had shot the third crow and plucked and skinned it, I discovered that it had a heart of solid diamond – just as the old woman had said – so, as you see, the afternoon was not entirely wasted."

  Tom Brightwind had a bad habit of beginning to talk long before he entered a room, so that the people whom he addressed only ever heard the end of what he wished to say to them.

  "What?" said David.

  "Not entirely wasted," repeated Tom.

  Tom was about six feet tall and unusually handsome even for a fairy prince (for it must be said that in fairy society the upper ranks generally make it their business to be better-looking than the commoners). His complexion gleamed with such extraordinary good health that it seemed to possess a faint opalescence, slightly unnerving to behold. He had recently put off his wig and taken to wearing his natural hair which was long and straight and a vivid chestnut-brown colour. His eyes were blue, and he looked (as he had looked for the last three or four thousand years) about thirty years of age. He glanced about him, raised one perfect fairy eye-brow and muttered sourly, "Oak and Ash, but there are a lot of women in this room!"

  There was a rustle of nine silk gowns, the slight click of door, a final exhalation of perfume, and suddenly there were no princesses at all.

  "So where have you been?" said Tom, throwing himself into a chair and taking up a newspaper. "I expected you yesterday. Did you not get my message?"

  "I could not come. I had to attend to my patients. Indeed I cannot stay long this morning. I am on my way to see Mr Monkton."

  Mr Monkton was a rich old gentleman who lived in Lincoln. He wrote David letters describing a curious pain in his left side and David wrote back with advice upon medicines and treatments.

  "Not that he places any faith in what I tell him," said David cheerfully. "He also corresponds with a physician in Edinburgh and a sort of sorcerer in Dublin. Then there is the apothecary in Lincoln who visits him. We all contradict one another but it does not matter because he trusts none of us. Now he has written to say he is dying and at this crisis we are summoned to attend him in person. The Scottish physician, the Irish wizard, the English apothecary and me! I am quite looking forward to it! Nothing is so pleasant or instructive as the society and conversation of one's peers. Do not you agree?

  Tom shrugged. [2] "Is the old man really ill?" he asked
.

  "I do not know. I never saw him."

  Tom glanced at his newspaper again, put it down again in irritation, yawned and said, "I believe I shall come with you." He waited for David to express his rapture at this news.

  What in the world, wondered David, did Tom think there would be at Lincoln to amuse him? Long medical conversations in which he could take no part, a querulous sick old gentleman and the putrid airs and hush of a sick-room! David was upon the point of saying something to this effect, when it occurred to him that, actually, it would be no bad thing for Tom to come to Lincoln. David was the son of a famous Venetian rabbi. From his youth he had been accustomed to debate good principles and right conduct with all sorts of grave Jewish persons. These conversations had formed his own character and he naturally supposed that a small measure of the same could not help but improve other people's. In short he had come to believe that if only one talks long enough and expresses oneself properly, it is perfectly possible to argue people into being good and happy. With this aim he generally took it upon himself to quarrel with Tom Brightwind several times a week – all without noticeable effect. But just now he had a great deal to say about the unhappy fate of the harpsichord master's bride and her sisters, and a long ride north was the perfect opportunity to say it.

  So the horses were fetched from the stables, and David and Tom got on them. They had not gone far before David began.

  "Who?" asked Tom, not much interested.

  "The Princesses Igraine, Nimue, Elaine and Morgana."

  "Oh! Yes, I sent them to live in… What do you call that wood on the far side of Pity-Me? What is the name that you put upon it? No, it escapes me. Anyway, there."

  "But eternal banishment!" cried David in horror. "Those poor girls! How can you bear the thought of them in such torment?"