Of Cats and Elfins: Short Tales and Fantasies

By Sylvia Townsend Warner

“Sylvia Townsend Warner was one of our finest writers.” – Neil Gaiman

Following the success of Kingdoms of Elfin in October 2018, this collection includes the remaining four Elfin stories along with the remarkable forgotten tales of The Cat’s Cradle Book, eighty years after its first publication.

The twenty-three stories in Of Cats and Elfins encompass scholarship, black humor, the Gothic, and the bizarrely anthropomorphic cats of The Cat’s Cradle Book, which reflect Warner’s preoccupation with the dark forces at large in Europe in the later 1930s. Warner mixes fables and myths with storytelling traditions old and new to express her unease with modern society, and its cruelties and injustices.

A new selection of Warner’s remaining fantasy short stories, collected for a new generation of fantasy enthusiasts and Warner fans.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Handheld Classics
• Release date: Jan 20, 2020
• ISBN: 9781912766161

Sylvia Townsend Warner

Sylvia Townsend Warner (1892 - 1978) was a novelist, poet and musicologist. The only child of George and Nora Townsend Warner, Sylvia was a precocious child who studied under her father. Beginning with her first novel, Lolly Willowes; Or The Loving Huntsman (1926), Warner embarked on a writing career that embraced themes of subversion, female empowerment and a rejection of Christian practice and philosophies. Inspired by her partner, Valentine Achland—and inspired by fellow author David Garnett, Warner went on to publish several novels including Mr. Fortune’s Maggot (1927), Summer Will Show (1936), and The Corner That Held Them (1948); as well as multiple short story collections and books of poetry. Remembered as a feminist and lesbian icon, her work was influential for a generation of British women writers to come.

Book preview

1 The Kingdom of Elfin

¹²

No census has numbered them; no income-tax collector knocks on their green hills, or drops yellow forms into their hollow and holy trees; their children, except for a few changelings, do not attend the Board Schools, their criminals slip through the fingers of policemen, and their dead are buried without certificates. As regards this last point, indeed, there are some who hold that fairies do not die; yet one of our most reliable and accurate poets has confuted them. ‘Did you ever see a fairy’s funeral, madame?’ Blake¹³ once said to a lady who happened to sit by him in company one night at dinner. ‘Never, sir,’ was the answer. ‘I have,’ said Blake, ‘but not before last night. I was walking alone in my garden; there was great stillness among the branches and flowers, and more than common sweetness in the air; I heard a low and pleasant sound – I knew not whence it came. At last I saw the broad leaf of a flower move, and underneath I saw a procession of creatures of the size and colour of grey-green grasshoppers, bearing a body laid out on a rose-leaf which they buried with songs and then disappeared. It was a fairy’s funeral!’

Blake was fortunate. It is not given to many humans to see the Little People so clearly, still less to assist at their ceremonies; a peaked face looking down for a moment from the dusk of an ash-tree, a sudden small fierce nip on one’s arm, a vapoury streak across the snap-shot of a picnic-party … that is as much as the commonalty have any reason to expect. It is sometimes said that we have but our own obtuseness to blame for not seeing fairies more often than we do; but this is to attach too much importance to our idiosyncrasies, even to such a well-established, long-standing idiosyncrasy as obtuseness; for if we fail to see the fairies it is not because we are too stupid to see them, but because they are too clever to allow themselves to be seen by us.

It is a sad fact, but undeniable; the Kingdom of Elfin has a very poor opinion of humankind. I suppose we must seem to them shocking boors, uncouth, noisy, ill-bred and disgustingly oversized. It is only the fairies with a taste for low company, like Puck and the Brownies¹⁴ – who are considered in Elfhame to have exchanged their birthright for a mess of pottage¹⁵ – that make a practice of familiarity. And it is to be observed that they, for choice, frequent the simple and rustic part of mankind, and avoid professors and students of folk-lore as witches avoid the herbs vervain and dill¹⁶. For example, we may instance Robert Wace¹⁷, who about the year 1155 made a journey to the forest of Broceliande¹⁸, at that time a sort of Elfin Le Touquet. Not a wing, not a wand, not the least gleam of a fairy did he see; all that he got for his pains was a country holiday, healthy, no doubt, but severely shorn of the amenities that a well-educated poetical gentleman considers his due; and in his pique he summed up an account of his fool’s errand in the following lines:

La allai je merveilles querre;

Vis la forêt et vis la terre,

Merveilles quis, mais ne trovai;

Fol m’en revins, fol y allai;

Fol y allai, fol m’en revins;

Folie quis, por fol me tins.

Which may be Englished something like this:

Thither went I wonders to seek;

The forest I saw and the pastures eke.¹⁹

Wonders I looked for but found none,

And a Fool came home whence a Fool has gone.

Whence a Fool had gone a Fool came home;

What a Fool was I after Folly to roam!

Yet perhaps Robert Wace may be thought to have got off pretty lightly to have come home with nothing worse than a few scratches, some midge-bites, and a revised estimate of his wisdom; for many of those who have thrust themselves in upon the fairies have had good cause to rue their presumption.

‘The useuall Method for a curious Person to get a transient sight of this otherwise invisible Crew of Subterraneans,’ says Mr Robert Kirk²⁰, Minister of Aberfoil, a worthy cleric who found the fairies a great deal more congenial than his parishioners, ‘is to put his left Foot under the Wizard’s right Foot and the Seer’s Hand is put on the Inquirer’s Head, who is to look over the Wizard’s right Shoulder … then will he see a Multitude of Wights, like furious hardie Men, flocking to him haistily from all Quarters, as thick as Atoms in the Air. These through Fear strike him breathless and speechless.’

Nor do the fairies always content themselves with giving these Peeping Toms²¹ the fright of their lives. Often they go further, causing them to fall into languishing sicknesses, harrying them with ignominious accidents, and even pursuing them to death. They commonly employ one or two methods: blasting, or shooting with an elf-bolt, a weapon preserved in great quantities in County Museums under the name of flint arrow-heads. Jonet Morisoune²², accused in 1692 of witchcraft and consorting with evil spirits, being asked the difference between shooting and blasting, declared that: ‘quhen they are shott ther is no recoverie for it and if the shott be in the heart they died presently (i.e., immediately), bot if it be not at the heart they will die in a while with it yet will at last die with it and that blasting is a whirlwinde that the fayries raises about that persone quhich they intend to wrong quhich may be healed two wayes ether by herbs or by charming.’

To those who seek some scatheless method of scraping acquaintance with these proud and capricious ‘little Puppet Spirits which they call Elves or Fairies’ I would recommend one of the following expedients:

1. To be a country-woman with a new-born baby;

2. To be a young child;

3. To be a handsome man;

Fairy mothers are passionately attached to their children, but, as one might expect, they are not of a very domesticated temper, and the royal and noble fairies in particular have so many social engagements that it is essential for them to employ a nurse. As some human mothers believe that the most devoted nurses are to be found among the less sophisticated races – an ayah²³, an amah, or a Coal-black Mammy – so do the fairies think that the plodding and bovine²⁴ nature of human-kind is peculiarly well-adapted to provide reliable old-fashioned nurses for fairy babes. So earnest are the fairies to get them that there is no sleight or boldness that they will stop at, sometimes wiling them from their homes with the show of a gold ring or cup bobbing upon the current of a stream, at other times actually entering the house of a lying-in woman²⁵ and spiriting her away in a gust f wind or a sudden darkness.

It is not so clear why fairies should steal human children, putting a changeling in their place. One school of thought holds that the fairies are obliged to sacrifice one of their number every seven years to the Devil, and that they have hit upon the scheme of substituting a human tribute, one of them, perhaps, having peeped over the shoulder of a clergyman who was reading his Bible abroad in the fields and seen therein how Abraham substituted a ram for his own flesh and blood. Be this as it may, the accounts of changelings are numerous and well-authenticated. And to give the fairies their due it must be said that their parental solicitude appears very strongly in their behaviour to their foundlings. In Waldron’s²⁶ Works is a description of a changeling child whose human mother was a charwoman. Though this child ‘were left ever so dirty, the woman, at her return, saw him with a clean face, and his hair combed with the utmost exactness and nicety’.

But undoubtedly the best way of getting to know a fairy is to marry one. This has frequently been done, though – humbling reflection for my sex! – it is only female fairies who enter into these marriages, for though there have been cases of fairy seducers no earthly woman’s charms have been powerful enough to bind a fairy to her in honourable matrimony. The first authentic notice of the fairies is that of Pomponius Mela²⁷, the Roman Geographer; but on one count Pomponius would seem to have been misinformed; for he describes the nine fairy women who lived on the island of Sein, off the coast of Brittany, as being vowed to perpetual virginity; and from all that we know of fairies this must seem extremely improbable. Their amorousness is proverbial, and no doubt the fairies who married human mortal husbands were induced to this rash step by the violence of their passions, coupled with a romantic and high-flown notion that there is something very fine about defying convention. Once married, however, they make admirable wives. Scandal has never dared to breathe a word against the fair fame of the Lady Tiphaine, wife of Bertrand du Guesclin²⁸: ‘Laquelle avoit environ vingt-quatre ans, ne oncques n’avoit esté mariée, et estoit bonne et sage, et moult experte aux arts d’astronomie.’²⁹ Nor was the celebrated Melusine, wife of Guy de Lusignan³⁰, Count of Poitou, any less wise and virtuous. She built her husband a castle by her enchantments, and bore him numerous children; and though in the end she was obliged to leave him it has always been admitted that the fault was on his side, and that any other self-respecting woman, under similar circumstances, must have done as she did.

2 Narrative of Events Preceding the Death of Queen Ermine

The Elfin Kingdom of Deuce, in the Pennines, extended over a deep, green hollow that lay, like a dropped jewel, amid the bleak hills which rose sharply around it, guarding its seclusion, but allowancing its daylight. Of these, Tut Hill, on the eastern boundary was the highest, and when it was known that mortals had discovered a lode of iron ore beneath it the news was included in the agenda of the quarterly meeting of the Regulating Committee, which dealt with innovations, nuisances, torts and breaches of decorum. It was unusual for the land Regulating Committee to concern itself with theories, but at this meeting the majority opinion that the iron ore being underground Elfin life on the surface was not likely to be affected was countered by Sir Haggard, the Queen’s nephew, who claimed that territorial rights extended downward – adding that if kingdoms lay on the surface like carpets they could as easily as carpets be rolled up. The thought of being rolled up like a carpet shook the peace of mind of the majority, who attacked Lord Haggard for entertaining such a subversive theory, let alone advocating it. He was asked, satirically, if territoriality also extended upward, and if he proposed to prosecute birds for trespass. Other voices called for his impeachment for a breach of decorum. A small minority, lovers of novelty, supported him. The debate became stormy. Other items on the agenda were ignored, no conclusion was reached and the meeting had to be adjourned.

The controversy lasted on for months. The ladies of the court joined in. They were strongly partisan, but at one in demanding that something should be done at once. Life became so uncourtly that Queen Ermine was compelled to use her royal prerogative. She wanted to knock their heads together but being a constitutional monarch she commanded that any decision must be postponed for a twelvemonth.

By now it was winter. The Yule log³¹ was borne into the hall; there was the customary hilarious Snapdragon party³²; the apple trees were wassailed³³ and apple dumplings distributed to the grateful tenantry – a mingled yarn of mortals, half-casts and changelings. If they did not seem so grateful as usual, this was nothing out of the common: they seldom did. The working fairies spread rumours about what was going on at Tut Hill, but these could be discounted, for working fairies always keep up their spirits by believing the worst. It was not till the spring that Sir Haggard (whose wife’s pet name for him was Cato) began to exhibit his profile³⁴ and ostentatiously have no more to add.

For the wind still blew from the east, and to those who strolled out to enjoy the first primroses it carried wafts of a disagreeable smell and sounds of distant rumblings and clankings. At intervals, there were explosions – at which the majority party rejoiced, saying that the mortals had blown themselves up again, and would presently go away. When it became evident that they were not doing so, majority opinion took a philosophic turn. Tut Hill was on the outskirts of the kingdom, beyond commanding a view which everyone knew by heart it had no amenities, the goings on were underground, and, pace Sir Haggard³⁵, what the eye does not see the heart does not grieve over. In any case, the wind would soon change.

It changed. There was a long serene summer, with a memorably good mushroom crop. It would have been perfect, except for incursions of mortal children stealing wild strawberries in the Great Park. Working fairies were sent out to deter them by invisible pinchings, scratchings and hair-pullings. This was dirty work, but they obeyed their instructions cheerfully, and added improvements, such as driving the marauders into wasps’ nests, jerking them off boughs into nettlebeds, alluring them to toadstools or gay wreaths of deadly nightshade. By the end of the summer the bag³⁶ amounted to nine children poisoned and an unknown quantity deterred.

This was thought pretty good by the majority party. Sir Haggard said that no deterrent could have been more fatally misapplied, and quoted figures about the mortal fertility rate. Parents with children by the dozen would be positively grateful for anything that lightened their burden. Far from discouraging the mortals at Tut Hill, the policy of child-eradication would inevitably lead to every child under a useful age being driven into the Great Park to meet its end. By midwinter, when just as many children as before, and now accompanied by mothers, swarmed into the Great Park for firewood and the cold was too intense to ask the working fairies to encounter it, his profile became even more pronounced, his ‘I told you so’ silence quite intimidating.

There is no pastime so engrossing as being in the right, and when it is crowned by becoming unpopular no person of intellect can withstand its charms. Sir Haggard was one of the few people at court who had an intellect; even when he judged from a false premise, he was clear-headed and unafraid of what conclusions he might arrive at. His aunt, the Queen, who was afraid of his conclusions, but a great deal more afraid of his dauntlessness, did not consult him. She enjoyed seeing his opponents unhorsed, but naturally did not wish to be unhorsed herself. Nor did anyone else, though for less constitutional motives. This was unfortunate, for by now the kingdom of Deuce was at a pass that everyone deplored and no one would speak about.

The workings at Tut Hill had led to the discovery of a richer lode in the valley and a new pit had been sunk within the Great Park. Spoil tips defaced the meadows where fairies had danced mushrooms into rings, the glare of a smelting furnace outbid the moon, trees shed their leaves, smuts settled on every face, naked women³⁷ were seen coming up to the surface like moles – all this, and the uncertainty as to where it would spread to next, the certainty that it would not go away, was extremely depressing.

It was also depressing, and inconvenient too, that tenantry, formerly so innocent and willing, were no longer reliable. Corrupted by the vicinity of wage-earning mortals they scamped³⁸ their work, failed to pay their dues³⁹, quarrelled with the working fairies, and went gadding to Tut Hill or hung about the new pit-head. Some alleging rheumatism⁴⁰ hired themselves to work underground, where the weather could not get at them. Others, too young to be rheumatic, said they wanted to see life. Others again, females, talked of the pleasures of society and a sound roof over their heads. The slopes of Tut Hill were soon terraced by rows of small dwellings, identically ugly, with dirty children spilling out over whitewashed doorsteps. A larger building was going up among them, ugly as the rest, so inspecting working fairies reported, but distinguished by a sort of pepper-castor⁴¹ on the roof. It did not appear to have any purpose.

Later its purpose became clear. At regular intervals of seven days, a bell jangled in the pepper castor, and the mortals could be observed leaving their houses and walking at a slow pace towards the new building. Men, women and children, they went in, and the door was closed on them.

By hovering round, the inspecting fairies were able to report that after a single voice harangued for some time, there was an outburst of howls and groans. When this ceased, the harangue took over. When the howlings and groanings followed by the solo harangues had gone on for a couple of hours or so, the door was opened and the mortals walked glumly away.

The majority party fastened on these reports with joy. Plainly, this regular happening under the pepper-castor was susceptible to only one interpretation. Every seventh day the wretched mortals, no better than slaves, were forced to attend a judicial review of their conduct. The solo voice harangued them on their negligences, inefficiencies, and lack of zeal. Then they were scourged till they howled and groaned. Again they were harangued, again they were scourged. After a final harangue and a final scourging, they were released, to limp and writhe their way home. No better than slaves, in the end they would take the slaves’ revenge, would revolt, kill their taskmasters, break the machinery and leave in a body. So it was merely a question of waiting. Then the Regulating Committee could put things right again, plant more trees, bury the dead (the pits would provide), have the spoil-tips harrowed elsewhere, and demolish the dwellings on Tut Hill; perhaps the scourging-house might be preserved as a memorial.

Ermine had a kind heart. Though the mortal children were thievish and noisy, she did not think they should be scourged for their parents’ offences (their childish trebles were piercingly audible among the howls); for their sakes, too, she hoped the revolt would come speedily, to release and remove them. She summoned Sir Haggard, who so far had said nothing, and asked if he shared the common opinion. ‘Granted the howls,’ he replied, ‘and they are indisputable – I want to hear them myself – the deduction is logical. I see no reason to disbelieve it.’

‘Oh, I’m so glad!’ exclaimed Ermine, forgetting that he disliked being interrupted.

‘But mortals are not logical animals. It may be some time before they can be goaded into deducing, A, that they are slaves, B, that slaves ultimately revolt, and C, proceeding to implement the deduction: killing will be no trouble to them. But as we are sure of a happy ending, my dear Aunt, why wait for it in discomfort? Why not go away for a general holiday? Particularly as the water supply is now so fitful.’

The palace drew its water from a never-failing spring; but some mining operation had impaired its flow. There were strict economy measures and the working fairies were under orders to drink nothing but