The Small People

by Arthur Quiller-Couch

　　You thought it natural, my dear lady, to lay this command on me atthe dance last night. We had parted, two months ago, in London, andwe met, unexpectedly and to music, in this corner of the land where(they say) the piskies still keep. And certainly, when I led you outupon the balcony (that you might not see the new moon through glassand lose a lucky month), it was not hard to picture the Small Peopleat their play on the turf and among the dim flower-beds below us.But, as a matter of fact, they are dead, these Small People.They were the long-lived but not immortal spirits of the folk whoinhabited Cornwall many thousands of years back--far beyond Christ'sbirth. They were "poor innocents," not good enough for heaven yettoo good for the eternal fires; and when they first came, were ofordinary stature. But after Christ's birth they began to growsmaller and smaller, and at length turned into emmets and vanishedfrom the earth.The last I heard of them was a sad and serious little history, verydifferent from the old legends. Part of it I was told by a hospitalsurgeon, of all people in the world. Part I learnt by looking atyour beautiful gown last night, as you leant on the balcony-rail.You remember how heavy the dew was, and that I fetched a shawl foryour shoulders. You did not wrap it so tightly round but that fourmarguerites in gold embroidery showed on the front of your bodice;and these come into the tale, the remainder of which I was taughtthis morning before breakfast, down among the cairns by the sea wherethe Small People's Gardens still remain--sheltered spots of green,with here and there some ferns and cliff-pinks left. For me they arelibraries where sometimes I read for a whole summer's day; and withthe help of the hospital surgeon, I bring you from them a story aboutyour ball-gown which is perfectly true.Twenty years ago--before the fairies had dwindled into ants, and whenwayfarers were still used to turn their coats inside out, afternightfall, for fear of being "pisky-led"--there lived, down at thevillage, a girl who knew all the secrets of the Small People'sGardens. Where you and I discover sea-pinks only, and hear only thewash of the waves, she would go on midsummer nights and find flowersof every colour spread, and hundreds of little lights moving amongthem, and fountains and waterfalls and swarms of small ladies andgentlemen, dressed in green and gold, walking and sporting amongthem, or reposing on the turf and telling stories to the mostravishing soft music. This was as much as she would relate; but itis certain that the piskies were friends of hers. For, in spite ofher nightly wanderings, her housework was always well and cleanlydone before other girls were dressed--the morning milk fresh in thedairy, the step sanded, the fire lit and the scalding-pans warmingover it. And as for her needlework, it was a wonder.Some said she was a changeling; others that she had found thefour-leaved clover or the fairy ointment, and rubbed her eyes withit. But it was her own secret; for whenever the people tried tofollow her to the "Gardens," whir! whir! whir! buzzed in theirears, as if a flight of bees were passing, and every limb would feelas if stuck full of pins and pinched with tweezers, and they wererolled over and over, their tongues tied as if with cords, and atlast, as soon as they could manage, they would pick themselves up,and hobble home for their lives.Well, the history--which, I must remind you, is a true one--goes onto say that in time the girl grew ambitious, or fell in love(I cannot remember which), and went to London. In any case it musthave been a strong call that took her: for there are no fairies inLondon. I regret that my researches do not allow me to tell you howthe Small People at home took her departure; but we will suppose thatit grieved them deeply. Nor can I say precisely how the girl faredfor many years. I think her fortune contained both joy and sorrowfor a while; and I suspect that many passages of her life would besadly out of place in this story, even if they could be hunted out.Indeed, fairy-tales have to omit so much nowadays, and therefore seemso antiquated, that one marvels how they could ever have been infashion.But you may take it as sure that in the end this girl met with moresorrow than joy; for when next she comes into sight it is in Londonstreets and she is in rags. Moreover, though she wears a flush onher cheeks, above the wrinkles it does not come of health or highspirits, but perhaps from the fact that in the twenty years' intervalshe has seen millions of men and women, but not one single fairy.In those latter days I met her many times. She passed under yourwindows shortly before dawn on the night that you gave your dance,early in the season. You saw her, I think?--a woman who staggered alittle, and had some words with the policeman at the corner: but,after all, a staggering woman in London is no such memorable sight.All day long she was seeking work, work, work; and after dark shesought forgetfulness. She found the one, in small quantities, andout of it she managed to buy the other, now and then, over thecounter. But she had long given up looking for the fairies.The lights along the Embankment had ceased to remind her of those inthe Small People's Gardens; nor did the noise bursting frommusic-hall doors as she passed, recall the old sounds; and as for thescents, there were plenty in London, but none resembling that of thegarden which you might smell a mile out at sea.I told you that her needlework had been a marvel when she lived downat the village. Curiously enough, this was the one gift of thefairies that stayed by her, and it remained as wonderful as ever.Her most frequent employer was a flat-footed Jew with a large, fleshyface; and because she had a name for honesty, she was not seldomentrusted with costly pieces of stuff, and allowed to carry them hometo turn into ball-dresses under the roof through the gaps of which,as she stitched, she could see the night pass from purple to black,and from black to the lilac of daybreak. There, with a hundredpounds' worth of silk and lace on her knee, she would sit and work adozen hours to earn as many pence. With fingers weary and--But youknow Hood's song, and no doubt have taken it to heart a dozen times.It came to this, however, that one evening, when she had not eatenfor forty hours, her employer gave her a piece of embroidery to workagainst time. The fact is, my dear lady, that you are veryparticular about having your commissions executed to the hour, andyour dressmakers are anxious to oblige, knowing that you neversquabble over the price. To be sure, you have never heard of theflat-footed Jew man--how should you? And we may believe that yourdressmakers knew just as little of the poor woman who had used to bethe friend of the Small People. But the truth remains that, in thepress of your many pleasures, you were pardonably twenty-four hourslate in ordering the gown in which you were to appear an angel.Ah, madam! will it comfort you to hear that you were the one toreconcile the Small People with that poor sister of yours who hadleft them, twenty years before, and wanted them so sorely?The hospital doctor gave her complaint a long name, and I gather thatit has a place by itself in books of pathology. But the woman's talewas that, after she had been stitching through the long night, thedawn came through the roof and found her with four marguerites stillleft to be embroidered in gold on the pieces of satin that lay in herlap. She threaded her needle afresh, rubbed her weary eyes, andbegan--when, lo! a miracle.Instead of one hand, there were four at work--four hands, fourneedles, four lines of thread. The four marguerites were all beingembroidered at the same time! The piskies had forgiven, hadremembered her at last, after these many years, and were coming toher help, as of old. Ah, madam, the tears of thankfulness that ranfrom her hot eyes and fell upon those golden marguerites of yours!* * * * * * *Of course her eyes were disordered. There was only one flower,really. There was only one embroidered in the morning, when theyfound her sobbing, with your bodice still in her lap, and took her tothe hospital; and that is why the dressmakers failed to keep faithwith you for once, and made you so angry.Dear lady, the piskies are not easily summoned, in these days.

　　THE END.