The Ladies of Grace Adieu

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?"

"I bear it very well, as you see," said Tom. "But thank you for your concern. To own the truth, I am thankful for any measure that reduces the number of women in my house. David, I tell you, those girls talk constantly. Obviously I talk a great deal too. But then I am always doing things. I have my library. I am the patron of three theatres, two orchestras and a university. I have numerous interests in Faerie Major. I have seneschals, magistrates and proctors in all the various lands of which I am sovereign, who are obliged to consult my pleasure constantly. I am involved in…" Tom counted quickly on his long, white fingers. "… thirteen wars which are being prosecuted in Faerie Major. In one particularly complicated case I have allied myself with the Millstone Beast and with his enemy, La Dame d'Aprigny, and sent armies to both of them…" Tom paused here and frowned at his horse's ears. "Which means I suppose that I am at war with myself. Now why did I do that?" He seemed to consider a moment or two, but making no progress he shook his head and continued. "What was I saying? Oh, yes! So naturally I have a great deal to say. But those girls do nothing. Absolutely nothing! A little embroidery, a few music lessons. Oh! and they read English novels! David! Did you ever look into an English novel? Well, do not trouble yourself. It is nothing but a lot of nonsense about girls with fanciful names getting married."

"But this is precisely the point I wish to make," said David. "Your children lack proper occupation. Of course they will find some mischief to get up to. What do you expect?"

David often lectured Tom upon the responsibilities of parenthood which annoyed Tom who considered himself to be a quite exemplary fairy parent. He provided generously for his children and grandchildren and only in exceptional circumstances had any of them put to death. [3]

"Young women must stay at home quietly until they marry," said Tom. "What else would you have?"

"I admit that I cannot imagine any other system for regulating the behaviour of young Christian and Jewish women. But in their case the interval between the schoolroom and marriage is only a few years. For fairy women it may stretch into centuries. Have you no other way of managing your female relations? Must you imitate Christians in everything you do? Why! You even dress as if you were a Christian!"

"As do you," countered Tom.

"And you have trimmed your long fairy eye-brows."

"At least I still have eye-brows," retorted Tom. Where is your beard, Jew? Did Moses wear a little grey wig?" He gave David's wig of neat curls a contemptuous flip. "I do not think so."

"You do not even speak your own language!" said David, straightening his wig.

"Neither do you," said Tom.

David immediately replied that Jews, unlike fairies, honoured their past, spoke Hebrew in their prayers and upon all sorts of ritual occasions. "But to return to the problem of your daughters and grand-daughters, what did you do when you were in the brugh?"

This was tactless. The word "brugh" was deeply offensive to Tom. No one who customarily dresses in spotless white linen and a midnight-blue coat, whose nails are exquisitely manicured, whose hair gleams like polished mahogany – in short no one of such refined tastes and delicate habits likes to be reminded that he spent the first two or three thousand years of his existence in a damp dark hole, wearing (when he took the trouble to wear any thing at all) a kilt of coarse, undyed wool and a mouldering rabbitskin cloak. [4]

"In the brugh," said Tom, lingering on the word with ironic emphasis to shew that it was a subject polite people did not mention, "the problem did not arise. Children were born and grew up in complete ignorance of their paternity. I have not the least idea who my father was. I never felt any curiosity on the matter."

By two o'clock Tom and David had reached Nottinghamshire, [5] a county which is famous for the greenwood which once spread over it. Of course at this late date the forest was no longer a hundredth part of what it once had been, but there were still a number of very ancient trees and Tom was determined to pay his respects to those he considered his particular friends and to shew his disdain of those who had not behaved well towards him. [6] So long was Tom in greeting his friends, that David began to be concerned about Mr Monkton.

"But you said he was not really ill," said Tom.

"That was not what I said at all! But whether he is or not, I have a duty to reach him as soon as I can."

"Very well! Very well! How cross you are!" said Tom. "Where are you going? The road is just over there."

"But we came from the other direction."

"No, we did not. Well, perhaps. I do not know. But both roads join up later on so it cannot matter in the least which we chuse."

Tom's road soon dwindled into a narrow and poorly marked track which led to the banks of a broad river. A small, desolate-looking town stood upon the opposite bank. The road reappeared on the other side of the town and it was odd to see how it grew broader and more confident as it left the town and travelled on to happier places.

"How peculiar!" said Tom. "Where is the bridge?"

"There does not seem to be one."

"Then how are we to get across?"

"There is a ferry," said David.

A long iron chain stretched between a stone pillar on this side of the river and another pillar on the opposite bank. Also on the other side of the river was an ancient flat-bottomed boat attached to the chain by two iron brackets. An ancient ferryman appeared and hauled the boat across the river by means of the chain. Then Tom and David led the horses on to the boat and the ancient ferryman hauled them back over.

David asked the ferryman what the town was called.

"Thoresby, sir," said the man.

Thoresby proved to be nothing more than a few streets of shabby houses with soiled, dusty windows and broken roofs. An ancient cart was abandoned in the middle of what appeared to be the principal street. There was a market cross and a marketplace of sorts – but weeds and thorns grew there in abundance, suggesting there had been no actual market for several years. There was only one gentleman's residence to be seen: a tall old-fashioned house built of grey limestone, with a great many tall gables and chimneys. This at least was a respectable-looking place though in a decidedly provincial style.

Thoresby's only inn was called The Wheel of Fortune. The sign shewed a number of people bound to a great wheel which was being turned by Fortune, represented here by a bright pink lady wearing nothing but a blindfold. In keeping with the town's dejected air the artist had chosen to omit the customary figures representing good fortune and had instead shewn all the people bound to Fortune's wheel in the process of being crushed to pieces or being hurled into the air to their deaths.

With such sights as these to encourage them, the Jew and the fairy rode through Thoresby at a smart trot. The open road was just in sight when David heard a cry of "Gentlemen! Gentlemen!" and the sound of rapid footsteps. So he halted his horse and turned to see what was the matter.

A man came running up.

He was a most odd-looking creature. His eyes were small and practically colourless. His nose was the shape of a small bread roll, and his ears – which were round and pink – might have been attractive on a baby, but in no way suited him. But what was most peculiar was the way in which eyes and nose huddled together at the top of his face, having presumably quarrelled with his mouth which had set up a separate establishment for itself halfway down his chin. He was very shabbily dressed and his bare head had a thin covering of pale stubble upon it.

"You have not paid the toll, sirs!" he cried. "What toll?" asked David.

"Why! The ferry toll! The toll for crossing the river."

"Yes. Yes, we have," said David. "We paid the man who carried us across the river."

The odd-looking man smiled. "No, sir!" he said. "You paid the fee, the ferryman's penny! But the toll is quite another thing. The toll is levied upon everyone who crosses the river. It is owed to Mr Winstanley and I collect it. A man and a horse is sixpence. Two men and two horses is twelvepence."

"Do you mean to say," said David in astonishment, "that a person must pay twice to come to this miserable place?"

"There is no toll, David," said Tom airily. "This scoundrel merely wishes us to give him twelvepence."

The odd-looking man continued to smile, although the expression of his eyes had rather a malicious sparkle to it. "The gentleman may insult me if he wishes," he said. "Insults are free. But I beg leave to inform the gentleman that I am very far from being a scoundrel. I am a lawyer. Oh, yes! An attorney consulted by people as far afield as Southwell. But my chief occupation is as Mr Winstanley's land agent and man of business. My name, sir, is Pewley Witts!"

"A lawyer?" said David. "Oh, I do beg your pardon!"

"David!" cried Tom. "When did you ever see a lawyer that looked like that? Look at him! His rascally shoes are broken all to bits. There are great holes in his vagabond's coat and he has no wig! Of course he is a scoundrel!" He leant down from his tall horse. "We are leaving now, scoundrel. Goodbye!"

"These are my sloppy clothes," said Pewley Witts sullenly. "My wig and good coat are at home. I had no time to put them on when Peter Dawkins came and told me that two gentlemen had crossed by the ferry and were leaving Thoresby without paying the toll – which, by the bye, is still twelvepence, gentlemen, and I would be much obliged if you would pay it."

A devout Jew must discharge his debts promptly – however inadvertently those debts might have been incurred; a gentleman ought never to procrastinate in such matters; and, as David considered himself to be both those things, he was most anxious to pay Pewley Witts twelvepence. A fairy, on the other hand, sees things differently. Tom was determined not to pay. Tom would have endured years of torment rather than pay.

Pewley Witts watched them argue the point back and forth. Finally he shrugged. "Under the circumstances, gentlemen," he said, "I think you had better talk to Mr Winstanley."

He led them to the tall stone house they had noticed before. A high stone wall surrounded the house and there was a little stone yard which was quite bare except for two small stone lions. They were crudely made things, with round, surprized eyes, snarls full of triangular teeth, and fanciful manes that more resembled foliage than fur.

A pretty maidservant answered the door. She glanced briefly at Pewley Witts and David Montefiore, but finding nothing to interest her there, her gaze travelled on to Tom Brightwind who was staring down at the lions.

"Good morning, Lucy!" said Pewley Witts. "Is your master within?"

"Where else would he be?" said Lucy, still gazing at Tom.

"These two gentlemen object to paying the toll, and so I have brought them here to argue it out with Mr Winstanley. Go and tell him that we are here. And be quick about it, Lucy. I am wanted at home. We are killing the spotted pig today."

Despite Pewley Witts' urging, it seemed that Lucy did not immediately deliver the message to her master. A few moments later from an open window above his head, David heard a sort of interrogatory murmur followed by Lucy's voice exclaiming, "A beautiful gentleman! Oh, madam! The most beautiful gentleman you ever saw in your life!"

"What is happening?" asked Tom, drifting back from his examination of the lions.

"The maid is describing me to her mistress," said David.

"Oh," said Tom and drifted away again.

A face appeared briefly at the window.

"Oh, yes," came Lucy's voice again, "and Mr Witts and another person are with him."

Lucy reappeared and conducted Tom, David and Pewley Witts through a succession of remarkably empty chambers and passageways to an apartment at the back of the house. It was odd to see how, in contrast to the other rooms, this was comfortably furnished with red carpets, gilded mirrors and blue-and-white china. Yet it was still a little sombre. The walls were panelled in dark wood and the curtains were half-drawn across two tall windows to create a sort of twilight. The walls were hung with engravings but, far from enlivening the gloom, they only added to it. They were portraits of worthy and historical personages, all of whom appeared to have been in an extremely bad temper when they sat for their likenesses. Here were more scowls, frowns and stares than David had seen in a long time.

At the far end of the room a gentleman lay upon a sopha piled with cushions. He wore an elegant green-and-white chintz morning gown and loose Turkish slippers upon his feet. A lady, presumably Mrs Winstanley, sat in a chair at his side.

As there was no one else to do it for them, Tom and David were obliged to introduce themselves (an awkward ceremony at the best of times). David told Mr and Mrs Winstanley his profession, and Tom was able to convey merely by his way of saying his name that he was someone of quite unimaginable importance.

Mr Winstanley received them with great politeness, welcoming them to his house (which he called Mickelgrave House). They found it a little odd, however, that he did not trouble to rise from the sopha – or indeed move any of his limbs in the slightest degree. His voice was soft and his smile was gentle. He had pleasant, regular features and an unusually white complexion – the complexion of someone who hardly ever ventured out of doors.

Mrs Winstanley (who rose and curtsied) wore a plain gown of blackberry-coloured silk with the merest edging of white lace. She had dark hair and dark eyes. Had she only smiled a little, she would have been extremely lovely.

Pewley Witts explained that Mr Brightwind refused to pay the toll.

"Oh no, Witts! No!" cried Mr Winstanley upon the instant. "These gentlemen need pay no toll. The sublimity of their conversation will be payment enough, I am certain." He turned to Tom and David. "Gentlemen! For reasons which I will explain to you in a moment I rarely go abroad. Truth to own I do not often leave this room and consequently my daily society is confined to men of inferior rank and education, such as Witts. I can scarcely express my pleasure at seeing you here!" He regarded David's dark, un-English face with mild interest. "Montefiore is an Italian name, I think. You are Italian, sir?"

"My father was born in Venice," said David, "but that city, sadly, has hardened its heart towards the Jews. My family is now settled in London. We hope in time to be English."

Mr Winstanley nodded gently. There was, after all, nothing in the world so natural as people wishing to be English. "You are welcome too, sir. I am glad to say that I am completely indifferent to a man's having a different religion from mine."

Mrs Winstanley leant over and murmured something in her husband's ear.

"No," answered Mr Winstanley softly, "I will not get dressed today."

"You are ill, sir?" asked David. "If there is any thing I can…"

Mr Winstanley laughed as if this were highly amusing. "No, no, physician! You cannot earn your fee quite as easily as that. You cannot persuade me that I feel unwell when I do not." He turned to Tom Brightwind with a smile. "The foreigner can never quite comprehend that there are more important considerations than money. He can never quite understand that there is a time to leave off doing business."

"I did not mean…" began David, colouring.

Mr Winstanley smiled and waved his hand to indicate that whatever David might have meant was of very little significance. "I am not offended in the least. I make allowances for you, Dottore." He leant back delicately against the cushions. "Gentlemen, I am a man who might achieve remarkable things. I have within me a capacity for greatness. But I am prevented from accomplishing even the least of my ambitions by the peculiar circumstances of this town. You have seen Thoresby. I dare say you are shocked at its wretched appearance and the astonishing idleness of the townspeople. Why, look at Witts! In other towns lawyers are respectable people. A lawyer in another town would not slaughter his own pig. A lawyer in another town would wear a velvet coat. His shirt would not be stained with gravy."

"Precisely," said Tom, looking with great disdain at the lawyer.

David was quite disgusted that any one should speak to his inferiors in so rude a manner and he looked at Witts to see how he bore with this treatment. But Witts only smiled and David could almost have fancied he was simple, had it not been for the malice in his eyes.

"And yet," continued Mr Winstanley, "I would not have you think that Witts is solely to blame for his slovenly appearance and lack of industry. Witts' life is blighted by Thoresby's difficulties, which are caused by what? Why, the lack of a bridge!"

Pewley Witts nudged Mr Winstanley with his elbow. "Tell them about Julius Caesar."

"Oh!" said Mrs Winstanley, looking up in alarm. "I do not think these gentlemen wish to be troubled with Julius Caesar. I dare say they heard enough of him in their schoolrooms."

"On the contrary, madam," said Tom, in accents of mild reproach, "I for one can never grow tired of hearing of that illustrious and courageous gentleman. Pray go on, sir." [7] Tom sat back, his head supported on his hand and his eyes fixed upon Mrs Winstanley's elegant form and sweet face.

"You should know, gentlemen," began Mr Winstanley, "that I have looked into the history of this town and it seems our difficulties began with the Romans – whom you may see represented in this room by Julius Caesar. His portrait hangs between the door and that pot of hyacinths. The Romans, as I dare say you know, built roads in England that were remarkable for both their excellence and their straightness. A Roman road passes very close to Thoresby. Indeed, had the Romans followed their own self-imposed principle of straightness, they ought by rights to have crossed the river here, at Thoresby. But they allowed themselves to be deterred. There was some problem – a certain marshyness of the land, I believe – and so they deviated from their course and crossed the river at Newark. At Newark they built a town with temples and markets and I do not know what else, while Thoresby remained a desolate marsh. This was the first of many occasions upon which Thoresby suffered for other people's moral failings."

"Lady Anne Lutterell," prompted Pewley Witts.

"Oh, Mr Winstanley!" said his wife, with a little forced laugh. "I must protest. Indeed I must. Mr Brightwind and Mr Montefiore do not wish to concern themselves with Lady Anne. I feel certain that they do not care for history at all."

"Oh! quite, madam!" said Tom. "What passes for history these days is extraordinary. Kings who are remembered more for their long dull speeches than for any thing they did upon the battlefield, governments full of fat old men with grey hair, all looking the same – who cares about such stuff? But if you are speaking of real history, true history – by which of course I mean the spirited description of heroic personages of ancient times – Why! there is nothing which delights me more!"

"Lady Anne Lutterell," said Mr Winstanley, taking no notice of either of them, "was a rich widow who lived at Ossington." (Mrs Winstanley looked down at her folded hands in her lap.) "There is a picture of her ladyship between that little writing table and the longcase clock. It was widely known that she intended to leave a large sum of money as an act of piety to build a bridge in this exact spot. The bridge was promised and in anticipation of this promise the town of Thoresby was built. But at the last moment she changed her mind and built a chantry instead. I dare say, Mr Montefiore, you will not know what that is. A chantry is a sort of chapel where priests say mass for the dead. Such – though I am ashamed to admit it – were the superstitious practices of our ancestors."

"Queen Elizabeth," said Pewley Witts, winking at David and Tom. It was becoming clear how he revenged himself for all the slights and insults which he received from Mr Winstanley. It seemed unlikely that Mr Winstanley would have made quite so many foolish speeches without Witts to encourage him.

"Queen Elizabeth indeed, Witts," said Mr Winstanley pleasantly.

"Queen Elizabeth!" cried Mrs Winstanley in alarm. "Oh! But she was a most disagreeable person! If we must talk of queens, there are several more respectable examples. What do you say to Matilda? Or Anne?"

Tom leant as closely as he conveniently could to Mrs Winstanley. His face shewed that he had a great many opinions upon Queen Matilda and Queen Anne which he wished to communicate to her immediately, but before he could begin, Mr Winstanley said, "You will find Elizabeth, Mr Brightwind, between the window and the looking-glass. In Elizabeth 's time the people of Thoresby earned their living by making playing-cards. But the Queen granted a Royal Patent for a monopoly for the manufacture of playing-cards to a young man. He had written a poem praising her beauty. She was, I believe, about sixty-five years old at the time. As a consequence no one in England was allowed to make playing-cards except for this young man. He became rich and the people of Thoresby became destitute."

Mr Winstanley continued his little history of people who might have built a bridge at Thoresby and had not done so, or who had injured the town in some other way. His wife tried to hide his foolishness as much as was in her power by protesting vigorously at the introduction of each fresh character, but he paid her not the slightest attention.

His special contempt was reserved for Oliver Cromwell whose picture hung in pride of place over the mantelpiece. Oliver Cromwell had contemplated fighting an important battle at Thoresby but had eventually decided against it, thereby denying Thoresby the distinction of being blown up and laid to waste by two opposing armies.

"But surely," said David at last, "your best course is to build the bridge yourself."

"Ah!" smiled Mr Winstanley. "You would think so, wouldn't you? And I have spoken to two gentlemen who are in the habit of lending money to other gentlemen for their enterprises. A Mr Blackwell of London and a Mr Crumfield of Bath. Mr Witts and I described to both men the benefits that would accrue to them were they to build my bridge, the quite extraordinary amounts of money they would make. But both ended by declining to lend me the money." Mr Winstanley glanced up at an empty space on the wall as if he would have liked to see it graced by portraits of Mr Blackwell and Mr Crumfield and so complete his museum of failure.

"But it was a very great sum," said Mrs Winstanley. "You do not tell Mr Brightwind and Mr Montefiore what a very great sum it was. I do not believe I ever heard such a large figure named in my life before."

"Bridges are expensive," agreed David.

Then Mrs Winstanley, who seemed to think that the subject of bridges had been exhausted among them, asked David several questions about himself. Where had he studied medicine? How many patients had he? Did he attend ladies as well as gentlemen? From speaking of professional matters David was soon led to talk of his domestic happiness – of his wife and four little children.

"And are you married, sir?" Mrs Winstanley asked Tom. "Oh no, madam!" said Tom.

"Yes," David reminded him. "You are, you know."

Tom made a motion with his hand to suggest that it was a situation susceptible to different interpretations.

The truth was that he had a Christian wife. At fifteen she had had a wicked little face, almond-shaped eyes and a most capricious nature. Tom had constantly compared her to a kitten. In her twenties she had been a swan; in her thirties a vixen; and then in rapid succession a bitch, a viper, a cockatrice and, finally, a pig. What animals he might have compared her to now no one knew. She was well past ninety now and for forty years or more she had been confined to a set of apartments in a distant part of the Castel des Tours saunz Nowmbre under strict instructions not to shew herself, while her husband waited impatiently for someone to come and tell him she was dead.

By now Tom and David had given the half hour to the Winstanleys which politeness demanded and David began to think of Mr Monkton in Lincoln and of his anxiousness to reach him. But Mr Winstanley could not quite bring himself to accept that his two new friends were about to leave him and he made several speeches urging them to stay for a week or two. It was left to Mrs Winstanley to bid them farewell in a more rational manner.

They were not, however, able to leave immediately. There was some delay about fetching the horses and while they were waiting in the yard Lucy came out and looked nervously from one to the other. "If you please, sir, Mrs Winstanley wishes to speak to you privately!"

"Ah ha!" said Tom, as if he half-expected such a summons.

"No, sir! Not you, sir!" Lucy curtsied her apologies. "It is the Jewish doctor that is wanted."

Mrs Winstanley was waiting in her bed-chamber. The room was large, but somewhat sparsely furnished. It contained nothing but a chair, a chest and a large four-poster bed with green brocade hangings. Mrs Winstanley stood by the bed. Everything about her – rigid bearing, strained look, the way in which she continually twisted her hands together – betrayed the greatest uneasiness.

She apologised for troubling him.

"It is no trouble," said David, "not the least in the world. There is something you wish to ask me?"

She looked down. "Mr Winstanley and I have been married for four years, but as yet we have no children."

"Oh!" He thought for a moment. "And there is no dislike upon either side to the conjugal act?"

"No." Mrs Winstanley sighed. "No. That is one duty at least that my husband does not shirk."

So David asked all the usual questions that a physician generally asks in such a situation and she answered without any false shame.

"There is nothing wrong as far as I can see," David told her. "There is no reason why you should not bear a child. Be in good health, Mrs Winstanley. That is my advice to you. Be cheerful and then…"

"Oh! But I had hoped that…" she hesitated. "I had hoped that, as a foreign gentleman, you might know something our English doctors do not. I am not the least afraid of any thing you might suggest. I can bear any pain for the sake of a child. It is all I ever think of. Lucy thinks that I ought to eat carrots and parsnips that have odd shapes, and that I ought to persuade Mr Winstanley to eat them too."

"Why?"

"Because they look like little people."

"Oh! Yes, of course. I see. Well, I suppose it can do no harm."

David took as affectionate a leave of Mrs Winstanley as was consistent with so brief an acquaintance. He pressed her hand warmly and told her how sincerely he hoped she might soon have everything she wished for. He was sure that no one could deserve it more.

Tom was seated upon his horse. David's horse stood at his side. "Well?" said Tom. "What did she want?"

"It is a lack of children," said David.

"What is?"

"That afflicts the lady. The reason she never smiles."

"Children are a great nuisance," said Tom, reverting immediately to his own concerns.

"To you, perhaps. But a human woman feels differently. Children are our posterity. Besides, all women, fairy, Christian or Jew, crave a proper object to love. And I do not think she can love her husband."

David was in the act of mounting his horse as he said this, an operation which invariably cost him a little trouble. He was somewhat surprized, on arriving upon the horse's back, to discover that Tom was nowhere to be seen.

"Now wherever has he gone?" he wondered. "Well, if he expects me to wait for him, he will be disappointed! I have told him half a dozen times today that I must go to Lincoln!"

David set off in the direction of Lincoln, but just as he reached the end of the town he heard a sound behind him and he looked round, expecting to see Tom.

It was Pewley Witts mounted on a horse which seemed to have been chosen for its great resemblance to himself in point of gauntness, paleness and ugliness. "Mr Montefiore!" he said. "Mr Winstanley is most anxious that you and Mr Brightwind should see his property and he has appointed me your guide. I have just spoken to Mr Brightwind, but he has something important to do in Thoresby and cannot spare the time. He says that you will go for both!"

"Oh, does he indeed?" said David.

Pewley Witts smiled confidentially. "Mr Winstanley thinks that you will build his bridge for him!"

"Why in the world should he think that?"

"Come, come! What sort of fools do you take us for in Thoresby? An English lord and a Jew travelling about the country together! Two of the richest devils in all creation! What can you be doing, but seeking opportunities to lengthen your long purses?"

"Well, I fear you will be disappointed. He is not an English lord and I am the wrong sort of Jew. And I am not travelling about the country, as you put it. I am going to Lincoln."

"As you wish. But it so happens that Mr Winstanley's property lies on either side of the Lincoln road. You cannot help but see it, if you go that way." He grinned and said helpfully, "I will come with you and point out the places of interest."

In Mr Winstanley's fields the weeds stood as thick as the corn. A number of thin, sad-looking men, women and children were scaring the birds away.

"Poor wretches!" thought David. "They do indeed suffer for other people's moral failings. How I wish that I could persuade Tom to build the bridge for their sakes! But what hope is there of that? I cannot even persuade him into loving his own children."

While David indulged these gloomy reflections, Pewley Witts named the yields of Mr Winstanley's lands (so many bushels per acre) and described how those yields would be doubled and tripled should Mr Winstanley ever trouble to drain his waterlogged fields or enrich his soil with manure.

A little further on Pewley Witts pointed out some grassy hillocks beneath which, he said, was a thick layer of clay. He described how Mr Winstanley could, if he wished, establish a manufactory to make pots and vases out of the clay.

"I believe," said Pewley Witts, "that earthenware pots and vases are quite the thing nowadays and that some gentlemen make a great deal of money from their manufacture."

"Yes," said David with a sigh, "I have heard that."

In another place they looked at a thin wood of birch trees on a windblown, sunny hillside. Pewley Witts said that there was a rich seam of coal beneath the wood, and Mr Winstanley could, if he felt at all inclined to it, mine the coal and sell it in Nottingham or London.

"Answer me this then!" cried David in exasperation. "Why does he not do these things? Sell the coal! Make the pots! Grow more corn! Why does he do nothing?"

"Oh!" said Pewley Witts with his malicious smile. "I have advised him against it. I have advised him that until the bridge is built he ought not to attempt any thing. For how would he carry the corn or pots or coal to the people who wanted them? He would lose half his profit to carriers and barge-owners."

The more David saw of Mr Winstanley's neglected lands, the more he began to doubt the propriety of going to Lincoln.

"After all," he thought, "Mr Monkton already has two doctors to attend him – not counting the Irish wizard. Whereas the poor souls of Thoresby have no one at all to be their friend. Do I not perhaps have a superior duty to stay and help them if I can by convincing Tom to build the bridge? But what in the world could I say to make him do it?"

To this last question he had no answer just at present, but in the meantime: "Mr Witts!" he cried. 'We must go back. I too have something important to do in Thoresby!"

As soon as they arrived at Mickelgrave House David jumped off his horse and set about looking for Tom. He was walking down one of the empty stone passageways, when he happened to notice, through an open door, Mrs Winstanley and Lucy in the garden. They appeared to be in a state of some excitement and were exclaiming to each other in tones of amazement. David, wondering what in the world the matter could be, went out into the garden, and arrived there just as Lucy was climbing up upon a stone bench in order to look over the wall.

"It has reached Mr Witts' house!" she said.

"What is it? What is wrong?" cried David.

"We have just had a visit from three little boys!" said Mrs Winstanley, in a wondering tone.

"They were singing," said Lucy.

"Oh! Boys like to sing," said David. "My own two little sons – Ishmael and Jonah – know a comic song about a milkmaid and a cow which…"

"Yes, I dare say," interrupted Mrs Winstanley. "But this was quite different! These boys had wings growing out of their backs. They were sailing through the air in a tiny gilded ship rigged with silken ribbons and they were casting out rose petals on either hand."

David climbed up beside Lucy and looked over the wall. Far off in a bright blue sky, a small golden ship was just sailing out of sight behind the church tower. David made out three little figures with lutes in their hands; their heads were thrown back in song.

"What were they singing?" he asked.

"I do not know," said Mrs Winstanley, in perplexity. "It was in a language I did not know. Italian I think."

In the drawing-room the curtains had been pulled across the windows to shut out the golden light of early evening. Mr Winstanley was lying upon the sopha, with his hand thrown across his eyes.

"Mr Winstanley!" cried his wife. "The most extraordinary thing…"

Mr Winstanley opened his eyes and smiled to see David before him. "Ah! Mr Montefiore!" he said.

"Lucy and I were in the garden when…"

"My love," said Mr Winstanley in tones of mild reproach, "I am trying to speak to Mr Montefiore." He smiled at David. "And how did you enjoy your ride? I confess that I think our surroundings not unattractive. Witts said he believed you were mightily entertained."

"It was most… enlightening. Where is Mr Brightwind?"

The door was suddenly flung open and Tom walked in.

"Mr Winstanley," he said, "I have decided to build your bridge!"

Tom was always fond of amazing a roomful of people and of having everyone stare at him in speechless wonder, and upon this particular occasion he must have been peculiarly gratified.

Then Mr Winstanley began to speak his joy and his gratitude. "I have looked into the matter," he said, "or rather Mr Witts has done it on my account – and I believe that you can expect a return on your investment of so many per cent – that is to say, Mr Witts can tell you all about it…" He began to leaf rapidly through some papers which David was quite certain he had never looked at before.

"You may spare yourself the trouble," said Tom. "I have no thought of any reward. Mr Montefiore has been lecturing me today upon the necessity of providing useful employment for one's children and it occurs to me, Mr Winstanley, that unless this bridge is built your descendants will have nothing to do. They will be idle. They will never achieve that greatness of spirit, that decisiveness of action which ought to have been theirs."

"Oh, Indeed! Quite so!" said Mr Winstanley. "Then all that remains is to draw up plans for the bridge. I have made sketches of my ideas. I have them somewhere in this room. Witts estimates that two years should be enough to complete the work – perhaps less!"

"Oh!" said Tom. "I have no patience for a long undertaking. I shall build the bridge tonight between midnight and sunrise. I have just one condition." He held up a long finger. "One. Mr Winstanley, you and all your servants, and Mr Montefiore too, must go and stand upon the riverbank tonight and witness the building of my bridge."

Mr Winstanley eagerly assured him that not only he and Mrs Winstanley and all their servants would be there, but the entire population of the town.

As soon as Mr Winstanley had stopped talking, David took the opportunity to tell Tom of how glad he was that Tom was going to build the bridge, but Tom (who was generally very fond of being thanked for things) did not seem greatly interested. He left the room almost immediately, pausing only to speak to Mrs Winstanley. David heard him say in a low voice, "I hope, madam, that you liked the Italian music!"

As David was now obliged to stay in Thoresby until the following morning, Mr Winstanley sent one of his servants to Lincoln to tell Mr Monkton that Mr Montefiore was on his way and would be at his house the next day.

Just before midnight the people of Thoresby gathered at The Wheel of Fortune. In honour of the occasion Mr Winstanley had got dressed. Oddly enough he was somehow less impressive in his clothes. The air of tragedy and romance which he commonly possessed, seemed to have disappeared entirely when he put his coat and breeches on. He stood upon a three-legged stool and told the wretched, ragged crowd how grateful they should be to the great, good and generous gentleman who was going to build them a bridge. This gentleman, said Mr Winstanley, would soon appear among them to receive their thanks.

But Tom did not appear. Nor was Mrs Winstanley present, which made her husband very angry and so he sent Lucy back to Mickelgrave House to fetch her.

Mr Winstanley said to David, "I am greatly intrigued by Mr Brightwind's proposal of building the bridge in one night. Is it to be an iron bridge, I wonder? I believe that someone has recently built an iron bridge in Shropshire. Quite astonishing. Perhaps an iron bridge can be erected very quickly. Or a wooden bridge? There is a wooden bridge at Cambridge…"

Just then Lucy appeared, white-faced and frightened.

"Oh, there you are!" said Mr Winstanley. "Where is your mistress?"

"What is the matter, Lucy?" asked David. "What in the world has happened to you?"

"Oh, sir!" cried Lucy. "I ran up the high street to find my mistress, but when I reached the gate of the house two lions came out and roared at me!"

"Lions?" said David.

"Yes, sir! They were running about beneath my feet and snapping at me with their sharp teeth. I thought that if they did not bite me to death they were sure to trip me up!"

"What nonsense this is!" cried Mr Winstanley. "There are no lions in Thoresby. If your mistress chuses to absent herself from tonight's proceedings then that is her concern. Though frankly I am not at all pleased at her behaviour. This is, after all, probably the most important event in Thoresby's history." He walked off.

"Lucy, how big were these lions?" asked David.

"A little larger than a spaniel, I suppose."

"Well, that is most odd. Lions are generally larger than that. Are you quite sure…"

"Oh! What does it matter what size the horrible creatures had grown to?" cried Lucy impatiently. "They had teeth enough and snarls enough for animals thrice the size! And so, Lord forgive me! I was frightened and I ran away! And supposing my poor mistress should come out of the house and the lions jump up at her! Supposing she does not see them in the dark until it is too late!" She began to cry.

"Hush, child," said David. "Do not fret. I will go and find your mistress."

"But it was not just the lions," said Lucy. "The whole town is peculiar. There are flowers everywhere and all the birds are singing."

David went out of the inn by the front door and immediately struck his head against something. It was a branch. There was a tree which stood next to The Wheel of Fortune. In the morning it had been of a reasonable size, but it had suddenly grown so large that most of the inn was hidden from sight.

"That's odd!" thought David.

The tree was heavy with apples.

"Apples in June," thought David. "That's odder still!"

He looked again.

"Apples on a horse-chestnut tree! That's oddest of all!"

In the moonlight David saw that Thoresby had become very peculiar indeed. Figs nestled among the leaves of beech-trees. Elder-trees were bowed down with pomegranates. Ivy was almost torn from walls by the weight of ripe blackberries growing upon it. Any thing which had ever possessed any sort of life had sprung into fruitfulness. Ancient, dried-up window frames had become swollen with sap and were putting out twigs, leaves, blossoms and fruit. Door-frames and doors were so distorted that bricks had been pushed out of place and some houses were in danger of collapsing altogether. The cart in the middle of the high street was a grove of silver birches. Its broken wheels put forth briar roses and nightingales sang on it.

"What in the world is Tom doing?" wondered David.

He reached Mickelgrave House and two very small lions trotted out of the gate. In the moonlight they looked more stony than ever.

"I assume," thought David, "that, as these lions are of Tom's creating, they will not harm me."

The lions opened their mouths and a rather horrible sound issued forth – not unlike blocks of marble being rent in pieces. David took a step or two towards the house. Both lions leapt at him, snarling and snapping and snatching at the air with their stone claws.

David turned and ran. As he reached The Wheel of Fortune he heard the clock strike midnight.

Eighty miles away in Cambridge an undergraduate awoke from a dream. The undergraduate (whose name was Henry Cornelius) tried to go back to sleep again, but discovered that the dream (which was of a bridge) had somehow got lodged in his head. He got out of bed, lit his candle, and sat down at a table. He tried to draw the bridge, but he could not get it exactly (though he knew he had seen it somewhere quite recently).

So he put on his breeches, boots and coat and went out into the night to think. He had not gone far when he saw a very odd sight. Edward Jackson, the bookseller, was standing in the doorway of his shop in his nightgown. There was no respectable grey wig on his head, but only a greasy old nightcap. He held a quarto volume in one hand and a brass candlestick in the other.

"Here!" he said the moment he clapped eyes upon Henry Cornelius. "This is what you are looking for!" And he pushed the book into Cornelius's hands. Cornelius was surprized because he owed Jackson money and Jackson had sworn never to let him have another book.

The moon was so bright that Cornelius was able very easily to begin examining his book. After a while he glanced up and found he was looking into the stable-yard of an inn. There, in a shaft of moonlight, was Jupiter, the handsomest and fastest horse in Cambridge. Jupiter was saddled and ready, and seemed to wait patiently for someone. So, without giving any further consideration to the matter, Cornelius got upon his back. Jupiter galloped away.

Cornelius sat calmly turning the pages of his book. Indeed so absorbed was he in what he found there, that he did not pay a great deal of attention to the journey. Once he looked down and saw complicated patterns of silver and blue etched on the dark ground. At first he supposed them to be made by the frost, but then it occurred to him that the month was June and the air was warm. Besides the patterns more resembled moonlit fields and farms and woods and lanes seen from very high up and very far away. But, whatever the truth of it, it did not seem to be of any great importance and so he continued to examine his book. Jupiter sped on beneath the moon and the stars and his hooves made no sound whatsoever.

"Oh! Here it is," said Cornelius once.

And then, "I see."

And a little later, "But it will take a great deal of stone!"

A few minutes later Cornelius and Jupiter stood upon the riverbank opposite Thoresby.

"So!" said Cornelius softly. "Just as I supposed! It is not built yet.

The scene before Cornelius was one of the most frantic industry imaginable. Massive timbers and blocks of stones lay strewn about on the bank and teams of horses were bringing more every minute. There were workmen everywhere one looked. Some drove or pulled the horses. Others shouted orders. Yet more brought lights and stuck them in the trees. What was very extraordinary about these men was that they were dressed in the oddest assortment of nightgowns, coats, breeches, nightcaps and hats. One fellow had been in such a hurry to get to Thoresby that he had put his wife's gown and bonnet on, but he hitched up his skirts and carried on regardless.

Amidst all this activity two men were standing still, deep in conversation. "Are you the architect?" cried one of them, striding up to Cornelius. "My name is John Alfreton, master mason of Nottingham. This is Mr Wakeley, a very famous engineer. We have been waiting for you to come and tell us what we are to build."

"I have it here," said Cornelius, shewing them the book (which was Giambattista Piranesi's Carceri d'Invenzione).

"Oh! It's a prison, is it?"

"No, it is only the bridge that is needed," said Cornelius, pointing to a massive bridge lodged within a dreary prison. He looked up and suddenly caught sight of an eerie, silent crowd on the opposite bank. "Who are all those people?" he asked.

Mr Alfreton shrugged. "Whenever industrious folk have work to do, idle folk are sure to gather round to watch them. You will find it best, sir, to pay them no attention."

By one o'clock a huge mass of wooden scaffolding filled the river. The scaffolding was stuffed full of torches, lanterns and candles and cast a strange, flickering light over the houses of Thoresby and the watching crowd. It was as if a firefly the size of St Paul 's cathedral had sat down next to the town.

By two o'clock Henry Cornelius was in despair. The river was not deep enough to accommodate Piranesi's bridge. He could not build as high as he wished. But Mr Alfreton, the master mason, was unconcerned. "Do not vex yourself, sir," he said. "Mr Wakeley is going to make some adjustments."

Mr Wakeley stood a few paces off. His wig was pushed over to one side so that he might more conveniently scratch his head and he scribbled frantically in a little pocket book.

"Mr Wakeley has a great many ideas as to how we shall accomplish it," continued Alfreton. "Mr Wakeley has built famous navigations and viaducts in the north. He has a most extraordinary talent. He is not a very talkative gentleman but he admits that he is pleased with our progress. Oh! It shall soon be done!"

By four o'clock the bridge was built. Two massive semicircular arches spanned the river. Each arch was edged with great rough-hewn blocks of stone. The effect was classical, Italianate, monumental. It would have been striking in London; in Thoresby it dominated everything. It seemed unlikely that any one would ever look at the town again; henceforth all that people would see was the bridge. Between the arches was a stone tablet with the following inscription in very large letters:

THOMAS BRIGHTWIND ME FECIT

ANNO DOMINI MDCCLXXX [8]

David had spent the night inquiring of the townspeople if any of them knew where Tom had got to. As soon as the bridge was built he crossed over and put the same question to the workmen. But an odd change had come over them. They were more than half asleep and David could get no sense out of any of them. One man sighed and murmured sleepily, "Mary, the baby is crying." Another, a fashionably dressed young man, lifted his drooping head and said, "Pass the port, Davenfield. There's a good fellow." And a third in a battered grey wig would only mutter mathematical equations and recite the lengths and heights of various bridges and viaducts in the neighbourhood of Manchester.

As the first strong golden rays of the new day struck the river and turned the water all to silver, David looked up and saw Tom striding across the bridge. His hands were stuffed into his breeches pockets and he was looking about him with a self-satisfied air. "She is very fine, my bridge, is she not?" he said. "Though I was thinking that perhaps I ought to add a sort of sculpture in alto rilievo shewing God sending zephyrs and cherubim and manticores and unicorns and lions and hypogriffs to destroy my enemies. What is your opinion?"

"No," said David, "the bridge is perfect. It wants no further embellishment. You have done a good thing for these people."

"Have I?" asked Tom, not much interested. "To own the truth, I have been thinking about what you said yesterday. My children are certainly all very foolish and most of them are good-for-nothing, but perhaps in future it would be gracious of me to provide them with responsibilities, useful occupation, etc., etc. Who knows? Perhaps they will derive some advantage from it." [9]

"It would be very gracious," said David, taking Tom's hand and kissing it. "And entirely like you. When you are ready to begin educating your sons and daughters upon this new model, let you and I sit down together and discuss what might be done."

"Oh!" said Tom. "But I have begun already!"

On returning to Thoresby to fetch their horses, they learnt that Mr Winstanley's servant had returned from Lincoln with the news that Mr Monkton had died in the night. ("There, you see," said Tom airily, "I told you he was ill.") The servant also reported that the English apothecary, the Scottish physician and the Irish wizard had not permitted Mr Monkton's dying to interfere with a very pleasant day spent chatting, playing cards and drinking sherry-wine together in a corner of the parlour.

"Anyway," said Tom, regarding David's disappointed countenance, "what do you say to some breakfast?"

The fairy and the Jew got on their horses and rode across the bridge. Rather to David's surprize they immediately found themselves in a long, sunlit piazza full of fashionably dressed people taking the morning air and greeting each other in Italian. Houses and churches with elegant facades surrounded them. Fountains with statues representing Neptune and other allegorical persons cast bright plumes of water into marble basins. Roses tumbled delightfully out of stone urns and there was a delicious smell of coffee and freshly baked bread. But what was truly remarkable was the light, as bright as crystal and as warm as honey.

" Rome! The Piazza Navona!" cried David, delighted to find himself in his native Italy. He looked back across the bridge to Thoresby and England. It was as if a very dirty piece of glass had been interposed between one place and the other. "But will that happen to everyone who crosses the bridge?" he asked.

Tom said something in Sidhe, [10] a language David did not know. However the extravagant shrug which accompanied the remark suggested that it might be roughly translated as "Who cares?"

After several years of pleading and arguing on David's part Tom agreed to forgive Igraine for getting married and her three sisters for concealing the fact. Igraine and Mr Cartwright were given a house in Camden Place in Bath and a pension to live on. Two of Igraine's sisters, the Princesses Nimue and Elaine, returned to the Castel des Tours saunz Nowmbre. Unfortunately something had happened to Princess Morgana in the nasty house in the dark, damp wood and she was never seen again. Try as he might David was entirely unable to interest any one in her fate. Tom could not have been more bored by the subject and Nimue and Elaine, who were anxious not to offend their grandfather again, thought it wisest to forget that they had ever had a sister of that name.

The fairy bridge at Thoresby did not, in and of itself, bring prosperity to the town, for Mr Winstanley still neglected to do any thing that might have made money for himself or the townspeople. However two years after Tom and David's visit, Mr Winstanley was shewing the bridge to some visitors when, very mysteriously, part of the parapet was seen to move and Mr Winstanley fell into the river and drowned. His lands, clay and coal all became the possessions of his baby son, Lucius. Under the energetic direction first of Mrs Winstanley and later of Lucius himself the lands were improved, the clay was dug up, and the coal was mined. Pewley Witts had the handling of a great deal of the business which went forward and grew very rich. Unfortunately this did not suit him. The dull satisfaction of being rich himself was nothing to the vivid pleasure he had drawn from contemplating the misery and degradation of his friends and neighbours.

And so nothing remains but to make a few observations upon the character of Lucius Winstanley. I dare say the reader will not be particularly surprized to learn that he was a most unusual person, quite extraordinarily handsome and possessed of a highly peculiar temper. He behaved more like Thoresby's king than its chief landowner and ruled over the townspeople with a mixture of unreliable charm, exhausting capriciousness and absolute tyranny which would have been entirely familiar to any one at all acquainted with Tom Brightwind.

He had besides some quite remarkable talents. In the journal of a clergyman we find an entry for the summer of 1806. It describes how he and his companion arrived at Thoresby Bridge (as the town was now called) on horseback and found the town so still, so eerily silent that they could only suppose that every creature in the place must be either dead or gone away. In the yard of The New Bridge Inn the clergyman found an ostler and asked him why the town was as quiet as any tomb.

"Oh!" said the ostler. "Speak more softly if you please sir. Lucius Winstanley, a very noble and learned gentleman – you may see his house just yonder – was drunk last night and has a head ach. On mornings after he has been drinking he forbids the birds to sing, the horses to bray and the dogs to bark. The pigs must eat quietly. The wind must take care not to rustle the leaves and the river must flow smoothly in its bed and not make a sound."

The English clergyman noted in his journal, "… the entire town seems possessed of the same strange mania. All the inhabitants go in awe of Mr Lucius Winstanley. They believe he can work wonders and does so almost every hour." [11]

But though the people of Thoresby Bridge were proud of Lucius, he made them uncomfortable. Around the middle of the nineteenth century they were forced to admit to themselves that there was something a little odd about him; although forty or so years had passed since his thirtieth birthday he did not appear to have aged a single day. As for Lucius himself it was inevitable that he should eventually get bored of Thoresby even if he did enliven it for himself by having great ladies fall in love with him, changing the weather to suit his moods and – as once he did -making all the cats and dogs talk perfect English while the townspeople could only mew and bark at each other.

On a spring morning in 1852 Lucius got on his horse, rode on to his father's bridge and was never seen again.