Complicated Allies: Some Closing Remarks

When I chose four months ago to spend the semester studying fairies, I received mixed reactions from those I told. Some agreed that if I had to do a term project, this was the way to go, and others could not imagine how I intended to occupy myself for weeks in pursuit of a subject that does not exist. To the latter, I can say proudly that there has been no shortage of material.

I have discovered, you see, that fairies do exist. Not in the way that I exist, or this computer, but in the way that a story exists even if its book is burned. Perhaps they are more like to hope and faith than to actual creatures, but are they the less powerful for that?

I chose fairies as the central theme of my supernatural study because they appealed to that residual wonder left over from a childhood when I would wrap myself in gauzy scarves and become a fairy myself for several hours at a time, but I have spent enough time in fantasy literature that I did not expect my study to deal with flitting folk with baby faces. However, even I was a bit taken aback to find myself sorting through books of witchcraft to find a recommended resource. Early modern fairies were made for grown-ups. They were devious, self-centered, and sinister, and though there was a draw in the element of creepiness, there was also a kind of disappointment. These scheming creatures were not the granters of childhood wishes. I called them relatable because they were the most humanoid of supernatural beings, but they represented those characterics of humanity most hope with the supernatural to escape.

At the beginning of this project, I found so much material emphasizing the break from medieval to Victorian fairies that the contrast made the former appear veritable villains. In time, however, I realized that this was not the case. The fairies popular into the early modern period grew out of the Dark Ages, but it was the age, not the creature, that was dark. If fairies could not be trusted, it was because they were wild, the original free spirits. They enjoyed the same luxuries as humans without the guilt imposed by the Church and other social restrictions, innocent hedonists.

And, as many rebels through the ages, fairies were champions of the misfits and downtrodden of society. One point recurring throughout my research was their closeness to the female world. The fairy culture was driven by feminine power and pursuits, offering a sense of purpose to women whose labors were scorned in the male-centered early modern world. Even queens of the supernatural realm were interested in human children and midwives, and hobgoblins were always willing to help poor maids with the housework. Fairies were also allies of the impoverished. Certain stories show them giving gold and marketable items to poor men trying to support families, with no suggestion of payment in return.

If fairies were frightening, it was because they were powerful and untethered; they had no need to conform to societal norms. But what made them frightening also welcomed them to those in need of their support - of what use is a weak ally? Primary source studies revealed an overall positive idea toward fairies in the early modern period. They were fascinating and helpful, and if many would not precisely admit to believing in them, no one was eager to see them leave.

I like to think that I have remained a friend of the fairies, if not a fool for them, throughout the duration of this project. I have tried to reflect in these entries some of their multidimensionality, that trait which makes them more humanesque and relatable than almost any other supernatural creature. They are needy, selfish, and conniving, but they are also lovers of life, good to those who need good, and bringers of wealth and healing. They appeal to that nonconformist part of human nature which believes that happiness should be enjoyed and good should be rewarded. Above all, they are a taste of something more in a world of sameness, and that is healing enough to many.


Bibliography:

1. Ashliman, D.L. Fairy Lore: A Handbook. Westwood, CT: Greenwood Publishing Group, Inc., 2006.

2. "Avalon." Wikipedia: The Free Encyclopedia. 9 December 2008. 16 November 2008 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Avalon.

3. Howard, Skiles and Gail Kern Paster, eds. "Natural and Supernatural - Fairy Belief." A Midsummer Night's Dream: Texts and Contexts. Boston: Bedford/St. Martin's, 1999. 307-324.

4. "Morgan Le Fay." Arthurian Legend. Patrick Taylor, 2004-2007. 19 November 2008 http://www.arthurian-legend.com/more-about/more-about-arthur-8.php.

5. "Morgan le Fay." Wikipedia: The Free Encyclopedia. 5 December 2008. 19 November 2008 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Morgan_Le_Fay.

6. "Pan (mythology)." Wikipedia: The Free Encyclopedia. 10 December 2008. 2 December 2008 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pan_(mythology).

7. Purkiss, Diane. At the Bottom of the Garden: A Dark History of Fairies, Hobgoblins, and Other Troublesome Things. Washington Square, NY: New York University Press, 2000.

8. "Robin Goodfellow." Answers.com. 2008. 2 December 2008 http://www.answers.com/topic/robin-goodfellow.

9. "Satyr." Wikipedia: The Free Encyclopedia. 4 December 2008. 2 December 2008 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Satyr.


Other recommended resources:

1. Briggs, K.M.. The Fairies In English Tradition and Literature. London: The University of Chicago Press, 1967.

2. Wilby, Emma. "The Witch's Familiar and the Fairy in Early Modern England and Scotland." BNET. October 2000. 12 December 2008 http://findarticles.com/p/articles/mi_m2386/is_2_111/ai_69202448.


Primary sources:
(in order of entry)

1. The Tempest. William Shakespeare. Dir. Kenneth Kay. Blowing Rock Stage Company, 2008.

2. Corbett, Richard. "A Proper New Ballad Entitled The Fairies Farewell: Or God-A-Mercy Will." 1620. A Midsummer Night's Dream: Texts and Contexts. Howard, Skiles and Gail Kern Paster, eds. Boston: Bedford/St. Martin's, 1999. 314-316.

3. Aubrey, John. From The Remains of Gentilism and Judaism and The Wiltshire Fairies. 1688, 1686. A Midsummer Night's Dream: Texts and Contexts. Howard, Skiles and Gail Kern Paster, eds. Boston: Bedford/St. Martin's, 1999. 310-313.

4. From Robin Goodfellow, His Mad Pranckes and Merry Jests. 1639. "Folklore." Shakespeare's Life and Times. Internet Shakespeare Editions, University of Victoria: Victoria, BC, 2001-2005. 2 December 2008 http://internetshakespeare.uvic.ca/Library/SLT/ideas/folklore.html.

5. Pitt, Moses. An account of one Ann Jefferies, now living in the county of Cornwall... 1696. Early English Books Online. Appalachian State University Library. 3 December 2008 http://eebo.chadwyck.com/search/full_rec?SOURCE=pgthumbs.cfg&ACTION=ByID&ID=11878742&FILE=../session/1228949127_5635&SEARCHSCREEN=CITATIONS&SEARCHCONFIG=var_spell.cfg&DISPLAY=AUTHOR.

The Wonderful Cures of One Ann Jefferies

So far I have covered the ideas of a literary genius, a nostalgic poet, an open-minded skeptic, and a propagandist. As I am nearing the end of this discussion, I would like to take the opportunity to explore the writing of one enthusiastic believer, a man I expect would clap his hands for Tinker Bell to this day. His name is Moses Pitt, and his story is An Account of One Ann Jefferies (1696), the tale of a woman of his household and her supposed communion with the fairies.

Pitt's account is unique compared to most of those I have read about in my research. Rather than condemn Ann as a witch, he supports her and encourages readers to do the same. In his four page introduction to the Reverend Dr. Edward Fowler, he emphasizes repeatedly the truthfulness of his incredible tale as well as his assurance that Ann's circumstances are proof of the wonderful works of God. He admonishes the reverend that though he will be tempted not to believe, it is through unbelief sin first crept into the world. For a moment, we may forget that fairies, not Christ, are the subject at hand.

All assertions aside, Pitt's credibility is questionable. His account, like Aubrey's, is based on the recollections of childhood. Ann was an apprentice to his wealthier family when he was young, and though she still lives, seventy years old, at the time of his writing, she will not aid him in the popularizing of her tale. (She does not wish to deal a second time with public opinion.) Further, all but one of the citizens who may have remembered her circumstances have since died. In short, the story belongs entirely to Moses Pitt.

He describes Ann as a bold girl who "would venture at those Difficulties and Dangers that no Boy would attempt." Yet she is also of a devoted nature, attending church during her ordeals as often as she has the strength. When she is nineteen years old, she is visited by six short-statured fairies wearing green. The details of this first encounter catch my interest. Again reminiscent of Aubrey's story, these are of the shrunken new breed of fae kind, but they wear the traditional green, a recurring detail in many accounts and probably significant of innate wildness. Also, Ann's visitors do not spring upon her within a human house, but while she is sewing in the garden. Perhaps it is her tomboyish streak, the not-quite-tame in her, that makes her a likely candidate for fairy visitors. The timing may not be random either. Ann is an unmarried woman on the verge of adulthood (she could leave her master's home at twenty-one), so the fairies' visit comes across even as a coming-of-age story.

Ann initially reacts with a convulsive fit. She then continues for weeks to have fits and physical sickness so great she cannot walk, and to cry out periodically of figures passing through her window. Pitt describes her as becoming "even as a Changeling." It is the sacrifice of a saint. For shortly thereafter, she begins to exhibit mysterious prescience and healing powers. The first instance of this occurs when Pitt's mother forces Ann to stay outside while she is away in order to keep her from falling into the fire or otherwise hurting herself in her distressed state. While she it out, the woman trips and hurts her foot, which the fairies inform Ann is because she forced her to do something against her will. Ann bears no grudge. Without the aid of salve or ointment, she heals the woman. The word spreads, and others begin to seek her out as if she were an apostle. During this period, she takes no food with others, but is fed by the fairies in her own room.

We have already seen that healing powers are a common theme in fairy stories. Ann's tale is distinct from that of most other English healers in that she seeks no material gain. She does not charge for her services, yet always has enough on which to get by.

Unfortunately, generosity is not enough. As Ann's popularity increases, word reaches nearby ministers, who visit her in order to persuade her that her consorts are demons. Ann, wishing no evil, is torn. Twice she ignores the call of her fairies (unheard by any but herself), but at the third cry she runs to them. Soon after they warn her that she will be arrested, and that she must not fear. Sure enough, when her jailers order her food withheld from her, she continues to thrive on the fairies' sustenance. She remains in jail for some time but is never brought to trail, and is eventually discharged on the condition that she not return to her former household. She moves in with Pitt's widowed aunt, continues to perform her strange cures, and eventually marries and lives to a ripe old age.

Pitt asserts that he has gives no personal reflection on any passage, but leaves the events to speak for themselves. In the opening letter, however, he makes it very clear what he thinks of Ann's gifts. His argument is legitimate: why would the devil heal? If her powers are real, they are good, and Pitt does not doubt the former. He cannot admit to ever having witnessed the fairies himself, but others have, and the powers are there, and that is enough for him. He is eager to swallow it all. Of course, we cannot discount the element of the propagandist here either. Pitt shows no concern for the fact that Ann does not want her story shared, and he uses the tale in much the same way that others use monstrous baby pamphlets, as a religious admonition.

The difference in this is that Ann's story really does appear "wonderful." Her works are kind and her motives are pure. She visits the chapel as well as the fairies. This has all the feel of a saint-making with none of the stuffiness. Her green-clad fairies are unseen and untamed, dancing with her outside, sending her into fits by their very presence, yet they are also healers and protectors. They feed her and help others by her hand. They are not safe, but they are good.

As an aside, this may be my favorite account I have read so far. It has everything a good story needs: danger, disease, an unconventional heroine, and rewarded goodness, all pulled together by the unifying spice of magic to make sense of something so strange as a happy ending.

Aspects of Robin Goodfellow

The picture above, taken from the title page of a pamphlet entitled Robin Good-fellow, His Mad Prankes and Merry Jests (1639), is one of the only early modern woodcuts that I have found pertaining to fairies, and it is everywhere. Where Puck is mentioned, at least in earlier contexts, it is bound to show up. However, it is not only for its popularity, but for its portrayal of early modern fairies' characteristics, that I find this piece worthy of closer inspection.

I do not think I have to belabor the proof that what we have here is a very pre-Victorian rendition of the fairy. Robin is not small, he is not winged, and he is certainly not childlike. He is large and imposing, towering over the tiny figures that dance around him. His goat-like horns, ears, and hindquarters suggest a number of other references. One is Pan, the Greek god of fields and groves, connected with fertility and the season of spring. Another is the Greek satyr. Satyrs have fierce physical appetites and are traditionally associated with male sexuality. As the figure shown here, the satyr is often portrayed in Greek vase art with an erect penis. Lastly, the cloven-hoofed motif is reminiscent of one common view of Satan. These combined associations give Robin an image of earthy power. He is intimately connected with the natural world without being restrained by it. His expression is appropriately merry, but he is a force to be reckoned with; he is not a tame creature.

Even so, a second look shows signs of his amiability. In his left hand he holds a broom, symbolic of his role as household helper to those who please him. Some sources actually list "Robin Goodfellow" as the domestic name of Puck, used by those who encountered him in this guise. In the figure's right hand is a candle. This may simply relate to the idea that he does his work at night, when none can see him. On the other hand, it may refer to one of his less friendly roles, that of will o' the wisp, the phantom light that misleads travelers lost in woods and bogs.

The image is, like Puck himself, highly ambiguous. It does not even relate to anything in the accompanying text, where Robin is described as the son of Oberon by a human girl. One source suggests that it may be an adapted illustration of a witches' sabbath, again pulling in pagan associations. However, I am not sure the comparison is so obscure as this would make it out to be. Could Robin's faun-like appearance relate to his reputation as a half-breed, for instance? Also included in the text is the typical brownie legend, that giving him a waistcoat instead of a bowl of fresh milk will cause him to leave one's house forever. It is as though, despite Puck's willing domesticity, he shuns any attempts to further civilize him, preferring instead a more natural, even animal, mode of life. His satyr's appearance is in perfect line with this notion. The tiny black figures may be witches or they may be only dancers. The animals could be familiars or only the woodland creatures over which Puck rules. All is open to interpretation.

A curious variance between this and other ambiguous works we have studied is that its ambiguity was probably not planned. This illustration does not open a great work of literature, but a penny pamphlet for commoners. Its artist's primary aim was likely to catch the attention of potential buyers through a tantalizing combination of the familiar and the controversial. Four hundred years later, the result is a telling example of what fairies meant to the lower class people of early modern England. They were powerful. They were sexual. They were not a far cry from demonic. But they could also be helpful and, perhaps more importantly, titillating, stimulating that thrill in the sensational and slightly dangerous.

(Picture courtesy of http://internetshakespeare.uvic.ca/Library/SLT/ideas/folklore.html.)

John Aubrey and Plausibility

Fairy beliefs were going through a definite transition period during the Renaissance. For the majority of this project, I have been focusing on fairy lore, a primarily oral tradition that may not have been fully believed even among those who popularized the legends. In higher circles, the existence of fairies was likely to be discounted entirely, for the expanding use of the scientific approach did not allow much credit to the figures of stories. On the other hand, fairies continued to permeate common thought. John Aubrey, an eccentric antiquarian and collector of obscurities, offers one open-minded attempt to reconcile reason with popular belief.

Here I would like to touch upon a couple of Aubrey's works, especially The Wiltshire Fairies, written in 1686, for a firsthand look at the conflicts faced by would-be believers in the early modern years. There is something charming about Aubrey. He prides himself on rationality and examines fairies from an informed perspective, but that does not change the fact that he is exploring a facet of lore few admit to believing. (We must recall here that all periods have considered fairies a thing of the past - backwards, as it were.) But Aubrey will no more quickly discount them than believe in them without proof. Scientifically speaking, they are innocent until proven guilty.

Aubrey attempts to separate the misunderstood from the truly unexplainable. In The Wiltshire Fairies, he describes a fairy encounter given him by his curate, one Mr. Hart, in Latin grammar school. I find it interesting that the storyteller is not one of Aubrey's fellow students, but a member of the clergy, and, presumably, a man of some education. It is possible that he hopes to impress the children or to frighten them into obedience, an idea fitting with current beliefs regarding the Catholic clergy's use of fairies, but there is no clear reason for his doing so. According to his tale, he was committing no worse sin than wandering over the downs when a group of "pigmies" (Paster 312) surrounded him, singing, dancing, and causing a general ruckus. He fell down in his amazement, and they "pinched him all over, and made a sort of quick humming noise all the time" (312). Then they left, and in the morning, he woke to find himself in the middle of a fairy ring (mushrooms, dead grass, or other natural material growing in a circular formation).

Because Aubrey is writing from memory, and because we do not have the context of the curate's tale, we can only guess at his reasons for it. Maybe he passed out drunk in a field and used the fairies to excuse his absence. Maybe he is cautioning the boys against traipsing around the moors at night. Maybe he merely enjoys a good story. At any rate, Aubrey is a skeptic. He and his roommate travel to the rings several nights later to investigate the matter for themselves, and they find nothing. But even in this, Aubrey retains his open mind, for "indeed it is said they seldom appear to any persons who go to seek for them" (312).

This is one of the great troubles in objectively studying fairy lore. In another of Aubrey's works, The Remains of Gentilism and Judaism (1688), he tells of a laboring man, Sir Bennet Hoskyns, who found a nine pence daily on his way to work. His wife noted the inexplicable addition to their finances and worried that he had acquired it dishonestly. He explained the situation to her, but he never found nine pence again. Aubrey also speaks of the scientist and antiquarian Elias Ashmole, who claimed that in a certain fairy mound, those preparing for weddings, etc., could find spits, crockery, and other things. They could use this on the condition that they returned it to the mound afterwards. So we see that fairies do not appear to those who search for them, that they will only help humans on the condition of secrecy, and that what they lend must not be kept. Let us humor the idea that fairies do exist. If these things were true, they would be extremely difficult to verify. It is a built-in safety for the plausibility of the legends. Though evidence may never be found, they cannot be entirely disproven.

Aubrey realizes this difficulty and confronts what he can. In the case of the fairy circles, he speculates that they are the result of underground gases which must force their way out of the narrow opening of a conical hollow, and, in their escape, form a second cone the inverse of the first. At the top of this second cone grows a mold which affects the grass above it. As a matter of fact, he is not far wrong, and his ideas show a desire to keep a rational perspective, though he is victim to his own wonder.

As an ending note to The Wiltshire Fairies, Aubrey also speaks of a tradition among his great uncles and his father's estate manager, old men at the time, of an unnaturally intuitive child during the Battle of Bosworth Field in 1485. He cannot remember whether the boy was mentally retarded. At the time of the battle, the child began to play with two wheat sheaves, beating them together and crying, "Now for Henry!" or "Now for Richard!" from time to time. Supposedly at the very moment of the battle's end, he shouted, "Now for King Henry, Richard is slain!" hailing the first Tudor monarch without verifiable knowledge of his triumph (313). Aubrey toys with the idea that the boy could have been a changeling, and here the suggestion appears to be his own. In the end, his love of the extraordinary subtly steps in front of hard reason.

John Aubrey's studies give a snapshot of shifting fairy beliefs in a couple of ways. Not only does he display a personal inclination for separating the explainable from the unknown, but the studies themselves give insight into fairies' changing identity. In the older story of the psychic child, the subject matter is serious, almost morbid. The child's uncanny knowledge is of war, death, and a new monarchy. In the more recent account of Mr. Hart, Aubrey describes the fairies' antics as annoying and little more. The people that taunt Mr. Hart are also undersized, characteristic of a later breed of fairy, and tricksters rather than powerful spirits. Already, in the mid-1600s, the stories themselves were slipping from the fairies' hold.

(A Midsummer Night's Dream: Texts and Contexts. Ed. Gail Kern Paster and Skiles Howard. pp. 310-313)

(Picture courtesy of http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/4/45/John_Aubrey.jpg.)

Real and Becoming

When my boyfriend inquired into my reading earlier today, and I informed him that I was reading The Witch of Edmonton, the first thing he asked was, "So is it a real witch?" Good question. I had just begun Act II, and I could not tell him. A familiar included in the character list seems to imply "real" supernatural action, but at the beginning of the second act, Mother Sawyer appears to be no more than a weary old woman. If our studies this semester have taught me anything, it is that the line between being and seeming is questionable, and I could not pass judgment.

I know now that Elizabeth Sawyer is indeed a witch, but my hesitation in bestowing the title was well-founded: she was not at the time Clayton asked. In her first entrance, she bemoans her undeserved reputation, claiming that her fellow citizens "go about to teach" her how to be a witch by goading her to curses with their constant accusations. To be fair, she is not exactly the spirit of courtesy and longsuffering, but she may have been once; we enter her story too late to tell. At the point we meet her, she is a self-fulfilling prophecy. Years of distrust have made her untrustworthy.

We are given only a couple of pages in which to pity Mother Sawyer, but it is enough. She is unfairly judged, and dangerously so, for her time. It is her cursing that brings the devil upon her, but it is persecution that brings the cursing. "Tis all one To be a witch as to be counted one," as she puts it. People will believe what they want to believe. For a woman accused of witchcraft, however, those beliefs could be deadly. Endangered by her fellow people, it is small wonder Sawyer should turn to the devil for "protection."

This suggests an interesting third element to the being/seeming issue. We must also deal with "becoming." A thing which holds power in our minds holds power; it does not matter whether it warrants the power we give it. Part of the draw of the supernatural is that it does not have to be real to be kinetic. In Mother Sawyer's case, she becomes what she seems to be. That is, seeming leads to being. I find her occult powers to be as much a punishment on her accusers for their persecution as on herself for her cursing. A misplaced belief can be a dangerous thing. Now, more so than in earlier works we read, we glimpse something that is not fate, but a terrifying human power to create what it will.

A World of Her Own

Diane Purkiss brings up an interesting point, particularly in light of the literature we have been discussing this semester, regarding the gender specificity of fairy stories. In the Renaissance, as now, fairies were women's territory. The majority of fairy lore revolved around things like childbirth, children, and caring for the sick and the dead - feminine areas of expertise - so men had significantly less leeway into the fairy realm than did women. Nevertheless, to some men the female world of birth and death beckoned with the magic of the unfamiliar.

One position offering men a glimpse into this other world was that of the "cunning" man, a village "counselor, healer, and diviner" who combatted black and reclaimed lost magic (Purkiss 134). This man's implicit interaction with the ill and dying forced him to confront those facets of life normally sealed off to his sex, and, in turn, increased his chances for a fairy encounter. In most stories of men's dealing with fairies, however, there is an underlying current of unease, the sense that the man (more so than women in similar situations) enters territory that may be best left untouched. Often encounters with the fairy queen belittle masculinity; for the fairy realm, in contrast with the outer world, exists under the dominion of woman.

Some men, however, welcome their glimpse into this hidden kingdom. We can see one such example in the case of Andro Man, a Scottish cunning man and one of few men tried for witchcraft. He first encounters the fairy queen when she comes to deliver his mother of a baby when he is a child. At that time she promises him the knowledge to treat and cure all sorts of sickness. He continues to commune with her, and as he grows, she requires sex of him. This is typical of fairy stories - many are highly sexualized - but, of course, the human half of the relationship is usually female. Fairies throughout lore seem to be fascinated with human children (changelings are one example) and to want them for their own, so when a woman gives birth to a fairy's child, the fairy will often try to claim it though the woman does not want to let it go. Andro's case is simpler because he can give the queen babies without any parental attachment. His role is masculine, but his intimacy with the queen offers him special insight into a feminine realm. Not only does he gain the abilities to heal and counter enchantments, but he becomes known especially for his skills in treating women's diseases.

I have mentioned in at least a couple of other entries my fascination with the Renaissance portrayal of women as "other." This idea of a world where man is the outsider, where he must become more like woman in order to thrive, is an intriguing counter. I think I may be beginning to see a trend in the folks with whom fairies sympathize. They root for the underdogs - the weak, impoverished, and oppressed of society. Perhaps much of their reputation for darkness comes from the fact that their stories appear most often among those whose lives are dark to begin with. To those people, they may well have brought light. At a time when women hardly had a voice, the other world gave them power. Whether that world was a fantasy was irrelevant, so long as they believed in it.

Now I am curious. Did stories of fairyland spring up among quiet women whose unspoken desires wove their way into their tales? Or was fairyland's feminine reputation planted by men whose opinion of women mixed awe and disgust? Either way, it is clear that the original fairies were a thing of female empowerment.

The Perks: Health, Wealth, and Rewards of Fraternizing

Fairies embody fears and grant wishes. Naturally, then, their specific character roles change according to the fears and wishes of the culture relating their stories. Dealing with fairies is a risky business, so there must be some reward to make the risk worthwhile, and in the case of the English, this motive is as straightforward as cold, hard cash.

We can find some of our best documented fairy lore in records of early modern witch trials. These are especially prominent in Scotland, but England, too, has its share. The English fairy stories tend to show a greater spirit of optimism than those of the surrounding areas. English encounters with the fairies are not necessarily less dangerous than those of the Scottish, but they have less guilt in their fraternizing and a stronger sense of the potential perks.

One example of this, recorded by John Webster, involves a very poor and simple-minded man who overcame his poverty through the use of a mysterious white healing powder. He was accused of witchcraft, and when asked on trial how he had come about the powder, he informed the judge that it was a gift of the fairies. According to his tale, a fair woman came to him while he was sitting in heavy-hearted ponderance as to how to provide for his wife and children. She asked him why he was so sad, and when he told her, she told him to meet her again the next night. He did as she commanded. The woman then led him under a hill, where he was given a box of the healing powder by the fairy queen herself. By charging others for the miraculous stuff, he was able make a fair sum and save himself and his family from destitution. In the end, the jury could find no evidence for his tale beyond the numerous healed, and as that was no reason to hang a man, he was acquitted.

Purkiss lists three reasons for fairies' association with treasure: 1) their tendency to gravitate to ancient monuments, likely hiding spots for real treasure, 2) their link with the dead, and 3) their association with wild places where "finders are keepers" (Purkiss 125). The common idea that fairies lived underground would have given them knowledge of buried treasure as well as burial spots (often linked with hidden wealth; think mummies). Also, the tie between wealth and healing is a common one. Today, we would expect the man or woman to cure cancer or the common cold to reap massive financial success, and a doctor's is among the highest paying of jobs. Likewise, in those days, anyone who could combat the rampant diseases that affected cities and villages could have expected a steady livelihood. Further, wealth was a kind of healing itself. In the case of the man mentioned above, it saved his entire family from starvation. There was a sort of reverence for the "other" people who had the means to acquire these things at their very fingertips.

It is also worth noting here that fairies are not always heartless tricksters. I have tried to emphasize that the fairies of this time were not fluffy little angels of goodness, but that did not automatically make them demons. Here we see an example of a fairy sympathizing with a man in need and asking nothing in return (which appears to be rather uncommon). He is one of the lucky ones. I think it is fair to say that fairies are the possessors of great secrets, and what we want, they probably have. Whether we will risk witchcraft accusations or a hundred years of sleepy enchantment in another world - that is another story.

A Useful Breed of Heathen

A Proper New Ballad Entitled
The Fairies' Farewell: or God-A-Mercy Will

To be sung or whistled to the Tune of "The Meadow Brow" by the learned; by the unlearned to the tune of "Fortune."

Farewell, rewards and fairies,
Good housewives now may say,
For now foul sluts in dairies
Do fare as well as they.
And though they sweep their hearths no less
Than maids were wont to do,
Yet who of late for cleanliness
Finds six-pence in her shoe?

Lament, lament, old Abbeys,
The fairies lost command.
They did but change priests’ babies,
But some have changed your land,
And all your children, sprung from thence,
Are now grown Puritans,
Who live as changelings ever since
For love of your demesnes.

At morning and at evening both
You merry were and glad,
So little care of sleep or sloth
These pretty ladies had.
When Tom came home from labor,
Or Ciss to milking rose,
Then merrily, merrily went their tabor,
And nimbly went their toes.

Witness those rings and roundelays
Of theirs, which yet remain,
Were footed in Queen Mary’s days
On many a grassy plain;
But, since of late Elizabeth,
And later James came in,
They never danced on any heath
As when the time hath been.

By which we note the fairies
Were of the old Profession.
Their songs were Ave Maries,
Their dances were procession.
But now, alas, they all are dead,
Or gone beyond the seas,
Or farther for religion fled,
Or else they take their ease.

A tell-tale in their company
They never could endure,
And who so kept not secretly
Their mirth, was punished sure.
It was a just and Christian deed
To pinch such black and blue.
O, how the commonwealth doth want
Such justices as you!

Now they have left our quarters,
A register they have,
Who looketh to their charters,
A man both wise and grave.
An hundred of their merry pranks
By one that I could name
Are kept in store; con twenty thanks
To William for the same.

I marvel who his cloak would turn
When Puck had led him round,
Or where those walking-fires would burn
Where Cureton would be found.
How Broker would appear to be,
For whom this age doth mourn,
But that their spirits live in thee,
In thee, old William Chourne.

To William Chourne of Staffordshire,
Give laud and praises due,
Who every meal can mend your cheer
With tales both old and true.
To William, all give audience,
And pray ye for his noddle,
For all the fairies' evidence
Were lost if that were addle.

This ballad, written by clergyman and minor poet Richard Corbett (1582-1635), gives insight into the waning popularity of fairy beliefs that occurred during the Renaissance. While Corbett takes a humorous approach to the situation, and there is no clear evidence that he was a believer himself, he bemoans the loss of fairies on a practical front. Imagination is its own kind of magic, inspirational and entertaining, and the disposal of old lore has a stifling effect on those who have nothing better to fill its place.

It is obvious that Corbett is also using his lament for the fairies to mourn the fall of the Catholic Church of England to which he belonged. In the second verse, he references the tale of the changeling, supposedly used on a regular basis to explain away illegitimate children appearing on priests' doorsteps. Then he flips this imagery to compare to changelings those who converted to Puritanism for material gain. In short, Puritans are malignant outsiders disrupting the functional community.

In the fourth verse, he comments on the lack of fairies reported since the reigns of Elizabeth and James (both Protestants), by which, he claims in the fifth verse, we see that fairies must be Catholic. Of course this is not meant to be taken seriously, but it pinpoints the ridiculousness of the entire concept of outlawing fairies. Fairies are neither Catholics nor Protestants; they are stories. And they are not hurting anybody. They gave maids a reason to keep a good house, and they saved priests from scandal. They were useful. Why subject them to religion?

The William Chourne mentioned in the last verses was a servant of Corbett's. While traveling through what he believed to be fairy country, he advised his fellow travelers (including Corbett) to turn their cloaks inside out to avoid Puck's mischief. When they did so, a mysterious man appeared to lead them out of the woods. Corbett praises his sort, the last holdouts of the old traditions, "who every meal can mend your cheer." On the other hand, he can only hope that they should not be proven crazy. Once they are, all hope in the fairies will be gone for good.

We see here to what extreme fairy lore was wrapped up in religious matters, but at the same time, a new sense of modernity was chipping away at supernatural beliefs in general. Things were no longer so simple as ring dances and six-pence in the shoe. Reason was replacing imagination and literature was replacing lore. People could not return to the age of the fairies because they knew too much. As Corbett, they could only look back in nostalgia and bow their heads to its passing.

(A Midsummer Night's Dream: Texts and Contexts. Ed. Gail Kern Paster and Skiles Howard. pp. 313-116)

Mass Migration, Destination Unknown

Maybe it is the culture. Maybe it is religion. Maybe it is a matter of simple overcrowding. Whatever the reason, the general consensus among all storytellers at all times is the same: there are not as many fairies as there used to be.

Tales of the fairies' departure are common. Usually there is the crossing of some river or lake (I am reminded of the Elves sailing from the Grey Havens in The Lord of the Rings), but the final destination is unnamed. After all, where would they go? Do they leave this world entirely, passing through the mists into another realm as Bradley's Avalon? I do not know, and I do not think I am supposed to. The moment we know where they are, and can go there and find that they are not, the illusion will be shattered.

A commonly given reason for the migration of fairies from a particular community is the sound of church bells, and they are apparently more tolerant of Catholics than Protestants (perhaps because the Catholic Church has a more supernatural aura to begin with?). Many blame the Reformation for the decided lack of fairies in the world nowadays. In a literal sense, this may not be far wrong.

Literature has also had a tremendous role to play in fairy deconstruction. The twentieth century Puck of Pook's Hill, by Rudyard Kipling, depicts Puck as the last of his kind. "There's no good beating about the bush: it's true," he says. "The people of the hill have all left" (Ashliman 35). That is true enough, if not in the way that Kipling meant it. Since Shakespeare's Puck, the fairies I have been discussing these last weeks have become rarer and rarer, finding replacements in a newer, more user-friendly version of themselves.

Another issue, of course, is the expanding human population. More than other supernatural beings, fairies share space with us (in but not of the world, as it were). Sometimes they live in hills or mounds, sometimes simply underground. The lurk in graveyards and around ruins. According to Diane Purkiss in At the Bottom of the Garden, it is a well-established notion that fairies live in the past, and they tend to link themselves with locations where entropy is visible (Purkiss 151). In an increasingly modern world, they are increasingly out of place.

It is my opinion that this is the real reason for their leaving. It is symbolic of their psychological graduation from the regions of possibility to those of imagination.We have not been able to reconcile our world with fairies for many years, since the Renaissance and before, in some cases, but if we believe that the fairies have left, we can also believe that they were once here. It is more magical to believe that they were than that they have never been.

Again, this desperation to make magic believable! It intrigues me.

Pinpoint Optimism

What a rich, surprising work The Duchess of Malfi has turned out to be. It was gruesome, tragic, a brutal portrait of reality, and yet, at the end, I find myself counting it one of the more optimistic stories we have read this semester. Written in the Jacobian period (under King James, rather than Queen Elizabeth), it falls along what Dr. Staub describes as a "festering" portion of the literary timeline. But I think it offers an independency of hope that we have seen nowhere else to date.

I did not think so at first. The storyline grew darker and darker as the play progressed. Ferdinand pulled a Hamlet, the Duchess I had learned to love died imprisoned, the rest crumpled in her absence... Then, at the eleventh hour (and fifty-ninth minute - literally the last page), Webster introduces a solitary heir to her legacy in a single son to escape the massacre. To be fair, the first time I read it, I was not impressed. It was the quintessential "too little, too late." As usual, our class discussion gave me a broader view of the topic.

The Duchess of Malfi is a tale about aspirations against all odds. We saw this too in Dr. Faustus and Paradise Lost. In those, however, the protagonists' struggles ended in utter, irredeemable tragedy. Granted, the Duchess did not appear to fare much better, with one child left to carry on her name, and hardly a body standing to support him, but a single flame means a great deal compared to unbroken darkness. She diverted the patrilinear cycle; the child of a commoner took the throne. Her love had but a few years, but in those years it thrived, and triumped over tradition. She took the reins of her own life, and though she suffered the consequences, fate could not claim her.

Another interesting difference between this text and that of Dr. Faustus and Paradise Lost was that the protagaonist seemed to die with visions of heaven. This had two curious implications for me. For one, the Duchess was not damned for her actions. To her, at least, her death was not an end except to suffering, though others did not fare as well. Also, the fact that the Duchess saw heaven as a haven made something beautiful of it (I, for one, trust her opinion). In other works, all we have seen of heaven is force and judgment.

In The Duchess of Malfi, then, we get in its unpolished view of humanity not only a taste of free will that may not go entirely awry, but a promise of a second reality that may be sympathetic. There is no fairy tale happy ending, which would be, at any rate, too incredible for comfort. But there is a taste of hope, albeit faint and unexpected. That is a start.

Morgan

Since I mentioned in my last blog the Arthurian link to fairies, and since the Arthurian legend is such an enormous part of English supernatural lore, I think it fitting to elaborate upon the key fae creature of those stories: that is, Morgan le Fay.

Morgan's name gives an interesting perspective on her character. "Morgan" is, in Celtic terms, a man's name, with "Morgaine" the female equivalent. Additionally, in Celtic mythology, the Morrigan was a triple goddess of death, who flew shrieking over battlefields to claim the heads of slaughtered soldiers. Her name, then, represents power to the point of masculinity. ("Morgan Le Fay" http://www.arthurian-legend.com/more-about/more-about-arthur-8.php)

"Le Fay," of course, refers to her fairy origins, though depending on which version of the story we use, the exact nature of this label changes. Some suggest that she was a fairy turned into a woman who became a sorceress in order to retain her powers. In early texts, Morgan was the chief of nine magical sisters who dwelt in Avalon, and had the abilities to shapeshift and fly with wings. At times she is portrayed as malignant towards Arthur, and she is the mother of Mordred who slays him, but she is never utterly wicked. She is beautiful, seductive, and a healer, and she is usually reconciled with Arthur in the end. In fact, she is traditionally one of three women who carry Arthur to Avalon to be healed.

Morgan is a good representative of the ambiguity of the pre-Shakespearean fairy. She is neither good nor evil. Her role alternates between friend and foe. It is not even clear at what point she ceases to be human and becomes fae, or vice versa. She embodies both us and them.

Speaking of "them," it is worth noting the feminine empowerment of fairy culture. Morgan is a powerful character in the Arthurian legend, in both name and legacy. She is usually unhappily married to a man Uriens, yet this does not stop her from taking lovers, orchestrating plots, and living her own life. (How many of us remember Uriens, after all? But everyone has heard of Morgan.) In the fairy realm, the female rules. If Avalon has rulers, they are women, just as the fairy queen is a far more popular folkloric figure than the fairy king.

Again we see fairies uniting separate parts. They are equalizers.

(Picture courtesy of http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Morganlfay.jpg.)

Avalon Fading

One of the greatest struggles in this project so far has been trying to separate European fairy belief into its composite parts. In theory, I am discussing Early Modern British lore, but most legends overlap between countries, and most were becoming outdated by the Early Modern period. So far I have been struggling to pin down a strictly British theme, ignoring the obvious just in front of me: the Arthurian legend. I had forgotten, caught up in the complicated metaphor, that The Faerie Queene was structured around tales of King Arthur.

Although I spent a full semester last year studying Arthurian legends, the fairy connection did not come to me quickly for, I think, the same reasons I mentioned in my first frustrating attempts to find pre-Victorian pictures of fairies. Compared to our modern ideas, the fairies of Arthurian legend do not seem much like fairies at all. In Ashliman's Fairy Lore, however, the author lists Avalon as among the most popular depictions of fairyland, or faerie. While Arthurian fairies (i.e. Morgan le Fay) are vaguely sinister in their most favorable portrayals, the fairyland itself is more reminiscent of Eden than anything else. It is the Paradise in which Arthur will linger as he waits to rise again.

According to Geoffrey of Monmouth, who wrote The Life of Merlin in the late middle ages, Avalon, or the Island of Apples, produces all things of its own accord. None there labor for their livelihood, and those dwelling there live one hundred years or more (Ashliman 15-16). The location of Avalon changes from one source to the next. In the modern novel The Mists of Avalon, by Marion Zimmer Bradley, Avalon is akin to a parallel universe juxtaposed with our own and fading gradually into complete separation. I like this idea, as it captures the discomfort in and desperation for a closeness with supernatural realms. Since 1191, the physical site of Glastonbury Tor in Somerset, England, has also been associated with Avalon. In that year, Benedictine Monks from the nearby Abbey of St. Mary discovered what was said to be the grave of King Arthur and Queen Guinevere. Many believed that the Tor, once almost entirely surrounded by water, could have been the enchanted island. It continues to be popularly linked with paranormal phenomena.


In fact, many traditional accounts place fairyland beneath the ground, including in grave mounds and natural hills (17). This emphasizes yet again the closeness of these particular supernatural creatures to common humanity. Some lore even plays upon the idea that we are competing with the fairies for space, a perhaps influential concept in the consensus that there are less fairies now than there once were. Fairies cannot coexist indefinitely with the Church, with reason, with the modern world. And so Avalon fades.

(Picture courtesy of http://photos.igougo.com/images/p361833-Glastonbury-Glastonbury_Tor.jpg.)

No Man's Woman

The portrayal of women through the stories we are reading continues to baffle me. Honestly, we may as well be discussing another mythical creature. I suppose the fact that most published writers of the Renaissance were male contributes to the mysticism surrounding the "other" sex, but the whole thing is most amusing. I have said before that the tone of the writing from this time often seems almost intimidated by women, and though this may be only wishful thinking or residual sexism on my part, I think it is worth looking into.

Thursday's discussion of The Duchess of Malfi focused on astrology and Renaissance ideas of women. Normally I would not categorize those two together, but putting them side by side got me thinking about possible links. For instance, the zodiac is broken up according to cycles of the moon, a cycle to which many women maintain a physical connection. I have always found that fascinating, but is it possible that some may have found this tie to a virtually unknown outer world disturbing? There is a sort of power in it. Alternately, many animals have a greater sense than humans of the movement of the earth - seasons, direction, and such things - so perhaps it could be argued that there is something of the animal in a woman's bodily awareness.

Speaking of animals, I was also struck by the idea of the hyena as hermaphrodite, used to insult the Duchess. A hermaphrodite embodies both the male and female reproductive organs, which, depending on context, may make it an oversexed monster or a sexless divinity. In the case of the Duchess, of course, it is monstrous. But if man is superior to woman, as was the general consensus, wouldn't the best woman be the woman most like a man? This seems to be a contradiction.

In fact, the Duchess is not a hermaphrodite at all. She is no Elizabeth. She is a wife and a mother as well as a ruler. She lies, she contradicts herself in the space of a scene, and she goes through all the gritty reality of pregnancy and childbirth. She is not a saint, and she is not a man's woman. The curious thing about the Duchess is that she manages to fulfill many of the negative characteristics (besides passiveness) ascribed to women of the time, while still gaining our empathy and respect. A truly hermaphroditic woman is generally considered a strong character, but I feel that a woman who must make herself a man to be noticed only conforms to a man's world. The Duchess does no such thing. She is woman to the core, and proud of it.

Is this a fearful thing? I wonder if there is a little awe in Webster's writing. Even as he seems to deface women with graphic images of vomit and bloated stomachs, his honesty towards a real woman, and not an idealized image, lends its own sort of glory to the sex. Perhaps that is why the Duchess is never given a name. She is "other," she is "something else," but she is a little too real for comfort. She must not be made too personal.

I muse only, and perhaps we all read what we want to read. But I'm terribly fond of this woman. I really am.

Changelings and Maiming Babies

I think I can trace my love of changelings back to a book called The Moorchild, which I read sometime in elementary school. It caught me at the perfect time, on the cusp of dress-up games and Pre-Algebra, and it dealt, predictably, with an adolescent girl who could not fit in. To make it interesting, this particular girl was in fact a fairy, unknown to herself, deposited in a human cradle in exchange for its original occupant. I think I would have grown out of fairies if it were not for that book. Until that time they had been frillsome little things with wands and wings, a tad too flat to hold the interest of a graduate from the Disney movie phase, but this new (actually much older) breed of fairy struck in me something that has never quite left.

Maybe it is that basic human emotion that wells up every so often to convince us that we were dropped into this world unprepared and in completely unceremonious fashion, the idea that we are "other" ourselves, a justification for the incurable loneliness of space between the stars and us. Maybe it is that vague hope that there is a practical reason for the weirdness of ourselves relative to our surroundings (or vice versa). To me, there is an eerie comfort in the idea that I our world may mingle with another, and I am sympathetic to the changeling. But the original tellers of these tales would have taken a much different approach. The changeling was an upset in the routine, a thing to be feared and prevented, and the results of these beliefs were often tragic.

Accounts of stolen children were one of the most popular types of fairy stories across Europe. Traditionally, a fairy would snatch away a child while the mother was not looking and replace it with one of its own kind. It would then tote its human captive back to the fairy kingdom, where he or she would remain unless someone could convince the fairy to come reclaim its own child. Infants in their first six weeks were considered especially vulnerable. To avoid this misfortune, mothers were cautioned to keep young children under constant supervision. Impious mistakes, such as failure to baptize a child in due time, were also linked to fairy kidnappings (Ashliman 26).

Some speculate that the fear of changelings was put into mothers in order to ensure that they took good care of their children. While this idea has merit, the atrocities committed towards children that were suspected of being changelings seems to outweigh its value, to my mind. According to Ashliman, "Symptoms specifically described in the legends include a swollen head, strangely staring eyes, a flat nose, incessant crying, misbehavior, failure to learn to talk or walk, and a voracious appetite" (25). By this account, it is likely that many children suffering from autism, Down syndrome, and other mental disabilities or physical deformities would have been labeled changelings. The standard approach to getting rid of a changeling was torturing it until its fairy parents came to save it, though other methods involved coaxing it to laugh or to utter an exclamation of surprise that would reveal its true identity and force its parents to return its mortal counterpart (27-29).

Legends of changelings end happily more often than not, offering hope to a period rife with birth defects and infant disease. As may be expected, true accounts were often far less positive. One woman who was tried in Ireland for drowning her four-year-old grandson, both mute and crippled, insisted that she had not meant to kill the child, but to "put the fairy out of it" (27). To give an idea of the punishments inflicted on these poor children, I must include one more quote from an Irish story, "The Brewery of Eggshells":

"Although its face was so withered, and its body wasted away to a mere skeleton, it had still a strong resemblance to her own boy. She therefore could not find it in her heart to roast it alive on the griddle, or to burn its nose off with red hot tongs, or to throw it out in the snow on the roadside, notwithstanding these, and several like proceedings, were strongly recommended to her for the recovery of the child" (27).

Legends of changelings were immensely popular and persisted in certain areas into the early 1900s (25). Such beliefs not only explained why some children were not "normal," but excused a family's unwillingness to support these children, who would have been deadweight in a society where all members of a family were expected to contribute their share of labor. Though it is not fair to hold these people at fault for their ignorance, it reveals the darker side of the pre-Victorian fairy story.

One facet of these tales that my sources have not explained, and that fascinates me, is the simple question of why fairies would steal children in the first place. What would a fairy want with a mortal? And yet that is a common theme in other branches of lore as well. Heartbreaking as it is to think of the abuse of handicapped children, I cannot help but return to my original curiosity at the idea of "other" among us. What do they want from us? With luck, more on this later.

Antithesis of a Ghost

I could not decide upon which character to focus this final entry for Hamlet. Initially, I meant to write a bit more on our old friend the ghost. Then I toyed with the idea of covering the eternally popular Ophelia. At last, however, I have concluded that the most fitting end to this discussion is the same as the end of most others: the grave-digger.

The grave-digger in Act five offers the first spoken possibility that Ophelia committed suicide. I find his opinion a particular curiosity because he is the first character we encounter who is entirely outside the influence of the court. The increasing mania in Denmark's royal circle denies us any certainty in the events that take place among them. In fact, the general tone is so strongly uncertain (and that comes very near to being an oxymoron) that we find our own sanity tremulous as it pertains to this story that sweeps us into itself. If Hamlet's murder of Polonius is the point at which he passes beyond all hope of redemption, Ophelia's madness is that same point for the story as a whole. When innocence becomes corrupt, the final net gives way. But at that point we are too bewildered by the ironies of despair to recognize the trap. The grave-digger, speaking as an unaffected observer, pulls us from this reverie into a world that will outlive our own minds.

As closely associated with death as he is, the grave-digger is scarcely affected by it. He chucks up skulls with good humor, no less alive for the reminder of his eventual fate. Hamlet may touch on a key point when he admits, "'Tis e'en so, the hand of little employment hath the daintier sense." He and his companions deal with little in the way of physical labors, so their minds are free to run themselves to distraction, while the grave-digger's more intimate connection to the natural world keeps him firmly grounded in its patterns. The grave-digger is the antithesis of the ghost. He does not muse; his riddles have answers. Death to him is not an unknown, but a physical absolute. That is all. He is real and solid and willing to let the world run as it will.

To call Ophelia's death an accident is to say that it was inevitable, but we know that was not the case. Hamlet, Laertes, Claudius - all are consumed by abstracted emotion, whether of their own accord or misleading by others, and because there is no certain protection against abstracts, they bind themselves to helplessness. The grave-digger is familiar with death, so it does not frighten him. Hamlet, on the other hand, has only his fantasies - his ghosts - to satisfy his morbid curiosity. The results of his brooding are, unfortunately, far more real than any of the quandaries themselves. It is easy in the world of the mind to create one's own lonely universe, but that does not stop the real one from following its usual course.

Someplace Between

They are not quite monsters, nor angels nor demons, yet they contain elements of all three. They are slightly freakish, sometimes glorious, and often deceptive. If the creatures that the human mind creates are offshoots of the human mind, and if fairies contain traces of all such creatures, it is no surprise that they should be the most human of the bunch. So just how human aren’t they? The very word “supernatural” implies some amount of freedom from physical limitations, and this is what separates fairies from us common folk. Still, if they can engage in physical activities (sex, eating, etc.), and even be enticed by them, it would seem that they must have some substance.

The commonly accepted idea is that fairies’ bodies are “astral.” That is, they are comprised of spiritual matter that cannot be grasped and that passes through other solid substances, but they are capable of eating, drinking, sleeping, talking, and other physical activities at will. Paracelsus, a Swiss occultist, developed some leading ideas on this matter, separating all fairies into four categories based on the four elements of the earth. Gnomes inhabited the earth and soil, sylphs air, salamanders fire, and undines water. Their bodies were more transient than human flesh, but more solid than pure spirit. Though a certain fairy would not be comprised of its given element itself, it was closely tied to it and therefore to a physical world. With the Christianization of fairy lore, some theorized that fairies were actually fallen angels, stopped by the earth halfway between heaven and hell and turned into given types of creature depending on their area of landing. This follows with the idea that fairies were neither good nor evil, but merely different, stuck between with the rest of us. Paracelsus, however, did not believe that fairies were immortal. Because of their innate link to the earth, they merely returned to it, ceasing to exist when they died.

I find this particularly interesting insofar as it relates to salvation. There are numerous accounts of fairies seeking to be saved only to learn that they are barred from that gift, though a few stories tell otherwise. I cannot help but wonder if this would have seemed as much a part of the freedom of the fae folk as the ability to walk through walls. If they could not be saved, neither could they be damned. Surely there must have been something tantalizing in the idea of abandoning the impositions of the church without consequence (remembering that the doctrine of the time focused on the punishment of disobedience rather than the reward of loyalty). Perhaps fairies were, in this way, a form of wish fulfillment as are so many fantasies, the embodiment of a what-if that one could never achieve for oneself.

Love Like a House of Cards

Really, it's the Polonius bit that bothered me. When Hamlet ceases to ruminate and follows reckless impulse, he does not lose my sympathy, but he loses my respect. Hamlet is neither villain nor hero, just a typically human mixture of the two, and I can pity him both for his circumstances and their effects on his temperament. However, with his reaction to Polonius' death, it is clear that he has allowed himself to become his vengeance. I can accept the murder itself as a mistake; it is his coldness at the sight of the dead body that marks a turning point. That Hamlet, normally so tossed by the throes of emotion, should not blanch at the sight of his beloved's father slaughtered by his own hand proves that he no longer has a thought for any pain but his own. Perhaps any of us would react the same way under extreme duress, but though his actions can be explained, they cannot be justified.

That said, we must remember that it was not only Hamlet's father that was murdered, but his image of goodness. Murder is almost universally recognized as an injustice, and if Claudius had taken Gertrude against her will, his foulness would have been undiluted. Hamlet's heart may have been broken, but his delineations between good and evil would have remained intact. However, the fact that Claudius' greed combined with Gertrude's insincerity skewed Hamlet's entire conception of love. I think many of us believe true love to be the one unconquerable force in a world of uncertainty, if we believe in it at all. So when we think we have seen love and it is proven fallible, it is as though the fibers of the world begin to unravel.

Several years ago, my family became enamored with a certain minister. What he preached was biblically correct, and he was passionate about it. He looked like a genuine disciple of God, so we aspired to follow his lead. Then we began to see warning signs, discrepancies between words and actions, warped interpretations of scripture. We pulled away from him while remaining close to the rest of his family, trapped and learnedly helpless against a man who turned out to be a manic-depressive narcissist and clinically psychopathic. I suffered minimal personal hurts in the matter, yet I felt for months like I was losing my mind. My faith is my life. It was a man and not God who let me down (and this brought me through it in time), but the experience destroyed my trust in any authority, even my own mind, for quite a while. In fact, a great deal of unwilling resentment fell on my parents. If they, always seeking truth above popular appeal, could be so gullible, who could be trusted to know better? And if they could be wrong in following this man, could they not be as wrong in pulling away? That thought terrified me, for if God was truly on his side, I feared I wanted nothing to do with Him. If I thought my beliefs to be a fortress, I found them then to be a house of cards on a gusty day. I was forced to re-examine them by inches, rebuilding from the ground up.

I am guilty again of a tangent, but I mean to prove a point. To have a fundamental trust disproven is catastrophic to anyone, at least temporarily. Evil that has always been evil is not nearly so terrifying as evil taken once for good. When core beliefs are ripped to shreds, what can remain but madness? And from that madness we must seek something truer or surrender. If indeed a hero, Hamlet would have, perhaps, proven a truer love with Ophelia than his parents had together. Still, that would be much to ask of anyone so quickly. It is unfortunately at the peak of instability that the ghost goads Hamlet to action, for when good is shaken, evil, too, becomes difficult to differentiate. It may not be strange that Hamlet cannot feel remorse for Polonius. At the point that one cannot rationally label a single action as "good" or "bad", numbness becomes a predictable defense.

I do not condone Hamlet's actions, but I become increasingly convinced that he is played upon, that the ghost is not who he says he is (or that Hamlet's is a miserable father). If he had held off his visit a year or two, he may have been avenged without a single unnecessary death added to the tally. It is the timing that makes the story of Hamlet, and that makes it so tragic.

Ironing Out Old Superstitions

So, in my last blog I touched briefly on the Christianization of fairy defense. Fairy beliefs, however, date from a period long before Christianity, and many anti-fairy techniques remain from that time.

Most of us have probably heard about the effect of iron on fae creatures. A few holdouts may even still hang horseshoes over their doors to bring good luck, a tradition stemming from the belief that elves, fairies, and the like cannot bear the touch of iron, and will not enter a doorway so protected. This idea carries throughout European fairy culture. Despite its popularity, I have always found it to be a rather random superstition. As a matter of fact, many believe it could be rooted in prehistoric conflicts between Stone Age Neolithic tribes and their Iron Age counterparts. For instance, when the Celtic peoples expanded into the British Isles, they would have encountered the Picts*, still using flint arrowheads to the Celt's iron axes. To the less technologically advanced culture, such unknown weaponry would have indeed seemed magical (Ashliman 32).

I hope I do not stray from the meat of the topic here, but I find the scientific and historical reasoning behind certain superstitions to be completely fascinating. I like to think that supernatural beings may exist, or at least that they may have existed at some point, but if they do not, I would like to know why we should ever think they did. Besides, if we can weed out the explainables, perhaps we can delve to the heart of things, if indeed there is a heart. With luck, still beating at the center of these superstitions is something which simply cannot be explained. And so we hope.

*Is "pixie" derived from "Pict"? I feel as though I read that somewhere. Now I need to look it up. Wikipedia, my love!

(Picture courtesy of http://content.answers.com/main/content/wp/en-commons/thumb/3/3f/180px-Horseshoe_lucky_on_door.jpg.)

Crossing Boundaries

I cannot recall if I have ever personally eaten a hot cross bun, but I think it is fair to assume that we are all at least familiar with the food. Who would have imagined that a pastry should be a holdout from lost fairy culture? But that is exactly where my research has led me. According to D.L. Ashliman, in Fairy Lore: A Handbook (p. 31), the telltale sign of the cross was initially carved into the unbaked rolls to protect against theft by elves of questionable character.

This brings up several interesting points, the most obvious of which is the perpetual struggle between lore and religion. It should be clear by now that we cannot engage in any practical discussion of the Early Modern supernatural without factoring the Christian Church into the equation, and if they could not quench fairy belief, they were determined to establish them as an enemy. To be fair, the fairies had always been dangerous - for they were wild and could not be trusted - but that did not keep adventurous young boys from hoping that they might discover elvish treasure, or housewives from trying to snag a brownie’s help. To the pious, however, revulsion of the cross would have labeled fairies an evil thing without their ever needing to give further proof of it. It relegated them to the realm of vampires and werewolves. The Church fueled earlier superstition in order to further its own ends, assuring people that the surest defense against fairy pranksters was to live a moral and devout life.

Small wonder that the Church should have felt itself to be in competition with the fairies. I would not be surprised if the reason that pagan concepts of them held out as long as they did had to do with their approachability. To the common people who believed, life would have offered few opportunities for breaking the cycle of the mundane. The possibility of the supernatural was their “out.” But what were their options? Few would summon demons and risk the fate of Doctor Faustus, yet the popular view of God was distant at best. Emphasis was on escaping judgment rather than reaping rewards, and certainly not rewards in this life. People may have served God, but they could not interact with him. Fairies assumed the middle ground, neither too evil nor too good. In fact, they were probably the most anthropomorphic of the supernatural beings of European tradition, feeling human emotions like anger, jealousy, love, and loyalty to their own, and experiencing human lusts and desires. They were relatable.

It is possible that people’s determination to allow for a magical being with which they could interact led to certain discrepancies in the beliefs. The term “fairy” was used to describe any creatures from water nymphs to royal elves to leprechauns, and meant, loosely, “a spirit being.” On the other hand, fairies were able to have sexual intercourse with humans, and numerous rituals involved leaving them offerings of human food. Obviously they had some substance, and were even, to a degree, confined to the dictates of physicality. In fact, their most notable magical power, recurring throughout the stories, seemed to be the ability to make things appear other than they really were. In this sense, fairies seem little more extraordinary than first-class illusionist, it is often unclear at what point “us” becomes “them.” In an effort to make them more “real,” did they become perhaps less believable. In other words, what does a spirit want with a hot cross bun?



(Picture courtesy of http://fullhomelydivinity.org/images/hot_cross_bun.jpg.)

The Rationalization of Despair

I have read Hamlet in its entirety once before*, and most of my memories of the text are of a lot of jumbled drama and angst. Of course, those elements are as prominent as ever as I read it for the second time, but the semester's discussions have given me an entirely new view of it as a supernatural story, and how that relates to emotionality.

Throughout history, we have attributed to the supernatural what current science cannot explain. My personal research on Renaissance fairy belief has verified this fact again and again. However, most believers in fairy stories were of the peasant class, and the physical phenomena they could not understand (circular mushroom formations, disabled children, etc.) were probably at least partially explainable by the science of the time; it was simply barred to them from lack of education. The more we can explain rationally, the less room we retain for supernatural superstition. Useful as this may be to the advancement of logic, it is unfortunate for storytellers, who must work with a continually limited sphere of imagination to suspend disbelief. The class for which Shakespeare wrote was probably unconvinced by his fairies, and intentionally so. However, even they may have found the ghost of Hamlet's despair less easy to reject.

I have never experienced the death of a close family member, but I have dealt with depression in its milder forms. If there is anything to bring the possibility of a malevolent "something else" within grasping distance, that is it. It is like developing a parisitic twin in one's spirit, something not quite human that leeches away at reason and goodness. Even understanding the psychology of it, it is confounding, and psychology as we know it it is one of the newest forms of science. It is likely that the elite Shakespearean audience would have been at least as troubled by these emotional extremities as those who face them today.

Can we really blame the ghost for Hamlet's madness? After all, he shows signs of a deep disturbance before ever laying eyes on what he believes to be his murdered father's spirit. But it is the ghost justifies what ensues, providing some semblance of redemption for Hamlet's unnatural mania. It is hard to comprehend what inspires a human being to trigger a bloodbath, even as an act of retaliation, but it happens, and not entirely infrequently. It is both easier and safer to believe that these unfortunates are prompted, than to cope with the possibility that such potential could lie within all of us.

*I have, however, read the famous soliloquy about a thousand times, as my former roommate had an obsession with Shakespeare and a penchant for memorization, and developed a habit of scribbling it on all available surfaces as a sort of nervous habit.

An Airy Spirit

Friday night I attended Shakespeare's The Tempest by the Blowing Rock Stage Company. Since the dialogue was Shakespearean but the performance was current, the show's portrayal of spirits and sorcery offered insight into both Renaissance and modern concepts of the supernatural. I took special note of the character Ariel, described only as "an airy spirit" and considered one of the most difficult of Shakespeare's characters to interpret.

When I read The Tempest myself several years ago, I would not have classed Ariel as a fairy, but to be fair, that assumed the modern approach to fairies as tiny winged sprites. Ariel seemed to me more ethereal, even angelic, than creatures of that sort. Several times in my recent research, however, I have seen Ariel listed among Shakespeare’s fairies, and upon watching Blowing Rock’s rendition of the show, I find it simpler than I expected to draw connections between Ariel and, say, Puck.

The character Ariel is generally androgynous, and this one was played by a woman (Caitie L. Moss). She spoke in a high, childish voice, and her energy separated her immediately from the human characters, for she was a dancer, and constantly bending and twisting in a jerky manner that made her otherness believable. She dressed in greens and browns, with leaves twined about her, and her nose and lips were painted black for an almost animal appearance. These earthy associations put me in mind of the Pagan spirits upon which a great deal of Medieval fairy lore was based, and at one point Ariel even played a pipe that begged reference to Pan (a Greek god with the shape of a satyr), who influenced images of Robin Goodfellow, or Puck.

In the play, Ariel is servant to the magician Prospero, who rescued the spirit from a cloven pine where it was imprisoned by a witch upon failing to fulfill her obscene commands. Fairies often correlate with witches, according to traditional lore, and it is through the fairies that the witches gain their power. Likewise, Prospero's power as a magician seems to be enhanced by, if not dependent on, his ability to control spirits. It is in fact Ariel who stirs up the tempest for which the play is named, as well as guiding the shipwrecked passengers according to Prospero's wishes.

Though Shakespeare did not write Ariel to be a fairy in the same way that Puck, Oberon, and Titania are fairies, I think it is fair to count the airy spirit among their number for lack of a better alternative. After all, fairies are, by their simplest definition, spiritual beings, and Ariel cannot be an angel, as it serves man, or a demon, as it was too pure to obey the witch Sycorax.

Like the fairies of A Midsummer Night's Dream, Ariel seems to be based more on Shakespeare's imagination than on any specific fairy lore. In the version I watched, Ariel was for the most part lighthearted, even comic, fitting with Shakespeare's break from a darker supernatural tradition (though some of this may have been the director's interpretation). The fact that it serves a man may also relate to Shakespeare’s mortalization of fairies. For instance, the fairy queen Titania is deceived into falling in love with Bottom (a man with an ass’s head) in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and the fact that she can be at the wrong end of a spell puts her on par with humans. This sort of tactic disassociates Shakespeare’s immortals from the creatures banished by the Church and wrapped up in its ideology. Because Ariel is both enslaved and released by Prospero, its own power is limited, making it more safely presentable to the church-going public.

The effects of Shakespeare's efforts to make the fairy more human-friendly exist to this day. The Blowing Rock Stage Company took a humorous approach to the magical elements of The Tempest with colorful sprites and corny special effects. Such is the legacy that the magic of an older age has left to us. Ariel, like other sprites of our day, does not exist to warn or even to teach, but to amuse.

(Picture courtesy of http://www.blowingrockstage.com/shows02.php?rid=131.)

Creating Magic

When I perform a search for "fairy" on google.com, this is the first image that pops up. Known as the "Derbyshire Fairy," this distasteful little creature was actually a prop created by UK artist and illusionist Dan Baines as part of an April Fool's Day prank in 2007. Baines fabricated a website complete with a story of the "find" and DNA testing results before releasing the truth to hundreds of curious followers on April first. The first part of his statement caught my interest:

"Even if you believe in fairies, as I personally do, there will always have been an element of doubt in your mind that would suggest the remains are a hoax. However, the magic created by the possibility of the fairy being real is something you will remember for the rest of your life." (http://www.hoax-slayer.com/derbyshire-fairy-hoax.shtml)

It is this "magic created by the possibility of the fairy being real" that has prompted centuries of speculation on the subject. A thing does not need to be real, and certainly not provable, to have power. The effect of belief on the human psyche is its own kind of enchantment.

Fairies have not lost their place in pop culture. Baines admitted that even he could not have anticipated the response his project received from believers, and an image search for my presentation several weeks ago yielded literal millions of results. Today, however, fairies are relegated for the most part to the realm of children and crackpots, and the mummified hoaxes from the bottoms of gardens are a far cry from the dark beings of Medieval superstition. Several hours shuffling through powerpoint possibilities had me tearing my hair out in despair of finding a single picture of a pre-Shakespearean fairy. Popular literature has transferred them from the domain of legend to that of fiction.

Not all supernatural creatures can claim equal rights (angels and demons, for instance, retain their impact even today), and the church must be held at least indirectly responsible for the fairy's demise. During the Medieval period, the Roman Catholic Church banned fairy belief as too closely linked to paganism. After the Reformation, Early Modern Protestants blamed Catholics for encouraging fairy belief in order to cover their own misdeeds, and thus continued to shun it. To the church, fairies have always been the enemy. In A Midsummer Night's Dream, the work responsible for the fairy as we know it, Shakespeare sidestepped the religious controversies of his day by concocting a frivolous group of sprites more mortal and approachable than the creatures of general lore. Whereas Marlowe and Milton incorporated angel and demons into serious, even moral, stories, Shakespeare's fairies were pure entertainment. From there, the creatures shrunk in size and significance to the mushroom-mounting, butterfly-winged pixies we know today.

Fairies have not always been the subject of kitsch and picture books, however. It may tell us something of fairy lore that I found my most informative source to date snugged in a dull-colored section of the library among books of Wicca and witchcraft. For the sake of this project, I would like to focus on the fairies lost to us since the 1600s, the fairies people actually believed in. Theirs is a history rich and confused and vaguely sinister, the stuff of energetic imaginations and fireside story hand-me-d0wns. These fairies provided hope, wonder, even rationality to an unstable world, and if they were not real, their pyschological magic certainly was.

(Pictures courtesy of http://www.hoax-slayer.com/derbyshire-fairy-hoax.shtml, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Study_for_The_Quarrel_of_Oberon_and_Titania.jpg, and http://www.flowerfaeries.com/myrea1.shtml.)

When the Fair Sex Goes Bad

As one of the feminine persuasion, I find it quite obvious that the The Faerie Queene was written by a man. It is the first work we have read this semester that allows women a leading role in its narrative, and oh, what a curious role they play. Sometimes Spenser's ladies seem almost as "other" as the fairies themselves.

I first started mulling over these ideas with the discussion of Errour earlier this week. That the monster should be female is unextraordinary; that her "other halfe did womans shape retain" (Canto 1, line 124) is worth considering. The untried knight's first adversary is not only feminine, but shaped in part as a human female. This put me immediately in mind of Milton's Sin. We were not assigned to read Book 2 of Paradise Lost, but I mistook it for Book 1 and winded up swallowing a good deal of extra text one day several weeks ago, where I came across this tantalizing character. "Sin" happens to be an attractive woman from the waist up and a vile, scaly beast from the waist down. Sound familiar? Errour is another bizarre hybrid of woman's body and tangled tail. A footnote to line 126 informs us that the description draws from both classical and biblical monsters. Apparently this is a fairly popular image. But why a woman?*

I notice nobody mentioned the fact that Errour lives in a cave. At the risk of sounding Freudian, I must point out that caves tend to be associated with female sexuality. It is an interesting set-up for RedCrosse's first battle, considering what is to beset him later. Dreams of Una's infidelity chase him from her, and the bulk of Book 1 deals with the results of their separation. Shortly thereafter, the false Fidessa/Duessa lures him with her lustful passions, so that he eventually finds himself rotting in a giant's dungeon for her sake.

However, we cannot neglect another invaluable female figure, Una herself. Una represents truth, purity, and innocence. "Her angels face" (3, 33) glows like the sun itself, and "Did never mortall eye behold such heavenly grace" (3, 36). The implications seem to be that Una is barely mortal herself. Certainly she seems to ride above mortal passions. While RedCrosse leaves her over a dream, she runs to his rescue apparently untouched by anything but forgiveness for his fling with Duessa. She is near superhuman in her goodness.

It is interesting that while duality is a woman (Duessa), so is unity (Una). While Lucifera, Queen of the House of Pride, is a woman, so is Gloriana, the Fairy Queen herself. In The Faerie Queene, it often seems that if Everyman is a man, Everyother is a woman. Women represent extremes both good and evil. They are the angels and the demons of this story.

Come now, are we really so intimidating as all that?

* To be fair, there are only two gender options, unless we really want to get creative, available to monsters as well as people. While it is not necessarily unreasonable to make much of portrayals of femininity in literature, one must take into account that sometimes a woman is just a woman.