It commenced, so I calculate, about the year 2000 B.C., or, to be more
precise--for figures are not the strong point of the old
chroniclers--when King Heremon ruled over Ireland and Harbundia was
Queen of the White Ladies of Brittany, the fairy Malvina being her
favourite attendant. It is with Malvina that this story is chiefly
concerned. Various quite pleasant happenings are recorded to her
credit. The White Ladies belonged to the "good people," and, on the
whole, lived up to their reputation. But in Malvina, side by side with
much that is commendable, there appears to have existed a most
reprehensible spirit of mischief, displaying itself in pranks that,
excusable, or at all events understandable, in, say, a pixy or a
pigwidgeon, strike one as altogether unworthy of a well-principled
White Lady, posing as the friend and benefactress of mankind. For
merely refusing to dance with her--at midnight, by the shores of a
mountain lake; neither the time nor the place calculated to appeal to
an elderly gentleman, suffering possibly from rheumatism--she on one
occasion transformed an eminently respectable proprietor of tin mines
into a nightingale, necessitating a change of habits that to a business
man must have been singularly irritating. On another occasion a quite
important queen, having had the misfortune to quarrel with Malvina over
some absurd point of etiquette in connection with a lizard, seems, on
waking the next morning, to have found herself changed into what one
judges, from the somewhat vague description afforded by the ancient
chroniclers, to have been a sort of vegetable marrow.
Such changes, according to the Professor, who is prepared to maintain
that evidence of an historical nature exists sufficient to prove that
the White Ladies formed at one time an actual living community, must be
taken in an allegorical sense. Just as modern lunatics believe
themselves to be china vases or poll-parrots, and think and behave as
such, so it must have been easy, the Professor argues, for beings of
superior intelligence to have exerted hypnotic influence upon the
superstitious savages by whom they were surrounded, and who,
intellectually considered, could have been little more than children.
"Take Nebuchadnezzar." I am still quoting the Professor. "Nowadays we
should put him into a strait-waistcoat. Had he lived in Northern
Europe instead of Southern Asia, legend would have told us how some
Kobold or Stromkarl had turned him into a composite amalgamation of a
serpent, a cat and a kangaroo." Be that as it may, this passion for
change--in other people--seems to have grown upon Malvina until she
must have become little short of a public nuisance, and eventually it
landed her in trouble.
The incident is unique in the annals of the White Ladies, and the
chroniclers dwell upon it with evident satisfaction. It came about
through the betrothal of King Heremon's only son, Prince Gerbot, to the
Princess Berchta of Normandy. Malvina seems to have said nothing, but
to have bided her time. The White Ladies of Brittany, it must be
remembered, were not fairies pure and simple. Under certain conditions
they were capable of becoming women, and this fact, one takes it, must
have exerted a disturbing influence upon their relationships with
eligible male mortals. Prince Gerbot may not have been altogether
blameless. Young men in those sadly unenlightened days may not, in
their dealings with ladies, white or otherwise, have always been the
soul of discretion and propriety. One would like to think the best of
her.
But even the best is indefensible. On the day appointed for the
wedding she seems to have surpassed herself. Into what particular
shape or form she altered the wretched Prince Gerbot; or into what
shape or form she persuaded him that he had been altered, it really, so
far as the moral responsibility of Malvina is concerned, seems to be
immaterial; the chronicle does not state: evidently something too
indelicate for a self-respecting chronicler to even hint at. As,
judging from other passages in the book, squeamishness does not seem to
have been the author's literary failing, the sensitive reader can feel
only grateful for the omission. It would have been altogether too
harrowing.
It had, of course, from Malvina's point of view, the desired effect.
The Princess Berchta appears to have given one look and then to have
fallen fainting into the arms of her attendants. The marriage was
postponed indefinitely, and Malvina, one sadly suspects, chortled. Her
triumph was short-lived.
Unfortunately for her, King Heremon had always been a patron of the
arts and science of his period. Among his friends were to be reckoned
magicians, genii, the Nine Korrigans or Fays of Brittany--all sorts of
parties capable of exerting influence, and, as events proved, only too
willing. Ambassadors waited upon Queen Harbundia; and Harbundia, even
had she wished, as on many previous occasions, to stand by her
favourite, had no alternative. The fairy Malvina was called upon to
return to Prince Gerbot his proper body and all therein contained.
She flatly refused. A self-willed, obstinate fairy, suffering from
swelled head. And then there was that personal note. Merely that he
should marry the Princess Berchta! She would see King Heremon, and
Anniamus, in his silly old wizard's robe, and the Fays of Brittany, and
all the rest of them--! A really nice White Lady may not have cared to
finish the sentence, even to herself. One imagines the flash of the
fairy eye, the stamp of the fairy foot. What could they do to her, any
of them, with all their clacking of tongues and their wagging of heads?
She, an immortal fairy! She would change Prince Gerbot back at a time
of her own choosing. Let them attend to their own tricks and leave her
to mind hers. One pictures long walks and talks between the distracted
Harbundia and her refractory favourite--appeals to reason, to
sentiment: "For my sake." "Don't you see?" "After all, dear, and
even if he did."
It seems to have ended by Harbundia losing all patience. One thing
there was she could do that Malvina seems either not to have known of
or not to have anticipated. A solemn meeting of the White Ladies was
convened for the night of the midsummer moon. The place of meeting is
described by the ancient chroniclers with more than their usual
exactitude. It was on the land that the magician Kalyb had, ages ago,
raised up above all Brittany to form the grave of King Taramis. The
"Sea of the Seven Islands" lay to the north. One guesses it to be the
ridge formed by the Arree Mountains. "The Lady of the Fountain"
appears to have been present, suggesting the deep green pool from which
the river D'Argent takes its source. Roughly speaking, one would place
it halfway between the modern towns of Morlaix and Callac.
Pedestrians, even of the present day, speak of the still loneliness of
that high plateau, treeless, houseless, with no sign of human hand
there but that high, towering monolith round which the shrill winds
moan incessantly. There, possibly on some broken fragment of those
great grey stones, Queen Harbundia sat in judgment. And the judgment
was--and from it there was no appeal--that the fairy Malvina should be
cast out from among the community of the White Ladies of Brittany.
Over the face of the earth she should wander, alone and unforgiven.
Solemnly from the book of the roll-call of the White Ladies the name of
Malvina was struck out for ever.
The blow must have fallen upon Malvina as heavily as it was unexpected.
Without a word, without one backward look, she seems to have departed.
One pictures the white, frozen face, the wide-open, unseeing eyes, the
trembling, uncertain steps, the groping hands, the deathlike silence
clinging like grave-clothes round about her.
From that night the fairy Malvina disappears from the book of the
chroniclers of the White Ladies of Brittany, from legend and from
folklore whatsoever. She does not appear again in history till the
year A.D. 1914.