The Ladies of Grace Adieu: And Other Stories by Susanna Clarke Page B
Authors: Susanna Clarke
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Success. Whereas mine haz summoned you promptlie to the proper place."
"I don't take no notice o' frimmickin' old Spelles an' such like," sayz the little black thinge, picking his teeth with a bit of old rabbit-bone, "But I waz extreamlie kewrious to know what you waz a-crying for."
So I told him my historie, beginning with the pies (which were so curiouslie small) and ending with the five skeines of flax. "For the truth is, Pharisee," sayz I, "that that my naturall Genius inclines not at all to brewing or baking cakes or spinning or anie of those thinges, but to Latin, Greeke and the study of Antiquities and I can no more spinne than flie."
The Pharisee consider'd my Dilemma. "This is what I'll doe," it sayz at last. "I'll come to your windowe ev'ry morning an' take the flax an' bring it back spun at night."
"Oh, a hundred thousand thankes!" sayz I. "'Tis a very generous turne you doe me. But then, you know, I have alwaies heard that Pharisees doe wonderful kind thinges and never ask for pay of anie sorte or anie thinge in returne."
"You heerd that, did you?" sayz the little black thinge, a-scritch-scritch-scratching of his armpit. "Well, woman, you heerd wrong."
"Oh!" sayz I.
The Pharisee look't at me out of the corners of its little blacke eyes and sayz, "I'll give you three guesses ev'ry night to guess my name an' if you ain't guessed it afore the month's up, Woman, you shall be mine!"
"Well then", sayz I, "I thinke I shall discover it in a month."
"You thinke so, doe you?" sayz the Pharisee and laugh't and twirl'd its taile. "What be the names o' they old dogges?"
"Oh!" sayz I, "That I doe know. Those dogges are called Plato, Socrates and Euclid. Sir John told me."
"Noo, they ain't," sayz the Pharisee, "One on 'em's called Wicked. The other un's Worse an' the third's Worst-of-all. They told me theerselves."
"Oh!" sayz I.
"Happen," sayz the Pharisee with great satisfaction, "you don't know yer own name."
"Tis Miranda Sloper," sayz I. " . . . I meane Sowreston."
"Woman," sayz the Pharisee laughing, "You shall be mine."
And he took the flax and flew awaie.
All daye long there waz a kind of twilight in the little room made by the shadowes of leaves that fell over its white walls.
When the twilight in the room waz match't by a twilight in the World outside the Pharisee return'd.
"Good evening, Pharisee," sayz I, "How doe you fare?"
The little blacke thinge sighed. "Kind o' middlin' like. My old ears is queer an' I have a doddy little ache in my foot."
"Tut," sayz I.
"I have brung the skeins," it sayz. "Now, woman, what's my name?
"Is it Richard?" sayz I.
"Noo, it ain't," sayz the little blacke thinge and it twirl'd its taile.
"Well, is it George?" sayz I.
"Noo, it ain't," sayz the little blacke thinge and it twirl'd its taile.
"Is it Nicodemus?" sayz I.
"Noo, it ain't," sayz the little blacke thinge and flew awaie.
Strange to say I did not heare Sir John enter. I did not know he waz there until I spied his long shadowe among the shifting shadowes on the wall. He waz entirelie astonished to see the five skeins of thread.
Every morning he brought me flax and vittles, and whenever he appear'd the blacke dogges seemed full of joy to see him there, but that waz nothing to their Frenzie when the Pharisee came. Then they leap't in great delight and smelled him extremlie as if he were the sweetest rose. I satt thinking of all the names I ever heard, but never did I chuse the right one. Every night the Pharisee brought the spun flax and every night it came closer and closer and twirl'd its taile faster in its Delight. "Woman," it sayz, "You shall be mine." And every night Sir John came and fetched the thread and every night he waz greatly puzzled, for he knew that the three fierce dogges that guarded me obeyed no man but him-selfe.
One daye, towards the end of the month I look't out of my windowe and waz entirelie astonished to see a great many people with sorrowful faces trudging out of Pipers Hall and
"I don't take no notice o' frimmickin' old Spelles an' such like," sayz the little black thinge, picking his teeth with a bit of old rabbit-bone, "But I waz extreamlie kewrious to know what you waz a-crying for."
So I told him my historie, beginning with the pies (which were so curiouslie small) and ending with the five skeines of flax. "For the truth is, Pharisee," sayz I, "that that my naturall Genius inclines not at all to brewing or baking cakes or spinning or anie of those thinges, but to Latin, Greeke and the study of Antiquities and I can no more spinne than flie."
The Pharisee consider'd my Dilemma. "This is what I'll doe," it sayz at last. "I'll come to your windowe ev'ry morning an' take the flax an' bring it back spun at night."
"Oh, a hundred thousand thankes!" sayz I. "'Tis a very generous turne you doe me. But then, you know, I have alwaies heard that Pharisees doe wonderful kind thinges and never ask for pay of anie sorte or anie thinge in returne."
"You heerd that, did you?" sayz the little black thinge, a-scritch-scritch-scratching of his armpit. "Well, woman, you heerd wrong."
"Oh!" sayz I.
The Pharisee look't at me out of the corners of its little blacke eyes and sayz, "I'll give you three guesses ev'ry night to guess my name an' if you ain't guessed it afore the month's up, Woman, you shall be mine!"
"Well then", sayz I, "I thinke I shall discover it in a month."
"You thinke so, doe you?" sayz the Pharisee and laugh't and twirl'd its taile. "What be the names o' they old dogges?"
"Oh!" sayz I, "That I doe know. Those dogges are called Plato, Socrates and Euclid. Sir John told me."
"Noo, they ain't," sayz the Pharisee, "One on 'em's called Wicked. The other un's Worse an' the third's Worst-of-all. They told me theerselves."
"Oh!" sayz I.
"Happen," sayz the Pharisee with great satisfaction, "you don't know yer own name."
"Tis Miranda Sloper," sayz I. " . . . I meane Sowreston."
"Woman," sayz the Pharisee laughing, "You shall be mine."
And he took the flax and flew awaie.
All daye long there waz a kind of twilight in the little room made by the shadowes of leaves that fell over its white walls.
When the twilight in the room waz match't by a twilight in the World outside the Pharisee return'd.
"Good evening, Pharisee," sayz I, "How doe you fare?"
The little blacke thinge sighed. "Kind o' middlin' like. My old ears is queer an' I have a doddy little ache in my foot."
"Tut," sayz I.
"I have brung the skeins," it sayz. "Now, woman, what's my name?
"Is it Richard?" sayz I.
"Noo, it ain't," sayz the little blacke thinge and it twirl'd its taile.
"Well, is it George?" sayz I.
"Noo, it ain't," sayz the little blacke thinge and it twirl'd its taile.
"Is it Nicodemus?" sayz I.
"Noo, it ain't," sayz the little blacke thinge and flew awaie.
Strange to say I did not heare Sir John enter. I did not know he waz there until I spied his long shadowe among the shifting shadowes on the wall. He waz entirelie astonished to see the five skeins of thread.
Every morning he brought me flax and vittles, and whenever he appear'd the blacke dogges seemed full of joy to see him there, but that waz nothing to their Frenzie when the Pharisee came. Then they leap't in great delight and smelled him extremlie as if he were the sweetest rose. I satt thinking of all the names I ever heard, but never did I chuse the right one. Every night the Pharisee brought the spun flax and every night it came closer and closer and twirl'd its taile faster in its Delight. "Woman," it sayz, "You shall be mine." And every night Sir John came and fetched the thread and every night he waz greatly puzzled, for he knew that the three fierce dogges that guarded me obeyed no man but him-selfe.
One daye, towards the end of the month I look't out of my windowe and waz entirelie astonished to see a great many people with sorrowful faces trudging out of Pipers Hall and
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