Though I found myself in this period of my life greatly occupied by work and study, I did have one amusement left to me, and I looked forward to it all the week long. It had become the regular custom for me to dine on Saturday evenings at the vicar’s, along with Mr. Bentley and whatever interesting company the Snovers had assembled. Reverend and Mrs. Snover seemed to know all the most colorful characters in the town and countryside, and none of them were nearly so dull and straitlaced as I had at first feared they might be. I had met a charming old lady there, Lavinia Hubbard, following the opening of the first gallery show of her paintings. Hers was a fascinating story of having been discovered at the age of seventy-eight by a great art connoisseur. Her cupboard, which had once been bare, was now full to overflowing. She often came to these soirees with the Little Crooked Man, a fearsome literary critic by the name of Snark, whose twisted perspective of the world he had adapted into a flourishing career. We were often joined by some of the local Enchanted creatures, and Mr. Bentley and I were always included in the mix as the young people. I had become accustomed to similar gatherings when Papa had occasionally invited his circle of scholarly friends in for an evening at our home. Though much of their conversations had gone over my head, I enjoyed grasping at their meanings, and I felt it a special treat to be included.
On the night of the first snowfall, Mr. Bentley and I, accompanied by Cook, and Harry with his musket, were heading to the vicarage. Cook was coming to help out the Snovers’ maid, Maggie, for the evening, and Harry was our faithful guardian. We had come to the vicar’s front door when a strange bear in a black greatcoat entered ahead of us. In the friendly confusion that results when everyone is arriving at once and taking off their outer accoutrements, the young stranger seemed to hold himself apart, but the vicar immediately pulled him into the chattering circle and introduced him as Reverend Abraham Wright, his new curate. “Fresh out of seminary! Here to assist an old man in his ministerial duties. He’ll increase the spiritual quality of the parish by one with his presence, and by many with his salutary influence.”
Reverend Wright looked awkward and embarrassed, but smiled stoically and nodded to the company at large. Despite his obvious youth, he wore an air of considerable gravity. It was as if the social occasion were not a thing to take lightly, but a challenge requiring unyielding strength of character to survive. He was tall and spare, with his fur brushed back severely, and his classical features were overwhelmed by a thick pair of spectacles, so that he looked ecclesiastical and bookish. I was just imagining what sort of literature he might generally like to read when we heard a loud knock—more of a kick, really—and cheerful voices calling out. When the maid opened the door, I beheld a donkey, a dog, a cat, and a rooster, each of them a little bony and gray with age. Our hostess introduced them as Wallace, Zeke, Tallulah, and Ernest, respectively, the Bremen Town Musicians. Intrigued, I quickly observed that their motions were all in unison, as if keeping time with some inaudible metronome. I selfishly hoped that they would favor us with a musical performance later in the evening, but even more I was curious about the turns their lives had taken since that fateful night when their house had been burned to the ground.
As we all went in to dinner, Reverend Wright shyly offered me his arm, and I could not refuse without being rude. I took my seat next to him, expecting very little of him by way of conversation. Indeed, he was rather quiet, but I noticed he took an intense interest in each speaker as the conversation traveled about the table. He seemed to be divining their deepest characters, so that I felt reluctant to draw attention to myself by contributing to the discourse. Nevertheless, his attention did focus on me, and there it remained, until I began to wonder whether something was actually amiss with my apparel or grooming. Mr. Bentley, who sat across from me, broke the spell by inquiring whether Reverend Wright planned on joining the men’s choir. It was an innocent enough question on the surface, but one with an important meaning for those brave souls resisting the injustices of the Anthropological Society. A hush fell over the table. All eyes turned to the curate. I could not help but wonder if he had any inkling of the troubles in this seemingly peaceful little parish. He looked around, taking in the whole gathering, cleared his throat, and stated that his singing voice was possibly the worst in three counties, but that he would consider it his duty to assist the men’s choir in such ways as he could. Mr. Bentley and Reverend Snover exchanged quick glances, the reverend almost imperceptibly nodding in the affirmative. From this I inferred that the curate did indeed understand the true nature of the men’s choir, and was committed to their cause. After that, I was inclined to be sympathetic to him.
Mrs. Snover, in her grandmotherly way, made an effort to draw him out, asking questions about his background and family. It was then that he artlessly confessed that the bishop had suggested to him that he take a wife. I was suddenly stricken with the thought that his attention to me had some deeper purpose, and I felt myself blushing furiously. Thankfully, no one could see it. Though some of the girls at Miss Pinchkin’s Academy had thought of nothing but love and marriage, I had always held myself separate from such ambitions. I thought I must take care now to keep my conduct to him cordial, but not encouraging.
As the evening progressed, the conversation turned from the usual lively topics of religion and politics to more eclectic subjects. There was some debate about the validity of the research techniques of those controversial historians the Brothers Grimm. When that subject was exhausted, there was hearsay and gossip about the habits and eccentricities of the aristocracy. I enjoyed listening to the give-and-take, though I did not contribute much myself. One might have expected some inhibition in consideration of the clergymen in our midst. In reality Reverend Snover and his good wife seemed to possess such largeness of spirit that all foibles were seen as endearing, and all subjects food for thought. In such a welcoming environment, ideas flowed freely about the company. Only Reverend Wright was reserved. His face remained impassive, but his eyes took everything in with manifest interest, always seeming to return to me when he thought I wasn’t looking.
Mrs. Snover noticed my discomfort and, turning to Reverend Wright, claimed his attention by asking him whether he had much association with the sons of the nobility while at seminary.
Blinking several times, as if making an effort to switch his focus to her, he answered, “Well, yes, I suppose you could say that. My roommate in my last year was the second son of a baron, but of course younger sons in this land inherit nothing; they are simply commoners.”
Here Reverend Snover, who had been listening to the exchange, broke in, saying, “Ah, yes, but commoners with a difference. Ask our own Mr. Bentley here. He is the younger son of a viscount, and has grown up among lords and ladies. What do you say, Mr. Bentley, has your background given you an advantage?”
I was so stunned by this revelation that I very nearly choked on my sweetmeats as every eye turned to Mr. Bentley.
Mr. Bentley did not seem at all pleased by this attention, and he thought for a moment before he spoke. “For myself, I have had many advantages, not least of which was a rigorous education. Of course, I have also had the example before me of my elder brother, so petted and indulged as the heir that he really had no chance to learn self-discipline or self-reliance. I now consider myself much the more fortunate of the two, as a simple commoner.” He said this with a searching look in my direction, as if to elicit my response, and I returned it with a reassuring smile. Though I had been momentarily put off by the disclosure of his noble ancestry, his pronouncement served to dispel any fear that he was not still the same, congenial Mr. Bentley that I had perceived him to be. I only hoped he would volunteer more about his history, as I did not like to question him, despite my curiosity.
“Remarkable that you have not suffered any of the weakness of character generally displayed by those of the upper classes …,” Reverend Wright proposed, trailing off into silence as he apparently realized that he had just insulted Mr. Bentley’s entire family and perhaps many of his acquaintances as well.
“Yes. Isn’t it, though,” Mr. Bentley replied evenly.
“Oh, do excuse me if I’ve offended. I’ve such a talent for saying the wrong thing,” said the flustered curate. He closed his mouth abruptly and looked at his plate. I felt sorry for him, as I believed that he had meant no harm.
“I suppose that people and creatures come in all stripes, whatever their station in life,” said Mrs. Snover, in an attempt to smooth things over. “And what a dull world it would be if they did not! Of course, here in the Enchanted Forest, the popular tendency is to blame everything on magic.”
“Yes, and whose magic?” Mother Hubbard joined in. “Why, the way people tell it, the whole land is just teeming with witches, wicked fairies, and evil old crones, all of them casting spells and curses, poisoning apples, eating small children. You’d think little old ladies were the most dangerous characters in creation!”
“You mean they’re not?” quipped Reverend Snover, winking at Mrs. Snover. She gave him an enigmatic smile and handed him an apple, which he cheerfully bit into. “Am I a frog yet?” he asked, looking about the table. “No? How disappointing.”
Wallace cleared his throat. He stood at the table’s edge, his companions the dog and the cat sitting in chairs on either side of him, and the rooster perched on his back. “It’s not just old ladies who are maligned, you know. My comrades and I were each about to be destroyed by our former masters, whom we had served so well! And for what? The great crime of growing old!” Zeke, Tallulah, and Ernest all cried out in assent, making a perfect chord of alto, tenor, and baritone. Wallace chimed in with a resounding bass, and the rest of us listened, entranced.
“There is music in us yet!” Zeke intoned, then Wallace drew them to a close with a dramatic swish of his right ear. I had expected some cacophony of howling and braying, crowing and caterwauling, but it was obvious that the musicians were capable of making their own, eerily sweet style of music.
“Oh, I do hope you will sing for us this evening,” Mrs. Snover effused. “Tell us, how are you faring, all of you? We’ve been terribly concerned about you since the night your house was burned. Are you quite safe in Farmer O’Dell’s barn? Are you still getting threats?”
“Oh, dear lady,” said Wallace, “if you only knew the half of it. You’d think folks would thank us for driving that gang of thieves out of the house, but it seems some preferred the thieves living in their midst to a troupe of Enchanted musicians. The abuse has tapered off now that we’re living in a barn—like good animals. It’s a nice barn, as barns go, but not as good as our little house was. Still there are those who hurl insults, or sometimes stones, when we go through town. Even children can be cruel to us. There’s a disreputable-looking gang of them that all seem to use us for target practice!”
I was appalled at this disclosure, not realizing that things were so bad in town.
“It’s only a minority that are stirring up trouble,” Zeke interjected, “but they’re a loud minority indeed! Too much in love with the sounds of their own voices to listen to what the good reverend tries to teach on Sunday mornings. ‘Humans only!’ is their slogan. I know, because we’ve heard them chanting it, and it was written on the bricks they used to throw through our windows. I don’t believe the malcontents will rest until they have silenced us all.”
“Silenced us all!” Ernest repeated, rustling his feathers and bobbing his head up and down for emphasis.
I felt great sympathy for the musicians, and wanted to apologize to them for the way they had been treated, though it was not really my place to do so.
“Ah, yes, of course,” sighed Reverend Snover. “Silence, like blindness, allows evil to flourish. A certain miserable faction of our citizenry thinks that they can make themselves less miserable by being cruel to others. They seek to silence the Enchanted while they deprive them of their rights and jobs and property, and reduce them to living in the wild, or as unpaid laborers—or as targets for their sport.”
“Sport!” squawked Ernest. “Sport! Ha!”
“Things are getting ugly,” Tallulah fretted. “One gang of rogues asked me why I wasn’t wearing a collar—and offered to put one on me! People can be so rude! I’m almost afraid to speak out loud in public these days. Safer just to act like an old stray cat.”
“That is precisely what they want,” the reverend responded.
“They are no gentlemen!” Mother Hubbard exclaimed.
I had the thought that our own newspaper could not come soon enough. More people needed to hear the stories of those like the four musicians, but since the new printing press and its location were to be a secret for now, I refrained from bringing it up.
“Why do they call themselves the Anthropological Society?” I asked.
Unable to resist playing Devil’s advocate, Mr. Snark spoke up, quavering in his little crooked voice. “Anthropology, after all, is merely the study of man and his culture. The society is simply a fraternal organization for humans who wish to preserve their human heritage. What’s wrong with that? Why, they’ve been known to make donations to widows and orphans, and hand out Bibles to Sunday schools. You’re all being alarmists!” Mr. Snark sat back to watch the effect of his declaration, as if he had just poked a stick in a beehive and stirred it around. There was only a troubled hush.
“Even if all you’ve said is true,” Reverend Wright spoke up, “it is easy to mask evil with a few good works.”
“They take care to keep their surface appearance respectable,” Zeke added. “Babcock and all his followers! Perhaps it cannot be proved that they sully their own hands with the dirty work, but at the very least they incite a lot of weak-minded ruffians to do it for them.”
“Weak-minded ruffians!” Ernest interjected.
“Not only the weak-minded ruffians,” Reverend Snover put in. “Many of them are educated men who should know better. In fact, I am ashamed to say that some of them are clergy. They’ve tried to recruit me more than once.”
“Surely not!” I cried.
“Pray, how can that be? Men of conscience?” Mother Hubbard demanded, giving voice to my own question. How could a clergyman be such a hypocrite?
“A conscience can be twisted to suit just about any deed or dogma, my dear. Many of the constabulary have joined as well. I’ve found that even the lowest criminal may justify his crimes with a skillful contortion of his morals, so that he counts himself as a righteous and misunderstood man.”
This revelation sobered us, and we all fell silent. Perhaps the others pondered, as I did, just how elastic their own principles might be if challenged.
“Well, enough of darkness and disillusionment,” Mrs. Snover interjected at last. “We can buoy one another up through anything the future might bring; for the present, let us do as the Good Book instructs us: we shall think on that which is lovely, and that which is admirable. I do believe the time has come for some music, my friends, if you would be so kind.” Wallace, Zeke, Tallulah, and Ernest, seemingly happy enough to change the subject, graciously acceded to this request, regrouping themselves about the fireplace in the cozy parlor and treating us to a medley of sentimental ballads.
I had not heard them perform before, so I could not tell how this night’s artistry compared to their usual fare, but it seemed to me, as I listened to their poignant refrains, to be singularly stirring. Indeed, when they sang the haunting melody of “The Blue Hills of Home,” it struck me forcefully that this band of weary old pilgrims, betrayed by their masters, could never go home again. As I felt a lump growing in my throat, I glanced about and saw many a glistening eye.
That night stood out in my memory long after it was over. Though I had become accustomed to older people failing to take me seriously because of my youth, that night I felt befriended by them. That night, the mantle of fellowship that had enveloped us all through the evening seemed to cling to each of us as we bade one another farewell and went our separate ways. How thankful we would be in times to come for such good and faithful company.