Fairies inhabit the ancient East Deanery garden. Theirs is a golden realm beneath the sundial, where Queen Gwathawil reigns.
When Stephen, an eccentric historian, and his young friend Marie discover this world at the border between spirit and substance, all the multifaceted experience of Vision comes upon them, yet they must function in the ordinary world to save what is most exquisite in spirit.
Read an excerpt from the book HERE.
Like The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, The Fairy Garden explores through fantasy the issues of life, the nature of evil, and the adventure of spiritual awareness.
Colin of the Secret Garden and Sebastian of Brideshead Revisited were both inspired by the same extraordinary person, Stephen Tennant. Meeting him when he was at the edge of aging, and knowing nothing of his past (but that he had danced the Sugarplum Fairy in La Jolla when he was six), Katherine Ann Wynne was so fascinated by him, by his creation of a beautiful world all his own, that she was moved to write The Fairy Garden. Her hero, Stephen Eddington, is unlike Stephen Tennant, except in that he chooses to champion a lovely, separate world that is seen perhaps only by him and by a child.
- Publisher : Wake Robin Press (June 15, 2013)
- Language : English
- Paperback : 340 pages
- ISBN-10 : 0615755682
- ISBN-13 : 978-0615755687
The Fairy Garden was written as an escape, a refuge for my mind while a fine art print publishing business of mine sank into irresistible bankruptcy as the print market collapsed.
Last summer while traveling through England with a friend, we visited an acquaintance of hers, Stephen Tennant, at his home, Wilsford Manor, in the Wiltshire countryside.
Wilsford Manor is a house in Tudor style, of comfortable but not pretentious dimensions. What was instantly arresting was Stephen’s approach to interior decoration. The staircase newel post, a voluptuous fixture bulging with knobs, was swathed in a Spanish shawl. From its base there extended a trail of glitter over carpets and a generous strewing of satin cushions on the floor, nothing obstructed the sparkling way.
Stephen received us in the Tulip Room, an extraordinary bedchamber of square shape the centre of which was down a step, creating a stage like platform around the walls. This effect was enhanced by a pair of proscenia arching across the two inner walls. The outer walls were well supplied with windows that overlooked an untended garden. On the platform’s corner, where the two outer walls met, stood a dressing table furnished with a crowd of crystal perfume bottles grey blanketed with dust. Our host sat in a daybed in the shelter of one of the proscenia. His hair was dyed brilliant orange, his face, slightly plump with age, was orange also, with a coating of theatrical makeup. A dark blue fish-net shirt clothed him above the covers, which were drawn up to his waist.We talked of literature and when he asked me what I did I told him of the decline of my company. As consolation he gave me a great wad of jewelry to fondle.
My friend and I eventually were led by John or Mary, our host’s ‘couple,’ downstairs to lunch. I confess I don’t recall what we ate, the room and our luncheon companions absorbed my whole attention. We were seated at a lovely oval mahogany table around which a number of stone busts on pedestals had been drawn up, providing the additional guests, an assortment of ancient Greek athletes, philosophers and gods. Behind a drapery was another bust, a bearded and hooded Zeus with his head cocked as though he were eavesdropping through the curtain. On the walls and propped upon the floor were our host’s framed and coloured pen and ink drawings, their subjects ranging from Shirley Temple to rough sailors, all with a semblance of Stephen’s face.
I felt this remarkable retreat disturbing at the time and when we left Wilsford Manor I was somewhat relieved.
Later in the day, as I was exploring the nearby town, I found my friend sitting and reading under a tree on the lawn of the Cathedral Close. She gestured with a wave of her elegant hand, saying, “There’s a garden over there you’ll like.”
That was how I discovered the garden that inspired this book. But as I crouched to take photos of its dew pearled flowers, a voice called out to me. “I say, young lady, could you help me?” Thus I met the gentleman and the goat who appear in these pages. The goat in fact was named Silene. And she did drag me the length of the garden at full gallop as she devoured an entire rose bush on the run.
The dapper fellow who’d involved me in this dash caught up, took the goat’s rope and tried to drag her back to her proper domain. As he tugged at the now steadfast beast, he puckishly inquired, “Don’t you want to take a picture?” Thoroughly shaken, I failed to take the picture.
Luckily, I’d taken quite a few snapshots already. This past winter, when the film finally was developed,the photographs gave me a bright moment at an otherwise bleak time. Looking at an image of an arching stem with droplets strung on spider thread like pearls upon a necklace; or a single drop like a tear on the lip of a fuchsia, I heard myself saying, “If there are fairies anywhere, they’re in that garden.”
Wanting to hold onto my momentary happiness, I composed an outline for a fantasy and titled it, The Fairy Garden. Stephen, my memorable host, became the inspiration for my hero: a man who, finding the world not to his taste, has the bravery to dwell in his own world apart. Though unlike Stephen Tennant in every other way, the Stephen of these pages also is a man who departs from the norm, choosing to embrace the beautiful and let it fill his life with both its sweetness and its challenges. The Fairy Garden has been my retreat, a dwelling in pure fantasy.
I didn’t know, when I found inspiration in Stephen Tennant, that he’d already served as muse for other writings, major ones at that. In his childhood his parents, patrons of the arts and literature, often had authors as guests. Frances Hodgson Burnett fashioned from her hosts’ delicate little son the character of Colin, and The Secret Garden took shape in her mind.
Later, in his youth, Stephen befriended Evelyn Waugh who was both entranced and cautious, deriving from Stephen his Sebastian for Brideshead Revisited even to the ever present stuffed toy pet.
For the pleasure that writing The Fairy Garden has given me I owe much thanks to my friend for whisking me to Wilsford Manor and the garden, and more thanks to Stephen Tennant, a man who could inspire even those who met him only brief.
Katherine Ann Wynne
New York, 1977