Fairy Tales: the Pith of Potter in The Fairy Caravan

Beatrix Potter is a great example of an artist thriving when challenged. Potter wanted to do her own thing. Her parents were good people but somewhat smothering in their expectations. She wrote and illustrated her splendid books in the face of limited opportunities.

Fast forward to when she had enough money to buy her own farm. She worked more on the farm than on her writing. However, she wrote The Fairy Caravan, a short novel, in 1929. Nobody has heard of it because it isn't reputed to be that good.

 

I determined to read it. In truth, I will admit, I expected it to be entirely lousy, support for the thesis I present above: artists thrive when challenged. 

And, in truth, the book isn't very good as a book. In 225 pages, there is little if any arc. The main character--I guess?--is abandoned within a few chapters and never really paid off. It's slice-of-life taken to the nth degree. 

It reminds one why her better books are short. 

And yet, I read the whole thing and found it gently pleasing, like golf and watching large tortoises eat. And it assured me that although Potter may have turned to children's literature as an alternative to entering the scientific (male-dominated and non-parent-approved) societies of her day (some women were helped by male compatriots to contribute to these societies), the skills that she demonstrates in her beautiful smaller books were part of her personal skill-set. She was gifted at creating and illustrating imaginative stories in very English landscapes.

The characters in The Fairy Caravan are all animals, being primarily a group of performers who roam the countryside in their caravan visiting other animals and putting on shows. The animals, though they often wear human clothing, still act like animals. The pictures are a tad too refined for the book's size but still evocative. And the writing is beautiful and fresh. Potter has a facility for nature description that I envy:

 

Cuckoo Brow Lane is a bonny spot in spring, garlanded with hawthorn and wild cherry blossom. It skirts the lower slopes of the hill that rises behind Codlin Croft. The meadows on their left were bathed in pearly dew; the lane still lay in the shadow of dawn; the sun had not yet topped the Brow. As it rose, its beams touched the golden tops of the oak trees in Pringle Wood; and a faint smell of bluebells floated over the wall.  

From a fairy tale perspective, Potter entwines talking animals with various folk practices and stories. The mixture is not belabored. She knew her countryside to her bones and could present the everyday next to the magical as if both were entirely natural. 

 

I recommend reading the book the way I did, bits at a time as if it were a collection of small books rather than a single novel.