"Sheri S. Tepper - Beauty" - читать интересную книгу автора (Tepper Sherri)

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BEAUTY
Sheri S. Tepper

To Malcolm Edwards, who is wisely responsible for these empty pages


FOREWORD
[In the pages that follow, there are certain interpolations written by me, Carabosse, the fairy
of clocks, keeper of the secrets of time. When I stand on the bridge above my Forever Pool, I see
all past and future things reflected, near or far, dim or plain. If I invite others to stand beside me,
they too may see.
That which we do, we do because we see.
This journal is written by Beauty, daughter of the Duke of Westfaire, recipient of many
pleasant gifts. Though it is regrettable that no one gave her the gift of intelligence (a gift not
highly valued in Faery) she has a practicality that often makes up for that lack.
Intelligent or not, she is the coffer that hides our treasure.
Intelligent or not, Beauty is all our hope.]


THE JOURNAL OF BEAUTY
the daughter of
THE DUKE OF WESTFAIRE
Getting started on this writing, I cut five different quills and ruined them all. Father Raymond finally cut
this one for me. I told him he must, since he gave me the book as a reward for good progress in Latin,
rhetoric, and composition, and for going a whole month without complaining. Now I have a place to
write all the things I cannot say to anyone, except to Father Raymond, and sometimes he is too busy to
listen. It is my intention to tell the story of my entire life so when I am aged I can read it and remember
everything. Old people often do not remember things. I know because I have asked them, at least the
ones around here, and they usually say something like, "Beauty, for heaven's sake, child, I just don't
remember."
If I had a mother I would ask her. I never knew my mother. That is probably as good a place to start
as any.


1
MY LIFE IN WESTFAIRE

ST. RICHARD OF CHICHESTER'S DAY, APRIL, YEAR OF OUR LORD 1347
I never knew my mother. My father never speaks of her, though my aunts, his half sisters, make up
for his silence with a loquacity which is as continuous as it is malicious. The aunts speak no good of her,
whoever she was and whatever has happened to her, specifics which they avoid, however much ill they
find to mutter about else. I have always thought they would not waste so much breath on her if she were
dead, therefore she is probably alive, somewhere. De mortuis nil nisi bonum, Father Raymond says,
but that only applies to dead people.
When I was very young I used to ask about her. (As I think any child would. It wasn't wickedness.)
First I was hushed, and when I persisted, I was punished. Nothing makes me angrier or more intent upon
finding out things than having people refuse to tell me. I don't mind when people don't know, not really,
but I hate it when they just won't tell. It's not practical, because it just makes others more curious. It was