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The Floating Press - Margaret Oliphant

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296 pages

English

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Born in Scotland and later a transplant to London, Margaret Oliphant was an accomplished and popular writer whose body of work includes historical novels, romances, and supernatural fiction. Despite the wide-ranging spectrum of genres she tackled, a common theme throughout is a gentle and insightful skewering of social mores and class stratification in the Victorian era. This collection of short stories is an engaging introduction to her unique literary style.

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Short story

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Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 février 2014
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781776529919
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0134€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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A WIDOW'S TALE
AND OTHER STORIES
* * *
MARGARET OLIPHANT

*
A Widow's Tale And Other Stories First published in 1898 Epub ISBN 978-1-77652-991-9 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77652-992-6 © 2013 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
*
Introductory Note A Widow's Tale Queen Eleanor and Fair Rosamond Mademoiselle The Lily and the Thorn The Strange Adventures of John Percival A Story of a Wedding-Tour John The Whirl of Youth The Heirs of Kellie Endnotes
Introductory Note
*
I remember well my first meeting with Mrs Oliphant a dozen years ago,how she "ordered" me to Windsor where she was then living (I like tothink that it was an order, and obeyed as such by her very loyalsubject), and that I was as proud to go, and as nervous, as those mustbe who make the same journey by command of another lady resident in thesame place. I have an odd recollection too of buying my first umbrellafor this occasion—for no reason apparently except that I wanted toimpress her.
They say she was not tall, but she seemed tremendous to me that day. Ifind an old letter in which I dwelt on the height of her and her grandmanner, so that evidently the umbrella was of little avail. In herpresence, I think, those whose manner is of to-day must always have feltsuddenly boorish. She belonged to a politer age: you never knew it moresurely than when she was putting you at your ease with a graciousnessthat had something of a command in it. Mrs Oliphant was herself the fineScots gentlewoman she drew so incomparably in her books, mostsympathetic when she unbent and a ramrod if she chose—the grande dame at one moment, almost a girl, it might be, the next (her sense of funoften made her a girl again), she gave you the impression of one wholoved to finger beautiful things, and always wore rare caps and finelace as if they were part of her. She could be almost fearsomelycorrect, and in the middle of it become audacious (for there was a dashof the Bohemian about her); her likes and dislikes were intense; in talkshe was extremely witty without trying to be so (she was often, I think,amused and surprised to hear what she had just said); her eyes were soexpressive, and such a humorous gleam leapt into them when you attemptedto impress her (with anything more pretentious than an umbrella), thatto catch sight of them must often to the grandiloquent have been to cometo an abrupt stop; and, more noticeable perhaps than anything else, shewas of an intellect so alert that one wondered she ever fell asleep.That was but a first impression, a photograph of externals, little to beread in it of the beautiful soul and most heroic woman who was the realMrs Oliphant. The last time I saw her, which was shortly before herdeath, I knew her better. The wit had all gone out of her eyes, thoughnot quite from her talk; her face had grown very sweet and soft, andwhat had started to be the old laugh often ended pitifully. The two sonswho had been so much to her were gone, and for the rest of her days shenever forgot it, I think, for the length of a smile. She was less thenovelist now than a pathetic figure in a novel. She was as brave asever, but she had less self-control; and so, I suppose it was, that themore exquisite part of her, which the Scotswoman's reserve had kepthidden, came to the surface and dwelt for that last year in her face, asif to let all those who looked on Mrs Oliphant know what she was beforeshe bade them good-bye.
I wonder if there is among the younger Scottish novelists of to-day anyone so foolish as to believe that he has a right to a stool near thiswoman, any one who has not experienced a sense of shame (and some rageat his heart) if he found that for the moment his little efforts werebeing taken more seriously than hers: I should like to lead the simpleman by the ear down the long procession of her books. It is too long aprocession, though there are so many fine figures in it—men and womenand boys (the boy in 'Sir Tom' is surely among the best in fiction) inthe earlier stories, nearly all women in the latest; but whether theywould have been greater books had she revised one instead of beginninganother is probably to be doubted. Not certainly because the best ofthem could not have been made better. That is obvious to almost anyreader: there nearly always comes a point in Mrs Oliphant's novels wherealmost any writer of the younger school, without a sixth part of hercapacity, could have stepped in with advantage. Often it is at the endof a fine scene, and what he would have had to tell her was that it wasthe end, for she seldom seemed to know. Even 'Kirsteen,' which I take tobe the best, far the best, story of its kind that has come out ofScotland for the last score of years, could have been improved by thecomparative duffer. Condensation, a more careful choice of words, we alllearn these arts in the schools nowadays—they are natural to the spiritof the age; but Mrs Oliphant never learned them, they were contrary toher genius (as to that of some other novelists greater than she), andthey would probably have trammelled her so much that the books wouldhave lost more than they gained. We must take her as she was, believingthat she knew the medium which best suited her talents, though it wasnot the best medium.
Her short stories, of which this book is a sample, contain some of herfinest work,—indeed nearly all of her deepest imaginings have appeared,as it happens, in this form. There is nothing in this volume thatdeserves to rank with, say, 'Old Lady Mary,' nor has it the ripplinghumour of the delicious 'Chronicles of Carlingford': its tale of theFellow of his college who becomes a raving lunatic because society hasdiscovered that his mother sells butter would be quite unworthy ofinclusion were it not for the noble figure of the mother; yet the bookhas numberless flashes of insight, several of those women "no longer inthe first flush of youth" of whom Mrs Oliphant wrote always withabundant sympathy, and latterly as if she loved them the best, and atleast one sweet love story in "Mademoiselle" (Mademoiselle writes such acharming love letter, saying No, that if she had dropped it on the wayto the post-office the first man who picked it up and read it would haverushed her to the registrar); and as if all this were not enough, shegives us in "Queen Eleanor and Fair Rosamond" as terrible and grim apicture of a man tired of fifty years of respectability as was everwritten. One would have liked to be able to pitchfork the son out of thestory, because he will talk, and, after the supreme situation, to dropthe curtain on the analysis of Queen Eleanor's state of mind. But it isa story to set you thinking. Mrs Oliphant wrote so many short storiesthat she forgot their names and what they were about, but readers, Ithink, will not soon forget this one; and if not this, when shall theirhearts grow cold and their admiration wane for the wonderful woman ofwhom it is but the thousandth part?
J. M. BARRIE.
A Widow's Tale
*
Chapter I
The Bamptons were expecting a visitor that very afternoon: which made itall the more indiscreet that young Fitzroy should stay so longpractising those duets with May. It was a summer afternoon, warm andbright, and the drawing-room was one of those pretty rooms which are asEnglish as the landscape surrounding them—carefully carpeted,curtained, and cushioned against all the eccentricities of an Englishwinter, yet with all the windows open, all the curtains put back, thesoft air streaming in, the sunshine not too carefully shut out, thegreen lawn outside forming a sort of velvety extension of the mossy softcarpet in which the foot sank within. This combination is not common inother countries, where the sun is so hot that it has to be shut out insummer, and coolness is procured by the partial dismantling of thehouse. From the large open windows the trees on the lawn appeared likemembers of the party, only a little withdrawn from those more mobilefigures which were presently coming to seat themselves round the prettytable shining with silver and china which was arranged under the acacia.Miss Bampton, who had been watching its arrangement, cast now and thenan impatient glance at the piano where May sat, with Mr Fitzroy standingover her. He was not one of the county neighbours, but a young man fromtown, a visitor, who had somehow fallen into habits of intimacy it couldscarcely be told why. And though he was visiting the Spencer-Jacksons,who were well known and sufficiently creditable people, nobody knew muchabout Mr Fitzroy. It is a good name: but then it is too good a name tobelong to a person of whom it can be said that nobody knows who he is. AFitzroy ought to be so very easily identified: it ought to be known atonce to which of the families of that name he belongs—very distantlyperhaps—as distantly as you please; but yet he must somehow belong toone of them.
This opinion Miss Bampton, who was a great genealogist, had stated overand over again, but without producing any conviction in her hearers. Herfather asked hastily what they had to do with Fitzroy that they shouldinsist on knowing to whom he belonged. And May turned round upon herlittle, much too high, heel and laughed. What did she care who he was?He had a delightful baritone, which "went" beautifully with her ownsoprano. He was very nice-looking. He had been a great deal abroad, andhis manners were beautiful, with none of the st