The Penguin Book of the British Short Story, Volume 1 Read online

  Was there a regional aspect? Perhaps. The Scottish short story has aspects of folklore and a consistent interest in experiments with voice that is their own – I was sorry not to find space for Eric Linklater, and to have included some more early compilers of folklore would have taken the anthology in a direction too rich to be merely sampled. The Welsh short story produces profound mastery, and its fascination with the unexpected direction and the superficially relaxed, conversational purpose emerges in Rhys Davies and the breathtaking Alun Lewis story – a hearty, skirling, raucous quality, too.

  It may be that the British short story offers the longest and richest national tradition in the world, and with its own particular qualities of genre, extroversion, confidence and improvisation escapes any kind of predictability. This anthology could very easily have been twice as long as it is. I was determined that I would not include famous writers on the basis of achievement that, in reality, lay elsewhere – neither Firbank nor Virginia Woolf would command our interest on the basis of their stories if they had never written novels. E. M. Forster was a difficult case. The stories I most admired were published posthumously, ruling them out of consideration, and the ones he published in his lifetime suffered from the whimsy that his novels, at greater length, command and subdue. Nor was it right to include stories that were merely historically interesting; Scott’s short stories are important, but I couldn’t admire any of them as much as the best of Galt. I also thought that Walter de la Mare was in the unusual position of requiring lengthy submersion in his peculiar tone. It was impossible to imagine any of his stories making sense in an anthology of this sort, and I could not make up my mind whether he was a writer of genius or a writer of essentially entranced badness.

  I thought it was my duty to shut my ears against the noise of fashionable approbation. Particularly in the case of contemporary writers, it would have been easy to have gone along with some lazily acclaimed writers. Of course, there are some writers at work now whom I omitted at the last with immense regret, such as Jane Gardam, David Rose, Gerard Woodward or Helen Dunmore. There were other highly acclaimed practitioners, however, who never came near a final selection. Reading through an author’s successive collections of stories was a salutary lesson in discovering that a large reputation really had no idea how to put a story together, or had only one idea, much repeated over the course of decades. Other restrictions made themselves felt. It was agony to confine myself to a single story by a very varied and fecund writer. Worst of all, it sometimes had to be accepted that an author who had done something rather brilliant with a short story couldn’t quite justify his or her space at the expense of a greater master. While not feeling much guilt about the omission of a fashionable name or a Woolf – they will survive my neglect – I do feel guilty about these unfamiliar names who had made something strong and beautiful and striking, and yet, at the last, I found that a J. E. Buckrose, a Margery Sharp, an Elizabeth Goudge, an H. A. Manhood or an R. Murray Gilchrist (much admired by Arnold Bennett) had to drop back into oblivion. With all that, the task of systematically reading thousands of short stories by hundreds of writers in journals, collections and magazines must count as the most rewarding and surprising of my professional life.

  6

  Many conversations, much correspondence and casual discussion over the years contributed to this anthology. I would like to thank John Mullan, John Sutherland, Tessa Hadley, Alan Hollinghurst, Nicola Barr, Harriet Harvie-Wood, Georgia Garrett, Georgie Hammick, Peter Parker, D. J. Taylor, Jane Feaver, Ginny Baily, Maggie Fergusson and Candia McWilliam for very helpful suggestions. The idea of the anthology was Simon Winder’s at Penguin. Simon both confidently went along with the notion of an anthology on a very generous scale, and, just as importantly, kept the project within bounds. I should also say that he coped manfully with the loss of a splendid Ian Fleming story at the very last stage. The detailed investigation of both journals and collections of stories was only possible thanks to the London Library and the British Library. I would also like to thank Bath Spa University, which gave me time off from teaching at a crucial stage to allow me to get through a very large quantity of reading. Above all, the work of selection owes most to A. S. Byatt, who carved a pioneering path with her 1997 Oxford Book of the English Short Story and whose selfless interest and engagement in conversation and correspondence gave me a lot to think about. I am very happy to dedicate this anthology to Antonia, and to correct at least one glaring omission from her anthology; she modestly left herself out, and it is a pleasure to be able to include a superb story by my predecessor.

  Philip Hensher, 2015

  Notes

  1 Review of N. Hawthorne, ‘Twice-Told Tales’, in Poe, Edgar Allen, Essays and Reviews, ed. G. R. Thompson (New York, 1984), p. 571.

  2 ‘The Philosophy of Composition’, ibid, p. 19.

  3 The Collected Stories of Lanoe Falconer (Palo Alto, 2010), p. 13.

  4 Baldwin, Dean, Art and Commerce in the British Short Story, 1880–1950 (London, 2013), p. 8.

  5 Baldwin, p. 44.

  6 Lycett, Andrew, Conan Doyle: The Man Who Created Sherlock Holmes (London, 2007), pp. 294, 299.

  7 Baldwin, p. 101.

  8 Chambers’s Journal, 3 June 1871.

  9 ‘A Few Notes upon Mr James’, The Yellow Book, vol. 7, p. 71.

  10 Reported on Twitter by an audience member called Koa Beck, 1 February 2014, after a talk at Beth Elohim, Park Slope, Brooklyn.

  11 Khushwant Singh Selects: Best Indian Short Stories, vol. 2 (Harper Collins, India), p. 9.

  12 Quoted by W. Forbes Gray, ‘A Hundred Years Old: Chambers’s Journal, 1832–1932’, Chambers’s Journal (1932), p. 83.

  Daniel Defoe

  A True Relation of the Apparition of Mrs Veal

  This thing is so rare in all its circumstances, and on so good authority, that my reading and conversation has not given me anything like it: it is fit to gratify the most ingenious and serious inquirer. Mrs Bargrave is the person to whom Mrs Veal appeared after her death; she is my intimate friend, and I can avouch for her reputation, for these last fifteen or sixteen years, on my own knowledge; and I can confirm the good character she had from her youth, to the time of my acquaintance. Though, since this relation, she is calumniated by some people, that are friends to the brother of this Mrs Veal, who appeared; who think the relation of this appearance to be a reflection, and endeavour what they can to blast Mrs Bargrave’s reputation, and to laugh the story out of countenance. But by the circumstances thereof, and the cheerful disposition of Mrs Bargrave, notwithstanding the ill-usage of a very wicked husband, there is not yet the least sign of dejection in her face; nor did I ever hear her let fall a desponding or murmuring expression; nay, not when actually under her husband’s barbarity; which I have been witness to, and several other persons of undoubted reputation.

  Now you must know, Mrs Veal was a maiden gentlewoman of about thirty years of age, and for some years last past had been troubled with fits; which were perceived coming on her, by her going off from her discourse very abruptly to some impertinence. She was maintained by an only brother, and kept his house in Dover. She was a very pious woman, and her brother a very sober man to all appearance; but now he does all he can to null or quash the story. Mrs Veal was intimately acquainted with Mrs Bargrave from her childhood. Mrs Veal’s circumstances were then mean; her father did not take care of his children as he ought, so that they were exposed to hardships; and Mrs Bargrave, in those days, had as unkind a father, though she wanted neither for food nor clothing, whilst Mrs Veal wanted for both; insomuch that she would often say, Mrs Bargrave, you are not only the best, but the only friend I have in the world, and no circumstance of life shall ever dissolve my friendship. They would often condole each other’s adverse fortunes, and read together Drelincourt upon Death, and other good books; and so, like two Christian friends, they comforted each other under their sorrow.

  Some time after, Mr Veal’s friends got him a place in the custom-hou
se at Dover, which occasioned Mrs Veal, by little and little, to fall off from her intimacy with Mrs Bargrave, though there was never any such thing as a quarrel; but an indifferency came on by degrees, till at last Mrs Bargrave had not seen her in two years and a half; though above a twelvemonth of the time Mrs Bargrave hath been absent from Dover, and this last half year has been in Canterbury about two months of the time, dwelling in a house of her own.

  In this house, on the 8th of September, 1705, she was sitting alone in the forenoon, thinking over her unfortunate life, and arguing herself into a due resignation to providence, though her condition seemed hard. And, said she, I have been provided for hitherto, and doubt not but I shall be still; and am well satisfied that my afflictions shall end when it is most fit for me: and then took up her sewing-work, which she had no sooner done, but she hears a knocking at the door. She went to see who was there, and this proved to be Mrs Veal, her old friend, who was in a riding-habit. At that moment of time the clock struck twelve at noon.

  Madam, says Mrs Bargrave, I am surprised to see you, you have been so long a stranger; but told her, she was glad to see her, and offered to salute her; which Mrs Veal complied with, till their lips almost touched; and then Mrs Veal drew her hand across her own eyes, and said, I am not very well; and so waived it. She told Mrs Bargrave, she was going a journey, and had a great mind to see her first. But, says Mrs Bargrave, how came you to take a journey alone? I am amazed at it, because I know you have a fond brother. Oh! says Mrs Veal, I gave my brother the slip, and came away because I had so great a desire to see you before I took my journey. So Mrs Bargrave went in with her, into another room within the first, and Mrs Veal sat her down in an elbow-chair, in which Mrs Bargrave was sitting when she heard Mrs Veal knock. Then says Mrs Veal, My dear friend, I am come to renew our old friendship again, and beg your pardon for my breach of it; and if you can forgive me, you are the best of women. O, says Mrs Bargrave, do not mention such a thing; I have not had an uneasy thought about it; I can easily forgive it. What did you think of me? said Mrs Veal. Says Mrs Bargrave, I thought you were like the rest of the world, and that prosperity had made you forget yourself and me. Then Mrs Veal reminded Mrs Bargrave of the many friendly offices she did her in former days, and much of the conversation they had with each other in the times of their adversity; what books they read, and what comfort, in particular, they received from Drelincourt’s Book of Death, which was the best, she said, on that subject ever written. She also mentioned Dr Sherlock, the two Dutch books which were translated, written upon death, and several others. But Drelincourt, she said, had the clearest notions of death, and of the future state, of any who had handled that subject. Then she asked Mrs Bargrave, whether she had Drelincourt. She said, Yes. Says Mrs Veal, Fetch it. And so Mrs Bargrave goes up stairs and brings it down. Says Mrs Veal, Dear Mrs Bargrave, if the eyes of our faith were as open as the eyes of our body, we should see numbers of angels about us for our guard. The notions we have of heaven now, are nothing like what it is, as Drelincourt says; therefore be comforted under your afflictions, and believe that the Almighty has a particular regard to you; and that your afflictions are marks of God’s favour; and when they have done the business they are sent for, they shall be removed from you. And, believe me, my dear friend, believe what I say to you, one minute of future happiness will infinitely reward you for all your sufferings. For, I can never believe, (and claps her hand upon her knee with great earnestness, which indeed ran through most of her discourse,) that ever God will suffer you to spend all your days in this afflicted state; but be assured, that your afflictions shall leave you, or you them, in a short time. She spake in that pathetical and heavenly manner, that Mrs Bargrave wept several times, she was so deeply affected with it.

  Then Mrs Veal mentioned Dr Kenrick’s Ascetick, at the end of which he gives an account of the lives of the primitive Christians. Their pattern she recommended to our imitation, and said, their conversation was not like this of our age: For now, says she, there is nothing but frothy, vain discourse, which is far different from theirs. Theirs was to edification, and to build one another up in faith; so that they were not as we are, nor are we as they were: but, says she, we ought to do as they did. There was an hearty friendship among them; but where is it now to be found? Says Mrs Bargrave, It is hard indeed to find a true friend in these days. Says Mrs Veal, Mr Norris has a fine copy of verses, called Friendship in Perfection, which I wonderfully admire. Have you seen the book? says Mrs Veal. No, says Mrs Bargrave, but I have the verses of my own writing out. Have you? says Mrs Veal, then fetch them. Which she did from above stairs, and offered them to Mrs Veal to read, who refused, and waived the thing, saying, holding down her head would make it ache; and then desired Mrs Bargrave to read them to her, which she did. As they were admiring friendship, Mrs Veal said, Dear Mrs Bargrave, I shall love you for ever. In these verses there is twice used the word Elysian, Ah! says Mrs Veal, these poets have such names for heaven. She would often draw her hand across her own eyes, and say, Mrs Bargrave, do not you think I am mightily impaired by my fits? No, says Mrs Bargrave, I think you look as well as ever I knew you. After all this discourse, which the apparition put in much finer words than Mrs Bargrave said she could pretend to, and as much more than she can remember, (for it cannot be thought, that an hour and three quarters’ conversation could all be retained, though the main of it she thinks she does,) she said to Mrs Bargrave, she would have her write a letter to her brother, and tell him, she would have him give rings to such and such; and that there was a purse of gold in her cabinet, and that she would have two broad pieces given to her cousin Watson.

  Talking at this rate, Mrs Bargrave thought that a fit was coming upon her, and so placed herself in a chair just before her knees, to keep her from falling to the ground, if her fits should occasion it: for the elbow-chair, she thought, would keep her from falling on either side. And to divert Mrs Veal, as she thought, took hold of her gown-sleeve several times, and commended it. Mrs Veal told her, it was a scowered silk, and newly made up. But for all this, Mrs Veal persisted in her request, and told Mrs Bargrave, she must not deny her: and she would have her tell her brother all their conversation, when she had opportunity. Dear Mrs Veal, says Mrs Bargrave, this seems so impertinent, that I cannot tell how to comply with it; and what a mortifying story will our conversation be to a young gentleman? Why, says Mrs Bargrave, it is much better, methinks to do it yourself. No, says Mrs Veal, though it seems impertinent to you now, you will see more reason for it hereafter. Mrs Bargrave then, to satisfy her importunity, was going to fetch a pen and ink; but Mrs Veal said, Let it alone now, but do it when I am gone; but you must be sure to do it: which was one of the last things she enjoined her at parting; and so she promised her.

  Then Mrs Veal asked for Mrs Bargrave’s daughter; she said, she was not at home: But if you have a mind to see her, says Mrs Bargrave, I’ll send for her. Do, says Mrs Veal. On which she left her, and went to a neighbour’s to see for her; and by the time Mrs Bargrave was returning, Mrs Veal was got without the door in the street, in the face of the beast-market, on a Saturday, which is market-day, and stood ready to part, as soon as Mrs Bargrave came to her. She asked her, why she was in such haste. She said she must be going, though perhaps she might not go her journey till Monday; and told Mrs Bargrave, she hoped she should see her again at her cousin Watson’s, before she went whither she was going. Then she said, she would take her leave of her, and walked from Mrs Bargrave in her view, till a turning interrupted the sight of her, which was three quarters after one in the afternoon.

  Mrs Veal died the 7th of September, at twelve o’clock at noon, of her fits, and had not above four hours’ senses before her death, in which time she received the sacrament. The next day after Mrs Veal’s appearing, being Sunday, Mrs Bargrave was mightily indisposed with a cold, and a sore throat, that she could not go out that day; but on Monday morning she sent a person to captain Watson’s, to know if Mrs Veal was there. They wondered at M
rs Bargrave’s inquiry; and sent her word, that she was not there, nor was expected. At this answer Mrs Bargrave told the maid she had certainly mistook the name, or made some blunder. And though she was ill, she put on her hood, and went herself to captain Watson’s though she knew none of the family, to see if Mrs Veal was there or not. They said, they wondered at her asking, for that she had not been in town; they were sure, if she had, she would have been there. Says Mrs Bargrave, I am sure she was with me on Saturday almost two hours. They said, it was impossible; for they must have seen her if she had. In comes Capt. Watson, while they were in dispute, and said, that Mrs Veal was certainly dead, and her escutcheons were making. This strangely surprised Mrs Bargrave, when she sent to the person immediately who had the care of them, and found it true. Then she related the whole story to captain Watson’s family, and what gown she had on, and how striped; and that Mrs Veal told her, it was scowered. Then Mrs Watson cried out, You have seen her indeed, for none knew, but Mrs Veal and myself, that the gown was scowered. And Mrs Watson owned, that she described the gown exactly: For, said she, I helped her to make it up. This Mrs Watson blazed all about the town, and avouched the demonstration of the truth of Mrs Bargrave’s seeing Mrs Veal’s apparition. And captain Watson carried two gentlemen immediately to Mrs Bargrave’s house, to hear the relation of her own mouth. And when it spread so fast, that gentlemen and persons of quality, the judicious and sceptical part of the world, flocked in upon her, it at last became such a task, that she was forced to go out of the way. For they were, in general, extremely satisfied of the truth of the thing, and plainly saw that Mrs Bargrave was no hypocondriac; for she always appears with such a cheerful air, and pleasing mien, that she has gained the favour and esteem of all the gentry; and it is thought a great favour, if they can but get the relation from her own mouth. I should have told you before, that Mrs Veal told Mrs Bargrave, that her sister and brother-in-law were just come down from London to see her. Says Mrs Bargrave, How came you to order matters so strangely? It could not be helped, says Mrs Veal. And her brother and sister did come to see her, and entered the town of Dover just as Mrs Veal was expiring. Mrs Bargrave asked her, whether she would drink some tea. Says Mrs Veal, I do not care if I do; but I’ll warrant you, this mad fellow, (meaning Mrs Bargrave’s husband,) has broke all your trinkets. But, says Mrs Bargrave, I’ll get something to drink in for all that; but Mrs Veal waived it, and said, It is no matter, let it alone; and so it passed.