Great English Short Stories (Dover Thrift Editions) Read online

  DOVER THRIFT EDITIONS

  GENERAL EDITOR: MARY CAROLYN WALDREP EDITOR OF THIS VOLUME: JANET BAINE KOPITO

  Copyright © 2005 by Dover Publications, Inc. All rights reserved.

  Bibliographical Note

  This Dover edition, first published in 2005, is a new selection of stories reprinted from standard texts. A new introductory Note has been specially prepared for this edition.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Great English short stories / edited by Paul Negri.

  p. cm.—(Dover thrift editions)

  Contents:The haunted house / Charles Dickens—The fiddler of the reels / Thomas Hardy—The parson’s daughter of Oxney Colne / Anthony Trollope—The Prussian officer / D. H. Lawrence—The phantom rickshaw / Rudyard Kipling—Under the knife / H. G. Wells—The dead hand / Wilkie Collins—Tobermory / Saki—A lodging for the night / Robert Louis Stevenson—“Oh, whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad” / M.R. James—The broken boot / John Galsworthy—The house of cobwebs / George Gissing—The lifted veil / George Eliot.

  9780486114170

  1. Short stories, English. I. Negri, Paul. II. Series.

  PR1309.S5G74 2005

  823’.010808—dc22

  2005043293

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  Dover Publications, Inc., 31 East 2nd Street, Mineola, N.Y. 11501

  Note

  AMONG THE vast riches of English literature are masterpieces of that most challenging of literary forms—the short story. To develop character, plot, and other requisite elements within the brief space allotted requires a focus of purpose far different from that of a longer work. The reader must learn enough about the characters to care about their fate, and the story must be sufficiently complex to establish the conflict and its resolution. This anthology will leave no doubt that many of literature’s greatest novelists, such as Dickens, Hardy, George Eliot, Lawrence, Trollope, Galsworthy, and Wells—to name just a few—produced short works that satisfy these demands.

  This collection of thirteen stories spans approximately sixty-five years, from the publication of Collins’ “The Dead Hand” in 1857 to the appearance of Galsworthy’s “The Broken Boot” in 1923. The historical milieu is that of the Victorian, Edwardian, and Georgian periods in England. Short fiction was a mainstay of periodicals in the latter part of the nineteenth century (it is still included in some contemporary magazines), and many writers capitalized on this popularity to supplement their income. Several of the stories in this collection first appeared in periodicals, including “The Parson’s Daughter of Oxney Colne” (The London Review, 2, 1861),“The Fiddler of the Reels” (Scribner’s Magazine, 1893), and “A Lodging for the Night” (Temple Bar, 1877).

  Many of the late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century works in this compilation reflect the influence of Gothic fiction: the use of supernatural events (“The Haunted House,” “Under the Knife,” “The Phantom ’Rickshaw,” “The Lifted Veil,” “‘Oh, Whistle, and I’ll Come to You, My Lad,’”); the creation of an atmosphere of terror (“The Dead Hand,” “The House of Cobwebs”); and the portrayal of the oppressiveness of madness (“The Lifted Veil”). The supernatural is also invoked in the comical situation of a cat verbally sniping at the British upper class after it learns to speak like a human in “Tobermory.” It is interesting to note how these works use the chaotic effects of superstition, the fear of the unknown, and a belief in ghosts to refute the prevailing Victorian notions of progress, science, and rationalism. The Crystal Palace, the great Victorian exhibition of 1851 that presented “modern” technology in all its glory, is mentioned in “The Fiddler of the Reels.” Hardy describes the time as one of “great hope and activity among the nations and industries,” and yet his story is colored by words such as “weird,” “wizardly,” “peculiar,” “devil’s tunes,” “wild desire,” “abandonment,” and “witchery,” implying that the advance of technology has done little to tame human nature—or explain the inexplicable.

  The use of local color does much to establish the setting of a brief tale. In these works, the great city of London predominates. It provides a means of escape from the scrutiny of the village for characters in “The Fiddler of the Reels,” “The Parson’s Daughter of Oxney Colne,” and “The House of Cobwebs.” In the Gissing story, the wages of progress are commented upon by the narrator, who remarks that “the neighborhood was undergoing change such as in our time destroys the picturesque in all London suburbs.”

  Rounding out this highly entertaining selection are works by Trollope, Lawrence, and Galsworthy. In “The Parson’s Daughter of Oxney Colne,” social strictures clash with romantic love. “The Prussian Officer,” Lawrence’s shocking examination of the explosive nature of repressed feelings, is perhaps the most “modern” of the tales. “The Broken Boot” succinctly uncovers the last shreds of pride of a down-on-his-luck actor. All three stories examine the gap between social classes in expert, dramatic fashion.

  Ultimately, the true success of any work of fiction occurs when the reader “inhabits” the story and loses touch with his or her surroundings. Without a doubt, this collection of thirteen short stories by writers as diverse as D. H. Lawrence and John Galsworthy will quickly transport the reader to that remarkable realm.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  DOVER THRIFT EDITIONS

  Copyright Page

  Note

  THE HAUNTED HOUSE

  THE FIDDLER OF THE REELS

  THE PARSON’S DAUGHTER OF OXNEY COLNE

  THE PRUSSIAN OFFICER

  THE PHANTOM ’RICKSHAW

  UNDER THE KNIFE

  THE DEAD HAND

  TOBERMORY

  A LODGING FOR THE NIGHT

  “OH, WHISTLE, AND I’LL COME TO YOU, MY LAD”

  THE BROKEN BOOT

  THE HOUSE OF COBWEBS

  THE LIFTED VEIL

  DOVER • THRIFT • EDITIONS

  THE HAUNTED HOUSE

  Charles Dickens

  THE MORTALS IN THE HOUSE

  UNDER NONE of the accredited ghostly circumstances, and environed by none of the conventional ghostly surroundings, did I first make acquaintance with the house which is the subject of this Christmas piece. I saw it in the daylight, with the sun upon it. There was no wind, no rain, no lightning, no thunder, no awful or unwonted circumstance, of any kind, to heighten its effect. More than that: I had come to it direct from a railway station: it was not more than a mile distant from the railway station; and, as I stood outside the house, looking back upon the way I had come, I could see the goods train running smoothly along the embankment in the valley. I will not say that everything was utterly commonplace, because I doubt if anything can be that, except to utterly commonplace people—and there my vanity steps in; but, I will take it on myself to say that anybody might see the house as I saw it, any fine autumn morning.

  The manner of my lighting on it was this.

  I was travelling towards London out of the North, intending to stop by the way, to look at the house. My health required a temporary residence in the country; and a friend of mine who knew that, and who had happened to drive past the house, had written to me to suggest it as a likely place. I had got into the train at midnight, and had fallen asleep, and had woke up and had sat looking out of window at the brilliant Northern Lights in the sky, and had fallen asleep again, and had woke up again to find the night gone, with the usual discontented conviction on me that I hadn’t been to sleep at all;—upon which question, in the first imbecility of that condition, I am ashamed to believe that I would have
done wager by battle with the man who sat opposite me. That opposite man had had, through the night—as that opposite man always has—several legs too many, and all of them too long. In addition to this unreasonable conduct (which was only to be expected of him), he had had a pencil and a pocket-book, and had been perpetually listening and taking notes. It had appeared to me that these aggravating notes related to the jolts and bumps of the carriage, and I should have resigned myself to his taking them, under a general supposition that he was in the civil-engineering way of life, if he had not sat staring straight over my head whenever he listened. He was a goggle-eyed gentleman of a perplexed aspect, and his demeanour became unbearable.

  It was a cold, dead morning (the sun not being up yet), and when I had out-watched the paling light of the fires of the iron country, and the curtain of heavy smoke that hung at once between me and the stars and between me and the day, I turned to my fellow-traveller and said:

  “I beg your pardon, Sir, but do you observe anything particular in me?” For, really, he appeared to be taking down, either my travelling-cap or my hair, with a minuteness that was a liberty.

  The goggle-eyed gentleman withdrew his eyes from behind me, as if the back of the carriage were a hundred miles off, and said, with a lofty look of compassion for my insignificance:

  “In you, Sir?—B.”

  “B, Sir?” said I, growing warm.

  “I have nothing to do with you, sir,” returned the gentleman; “pray let me listen—O.”

  He enunciated this vowel after a pause, and noted it down.

  At first I was alarmed, for an Express lunatic and no communication with the guard, is a serious position. The thought came to my relief that the gentleman might be what is popularly called a Rapper: one of a sect for (some of) whom I have the highest respect, but whom I don’t believe in. I was going to ask him the question, when he took the bread out of my mouth.

  “You will excuse me,” said the gentleman contemptuously, “if I am too much in advance of common humanity to trouble myself at all about it. I have passed the night—as indeed I pass the whole of my time now—in spiritual intercourse.”

  “O!” said I, somewhat snappishly.

  “The conferences of the night began,” continued the gentleman, turning several leaves of his note-book, “with this message: ‘Evil communications corrupt good manners.’”

  “Sound,” said I; “but, absolutely new?”

  “New from spirits,” returned the gentleman.

  I could only repeat my rather snappish “O!” and ask if I might be favoured with the last communication.

  “‘A bird in the hand,’” said the gentleman, reading his last entry with great solemnity, “‘is worth two in the Bosh.’”

  “Truly I am of the same opinion,” said I; “but shouldn’t it be Bush?”

  “It came to me, Bosh,” returned the gentleman.

  The gentleman then informed me that the spirit of Socrates had delivered this special revelation in the course of the night, “My friend, I hope you are pretty well. There are two in this railway carriage. How do you do? There are seventeen thousand four hundred and seventy-nine spirits here, but you cannot see them. Pythagoras is here. He is not at liberty to mention it, but hopes you like travelling.” Galileo likewise had dropped in, with this scientific intelligence. “I am glad to see you, amico. Come sta? Water will freeze when it is cold enough. Addio!” In the course of the night, also, the following phenomena had occurred. Bishop Butler had insisted on spelling his name, “Bubler,” for which offence against orthography and good manners he had been dismissed as out of temper. John Milton (suspected of wilful mystification) had repudiated the authorship of Paradise Lost, and had introduced, as joint authors of that poem, two Unknown gentlemen, respectively named Grungers and Scadgingtone. And Prince Arthur, nephew of King John of England, had described himself as tolerably comfortable in the seventh circle, where he was learning to paint on velvet, under the direction of Mrs. Trimmer and Mary Queen of Scots.

  If this should meet the eye of the gentleman who favoured me with these disclosures, I trust he will excuse my confessing that the sight of the rising sun, and the contemplation of the magnificent Order of the vast Universe, made me impatient of them. In a word, I was so impatient of them, that I was mightily glad to get out at the next station, and to exchange these clouds and vapours for the free air of Heaven.

  By that time it was a beautiful morning. As I walked away among such leaves as had already fallen from the golden, brown, and russet trees; and as I looked around me on the wonders of Creation, and thought of the steady, unchanging, and harmonious laws by which they are sustained; the gentleman’s spiritual intercourse seemed to me as poor a piece of journey-work as ever this world saw. In which heathen state of mind, I came within view of the house, and stopped to examine it attentively.

  It was a solitary house, standing in a sadly neglected garden: a pretty even square of some two acres. It was a house of about the time of George the Second; as stiff, as cold, as formal, and in as bad taste, as could possibly be desired by the most loyal admirer of the whole quartet of Georges. It was uninhabited, but had, within a year or two, been cheaply repaired to render it habitable; I say cheaply, because the work had been done in a surface manner, and was already decaying as to the paint and plaster, though the colours were fresh. A lop-sided board drooped over the garden wall, announcing that it was “to let on very reasonable terms, well furnished.” It was much too closely and heavily shadowed by trees, and, in particular, there were six tall poplars before the front windows, which were excessively melancholy, and the site of which had been extremely ill chosen.

  It was easy to see that it was an avoided house—a house that was shunned by the village, to which my eye was guided by a church spire some half a mile off—a house that nobody would take. And the natural inference was, that it had the reputation of being a haunted house.

  No period within the four-and-twenty hours of day and night is so solemn to me, as the early morning. In the summertime, I often rise very early, and repair to my room to do a day’s work before breakfast, and I am always on those occasions deeply impressed by the stillness and solitude around me. Besides that there is something awful in the being surrounded by familiar faces asleep—in the knowledge that those who are dearest to us and to whom we are dearest, are profoundly unconscious of us, in an impassive state, anticipative of that mysterious condition to which we are all tending—the stopped life, the broken threads of yesterday, the deserted seat, the closed book, the unfinished but abandoned occupation, all are images of Death. The tranquillity of the hour is the tranquillity of Death. The colour and the chill have the same association. Even a certain air that familiar household objects take upon them when they first emerge from the shadows of the night into the morning, of being newer, and as they used to be long ago, has its counterpart in the subsidence of the worn face of maturity or age, in death, into the old youthful look. Moreover, I once saw the apparition of my father, at this hour. He was alive and well, and nothing ever came of it, but I saw him in the daylight, sitting with his back towards me, on a seat that stood beside my bed. His head was resting on his hand, and whether he was slumbering or grieving, I could not discern. Amazed to see him there, I sat up, moved my position, leaned out of bed, and watched him. As he did not move then, I became alarmed and laid my hand upon his shoulder, as I thought—and there was no such thing.

  For all these reasons, and for others less easily and briefly statable, I find the early morning to be my most ghostly time. Any house would be more or less haunted, to me, in the early morning; and a haunted house could scarcely address me to greater advantage than then.

  I walked on into the village, with the desertion of this house upon my mind, and I found the landlord of the little inn, sanding his doorstep. I bespoke breakfast, and broached the subject of the house.

  “Is it haunted?” I asked.

  The landlord looked at me, shook his head, and answere
d, “I say nothing.”

  “Then it is haunted?”

  “Well!” cried the landlord, in an outburst of frankness that had the appearance of desperation—“I wouldn’t sleep in it.”

  “Why not?”

  “If I wanted to have all the bells in a house ring, with nobody to ring ’em; and all the doors in a house bang, with nobody to bang ’em; and all sorts of feet treading about, with no feet there; why, then,” said the landlord, “I’d sleep in that house.”

  “Is anything seen there?”

  The landlord looked at me again, and then, with his former appearance of desperation, called down his stable-yard for “Ikey!”

  The call produced a high-shouldered young fellow, with a round red face, a short crop of sandy hair, a very broad humorous mouth, a turned-up nose, and a great sleeved waistcoat of purple bars, with mother-of-pearl buttons, that seemed to be growing upon him, and to be in a fair way—if it were not pruned—of covering his head and overrunning his boots.

  “This gentleman wants to know,” said the landlord, “if anything’s seen at the Poplars.”

  “’Ooded woman with a howl,” said Ikey, in a state of great freshness.

  “Do you mean a cry?”

  “I mean a bird, sir.”

  “A hooded woman with an owl. Dear me! Did you ever see her?”

  “I seen the howl.”

  “Never the woman?”

  “Not so plain as the howl, but they always keeps together.”

  “Has anybody ever seen the woman as plainly as the owl?”

  “Lord bless you, sir! Lots.”

  “Who?”

  “Lord bless you, sir! Lots.”

  “The general-dealer opposite, for instance, who is opening his shop?”

  “Perkins? Bless you, Perkins wouldn’t go a-nigh the place. No!” observed the young man, with considerable feeling; “he an’t over wise, an’t Perkins, but he an’t such a fool as that.”