The Big Book of Classic Fantasy
Page 161
They found the Spring in the heart of the Forest; only once long ago had Niggle imagined it, but he had never drawn it. Now he perceived that it was the source of the lake that glimmered, far away and the nourishment of all that grew in the country. The few drops made the water astringent, rather bitter, but invigorating; and it cleared the head. After drinking they rested alone; and then they got up again and things went on merrily. At such times Niggle would think of wonderful new flowers and plants, and Parish always knew exactly how to set them and where they would do best. Long before the tonics were finished they had ceased to need them. Parish lost his limp.
As their work drew to an end they allowed themselves more and more time for walking about, looking at the trees, and the flowers, and the lights and shapes, and the lie of the land. Sometimes they sang together; but Niggle found that he was now beginning to turn his eyes, more and more often, towards the Mountains.
The time came when the house in the hollow, the garden, the grass, the forest, the lake, and all the country was nearly complete, in its own proper fashion. The Great Tree was in full blossom.
“We shall finish this evening,” said Parish one day. “After that we will go for a really long walk.”
They set out next day, and they walked until they came right through the distances to the Edge. It was not visible, of course: there was no line, or fence, or wall; but they knew that they had come to the margin of that country. They saw a man, he looked like a shepherd; he was walking towards them, down the grass-slopes that led up into the Mountains.
“Do you want a guide?” he asked. “Do you want to go on?”
For a moment a shadow fell between Niggle and Parish, for Niggle knew that he did now want to go on, and (in a sense) ought to go on; but Parish did not want to go on, and was not yet ready to go.
“I must wait for my wife,” said Parish to Niggle. “She’d be lonely. I rather gathered that they would send her after me, some time or other, when she was ready, and when I had got things ready for her. The house is finished now, as well as we could make it; but I should like to show it to her. She’ll be able to make it better, I expect: more homely. I hope she’ll like this country, too.” He turned to the shepherd. “Are you a guide?” he asked. “Could you tell me the name of this country?”
“Don’t you know?” said the man. “It is Niggle’s Country. It is Niggle’s Picture, or most of it: a little of it is now Parish’s Garden.”
“Niggle’s Picture!” said Parish in astonishment. “Did you think of all this, Niggle? I never knew you were so clever. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“He tried to tell you long ago,” said the man; “but you would not look. He had only got canvas and paint in those days, and you wanted to mend your roof with them. This is what you and your wife used to call Niggle’s Nonsense, or That Daubing.”
“But it did not look like this then, not real,” said Parish.
“No, it was only a glimpse then,” said the man; “but you might have caught the glimpse, if you had ever thought it worth while to try.”
“I did not give you much chance,” said Niggle. “I never tried to explain. I used to call you Old Earth-grubber. But what does it matter? We have lived and worked together now. Things might have been different, but they could not have been better. All the same, I am afraid I shall have to be going on. We shall meet again, I expect: there must be many more things we can do together. Good-bye!” He shook Parish’s hand warmly: a good, firm, honest hand it seemed. He turned and looked back for a moment. The blossom on the Great Tree was shining like flame. All the birds were flying in the air and singing. Then he smiled, and nodded to Parish, and went off with the shepherd.
He was going to learn about sheep, and the high pasturages, and look at a wider sky, and walk ever further and further towards the Mountains, always uphill. Beyond that I cannot guess what became of him. Even little Niggle in his old home could glimpse the Mountains far away, and they got into the borders of his picture; but what they are really like, and what lies beyond them, only those can say who have climbed them.
* * *
—
“I think he was a silly little man,” said Councillor Tompkins. “Worthless, in fact; no use to Society at all.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Atkins, who was nobody of importance, just a schoolmaster. “I am not so sure: it depends on what you mean by use.”
“No practical or economic use,” said Tompkins. “I dare say he could have been made into a serviceable cog of some sort, if you schoolmasters knew your business. But you don’t, and so we get useless people of his sort. If I ran this country I should put him and his like to some job that they’re fit for, washing dishes in a communal kitchen or something, and I should see that they did it properly. Or I would put them away. I should have put him away long ago.”
“Put him away? You mean you’d have made him start on the journey before his time?”
“Yes, if you must use that meaningless old expression. Push him through the tunnel into the great Rubbish Heap: that’s what I mean.”
“Then you don’t think painting is worth anything, not worth preserving, or improving, or even making use of?”
“Of course, painting has uses,” said Tompkins. “But you couldn’t make use of his painting. There is plenty of scope for bold young men not afraid of new ideas and new methods. None for this old-fashioned stuff. Private day-dreaming. He could not have designed a telling poster to save his life. Always fiddling with leaves and flowers. I asked him why, once. He said he thought they were pretty! Can you believe it? He said pretty! ‘What, digestive and genital organs of plants?’ I said to him; and he had nothing to answer. Silly footler.”
“Footler,” sighed Atkins. “Yes, poor little man, he never finished anything. Ah well, his canvases have been put to ‘better uses,’ since he went. But I am not sure, Tompkins. You remember that large one, the one they used to patch the damaged house next door to his, after the gales and floods? I found a corner of it torn off, lying in a field. It was damaged, but legible: a mountain-peak and a spray of leaves. I can’t get it out of my mind.”
“Out of your what?” said Tompkins.
“Who are you two talking about?” said Perkins, intervening in the cause of peace: Atkins had flushed rather red.
“The name’s not worth repeating,” said Tompkins. “I don’t know why we are talking about him at all. He did not live in town.”
“No,” said Atkins; “but you had your eye on his house, all the same. That is why you used to go and call, and sneer at him while drinking his tea. Well, you’ve got his house now, as well as the one in town, so you need not grudge him his name. We were talking about Niggle, if you want to know, Perkins.”
“Oh, poor little Niggle!” said Perkins. “Never knew he painted.”
That was probably the last time Niggle’s name ever came up in conversation. However, Atkins preserved the odd corner. Most of it crumbled; but one beautiful leaf remained intact. Atkins had it framed. Later he left it to the Town Museum, and for a long while “Leaf: by Niggle” hung there in a recess, and was noticed by a few eyes. But eventually the Museum was burnt down, and the leaf, and Niggle, were entirely forgotten in his old country.
“It is proving very useful indeed,” said the Second Voice. “As a holiday, and a refreshment. It is splendid for convalescence; and not only for that, for many it is the best introduction to the Mountains. It works wonders in some cases. I am sending more and more there. They seldom have to come back.”
“No, that is so,” said the First Voice. “I think we shall have to give the region a name. What do you propose?”
“The Porter settled that some time ago,” said the Second Voice. “Train for Niggle’s Parish in the bay: he has shouted that for a long while now. Niggle’s Parish. I sent a message to both of them to tell them.”
“What did they say
?”
“They both laughed. Laughed—Mountains rang with it!”
Acknowledgments
The editors would like to thank all other anthology editors who, out of love of literature, have labored to curate and present to readers the best fiction from all over the world. We also owe a huge debt of gratefulness to our team of translators who helped bring stories (and sometimes authors) into English for the first time, as well as for their new translations of stories previously translated into English. Thank you, Gio Clairval, Ekaterina Sedia, Minsoo Kang, Marian Womack, James Womack, and Joseph Tomaras. We would also like to thank the translators of the past, whose work is represented within these pages.
This book would not have been possible without the assistance, guidance, and support of several people we want to thank: Julie Nováková, Dominik Parisien, Johanna Sinisalo, John Coulthart, Scott Nicolay, Matthew Cheney, Eric Schaller, and Larry Nolen. Thanks for additional research to Chyina Powell, Edward Gauvin, Liam Henneghan, Michael Shreve, James Machin, and all the readers out there who have shared their favorites with us over the years.
We would also like to extend our gratitude to the many agents, editors, publishers, and other representatives who continue to advocate for writers and stories we love and want to share with our readers, including: Marc Lowenthal of Wakefield Press, Sara Kramer of NYRB, Daniel Seton of Pushkin Press, Richard Curtis Literary Agency, Ray Russell of Tartarus Press, CASiana Enterprises (Literary Estate of Clark Ashton Smith), Paul De Angelis Book Development, Dr. Margery Fee of the University of British Columbia, Dr. Carol Gerson of the Simon Fraser University, Dr. Wai Chee Dimock from Yale University, Sara Patel from PMLA, Dr. Danielle Kovacs from Special Collections and University Archives, UMass Amherst Libraries, the David Graham Du Bois Trust, the J. R. R. Tolkien Estate, and the Zora Neale Hurston Trust.
And of course, our heartfelt appreciation to our editor Tim O’Connell and all the good folks at Vintage, as well as our agent Sally Harding and everyone at the CookeMcDermid Agency.
Permissions
Akutagawa, Ryūnosuke: “Sennin” by Ryūnosuke Akutagawa. Translation copyright © 2018 by Gio Clairval. Originally published in Japanese in 1922. This new translation published by permission of the translator.
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Alcott, Louisa May: “The Frost-King” by Louisa May Alcott. Originally published in Flower Fables by George W. Briggs & Co. in 1855.
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Andersen, Hans Christian: “The Will-o’-the-Wisps Are in Town” by Hans Christian Andersen. Originally published in Danish as “Lygtemaendene ere i Byen, sagde Mosekonen” in 1865.
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Anonymous: “The Story of Jeon Unchi” by Anonymous. Translation copyright © 2018 by Minsoo Kang. Originally published in Korean circa 1847. This new translation published by permission of the translator.
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Aymé, Marcel: “The Man Who Could Walk Through Walls” by Marcel Aymé. Original French text copyright © 1943 by Éditions Gallimard. English translation copyright © 2012 by Sophie Lewis. Originally published in French as Le Passe-muraille in 1943. Reprinted by permission of Pushkin Press and the translator.
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Baum, L. Frank: “Jack Pumpkinhead and the Sawhorse” by L. Frank Baum. Originally published as Oz Books in Miniature, No. 5 in 1913, and subsequently published in Little Wizard Stories of Oz by Reilly & Britton Co. in 1914.
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Benson, E. F.: “David Blaize and the Blue Door” by E. F. Benson. Excerpt from David Blaize and the Blue Door, originally published by Hodder and Stoughton Limited in 1918.
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Benson, Stella: “Magic Comes to a Committee” by Stella Benson. Excerpt from Living Alone, originally published by Macmillan and Co., Limited in 1919.
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Blavatskaya, H. P.: “The Ensouled Violin” by H. P. Blavatskaya. Originally published in Nightmare Tales by Theosophical Publishing Society in 1892.
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Blei, Franz: “The Big Bestiary of Modern Literature” by Franz Blei. Translation copyright © 2018 by Gio Clairval. Originally published in German as Das große Bestiarium der deutschen Literatur by Rowohlt Verlage in 1922. This new translation published by permission of the translator.
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Burroughs, Edgar Rice: “The Plant Men” by Edgar Rice Burroughs. Excerpt from The Gods of Mars, originally published by A. C. McClurg in 1913.
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Caballero, Fernán: “La joroba (The Hump)” by Fernán Caballero (pseudonym of Cecilia Böhl de Faber). Translation copyright © 2018 by Marian and James Womack. Originally published in Spanish in 1911. This new translation published by permission of the translators.
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Čapek, Karel: “The Water Sprite’s Tale” by Karel Čapek. English translation copyright © 1990 by Dagmar Herrmann. Originally published in Czech as Devatero pohádek a ještĕ jedna od Josefa Čapka jako přĭvažek by Aventinum in 1932. This translation originally published by Northwestern University Press in 1990. Reprinted by permission of Northwestern University Press and the translator.
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Carrington, Leonora: “The Debutante” by Leonora Carrington. Story and translation copyright © 2017 by the Estate of Leonora Carrington. Originally published in French in 1937. Reprinted by permission of the Estate of Leonora Carrington.
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Carroll, Lewis: “Looking-Glass House” by Lewis Carroll. Except from Through the Looking-Glass, originally published by Macmillan in 1871.
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Cather, Willa: “The Princess Baladina—Her Adventure” by Willa Cather. Originally published in the Home Monthly, VI (August 1896).
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Chesterton, G. K.: “The Angry Street” by G. K. Chesterton. Originally published in Tremendous Trifles in 1909.
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Chestnutt, Charles W.: “The Goophered Grapevine” by Charles W. Chestnutt. Originally published in The Atlantic (August 1887).
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Collier, John: “Evening Primrose” by John Collier. Copyright © 1979 by the Estate of John Collier. Originally published in Out of This World in 1940. Reprinted by permission of the Estate of John Collier.
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Deledda, Grazia: “Sowbread” by Grazia Deledda. Translation copyright © 2018 by Gio Clairval. Originally published in Italian as “Il ciclamino” in Il Nonno: Novelle by Nuova Antologia in 1908. This new translation published by permission of the translator.
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Dickens, Charles: “The Story of the Goblins Who Stole a Sexton” by Charles Dickens. Originally published in The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club by Chapman & Hall in 1836.
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Du Bois, W. E. B.: “The Princess Steel” by W. E. B. Du Bois. Originally written in 1910 and published in PMLA 30, no. 3 (May 2015): 819–29. Reprinted with the permission of the Permissions Company, Inc., on behalf of the David Graham Du Bois Trust.
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Dumont, Fernand: “The Influence of the Sun” by Fernand Dumont. Translation copyright © 2018 by Gio Clairval. Originally published as “L’Influence du soleil” in Mauvais temps de Rupture (October 1935). This new translation published by permission of the translator.
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Dunsany, Lord: “The Hoard of the Gibbelins” by Lord Dunsany. Originally published in The Book of Wonder by William Heinemann in 1912.
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Eddison, E. R.: “Koshtra Pivrarcha” by E. R. Eddison. Excerpt from The Worm Ouroboros, originally published by Jonathan Cape in 1922.
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Elisabeth of Romania (Sylva, Carmen): “Furnica, or The Queen of the Ants” by Carmen Sylva (pseudonym of Elisabeth of Romania). Translation copyright © 2018 by Gio Clairval. Originally published in German in Pelesch-Märchen, Märchen und Mythen aus Rumänien in 1883. This new translation published by permission of the translator.
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&
nbsp; Forster, E. M.: “The Celestial Omnibus” by E. M. Forster. Originally published in The Celestial Omnibus and Other Stories by Sidgwick & Jackson Ltd. in 1911.
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Fréchette, Louis: “Marionettes” by Louis Fréchette. Translation copyright © 2018 by Gio Clairval. Originally published in French in Conteurs canadiens-français du XIXe siècle in 1902. This new translation published by permission of the translator.
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Fréchette, Louis: “Goblins: A Logging Camp Story” by Louis Fréchette. Translation copyright © 2018 by Gio Clairval. Originally published in French in L’Almanach du peuple Beauchemin in 1905. This new translation published by permission of the translator.