To his sore annoyance, however, the pig, which had been as still as a dormouse while he was in the shed, showed unusual signs of liveliness when he quitted it. It rose up, and, following him, gambolled round in front of him, impeding his walk, and grunting and ringing its bell in a most absurd manner. This enraged him excessively, for although he had nothing to be ashamed of in visiting the widow, still, when a man calls on the woman of his choice, he does not wish it to be trumpeted forth to all the world, in such a very ridiculous manner. He attempted to drive the pig back again without the slightest effect, and we are sorry to add made use of such language on the occasion as any well-disposed sacristan would be shocked to repeat. At the same time it is but just to state that, when he found he could not get the pig to forego its intention by any possible entreaties and threats, he honestly begged its pardon, and allowed it to accompany him.
When they arrived at the widow's door the pig placed itself close against it, so as to be able to enter at the same time with its master. This annoyed the sacristan exceedingly; of course he could not allow the pig to enter, yet how to keep it out he did not know. The widow, who was rather of a timorous disposition, called out before opening the door,
"Who's there?"
The sacristan immediately answered that it was he, and that there was a pig outside which seemed desirous to enter. Was it hers?
"No," she said; "pray drive it away."
"I have tried to do so," said the sacristan, 'but I have not succeeded."
"Wait a moment, I will see what I can do;" and a minute afterwards the widow opened the door. Armed with a besom, she dealt the pig a tremendous blow on the snout.
Now it is well known that a pig, which may be as bold as a lion on all other occasions, will not a face a housewife with a besom. So the sacristan's pig started back, and howled terribly, while its master, profiting by its retreat, entered the house.
The sacristan found a warm, blazing fire in the widow's little sitting-room, and the table was spread out for her solitary supper. The place had a look of comfort about it which directly went to his heart, and he regretted that so amiable a person should have no one always at hand to talk to her on serious subjects, and advise her in the management of her affairs. She appeared much pleased to see him, the more so as that evening she had been reflecting on her solitary lot. She immediately placed another platter on the table, and produced some wine, which she kept by her to use medicinally, as occasion required. The sacristan was touched by her kindness. In return he talked to her very comfortably, showing her the folly of setting one's heart on sublunary things, and doing full justice to her provisions the while. He would have been perfectly happy had it not been for the incessant ringing of the pig's bell outside the house. The widow, in the course of conversation, asked him what he was doing in that out-of-the-way part of the world. He told her he had requested leave of absence from his priest, and that during it he was determined to pass the time in meditation amid the solitude of the Common. She admired his resolution, and said that at any time when he might feel dull, she would be happy to see him; for which he thanked her, with evident gratitude, and said he would willingly profit by her offer.
In this cozy manner the conversation continued for some time, till at last the widow asked where he intended passing the night. The sacristan was on the point of telling her about the shed, when he remembered she might call upon him there, and discover that he was the owner of the pig, which still kept up his annoyance by incessantly ringing its bell; so he checked himself, and said that it would be on any part of the Common where he could find a dry spot.
"But, my good soul," said the widow, "you will catch your death of cold there, for you are evidently far from strong. I will tell you what I will do. I will make up a little bed for you in the back room."
Before the sacristan could explain how gratefully he accepted her offer, both he and the widow were startled by what at first they considered an unearthly noise, but afterwards found to be the pig howling tremendously, and furiously ringing its bell at the same time.
"Somebody must surely be killing that pig," said the widow.
"Poor pig!" said the sacristan, with great resignation in his tone; "it is very sad, but we should remember it is the lot of its race, and we ought to smother our feelings."
The widow now left the room to prepare the bed, and in a few minutes again entered, saying that all was ready.
Terrible as had been the cries of the pig before, they were sotto voce compared with those it now uttered. They might with ease have been heard as far as Newington; and to add to the discomfort, the sacristan could easily perceive that they were gathering a crowd about the house. What to do he knew not. He was perfectly aware the pig would not cease its annoyance so long as he remained in the house, and he had not the heart to leave, he was so comfortable in it. He endeavoured to support the infliction for nearly an hour longer, when, fearing that the widow would feel irritated if the pig continued its cries, and as he particularly wished to stand well in her good graces, he told her that happy as he was it was hardly becoming an anchorite to indulge in so much luxury, and that with much genuine sorrow he must leave her. She attempted to dissuade him, but in vain; and, with a profusion of thanks for her kindness, he left the house.
He found in the road not only the pig, which was now silent, but a great crowd as well. He pushed through them and was soon lost to their sight in the darkness. He had hardly proceeded a hundred yards when the pig joined him. The sight of the poor animal put him into a great passion, and as a reward for its ill-timed services, he bestowed on its ribs a dozen hearty kicks, resolving in his mind that if he were acting wrongly he would repent of it afterwards.
When he arrived at the shed he went to his corner, and first took down his bottle of wine, which he placed by his side. He passed a large portion of the night in meditation, principally on the good qualities of the widow, with occasional thoughts on the pig. From time to time he put the bottle to his lips and took a hearty draught to keep the warmth of his person up to the same temperature as it would have reached on an African desert.
When day broke he found the imp in the shed, accompanied by two others, more hideous than himself.
"You passed a very respectable night for an anchorite," said one.
"In what was I at fault?"
"Your treatment of your friend the pig was infamous. You know you do not love him."
"I admit it," said the sacristan. "As an anchorite it is my duty to detach myself from earthly affections, and the pig is a mundane animal."
"So is the widow," said the imp.
"But the widow has a soul," said the sacristan, "and it is my duty to talk seriously to her."
"And a pretty face, and money as well," said the imp.
"You may attempt to disturb my meditations by talking of the widow and her attractions as much as you please," said the sacristan, "but you will not annoy me."
"Of that I am perfectly persuaded," said the imp; 'but we will talk of something else. How do you intend occupying yourself to-day?"
"I have to go to the City for some more wine."
"Very like an anchorite, indeed," said the imp; reversing the empty bottle, from which but one drop fell.
"If you can prove to me that the anchorites of old would not have done the same during a cold night on Kennington Common, I will leave it off; till then I shall continue it."
So saying, he put on his cap and left the shed, the pig making no attempt to follow him.
The sacristan continued this method of life for two or three days longer. During the time he made several attempts to call on the widow, but each time the pig kept so close to his heels that he was obliged to desist. One calm moonlight night he thought he would take a walk. He strolled in the direction of Camberwell, the pig following him. Presently he saw two female figures a little in advance, and he hastened to overtake them. When he had reached them he found they were dressed like ladies, but so muffled up in coifs and cloa
ks that it was impossible for him to see whether they were young or old, handsome or ugly. He entered into conversation with them, and they answered him very courteously. He walked by their side, talking of the beauty of the night and other congenial subjects. They continued walking on, conversing very discreetly, the pig from time to time ringing its bell, not in an angry manner, but simply as if in doubt on some subject passing in its mind. They proceeded with their walk till it got very late, and the heavens became covered with thick clouds, which totally obscured the moon from their sight.
At last, when it was at least ten o'clock, the sacristan was on the point of stopping to wish his fair companions good night, as it was time for him to return, when they heard before them the sounds of a violin most exquisitely played, but they could not see the performer. They continued their road onwards, listening to the music (by-the-bye it was the same air the devil played to Tartini in his sleep some hundred years afterwards). A spell seemed to be on them, for they could not stop, but followed the invisible musician. The pig now began to be very uneasy, and rang its bell in an angry manner; the sacristan, however, paid no attention to it, but walked onwards.
In this manner they marched for at least two hours, when at last the sacristan found himself on the borders of Blackheath. One of his lady companions then said to him, "We are going to a very pleasant party to-night a little way farther on. I wish you would accompany us; I am sure you would be well received, and you would have an opportunity of immensely improving the minds of the company."
In spite of the anger of the pig the sacristan consented, and presently they found themselves in the midst of a circle brilliantly lit up. On one side was a raised orchestra for some musicians, all of whom were of the most extraordinary shapes with instruments as strange. Their music, however, was of the most delightful description, so much so as to dispel all fear on the part of the sacristan, and inspire him with a wish to dance. Presently the whole circle was filled with dancers, all of the most fantastic, and many even of the most horrible shapes; still he felt no fear, but stood aside wishing to join them. At last his two lady companions, who had been standing beside him, threw off their wrappers, and appeared in costumes so disgracefully decollete, that the author declines to describe them. The ladies seized the sacristan each by a hand and drew him gently into the middle of the circle, and then commenced dancing. The orchestra at the time played more brilliantly than ever, while the poor pig ran round and round outside the circle, uttering the most discordant sounds and ringing its bell furiously. The sacristan now danced with all his might, his grotesque figure flying about in all directions, while he performed the most eccentric steps. He became more and more excited with the scene, and danced with still greater vigour. But in a moment the whole vanished, and he found himself in pitchy darkness in the midst of the heath, and in a pouring shower of rain. He listened for a moment for the bell of his pig, but it was no longer heard. The spell under which he had been labouring for some days past was broken, and he found he had been making a great fool of himself. With much difficulty he discovered the high road to London, and arrived at his lodgings about daybreak. The next morning he commenced a new life. He became, not superciliously pious, but a good charitable man, doing his duty in the church, giving alms of all he had to the poor, and contented with being thought no better than his neighbours.
EDWARD LEAR (1812-1888) was the second great pioneer, with Lewis Carroll, of Nonsense Literature. Like the Reverend Dodgson, Lear was somewhat happier in the company of children than that of adults, and he took the side of the children in opposing the tedium of moral instruction. He never achieved the recognition which he sought to win by means of his work as a landscape artist, although his beautifully-detailed studies of parrots and macaws are nowadays highly prized, but his verses - which achieve a marvellous blend of absurdity and euphony which no one has ever managed to imitate - have always been much loved. His first collection, The Book of Nonsense, appeared in 1846, signed "Derry Down Derry", and was twice expanded in 1861 and 1863. Some of his most famous poems - including "The Owl and the Pussycat" and "The Jumblies" - were in Nonsense Songs, Stories, Botany and Alphabets (1871); the rest - including "The Dong with a Luminous Nose" and "The Pobble Who Has No Toes" - were in Laughable Lyrics (1877).
As with Carroll's "nonsense" Lear's work contains a very particular opposition to and rejection of "sense", which is by no means devoid of meaning. His weirdly escapist poems express, in a strangely pathetic fashion, the misery and sense of alienation which he felt throughout his life, which was blighted by epilepsy (for whose effects, which were not at the time understood, he probably thought himself culpable).
By Edward Lear
WALTER BESANT (1836-1901) was a prolific Victorian novelist, knighted late in life, whose early bestsellers were written in collaboration with James Rice (1844- 1882). He was a founder member of the Society of Authors and had a lifelong interest in social reform. Several fantasies which he wrote in collaboration with Rice were collected in The Case of Mr. Lucraft and Other Tales (1876), including the bizarre title story, in which a young man leases his healthy appetite to an aging sybarite and takes on himself the painful side-effects of the other's self-indulgence, and "Titania's Farewell", an allegory in which the fairies leave England in protest against social injustice. Besant later wrote a few solo fantasies, including the identity exchange story The Doubts of Dives (1889) and the multiple personality story The Ivory Gate (1892); he also wrote two early futuristic novels, The Revolt of Man (1882) and The Inner House (1888).
Besant's collaborations with WALTER HERRIES POLLOCK (1850-1926) include a book of drawing-room comedies as well as "Sir Jocelyn's Cap" (1884-5); the latter arose out of a playful conversation in the Savile Club with Charles Brookfield (who actually proposed the idea on which the story turns). The novelette is an important early example of a particular kind of comedy in which magical premises are developed in a sceptical and down-to-earth fashion which mocks and undermines their promise; the formula was brought to full flower by the novels of "F. Anstey", whose success with it called forth scores of cruder imitations by the likes of "R. Andom" and Richard Marsh.
Pollock collaborated with Andrew Lang on a series of parodies of the novels of H. Rider Haggard including King Solomon's Treasures, It and Bess (all 1887). He also wrote a handful of stories - including the comic fantasy "Edged Tools" (1886) - in collaboration with the American writer and critic J. Brander Matthews. (Matthews was also an inveterate writer of stories in collaboration, and once wrote a comedy called "The Three Wishes" with Anstey, which is so down-toearth as to have no authentic supernatural intrusions.) Most of Pollock's solo fantasies are collected in Nine Men's Morrice (1889), which includes three items reprinted from an earlier collection, The Picture's Secret (1883). The title story of the earlier collection, called "Lilith" in the later one, is a novella about a femme fatale and a family curse; in the other items, run together as "An Adventure in the Life of Mr. Latimer" in the earlier collection, but separated as "Mr. Morton's Butler" and "Lady Volant" in the later, the Devil's attempts to trick an oblivious young man into signing his soul away are continually thwarted by happy accidents. Other fantasies by Pollock are in his collection King Zub (1897), including "Sir Jocelyn's Cap", which can also be found in Besant's collection Uncle Jack, etc (1885).
By Walter Besant & Walter Herries Pollock
1
"This," said Jocelyn, throwing himself into a chair, "is the most wonderful thing I ever-came- across."
Do you know how, sometimes in the dead of night, or even in broad daylight, while you are thinking, you distinctly hear a voice which argues with you, puts the case another way, contradicts you, or even accuses you, and calls names?
This happened to Jocelyn. A voice somewhere in the room, and not far from his ear, said clearly and distinctly, "There is something here much more wonderful." It was a low voice, yet metallic, and with a cluck in it as if the owner had begun life as a Hottentot.
Jocelyn started and looked around. He was quite alone. He was in chambers in Piccadilly: a suite of four rooms; outside there was the roll of carriages and cabs, with the trampling of many feet; at five o'clock on an afternoon in May, and in Piccadilly, one hardly expects anything supernatural. When something of the kind happens at this time, it is much more creepy than the same thing at midnight. The voice was perfectly distinct and audible. Jocelyn felt cold and trembled involuntarily, and then was angry-with himself for trembling.
"Much more wonderful," repeated this strange voice with the cluck. Jocelyn pretended not to hear it. He was quite as brave as most of his brother-clerks in the Foreign Office, but in the matter of strange voices he was inexperienced, and thought to get rid of this one as one gets rid of an importunate beggar, by passing him without notice.
"I've looked everywhere," he said.
"Not everywhere," clucked the voice in correction.
"Everywhere," he repeated, firmly. "And there's nothing. The old man has left no money, no bank-books, no sign of investment, stocks, or shares. What did he live upon?"
"Me," said the voice.
Jocelyn started again. His nerves, he said to himself, must be getting shaky.
"He seems to have had no 'affairs' of any kind; no solicitors, no engagements; nothing but the letting of the Grange. How on earth did he -" Here he stopped, for fear of being answered by that extraordinary echo in his ear. He heard a cluck-cluck as if the reply was ready, but was checked at the moment of utterance.
The Dedalus Book of British Fantasy: 19th Century (European Literary Fantasy Anthologies) Page 25