The Complete Stories of Morley Callaghan - Volume Three
Page 1
THE EXILE CLASSICS SERIES, BOOKS 1 – 26
THAT SUMMER IN PARIS
Morley Callaghan
NIGHTS IN THE UNDERGROUND
Marie-Claire Blais
DEAF TO THE CITY
Marie-Claire Blais
THE GERMAN PRISONER
James Hanley
THERE ARE NO ELDERS
Austin Clarke
100 LOVE SONNETS
Pablo Neruda
THE SELECTED GWENDOLYN MACEWEN
Gwendolyn MacEwen
THE WOLF
Marie-Claire Blais
A SEASON IN THE LIFE OF EMMANUEL
Marie-Claire Blais
IN THIS CITY
Austin Clarke
THE NEW YORKER STORIES
Morley Callaghan
REFUS GLOBAL
The Montréal Automatists
TROJAN WOMEN
Gwendolyn MacEwen
ANNA’S WORLD
Marie-Claire Blais
THE MANUSCRIPTS OF PAULINE ARCHANGE
Marie-Claire Blais
A DREAM LIKE MINE
M.T. Kelly
THE LOVED AND THE LOST
Morley Callaghan
NOT FOR EVERY EYE
Gérard Bessette
STRANGE FUGITIVE
Morley Callaghan
IT’S NEVER OVER
Morley Callaghan
AFTER EXILE
Raymond Knister
THE COMPLETE STORIES OF MORLEY CALLAGHAN
Volumes One – Four
CONTRASTS: IN THE WARD / POETRY AND PAINTINGS
Lawren Harris
THE COMPLETE STORIES
OF
MORLEY CALLAGHAN
Volume Three
Introduction by
Anne Michaels
The Complete Sories of Morley Callaghan. Exile Classics Series, no. 22-25.
Introductions by Alistair MacLeod (v. 1), André Alexis (v. 2), Anne Michaels (v.3), and Margaret Atwood (v. 4). Includes bibliographical references.
978-1-55096-304-5 – Paperback (v. 1)
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978-1-55096-340-3 – PDF
978-1-55096-305-2 – Paperback (v. 2)
978-1-55096-344-1 – ePUB
978-1-55096-345-8 – MOBI
978-1-55096-343-4 – PDF
978-1-55096-306-9 – Paperback (v. 3)
978-1-55096-347-2 – ePUB
978-1-55096-348-9 – MOBI
978-1-55096-346-5 – PDF
978-1-55096-307-6 – Paperback (v. 4)
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Copyright © The Estate of Morley Callaghan and Exile Editions, 2012
Published by Exile Editions Ltd ~ www.ExileEditions.com
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Digital formatting by Melissa Campos Mendivil
We gratefully acknowledge the Canada Council for the Arts, the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund (CBF), the Ontario Arts Council and the Ontario Media Development Corporation for their support toward our publishing activities. We also thank the OAC’s Arts Investment Fund (AIF) program for their support of our eBook production 2011-2013.
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Introduction
Two Fishermen
The Runaway
Silk Stockings
A Girl with Ambition
Rocking Chair
A Wedding Dress
Three Lovers
The Cheat’s Remorse
It Must Be Different
Poolroom
The Bachelor’s Dilemma
Getting On in the World
The Novice
The Two Brothers
Their Mother’s Purse
Magic Hat
Younger Brother
This Man, My Father
The Lucky Lady
A Couple of Million Dollars
The Blue Kimono
With an Air of Dignity
The Way It Ended
Lady in a Green Dress
A Pair of Long Pants
The Consuming Fire
Father and Son
It Had to Be Done
The Homing Pigeon
We Just Had to Be Alone
The Insult
The Faithful Wife
A Separation
Possession
Dates of Original Publications; Questions for Discussion and Essays; Selected Related Reading; Of Interest on the Web; Editor’s Endnotes.
INTRODUCTION
by Anne Michaels
It is a privilege to read an author’s body of work as a whole. But it is a blessing when this represents not only the work of a lifetime but also the work of a life.
“There are (writers) whose entire body of work represents a rare integrity of compassion . . . The(ir) protagonists are stretched beyond the limits of their comprehension, emotionally and otherwise, (and) are trying to find their way in circumstances that are beyond them; this is a particular struggle, in which all the strength and limitations of love are laid bare. The circumstances may be large or small, yet the consequences for a particular character are profound. These are the moments for which we are most often judged in real life, and are the moments when we most need the compassion of others. It is this compassion . . . that I find most compelling: a depth of respect for the ways we negotiate the complexities of our own psyches; (writers) who are uncompromising in their probing acceptance of human frailty and who understand the abject necessity of opening our hearts precisely when it is most painful to do so.” I originally wrote these words regarding the work of filmmakers I respect. I believe this integrity of compassion is extraordinary. Morley Callaghan’s short fiction exemplifies this kind of compassion.
There is no attempt to persuade us with moral judgments, yet a moral clarity exists around these stories, a space Callaghan deliberately creates for the reader. By leaving behind the “noise” of time and place, by accumulating only the most telling detail, he creates in the reader an extraordinary quality of attention, allowing us to think through a character’s actions even as we feel. He creates in the reader a suspension of judgment and a contemplative empathy, and an opportunity to reach a rare, essential, intimacy with his characters. Callaghan said that he spent much time thinking before he wrote, allowing connections to form in his mind and allowing these connections to form the story. It is this state that he manages also to create in the reader, as events unfold in ways that always seem both surprising and surprisingly inevitable, because of the particular quality of intimacy we have with the characters.
These stories are sunk deeply into human motivation, human frailties, vulnerabilities; into defensiveness, desire, hopes, shame, loneliness. A woman walks from car to house or smoothes the hem of her dressing gown . . . A man lifts a boy on his shoulders . . . In Morley Callaghan’s stories, a gesture, a simple action, a single line of dialogue, i
s all that’s needed to stir profound psychological complexity. The prose surface may seem calm, accessible, apparent. But it is only because Callaghan has penetrated to such depths of character that he is able to write with such seemingly casual accuracy, and with such clarity of character and purpose. Through tone and detail the reader comprehends fully the nuance and meaning of seemingly simple actions.
The emotional precision in these stories is remarkable. “The Blue Kimono,” for example, is a small masterpiece of psychological acuity, laying bare, in so few words, the complicated nuances of a marriage. We see the husband’s frustration with circumstances beyond his control turn to anger at his wife, in an instant. We understand that his longing to hurt her, his cruelty is not only out of his own shame, and not only out of a desire to make her feel complicitous in his misery, but is also a pleading for a potent understanding — “his eagerness to make his wife feel the bad luck he felt within him” — so as not to feel so wretchedly alone. Nuance continues to shift as the husband begins to share his wife’s worry over their ill son. The wife’s blue kimono is a symbol of newlywed happiness and hopes; now faded and worn, the kimono seems to mock the husband and for this too, he feels the need to wound his wife: “It’s terrible to look at you in that thing” he tells her. He speaks “brutally.” But Callaghan makes sure that we understand that his cruelty is not simple. When the husband realizes that he no longer finds his wife beautiful, he also realizes that this has “nothing to do with his love for her.” The wife, obviously accustomed to this treatment, and terrified for her son, does not rise to her husband’s cruel remarks, and makes no attempt to defend herself against them. Instead she ministers to the child and later considers how to mend the kimono. The husband chastises her for fussing over it. If Callaghan left out her remark “I think I can fix it up so it’ll look fine . . . ” the reader would still have understood what she was thinking and the symbolism of such a thought. But it is a fine example of Callaghan’s precision that he makes her speak this aloud. For it is another subtle yet clear measure of the state of their relationship; they have not yet reached the point when she would no longer bother to speak such a thought aloud, even if her husband is incapable of understanding her.
Callaghan brings the same insight into such a diversity of characters; petty criminals, eager young women, older disillusioned women, a public executioner, abandoned wives, betrayed brothers, men seeking their way in the world, men with no hope left in the world . . . Characters from every social class, every degree of innocence and experience and every economic standing. His view is clear-eyed without being cold-hearted. All is precise nuance, mitigating circumstance, family background, economic stresses, the consolation or torment of memory . . .
It is as if part of the redemption for these broken lives, for these lives in transition into hope or out of hope, rests somehow in the telling of these stories, in bringing this intensely private pain a kind of dignity through an accurate witnessing. And because these lives are so familiar in their grief and dreams, it is a dignity we can all share. From the relatively simple “Bachelor’s Dilemma” to the complexity of “The Two Brothers” or “The Magic Hat,” we feel the poignancy of recognition that is also often partly shrouded in layers of self-rationalization. In “The Lucky Lady”: “. . . he knew that something was wrong and while he hesitated uneasily she had a moment of wild hope as, half-ashamed, he struggled against being who he was.” And here, of course, is Callaghan’s relentless accuracy again — so masterful. Her hope is “wild” and he is only “half” ashamed.
Each of these stories pivot on a moment when a truth is suddenly, sometimes only briefly, illuminated. The moment arises and, more importantly, it passes. How the character makes use of that moment when it is over is the heart of the narrative.
These stories explore the great influences of memory, habit, habit of thought, the daily wearing down of hope, the sudden gleam of hope. How deeply human and humane Callaghan’s vision is. Here we find ourselves, in all our pettiness and nobility of intent, in all our distress and longing.
It is very appropriate that these volumes of Callaghan’s works are called The Complete Stories. Yes, these stories are, in every way — poignantly — complete.
Two Fishermen
The only reporter on the town paper, The Examiner,was Michael Foster, a tall, long-legged, eager fellow, who wanted to go to the city some day and work on an important newspaper.
The morning he went to Bagley’s Hotel, he wasn’t at all sure of himself. He went over to the desk and whispered to the proprietor, “Did he come here, Mr. Bagley?”
Bagley said slowly, “Two men came here from this morning’s train. They’re registered.” He put his spatulate forefinger on the open book and said, “Two men. One of them’s a drummer. This one here, T. Woodley. I know because he was through this way last year and just a minute ago he walked across the road to Molson’s hardware store. The other one. . . here’s his name, K. Smith.”
“Who’s K. Smith?” Michael asked.
“I don’t know. A mild, harmless looking little guy.”
“Did he look like the hangman, Mr. Bagley?”
“I couldn’t say that, seeing that I never saw one. He was awfully polite and asked where he could get a boat so he could go fishing on the lake this evening, so I said likely down at Smollet’s place by the powerhouse.”
“Well, thanks. I guess if he was the hangman, he’d go over to the jail first,” Michael said. He went along the street, past the Baptist church to the old jail with the high brick fence around it. Two tall maple trees, with branches drooping low over the sidewalk, shaded one of the walls from the morning sunlight. Last night, behind those walls, three carpenters, working by lamplight, had nailed the timbers for the scaffold. In the morning, young Thomas Delaney, who had grown up in the town, was being hanged: he had killed old Matthew Rhinehart whom he had caught molesting his wife when she had been berry picking in the hills behind the town. There had been a struggle and Thomas Delaney had taken a bad beating before he had killed Rhinehart. Last night a crowd had gathered on the sidewalk by the lamppost, and while moths and smaller insects swarmed around the high blue carbon light, the crowd had thrown sticks and bottles and small stones at the out-of-town workmen in the jail yard. Billy Hilton, the town constable, had stood under the light with his head down, pretending not to notice anything. Thomas Delaney was only three years older than Michael Foster.
Michael went straight to the jail office, where the sheriff, Henry Steadman, a squat, heavy man, was sitting on the desk idly wetting his long moustache with his tongue. “Hello, Michael, what do you want?” he asked.
“Hello, Mr. Steadman, The Examiner would like to know if the hangman arrived yet.”
“Why ask me?”
“I thought he’d come here to test the gallows. Won’t he?”
“My, you’re a smart young fellow, Michael, thinking of that.”
“Is he in there now, Mr. Steadman?”
“Don’t ask me. I’m saying nothing. Say, Michael, do you think there’s going to be trouble? You ought to know. Does anybody seem sore at me? I can’t do nothing. You can see that.”
“I don’t think anybody blames you, Mr. Steadman. Look here, can’t I see the hangman? Is his name K. Smith?”
“What does it matter to you, Michael? Be a sport, go on away and don’t bother us any more.”
“All right, Mr. Steadman,” Michael said, “just leave it to me.”
Early that evening, when the sun was setting, Michael Foster walked south of the town on the dusty road leading to the powerhouse and Smollet’s fishing pier. He knew that if Mr. K. Smith wanted to get a boat he would go down to the pier. Fine powdered road dust whitened Michael’s shoes. Ahead of him he saw the power plant, square and low, and the smooth lake water. Behind him the sun was hanging over the blue hills beyond the town and shining brilliantly on square patches of farmland. The air around the powerhouse smelt of steam.
Out on the jutt
ing, tumbledown pier of rock and logs, Michael saw a fellow without a hat, sitting down with his knees hunched up to his chin; a very small man who stared steadily far out over the water. In his hand he was holding a stick with a heavy fishing line twined around it and a gleaming copper spoon bait, the hooks brightened with bits of feathers such as they used in the neighborhood when trolling for lake trout. Apprehensively Michael walked out over the rocks toward the stranger and called, “Were you thinking of fishing, mister?” Standing up, the man smiled. He had a large head, tapering down to a small chin, a bird-like neck and a wistful smile. Puckering his mouth up, he said shyly to Michael, “Did you intend to go fishing?”
“That’s what I came down here for. I was going to get a boat back at the boathouse there. How would you like it if we went together?”
“I’d like it first rate,” the shy little man said eagerly. “We could take turns rowing. Does that appeal to you?”
“Fine. Fine. You wait here and I’ll go back to Smollet’s place and ask for a rowboat and I’ll row around here and get you.”
“Thanks. Thanks very much,” the mild little man said, as he began to untie his line. He seemed very enthusiastic.
When Michael brought the boat around to the end of the old pier and invited the stranger to make himself comfortable so he could handle the line, the stranger protested comically that he ought to be allowed to row.
Pulling strongly on the oars, Michael was soon out in the deep water and the little man was letting the line out slowly. In one furtive glance, he had noticed that the man’s hair, gray at the temples, was inclined to curl to his ears. The line was out full length. It was twisted around the little man’s forefinger, which he let drag in the water. And then Michael looked full at him and smiled because he thought he seemed so meek and quizzical. “He’s a nice little guy,” Michael assured himself, and he said, “I work on the town paper, The Examiner. ”
“Is it a good paper? Do you like the work?”
“Yes. But it’s nothing like a first-class city paper and I don’t expect to be working on it long. I want to get a reporter’s job on a city paper. My name’s Michael Foster.”