D'Arcy / Nemo 7 best short stories by Ella D'Arcy

1. Auflage 2020
ISBN: 978-3-96799-026-3
Verlag: Tacet Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, Band 115, 100 Seiten

Reihe: 7 best short stories

D'Arcy's work is characterised by a psychologically realist style often attracting comparisons with Henry James and her determination to engage with themes such as marriage, the family, deception and imitation. Many of her stories also demonstrate the influence of her time in the Channel Islands, most notably 'White Magic'. The critic August Nemo presents seven short stories specially selected: - Irremediable - White Magic - A Marriage - In Normandy - The Pleasure-Pilgrim - The Web of Maya - An Engagement

Ella D'Arcy (23 August 1857 5 September 1937) was a short fiction writer in the late 19th and early 20th century.

Autoren/Hrsg.

D'Arcy, Ella

Nemo, August

Leseproben

I SPENT one evening last summer with my friend Mauger, pharmacienin the little town of Jacques-le-Port. He pro- nounces his name Major, by-the-bye, it being a quaint custom of the Islands to write proper names one way and speak them another, thus serving to bolster up that old, old story of the German savant’s account of the difficulties of the English language “where you spell a man’s name Verulam,” says he reproachfully, “and pronounce it Bacon.”

Mauger and I sat in the pleasant wood-panelled parlour behind the shop, from whence all sorts of aromatic odours found their way in through the closed door to mingle with the fragrance of figs, Ceylon tea, and hot gôches-à-beurre constituting the excellent meal spread before us. The large old-fashioned windows were wide open, and I looked straight out upon the harbour, filled with holiday yachts, and the wonderful azure sea.

Over against the other islands, opposite, a gleam of white streaked the water, white clouds hung motionless in the blue sky, and a tiny boat with white sails passed out round Falla Point. A white butterfly entered the room to flicker in gay uncertain curves above the cloth, and a warm reflected light played over the slender rat-tailed forks and spoons, and raised by a tone or two the colour of Mauger’s tanned face and yellow beard. For, in spite of a sedentary profession, his preferences lie with an out-of-door life, and he takes an afternoon off whenever practicable, as he had done that day, to follow his favourite pursuit over the golf-links at Les Landes.

While he had been deep in the mysteries of teeing and putting, with no subtler problem to be solved than the judicious selection of mashie and cleek, I had explored some of the curious cromlechs or pouquelayesscattered over this part of the island, and my thoughts and speech harked back irresistibly to the strange old religions and usages of the past.

“Science is all very well in its way,” said I; “and of course it’s an inestimable advantage to inhabit this so-called nineteenth century; but the mediaeval want of science was far more pic- turesque. The once universal belief in charms and portents, in wandering saints, and fighting fairies, must have lent an interest to life which these prosaic days sadly lack. Madelon then would steal from her bed on moonlight nights in May, and slip across the dewy grass with naked feet, to seek the reflection of her future husband’s face in the first running stream she passed; now, Miss Mary Jones puts on her bonnet and steps round the corner, on no more romantic errand than the investment of her month’s wages in the savings bank at two and a half per cent.”

Mauger laughed. “I wish she did anything half so prudent! That has not been my experience of the Mary Joneses.”

“Well, anyhow,” I insisted, “the Board school has rationalised them. It has pulled up the innate poetry of their nature to replace it by decimal fractions.”

To which Mauger answered “Rot!” and offered me his cigarette-case. After the first few silent whiffs, he went on as follows: “The innate poetry of Woman! Confess now, there is no more unpoetic creature under the sun. Offer her the sublimest poetry ever written and the Daily Telegraph’slatest article on fashions, or a good sound murder or reliable divorce, and there’s no betting on her choice, for it’s a dead certainty. Many men have a love of poetry, but I’m inclined to think that a hundred women out of ninety-nine positively dislike it.”

Which struck me as true. “We’ll drop the poetry, then,” I answered; “but my point remains, that if the girl of to-day has no superstitions, the girl of to-morrow will have no beliefs. Teach her to sit down thirteen to table, to spill the salt, and walk under a ladder with equanimity, and you open the door for Spencer and Huxley, and—and all the rest of it,” said I, coming to an impotent conclusion.

“Oh, if superstition were the salvation of woman—but you are thinking of young ladies in London, I suppose? Here, in the Islands, I can show you as much superstition as you please. I’m not sure that the country-people in their heart of hearts don’t still worship the old gods of the pouquelayes. You would not, of course, find any one to own up to it, or to betray the least glimmer of an idea as to your meaning, were you to question him, for ours is a shrewd folk, wearing their orthodoxy bravely; but possibly the old beliefs are cherished with the more ardour for not being openly avowed. Now you like bits of actuality. I’ll give you one, and a proof, too, that the modern maiden is still separated by many a fathom of salt sea-water from these fortunate isles.

“Some time ago, on a market morning, a girl came into the shop, and asked for some blood from a dragon. ‘Some what?’ said I, not catching her words. ‘Well, just a little blood from a dragon,’ she answered very tremulously, and blushing. She meant of course, ‘dragon’s blood,’ a resinous powder, formerly much used in medicine, though out of fashion now.

“She was a pretty young creature, with pink cheeks and dark eyes, and a forlorn expression of countenance which didn’t seem at all to fit in with her blooming health. Not from the town, or I should have known her face; evidently come from one of the country parishes to sell her butter and eggs. I was interested to discover what she wanted the ‘dragon’s blood’ for, and after a certain amount of hesitation she told me. ‘They do say it’s good, sir, if anything should have happened betwixt you an’ your young man. ‘Then you have a young man?’ said I. ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘And you’ve fallen out with him?’ ‘Yes, sir.’ And tears rose to her eyes at the admission, while her mouth rounded with awe at my amazing perspicacity. And you mean to send him some dragon’s blood as a love potion?’ ‘No, sir; you’ve got to mix it with water you ve fetched from the Three Sisters Well, and drink it yourself in nine sips on nine nights running, and get into bed without once looking in the glass, and then if you’ve done everything properly, and haven’t made any mistake, he’ll come back to you, an’ love you twice as much as before.’ ‘And la m?re Todevinn (Tostevin) gave you that precious recipe, and made you cross her hand with silver into the bargain,’ said I severely; on which the tears began to flow outright.

“You know the old lady,” said Mauger, breaking off his narra- tion, “ who lives in the curious stone house at the corner of the market-place? A reputed witch who learned both black and white magic from her mother, who was a daughter of Hélier Mouton, the famous sorcerer of Cakeuro. I could tell you some funny stories relating to la M?re Todevinn, who numbers more clients among the officers and fine ladies here than in any other class; and very curious, too, is the history of that stone house, with the Brancourt arms still sculptured on the side. You can see them, if you turn down by the Water-gate. This old sinister-looking building, or rather portion of a building, for more modern houses have been built over the greater portion of the site, and now press upon it from either hand, once belonged to one of the finest man- sions in the islands, but through a curse and a crime has been brought down to its present condition; while the Brancourt family have long since been utterly extinct. But all this isn’t the story of Elsie Mahy, which turned out to be the name of my little customer.

“The Mahys are of the Vauvert parish, and Pierre Jean, the father of this girl, began life as a day-labourer, took to tomato- growing on borrowed capital, and now owns a dozen glass-houses of his own. Mrs. Mahy does some dairy-farming on a minute scale, the profits of which she and Miss Elsie share as pin-money. The young man who is courting Elsie is a son of Toumes the builder. He probably had something to do with the putting up of Mahy’s greenhouses, but anyhow, he has been constantly over at Vauvert during the last six months, superintending the alterations at de Câterelle’s place.

“Toumes, it would seem, is a devoted but imperious lover, and the Persian and Median laws are as butter compared with the inflexibility of his decisions. The little rift within the lute, which has lately turned all the music to discord, occurred last Monday week—bank-holiday, as you may remember. The Sunday school to which Elsie belongs—and it’s a strange anomaly, isn’t it, that a girl going to Sunday school should still have a rooted belief in white magic?—the school was to go for an outing to Prawn Bay, and Toumes had arranged to join his sweetheart at the starting- point. But he had made her promise that if by any chance he should be delayed, she would not go with the others, but would wait until he came to fetch her.

“Of course, it so happened that he was detained, and, equally of course, Elsie, like a true woman, went off without him. She did all she knew to make me believe she went quite against her own wishes, that her companions forced her to go. The beautifully yielding nature of a woman never comes out so conspicuously as when she is being coerced into following her own secret desires. Anyhow, Toumes, arriving some time later, found her gone. He followed on, and under ordinary circumstances, I suppose, a sharp reprimand would have been considered sufficient. Unfortunately, the young man arrived on the scene to find his truant love deep in the frolics of kiss-in-the-ring. After tea in the Câterelle Arms, the whole party had adjourned to a neighbouring meadow, and...