A Widow's Tale, and Other StoriesOliphant, Mrs. (Margaret)
General
A Widow's Tale, and Other Stories
Oliphant, Mrs. (Margaret)
Fiction; Short stories
more exquisite part of her, which the Scotswoman's reserve had kept
hidden, came to the surface and dwelt for that last year in her face, as
if to let all those who looked on Mrs Oliphant know what she was before
she bade them good-bye.
I wonder if there is among the younger Scottish novelists of to-day any
one so foolish as to believe that he has a right to a stool near this
woman, any one who has not experienced a sense of shame (and some rage
at his heart) if he found that for the moment his little efforts were
being taken more seriously than hers: I should like to lead the simple
man by the ear down the long procession of her books. It is too long a
procession, though there are so many fine figures in it--men and women
and boys (the boy in 'Sir Tom' is surely among the best in fiction) in
the earlier stories, nearly all women in the latest; but whether they
would have been greater books had she revised one instead of beginning
another is probably to be doubted. Not certainly because the best of
them could not have been made better. That is obvious to almost any
reader: there nearly always comes a point in Mrs Oliphant's novels where
almost any writer of the younger school, without a sixth part of her
capacity, could have stepped in with advantage. Often it is at the end
of a fine scene, and what he would have had to tell her was that it was
the end, for she seldom seemed to know. Even 'Kirsteen,' which I take to
be the best, far the best, story of its kind that has come out of
Scotland for the last score of years, could have been improved by the
comparative duffer. Condensation, a more careful choice of words, we all
learn these arts in the schools nowadays--they are natural to the spirit
of the age; but Mrs Oliphant never learned them, they were contrary to
her genius (as to that of some other novelists greater than she), and
they would probably have trammelled her so much that the books would
have lost more than they gained. We must take her as she was, believing
that she knew the medium which best suited her talents, though it was
not the best medium.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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