But Not for Love: Stories of Marjorie Barnard and M. Barnard Eldershaw (1988)

This volume seems to have been the first fruit of a career spent in trying to keep returning these writers to the public consciousness. Robert Darby is the one keeping up the fight, but even he has now seriously diversified into other interests, though he appears to still be occasionally venturing into this territory. It was published the year after Marjorie Barnard died (and thirty-odd years after Flora Eldershaw's death). What is collected here is most of what was not yet in book form in their work in the short story. Barnard Eldershaw had planned a short story volume in the early 30s which was rejected around the traps of London. Barnard on her own published a magnificent one in Australia only in 1943, The Persimmon Tree, which Virago republished with a couple of extras thrown in in the 80s. An Australian publisher had planned another in 1949 / 1950, which also never eventuated. This volume collects most of what seems from research to have been the proposed contents of the two stillborn volumes, to complement the Virago reprint which was newly available at the time of publication. Darby gives a fascinating history of all the background of publication of various of the stories, why others were rejected, and, most importantly, the attitude of Barnard and Eldershaw to story-writing, and that of the literary world around them. It is astonishing how wrong a lot of people got these stories, including the authors - proof, if more were needed, that writers themselves are not always the best judges of their work from a public perspective. That said, Barnard always seems to have had a special place for the short story in her heart, and despite seeming to droop under the criticism of Vance or Nettie Palmer (for example), kept up her fascination with the form. Eldershaw, as usual, seems a far less easy-to-decipher individual. These stories have a lot of hurt in them, a stormy colour, and troubled contemporary settings which didn't sit well I'm sure with the more larrikinesque bush-yarn expectations of a good number of punters. That they portray the greeny-grey disturbed skies of modern 30s and 40s city life, and its concomitant nervous disorders and banjaxing frustrations, is what brought to them continual criticism of depressiveness, and is what now makes them so wonderful as a vision of alterity to the traditional picture. Add to that the particular and revealing talent of these two writers, who are still not accorded their due, and one has a book filled with rich layering and significance.

The Adventures of Harry Richmond by George Meredith (1871)

Well, the pleasure continues. I've spoken before about the joy of reading Meredith, which is of course not unalloyed. But it can easily still be a celebration, mainly of complex filtered expression. Where others would hammer the nails in, Meredith will often sit them in position for a few seconds and then direct the reader's attention elsewhere, expecting them to remember that quicksilver placement and count it fully as far as plot development goes. Or hint at the affixing by referring to it poetically, lending precedence instead to how someone felt about it, or looked to a bystander with other preoccupations. Here we have a return, after two errant pieces (at least in some senses), to the central mode. A wide-ranging story of the life of a young fellow of the mid-nineteenth century which, like Evan Harrington before it, owes some of its motive power to Meredith's own biography. Harry is a trusty fellow, a good lad, whose father has delusions of grandeur. We follow him through halcyon schooldays, growing into a species of the young blood, but with more than usual brains and sensitivity. This young man idolises his father, who is persona non grata at Riversley, a large house in the countryside where Harry has grown up. His father has, in the eyes of the squire, Harry's grandfather, been the destruction of his dead mother, the squire's daughter. And, for this reason, and for his profligacy with money, the squire despises Harry's father. Harry's father is a sleek charmer, always capable of bending opinion to his will and sympathies in his direction, mostly about his claim to a great fortune through his own wronged mother, whose circumstances are kept behind a discreet veil. The squire is a blustering eighteenth century character, frustrated by the seeming snake-oil he's being fed by Harry's father, but caring a great deal for Harry himself and wanting to keep him from the lowering he is sure his father will bring. Meredith's own father was apparently of a similar make; he is clearly working out through comedy the sense of discomfort this brings him, trying to lay it to rest, perhaps, but also registering the benefits it brings in terms of high tension undercurrents. This develops into what seems to be a great love story via the reconnection Harry effects with his father, and an extended visit by them to a small principality in Germany. Harry falls for the princess, Ottilia, a fact which his father jumps on in order to try to advance his egotistical scheme of social exaltation to his just deserts. We travel through sea voyages, mysterious machinations among London solicitors, adventures on the political hustings, interludes with gypsies, reverses and aggrandizations of fortune and friendship along the way. At the end, Harry's father takes a step too far in a time of heightened tension on the Isle of Wight, a gentle deception is revealed, and all falls down. This acts as a clarifier to Harry, who recognizes that his heart is elsewhere. His real beloved is by now betrothed to someone else, long having given up on him. The pain this causes sees him escape on another sea journey, only to discover on his return that the marriage never happened, her lover was false, and the two are finally free for each other. Though this does have some irritations, which would not be unfamiliar to seasoned Meredithians, like very hidebound ideas of the value of Britishness and its almost supernatural inherent superiority, particularly as associated with the Britannia-like British female at her best, it is still joyfully comic and richly erudite. It also allows the mind to sink into subtleties of expression which, for all the patience they require, reward readers with rare flavours which exalt their palates.

The Paston Letters 1422-1509, A.D. (1875)

This is a three-volume set which seems to have culminated a lot of work in the late nineteenth century to discover and print the complete Paston correspondence. My guess is that James Gairdner, of the Public Record Office, who edited, and Edward Arber, who published, are leading lights of the scholarly history of these records of the fifteenth century, even though I feel sure that some of their conclusions about who did what and when have long since been overturned. Which itself gives evidence of the moveable feast-like quality here; does a particular reference apply to John the elder, Sir John, his first son, or the later Sir John, his second? Often other evidence can provide an answer: such-and-such, who is referred to in such a position, was so only in the lifetime of one or other of them, or died before some other person achieved their title, and so on. What that gives me is an insight into the process, and it's one I'm fascinated by, would love to do similar things myself, for a living preferably. Two other interests are catered to here. One is what people wrote about in those days - these are not on the whole personal revelations of wondering souls, rather they are updates about politics and money and all sorts of cases people had in play, in terms of inheritance. Every now and then a parent will warn a child to apply themselves more, or perhaps a mother will adjure a child to recognize that they need to reply, and not leave all sorts of threads hanging. Of course we are pre-postal, so letters always have bearers, who are often mentioned as being able to provide more information if required on some key matter. The other interest which is slaked in reading these is language. These are in the original spelling and syntax, which becomes very familiar over such a long journey. Variation in spelling, given that there were so many fewer rules; ways of greeting; the invocation to the Lord having you in his keeping at the end (or variations thereof); the language world before easy possessives - "the Earl of Warwick his wife" and so on; how close English was to what we would now think of as something like pan-Europeany Spanish, with 'what' spelled qwat, and 'you' as zow. A brimming compendium for a language nerd and history nerd like me.