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A WIDOW'S TALE
AND OTHER STORIES
BY MRS OLIPHANT
WITH AN INTRODUCTORY NOTE BY
J. M. BARRIE
WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS
EDINBURGH AND LONDON
MDCCCXCVIII
INTRODUCTORY NOTE.
I remember well my first meeting with Mrs Oliphant a dozen years ago,how she "ordered" me to Windsor where she was then living (I like tothink that it was an order, and obeyed as such by her very loyalsubject), and that I was as proud to go, and as nervous, as those mustbe who make the same journey by command of another lady resident in thesame place. I have an odd recollection too of buying my first umbrellafor this occasion—for no reason apparently except that I wanted toimpress her.
They say she was not tall, but she seemed tremendous to me that day. Ifind an old letter in which I dwelt on the height of her and her grandmanner, so that evidently the umbrella was of little avail. In herpresence, I think, those whose manner is of to-day must always have feltsuddenly boorish. She belonged to a politer age: you never knew it moresurely than when she was putting you at your ease with a graciousnessthat had something of a command in it. Mrs Oliphant was herself the fineScots gentlewoman she drew so incomparably in her books, mostsympathetic when she unbent and a ramrod if she chose—the grande dameat one moment, almost a girl, it might be, the next (her sense of funoften made her a girl again), she gave you the impression of one wholoved to finger beautiful things, and always wore rare caps and finelace as if they were part of her. She could be almost fearsomelycorrect, and in the middle of it become audacious (for there was a dashof the Bohemian about her); her likes and dislikes were intense; in talkshe was extremely witty without trying to be so (she was often, I think,amused and surprised to hear what she had just said); her eyes were soexpressive, and such a humorous gleam leapt into them when you attemptedto impress her (with anything more pretentious than an umbrella), thatto catch sight of them must often to the grandiloquent have been to cometo an abrupt stop; and, more noticeable perhaps than anything else, shewas of an intellect so alert that one wondered she ever fell asleep.That was but a first impression, a photograph of externals, little to beread in it of the beautiful soul and most heroic woman who was the realMrs Oliphant. The last time I saw her, which was shortly before herdeath, I knew her better. The wit had all gone out of her eyes, thoughnot quite from her talk; her face had grown very sweet and soft, andwhat had started to be the old laugh often ended pitifully. The two sonswho had been so much to her were gone, and for the rest of her days shenever forgot it, I think, for the length of a smile. She was less thenovelist now than a pathetic figure in a novel. She was as brave asever, but she had less self-control; and so, I suppose it was, that themore exquisite part of her, which the Scotswoman's reserve had kepthidden, came to the surface and dwelt for that last year in her face, asif to let all those who looked on Mrs Oliphant know what she was beforeshe bade them good-bye.
I wonder if there is among the younger Scottish novelists of to-day anyone so foolish as to believe that he has a right to a stool near thiswoman, any one who has not experienced a sense of shame (and some rageat his heart