I like the idea of a narrative nested within another narrative, giving colour and maintaining the interest of the reader. But a narrative within a narrative within a narrative is perhaps more challenging. Here is one such -- from the introductory chapter of "Guardian Angel". Excuse me for saying so, but on looking back I am quite pleased with it!
Narrative number one is of course the strange tale of a mysterious elderly woman called Susanna Ravenhill who ultimately saves the mountain of Carningli from destruction. Within that is another narrative, explaining how her autobiographical story is discovered in London. And within this is narrative number three, relating to the touching relationship of two elderly gentlemen called Pickersniff and Jebson who spend much of their time trying to keep their ancient publishing business afloat. They love one another dearly, in the manner of lifelong friends, but Pickersniff is not at all well; and he never does get to see Jebson's final letter, becase (as we discover later) he dies before it is written and delivered. So have a smile, if you will, and maybe shed a tear, for the poignant story of these two eternally optimistic old men.............
Narrative number one is of course the strange tale of a mysterious elderly woman called Susanna Ravenhill who ultimately saves the mountain of Carningli from destruction. Within that is another narrative, explaining how her autobiographical story is discovered in London. And within this is narrative number three, relating to the touching relationship of two elderly gentlemen called Pickersniff and Jebson who spend much of their time trying to keep their ancient publishing business afloat. They love one another dearly, in the manner of lifelong friends, but Pickersniff is not at all well; and he never does get to see Jebson's final letter, becase (as we discover later) he dies before it is written and delivered. So have a smile, if you will, and maybe shed a tear, for the poignant story of these two eternally optimistic old men.............
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Bow Street
Friday the 4th day of June in the year of our Lord 1858
My dear Pickersniff
I trust that this finds you in better health than you displayed at the time of our recent conference. No doubt your good lady has kept you under appropriate restraint and has resisted all your pleadings to sally forth and put the world to rights. A deep chill upon the chest is not a trifling matter, and if I may make so bold I heartily recommend five spoons a day of Dr Abraham’s Patent Lemon and Balsam Medicament which I found to be wonderfully efficacious on the occasion of my last unfortunate indisposition.
My dear fellow, I hesitate to inform you, when you have quite enough upon your chest as it is, that the wolves are still at the door, not simply howling but seeking to batter it down. I have had yet another note from that wretched fellow Gobbings who is supposed to be printing our ill-fated “Mystery of the Flaming Galleon”, complaining that he will not print part fifteen of the story until we have paid for the printing of part six. I was sure that we had paid him up to and including part eight, but perhaps I am mistaken in that, since the ledger is, I think, at home with you and under your bed. Perhaps, if it is not too much of an exertion, you will be good enough to reach down and fetch it forth, and to let me know the extent of our indebtedness in this matter. Gobbings requires at least £100 from us, but there is less than £23 in the cash box in the office.
Then that rough fellow from South Wales who sold us 10 cwt of coal in January came and demanded his money, and I had to explain to him that the fearsome winter weather which followed in February had not only caught us unawares and had necessitated a continuous use of our fireplaces in Gabriel Lane, but had also had a dismal effect upon the profitability of our enterprise since it had been all but impossible for us to receive deliveries from our printers or to pack off books and journals to the far-flung corners of the land. “Your problem, not mine, Master Jebson,” said he. “It always snows in February, and I like nothing better than a fireplace going like a blast-furnace around the clock. If I do not get my money next week, I fear that I shall have to pay you a little visit with two of my sturdy friends for company. They are as soft as kittens, but they are not at all lovable when they meet gentlemen who upset me. Do you take my meaning, sir?” I threw him out, of course. But he will be back, with his friends, and I suppose I shall have to conjure a few shillings or pounds from somewhere if I am to avoid unpleasantness.
There have been others seeking pecuniary satisfaction as well, my dear fellow, but this is not the time to upset you with the sordid trivia of commerce. It is June, after all, and truly all is well with the world! This very day I counted no less than six blackbirds in full voice on my walk from my house to the office. Was that not a splendid thing?
I fear that I have failed in my attempts to encourage that fellow Dickens to join our happy band of authors, and my communications (which I thought remarkably diplomatic) to Master Collins and Master Thackeray have sadly elicited no response. They are no doubt too busy writing like men possessed, and lining the pockets of others. Mrs Gaskell promises that we will have something new from her, in due course, but I think it a racing certainty that she has not even started work yet and that she is in any case fully occupied on her latest popular fiction. Rumour has it that it will be serialized by Mr Dickens in “Household Words”.
We must remain optimistic, even in the face of straightened circumstances. My dear fellow, it is too early yet to be sure about matters, but I fancy that I might have found the author who will transform our fortunes! I must relate for you a singular occurrence. This very morning, within five minutes of my turning up at the office, an elderly lady came in off the street and asked young Martin in my hearing if she might meet “the proprietor” on a matter of some urgency. Indeed she might, said I directly, and so in she came. She was dressed in full mourning clothes, and had her veil over her face for the duration of our interview, but I would guess from her voice that she might be more than sixty years of age. A good clear voice she has, with a touch of a Welsh lilt. Medium height, and a good upright posture. Every inch a lady, I would say. She would not give her name, but said she was acting for a friend. She said she was charged with finding a publisher for a memoir entitled “The Ghost of Inglestone” and would be keen -- on behalf of this friend -- to find out how much I might offer for the serial and book rights.
I said that that would depend upon the quality of the authorship, and offered to read it and come to a view as to what its value might be. She nodded, and I asked her if I might have a glance at said work. She said it was presently locked away, but that she would bring it in for inspection some time next week. “Perfectly acceptable, Madam,” said I. “It is our pleasure, as old-established publishers of high-class literature, to serve both new and established authors to the best of our ability, and to ensure the highest possible remuneration and the greatest possible readership for worthy works.”
She gave a little curtsey, and I think she smiled beneath her veil. I invited her to join me for a cup of tea, and to say a little about this memoir of hers -- for I think this “friend” is nothing but a little artifice or conceit -- and she was remarkably forthcoming. We talked of this and that for near two hours, in a perfectly easy fashion. During our conversation, she summarized her narrative for me. Absolutely extraordinary! I must say, my dear Pickersniff, that we might have a very big thing here, if we can just get our hands on it!
The lady courier says that the story ranges right across Europe, and that in order to protect anonymity Mrs Ravenhill has changed the names of people and places. But she admitted to me, on being politely pressed on the matter of authenticity, that several places in Wales feature large in the tale -- with names that are carefully disguised. One, so I gather, is a town called Newport and the other is a mountain that goes by the name of Karren Iggly or some such thing. The tale is truly remarkable, and if it is as fluent and fascinating as the abbreviated verbal narrative given to me by The Woman in Black, it will surely weave a charming web around her readers and leave them trapped and entranced. “But you say this is a memoir, Madam?” said I. “It is a truly fantastical one, in the tradition of the great Gothick tales of years gone by, but with a modern slant to it. Be honest with me if you please -- this is a product of a vivid imagination, is it not?”
“Sir, you do my friend and myself a grave disservice,” she replied. “I give you my word that when you read this narrative from first page to last, you will be reading a true narrative of real events, recalled and described faithfully by the author.”
Then without another word, she rose to her feet, gave another curtsey, and indicated to young Martin with a nod of her head that she would take her leave. She would take no assistance in the hailing of a phaeton, so I kissed her hand, and down the stairs she went. I chanced to look out through the window as she went out into the street, and I saw that she met up with another mature lady, with whom she strode off towards Piccadilly, arm in arm.
I await developments. Get well again as soon as may be, my dear fellow. In truth it would be a fine thing to have you here again in the office, in case any more angry coalmen or exotic ladies in mourning dress come calling. There is too much blackness about for me to cope with all alone.
I send fond greetings to your good lady, and remain your dear friend
Jebson
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Russell Square
June the 7th 1858
My dear good friend,
Thank you indeed for your kind felicitations and for your encouragement for me to return to the rudest of health as soon as God may permit it. In his infinite wisdom He has decreed that Dr Abraham’s Patent Lemon and Balsam Medicament should work miracles for other gentlemen but should do nothing whatsoever in the calming of my own troubled breast. I am therefore still confined to bed with a horrid cough and a fevered brow, and fear that it will be some days yet before I can return to work. In the meantime, I advise you to lay in cudgels and a few bottles of unpretentious wine so as to deal with irate coalmen and exotic tellers of tall tales.
In all seriousness, my dear fellow, things are not looking too good. I fished out the ledger from beneath my bed and discovered that we have thus far paid only for parts one to five of “Mystery of the Flaming Galleon”, and that parts six to fourteen are still to be paid for. If Gobbings calls again, or sends round his attorney, for God’s sake convince him that parts fifteen to twenty must be printed, if we are to prevent revolution and mayhem; that the eager reading public is more and more absorbed with the mystery as week succeeds week; and that when the full book is published there will be fortunes to be made by all three of us -- Gobbings, Pickersniff and Jebson. Tell him that the word among both critics and publishing gentlemen of discernment is that sales will be truly enormous! I fear that I do not believe a word of that myself, and I suppose that neither do you; but when the wolves are at the door some small exaggeration is required if one is to encourage them to go away. I confess to feeling somewhat depressed with regard to our prospects, my dear old friend. But one must battle on, must one not?
Now then, to this exotic lady and her fanciful memoir called “The Ghost of Inglestone”. Is there anything further to report? Why should her book be any better than the dross which pours in, week after week, from aspiring novelists, and which washes across our office floor? It would indeed be a miracle if her memoir was to be the very thing to rescue us from penury. But there have been miracles before, as the Good Book assures us.
By the way, Newport I know about. A big sea-port, so I believe, with coal and iron coming and going, and dark and dismal streets where dastardly deeds are probably commonplace. A good place for a novel, if I am not mistaken. Next, this peak you call Karren Iggli. Is it a place of beetling crags, swirling mists and tumbling glaciers and snowfields, where sturdy mountaineers faint with terror and disappear without trace, and where fearsome demons or monsters lurk? Is the Abominable Snowman stamping about across the pages? If so, I suppose we are in with a chance of giving the modern reader what he or she wants.
Grateful thanks for the currant cake, which I shall consume when I am better. My beloved Ellen sends her kindest regards, as do I.
Your old friend
Pickersniff
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Bow Street
The 14th day of June, year of our Lord 1858
My dear Pickersniff
I have more news for you, and I trust this finds you in your convalescent wicker chair in the garden rather than in your sick bed.
The coal-man and his two friends from Merthyr Tydfil came for their money, so I paid him £8 on account, and gave each of them a glass of red wine. That seemed like a more sensible strategy than defending myself with a cudgel, as I hope you will agree. While we were chatting amiably, who should come knocking on the door than my aspiring author! My clerk Martin let her in, and -- blow me down with a breeze -- when she was introduced to those thugs from South Wales she forgot all about her mourning, lifted her veil and started chatting to them nineteen to the dozen, in Welsh, just as if they were all lifelong friends! Perhaps they were, for she called them Twm and Ianto. I had no idea what it was all about, but very soon they were rolling about and hooting with laughter. It was very infectious, and I admit to having a giggle myself. The lady was kind enough to explain, after they had gone, that they were reminiscing about good old times.
With the return of sobriety, I noticed what a handsome woman Mrs Ravenhill is. (I shall call her that, although she still claims that she is someone else, and is acting as an agent for our mysterious author.) She has the most beautiful brown eyes, a straight nose and lips that are still full in spite of her age. Her high cheek-bones and a ruddy complexion suggest a liking for the fresh air and sunshine. Her brown hair has a touch of grey in it. She has her fair share of wrinkles, but I estimate that they are more to do with laughter than with sadness, and I declare that I cannot for the life of me decide whether she is a lady who has seen and done everything in her sixty years, or a lady who is remarkably well preserved at eighty. It matters not, my dear fellow; I judge that she has a good deal of life left in her yet, and that is an important consideration if she is to be our next big author. She seems to know London very well, and to have good connections. To tell the truth, I have more faith in this dear lady than I do in Mrs Gaskell.
Apologies, Samuel. I ramble on, and must get to the point. Mrs Ravenhill did not stay long. She left me a bundle, and took her leave, having promised to return in one week. So now I have the manuscript in my possession. On the first page these words are inscribed: “The Ghost of Inglestone: Being the memoir of a phantom or lost soul whose destiny it is to wander the earth and to find redemption for a wicked life through the completion of good works, the prevention of evil and the saving of that which is sacred.” A strange title, and somewhat pretentious, don’t you think? We can probably advise her of the merits of something shorter.
However and notwithstanding, it is an unusual pleasure to be given something complete, instead of receiving a few pages at a time, for our next weekly episode, from some aspiring author who probably has not the faintest idea how his story is going to end. I am truly tired of penny dreadfuls and turgid episodes of “Mystery of the Flaming Galleon”, and long for a good tale, well told, fit to make us a fortune. As I have indicated, I know the outline of this dear lady’s tale already. All I need now is good writing.
I will read the tale, and report to you again in some days. On the matter of tumbling glaciers and fearsome demons at the heart of the narrative, I am at present uncertain; but you may rest assured that I will look out for them.
I remain
Your ever faithful friend
Jebson
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Russell Square
16th day of June 1858
My Dear Jebson
I have received your narrative of laughing coalmen and the beautiful old lady -- I am truly glad to see that you are bearing up well in spite of the fact that we still face a financial disaster. I wish I could share your eternal optimism, my dear fellow. As for me, optimism does not come easily just now, since my doctor has just told me the dismal news that this bother on my chest has turned into pneumonia. I wish that I was younger and stronger. So I fear that I am out of action for a good while yet -- a matter of great regret to me, in view of the hard times that are upon us and because a great weight is now pressed upon your shoulders alone.
I declare that your mysterious lady author has made a profound impression upon you! Beware, Master Jebson! An old bachelor like you should look to his laurels. You always did have a tendency to be swept away by a shapely figure, a flashing smile and a furtive glance. I see bunches of red roses coming on. However, I will not complain so long as you retain objectivity in all things, especially when it comes to publishing decisions; and I trust that when you read this lady’s manuscript, you will see before you her words rather than her brown eyes.............
Now Ellen tells me that I must sleep, and I always obey instructions
Your dear friend
Pickersniff
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Bow Street, on the 22nd day of June 1858
Dearest Pickersniff,
I received news of your deteriorated condition from our lad Martin, and also from your beloved Ellen when she called in at the office this very morning, and I write this with a heavy heart. I am mortified that no visitors are allowed to your sick room, for I was intent upon calling in to see you with a little box of things designed to bring you good cheer, and a manuscript for you to read. But you must remain brave, my good fellow, and hold to the belief that the great advances in medical science that mark our era will shortly enable you to cast off the shadow of that dismal disease and turn the corner into a bright new day and a full recovery. You have in Doctor Snugget a skillful and wise practitioner, and I have it on the soundest authority that there is no better man on this side of the Thames.
Now then, news to cheer you and to speed you to a full recovery. Mrs Susanna Ravenhill is the woman who holds our future in her hands! I have no doubt about it. She writes good English, and her tale is even more remarkable than I had perceived from that conversation of some weeks back. I know, my dear old friend, that your instinct has always been to find a genius of tender years who will write us a never-ending stream of episodes and a three-part novel each year for the next twenty years; but bright young things such as Miss Austen and the Bronte sisters tend not to reproduce, and to die young. Then I know that your instinct tends towards the Gothick. I fear that on that score I must disappoint you, since there appears not to be a trace of a dragon or a demon, or a glacier or a sturdy mountaineer, in the narrative which I have recently perused; neither is there an insane murderer on the loose, or a ravished heroine, or a vampire desperate for the blood of virgins. But never fear -- there are many compensatory virtues in this tale, and in any case it is my judgement that the taste for Gothick nonsense is now greatly reduced. Is that not shown already by the success of the tales of Mr Dickens, Mr Collins and others who write about poverty, injustice and strange and convoluted family histories? They may fill their books with caricatures, but they know how to spin their yarns and to weave pretty tales, and it is our misfortune that we have no such writer on our publication list.
But now all that is about to change, my dear fellow. I feel it in my creaky old bones................
Damnation! I was about to elaborate. But young Martin tells me that that fellow Gobbings is at the door again, with a countenance as black as thunder. I will get out the best bottle of red wine I can find, and try to placate him. I will send this off to you with a view to bringing you a little comfort; and I will continue my hopeful narrative later.
Take care, my dear old friend, and hurry along to a full and speedy recovery. I need you to be well again. I recommend a slice of that moist currant cake, which is now mature enough to have reached perfection. Give my kindest regards to your beloved Ellen.
Your ever affectionate
Jebson
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