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Author
GEORGE MACDONALD, (born Dec. 10, 1824, Huntly, Aberdeen, Scot.—died Sept. 18, 1905, Ashtead, Surrey, Eng.), novelist of Scottish life, poet, and writer of Christian allegories of man’s pilgrimage back to God, who is remembered chiefly, however, for his allegorical fairy stories, which have continued to delight children and their elders.
He became a Congregational minister, then a free-lance preacher and lecturer. In 1855 he published a poetic tragedy, Within and Without, and after that he made literature his profession. Of his literature for adults, Phantastes: A Faerie Romance for Men and Women (1858) and Lilith (1895) are good examples.
Although his best known book for children is At the Back of the North Wind (1871), his best and most enduring works are The Princess and the Goblin (1872) and its sequel, The Princess and Curdie (1873).
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Phantastes:
A FAERIE ROMANCE FOR Men and Women
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“In good sooth, my masters, this is no door.
Yet is it a little window, that looketh upon a great world.”
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PREFACE
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FOR OFFERING THIS NEW edition of my father’s Phantastes, my reasons are three. The first is to rescue the work from an edition illustrated without the author’s sanction, and so unsuitably that all lovers of the book must have experienced some real grief in turning its pages. With the copyright I secured also the whole of that edition and turned it into pulp.
My second reason is to pay a small tribute to my father by way of personal gratitude for this, his first prose work, which was published nearly fifty years ago. Though unknown to many lovers of his greater writings, none of these has exceeded it in imaginative insight and power of expression. To me it rings with the dominant chord of his life’s purpose and work.
My third reason is that wider knowledge and love of the book should be made possible. To this end I have been most happy in the help of my father’s old friend, who has illustrated the book. I know of no other living artist who is capable of portraying the spirit of Phantastes; and every reader of this edition will, I believe, feel that the illustrations are a part of the romance, and will gain through them some perception of the brotherhood between George MacDonald and Arthur Hughes.
GREVILLE MACDONALD.
September 1905.
CHAPTER I
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“A SPIRIT . . .
. . . . . .
The undulating and silent well,
And rippling rivulet, and evening gloom,
Now deepening the dark shades, for speech assuming,
Held commune with him; as if he and it
Were all that was.”
SHELLEY’S Alastor.
I awoke one morning with the usual perplexity of mind which accompanies the return of consciousness. As I lay and looked through the eastern window of my room, a faint streak of peach-colour, dividing a cloud that just rose above the low swell of the horizon, announced the approach of the sun. As my thoughts, which a deep and apparently dreamless sleep had dissolved, began again to assume crystalline forms, the strange events of the foregoing night presented themselves anew to my wondering consciousness. The day before had been my one-and-twentieth birthday. Among other ceremonies investing me with my legal rights, the keys of an old secretary, in which my father had kept his private papers, had been delivered up to me. As soon as I was left alone, I ordered lights in the chamber where the secretary stood, the first lights that had been there for many a year; for, since my father’s death, the room had been left undisturbed. But, as if the darkness had been too long an inmate to be easily expelled, and had dyed with blackness the walls to which, bat-like, it had clung, these tapers served but ill to light up the gloomy hangings, and seemed to throw yet darker shadows into the hollows of the deep-wrought cornice. All the further portions of the room lay shrouded in a mystery whose deepest folds were gathered around the dark oak cabinet which I now approached with a strange mingling of reverence and curiosity. Perhaps, like a geologist, I was about to turn up to the light some of the buried strata of the human world, with its fossil remains charred by passion and petrified by tears. Perhaps I was to learn how my father, whose personal history
