American writer (1850–1895) best known for his poems of childhood, including “Wynken, Blynken, and Nod” and “Little Boy Blue.” Manuscript for the probably unpublished short story, “The White Lie,” penned in Field’s precise, diminutive hand on ten lined 8 x 12.25 pages, September 1885. Field has added at the end, “This must be re-written; fatally constructed and badly written; too sloppy.” The work is unsigned by Field but his handwriting is attested to by his wife, who adds at the end of the manuscript, “I certify that this is my husband’s—Eugene Field—own handwriting. Julia S. Field 11-29-18.” Expected handling wear, several horizontal folds, and two binding holes to the top of each page, otherwise fine condition. The pages, including the title page and a blank final page, are displayed within a leather-bound 8.25 x 12.5 cover.
Termed "the first of the columnists," Field may be best known today as a poet and newspaperman in the Midwest, including Chicago. Yet he longed for something more out of his life—a deep desire to be a respected literary figure; to create something of some permanent value. To that end he tested the waters with the here offered short story.
His sister had once been quoted that Field felt ‘quasi remorse for the years he fancied he had wasted’ as a journalist. Drawing from the pains in his life—the death of his mother when he was a child, the passing of his father that forced him to drop out of college, and the loss of one of his own children—Field entwined a love of family into this manuscript. “Many years ago a little girl named Ester lived in a cottage on the beach. Her father’s name was Reuben and...Esther’s mother was dead. She lay in the burying ground on the hill about a mile back from the sea,” he wrote in this manuscript. Loss permeates the tale, including the concluding line: “Father,” cried Ester, agonizingly, as she comprehend it all but the old man did not hear his Darling’s voice. Reuben was dead.”
Ever the editor, Field was less-than-impressed with his finished product. “Fatally constructed and badly written” was his assessment. His sister saw it differently: “Had the angel of death never hovered over the crib in my brother’s home, had he never known the pangs and the heart-hunger which come when the little voice is stilled and the little chair is empty, he could not have written the lines which voice the great cry of humanity and the hope of reunion in immortality beyond the grave.” RRAuction COA.
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