The story of a man, a woman, a fox, and a love that could not be tamed.
knows, perhaps shot, like the dogs, for knowing the secret.
Mr. Tebrick had all this time gone about paying off his servants and shooting his dogs as if he were in a dream. Now he fortified himself with two or three glasses of strong whisky and went to bed, taking his vixen into his arms, where he slept soundly. Whether she did or not is more than I or anybody else can say.
In the morning when he woke up they had the place to themselves, for on his instructions the servants had all left first thing: Janet and the cook to Oxford, where they would try and find new places, and Nanny going back to the cottage near Tangley, where her son lived, who was the pigman there.
So with that morning there began what was now to be their ordinary life together. He would get up when it was broad day, and first thing light the fire downstairs and cook the breakfast, then brush his wife, sponge her with a damp sponge, then brush her again, in all this using scent very freely to hide somewhat her rank odour. When she wa
David Garnett (1892–1981) was a British writer and publisher who received literary recognition when his novel Lady into Fox was awarded the 1922 James Tait Black Memorial Prize for fiction.
This particular work is as enigmatic as its writer and this particular reviewer failed to understand the work. The plot is simple enough: Sylvia Tebrick, the 24-year-old wife of Richard Tebrick, suddenly turns into a fox while they are out walking in the woods. The rest of the story is the tale of Richard dealing with the transformation.
Is the story a morality play? Essay? Eccentric novella? The last gasp of scandalous English yellow literature? Each reader will have to judge for his or her own.