Dean Spanley: The Novel

Dean Spanley: The Novel
Alan Sharp

Lord Dunsany

The classic humorous novel about an alcohol-loving clergyman who thinks he is the reincarnation of a dog. Complete with the screenplay and photos from the new film starring Peter O’Toole and Sam Neill.Dean Spanley is the very archetype of a bland churchman: affable, conventional, prudent without being a prig. Only his keen interest in the transmigration of souls and almost excessive enthusiasm for dogs betray any shadow of eccentricity. And then, richly primed with a few glasses of Imperial Tokay, he slips over the threshold between past and present and becomes a dog. Or are his canine memories no more than fancy? Surely no mere dean could speak so vividly, with such total conviction, of the joys of hunting, of rolling in fresh dung, of baying the moon? No human could know so much of rabbiting, the importance of buying bones, the contemptibility of pigs. My Talks With Dean Spanley, first published in 1936, is certainly Lord Dunsany’s funniest book and, in its unique way, a remarkable tour de force.Now adapted into a new comedy-drama feature film, DEAN SPANLEY follows a father and son as they encounter the eponymous eccentric in this story of reincarnation and reconciliation set in Edwardian England. Adapted by Alan Sharp (Rob Roy) and directed by New Zealand-born Toa Fraser (No.2), a truly impressive international cast is led by eight-time Academy Award nominee Peter O'Toole (Venus, Lawrence of Arabia) and also features Jeremy Northam (The Winslow Boy, Gosford Park), Bryan Brown (Cocktail, Gorillas in the Mist) and Sam Neill (Jurassic Park, My Brilliant Career).This special edition includes Lord Dunsany’s witty and inventive original novel, as well as Alan Sharp’s hilarious screenplay, which faithfully adapts and also expands upon the events in the book. Complete with colour photos and interviews with the principal film-makers, this whimsical, wintry tale about dogs, reincarnation and the effects of alcohol makes perfect Christmas reading for lovers of classic humorous storytelling.

Dean Spanley

MY TALKS WITH DEAN SPANLEY

Lord Dunsany

DEAN SPANLEY: THE SCREENPLAY

Alan Sharp

Edited by Matthew Metcalfe, with Chris Smith

CONTENTS

MY TALKS WITH DEAN SPANLEY (#uab489197-fe84-517a-9da9-3f107f840558)

Preface

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

DEAN SPANLEY: THE FILM (#litres_trial_promo)

Introduction

Dean Spanley: the screenplay

A Trick of the Tale: Adapting Lord Dunsany for the screen by Alan Sharp

A Producer’s Take, or How We Made the Movie by Matthew Metcalfe

Directing the Dean, by Toa Fraser

Also by (#litres_trial_promo)

Credits

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher

My Talks With Dean Spanley (#u63571dd5-7405-5855-bb5c-ab50b45e2492)

PREFACE (#u63571dd5-7405-5855-bb5c-ab50b45e2492)

That there are passages in Dean Spanley’s conversation that have sometimes jarred on me, the reader will readily credit. But the more that his expressions have been removed from what one might have expected of a man in his position, or indeed any member of my club, the more they seemed to me to guarantee his sincerity. It would have been easy enough for him to have acted the part that it is his duty to play; but difficult, and I think impossible, to have invented in such meticulous detail the strange story he told me. And for what reason? Upon the authenticity of Dean Spanley’s experience I stake my reputation as a scientific writer. If he has deluded me in any particular let scientific bodies reject not only these researches, but any others that I may make hereafter. So sure am I of Dean Spanley’s perfect veracity.

Should doubt be expressed of a single page of these talks, and the case against it be made with any plausibility, it is probable that I shall abandon not only this line of research, but that my Investigations into the Origins of the Mentality of Certain Serious Persons, the product of years of observation, may never even be published.

CHAPTER ONE (#u63571dd5-7405-5855-bb5c-ab50b45e2492)

Were I to tell how I came to know that Dean Spanley had a secret, I should have to start this tale at a point many weeks earlier. For the knowledge came to me gradually; and it would be of little interest to my readers were I to record the hints and guesses by which it grew to a certainty. Stray conversations gradually revealed it, at first partly overheard from a little group in a corner of a room at the Olympus Club, and later addressed directly to myself. And the odd thing is that almost always it was what Dean Spanley did not say, rather than any word he uttered, a checking of speech that occurred suddenly on the top of speculations of others, that taught me he must be possessed of some such secret as nobody else, at any rate outside Asia, appears to have any inkling of. If anyone in Europe has studied the question so far, I gladly offer him the material I was able to glean from Dean Spanley, to compare and check with his own work. In the East, of course, what I have gathered will not be regarded as having originality.

I will start my story then, on the day on which I became so sure of some astonishing knowledge which Dean Spanley kept to himself, that I decided to act upon my conviction. I had of course cross-examined him before, so far as one can cross-examine an older man in brief conversation in a rather solemn club, but on this occasion I asked him to dine with me. I should perhaps at this point record the three things that I had found out about Dean Spanley: the first two were an interest in transmigration, though only shown as a listener, greater than you might expect in a clergyman; and an interest in dogs. Both these interests were curiously stressed by his almost emphatic silences, just when it seemed his turn to speak upon either of these subjects. And the third thing I chanced to find was that the Dean, though at the club a meagre drinker of wine, was a connoisseur of old port. And it was this third interest of the Dean’s that is really the key to the strange information that I am now able to lay before the public. Well then, after many days, during which my suspicions had at first astonished me, and then excitedly ripened, I said to Dean Spanley in the reading-room of the club, ‘Of course the difficulty about transmigration is that nobody ever yet remembered having lived a former life.’

‘H’m,’ said the Dean.

And there and then I asked him if he would dine with me, giving as my reason what I knew to be the only one that would have any chance of bringing him, my wish to have his advice upon some vintage port that had been left me by an aunt, and which had been given to her by Count Donetschau a little before 1880. The port was as good as I had been able to buy, but I doubt if he would have drunk it on that account without any name or history, any more than he would have spoken to a man who was dressed well enough, but who had not been introduced to him.

‘Count Donetschau?’ he said a little vaguely.

‘Count Shevenitz-Donetschau,’ I answered.

And he accepted my invitation.

It was a failure, that dinner. I discovered, what I should have known without any experiment, that one cannot make a rather abstemious dean go past the point at which the wit stands sentry over the tongue’s utterance, merely by giving him port that he likes. He liked the port well enough, but nothing that I could say made him take a drop too much of it. Luckily I had not given myself away, had not said a word to let him see what I was after. And in a month I tried again. I said I found some port of a different vintage, hidden among the rest, and would value his opinion as to which was the better. And he accepted; and this time I had my plan.

Dinner was light, and as good as my cook could make it. Then came the vintage port, three glasses the same as last time and no more, except for half a glass of the old kind for sake of comparison, and after his three and a half glasses came my plan.

‘I have a bottle of imperial Tokay in the cellar,’ I said.