Christmas is the time for a classic ghost story. At least in my mind it is, probably because I can remember the BBC’s Ghost Stories for Christmas always just starting as I was being led up to bed on Christmas Eve as a child. Later I remember reading ghost stories and finding something cosy about them; they weren’t really frightening in any way and I would associate them with the typical atmosphere of being safely snuggled up, the curtains drawn and a fire glowing. In adult life, add to the mix a glass of port and a fine cigar.
Here’s a passage from possibly the classic Christmas ghost story:
‘by this time you will fully understand, sir,’ he said, ‘that what troubles me so dreadfully is the question, What does the spectre mean?’
I was not sure, I told him, that I did fully understand.
‘What is it warning against?’ he said, ruminating, with his eyes on the fire, and only by times turning them on me. ‘What is the danger? There is danger overhanging, somewhere on the line. Some dreadful calamity will happen. It is not to be doubted this third time, after what has gone before. But surely this is a cruel haunting of me. What can I do?’
Can you guess what it is? Clue: if you were a child in the 1970s and were allowed to stay up and watch Ghost Stories for Christmas, think of Denholm Elliott in the role of the troubled man.
After reading the opening chapter of A Christmas Carol last night I considered that, like many of us, Ebenezer Scrooge lives in a comfort zone. He is comforted not just by the rewards of his avarice, but by his introverted existence; the locked doors and closed rooms of his friendless life (darkness is cheap, and Scrooge liked it).
When Marley’s ghost visits Scrooge he is disturbed most by the spirit’s restlessness and endless roaming. To be so unsettled and unset in one’s ways troubles him greatly:
“Seven years dead,” mused Scrooge. “And travelling all the time?”
“The whole time,” said the Ghost. “No rest, no peace. Incessant torture of remorse.”
Yesterday’s ghostly quote was from Heart of Darkness, where Marlow visits Kurtz’s widow at the end of the book. I can’t wait to start reading A Christmas Carol, so I can find the passage that Conrad nods towards.
On the ghostly theme, I’m enjoying Walter de da Mare’s Ghost Stories. Think empty houses with lonely people left to their own thoughts and haunting themselves, and you have de la Mare:
If, it appeared, you only remained solitary and secluded enough, and let your mind wander on its own sweet way, the problem was always bound to become, if not your one and only, at least your chief concern. Unless you were preternaturally busy and preoccupied, you simply couldn’t live on and on in a haunted house without being occasionally reminded of its ghosts.
I’m a sucker for a well written ghost story.
Around this time of year, I always pick up A Christmas Carol with the intention of re-reading it. Unfortunately other things usually get in the way and I only read a few pages, although this year I’m determined to reach the end.
I was reminded of a passage in another book that refers knowingly to Dickens’ classic. Can you guess where it’s from?
I rang the bell before a mahogany door on the first floor, and while I waited he seemed to stare at me out of the glassy panel – stare with that wide and immense stare embracing, condemning, loathing all the universe. I seemed to hear the whispered cry, “The horror! The horror!”
The Ladies of Grace Adieu
I’ve just finished reading The Ladies of Grace Adieu, a collection of short stories by Susanna Clarke. I’ve enjoyed it so much that I’ve dedicated a whole post to it.
If you’re familiar with her last novel Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell, you’re in for no surprises here. If you’re not familiar with her work, I’ll try to describe the world she’s created as best I can. Clarke’s stories are mostly set in the early 19th Century and written from that perspective, and it’s a recognisable 19th Century world up until a point. In The Ladies of Grace Adieu, there is a barrier or, as one story describes a ‘wall’, between the real world and the supernatural – a wall that is often, and sometimes unwisely, passed through.
The supernatural world is known as the Fairy world, but don’t let this put you off, and don’t be put off either by the fact that Clarke does visit some familiar fairy stories in her subject matter. What’s good about this book is it’s ability to tell well worn tales in a well written and original way.
One example is how On Lickrish Hill revisits Rumplestiltskin. The story is wonderfully fleshed out by its narrator, who manages to add a creepy element, although I couldn’t help wondering that Clarke is merely drawing our attention to the fact that fairy stories are often very macabre anyway. Mrs Mabb is another good example of this, where a girl defeats the wicked fairy who takes the story’s title and all is resolved after just a little death and bloodshed. Not really that unusual; have you ever read a fairy tale without somebody dying in it?
My only criticism is that some of the stories are too brief, and it’s the most substantial stories in the collection that are by far the best. Mr Simonelli is a wonderfully told tale of a man tricked into a dead-end role as a country rector who makes some very strange discoveries before trying out some magic of his own. Tom Brightwind also adds a lot of humour to the strange and unsettling.
Despite the subject material, The Ladies of Grace Adieu is definitely not for young children. There is a dark element to these stories and, as with Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell, it’s a darkness that creeps up on the reader slowly. Fairy land isn’t a place where I would want to go.
I rarely buy in hardback but I’m glad I bought this. The design and presentation of the book is perfect for the material, as are the illustrations by Charles Vess. But, apart from a new and slightly disappointing addition called John Uskglass, all of these stories predate Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell and have been published previously, so I’m waiting patiently for something new from Susanna Clarke that I can really get my teeth into.
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