Ghosts in the House

by A. C. Benson

  Again, the very house I am inhabiting at this moment has recently begun to justify its rustic reputation.fn1 When I acquired the place four or five years ago I slept each night for about two years in a smallish bedroom at the top of the stairs on the first floor. One or two small incidents happened on which I lay no stress: they are easily explicable on natural grounds. (I regard my own evidence, however, in such matters as wholly negligible either way, since I have long ago come to the conclusion that I do not possess the faculty, whatever it be, for perceiving with my senses any preternatural phenomena.) Since that date, when the room became a guest-chamber, it has, three times altogether, asserted itself in these ways. The first two experiences were those of a perfectly fearless man, who on two out of three nights when he slept there was aware of the entrance of a tall old woman, who, after coming audibly up the stairs, opening the door and entering, spoke a sentence to him of which he could not distinguish the words though he understood their sense. He was unable, though quite without any feeling of terror, either to answer her or to move. A friend, staying in my house at the present time, a few weeks ago heard, from the adjoining bedroom, steps come up the stairs, the unmistakable rattle of the handle of the ‘haunted’ room, the entrance of the Energy, and finally its departure again a few moments later. I may add, first, that he too had no sensation of terror; and, second, that he knew nothing of the story: it was only upon my repeating the story to him afterwards that he made inquiries and found that no one in the house had entered the room at the time which, somewhere between midnight and two o’clock in the morning, he had heard the sounds.

  Now I do not lay any particular stress on any of these tales especially. They may all be paralleled, with far more sensational accompaniments, in practically every district in England, and more particularly in the wilder and more lonely parts of the country, where the rush and clamour of modern life do not wholly absorb and distract the attention. There are hundreds of famous houses of which such stories are told repeatedly, from generation to generation. There is the well-known B— House, investigated by the late Lord Bute; there is classic Glamys; there is the amazing place in Worcestershire, in which it would seem sometimes – if tales are true – as if its discarnate visitors were more numerous than its incarnate inhabitants.fn2 There are little suburban villas whose leases are regularly violated by those who have unhappily been attracted by the absurdly low rents; there is the famous gallery where lamps will not burn; there is a presbytery where visiting monks, especially Benedictines, and supremely Benedictine abbots, find sleep practically impossible owing to the violence of invisible assailants; there is a little bedroom where I have often slept, in a perfectly new house where no death has yet taken place, in which sleeper after sleeper, including myself, is visited by appalling dreams of a quite unmistakable quality, and a sense of oppressive terror that is entirely indescribable. Such instances may be multiplied for ever. And I repeat, that unless human evidence is to be reckoned as practically valueless, the continuousness of these traditions, their catholicity, the credibility of their witnesses (even after a huge discount has been made for exaggeration, heavy suppers, apprehensive terror and downright lying), the character of the stories, their divergence in detail and their strange unanimity in principles, these and a hundred more considerations render it entirely certain that such things happen, however we may explain them.

  How, then, may they be explained?

  Now to a very large proportion of the human race, a supernatural world, inhabited by intelligent personalities, is as fully a matter of belief as the material world in which they live. It is entirely on grounds other than those of the senses that they hold this conviction; and, of these, further, a vast majority hold, at least theoretically, that this ‘other world’ can manifest itself in terms of this. Persons such as these, therefore, if they can but be satisfied of the evidence in any given case (though that is not always easy), accept simply and inevitably the view that that which I have called the ‘Energy’ is a discarnate spirit operating under material conditions. They take this view the more easily if they can justify to their own moral sense such a state of affairs: if, for example, the apparition seems to be one of a criminal who, they imagine, may so be expiating his sin. In a very large number of cases, however, this appeal to the moral sense is a little difficult: for instance, very frequently it is not merely a supposed murderer who is thought to haunt the scene of his crime, but his victim; and further, there is an additional circumstance, namely, the apparition of the costume in which the spirit presents himself, and the knife, or other instrument of his crime, which somehow or another has to be covered by this simple philosophy.

  An increasing number of psychologists, therefore, who may or may not believe privately in the possibility of communications passing under sensible forms between this world and the other, as a matter of fact are beginning to look in another direction altogether for the explanation of the phenomena.

  These regard the Energy not as one that proceeds from a living discarnate personality, but as the effect rather of a past violent emotion which, like a kind of aroma, still lingers round the scene of its original generation, and which still affects the consciousness of sensitive visitors.

  Such emotions as these, it is thought, or even such as those of long-continued melancholy, have a certain power of saturating the physical surroundings – as, for a parallel, we may say that musical sounds saturate and affect the wax cylinder of a phonograph. Accordingly when a man of sensitive temperament lays himself passively open, as in sleep or silence, towards these batteries of consciousness, his own consciousness is affected by them, and a process takes place exactly the reverse of that of ordinary vision or hearing: the sense-impressions, instead of travelling from nerves to brain, pass from brain to nerves, and there is precipitated before him the very scene, affecting his organs of vision or sound or even touch, in which long ago the original emotions discharged themselves. Under this theory, therefore, the experience is certainly objective enough – it is not imagined or originated by the percipient; it is rather the ripples or echoes of the tragedy wrought long ago.

  Akin to this theory is that of the simple telepathic school, which, accepting more or less the second half of the process just described, seek for the energising agent not in the emotions of deceased persons, but in the expectancy of the living who are acquainted with the tradition: it is this expectancy that they would see, imaginatively visualised, on the part of hosts or servants or neighbours, which conveys to the consciousness of the unsuspecting guest the scene which tradition has handed down. Such a theory, however, does not satisfactorily deal with the question as to how such a tradition ever arose at all.

  A third theory is that of the theosophists. These teach that human beings have, in addition to soul and body, a kind of semi-material envelope which they name ‘astral’. At death, this ‘astral body’ is released: usually it presently corrupts and disintegrates, but in certain cases it still retains, often for a considerable time, a kind of quasi-life. It is these astral bodies, therefore, operating under material conditions, which, according to theosophists, form the substance of these apparitions, acting over and over again, until their Energy is dissipated, the scene in which soul and body once took a part.

  There, then, the matter stands; and each man, I suppose, will devise that theory to which he is most predisposed. But one thing at least is certain, namely, that superior laughter, lamentable humour on the subject of mayonnaise for supper, and reckless accusations of fraud and falsehood can no longer meet the case.

  THE UTTERMOST FARTHING

  A.C. Benson

  Yes, Hebden Hill was the next station, the porter told me, and as the dowdy little train puffed sturdily across the wide green flat, intersected by dykes, which had once been a great bay of the sea, I watched with pleasure the low shapely bluffs, like miniature seacliffs, but now covered with thickets and copses, which bounded the plain to the west half a mile away, and thought how like it was to th
e background of an old Italian picture. It was a warm summer evening, not oppressive, as there was a fresh breeze from the sea, along which white clouds sailed lazily landward. I could see far out in the plain hamlets and solitary farms nestling among trees; and it was pleasant to see the birds, crested plovers and pearly-grey gulls, that stood motionless, all facing up the wind in the pastures; and a lean grey heron by the old sluice-gate, poring upon the water.

  And then I began to wonder how it was that I was going on so vaguely defined a visit to Hector Bendyshe, whom I knew so slightly. What exactly did I know about him? He was just an agreeable man, whom one was never surprised to meet at dinner, and whose talk, mildly interesting, seldom flagged. He had been at Winchester and at Oxford; he had been perhaps in the diplomatic service, and had certainly travelled a good deal. He was clearly wealthy, for he had a flat in town, and a house understood to be of an attractive kind in Sussex, at Hebden Hill. But he had done nothing particular for twenty years – he was a man of fifty – he had read a good many books, he was fond of music, he was something of a connoisseur. But the more I reflected the less I seemed to know. He had no relations that I had ever heard of, and no intimate friends, though a host of acquaintances; he went everywhere and got on with everybody. He did not seem mysterious or secretive in any way; he talked easily and frankly about his own concerns and pursuits, and indeed on most topics of general interest.

  How then had my visit come about? I was myself a so-called literary man, who lived, not very prosperously, in rooms in town, reviewing, writing literary articles, putting together an occasional book, and enabled by my small earnings and a little private income to exist in tolerable comfort. I was just over forty, and the artistic ambitions I had once had, had long vanished; but I was more than content with my life, and my interest in other people was stronger than ever. The unexpected things that happened, the strange contrasts and contradictions of character, the amazing inconsistency of human beings and their intricate relations, so utterly different from and so much richer than the helpless conventional traditions of fiction – all this had kept alive in me a sense of romance in life which amply atoned for a career which had been disappointing and even humiliating.

  I had met Bendyshe at a dinner-party some time in May. I had walked away with him, and he had asked me to his rooms. They were well furnished and comfortable, but with a certain austerity that took my fancy. Our talk had turned somehow on psychical things, in which I was a good deal interested; and before we had talked ten minutes I became aware that Bendyshe had dropped the mask of amiable levity which characterised his habitual conversation, and was speaking seriously and drily, but with a profound sense of conviction, which was quite unlike anything I had ever heard from him.

  Suddenly he turned to me, a little sternly, I thought, and said, ‘But perhaps you are not interested in these things?’

  ‘Yes and no,’ I said, ‘but to tell the truth, I am a little surprised to find that you are.’

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I don’t wonder at that. You see, it has become of late rather a hobby of mine. I will tell you why some day, if you care to know. But tell me one thing: why do you say “Yes and no”?’

  ‘Because,’ I said, ‘in the first place I think that ordinary talk about psychical things is such fearful twaddle. It seems to me a scientific affair; but when foolish people talk about it, it’s all a mixture of feeble sentiment and weak imagination.’

  ‘That’s so,’ he said; ‘but if you feel about it like that, why don’t you look into it?’

  ‘Because the sort of experiments people try,’ I said, ‘such as séances and trances and automatic writing, seem to me more sickening still, like drug-taking; it’s like deliberately playing with the ugliest part of one’s mind, the part that deals in fear. I don’t want to wake that up – I want to think it is not there; and, moreover, I am so much interested in people as I see and know them that I don’t want to explore the unknown.’

  ‘You want to live in a fool’s paradise, in fact,’ said Bendyshe; and I could see from the pallor of his face and his distended nostrils that I had angered him; but he controlled himself. ‘No,’ he added, ‘I ought not to say that – it was rude and stupid! I apologise.’

  ‘No, please don’t do that,’ I said; ‘it was my fault. What I said was very crude; it was like talking to a man of science about “stinks” or to an actor about his “patter” – the insolence of the amateur; that’s unpardonable.’

  ‘Well, but I really want to know,’ he said rather gravely. ‘I agreed with you up to a certain point; but what you said amounted to this, that you are so much interested in people when they are alive that you don’t take any interest in what happens to them after they are dead?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘that is quite fair. I am immensely interested in what I can see and observe and infer in people. It seems to me dramatic, exciting, sometimes very beautiful. But I’m a homeless man and a bachelor, and I don’t get very near to them. I only see the polite side of life; and when people disappear, as they unhappily do, and I can’t follow them further, why, I turn back to what I can see and know.’

  ‘I understand perfectly,’ he said; ‘but it’s just the other way with me. People seem to me so amazing, so incredibly fine at times and so unutterably low at others, that I can’t believe it all begins and ends here, and I find myself consumed by the most intense curiosity, to use rather a feeble word, to know what the next act is. It seems to me all like a big rehearsal for something, full of trivial, grotesque, and annoying things – two people playing nap, a girl eating a sandwich as she waits for her cue – but the play is going on all the time, and everybody has his part. I feel that I must know what is behind it all, if it can be known. I’m not exaggerating when I say that I have thought many times of putting a pistol to my head in order to find out what does happen; but I doubt it can be found out that way.’

  He was silent for a little; musing inwardly. I watched him as he sat. He was a tall lean man, finely formed and modelled. He had close, crisply curling black hair, a little grizzled. His forehead was high, his eyebrows black, and he had large dark eyes which it seemed to me I had never seen fully opened before. He was clean-shaven, and his nose, straight and clean-cut, came down on a short upper lip; but the under-lip was full, and the chin perhaps a little large for symmetry. He had a slightly worn air, but his face, which was hardly marked by wrinkles, had a fresh colour like that of a man who lived much in the open air. If anything his expression was a little judicial; but when I had seen him on previous occasions, his prevailing expression was one of tolerant good-humour and friendliness. It had never occurred to me that he could be formidable, and indeed my impression had been that, if anything, he over-valued serenity and equanimity. There was nothing ascetic or scholarly about him. His hands were large and mobile, and had, I thought, more expression than his face; and his dress had a touch of negligence about it which became him well.

  I had never thought him a particularly interesting man, because he never gave himself away or appeared to have any preferences. But now I had seen something very different, something alert, passionate, even terrifying.

  But when he began to talk again, his mood had changed, and he was his old wary and kindly self.

  ‘By the way,’ he said, ‘what do you generally do in the summer?’

  ‘Oh, I stay about a little,’ I said; ‘but I have to stick pretty close to my work, you know. I’m a literary hack, and I have to be waiting on the stand in case of a call. If I happen to be in funds, I go to a quiet hotel somewhere – I rather like exploring the country; old houses and churches are the next most interesting things to people. But I generally end by being a little bored.’

  ‘I wish you would come down and stay with me for a week or two,’ he said. ‘I have got rather a nice old house in Sussex, and it is a pleasant country. It is very quiet, and you could work if you wanted to, or wander about. I should like to talk this matter over with you.’

  ‘Thank
you very much,’ I said; ‘I should enjoy it immensely. Where did you say it was?’

  ‘Hebden Hill,’ he said. ‘Not very far from Ashford – it’s a biggish village. I’ll drop you a line.’

  That was at the end of May. I heard nothing more for a month and began to think he had forgotten all about it, or that he was perhaps sorry that he had shown me the inner side of himself. But at the end of June I had a note asking me to go down on July the 7th, and an hour or two later a wire, ‘Am unexpectedly alone, and should be glad to see you tomorrow Thursday if you can manage it but don’t alter arrangements. Would meet the train arriving at 6.30. Hope you can stay a fortnight.’

  It seemed to me a little peremptory perhaps? No, I had no engagements, and I was glad to get out of the heat of London, so I wired an acceptance, packed my books and papers, and went; and now that I was embarked I began to have a curious feeling that I was in for an adventure of some kind, not very pleasant.

  However, I arrived in the summer twilight. Bendyshe was on the platform to meet me, and I could see from the civility of the officials that he was not only an important personage, but a highly popular one. He had a pleasant word for everybody, and he introduced me formally to the station-master, saying gravely, ‘It’s very important that my friend Mr Hartley should form a good impression of the place; you know, he writes in all the papers, and could make our fortunes by a paragraph.’

  ‘Indeed, sir?’ said the delighted station-master. ‘I’m sure you’re very welcome to Hebden Hill, sir. We’re old-fashioned, but going ahead a bit nowadays.’

  Bendyshe had a good car waiting. The station was at the bottom of the hill; and he motored me swiftly up a steep irregular street of red-brick and timbered houses with pleasant gardens – a most comfortable and homely place. At the top of the hill we turned into a small square or piazza, with five or six substantial eighteenth-century houses. Fronting the west end of the church was a long mellow brick wall with big gateposts and a gate of fine ironwork. Behind this there appeared a handsome façade; a brick Georgian mansion with a pediment, a solid pillared doorway, seven windows above and three on each side of the door, and a round window in the pediment. It was evidently the chief mansion of the village. The windows had old heavy casements painted white, and the house was flanked at each end by fine old sycamores.