‘This is not an artistically rounded off ghost story, and nothing is explained in it, and there seems to be no reason why any of it should have happened. But that is no reason why it should not be told. You must have noticed that all the real ghost stories you have ever come close to are like this in these respects — no explanation, no logical coherence. Here is the story.’
Every person will probably feel, at some point in their lives, as though they are not really part of the world. Even if they feel at home in human society, the wider world will probably strike them as something alien. Outside is defined by hazards; inside the home, inside the head, is safety and comfort. But in order to live in a comfortable, regular way, we have to do this. We have to forget about time. We have to pretend that history is something which happens to other people, and that death can be indefinitely postponed.
Supernatural stories are a way of bursting this bubble. An encounter with something inexplicable provides a way to think about ourselves outside the limits of plausibility. Questions of immediate responsibility are suspended. All that matters is the moment of encounter, in which the protagonist feels themselves in contact with something much greater than themselves. Sometimes it might only be some aspect which they cannot or will not confront; other times it represents the visitation of some curse or apparition which has nothing at all to do with them.
In most realistic fiction, the division between the inner and outer life is quite clear; it’s this which sustains the drama between the individual and the world around them. But in something like a ghost story, that division dissolves, and it is left to the reader to try to establish some kind of relationship between the events and the character.
‘I am unaccustomed to literary effort — and I feel that I shall not say what I have to say, nor that it will convince you, unless I say it very plainly. I thought I could adorn mystery with pleasant words, prettily arranged. But as I pause to think of what really happened, I see that the plainest words will be best. I do not know how to weave a plot, nor how to embroider it. It is best not to try. These things happened. I have no skill to add to what happened; nor is any adding of mine needed.’
Edith Nesbit is best known in Britain as an author of stories for children — most notably The Railway Children — but she also wrote quite a few strange stories. A selection of these have been reissued in this collection by Penguin, complete with a pleasingly outrageous front cover that has very little to do with anything. For the most part they’re written in the Edwardian vein; they have something in common with the work of E. F. Benson, though the writing is often better (not quite so dandyish nor so starkly horrible). There’s only a little of M. R. James here, in the coldness of the surrounds. Nesbit was too interested in people to be quite so aloof as James, I think. The best stories here are all really about relationships with other human beings, and how one might render vivid what goes unsaid between them.
‘Hurst of Hurstcote’ and ‘The Ebony Frame’ are fairly good examples of this type: fun, though rather predictable. A man falls in love with a woman who emerges from an old picture in his living room, while another man swears he can preserve the life of his wife even beyond her mortal illness. Nesbit’s stories sometimes bear disclaimers like the ones I’ve quoted above, but the outcomes are often not unfamiliar.
You generally know exactly when something uncanny is going to occur. Yet the style carries it off rather well. It is not so much that they are frightening, and in fact I don’t think we are really expected to be scared by some of these tales. But they are executed with a remarkable faith in their subject matter; it’s the kind of thing that only an author comfortable with writing for young people without patronising them can master. There is a certain dignity to it. ‘It is very difficult to tell this story,’ writes the man in love with the ghost from the portrait. And somehow you believe it.
I will say that ‘The Shadow’ is unsettling. It is also the one most deliberately framed as a ghost story:
‘…The odd thing was that it wasn’t only at night — but in broad daylight — and particularly on the stairs and passages. On the staircase the feeling used to be so awful that I have had to bite my lips till they bled to keep myself from running upstairs at full speed. Only I knew if I did I should go mad at the top. There was always something behind me — exactly as he had said — something that one could just not see. And a sound that one could just not hear. There was a long corridor at the top of the house. I have sometimes almost seen something — you know how one sees things without looking — but if I turned round, it seemed as if the thing drooped and melted into my shadow. There was a little window at the end of the corridor.’
That corridor. That window.
The outliers here read more like science fiction than horror. Some of them are comic, like the story of a theatre producer who discovers a naive artist obsessed with building a trompe l’oeil sculptural reconstruction of the scene of his lover’s death. Another follows a doctor who develops a drug which magnifies all five human senses many times over; needless to say he overdoses and is buried alive, paralysed by the overload of his sensations.
‘The Violet Car’ is notable above most of the others for the remarkable picture it paints of psychological trauma: it follows a couple, one of whom is deaf and blind, while the other hallucinates the sudden apparition of a motor car hurtling down the local country lanes. It isn’t so much the description of the thing itself as Nesbit’s marvellous scene-setting that does the legwork here:
‘Do you know the downs — the wide windy spaces, the rounded shoulders of the hills leaned against the sky, the hollows where farms and homesteads nestle sheltered, with trees round them pressed close and tight as a carnation in a button-hole? On long summer days it is good to lie on the downs, between short turf and pale, clear sky, to smell the wild thyme, and hear the tinny tinkle of the sheep bells and the song of the skylark. But on winter evenings when the wind is waking up to his work, spitting rain in your eyes, beating the poor, naked trees and shaking the dusk across the hills like a grey pall, then it is better to be by a warm fireside, in one of the farms that lie lonely where shelter is, and oppose their windows glowing with candlelight and firelight to the deepening darkness, as faith holds up its love-lamp in the night of sin and sorrow that is life.’