Sipping my coffee, inhaling my cigarette smoke, I begin to read the battered little book, published, I see, in Spring, 1852. It’s mainly poetry –immature stuff, but vivid. Then there’s a kind of diary. More realistic, less affected. Out of curiosity, to see if there are any amusing comparisons, I turn to the entry for Christmas Day, 1851. I read: “My first Christmas Day alone. I had rather an odd experience. When I went back to my lodgings after a walk, there was a middle-aged woman in my room. I thought, at first, I’d walked into the wrong room, but this was not so, and later, after a pleasant talk, she –disappeared. I suppose she was a ghost. But I wasn’t frightened. I liked her. But I do not feel well tonight. Not at all well. I have never felt ill at Christmas before.”
A publisher’s note followed the last entry: FRANCIS RANDEL DIED FROM A SUDDEN HEART ATTACK ON THE NIGHT OF CHRISTMAS DAY, 1851. THE WOMAN MENTIONED IN THIS FINAL ENTRY IN HIS DIARY WAS THE LAST PERSON TO SEE HIM ALIVE. IN SPITE OF REQUESTS FOR HER TO COME FORWARD, SHE NEVER DID SO. HER IDENTITY REMAINS A MYSTERY.
Ghost stories are about the spirits of the dead and their manifestations in the world of the living. They may be very different from one another. They can be set in all periods, from the past to the present, in all kinds of places, from an isolated castle to a modern city. The spirit of the dead may materialize in some shape or may reveal its presence through unusual effects which cannot be explained, such as objects moving by themselves, sudden sensations of cold, sounds and noises from no source, etc..
The idea of an interrelationship between the living and the dead is the basis of ghost stories together with the feeling of fear which is associated with “spirit” visitations. A lot of people at least once in their lives have either experienced or heard about “strange” situations or something mysterious happening to someone else which defeats all rational explanations. Legends and folklore are a rich source of inspiration for this kind of fiction and this type of culture is particularly strong in Britain. The basic ingredients in a ghost story are:
- one or more mysterious events which have no rational explanation;
- the reaction of the characters who witness the events which is often shared by the reader and may be anything from utter horror to disquieting puzzlement, depending on the kind of event presented in the story.
If the event is a horrible one, occurring in a frightening setting and atmosphere, for example a bloody corpse appearing and walking along a dimly lit corridor, it is likely to cause a strong sensation of fear. If it is a mysterious event that mingles naturally with the events of everyday life, it is likely to throw a new ambiguous, sinister light on everyday life, causing an indefinable and disturbing feeling of anxiety in the characters and the reader. Between these two extremes the range of “ghost” events and the degrees of fear are practically infinite. The basic appeal of ghost stories is their “frightening” quality.
When you read a ghost story you should try to understand:
- how “fear” is created in the story:, through the visual manifestations of the ghost, its invisible presence, its inexplicable effects, its unforeseen influence, a sinister atmosphere, a gloomy setting, etc.
- what kind of “fear” is created; horror, terror, despair, fright, fearfulness, apprehension, alarm, anxiety, etc.
Fear is usually inherent in the “ghostly” event even when there is simply puzzlement or disbelief on the part of the characters who witness it. If no fear of any kind is aroused, the ghost story is an unsuccessful one. Ghost stories may be about the “real” ghosts of dead people entering the lives of living people. But they can also be about “imaginary” ghosts, that is projections of the fears which all of us have in the depths of the mind and may come out in the open under particular emotional or spiritual stress.
Christmas Meeting, by Rosemary Timperley
I have never spent Christmas alone before. It gives me an uncanny feeling, sitting alone in my “furnished room”, with my head full of ghosts, and the room full of voices of the past. It’s a drowning feeling – all the Christmases of the past coming back in a mad jumble: the childish Christmas, with a house full of relations, a tree in the window, sixpences in the pudding, and the delicious, crinkly stocking in the dark morning: the adolescent Christmas, with mother and father, the war and the bitter cold, and the letters from abroad; the first really grown-up Christmas, with a lover – the snow and the enchantment, red wine and kisses, and the walk in the dark before midnight, with the grounds so white, and the stars diamond bright in a black sky – so many Christmases through the years. And now, the first Christmas alone. But not quite loneliness. A feeling of companionship with all the other people who are spending Christmas alone – millions of them – past and present. A feeling that, if I close my eyes, there will be no past or future, only an endless present which is time, because it is all we ever have.
Yes, however cynical you are, however irreligious, it makes you feel queer to be alone at Christmas time. So I’m absurdly relieved when the young man walks in. There’s nothing romantic about it – I’m a woman of nearly fifty, a spinster schoolma’am with grim, dark hair, and myopic eyes that once were beautiful, and he’s a kid of twenty, rather unconventionally dressed with a flowing, wine-coloured tie and black velvet jacket, and brown curls which could do with a taste of the barber’s scissors. The effeminacy of his dress is belied by his features – narrow, piercing, blue eyes, and arrogant, jutting nose and chin. Not that he looks strong. The skin is fine-drawn over the prominent features, and he is very white.
He bursts in without knocking, then pauses, says: “I’m so sorry. I thought this was my room.” He begins to go out, then hesitates and says: “Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
“It’s – queer, being alone at Christmas, isn’t it? May I stay and talk?”
“I’d be glad if you would.”
He comes right in, and sits down by the fire.
“I hope you don’t think I came in here on purpose. I really did think it was my room,” he explains.
“I’m glad you made the mistake. But you’re a very young person to be alone at Christmas time.”
“I wouldn’t go back to the country to my family. It would hold up my work. I’m a writer.”
“I see.” I can’t help smiling a little. That explains his rather unusual dress. And he takes himself so seriously, this young man! “Of course, you mustn’t waste a precious moment of writing,” I say with a twinkle.
“ No, not a moment! That’s what my family won’t see. They don’t appreciate urgency.”
“Families are never appreciative of the artistic nature”
“No, they aren’t,” he agrees seriously.
“What are you writing?”
“Poetry and diary combined. It’s called My poems and I, by Francis Randel. That’s my name. My family say there’s no point in my writing, that I’m too young. But I don’t feel young. Sometimes I feel like an old man, with too much to do before he dies.”
“Revolving faster and faster on the wheel of creativeness.”
“Yes! Yes, exactly! You understand! You must read my work some time. Please read my work! Read my work!” A note of desperation in his voice, a look of fear in his eyes, makes me say: “We’re both getting much too solemn for Christmas Day. I’m going to make you some coffee. And I have a plum cake.”
I move about, clattering cups, spooning coffee into my percolator. But I must have offended him, for, when I look round, I find he has left me. I am absurdly disappointed. I finish making coffee, however, then I turn to the bookshelf in the room. It is piled high with volumes, for which the landlady has apologized profusely: “Hope you don’t mind the books, Miss, but my husband won’t part with them, and there’s nowhere to put them. We charge a bit less for the room for that reason.”
“I don’t mind,” I said. “Books are good friends.”
But these aren’t very friendly-looking books. I take one at random. Or does some strange fate guide my hand?
1 -It’s Christmas …….. and the narrator is alone in her furnished …… It’s the first time she has spent ……. Alone and she recollects all the ….. Christmases of her life. She feels…….. but at the same time in the company of all the lonely ………
2a) How has the narrator’s life changes?
b) How old do you think she is?
c) Are you led to think she is happy or not?
3 – Which of the following feelings and sensations do you think are predominant in the first part? Solitude, confusion, mystery, nostalgia… Explain why, quoting from the text..
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