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HUMOROUS GHOST STORIES
HUMOROUS GHOST
STORIES
SELECTED, WITH AN INTRODUCTION
BY
DOROTHY SCARBOROUGH, PH.D.
LECTURER IN ENGLISH, COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY
AUTHOR OF "THE SUPERNATURAL IN MODERN ENGLISH FICTION,"
"FUGITIVE VERSES," "FROM A SOUTHERN PORCH," ETC.
COMPILER OF "FAMOUS MODERN GHOST STORIES"
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
The Knickerbocker Press
1921
COPYRIGHT, 1921
BY
DOROTHY SCARBOROUGH
_Printed in the United States of America_
To
DR. AND MRS. JOHN T. HARRINGTON
_Life flings miles and years between us,
It is true,--
But brings never to me dearer
Friends than you!_
The Humorous Ghost
INTRODUCTION
The humorous ghost is distinctly a modern character. In early literature
wraiths took themselves very seriously, and insisted on a proper show of
respectful fear on the part of those whom they honored by haunting. A
mortal was expected to rise when a ghost entered the room, and in case
he was slow about it, his spine gave notice of what etiquette demanded.
In the event of outdoor apparition, if a man failed to bare his head in
awe, the roots of his hair reminded him of his remissness. Woman has
always had the advantage over man in such emergency, in that her locks,
being long and pinned up, are less easily moved--which may explain the
fact (if it be a fact!) that in fiction women have shown themselves more
self-possessed in ghostly presence than men. Or possibly a woman knows
that a masculine spook is, after all, only a man, and therefore may be
charmed into helplessness, while the feminine can be seen through by
another woman and thus disarmed. The majority of the comic apparitions,
curiously enough, are masculine. You don't often find women wraithed in
smiles--perhaps because they resent being made ridiculous, even after
they're dead. Or maybe the reason lies in the fact that men have
written most of the comic or satiric ghost stories, and have
chivalrously spared the gentler shades. And there are very few funny
child-ghosts--you might almost say none, in comparison with the number
of grown-ups. The number of ghost children of any or all types is small
proportionately--perhaps because it seems an unnatural thing for a child
to die under any circumstances, while to make of him a butt for jokes
would be unfeeling. There are a few instances, as in the case of the
ghost baby mentioned later, but very few.
Ancient ghosts were a long-faced lot. They didn't know how to play at
all. They had been brought up in stern repression of frivolities as
haunters--no matter how sportive they may have been in life--and in turn
they cowed mortals into a servile submission. No doubt they thought of
men and women as mere youngsters that must be taught their place, since
any living person, however senile, would be thought juvenile compared
with a timeless spook.
But in these days of individualism and radical liberalism, spooks as
well as mortals are expanding their personalities and indulging in
greater freedom. A ghost can call his shade his own now, and exhibit any
mood he pleases. Even young female wraiths, demanding latchkeys, refuse
to obey the frowning face of the clock, and engage in light-hearted
ebullience to make the ghost of Mrs. Grundy turn a shade paler in
horror. Nowadays haunters have more fun and freedom than the haunted. In
fact, it's money in one's pocket these days to be dead, for ghosts have
no rent problems, and dead men pay no bills. What officer would
willingly pursue a ghostly tenant to his last lodging in order to serve
summons on him? And suppose a ghost brought into court demanded trial by
a jury of his peers? No--manifestly death has compensations not
connected with the consolations of religion.
The marvel is that apparitions were so long in realizing their
possibilities, in improving their advantages. The specters in classic
and medieval literature were malarial, vaporous beings without energy to
do anything but threaten, and mortals never would have trembled with
fear at their frown if they had known how feeble they were. At best a
revenant could only rattle a rusty skeleton, or shake a moldy shroud, or
clank a chain--but as mortals cowered before his demonstrations, he
didn't worry. If he wished to evoke the extreme of anguish from his
host, he raised a menacing arm and uttered a windy word or two. Now it
takes more than that to produce a panic. The up-to-date ghost keeps his
skeleton in a garage or some place where it is cleaned and oiled and
kept in good working order. The modern wraith has sold his sheet to the
old clo'es man, and dresses as in life. Now the ghost has learned to
have a variety of good times, and he can make the living squirm far
more satisfyingly than in the past. The spook of to-day enjoys making
his haunted laugh even while he groans in terror. He knows that there's
no weapon, no threat, in horror, to be compared with ridicule.
Think what a solemn creature the Gothic ghost was! How little
originality and initiative he showed and how dependent he was on his own
atmosphere for thrills! His sole appeal was to the spinal column. The
ghost of to-day touches the funny bone as well. He adds new horrors to
being haunted, but new pleasures also. The modern specter can be a
joyous creature on occasion, as he can be, when he wishes, fearsome
beyond the dreams of classic or Gothic revenant. He has a keen sense of
humor and loves a good joke on a mortal, while he can even enjoy one on
himself. Though his fun is of comparatively recent origin--it's less
than a century since he learned to crack a smile--the laughing ghost is
very much alive and sportively active. Some of these new spooks are
notoriously good company. Many Americans there are to-day who would
court being haunted by the captain and crew of Richard Middleton's Ghost
Ship that landed in a turnip field and dispensed drink till they
demoralized the denizens of village and graveyard alike. After that show
of spirits, the turnips in that field tasted of rum, long after the
ghost ship had sailed away into the blue.
The modern spook is possessed not only of humor but of a caustic satire
as well. His jest is likely to have more than one point to it, and he
can haunt so insidiously, can make himself so at home in his host's
study or bedroom that a man actually welcomes a chat with him--only to
find out too late that his human foibles have been mercilessly flayed.
Pity the poor chap in H. C. Bunner's story, _The Interfering Spook_, for
instance, who was visited nightly by a specter that repeated to him all
the silly and trite things he had said during the day, a ghost,
moreover, that towered and swelled at every hackneyed phrase, till
finally he filled the room and burst after the young man proposed to his
admired one, and made subsequent remarks. Ghosts not only have
appallingly long memories, but they possess a mean advantage over the
living in that they have once been mortal, while the men and women they
haunt haven't yet been ghosts. Suppose each one of us were to be haunted
by his own inane utterances? True, we're told that we'll have to give
account Some Day for every idle word, but recording angels seem more
sympathetic than a sneering ghost at one's elbow. Ghosts can satirize
more fittingly than anyone else the absurdities of certain psychic
claims, as witness the delightful seriousness of the story _Back from
that Bourne_, which appeared as a front page news story in the New York
_Sun_ years ago. I should think that some of the futile, laggard
messenger-boy ghosts that one reads about nowadays would blush with
shame before the wholesome raillery of the porgy fisherman.
The modern humorous ghost satirizes everything from the old-fashioned
specter (he's very fond of taking pot-shots at him) to the latest
psychic manifestations. He laughs at ghosts that aren't experts in
efficiency haunting, and he has a lot of fun out of mortals for being
scared of specters. He loves to shake the lugubrious terrors of the past
before you, exposing their hollow futility, and he contrives to create
new fears for you magically while you are laughing at him.
The new ghost hates conventionality and uses the old thrills only to
show what dead batteries they come from. His really electrical effects
are his own inventions. He needs no dungeon keeps and monkish cells to
play about in--not he! He demands no rag nor bone nor clank of chain of
his old equipment to start on his career. He can start up a moving
picture show of his own, as in Ruth McEnery Stuart's _The Haunted
Photograph_, and demonstrate a new kind of apparition. The ghost story
of to-day gives you spinal sensations with a difference, as in the
immortal _Transferred Ghost_, by Frank R. Stockton, where the suitor on
the moonlit porch, attempting to tell his fair one that he dotes on her,
sees the ghost of her ferocious uncle (who isn't dead!) kicking his
heels against the railing, and hears his admonition that he'd better
hurry up, as the live uncle is coming in sight. The thrill with which
you read of the ghost in Ellis Parker Butler's _The Late John Wiggins_,
who deposits his wooden leg with the family he is haunting, on the plea
that it is too materialistic to be worn with ease, and therefore they
must take care of it for him, doesn't altogether leave you even when you
discover that the late John is a fraud, has never been a ghost nor used
a wooden leg. But a terrifying leg-acy while you do believe in it!
The new ghost has a more nimble and versatile tongue as well as wit. In
the older fiction and drama apparitions spoke seldom, and then merely as
_ghosts_, not as individuals. And ghosts, like kings in drama, were of a
dignity and must preserve it in their speech. Or perhaps the authors
were doubtful as to the dialogue of shades, and compromised on a few
stately ejaculations as being safely phantasmal speaking parts. But
compare that usage with the rude freedom of some modern spooks, as John
Kendrick Bangs's spectral cook of Bangletop, who lets fall her h's and
twists grammar in a rare and diverting manner. For myself, I'd hate to
be an old-fashioned ghost with no chance to keep up with the styles in
slang. Think of having always--and always--to speak a dead language!
The humorous ghost is not only modern, but he is distinctively American.
There are ghosts of all nationalities, naturally, but the spook that
provides a joke--on his host or on himself--is Yankee in origin and
development. The dry humor, the comic sense of the incongruous, the
willingness to laugh at himself as at others, carry over into
immaterialization as characteristic American qualities and are preserved
in their true flavor. I don't assert, of course, that Americans have
been the only ones in this field. The French and English selections in
this volume are sufficient to prove the contrary. Gautier's _The Mummy's
Foot_ has a humor of a lightness and grace as delicate as the princess's
little foot itself. There are various English stories of whimsical
haunting, some of actual spooks and some of the hoax type. Hoax ghosts
are fairly numerous in British as in American literature, one of the
early specimens of the kind being _The Specter of Tappington_ in the
_Ingoldsby Legends_. The files of _Blackwood's Magazine_ reveal several
examples, though not of high literary value.
Of the early specimens of the really amusing ghost that is an actual
revenant is _The Ghost Baby_, in _Blackwood's_, which shows originality
and humor, yet is too diffuse for printing here. In that we have a
conventional young bachelor, engaged to a charming girl, who is
entangled in social complications and made to suffer mental torment
because, without his consent, he has been chosen as the nurse and
guardian of a ghost baby that cradles after him wherever he goes. This
is a rich story almost spoiled by being poorly told. I sigh to think of
the laughs that Frank R. Stockton or John Kendrick Bangs or Gelett
Burgess could have got out of the situation. There are other comic
British spooks, as in Baring-Gould's _A Happy Release_, where a widow
and a widower in love are haunted by the jealous ghosts of their
respective spouses, till the phantom couple take a liking to each other
and decide to let the living bury their dead. This is suggestive of
Brander Matthews's earlier and cleverer story of a spectral courtship,
in _The Rival Ghosts_. Medieval and later literature gave us many
instances of a love affair or marriage between one spirit and one
mortal, but it remained for the modern American to celebrate the
nuptials of two ghosts. Think of being married when you know that you
and the other party are going to live ever after--whether happily or no!
Truly, the present terrors are more fearsome than the old!
The stories by Eden Phillpotts and Richard Middleton in this collection
show the diversity of the English humor as associated with apparitions,
and are entertaining in themselves. The _Canterville Ghost_, by Oscar
Wilde, is one of his best short stories and is in his happiest vein of
laughing satire. This travesty on the conventional traditions of the
wraith is preposterously delightful, one of the cleverest ghost stories
in our language. Zangwill has written engagingly of spooks, with a
laughable story about Samuel Johnson. And there are others. But the fact
remains that in spite of conceded and admirable examples, the humorous
ghost story is for the most part American in creation and spirit.
Washington Irving might be said to have started that fashion in
skeletons and shades, for he has given us various comic haunters, some
real and some make-believe. Frank R. Stockton gave his to funny spooks
with a riotous and laughing pen. The spirit in his _Transferred Ghost_
is impudently deathless, and has called up a train of subsequent
haunters. John Kendrick Bangs has made the darker regions seem
comfortable and homelike for us, and has created ghosts so human and so
funny that we look forward to being one--or more. We feel downright
neighborly toward such specters as the futile "last ghost" Nelson Lloyd
evokes for us, as we appreciate the satire of Rose O'Neill's
sophisticated wraith. The daring concept of Gelett Burgess's Ghost
Extinguisher is altogether American. The field is still comparatively
limited, but a number of Americans have done distinctive work in it. The
specter now wears motley instead of a shroud, and shakes his jester's
bells the while he rattles his bones. I dare any, however grouchy,
reader to finish the stories in this volume without having a kindlier
feeling toward ghosts!
D. S.
NEW YORK,
_March, 1921._
CONTENTS
PAGE
INTRODUCTION: THE HUMOROUS GHOST vii
THE CANTERVILLE GHOST 3
BY OSCAR WILDE
THE GHOST-EXTINGUISHER 51
BY GELETT BURGESS
"DEY AIN'T NO GHOSTS" 69
BY ELLIS PARKER BUTLER
THE TRANSFERRED GHOST 89
BY FRANK R. STOCKTON
THE MUMMY'S FOOT 109
BY THEOPHILE GAUTIER
THE RIVAL GHOSTS 129
BY BRANDER MATTHEWS
THE WATER GHOST OF HARROWBY HALL 159
BY JOHN KENDRICK BANGS
BACK FROM THAT BOURNE 175
ANONYMOUS
THE GHOST-SHIP 187
BY RICHARD MIDDLETON
THE TRANSPLANTED GHOST 205
BY WALLACE IRWIN
THE LAST GHOST IN HARMONY 229
BY NELSON LLOYD
THE GHOST OF MISER BRIMPSON 247
BY EDEN PHILLPOTTS
THE HAUNTED PHOTOGRAPH 275
BY RUTH MCENERY STUART
THE GHOST THAT GOT THE BUTTON 295
BY WILL ADAMS
THE SPECTER BRIDEGROOM 315
BY WASHINGTON IRVING
THE SPECTER OF TAPPINGTON 341
COMPILED BY RICHARD BARHAM
IN THE BARN 385
BY BURGES JOHNSON
A SHADY PLOT 403
BY ELSIE BROWN
THE LADY AND THE GHOST 425
BY ROSE CECIL O'NEILL
HUMOROUS GHOST STORIES
THE CANTERVILLE GHOST
_An amusing chronicle of the tribulations of the Ghost of Canterville
Chase when his ancestral halls became the home of the American Minister
to the Court of St. James._
BY OSCAR WILDE
The Canterville Ghost
BY OSCAR WILDE
I
When Mr. Hiram B. Otis, the American Minister, bought Canterville Chase,
everyone told him he was doing a very foolish thing, as there was no
doubt at all that the place was haunted. Indeed, Lord Canterville
himself, who was a man of the most punctilious honor, had felt it his
duty to mention the fact to Mr. Otis when they came to discuss terms.
"We have not cared to live in the place ourselves," said Lord
Canterville, "since my grand-aunt, the Dowager Duchess of Bolton, was
frightened into a fit, from which she never really recovered, by two
skeleton hands being placed on her shoulders as she was dressing for
dinner, and I feel bound to tell you, Mr. Otis, that the ghost has been
seen by several living members of my family, as well as by the rector of
the parish, the Rev. Augustus Dampier, who is a Fellow of King's
College, Cambridge. After the unfortunate accident to the Duchess, none
of our younger servants would stay with us, and Lady Canterville often
got very little sleep at night, in consequence of the mysterious noises
that came from the corridor and the library."
"My Lord," answered the Minister, "I will take the furniture and the
ghost at a valuation. I have come from a modern country, where we have
everything that money can buy; and with all our spry young fellows
painting the Old World red, and carrying off your best actors and
prima-donnas, I reckon that if there were such a thing as a ghost in
Europe, we'd have it at home in a very short time in one of our public
museums, or on the road as a show."
"I fear that the ghost exists," said Lord Canterville, smiling, "though
it may have resisted the overtures of your enterprising impresarios. It
has been well known for three centuries, since 1584 in fact, and always
makes its appearance before the death of any member of our family."
"Well, so does the family doctor for that matter, Lord Canterville. But
there is no such thing, sir, as a ghost, and I guess the laws of Nature
are not going to be suspended for the British aristocracy."
"You are certainly very natural in America," answered Lord Canterville,
who did not quite understand Mr. Otis's last observation, "and if you
don't mind a ghost in the house, it is all right. Only you must remember
I warned you."
A few weeks after this, the purchase was concluded, and at the close of
the season the Minister and his family went down to Canterville Chase.
Mrs. Otis, who, as Miss Lucretia R. Tappan, of West 53d Street, had been
a celebrated New York belle, was now a very handsome, middle-aged woman,
with fine eyes, and a superb profile. Many American ladies on leaving
their native land adopt an appearance of chronic ill-health, under the
impression that it is a form of European refinement, but Mrs. Otis had
never fallen into this error. She had a magnificent constitution, and a
really wonderful amount of animal spirits. Indeed, in many respects, she
was quite English, and was an excellent example of the fact that we have
really everything in common with America nowadays, except, of course,
language. Her eldest son, christened Washington by his parents in a
moment of patriotism, which he never ceased to regret, was a
fair-haired, rather good-looking young man, who had qualified himself
for American diplomacy by leading the German at the Newport Casino for
three successive seasons, and even in London was well known as an
excellent dancer. Gardenias and the peerage were his only weaknesses.
Otherwise he was extremely sensible. Miss Virginia E. Otis was a little
girl of fifteen, lithe and lovely as a fawn, and with a fine freedom in
her large blue eyes. She was a wonderful Amazon, and had once raced old
Lord Bilton on her pony twice round the park, winning by a length and a
half, just in front of the Achilles statue, to the huge delight of the
young Duke of Cheshire, who proposed for her on the spot, and was sent
back to Eton that very night by his guardians, in floods of tears.
After Virginia came the twins, who were usually called "The Stars and
Stripes," as they were always getting swished. They were delightful
boys, and, with the exception of the worthy Minister, the only true
republicans of the family.
As Canterville Chase is seven miles from Ascot, the nearest railway
station, Mr. Otis had telegraphed for a wagonette to meet them, and they
started on their drive in high spirits. It was a lovely July evening,
and the air was delicate with the scent of the pinewoods. Now and then
they heard a wood-pigeon brooding over its own sweet voice, or saw, deep
in the rustling fern, the burnished breast of the pheasant. Little
squirrels peered at them from the beech-trees as they went by, and the
rabbits scudded away through the brushwood and over the mossy knolls,
with their white tails in the air. As they entered the avenue of
Canterville Chase, however, the sky became suddenly overcast with
clouds, a curious stillness seemed to hold the atmosphere, a great
flight of rooks passed silently over their heads, and, before they
reached the house, some big drops of rain had fallen.
Standing on the steps to receive them was an old woman, neatly dressed
in black silk, with a white cap and apron. This was Mrs. Umney, the
housekeeper, whom Mrs. Otis, at Lady Canterville's earnest request, had
consented to keep in her former position. She made them each a low
curtsy as they alighted, and said in a quaint, old-fashioned manner, "I
bid you welcome to Canterville Chase." Following her, they passed
through the fine Tudor hall into the library, a long, low room, paneled
in black oak, at the end of which was a large stained glass window. Here
they found tea laid out for them, and, after taking off their wraps,
they sat down and began to look round, while Mrs. Umney waited on them.
Suddenly Mrs. Otis caught sight of a dull red stain on the floor just by
the fireplace, and, quite unconscious of what it really signified, said
to Mrs. Umney, "I am afraid something has been spilled there."
"Yes, madam," replied the old housekeeper in a low voice, "blood has
been spilled on that spot."
"How horrid!" cried Mrs. Otis; "I don't at all care for blood-stains in
a sitting-room. It must be removed at once."
The old woman smiled, and answered in the same low, mysterious voice,
"It is the blood of Lady Eleanore de Canterville, who was murdered on
that very spot by her own husband, Sir Simon de Canterville, in 1575.
Sir Simon survived her nine years, and disappeared suddenly under very
mysterious circumstances. His body has never been discovered, but his
guilty spirit still haunts the Chase. The blood-stain has been much
admired by tourists and others, and cannot be removed."
"That is all nonsense," cried Washington Otis; "Pinkerton's Champion
Stain Remover and Paragon Detergent will clean it up in no time," and
before the terrified housekeeper could interfere, he had fallen upon his
knees, and was rapidly scouring the floor with a small stick of what
looked like a black cosmetic. In a few moments no trace of the
blood-stain could be seen.
"I knew Pinkerton would do it," he exclaimed, triumphantly, as he looked
round at his admiring family; but no sooner had he said these words than
a terrible flash of lightning lit up the somber room, a fearful peal of
thunder made them all start to their feet, and Mrs. Umney fainted.
"What a monstrous climate!" said the American Minister, calmly, as he
lit a long cheroot. "I guess the old country is so overpopulated that
they have not enough decent weather for everybody. I have always been of
opinion that emigration is the only thing for England."
"My dear Hiram," cried Mrs. Otis, "what can we do with a woman who
faints?"
"Charge it to her like breakages," answered the Minister; "she won't
faint after that"; and in a few moments Mrs. Umney certainly came to.
There was no doubt, however, that she was extremely upset, and she
sternly warned Mr. Otis to beware of some trouble coming to the house.
"I have seen things with my own eyes, sir," she said, "that would make
any Christian's hair stand on end, and many and many a night I have not
closed my eyes in sleep for the awful things that are done here." Mr.
Otis, however, and his wife warmly assured the honest soul that they
were not afraid of ghosts, and, after invoking the blessings of
Providence on her new master and mistress, and making arrangements for
an increase of salary, the old housekeeper tottered off to her own room.
II
The storm raged fiercely all that night, but nothing of particular note
occurred. The next morning, however, when they came down to breakfast,
they found the terrible stain of blood once again on the floor. "I don't
think it can be the fault of the Paragon Detergent," said Washington,
"for I have tried it with everything. It must be the ghost." He
accordingly rubbed out the stain a second time, but the second morning
it appeared again. The third morning also it was there, though the
library had been locked up at night by Mr. Otis himself, and the key
carried upstairs. The whole family were now quite interested; Mr. Otis
began to suspect that he had been too dogmatic in his denial of the
existence of ghosts, Mrs. Otis expressed her intention of joining the
Psychical Society, and Washington prepared a long letter to Messrs.
Myers and Podmore on the subject of the Permanence of Sanguineous Stains
when connected with Crime. That night all doubts about the objective
existence of phantasmata were removed forever.
The day had been warm and sunny; and, in the cool of the evening, the
whole family went out to drive. They did not return home till nine
o'clock, when they had a light supper. The conversation in no way turned
upon ghosts, so there were not even those primary conditions of
receptive expectations which so often precede the presentation of
psychical phenomena. The subjects discussed, as I have since learned
from Mr. Otis, were merely such as form the ordinary conversation of
cultured Americans of the better class, such as the immense superiority
of Miss Fanny Devonport over Sarah Bernhardt as an actress; the
difficulty of obtaining green corn, buckwheat cakes, and hominy, even in
the best English houses; the importance of Boston in the development of
the world-soul; the advantages of the baggage-check system in railway
traveling; and the sweetness of the New York accent as compared to the
London drawl. No mention at all was made of the supernatural, nor was
Sir Simon de Canterville alluded to in any way. At eleven o'clock the
family retired, and by half-past all the lights were out. Some time
after, Mr. Otis was awakened by a curious noise in the corridor, outside
his room. It sounded like the clank of metal, and seemed to be coming
nearer every moment. He got up at once, struck a match, and looked at
the time. It was exactly one o'clock. He was quite calm, and felt his
pulse, which was not at all feverish. The strange noise still continued,
and with it he heard distinctly the sound of footsteps. He put on his
slippers, took a small oblong phial out of his dressing-case, and opened
the door. Right in front of him he saw, in the wan moonlight, an old man
of terrible aspect. His eyes were as red burning coals; long gray hair
fell over his shoulders in matted coils; his garments, which were of
antique cut, were soiled and ragged, and from his wrists and ankles hung
heavy manacles and rusty gyves.
"My dear sir," said Mr. Otis, "I really must insist on your oiling those
chains, and have brought you for that purpose a small bottle of the
Tammany Rising Sun Lubricator. It is said to be completely efficacious
upon one application, and there are several testimonials to that effect
on the wrapper from some of our most eminent native divines. I shall
leave it here for you by the bedroom candles, and will be happy to
supply you with more, should you require it." With these words the
United States Minister laid the bottle down on a marble table, and,
closing his door, retired to rest.
For a moment the Canterville ghost stood quite motionless in natural
indignation; then, dashing the bottle violently upon the polished floor,
he fled down the corridor, uttering hollow groans, and emitting a
ghastly green light. Just, however, as he reached the top of the great
oak staircase, a door was flung open, two little white-robed figures
appeared, and a large pillow whizzed past his head! There was evidently
no time to be lost, so, hastily adopting the Fourth dimension of Space
as a means of escape, he vanished through the wainscoting, and the
house became quite quiet.
On reaching a small secret chamber in the left wing, he leaned up
against a moonbeam to recover his breath, and began to try and realize
his position. Never, in a brilliant and uninterrupted career of three
hundred years, had he been so grossly insulted. He thought of the
Dowager Duchess, whom he had frightened into a fit as she stood before
the glass in her lace and diamonds; of the four housemaids, who had gone
into hysterics when he merely grinned at them through the curtains on
one of the spare bedrooms; of the rector of the parish, whose candle he
had blown out as he was coming late one night from the library, and who
had been under the care of Sir William Gull ever since, a perfect martyr
to nervous disorders; and of old Madame de Tremouillac, who, having
wakened up one morning early and seen a skeleton seated in an arm-chair
by the fire reading her diary, had been confined to her bed for six
weeks with an attack of brain fever, and, on her recovery, had become
reconciled to the Church, and broken off her connection with that
notorious skeptic, Monsieur de Voltaire. He remembered the terrible
night when the wicked Lord Canterville was found choking in his
dressing-room, with the knave of diamonds halfway down his throat, and
confessed, just before he died, that he had cheated Charles James Fox
out of L50,000 at Crockford's by means of that very card, and swore that
the ghost had made him swallow it. All his great achievements came back
to him again, from the butler who had shot himself in the pantry because
he had seen a green hand tapping at the windowpane, to the beautiful
Lady Stutfield, who was always obliged to wear a black velvet band round
her throat to hide the mark of five fingers burnt upon her white skin,
and who drowned herself at last in the carp-pond at the end of the
King's Walk. With the enthusiastic egotism of the true artist, he went
over his most celebrated performances, and smiled bitterly to himself as
he recalled to mind his last appearance as "Red Reuben, or the Strangled
Babe," his _debut_ as "Gaunt Gibeon, the Blood-sucker of Bexley Moor,"
and the _furore_ he had excited one lovely June evening by merely
playing ninepins with his own bones upon the lawn-tennis ground. And
after all this some wretched modern Americans were to come and offer him
the Rising Sun Lubricator, and throw pillows at his head! It was quite
unbearable. Besides, no ghost in history had ever been treated in this
manner. Accordingly, he determined to have vengeance, and remained till
daylight in an attitude of deep thought.
III
The next morning, when the Otis family met at breakfast, they discussed
the ghost at some length. The United States Minister was naturally a
little annoyed to find that his present had not been accepted. "I have
no wish," he said, "to do the ghost any personal injury, and I must say
that, considering the length of time he has been in the house, I don't
think it is at all polite to throw pillows at him,"--a very just remark,
at which, I am sorry to say, the twins burst into shouts of laughter.
"Upon the other hand," he continued, "if he really declines to use the
Rising Sun Lubricator, we shall have to take his chains from him. It
would be quite impossible to sleep, with such a noise going on outside
the bedrooms."
For the rest of the week, however, they were undisturbed, the only thing
that excited any attention being the continual renewal of the
blood-stain on the library floor. This certainly was very strange, as
the door was always locked at night by Mr. Otis, and the windows kept
closely barred. The chameleon-like color, also, of the stain excited a
good deal of comment. Some mornings it was a dull (almost Indian) red,
then it would be vermilion, then a rich purple, and once when they came
down for family prayers, according to the simple rites of the Free
American Reformed Episcopalian Church, they found it a bright
emerald-green. These kaleidoscopic changes naturally amused the party
very much, and bets on the subject were freely made every evening. The
only person who did not enter into the joke was little Virginia, who,
for some unexplained reason, was always a good deal distressed at the
sight of the blood-stain, and very nearly cried the morning it was
emerald-green.
The second appearance of the ghost was on Sunday night. Shortly after
they had gone to bed they were suddenly alarmed by a fearful crash in
the hall. Rushing downstairs, they found that a large suit of old armor
had become detached from its stand, and had fallen on the stone floor,
while seated in a high-backed chair was the Canterville ghost, rubbing
his knees with an expression of acute agony on his face. The twins,
having brought their pea-shooters with them, at once discharged two
pellets on him, with that accuracy of aim which can only be attained by
long and careful practice on a writing-master, while the United States
Minister covered him with his revolver, and called upon him, in
accordance with Californian etiquette, to hold up his hands! The ghost
started up with a wild shriek of rage, and swept through them like a
mist, extinguishing Washington Otis's candle as he passed, and so
leaving them all in total darkness. On reaching the top of the staircase
he recovered himself, and determined to give his celebrated peal of
demoniac laughter. This he had on more than one occasion found extremely
useful. It was said to have turned Lord Raker's wig gray in a single
night, and had certainly made three of Lady Canterville's French
governesses give warning before their month was up. He accordingly
laughed his most horrible laugh, till the old vaulted roof rang and rang
again, but hardly had the fearful echo died away when a door opened,
and Mrs. Otis came out in a light blue dressing-gown. "I am afraid you
are far from well," she said, "and have brought you a bottle of Doctor
Dobell's tincture. If it is indigestion, you will find it a most
excellent remedy." The ghost glared at her in fury, and began at once to
make preparations for turning himself into a large black dog, an
accomplishment for which he was justly renowned, and to which the family
doctor always attributed the permanent idiocy of Lord Canterville's
uncle, the Hon. Thomas Horton. The sound of approaching footsteps,
however, made him hesitate in his fell purpose, so he contented himself
with becoming faintly phosphorescent, and vanished with a deep
churchyard groan, just as the twins had come up to him.
On reaching his room he entirely broke down, and became a prey to the
most violent agitation. The vulgarity of the twins, and the gross
materialism of Mrs. Otis, were naturally extremely annoying, but what
really distressed him most was that he had been unable to wear the suit
of mail. He had hoped that even modern Americans would be thrilled by
the sight of a Specter in armor, if for no more sensible reason, at
least out of respect for their national poet Longfellow, over whose
graceful and attractive poetry he himself had whiled away many a weary
hour when the Cantervilles were up in town. Besides it was his own suit.
He had worn it with great success at the Kenilworth tournament, and had
been highly complimented on it by no less a person than the Virgin Queen
herself. Yet when he had put it on, he had been completely overpowered
by the weight of the huge breastplate and steel casque, and had fallen
heavily on the stone pavement, barking both his knees severely, and
bruising the knuckles of his right hand.
For some days after this he was extremely ill, and hardly stirred out of
his room at all, except to keep the blood-stain in proper repair.
However, by taking great care of himself, he recovered, and resolved to
make a third attempt to frighten the United States Minister and his
family. He selected Friday, August 17th, for his appearance, and spent
most of that day in looking over his wardrobe, ultimately deciding in
favor of a large slouched hat with a red feather, a winding-sheet
frilled at the wrists and neck, and a rusty dagger. Towards evening a
violent storm of rain came on, and the wind was so high that all the
windows and doors in the old house shook and rattled. In fact, it was
just such weather as he loved. His plan of action was this. He was to
make his way quietly to Washington Otis's room, gibber at him from the
foot of the bed, and stab himself three times in the throat to the sound
of low music. He bore Washington a special grudge, being quite aware
that it was he who was in the habit of removing the famous Canterville
blood-stain by means of Pinkerton's Paragon Detergent. Having reduced
the reckless and foolhardy youth to a condition of abject terror, he
was then to proceed to the room occupied by the United States Minister
and his wife, and there to place a clammy hand on Mrs. Otis's forehead,
while he hissed into her trembling husband's ear the awful secrets of
the charnel-house. With regard to little Virginia, he had not quite made
up his mind. She had never insulted him in any way, and was pretty and
gentle. A few hollow groans from the wardrobe, he thought, would be more
than sufficient, or, if that failed to wake her, he might grabble at the
counterpane with palsy-twitching fingers. As for the twins, he was quite
determined to teach them a lesson. The first thing to be done was, of
course, to sit upon their chests, so as to produce the stifling
sensation of nightmare. Then, as their beds were quite close to each
other, to stand between them in the form of a green, icy-cold corpse,
till they became paralyzed with fear, and finally, to throw off the
winding-sheet, and crawl round the room, with white, bleached bones and
one rolling eyeball in the character of "Dumb Daniel, or the Suicide's
Skeleton," a _role_ in which he had on more than one occasion produced a
great effect, and which he considered quite equal to his famous part of
"Martin the Maniac, or the Masked Mystery."
At half-past ten he heard the family going to bed. For some time he was
disturbed by wild shrieks of laughter from the twins, who, with the
light-hearted gayety of schoolboys, were evidently amusing themselves
before they retired to rest, but at a quarter-past eleven all was still,
and, as midnight sounded, he sallied forth. The owl beat against the
window-panes, the raven croaked from the old yew-tree, and the wind
wandered moaning round the house like a lost soul; but the Otis family
slept unconscious of their doom, and high above the rain and storm he
could hear the steady snoring of the Minister for the United States. He
stepped stealthily out of the wainscoting, with an evil smile on his
cruel, wrinkled mouth, and the moon hid her face in a cloud as he stole
past the great oriel window, where his own arms and those of his
murdered wife were blazoned in azure and gold. On and on he glided, like
an evil shadow, the very darkness seeming to loathe him as he passed.
Once he thought he heard something call, and stopped; but it was only
the baying of a dog from the Red Farm, and he went on, muttering strange
sixteenth century curses, and ever and anon brandishing the rusty dagger
in the midnight air. Finally he reached the corner of the passage that
led to luckless Washington's room. For a moment he paused there, the
wind blowing his long gray locks about his head, and twisting into
grotesque and fantastic folds the nameless horror of the dead man's
shroud. Then the clock struck the quarter, and he felt the time was
come. He chuckled to himself, and turned the corner; but no sooner had
he done so than, with a piteous wail of terror, he fell back, and hid
his blanched face in his long, bony hands. Right in front of him was
standing a horrible specter, motionless as a carven image, and monstrous
as a madman's dream! Its head was bald and burnished; its face round,
and fat, and white; and hideous laughter seemed to have writhed its
features into an eternal grin. From the eyes streamed rays of scarlet
light, the mouth was a wide well of fire, and a hideous garment, like to
his own, swathed with its silent snows the Titan form. On its breast was
a placard with strange writing in antique characters, some scroll of
shame it seemed, some record of wild sins, some awful calendar of crime,
and, with its right hand, it bore aloft a falchion of gleaming steel.
Never having seen a ghost before, he naturally was terribly frightened,
and, after a second hasty glance at the awful phantom, he fled back to
his room, tripping up in his long winding-sheet as he sped down the
corridor, and finally dropping the rusty dagger into the Minister's
jack-boots, where it was found in the morning by the butler. Once in the
privacy of his own apartment, he flung himself down on a small
pallet-bed, and hid his face under the clothes. After a time, however,
the brave old Canterville spirit asserted itself, and he determined to
go and speak to the other ghost as soon as it was daylight. Accordingly,
just as the dawn was touching the hills with silver, he returned towards
the spot where he had first laid eyes on the grisly phantom, feeling
that, after all, two ghosts were better than one, and that, by the aid
of his new friend, he might safely grapple with the twins. On reaching
the spot, however, a terrible sight met his gaze. Something had
evidently happened to the specter, for the light had entirely faded from
its hollow eyes, the gleaming falchion had fallen from its hand, and it
was leaning up against the wall in a strained and uncomfortable
attitude. He rushed forward and seized it in his arms, when, to his
horror, the head slipped off and rolled on the floor, the body assumed a
recumbent posture, and he found himself clasping a white dimity
bed-curtain, with a sweeping-brush, a kitchen cleaver, and a hollow
turnip lying at his feet! Unable to understand this curious
transformation, he clutched the placard with feverish haste, and there,
in the gray morning light, he read these fearful words:
YE OTIS GHOSTE
Ye Onlie True and Originale Spook,
Beware of Ye Imitationes.
All others are counterfeite.
The whole thing flashed across him. He had been tricked, foiled, and
outwitted! The old Canterville look came into his eyes; he ground his
toothless gums together; and, raising his withered hands high above his
head, swore according to the picturesque phraseology of the antique
school, that, when Chanticleer had sounded twice his merry horn, deeds
of blood would be wrought, and murder walk abroad with silent feet.
Hardly had he finished this awful oath when, from the red-tiled roof of
a distant homestead, a cock crew. He laughed a long, low, bitter laugh,
and waited. Hour after hour he waited, but the cock, for some strange
reason, did not crow again. Finally, at half-past seven, the arrival of
the housemaids made him give up his fearful vigil, and he stalked back
to his room, thinking of his vain oath and baffled purpose. There he
consulted several books of ancient chivalry, of which he was exceedingly
fond, and found that, on every occasion on which this oath had been
used, Chanticleer had always crowed a second time. "Perdition seize the
naughty fowl," he muttered, "I have seen the day when, with my stout
spear, I would have run him through the gorge, and made him crow for me
an 'twere in death!" He then retired to a comfortable lead coffin, and
stayed there till evening.
IV
The next day the ghost was very weak and tired. The terrible excitement
of the last four weeks was beginning to have its effect. His nerves were
completely shattered, and he started at the slightest noise. For five
days he kept his room, and at last made up his mind to give up the point
of the blood-stain on the library floor. If the Otis family did not
want it, they clearly did not deserve it. They were evidently people on
a low, material plane of existence, and quite incapable of appreciating
the symbolic value of sensuous phenomena. The question of phantasmic
apparitions, and the development of astral bodies, was of course quite a
different matter, and really not under his control. It was his solemn
duty to appear in the corridor once a week, and to gibber from the large
oriel window on the first and third Wednesdays in every month, and he
did not see how he could honorably escape from his obligations. It is
quite true that his life had been very evil, but, upon the other hand,
he was most conscientious in all things connected with the supernatural.
For the next three Saturdays, accordingly, he traversed the corridor as
usual between midnight and three o'clock, taking every possible
precaution against being either heard or seen. He removed his boots,
trod as lightly as possible on the old worm-eaten boards, wore a large
black velvet cloak, and was careful to use the Rising Sun Lubricator for
oiling his chains. I am bound to acknowledge that it was with a good
deal of difficulty that he brought himself to adopt this last mode of
protection. However, one night, while the family were at dinner, he
slipped into Mr. Otis's bedroom and carried off the bottle. He felt a
little humiliated at first, but afterwards was sensible enough to see
that there was a great deal to be said for the invention, and, to a
certain degree, it served his purpose. Still, in spite of everything he
was not left unmolested. Strings were continually being stretched across
the corridor, over which he tripped in the dark, and on one occasion,
while dressed for the part of "Black Isaac, or the Huntsman of Hogley
Woods," he met with a severe fall, through treading on a butter-slide,
which the twins had constructed from the entrance of the Tapestry
Chamber to the top of the oak staircase. This last insult so enraged him
that he resolved to make one final effort to assert his dignity and
social position, and determined to visit the insolent young Etonians the
next night in his celebrated character of "Reckless Rupert, or the
Headless Earl."