HAUNTED HOUSE, THE（ISBN=9780812973068）pdf/txt下载_在线阅读全文

内容简介

　　On Christmas Eve, a party of friends descends on a purportedly haunted country retreat, charged with the task of discovering evidence of the supernatural. Sequestered in their rooms for the holiday, the friends reconvene on Twelfth Night at a great feast and share their stories of spectral encounter. “Conducted” by Charles Dickens and counting Elizabeth Gaskell and Wilkie Collins among its contributors, The Haunted House examines quintessentially Victorian themes–sex and longing, nostalgia and loss–in ways that continue to resonate today. Ingeniously conceived and written, and spiked with flashes of Dickensian humor, this volume is a strange and sheer delight.

作者简介

　　WESLEY STACE is the author of the novel Misfortune. Under the name John Wesley Harding, he has recorded more than a dozen albums, most recently Adam's Apple. He lives in Brooklyn.

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　　The Mortals in the House
　　Charles Dickens under none of the accredited ghostlycircumstances, and environed by none of the conventional ghostlysurroundings, did I first make acquaintance with the house which isthe subject of this Christmas piece. I saw it in the daylight, withthe sun upon it. There was no wind, no rain, no lightning, nothunder, no awful or unwonted circumstance, of any kind, toheighten its effect. More than that: I had come to it direct from arailway station; it was not more than a mile distant from therailway station; and, as I stood outside the house, looking backupon the way I had come, I could see the goods train runningsmoothly along the embankment in the valley. I will not say thateverything was utterly common-place, because I doubt if anythingcan be that, except to utterly common-place people—and there myvanity steps in; but, I will take it on myself to say that anybodymight see the house as I saw it, any fine autumn morning.
　　The manner of my lighting on it was this.
　　I was travelling towards London out of the North, intending tostop by the way, to look at the house. My health required atemporary residence in the country; and a friend of mine who knewthat, and who had happened to drive past the house, had written tome to suggest it as a likely place. I had got into the train atmidnight, and had fallen asleep, and had woke up and had satlooking out of the window at the brilliant Northern Lights in thesky, and had fallen asleep again, and had woke up again to find thenight gone, with the usual discontented conviction on me that Ihadn’t been to sleep at all;—upon which question, in the firstimbecility of that condition, I am ashamed to believe that I wouldhave done wager by battle with the man who sat opposite me. Thatopposite man had had, through the night—as that opposite man alwayshas—several legs too many, and all of them too long. In addition tothis unreasonable conduct (which was only to be expected of him),he had had a pencil and a pocket-book, and had been perpetuallylistening and taking notes. It had appeared to me that theseaggravating notes related to the jolts and bumps of the carriage,and I should have resigned myself to his taking them, under ageneral supposition that he was in the civil-engineering way oflife, if he had not sat staring straight over my head whenever helistened. He was a goggle-eyed gentleman of a perplexed aspect, andhis demeanour became unbearable.

The Mortals in the House 
　　Charles Dickens under none of the accredited ghostly
circumstances, and environed by none of the conventional ghostly
surroundings, did I first make acquaintance with the house which is
the subject of this Christmas piece. I saw it in the daylight, with
the sun upon it. There was no wind, no rain, no lightning, no
thunder, no awful or unwonted circumstance, of any kind, to
heighten its effect. More than that: I had come to it direct from a
railway station; it was not more than a mile distant from the
railway station; and, as I stood outside the house, looking back
upon the way I had come, I could see the goods train running
smoothly along the embankment in the valley. I will not say that
everything was utterly common-place, because I doubt if anything
can be that, except to utterly common-place people—and there my
vanity steps in; but, I will take it on myself to say that anybody
might see the house as I saw it, any fine autumn morning. 
　　The manner of my lighting on it was this. 
　　I was travelling towards London out of the North, intending to
stop by the way, to look at the house. My health required a
temporary residence in the country; and a friend of mine who knew
that, and who had happened to drive past the house, had written to
me to suggest it as a likely place. I had got into the train at
midnight, and had fallen asleep, and had woke up and had sat
looking out of the window at the brilliant Northern Lights in the
sky, and had fallen asleep again, and had woke up again to find the
night gone, with the usual discontented conviction on me that I
hadn’t been to sleep at all;—upon which question, in the first
imbecility of that condition, I am ashamed to believe that I would
have done wager by battle with the man who sat opposite me. That
opposite man had had, through the night—as that opposite man always
has—several legs too many, and all of them too long. In addition to
this unreasonable conduct (which was only to be expected of him),
he had had a pencil and a pocket-book, and had been perpetually
listening and taking notes. It had appeared to me that these
aggravating notes related to the jolts and bumps of the carriage,
and I should have resigned myself to his taking them, under a
general supposition that he was in the civil-engineering way of
life, if he had not sat staring straight over my head whenever he
listened. He was a goggle-eyed gentleman of a perplexed aspect, and
his demeanour became unbearable. 
　　It was a cold, dead morning (the sun not being up yet), and when
I had out-watched the paling light of the fires of the iron
country, and the curtain of heavy smoke that hung at once between
me and the stars and between me and the day, I turned to my
fellow-traveller and said: 
　　“I beg your pardon, sir, but do you observe anything particular
in me?” For, really, he appeared to be taking down, either my
travelling-cap or my hair, with a minuteness that was a
liberty. 
　　The goggle-eyed gentleman withdrew his eyes from behind me, as if
the back of the carriage were a hundred miles off, and said, with a
lofty look of compassion for my insignificance: 
　　“In you, sir?—B.” 
　　“B, sir?” said I, growing warm. 
　　“I have nothing to do with you, sir,” returned the gentleman;
“pray let me listen—O.” 
　　He enunciated this vowel after a pause, and noted it down. 
　　At first I was alarmed, for an Express lunatic and no
communication with the guard, is a serious position. The thought
came to my relief that the gentleman might be what is popularly
called a Rapper: one of a sect for (some of) whom I have the
highest respect, but whom I don’t believe in. I was going to ask
him the question, when he took the bread out of my mouth. 
　　“You will excuse me,” said the gentleman, contemptuously, “if I
am too much in advance of common humanity to trouble myself at all
about it. I have passed the night—as indeed I pass the whole of my
time now—in spiritual intercourse.” 
　　“Oh!” said I, something snappishly. 
　　“The conferences of the night began,” continued the gentleman,
turning several leaves of his note-book, “with this message: ‘Evil
communications corrupt good manners.’ ” 
　　“Sound,” said I; “but, absolutely new?” 
　　“New from spirits,” returned the gentleman. 
　　I could only repeat my rather snappish “Oh!” and ask if I might
be favoured with the last communication? 
　　“ ‘A bird in the hand,’ ” said the gentleman, reading his last
entry with great solemnity, “ ‘is worth two in the Bosh.’ ” 
　　“Truly I am of the same opinion,” said I; “but shouldn’t it be
Bush?” 
　　“It came to me, Bosh,” returned the gentleman. 
　　The gentleman then informed me that the spirit of Socrates had
delivered this special revelation in the course of the night. “My
friend, I hope you are pretty well. There are two in this railway
carriage. How do you do? There are seventeen thousand four hundred
and seventy-nine spirits here, but you cannot see them. Pythagoras
is here. He is not at liberty to mention it, but hopes you like
travelling.” Galileo likewise had dropped in, with this scientific
intelligence. “I am glad to see you, amico. Come sta? Water will
freeze when it is cold enough. Addio!” In the course of the night,
also, the following phenomena had occurred. Bishop Butler had
insisted on spelling his name, “Bubler,” for which offence against
orthography and good manners he had been dismissed as out of
temper. John Milton (suspected of wilful mystification) had
repudiated the authorship of Paradise Lost, and had introduced, as
joint authors of that poem, two Unknown gentlemen, respectively
named Grungers and Scadgingtone. And Prince Arthur, nephew of King
John of England, had described himself as tolerably comfortable in
the seventh circle, where he was learning to paint on velvet, under
the direction of Mrs. Trimmer and Mary Queen of Scots. 
　　If this should meet the eye of the gentleman who favoured me with
these disclosures, I trust he will excuse my confessing that the
sight of the rising sun, and the contemplation of the magnificent
Order of the vast Universe, made me impatient of them. In a word, I
was so impatient of them, that I was mightily glad to get out at
the next station, and to exchange these clouds and vapours for the
free air of Heaven. 
　　By that time it was a beautiful morning. As I walked away among
such leaves as had already fallen from the golden, brown, and
russet trees; and as I looked around me on the wonders of Creation,
and thought of the steady, unchanging, and harmonious laws by which
they are sustained; the gentleman’s spiritual intercourse seemed to
me as poor a piece of journey-work as ever this world saw. In which
heathen state of mind, I came within view of the house, and stopped
to examine it attentively. 
　　It was a solitary house, standing in a sadly neglected garden: a
pretty even square of some two acres. It was a house of about the
time of George the Second; as stiff, as cold, as formal, and in as
bad taste, as could possibly be desired by the most loyal admirer
of the whole quartett of Georges. It was uninhabited, but had,
within a year or two, been cheaply repaired to render it habitable;
I say cheaply, because the work had been done in a surface manner,
and was already decaying as to the paint and plaster, though the
colours were fresh. A lop-sided board drooped over the garden wall,
announcing that it was “to let on very reasonable terms, well
furnished.” It was much too closely and heavily shadowed by trees,
and, in particular, there were six tall poplars before the front
windows, which were excessively melancholy, and the site of which
had been extremely ill chosen. 
　　It was easy to see that it was an avoided house—a house that was
shunned by the village, to which my eye was guided by a church
spire some half a mile off—a house that nobody would take. And the
natural inference was, that it had the reputation of being a
haunted house. 
　　No period within the four-and-twenty hours of day and night, is
so solemn to me, as the early morning. In the summer time, I often
rise very early, and repair to my room to do a day’s work before
breakfast, and I am always on those occasions deeply impressed by
the stillness and solitude around me. Besides that there is
something awful in the being surrounded by familiar faces asleep—in
the knowledge that those who are dearest to us and to whom we are
dearest, are profoundly unconscious of us, in an impassive state
anticipative of that mysterious condition to which we are all
tending—the stopped life, the broken threads of yesterday, the
deserted seat, the closed book, the unfinished but abandoned
occupation, all are images of Death. The tranquillity of the hour
is the tranquillity of Death. The colour and the chill have the
same association. Even a certain air that familiar household
objects take upon them when they first emerge from the shadows of
the night into the morning, of being newer, and as they used to be
long ago, has its counterpart in the subsidence of the worn face of
maturity or age, in death, into the old youthful look. Moreover, I
once saw the apparition of my father, at this hour. He was alive
and well, and nothing ever came of it, but I saw him in the
daylight, sitting with his back towards me, on a seat that stood
beside my bed. His head was resting on his hand, and whether he was
slumbering or grieving, I could not discern. Amazed to see him
there, I sat up, moved my position, leaned out of bed, and watched
him. As he did not move, I spoke to him more than once. As he did
not move then, I became alarmed and laid my hand upon his shoulder,
as I thought—and there was no such thing. 
　　For all these reasons, and for others less e...

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