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| dustwrapper on the 1954 Hamish Hamilton first edition | |
L. P. Hartley's The White Wand & Other Stories
commentary by William Allison
Hartley's The White Wand will prove a light luncheon for ghost story fans, but will be a full supper/dinner (have we sorted out the difference?) for those who enjoy fine writing in-genre or out.
Of the fourteen stories in the collection, four are of ghostly interest:
"A Summons" The nameless narrator's little sister once told him that if she ever dreamed she was being murdered, she would knock on the wall for him to come to her aid. One night he wakes to a tapping on the wall.
"W.S." I'm guessing this must be one of the most well-known stories outside of those in The Travelling Grave. Walter Streeter begins to receive mysterious postcards from a "W.S.". The cards seem friendly enough at first, but take on a subtly darker tone which corresponds to the return address on the card getting *closer* to Walter with each one. As the arrival of W.S. becomes emminent, Walter secures a promise from the local police to keep a watch on his home. He is relieved to see the policeman on watch outside, & later, invites the fellow in to warm up. Shortly after, the phone rings- it's the police station, apologizing for not sending someone around.
"The Two Vaynes" Vayne was vain. What else could explain his having a garden statue made up of himself? And what about the disappearance of Postgate at an earlier party of Vaynes? It was said Postgate had a hand in Vayne giving up the chairmanship. Funny how the statue of Vayne was made of a different material than the other statues in the garden, and how during a bizarre nocturnal game of hide-and-seek (recalling the one in "The Travelling Grave") it seems to have left its pedestal.
"Monkshood Manor" Poor Victor Chisholm has a fear of fires that often causes him to get up at all hours & go check on any fireplaces that may have been left burning at bedtime. When he is a guest, hosts have learned to accept these wee-hour ramblings. Monkshood Manor was built, legend has it, using some of the stones from a Abbey that had been pulled down. Legend also has it that one of the monks had sworn to come back & start a fire to burn down the manor. This is one of the more Jamesian of LPH's stories. I say, is that smoke? From the smell though, it would appear something other than wood is burning.
I found the non-horror pieces to be equally rewarding due to Hartley's smooth prose style & keen wit. Even in a "straight" story, Hartley can conjure up a wonderfully weird scene- take "Mr. Blandfoot's Picture":
At nine o'clock the next morning the maid knocked at Mr. Bland foot's bedroom door -- knocked several times, though with an air of misgiving. At last she heard a growl: 'Come in!' The room was so dark she could see nothing & paused on the threshold.
'How often have I told you,' said a voice, 'not to come until I ring.'
'Yes, sir,' said the maid, timidly.
'Well, come in, if you're coming,' said the voice, still implacable.
There was a vast heaving movement on the bed.
'Now the curtains, now the blinds, now the hot water, now the bath,' the voice chanted rapidly & irritably, 'and you haven't told me why you came at all yet.'
'Please, sir,' said the maid, stumbling towards the window, 'there's a letter marked "urgent", so I thought----'
'Why didn't you say so before?' snapped the voice. 'Well, hand it over.'
But in her flurry the maid had dropped the letter. She groped for it on the floor, obscurely feeling that she must not pull up the blind until she had given her master the letter. She did not know whereabouts in the room she was; she thought she must be near the bed, but she was afraid to touch it & every moment her movements grew more rigid.
'I had it only just now,' she murmured, almost crying.
'Clumsy, clumsy,' admonished the voice, in gentler accents. 'Here, I've got it.'
'Oh, that's all right then, sir,' said the maid, almost gasping with relief.
'No,' said the voice, drawing nearer.
'I want you to give it to me.'
Bewildered, the maid held out her hand in the darkness.
'No, just a little more this way,' persuaded the voice, still advancing to meet her.
Again she stumbled forward in the gloom, her hand stretched stiff like a fencer's. Mr. Blandfoot seemed to have reared himself up in the bed: she could see a vague outline towering above her.
'A shade to the left now,' said the voice.
The maid obeyed.
'And now straight into the letter-box.'
She made a half-hearted prodding movement. Something caught her finger: a sharp pain ran down her arm. She called out, & the whole room was suddenly flooded with light. Afterwards she realized it must have been electric light; but at the time she was only aware of the pain, of the sight of her finger wedged between Mr. Blandfoot's large irregular teeth, & of his face looking down at her with a smile that had no kindness in it. The blankets were tumbled together in the middle of the bed; the floor, as much of it as she could see, was lumpy with sorry-looking underclothes: the biscuit-coloured walls refracted the unsympathetic light, as did also Mr. Blandfoot's parchment-coloured face. The spiritless, yellow hues around her were infinitely uncomforting; she felt the world beginning to dissolve.
Great stuff...