Ghost Stories of an Antiquary - Montague Rhodes James (feel good books to read .TXT) 📗

as the likely successor of

Archdeacon Pulteney, and no disappointment was in store for him. He was

duly installed, and entered with zeal upon the discharge of those

functions which are appropriate to one in his position. A considerable

space in his journals is occupied with exclamations upon the confusion in

which Archdeacon Pulteney had left the business of his office and the

documents appertaining to it. Dues upon Wringham and Barnswood have been

uncollected for something like twelve years, and are largely

irrecoverable; no visitation has been held for seven years; four chancels

are almost past mending. The persons deputized by the archdeacon have

been nearly as incapable as himself. It was almost a matter for

thankfulness that this state of things had not been permitted to

continue, and a letter from a friend confirms this view. ‘[Greek: ho

katech�n],’ it says (in rather cruel allusion to the Second Epistle to

the Thessalonians), ‘is removed at last. My poor friend! Upon what a

scene of confusion will you be entering! I give you my word that, on the

last occasion of my crossing his threshold, there was no single paper

that he could lay hands upon, no syllable of mine that he could hear, and

no fact in connexion with my business that he could remember. But now,

thanks to a negligent maid and a loose stair-carpet, there is some

prospect that necessary business will be transacted without a complete

loss alike of voice and temper.’ This letter was tucked into a pocket in

the cover of one of the diaries.

 

There can be no doubt of the new archdeacon’s zeal and enthusiasm. ‘Give

me but time to reduce to some semblance of order the innumerable errors

and complications with which I am confronted, and I shall gladly and

sincerely join with the aged Israelite in the canticle which too many, I

fear, pronounce but with their lips.’ This reflection I find, not in a

diary, but a letter; the doctor’s friends seem to have returned his

correspondence to his surviving sister. He does not confine himself,

however, to reflections. His investigation of the rights and duties of

his office are very searching and business-like, and there is a

calculation in one place that a period of three years will just suffice

to set the business of the Archdeaconry upon a proper footing. The

estimate appears to have been an exact one. For just three years he is

occupied in reforms; but I look in vain at the end of that time for the

promised Nunc dimittis. He has now found a new sphere of activity.

Hitherto his duties have precluded him from more than an occasional

attendance at the Cathedral services. Now he begins to take an interest

in the fabric and the music. Upon his struggles with the organist, an old

gentleman who had been in office since 1786, I have no time to dwell;

they were not attended with any marked success. More to the purpose is

his sudden growth of enthusiasm for the Cathedral itself and its

furniture. There is a draft of a letter to Sylvanus Urban (which I do not

think was ever sent) describing the stalls in the choir. As I have said,

these were of fairly late date—of about the year 1700, in fact.

 

‘The archdeacon’s stall, situated at the south-east end, west of the

episcopal throne (now so worthily occupied by the truly excellent prelate

who adorns the See of Barchester), is distinguished by some curious

ornamentation. In addition to the arms of Dean West, by whose efforts the

whole of the internal furniture of the choir was completed, the

prayer-desk is terminated at the eastern extremity by three small but

remarkable statuettes in the grotesque manner. One is an exquisitely

modelled figure of a cat, whose crouching posture suggests with admirable

spirit the suppleness, vigilance, and craft of the redoubted adversary of

the genus Mus. Opposite to this is a figure seated upon a throne and

invested with the attributes of royalty; but it is no earthly monarch

whom the carver has sought to portray. His feet are studiously concealed

by the long robe in which he is draped: but neither the crown nor the cap

which he wears suffice to hide the prick-ears and curving horns which

betray his Tartarean origin; and the hand which rests upon his knee, is

armed with talons of horrifying length and sharpness. Between these two

figures stands a shape muffled in a long mantle. This might at first

sight be mistaken for a monk or “friar of orders gray”, for the head is

cowled and a knotted cord depends from somewhere about the waist. A

slight inspection, however, will lead to a very different conclusion The

knotted cord is quickly seen to be a halter, held by a hand all but

concealed within the draperies; while the sunken features and, horrid to

relate, the rent flesh upon the cheek-bones, proclaim the King of

Terrors. These figures are evidently the production of no unskilled

chisel; and should it chance that any of your correspondents are able to

throw light upon their origin and significance, my obligations to your

valuable miscellany will be largely increased.’

 

There is more description in the paper, and, seeing that the woodwork in

question has now disappeared, it has a considerable interest. A paragraph

at the end is worth quoting:

 

‘Some late researches among the Chapter accounts have shown me that the

carving of the stalls was not as was very usually reported, the work of

Dutch artists, but was executed by a native of this city or district

named Austin. The timber was procured from an oak copse in the vicinity,

the property of the Dean and Chapter, known as Holywood. Upon a recent

visit to the parish within whose boundaries it is situated, I learned

from the aged and truly respectable incumbent that traditions still

lingered amongst the inhabitants of the great size and age of the oaks

employed to furnish the materials of the stately structure which has

been, however imperfectly, described in the above lines. Of one in

particular, which stood near the centre of the grove, it is remembered

that it was known as the Hanging Oak. The propriety of that title is

confirmed by the fact that a quantity of human bones was found in the

soil about its roots, and that at certain times of the year it was the

custom for those who wished to secure a successful issue to their

affairs, whether of love or the ordinary business of life, to suspend

from its boughs small images or puppets rudely fashioned of straw, twigs,

or the like rustic materials.’

 

So much for the archdeacon’s archaeological investigations To return to

his career as it is to be gathered from his diaries. Those of his first

three years of hard and careful work show him throughout in high spirits,

and, doubtless, during this time, that reputation for hospitality and

urbanity which is mentioned in his obituary notice was well deserved.

After that, as time goes on, I see a shadow coming over him—destined to

develop into utter blackness—which I cannot but think must have been

reflected in his outward demeanour. He commits a good deal of his fears

and troubles to his diary; there was no other outlet for them. He was

unmarried and his sister was not always with him. But I am much mistaken

if he has told all that he might have told. A series of extracts shall be

given:

 

Aug. 30th 1816—The days begin to draw in more perceptibly than

ever. Now that the Archdeaconry papers are reduced to order, I must

find some further employment for the evening hours of autumn and

winter. It is a great blow that Letitia’s health will not allow her

to stay through these months. Why not go on with my _Defence of

Episcopacy_? It may be useful.

 

Sept. 15.—Letitia has left me for Brighton.

 

Oct. 11.—Candles lit in the choir for the first time at evening

prayers. It came as a shock: I find that I absolutely shrink from the

dark season.

 

Nov. 17—Much struck by the character of the carving on my desk: I

do not know that I had ever carefully noticed it before. My attention

was called to it by an accident. During the Magnificat I was, I

regret to say, almost overcome with sleep. My hand was resting on the

back of the carved figure of a cat which is the nearest to me of the

three figures on the end of my stall. I was not aware of this, for I

was not looking in that direction, until I was startled by what

seemed a softness, a feeling as of rather rough and coarse fur, and a

sudden movement, as if the creature were twisting round its head to

bite me. I regained complete consciousness in an instant, and I have

some idea that I must have uttered a suppressed exclamation, for I

noticed that Mr Treasurer turned his head quickly in my direction.

The impression of the unpleasant feeling was so strong that I found

myself rubbing my hand upon my surplice. This accident led me to

examine the figures after prayers more carefully than I had done

before, and I realized for the first time with what skill they are

executed.

 

Dec. 6—I do indeed miss Letitia’s company. The evenings, after I

have worked as long as I can at my Defence, are very trying. The

house is too large for a lonely man, and visitors of any kind are too

rare. I get an uncomfortable impression when going to my room that

there is company of some kind. The fact is (I may as well formulate

it to myself) that I hear voices. This, I am well aware, is a common

symptom of incipient decay of the brain—and I believe that I should

be less disquieted than I am if I had any suspicion that this was the

cause. I have none—none whatever, nor is there anything in my family

history to give colour to such an idea. Work, diligent work, and a

punctual attention to the duties which fall to me is my best remedy,

and I have little doubt that it will prove efficacious.

 

Jan. 1—My trouble is, I must confess it, increasing upon me. Last

night, upon my return after midnight from the Deanery, I lit my

candle to go upstairs. I was nearly at the top when something

whispered to me, ‘Let me wish you a happy New Year.’ I could not be

mistaken: it spoke distinctly and with a peculiar emphasis. Had I

dropped my candle, as I all but did, I tremble to think what the

consequences must have been. As it was, I managed to get up the last

flight, and was quickly in my room with the door locked, and

experienced no other disturbance.

 

Jan. 15—I had occasion to come downstairs last night to my

workroom for my watch, which I had inadvertently left on my table

when I went up to bed. I think I was at the top of the last flight

when I had a sudden impression of a sharp whisper in my ear ‘_Take

care_.’ I clutched the balusters and naturally looked round at once.

Of course, there was nothing. After a moment I went on—it was no

good turning back—but I had as nearly as possible fallen: a cat—a

large one by the feel of it—slipped between my feet, but again, of

course, I saw nothing. It may have been the kitchen cat, but I do

not think it was.

 

Feb. 27—A curious thing last night, which I should like to forget.

Perhaps if I put it down here I may see it