Laugh and the Ghosts Laugh with You

Wenceslao Fernández Flórez (1885~1964) was a distinguished Spanish scholar, journalist and wit. He began submitting poems and stories to the local newspaper at the tender age of fifteen, he was editor of another paper by the time he was eighteen, and his first novel was published when he was twenty-five years old. Fernández Flórez wrote numerous books and hundreds of articles, and I'd never heard of him until I happened to come across his small volume of ghosts stories.

Laugh and the Ghosts Laugh with You was published by British Technical and General Press in 1951, translated from the original Spanish by Henry Baerlein, who added a short introduction. It was first published as Fantasmas in 1930.

There are seven tales in the collection, the first one being 'Twentieth Century', a tale about three very different ghosts who are trying to make their way in the modern world. Flapp, possessed of a melancholy lankiness, is a traditional sort of ghost. He was once the respected and feared ghost of the castle of Onclers, but he was forced out of his home when it was converted into a saw-mill by unbelieving villains who were not worthy of looking at him. Gip, with his flabby cheeks and podgy stomach, is a ghost who has retained his mortal form, though in a somewhat discoloured state. A sinful earthbound spirit, he used to live in a cinema, where he attended matinees and evening performances, until it was burnt down. Tur, gauze-like and mysterious, looks to have been created out of a shred of mist. He used to inhabit the skies, but was evicted from his natural environment by aeroplanes and radio waves. Bombarded with noise and voices, he was prevented from maintaining his ghostly dignity and induced to dance to the modern music sent out over the airwaves by the orchestra of the Savoy Hotel.

We follow their exploits as they try, separately, to find new homes in Spain, America and England. Tur finds himself at the mercy of a group of London psychical investigators, who are intent on investigating the paranormal to within an inch of its life. Their interrogation of him is extremely amusing.

Often in Fernández Flórez's stories, it is human beings interfering in the doings of spirits that causes all the trouble, rather than ghosts interfering in the affairs of the living.'The Demeanour of a Corpse' begins with the employees of El Gran Chaco gathered together for a séance. The ghost of João Pinto, who is minding his own business on his way from Evora to Stockholm, is stopped dead in his tracks, forced to descend from the air, then pulled into the company of the congregated spiritualists.

'Nothing could have caused more exasperation to João Pinto in his ghostly state than the duty of lifting tables in obedience to the wishes of a group of idlers and of replying to all the stupid questions they might put to him. This burden which in his non-human existence he had to bear aroused in him a furious resentment, and a good many other ghosts have similar views.'

I like Fernández Flórez's dark sense of humour and his use of irony. Take, for example, the following passage from 'The Highway', which is a rather short tale about a drunk driver, Cesar Vidal, who kills four members of the Cañavates family:

'It must be said on behalf of this expert driver that in exterminating the four Cañavates he was listening to the voice of his own clemency. A hard-hearted person would not have killed more than two Cañavates. Cesar Vidal destroyed them all - owing to his excess of sentimentality.'

Fernández Flórez's ghosts aren't scary; they're not meant to be. They are characterful, often more so than the living, they are philosophical, and comical. A recurring theme of the stories is the folly of man, which the ghosts often highlight. Not that the ghosts in the stories are above folly; my favourite of all Fernández Flórez's stories is the shortest in the book, 'The Case of the Defunct Pedroso', which is about a ghost who won't rest until he gets his photograph in an illustrated newspaper.

Laugh and the Ghosts Laugh with You, complete with dustjacket, sells for about twenty to thirty pounds (that's 35 to 50 dollars) for a very good copy with its dust jacket. You can expect to pay up to eighty pounds (about 135 dollars) for a fine copy. The first Spanish edition, Fantasmas, seems to cost about the same, but I've yet to find one with a dust jacket.

The House-Party ~ E. S. Duffin

As promised, here is the runner-up from the ghost story competition that M. R. James was asked to judge for The Spectator in December 1930. Bella, the main character of the story, is a housemaid in a household she is unfamilar with, without a friend to confide in, and therefore is very isolated, which inspires sympathy in the reader and adds to the atmosphere of the story. As James pointed out, it has the merits of 'a perfectly ordinary setting, a horrid catastrophe, and a curiosity legitimately excited, and not satisfied, in the mind of the reader.' To my mind, this is a better ghost story than the one that took first place. But read it and judge for yourself. 

THE HOUSE-PARTY

By E. S. Duffin

Runner up in the ghost story competition,

The Spectator ~ 3rd of January 1931.

It was Saturday morning. Bella, the new housemaid at Stamford Court, was going from room to room with trays of tea, pulling up blinds, leaving cans of hot water, nervously trying to make as little noise as possible, but the tea-things had an unfortunate way of sliding on the tray in her shaking hand, the blinds eluded her grasp and sprang with an alarming rattle up the windows, and the brass cans clanged against the basins as she deposited them on the washstands. Some of the occupants of the beds opened half-awake and slightly irritated eyes; others yawned and turned sleepily on their pillows.

She gave a sigh of relief as she closed the last door, then stood doubtfully regarding another at the end of the corridor. Was she in charge of that room too? This big house was so confusing, and Alice, the head housemaid, was so snubbing that she did not like to ask. Yes, she supposed she must be. How dreadful if she had forgotten it . . . . She hastily returned to the pantry and prepared another tray.

Ten minutes later she knocked at the door of the bedroom. There was no reply, but few of the week-end guests troubled to reply so she opened the door quietly. The room was dark and bitterly cold; as she crossed the threshold she felt as if she had stepped into an ice-cold fog; it smelt musty, too - like a cellar. A feeling of unreasoning terror seized her and froze her blood. Between the door and the window she paused, feeling as if her shaking limbs could carry her no farther. The tray in her hand shook so that the tea-things rattled. She stood at the foot of the old-fashioned four-poster bed and unwillingly, as if mesmerized, turned her head in its direction.

In the dim light of the dark winter morning she could not discern whether the occupant were a man or a woman. Above the bed-clothes a pair of eyes seemed to glow as a cat’s eyes glow in the dark, and to pierce through her very brain. It was only with a terrible effort that she deposited the tray on the bedside table; then hastily pulling up the blinds, reckless of - indeed, reassured by - the noise she was making, she hurried from the room, not daring to cast another glance at the bed lest she should see - what? - she asked herself wildly as she stood with panting breath and flying pulse in the corridor. But her unspoken question remained unanswered.

As she descended the backstairs a smell of coffee and frying bacon reached her nostrils; from below came the cheerful clatter of breakfast preparations. She heaved a sigh of relief as she heard the homely sounds.

After breakfast she emptied the basins, made beds and dusted rooms, leaving what she in her own mind designated “the room” till the last.

When she entered it her fears seemed absurd. The sun shone through the windows, the bed stood empty, but its late occupant seemed to have spent an uneasy night: the sheets were twisted into ropes, the pillows crushed so that she had to put clean covers on them. Strange, too, the water in the basin was dyed a rusty red and one of the towels was stained with blood. Even as she told herself that the guest must have cut himself shaving, a feeling of indescribable horror crept over Bella, but she put the room to rights and went about her other duties.

The next morning found her, in spite of good resolutions, shaking from top to toe as she stood outside the door and knocked with a trembling hand. As before, no voice answered; again, as she crossed the threshold, a chill seemed to penetrate to he very bones. She had decided that she would on no account look at the bed or its occupant; so, putting the tray hastily down, she crossed to the window and pulled up the blinds, but she felt that the eyes from the bed were watching her, and that something worse than a wild animal was crouching to spring. She stumbled from the room in a panic, shutting the door with a bang that reverberated down the corridor. Rushing to the backstairs, she leaned half-fainting against the bannisters.

At breakfast in the servants’ hall she looked round the staff with tragic eyes, seeking someone in whom she could confide; but they were all strangers to her and her courage failed. When she went upstairs again the room door lay open, the room lay empty, but as before in confusion, the basin filled with that sinisterly dyed water, the towel again blood-stained. Tremblingly she once more put it to rights.

Monday morning - thank God the house-party would break up to-day. This was the last time she need enter the ghastly room! She comforted herself with this thought as she knocked at “the door.”

Three hours later, Mrs. Grieves, the housekeeper, was inspecting the empty bedrooms with Alice, the head housemaid, to see that all was left in order.

“You needn’t inspect the haunted room,” Alice said, sarcastically; “nobody slept in it. Her Ladyship gave orders nobody was to be put in it again.”

Nevertheless, Mrs. Grieves conscientiously opened the door. The furniture was shrouded in linen covers, the hearthrug rolled back, the curtains of the four-poster looped up; but what was that? A figure on the bed. Mrs. Grieves and Alice approached, and a cry of horror and dismay burst simultaneously from their lips. Across the bed lay the figure of a girl. One hand clutched the bed curtain, the other arm was thrown up as if to ward off something, and the crooked elbow partially concealed the face. But as they looked down they recognized in the twisted features, the staring eyes, the half-open mouth, Bella, the new housemaid. She was dead.

Here He Lies Where He Longed to Be ~ Winifred Galbraith

Well, I did promise that I'd post the winning entry from the ghost story competition that M. R. James was asked to judge for The Spectator. And here it is. A note was attached saying, 'The Chinese gentleman who told me this tale and vouched for its truth held a diplomatic position in England for many years'. If you remember, James was a little concerned that the lady who sent it received it from a third party and did not invent it from her own imagination.

HERE HE LIES WHERE HE LONGED TO BE

By Winifred Galbraith

Winner of the ghost story competition,

The Spectator ~ 27th of December 1930.

You won’t believe this story; you’ll say it is all moonshine.

I should say so myself, if I did not know it were true. But whenever I think it must have been a dream, I see again that look of deep peace on Lao Ming’s face, and then I feel glad that the old man sleeps with his fathers in the distant Shensi hills and not in the crowded rabbit-warrens of the Shanghai cemeteries.

I met Lao Ming in 1927 when I left the interior because of the communists. He told me he had been born and bred in Shensi and had held high official positions under the Manchus, but, since the Revolution, he had drifted to Shanghai and lived - goodness knows how - in one room in the native city. During that dreary winter some of my most pleasant hours were spent in that dirty little room. We both loved to talk about Shensi and I found that his dearest wish was to return there to die, although such a journey really seemed impossible for a man of his age. He was a classical scholar, deeply learned in the magics of (corrupt) Buddhism and, one day, he introduced me to a friend who, he said, was a wizard of great skill and repute. As I listened to their talk, I used to feel as if I had fallen out of the twentieth century into the company of two medieval magicians. This charm eaten at night would bring a much-desired son; rats’ ears ground to powder and applied on an enchanted paper would relieve a swelling tumour; and once they spoke of spells for the dead, but there I showed my scepticism too plainly and they stopped. Strange talk within sight of the Shanghai Bund!

When I was able to return inland and went to say “Goodbye” to Lao Ming, I found he was very ill. His magician friend was with him and followed me out.

“I’m afraid he’ll never see the Shensi hills now,” I said.

I caught a strange look on the man’s face and I did a silly thing.

“Look here,” I said, “If I give you fifty dollars, will you promise to bury Lao Ming in Shensi?”

The magician bowed.

“It shall be done,” he said. And I actually counted out fifty dollars and pushed them into his hand. I did feel wild with myself afterwards, I can tell you, as I was awfully short of money at the time and knew they would only waste it on good feast at the funeral.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

It was a fine, clear night. My coolies had consented to go an extra stage after dark, as we all wanted to get home before the festival. They trotted along with bent knees, crooning a little song, and I walked behind, not too tired to enjoy the beauty of the moon, as it lit up the rice fields in the valleys and the dark clumps of trees on the hill sides. Suddenly the foremost coolie gave a blood-curdling yell, dropped his burdens and fled, screaming over the fields. The others followed. I could see no cause for alarm. A little string of people advanced towards us on the narrow path. It was rather unusual to see men out so late, but I thought they were probably a band of villagers who had been delayed at the market. Then I saw the first man held a bowl before him in both hands, but the others carried nothing and walked rather stiffly, without moving their heads. I called out a greeting as I stepped off the path to let them pass, but no one replied. The second in line was a woman with a little baby tied on her back, the third was a man in a ragged soldier’s uniform with a great gaping wound all down one side of his bare leg. And then - I looked straight into the face of my friend Lao Ming. With a scream I could not suppress, I turned and ran like the coolies across the wet fields. The magician had kept his word and Lao Ming would rest in his beloved Shensi.

When we were safely round the fire that night, the coolies told me more about this curious procession. It was a death march. Some men have power to prevent the decomposition of the body and to make the dead move at their command. When a man dies far from his native land, his relatives find out such a wizard and pay him to lead the corpse home. He waits till he has collected a number of such commissions and then sets out on his long march. He walks by night, carrying a rice-bowl of water in his hands and followed step by step by his charges. At dawn he plans to reach an inn where he engages a room, puts the bowl down on the floor and the bodies at once fall over and lie there till nightfall, when their weary pilgrimage begins again. Over hills and rivers for hundreds of miles they walk till they reach their goal. Then the water must be spilt on the ground and the bowl broken to fragments. So can their bodies decay and their souls rest in peace.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

It is incredible, isn’t it? I did one more thing about it. I wrote to our agent at the place where Lao Ming’s family graves were said to be and asked him if there had been a recent burial. He made enquiries and found that there was a newly-dug grave but there seemed to be some mystery, for no one would tell him anything nor could he hear that anyone had recently died.

A Pad in the Straw ~ Christopher Woodforde

Reverend Dr Christopher Woodforde (1907~1962) was brought up in Somerset (lovely place that it is, and the fact that I live here does not make me biased in any way), where his antiquarian interests blossomed. He was educated at King's School, Bruton, then went on to Peterhouse, Cambridge, and Wells Theological College. He was ordained in 1930 and served in a number of curacies before becoming Rector of Exford in 1936, and Axbridge (which is not all that far from me) in 1939. In 1945 he became Vicar of Steeple Morden, Cambridge, then in 1948 he was invited to become chaplain of New College Oxford. Finally, in February 1959, he became Dean of Wells; a post previously occupied by another favourite writer of mine, R. H. Malden. Woodforde is best known for his studies of stained glass, which are recognised as definitive works, and his Jamesian ghost stories.

A Pad in the Straw, Woodforde's only book of supernatural tales, was first published in 1952 by J. M. Dent & Sons, with drawings and an excellent dust jacket by John Yunge-Bateman. The twenty tales that make up the collection were originally composed to be read as bedtime entertainment for New College choristers; the book is dedicated 'To eight boys who first asked me to tell them a story'. The stories were rewritten prior to publication, though, to make them appealing to a wider audience, so this isn't just a book for young people. They have a distinctly antiquarian, Jamesian character and, as Lord David Cecil says in his preface, 'a waft of the uncanny blows through these tales, just enough to make the spine agreeably tingle.' On the whole, although a few are a little weak, Woodforde's stories are elegant and enjoyable. Several are excellent.

In 'Ex Libris', Clive Hopwood's hobby is to collect information and objects connected with his family. His particular interest is in bringing together the library of books once owned by his eighteenth century ancestor, a clergyman who was murdered by a highwayman. He is given a gift by Lord Sulham - a fifteenth century book of accounts that once belonged to the old clergyman. The next day, Hopwood's grandson Aubrey returns to his grandfather's house for morning coffee, only to find him unconscious in a chair. It turns out that the account book has rather more attached to it than family history.

'Lost and Found' is set in and around King's Lynn, where antiquary Henry Selkirk comes across an antique sword that he wants to buy for the Department of Medieval Antiquities at the museum he used to work for. The widow of the previous owner puts Selkirk on to a man called Jasper Christian, who sold the sword to her husband. When he tracks down Christian, he finds that the old man is senile, but Selkirk secures a twelfth century toby-jug from the old man's daughter. Unfortunately, it turns out to be rather blood thirsty!

'Richard' is accompanying his teacher on an outing because it is his birthday. He finds a reference in a guide book to a serpent at a nearby church and asks to go and see it; it is a serpent of the bass wind instrument variety, not a long hissing wriggly thing. They stay out longer than expected, and it is dark by the time they head back to school. I can't say any more without giving too much away, but suffice it to say that I shall never look at a signpost in the same way again - I certainly shan't stand too close to one.

'Jeremy' lives in a top-floor dormitory at number 7, High Street, Grettenham. The second storey of the building is given over to a flat, which is occupied by Theodore Sancroft, a retired senior history master and extremely enthusiastic entomologist. For years, it has been a tradition of the college that nobody should rag Mr Sancroft. Jeremy, a congenital tease, finds out just what happens to young lads who break with that particular tradition.

'The Chalk Pit' is set in the parish of Dunworth, on the border between Hertfordshire and Bedfordshire. Catherine Oving is an academic young lady who has had to give up her education to look after her widowed mother. In the course of making lampshades, she discovers a parchment map of Williamson's Quarry, usually referred to as 'the old chalk pit', which has a reputation for being haunted. She is persuaded to pay a visit to it at midnight with her friend Miss Beauchamp and Harry Granby, a soldier home on leave, and discovers when she arrives that her nephew and his chum have been attacked by 'large things which flew and hopped'. The explanation for the peculiar incident is later discovered in Dunworth Church.

In 'The 'Doom' Window at Breckham', Charles Hawthorn is a Wiltshire antiquarian with an immense interest in stained glass, just like Woodforde himself, and railway trains. Having conducted some research into the remains of a scene of the Last Judgement, or 'Doom', in the west window of the parish church of Breckham in Gloucestershire, he has discovered the names of the two sixteenth century glaziers who produced it, both of whom died not long after carrying out the work. On returning home from a trip to examine and photograph the window, he discovers that there are plans to replace it with modern stained glass. But that old glass isn't about to let some aristocratic upstart evict it. I very much liked the mixture of the supernatural and photography in this delightfully antiquarian tale, which is one of my two favourites, along with 'Ex-Libris'.

The first edition of A Pad in the Straw is rather rare, and a fine copy in a similar dustjacket seems pretty much impossible to find. A very good copy, with a similar jacket, will cost about a hundred pounds ($160). An Aldine paperback edition was issued in 1964, but that seems just as hard to find, and a reading copy can cost about twenty pounds ($32).

The good news is that The Sundial Press republished A Pad in the Straw last year. The Sundial edition includes the original prefatory note by Lord David Cecil, and adds a foreword by the author's son Giles Woodforde, and an afterword by Richard Dalby. Copies are available from the web site for £17.50 (including postage in the UK). To the best of my knowledge, there is no kindle edition out there at the moment.

UPDATE - 25 July 2023

Sundial Press has closed. Sadly, it has done so without honouring paid-for orders.