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274 pages

English

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Containing a collection of short tales and novellas, Le Fanu's Ghostly Tales highlights all of the literary attributes that helped Irish-born writer Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu achieve a remarkable level of fame during his lifetime. Remembered as a master of the classic ghost story, Le Fanu skillfully sets the scene and then gradually ratchets up the suspense, making for a deliciously tense read.

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Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 mai 2014
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781776534456
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0134€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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LE FANU'S GHOSTLY TALES
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SHERIDAN LE FANU

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Le Fanu's Ghostly Tales First published in 1872 Epub ISBN 978-1-77653-445-6 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77653-446-3 © 2013 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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VOLUME I Schalken the Painter An Account of Some StrangeDisturbances in Aungier Street VOLUME II An Authentic Narrative ofa Haunted House Ultor de Lacy:A Legend of Cappercullen VOLUME III The Haunted Baronet VOLUME IV Ghost Stories of Chapelizod The Village Bully The Sexton's Adventure The Spectre Lovers The Drunkard's Dream The Ghost and the Bone-Setter The Mysterious Lodger VOLUME V Laura Silver Bell Wicked Captain Walshawe, of Wauling The Child that Went with the Fairies Stories of Lough Guir The Vision of Tom Chuff Dickon the Devil
VOLUME I
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Schalken the Painter
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"For he is not a man as I am that we should come together; neither is there any that might lay his hand upon us both. Let him, therefore, take his rod away from me, and let not his fear terrify me."
There exists, at this moment, in good preservation a remarkable work ofSchalken's. The curious management of its lights constitutes, as usualin his pieces, the chief apparent merit of the picture. I say apparent , for in its subject, and not in its handling, howeverexquisite, consists its real value. The picture represents the interiorof what might be a chamber in some antique religious building; and itsforeground is occupied by a female figure, in a species of white robe,part of which is arranged so as to form a veil. The dress, however, isnot that of any religious order. In her hand the figure bears a lamp, bywhich alone her figure and face are illuminated; and her features wearsuch an arch smile, as well becomes a pretty woman when practising someprankish roguery; in the background, and, excepting where the dim redlight of an expiring fire serves to define the form, in total shadow,stands the figure of a man dressed in the old Flemish fashion, in anattitude of alarm, his hand being placed upon the hilt of his sword,which he appears to be in the act of drawing.
There are some pictures, which impress one, I know not how, with aconviction that they represent not the mere ideal shapes andcombinations which have floated through the imagination of the artist,but scenes, faces, and situations which have actually existed. There isin that strange picture, something that stamps it as the representationof a reality.
And such in truth it is, for it faithfully records a remarkable andmysterious occurrence, and perpetuates, in the face of the femalefigure, which occupies the most prominent place in the design, anaccurate portrait of Rose Velderkaust, the niece of Gerard Douw, thefirst, and, I believe, the only love of Godfrey Schalken. My greatgrandfather knew the painter well; and from Schalken himself he learnedthe fearful story of the painting, and from him too he ultimatelyreceived the picture itself as a bequest. The story and the picture havebecome heir-looms in my family, and having described the latter, Ishall, if you please, attempt to relate the tradition which hasdescended with the canvas.
There are few forms on which the mantle of romance hangs moreungracefully than upon that of the uncouth Schalken—the boorish butmost cunning worker in oils, whose pieces delight the critics of our dayalmost as much as his manners disgusted the refined of his own; and yetthis man, so rude, so dogged, so slovenly, in the midst of hiscelebrity, had in his obscure, but happier days, played the hero in awild romance of mystery and passion.
When Schalken studied under the immortal Gerard Douw, he was a veryyoung man; and in spite of his phlegmatic temperament, he at once fellover head and ears in love with the beautiful niece of his wealthymaster. Rose Velderkaust was still younger than he, having not yetattained her seventeenth year, and, if tradition speaks truth, possessedall the soft and dimpling charms of the fair, light-haired Flemishmaidens. The young painter loved honestly and fervently. His frankadoration was rewarded. He declared his love, and extracted a falteringconfession in return. He was the happiest and proudest painter in allChristendom. But there was somewhat to dash his elation; he was poor andundistinguished. He dared not ask old Gerard for the hand of his sweetward. He must first win a reputation and a competence.
There were, therefore, many dread uncertainties and cold days beforehim; he had to fight his way against sore odds. But he had won the heartof dear Rose Velderkaust, and that was half the battle. It is needlessto say his exertions were redoubled, and his lasting celebrity provesthat his industry was not unrewarded by success.
These ardent labours, and worse still, the hopes that elevated andbeguiled them, were however, destined to experience a suddeninterruption—of a character so strange and mysterious as to baffle allinquiry and to throw over the events themselves a shadow ofpreternatural horror.
Schalken had one evening outstayed all his fellow-pupils, and stillpursued his work in the deserted room. As the daylight was fast falling,he laid aside his colours, and applied himself to the completion of asketch on which he had expressed extraordinary pains. It was a religiouscomposition, and represented the temptations of a pot-bellied SaintAnthony. The young artist, however destitute of elevation, had,nevertheless, discernment enough to be dissatisfied with his own work,and many were the patient erasures and improvements which saint anddevil underwent, yet all in vain. The large, old-fashioned room wassilent, and, with the exception of himself, quite emptied of its usualinmates. An hour had thus passed away, nearly two, without any improvedresult. Daylight had already declined, and twilight was deepening intothe darkness of night. The patience of the young painter was exhausted,and he stood before his unfinished production, angry and mortified, onehand buried in the folds of his long hair, and the other holding thepiece of charcoal which had so ill-performed its office, and which henow rubbed, without much regard to the sable streaks it produced, withirritable pressure upon his ample Flemish inexpressibles. "Curse thesubject!" said the young man aloud; "curse the picture, the devils, thesaint—"
At this moment a short, sudden sniff uttered close beside him made theartist turn sharply round, and he now, for the first time, became awarethat his labours had been overlooked by a stranger. Within about a yardand half, and rather behind him, there stood the figure of an elderlyman in a cloak and broad-brimmed, conical hat; in his hand, which wasprotected with a heavy gauntlet-shaped glove, he carried a long ebonywalking-stick, surmounted with what appeared, as it glittered dimly inthe twilight, to be a massive head of gold, and upon his breast, throughthe folds of the cloak, there shone the links of a rich chain of thesame metal. The room was so obscure that nothing further of theappearance of the figure could be ascertained, and his hat threw hisfeatures into profound shadow. It would not have been easy to conjecturethe age of the intruder; but a quantity of dark hair escaping frombeneath this sombre hat, as well as his firm and upright carriage servedto indicate that his years could not yet exceed threescore, orthereabouts. There was an air of gravity and importance about the garbof the person, and something indescribably odd, I might say awful, inthe perfect, stone-like stillness of the figure, that effectuallychecked the testy comment which had at once risen to the lips of theirritated artist. He, therefore, as soon as he had sufficientlyrecovered his surprise, asked the stranger, civilly, to be seated, anddesired to know if he had any message to leave for his master.
"Tell Gerard Douw," said the unknown, without altering his attitude inthe smallest degree, "that Minheer Vanderhausen, of Rotterdam, desiresto speak with him on tomorrow evening at this hour, and if he please, inthis room, upon matters of weight; that is all."
The stranger, having finished this message, turned abruptly, and, with aquick, but silent step quitted the room, before Schalken had time to saya word in reply. The young man felt a curiosity to see in what directionthe burgher of Rotterdam would turn, on quitting the studio, and forthat purpose he went directly to the window which commanded the door. Alobby of considerable extent intervened between the inner door of thepainter's room and the street entrance, so that Schalken occupied thepost of observation before the old man could possibly have reached thestreet. He watched in vain, however. There was no other mode of exit.Had the queer old man vanished, or was he lurking about the recesses ofthe lobby for some sinister purpose? This last suggestion filled themind of Schalken with a vague uneasiness, which was so unaccountablyintense as to make him alike afraid to remain in the room alone, andreluctant to pass through the lobby. However, with an effort whichappeared very disproportioned to the occasion, he summoned resolution toleave the room, and, having locked the door and thrust the key in hispocket, without looking to the right or left, he traversed the passagewhich had so recently, perhaps still, contained the person of hismysterious visitant, scarcely venturing to breathe till he had arrivedin the open street.
"Minheer Vanderhause