Another Edith gets eerie: Edith Wharton’s ghost stories

 

© Penguin

 

When it comes to the literary oeuvre of Edith Wharton, all I’m familiar with is her 1911 novella Ethan Frome, which I read many years ago.  I enjoyed it and resolved to read more of her works but, somehow, never got around to it.

 

At least, I did see Martin Scorsese’s 1993 movie adaptation of her Pulitzer Prize-winning novel The Age of Innocence (1920).  I enjoyed this too, though many other people seemed not to.  People familiar with the novel (including my wife) disliked it because of liberties it allegedly took with the characterisations.  Fans of Scorsese’s usual movies didn’t like it because, presumably, it didn’t feature any montages of Joe Pesci cooking and eating pasta, Joe Pesci being loving to his elderly mom, Joe Pesci psychopathically beating and murdering the shit out of people, etc., all set to the music of the Rolling Stones.

 

I have, over the years, heard people talk enthusiastically about some ghost stories Edith Wharton penned during her career.  Her writing ghost stories didn’t surprise me – plenty of literary greats, including Sir Walter Scott, Charles Dickens, Elizabeth Gaskell, Robert Louis Stevenson, Thomas Hardy, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Henry James, happily wrote ghostly, scary and macabre fiction until the genre fell out of critical favour and gained an unsavoury reputation in the snobby 20th century.  Anyway, not only did I generally resolve to read more of Wharton’s work, but I particularly resolved to read her ghost stories.

 

Recently, I read a collection called Pomegranate Seed, published in 2025 by Penguin, which gathers together seven of her supernatural stories.  The collection takes its title from the opening story, which is about a young woman, Charlotte, who marries a widower, Kenneth, and becomes increasingly concerned that he’s is having an affair.  This is on account of Kenneth receiving letters written by a female hand, which mysteriously arrive without stamps or return addresses and which leave him in a visible state of agitation.  It transpires that the letters are ghostly dispatches from his first wife, Elsie, who, even in death, is unwilling to relinquish her hold over him.  The trope of a new wife struggling against the spirit of an old, dead wife for possession of her husband has been used several times, most impressively, in my opinion, in Daphne du Maurier’s novel Rebecca (1938).  But Pomegranate Seed is an agreeable enough piece.

 

Incidentally, the title Pomegranate Seed comes from the Greek myth of the goddess Persephone, daughter of Zeus and Demeter, who was tricked into remaining in the Underworld for part of the year when its king, Hades, got her to taste pomegranate seeds – ‘the food of the Underworld’.  Persephone’s yearly sojourn in that melancholy realm coincides with the season of winter in the land of the living.  A picture of an overripe, seed-oozing pomegranate fills the cover of this 2025 Penguin collection – and makes the book look as if it’s an anthology of body-horror stories.

 

A troubled marriage and a female ghost also figure in The Lady’s Maid’s Bell, and there’s a similar premise whereby the central character, again a woman, is a newcomer in a household with sinister secrets.  Here, though, the character is a maid, recovering from typhoid fever, who’s employed in a mansion house on the Hudson River.  What causes the trouble in the troubled marriage isn’t a ghost this time, but an all-too-alive abusive husband.  Meanwhile, it’s suggested that the apparition – “a thin woman with a white face, and a dark gown and apron” – is trying to protect the beleaguered wife.

 

More flippant is Mr Jones, wherein an aristocrat called Lady Jane Lynke inherits an estate called the Bells – “the beautiful old place that had belonged to the Lynkes of Thudney for something like six hundred years” – and then finds her every request about improving the estate defied and thwarted by a very elderly and thrawn caretaker called Mr Jones.  The odd thing is that she only ever hears about Mr Jones from the staff, and never actually meets him, which leads to a slightly predictable denouement.

 

In Afterward, the main characters also acquire an old house – they purchase it rather than inherit it, being a couple who’ve recently ‘come into money’.  The house is said to be haunted, though with the puzzling proviso that nobody who encounters the ghost realises it’s a ghost until afterwards: “Not til long long afterward.”  A ghost appears and, accordingly, neither of the couple grasps what it is until later.  Grimly, when they do realise this, they also find out that the ghost is linked to the underhand way they acquired their fortune in the first place.

 

From wikipedia.org

 

Kerfol creates a different kind of atmosphere in its opening pages, a straight-up weird one.  The narrator visits a historical pile in Brittany with a view to buying it. He finds no humans on the premises but is followed around by half-a-dozen strangely inscrutable dogs.  This first section of Kerfol put me in mind of the stories of Robert Aickman, which were unfailingly odd and unsettling but rarely offered much explanation about what was going on.  However, Wharton then proceeds to do the very un-Aickman-like thing of explaining what those eerie dogs were and why there were there.

 

Less explanation is given in her story All Souls’ and it’s all the more effective because of that.  A widow called Sara Clayburn, living on an estate in the wilds of Connecticut, has an accident one winter’s day and severely sprains her ankle.  This happens shortly after she encounters a strange woman whilst out on her daily walk – when she asks her, “You’re going to the house?”, she gets an ambiguous answer: “Only to see one of the girls.”  And then the woman walks away.

 

Sara becomes bedridden and has a long, harrowing and possibly imaginary experience where, for a day and a half, it seems that her servants have vanished and she’s entirely alone in the house.  The story is a nicely paranoid one where, while you read it, you wonder where Wharton is going with it all.  Has Sara slipped into some sort of parallel reality?  Are the servants involved in a sinister plot against her?  And is there significance – occult significance, perhaps – in the mysterious woman she met before her accident?  All Souls’ is made more uncomfortable by the knowledge that this was the last piece of fiction Wharton ever wrote.  She died four months after completing it in 1937.

 

But the best thing in this collection, I feel, is Bewitched, which uses the bleak and unforgiving landscapes of wintertime New England to propagate an atmosphere of genuine dread.  Prudence Rutledge, a stern, dour matriarch at a remote farm, summons three neighbours to her farmhouse and informs them that her husband Saul is having regular trysts with another woman, Aura Brand, by the edge of a nearby pond.  But this is more than a case of marital infidelity – Aura has been dead for over a year and Saul is increasingly drained and distracted when he returns from these trysts, as if something is feeding on him.  The three men resolve to take action.  One them is obliged to because he is Sylvester Brand, the late Aura’s father.

 

Published in 1926, Bewitched made me think of a spooky tale written a year later, H.P. Lovecraft’s The Colour out of Space.  Okay, in some ways, the two stories couldn’t be more different – in Bewitched, the horror is psychological and possibly supernatural, while in Lovecraft’s one it’s cosmic in origin and is terrifying unearthly.  Also, Bewitched is all about the characters, whereas characterisation is something Lovecraft has little interest in.  But both are about agricultural folk who are trying to eke a living in countryside that frequently is – or it becomes – hostile to their efforts, and who come up against frightening forces that their lives until now have given them no understanding of and no preparation for.

 

I especially like how the possible ghost-vampire being in Bewitched doesn’t follow the norms of conventional fictional and cinematic vampires.  Wharton wrote it at a time when these norms hadn’t been cemented yet in popular culture.  In that way, Bewitched is reminiscent of Carl Theodor Dreyer’s celebrated 1932 movie Vampyr, another work that does its own thing with the vampire legend.

 

If this collection has a fault, it’s that Bewitched comes second in the order of stories, with the result that some of the ones that follow it feel slightly anti-climactic in comparison.  However, the book concludes with All Souls’, so at least it finishes strongly.

 

From wikipedia.org / The American Academy of Arts and Letters

Daphne’s up the creek

 

© Penguin Books

 

Daphne du Maurier’s 1941 novel Frenchman’s Creek comes nowhere near the standard of her best work.  It lacks the growing unease, troubling ambiguity and general intensity of, say, Rebecca (1938) or My Cousin Rachel (1951).  Even as a historical potboiler, it falls far short of Jamaica Inn (1936) because it doesn’t have a main character as monstrously memorable as Jamaica Inn’s villain, Joss Merlyn.

 

That said, with its twists and turns and skin-of-the-teeth escapes and rescues (predictable though they were), I found the book enjoyable as an undemanding romp.  Also, its cultural politics seem amusingly ironic when viewed through the prism of 2024 Britain, insecure at home and diminished abroad after the fiasco of Brexit.

 

Frenchman’s Creek starts with its heroine Dona St Columb, basically a 17th-century desperate housewife, fleeing London for the wilds of Cornwall.  Dona has been living it up in the capital with her doltish and drunken husband Harry and his circle of friends, but now she finds their company monotonous and shallow.  Among them, only the smooth and confident Rockingham has much personality, but as he flirts aggressively with Dona behind her husband’s back and even enlists her help in perpetrating a cruel joke against an elderly Countess – they terrify the old dear one night by disguising themselves as highwaymen, stopping her coach and pretending to rob her – he’s obviously a bad ’un.

 

Thus, bored and disgusted, Dona leaves Harry behind and travels to his country estate on the Cornish coast, hoping to lead a quiet life.  This doesn’t happen, of course.  One of her landowner neighbours, Godolphin – who’s as oafish as her husband and suffers the additional disadvantages of having ‘bulbous eyes’ and a ‘growth on the end of his nose’ – informs her that the local countryside is in uproar, thanks to raids being carried out by a French pirate-ship, captained by a figure known only as ‘the Frenchman’.  Meanwhile, Dona is puzzled to find the estate emptied of its servants, save for one enigmatic character called William, ‘with a button mouth and a curiously white face’, speaking with ‘a curious accent, at least she supposed it was Cornish’.

 

It soon transpires that William is in the employ of the Frenchman, and his ship La Mouette – The Seagull – is anchored within Harry’s estate, in a hidden creek off the side of an estuary.  The pirates have been sneakily hiding there between their assaults on the neighbouring coastline.  Dona falls into their clutches, but discovers that – quelle surprise! – the Frenchman, one Jean-Benoit Aubéry, is actually a dashing fellow.  As well as having the requisite amounts of tallness, darkness and handsomeness, he wears ‘his own hair, as men used to do, instead of the ridiculous curled wigs that had become the fashion…’  (Needless to say, all the pompous Englishmen Dona knows wear wigs.)  Even better, he has an artistic temperament – he loves drawing pictures – and he’s at one with nature – his pictures are of herons, sanderlings, herring-gulls and other birdlife.

 

Trusting Dona to keep her mouth shut, Jean-Benoit releases her from captivity.  And before you know it, romance blossoms between the two of them.  Not only is she inviting him up for dinner at her husband’s manor house, and he taking her on fishing expeditions, but she becomes a member of his crew.  She’s on board La Mouette when it sallies forth from the creek, in search of booty.  She even takes part in the raids on her neighbours’ coffers.  Meanwhile, as one of the local gentry, Dona gets to hear all the plans Godolphin and his fellow landowners are hatching to trap and catch the Frenchman.  The Englishmen never imagine that one of the supposedly silly, frivolous women in their company is secretly channeling this information to their enemy.

 

For a while, Dona lives the dream.  She enjoys the charms of a hunky, creative and sensitive man and gets to participate in swashbuckling adventures.  Then, however, Harry arrives from London to aid his neighbours in their efforts to apprehend the Frenchman – never suspecting that the naughty pirate is holed up in the nearby creek, right under his nose.  Also, he brings Rockingham with him, and it’s his shrewd, caddish friend who begins to smell a rat…

 

From wikipedia.org / © The Chichester Partnership

 

It’s fun to speculate on the audience de Maurier had in mind for this tosh.  Frustrated 1940s English ladies, fantasizing about a hot-blooded continental man whisking them away from their humdrum middle-class lives?  Especially, whisking them away from their repressed, pipe-smoking, cardigan-and-slipper-wearing husbands, chaps who probably found David Lean’s Brief Encounter (1945) a bit too raunchy?

 

Maybe she was trying to exploit an inferiority complex that lurks in the British psyche regarding the French.  Well, in the English psyche – mention ‘France’ to Scottish people and many will simply enthuse about ‘The Auld Alliance’.  There’s always been a feeling that compared to the average English bloke, the average French bloke is more suave, elegant, cultured and aware of what it takes to sweep les dames off their feet.  (Mind you, the recent publicity surrounding the 20-stone horribleness that is Gerard Depardieu suggests that French male superiority in the charm stakes is just a myth.)

 

As a recent example of this Anglo-insecurity, when faced with Gallic masculinity, look at the anger with which Britain’s stupidest right-wing newspapers reacted to French president Emmanuel Macron turning up in London for Queen Elizabeth II’s funeral in 2022.  Macron – of whom, I should say, I’m not usually a fan – wore sunglasses, a blue blazer and blue trainers and came accompanied by a phalanx of bodyguards who strutted with nonchalant Jean Reno-style coolness.  He was accused of being disrespectful with his ‘casual’ attire, but come on…  The real issue was cringing English jealousy.  Compare Macron’s chicness with the appearance of former British prime minister Boris Johnson, who shambled to the funeral looking like a cross between an ambulatory compost heap and an electrocuted yeti.

 

No doubt this inferiority complex towards the French (and all things continental) has been compounded by the Brexit vote, which has left England / Britain on the fringes of Europe, looking rather daft and deluded.

 

Frenchman’s Creek was filmed in 1944, in a now-forgotten production whose one point of interest is that it was the only time Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce appeared together in a film that wasn’t a Sherlock Holmes adventure.  It’d be interesting, though, to have the book filmed again in the 2020s.  You could have some hot young French actor like Pio Marmaï or François Civil in the role of the Frenchman.  Matt Lucas, channeling Boris Johnson, could be cast as Harry, Dona’s hapless husband; and Matt Smith – in psycho mode, rather than Doctor mode – cast as the alluring but nasty Rockingham.  A range of bumbling and grotesque character-actors like Eddie Marson, Tom Hollander, Nick Frost and Reece Shearsmith could play Godolphin and the other English landowners.  

 

I suspect desperate housewives all over Middle England would flock to see a new Frenchman’s Creek movie; even while ridiculous newspapers like the Daily Mail, Daily Express and Daily Telegraph fulminated at how it cast aspersions on the manliness of Dear Old Blighty.

 

Before I finish, I should mention that the pleasure you get from Frenchman’s Creek possibly depends on how much you can tolerate the character of Dona.  I didn’t mind her, spoilt and self-centred though she obviously was, and just got on with enjoying the book’s narrative drive and historical colour.  However, my partner – Mrs Blood and Porridge – also read the novel and detested it.  This was due to Dona, whom she described as “insipid and childish… she’d marry a prisoner on death row because she’s rebelling against her oh-so-boring life… Meanwhile, people are starving and the bitch is f**king a murderer because it’s fun as long as she can luxuriate in her white upper-class ‘lady’ privileges.  She’s an abomination.  I hate her… her lack of a moral compass and her inability to imagine anything more for herself than a man.”

 

So, that’s me told, then.

 

© Paramount Pictures