Photo: Shelagh Bidwell

REVIEWS

A Warning to the Curious: Two Ghost Stories by M.R. James
Performed by Robert Lloyd Parry

Ghosts & Scholars
Peter Bell

The scene is the Manor at Hemingford Grey, home of the late Lucy M. Boston, writer of the Greene Knowe children's stories, and author of two excellent ghostly tales with a feel of M.R. James. The winter freeze has barely departed, leaving the swirling brown waters of the Great Ouse, which sweeps past the Manor garden, full and forceful with melted snows. It is 7.30pm, a chilly nip still in the air, as we blunder along in the dark from the river towpath into the garden, heading for the welcome light of England's longest continuously inhabited country house. A tall, angular gable looms towards us over the shadowy topiary of the lawns. A dim hallway and a narrow staircase lead us into the heart of this surprisingly compact, yet labyrinthine mansion. The Manor is inhabited by Diana Boston, Lucy's daughter-in-law; it is kept essentially as it was in her time, familiar from the many illustrations drawn by her son, Peter. The reading takes place in the oldest part of this ancient building, desecrated by the Tudors, in the chamber where the bare stone walls and windows date back to the twelfth century. There are maybe twenty people, leisurely ensconced on a motley array of couches and chairs. A scent of mulled wine, to be served in the interval, pervades the atmosphere. We sit in the semi-dark, the single flame of a candle flickers, reflecting eerily in a huge, dusty gilt mirror. An immense old-fashioned gramophone emits the crackling strains of a haunting chorale, as we regard the small table with candlestick, ancient tomes and cut-glass decanter, awaiting the arrival of our mysterious narrator. No setting at King's could be better. The sound of slow footsteps emerges from above and behind, descending the precipitous wooden stairs from the attics. A tall, slightly hunched figure, dressed in the attire of an Edwardian scholar-gentleman, makes his way discreetly to the table. He fumbles with his spectacles, lights the candles, pours a glass of sherry and sips thoughtfully. Then, without more ado, he declares, reflectively, that it was, as far as he could ascertain, "in September of the year 1811 that a post-chaise drew up before the door of Aswarby Hall, in the heart of Lincolnshire".

Robert Lloyd Parry's latest presentation of M.R. James's tales has commenced, without need of artificial introduction. Readers who have experienced - a more apposite word than heard - Parry's earlier renderings of "The Ash-Tree" and "Oh, Whistle, and I'll Come to You, My Lad", or "Canon Alberic's Scrap-book" and "The Mezzotint", will not be disappointed by "Lost Hearts" and "A Warning to the Curious". Parry's performances are superior to the rather flat readings of James's stories by Christopher Lee, presented some years ago on TV. Despite Lee's serious effort to reproduce the Great Scholar's laconic style, his dry wit, and the authentic college setting, the readings came across as staged and artificial. Nothing could be further from the truth with Parry; at times it was as if James himself were reading. This, however, is no mere stage trickery, fine as the setting might be. Parry's art lies in his deep understanding of the stories, and his ability to bring out the complex nuances of James's deceptively simple prose. These are more than readings: they are dramas, which recreate the ambience of their original delivery. To witness Parry's renderings is to realise that these tales really were written to be read aloud, however good they may be on the page. And it is here that Parry excels.

A characteristic feature of a tale by James, one of the hardest to express, is the variety of voices, especially those of the lower classes. Superficially, this can sound merely like condescending mockery, for the benefit of a privileged Cambridge audience: the incorrect speech and coarse dialects of the ill-educated. Many of these characters, however, are through their very naivety most eloquent mouthpieces of the strange and terrible things James seeks to purvey; albeit frequently infused with humour and wicked satire. Take Mrs Bunch from "Lost Hearts": the homely mother-like figure, who seeks to reassure Stephen in the disturbing world of his distinctly odd elderly cousin. Yet it is Mrs Bunch who articulates one of the creepiest lines in the stories, when telling of the disappearance of the little girl: "it's my belief she was had away by them gipsies, for there was singing round the house for as much as an hour the night she went, and Parkes, he declare as he heard them a-calling in the woods all that afternoon". Parry's capture of Mrs Bunch's naivety, combined with the ominous import of her words, is precise. Integral to his skilful characterisation, likewise, is his portrayal of the sly superiority of the author-narrator, as when he notes that the gossipy housekeeper "was by no means disinclined to communicate her information", and remarks that questions "were cleared up by Mrs Bunch's powerful intellect". Parry's voicing of this irony brings an appreciative titter from the audience. Such humour and irony are never merely decoration in a James story; they are essential counterpoint to the accumulating horror: this Parry understands and masterfully expresses. It is a dimension that works so much better when the story is read out, rather than read.

Parry is equally adept at realising James's art, through subtle hints and innuendoes, mysteries and asides, in creating horror. Listening to his description of Stephen's view of the girl in the bath, with her ravaged chest, is like encountering this gruesome passage for the first time. He extracts overtones of disgust and dread, and sheer horrified amazement; it reminds me how magnificently frightening is this scene. His voice expresses revulsion at the spectacle, a compulsion to describe the dreadful terror; and yet imbues his tones with an outraged reticence, as if it were perhaps unfitting to describe something so unspeakable; or, in the cold light of day, not even credible. Parry is also in command of creepiness in his account of the mysterious and hideous scratch marks, "for all the world like a Chinaman's finger-nails, as my uncle in the tea-trade used to tell us of when we was girls together". Impressively, he captures the egregious Mr Abney, a figure I have always found - especially through the eyes of an uncomprehending yet instinctively fearful child - abominably frightful. Mr Abney's slimy, unctuous manner, his indecently enthusiastic interest in Stephen's age, his scarcely concealed glee, are all served to a perfection by Parry.

"A Warning to the Curious" brings comparable delights. The long preamble, locating events on the eerie East Anglian coast, is atmospherically expressed, in ruminative tone. The complex layered narrative, which works best when the story is read out, is well realised, with the different voices, and thus the personalities, of the participants emerging. Parry imbues the hapless Paxton's account with a hysterical, demented conviction; and equally effective, the detached, bemused manner of his companions in "this strange errand" to restore the crown. Paxton's lengthy, impassioned, terrified account of being pursued works in the story by accumulative force; it is perhaps the best example of the pursuit-motif in James's fiction. Parry moves expertly from the slow initial build-up of the tale, with its leisurely topographical detail, to the climactic events, becoming more and more animated as the tale proceeds. He conveys a genuine unease, which is infectious; one can sense the tenseness in the audience, the suspense as we await the grisly outcome.

Parry, impressively, delivers his performances verbatim, without prompting, yet with uncanny precision; he rarely errs or hesitates. His is not simply the reading out of a story; he brings it to life, inhabits it, showing the finesse of a skilled actor. He underpins the tales with sparing, yet effective, theatrics: he fiddles with his spectacles, taking them on and off as he ponders events; he dowses and lights candles as the plot development invites. One marvellous technique: at a suitably suspenseful point he pauses and pours himself unhurriedly a refill from the decanter, as if taking stock of the inexplicable, or fortifying himself before revealing dreadful truths. By such means, the sense of a rational narrator having, perforce, to admit to scarcely believable, yet horribly true, phenomena, is achieved. Never, it must be emphasised, does Parry fall into melodrama; the neatly managed crescendo, which James liked and knew how to understate for greater effect - this too is consummated by Parry.

His performances, wherever staged, provide a truly pleasing terror, as close as it can ever be to the time and place of M.R. James. Parry is walking in the steps of the Master, perpetuating his inexhaustible genius, yet adding something of his own, carrying on his tradition. To hear them in such an atmospheric setting as the Manor is exquisite. No review would be complete without acknowledging Diana Boston's contribution, by providing in the Manor such ideal ambience for listening not simply to a good ghost story, but to the inspired performances of Robert Lloyd Parry.