Dreadful Thoughts Story Club 11: The Upper Berth
Though he was (in his day) prolific,1 popular, and commercially successful – F. Marion Crawford's posthumous "literary star" appears to have faded quite quickly.2 For the next seven days, however, Dreadful Thoughts will be waving a ragged Crawford-ian flag and trying to give his largely-forgotten name a very modest boost (either by praising him or slagging him off). An apt moment for such an exercise given that the one hundredth anniversary of his death has just passed.3
Though "weird tales" were but a small part of his overall output, it is to one such weird tale that we now turn – the damp, dark, seawater-drenched "The Upper Berth" (1886). So come ye salty dogs. Come ye land lubbers. Come ye Easter bunnies. Put down the washing. Pull closed the curtains. Tell us what ye think and thought.
- Writing over forty books. [back]
- David Stuart Davies, in his introduction to The Witch of Prague & Other Stories (Wordsworth Editions, 2008) ISBN: 9781840220902. [back]
- April 9th, 1909. [back]
April 13, 2009
34 responses to Dreadful Thoughts Story Club 11: The Upper Berth
A few hours early with kick off today. Reason being: I may be busy later. Gorgeous day here in Limerick. May stroll up (in the evening sunshine) to the local wine merchant and get a bottle of something deep and dark shortly. Always loosens the horror-discussing muscles.
Very typical opening device for the spooky tale i.e. a group of people (usually all men) sitting around a table and one offers to tell a story that he has first hand experience of.
I like all the manly waffling of the start. You know the women are all in another room talking about sex.
And the slightly superfluous descriptions- Good to know when your protagonist has an unnaturally small head.
Sinead/Jo, The beginning is cut in certain reprintings of the story, but I think the loss is felt. Might seem waffly but it helps sell the story as a “real life”, “it happened to me” narrative. That’s important given that there’s no apparent (constructed) moral to the tale. “Real” ghost stories are like that. A bizarre thing happened to me, for no apparent reason, and I don’t really know what it all meant.
More classic, “writerly” tales often tend to have a “comeuppance” moral – but there’s no reason (that I can see) other than chance for Brisbane (of the small head) having this particular experience.
Yes, it’s authentic. There’s nothing like the telling of spooky tales. Many’s the time I’ve frightened myself out of sleep after an evening of ghost story upmanship
One of the memorable features of the story ,for me, is that we’ve a “ghost” that may not be a ghost – experienced mainly through touch and smell. There’s something about the descriptions of clamminess and ooziness to the touch, and the stench of stale seawater, that is far more horrible than a grisly visual. The entity is more of an M. R. James-ian “demon” than a rattling chains spectre. It breaks Brisbane’s arm after all!
I sometimes like the “bunch of bloke sitting around being manly in a club and telling ghost stories” conceit, and sometimes I find it a bit tiresome, especially in the stories when the sitting around bit seems to go on for too long. I think it works in this case, though. In fact, I liked this story in general – the very idea of an unseen “something” being in the bunk is just creepy, as is, as fústar says, the clammy deadness of whatever is lurking there.
Although a lot of creepiness is timeless, I was struck by one very old-fashioned simile – he describes, at one stage, something resembling the shadows thrown by a racing horse with a carriage lamp behind it, and it was slightly odd to realise that this is an image that means more or less nothing to a modern reader, but was possibly very evocative to a contemporary reader.
I enjoyed this very much. I agree that the story opens with something of a cliché setting (men at talk about men’s things) but it contrasts very nicely with what follows. There is a sense that the very material, sceptical and matter-of-fact Brisbane feels compelled to tell his tale even though he has to just drop it into the conversation: it hadn’t turned to the subject of ghosts, he just drops it in there even though it doesn’t fit in. He introduces the story as if it (and nothing else) has been on his mind for the whole evening and even before that. He can’t explain it, he doesn’t try to justify it but he needs to tell it. This gives the whole tale a sense of urgency and foreboding that is very much complimented but the smelly, clammy and almost invisible entity in the upper berth. I thought it was a great read!
Stella, I think the clammy creepiness is greatly embellished by the setting. Those bunk rooms on ferries (which is my only reference!) are creepy and tomb-like enough during the day but when you add in pitch blackness (where you’re forced to rely on smell, sound, and touch) then it’s majorly scarifying.
One of my favourite passages is this:
“Suddenly, as I stood, I distinctly heard something moving behind me in one of the berths, and a moment afterwards, just as I turned instinctively to look — though I could, of course, see nothing in the darkness — I heard a very faint groan. I sprang across the state-room, and tore the curtains of the upper berth aside, thrusting in my hands to discover if there were any one there. There was some one.”
That “There was some one” is a chillingly abrupt (and evocative) paragraph ender! Aargh!
Cnuimh, Brisbane’s dogged matter-of-factness contrasts nicely with the attitudes of the Irish doctor and Robert the porter. Both of them seem to find Brisbane’s manly determination to “get to the bottom of it” rather pompous and amusing (with the doctor actually telling him he’ll “get to the bottom of something else if you try” – i.e. the sea of course).
Brisbane is trying to contain and explain “it” but he ends up defeated. He has no answers: “Well, do you want to hear any more? There is nothing more. That is the end of my story.”
I like the contradictory thing he does at the start, when he describes Brisbane at length, and then suddenly announces “Of his features I need say little� but then goes on to describe them in detail!
Brisbane is presented as something of an outsider. It seems as though he’s also a figure of contempt and/or pity, which is an unusual choice for a narrator.
Sinead, yes there’s a weird “he was not remarkable”/”he was remarkable”, “there was nothing extraordinary about him”/”here’s a list of extraordinary things about him” vibe going on alright. His small-headeness and ability to crack walnuts with his bare hands seems to peg him as a brutish oaf, but he seems to command his audience’s attention pretty well just the same.
Just remembering another amusing bit of materialist detective work he organised – getting the carpenter to dismantle the bunk as if the fault/explanation could be found in some shoddy construction.
Heh heh, the nut cracking.
I liked the materialising and dematerialising of the entity. And the grappling. That was icky, alright.
What I don’t quite get was why all the other cabin occupants ended up overboard – did they all just chase the ghost over the railing, as Brisbane nearly did? Why was it so interested in that particular cabin?
Unanswered questions, like an early precursor to the XFiles.
Jo, Was it that they were chasing the entity or fleeing in terror? I sort of assumed that they’d been driven mad by fear and flung themselves overboard (after the clasping clammy thing had materialised in the bunk beside or, shriek!, on top of them). Either that or the “thing” possessed them with its suicidal despair and drove them to repeat an act it itself has performed while alive (and was now doomed to repeat).
The “thin man” who shares the state room with Brisbane is heard thudding onto the floor, frantically opening the door, and running as if his life depended on it – so it doesn’t look like he was chasing anything. Speaking of the “thin man”, he’s a curious character in that he’s described in a fashion that suggests there’s something uncanny about him – though he turns out to be a victim.
I agree with Fustar re the overboard theory. It seemed as though they went made with fear and would do anything to get away from the source of their terror.
Overall, I really liked the story but I have one big beef with it – it would have worked better if we had never known what the ‘thing’ looked like. In one of the other stories we discussed (might have been Whistle and I’ll Come To You…’), the lack of detail about the ‘creature’ was more terrifying. It’s like the Blair Witch Project – you never see anything, and that sense of not knowing what you’re dealing with surpasses any terror you feel than with a straightforward chain-clanking ghost or pasty ghoul.
What I mean, is that the imagination is more terrifying when it fills in its own descriptive blanks. The story would have been more frightening if Crawford had left us to come up with our own ideas of what was in the upper berth.
Sinead, I agree – but don’t think the “thing” was overexposed too badly in this case. It’s still glimpsed and felt in dusky half-light, and the description is fairly vague (compared to the detailed description of Brisbane’s small head) – lank hair, mournful eyes etc.
Contemporary horror cinema certainly suffers from the atmosphere-destroying effects of over-exposure. Jeepers Creepers, for example, was a deliciously nasty and unsettling little gem until the monster appeared (& appeared & appeared), instantly killing the built up creepiness and tension stone dead.
If “The Upper Berth” were filmed today the “thing” would no doubt be frequently seen in full-frontal, crap CGI “glory”. Snarling, screeching and hopping around. Voiced by Andy Serkiss of course.
CGI is spoiling everything.
Has anyone seen the new Fireman Sam for example?
Haven’t seen the new Fireman Sam! But assume from your tone that it sucks mightily.
The greatest CGI outrage of recent years was Spielberg’s utterly pointless and depressing ET “Special Edition” (currently the only DVD edition readily available).
How does one revisit one of the most (rightly) beloved children’s films of the last 30 years? By replacing (in key scenes) the much-loved alien with a “cuter”, more dynamic CGI abomination. The facts that a) audiences happily accepted the alien’s lack of mobility as a consequence of adapting to an alien gravity, and, b) its “ugliness” made Elliot’s love for it all the more moving, were gleefully and ham-fistedly ignored.
The CGI additions to the Star Wars “Special Editions” might be laughably lame and half-baked, but at least you can laugh at ‘em. With ET you just feel like crying – and not in the way you did when you first saw it!
Okay – rant & tangent over. Back to “The Upper Berth”.
I suppose for the thing to be really scary, there needed to be its preternatural strength, to borrow a vampire phrase. And for that it sort of needed the arm. That was really the impression I was left with, something icky with a muscley yet squelchy arm.
On the point of Crawford giving too much away about the creature, here’s the paragraph where he describes it. If you read only the bolded parts (allowing for the grammatical inserts), it’s more effective.
“It was something ghostly, horrible beyond words, and it moved in my grip. It was like the body of a man long drowned, and yet it moved, (It)had the strength of ten men living; but I gripped it with all my might — the slippery, oozy, horrible thing – the dead white eyes seemed to stare at me out of the dusk; the putrid odour of rank sea-water was about it, and its shiny hair hung in foul wet curls over its dead face.
Because otherwise it’s just an animated, drowned corpse?
I have to say, the scariest one for me was a similar tale, ‘I’ll Whistle For You, My Lad’?, with the ghost made of sheet. Again, because of the lack of substance and description, I spose.
That works for me, as does something a little bit off – like the idea of waking up to see your partner staring at you coldly, themself but malevolent.
Just an animated drowned corpse?? Just?? You’re obviously made of sterner stuff than me if animated drowned corpses don’t scare ya!
But seriously, while Sinéad is right I still think the description was just sketchy enough to keep the “fill in the gaps” imagination fear centres ticking over.
Agree that the crumpled linen face in “Oh Whistle” is one of the most unnerving images in the whole of uncanny literature (or as much of it as I’ve read). Blank like a mask. Dead like a doll’s face. Shapeless and abstract. It ticks so many boxes.
I do enjoy how abruptly the story ends:
The thing wasn’t alive yet was alive. It was dead but animated and physical – not really a ghost. A ghoul? A zombie? Its malevolence seemed motivated by great torment and sadness. No self-possessed, gleefully evil creature this. It’s wretched and doomed (like a ghost) to repeat its actions over and over again.
You can’t blame it for lashing out at Brisbane. He was trying to interrupt/break the cycle – not to help it, but to contain, explain or destroy it.
Brisbane was resolute in his determination – to what? Prove the superstitious wrong? Why was he so insistent, so set on keeping the window closed, on staying in the room?
Something parallel to his walnut cracking, a Small Head Complex, perchance?
I’m still frustrated by the lack of back story. WHY that cabin? Does it come in the window? Who was the returning corpse? Where does it run to?
Brisbane should have done more research!
Ha! Indeed. Small-headed men are always angry rationalists.
His determination is rather bizarre alright. If it’s intentionally so (i.e. intended by Crawford) then it could be read as a sly critique of “masculine” labelling, classification and control. If accidental then it might just be sloppy writing. I’m willing to give F. Marion the benefit of the doubt.
Brisbane definitely seems challenged and unmanned by the “thing’s” supernatural persistence. As I said, he wants to break its doomed routine. To what end? To put an end to this inexplicable cycle perhaps, so small-headed men the world over can sleep soundly in their bunks.
Sounds like you’re being afflicted by a touch of small-headed Brisbane-ness yourself!
Oh no! Quick, compliment me, reverse the affliction!
I think it’s more anti scientist. It’s true, about the need to poke, classify and control all that we don’t understand.
Sorry to pop in so late: a bit of a rough week. I really like this story because, aside from its strong imagery (which must have been pretty robust for the time!) because of its lack of a moral resolution or even a real explanation for the creature, which goes against the grain of so many Victorian stories. I feel that Peanuthead Brisbane’s he-man determination to deal with the problem is fairly typical of Victorian heroes, who tended to combine a startling lack of imagination with colossal strength. It’s the good ol’ Imperial “climb Mt Everest/overrun subcontinents” mentality: you tackle any challenge simply because it’s there! The House on the Borderland by William Hope Hodgson is a good example of this: the hero’s house is assaulted nightly by savage invisible pigs, so he stays up all night shooting at them rather than just leaving!
Hee, what a great comment. Savage invisible pigs, eh? A common scourge these days too…
This reminds me of what I took from the Swiss Family Robinson. The bizarre tale of a family running round an island, shooting at things. What is it? I don’t know! Shoot it!!
Except for the bit when the giant anaconda crawls out of the swamp and eats their donkey whole, and they all stand round watching.
Odd.
Excuse the tangent there.
A clue to Brisbane’s motive comes in the following: “I made up my mind not to be prevented from going to end of the strange business. I abstained from Welsh rarebits and grog that evening, and did not even join in the customary game of whist. I wanted to be quite sure of my nerves, and my vanity made me anxious to appear a good figure in the captain’s eyes.” (My italics). It’s all about saving face, maintaining that stiff upper lip… (and not having your nerves shredded at whist; whoever thought it was such an extreme game?)
True, but that Welsh Rarebit certainly plays havoc with the digestion.
Brisbane clearly possessed neither nerves nor bowels of steel!
Only lilly-livered, effeminate, arty types try to understand & empathise with ghosts. Manly, small-headed, action men like Brisbane spit on their hands, roll up their sleeves, and punch spectres square on the jaw (even if they’re incorporeal and the blows don’t connect).
One of the greatest and maddest exponents of the Victorian love of diligence and domination was Edward Booth – who set himself the demented goal of shooting one of every single species of bird in Britain.
Had he accomplished this feat he would most likely have next turned his attention to shooting insects. Or microscopic organisms. Or atoms.
Or the working classes, who ranked below atoms in the Victorian scheme of things.
I think we’ve hit on something with digestion here. After a huge feed of ship’s grog and Welsh rarebit, coupled with some furious games of whist, who wouldn’t have something horrible coming out of their porthole? (Forgive the scatalogical humour; I couldn’t resist…) Perhaps the thin man fled not because of the ghost, but from the noises issuing from Brisbane’s manly belly (of course, Brisbane wouldn’t include this detail in his story!)
So in fact, this may have been the reason the ghost insisted on having the porthole open, and the actual source of the fetid smell?
Perhaps the earlier unfortunates were actually rushing to relieve themelves, fell overboard while balancing precariously on the railing?
‘It was the Welsh Rarebit!’
Pingback: Dreadful Thoughts: A Double Dose of Nesbit - Fustar - Recycling Cultural Waste Since 2005
Those cabins can be rather claustrophobia-inducing and airless so any escape of gases would tend to build up to unendurable levels quite quickly.
I do enjoy how often in Victorian stories an uncanny experience is put down to a bad meal, or over stimulation, or green tea, or unhealthy vapours.