MRS. AMWORTH
E. F. BENSON
The village of Maxley, where last summer and autumn, these strange events took place, lies on a
heathery and pine-clad upland of Sussex. In all England you could not find a sweeter and saner situation.
Should the wind blow from the south, it comes laden with the spices of the sea; to the east high downs
protect it from the inclemencies of March; and from the west and north the breezes which reach it travel
over miles of aromatic forest and heather. The village itself is insignificant enough in point of
population, but rich in amenities and beauty. Half-way down the single street, with its road and spacious
areas of grass on each side, stands the little Norman Church and the antique graveyard long disused: for
the zest there are a dozen small, sedate Georgian houses, red-bricked and long-windowed, each with a
square of flower-garden in front, and an ampler strip behind; a score of shops, and a couple of score of
thatched cottages belonging to laborers on neighboring estates, complete the entire cluster of its peaceful
habitations. The general peace, however, is sadly broken on Saturdays and Sundays, for we lie on one of
the main roads between London and Brighton and our quiet street becomes a racecourse for flying motorcars
and bicycles. A notice just outside the village begging them to go slowly only seems to encourage
them to accelerate their speed, for the road lies open and straight, and there is really no reason why they
should do otherwise. By way of protest, therefore, the ladies of Maxley cover their noses and mouths
with their handkerchiefs as they see a motor-car approaching, though, as the street is asphalted, they
need not really take these precautions against dust. But late on Sunday night the horde of scorchers has
passed, and we settle down again to five days of cheerful and leisurely seclusion. Railway strikes which
agitate the country so much leave us undisturbed because most of the inhabitants of Maxley never leave
it at all.
I am the fortunate possessor of one of these small Georgian houses, and consider myself no less
fortunate in having so interesting and stimulating a neighbor as Francis Urcombe, who, the most
confirmed of Maxleyites, has not slept away from his house, which stands just opposite to mine in the
village street, for nearly two years, at which date, though still in middle life, he resigned his
Physiological Professorship at Cambridge University and devoted himself to the study of those occult
and curious phenomena which seem equally to concern the physical and the psychical sides of human
nature. Indeed his retirement was not unconnected with his passion for the strange uncharted places that
lie on the confines and borders of science, the existence of which is so stoutly denied by the more
materialistic minds, for he advocated that all medical students should be obliged to pass some sort of
examination in mesmerism, and that one of the tripos papers should be designed to test their knowledge
in such subjects as appearances at time of death, haunted houses, vampirism, automatic writing, and
possession.
"Of course they wouldn't listen to me," ran his account of the matter, "for there is nothing that these
seats of learning are so frightened of as knowledge, and the road to knowledge lies in the study of things
like these. The functions of the human frame are, broadly speaking, known. They are a country, anyhow,
file:///Users/carolynsigler/Desktop/benson_mrsamworth.txt (1 of 11)10/26/2006 5:42:11 AM
file:///Users/carolynsigler/Desktop/benson_mrsamworth.txt
that has been charted and mapped out. But outside that lie huge tracts of undiscovered country, which
certainly exist, and the real pioneers of knowledge are those who, at the cost of being derided as
credulous and superstitious, want to push on into those misty and probably perilous places. I felt that I
could be of more use by setting out without compass or knapsack into the mists than by sitting in a cage
like a canary and chirping about what was known. Besides, teaching is very bad for a man who knows
himself only to be a learner; you only need to be a self-conceited ass to teach."
Here, then, in Francis Urcombe, was a delightful neighbor to one who, like myself, has an uneasy and
burning curiosity about what he called the "misty and perilous places"; and this last spring we had a
further and most welcome addition to our pleasant little community, in the person of Mrs. Amworth,
widow of an Indian civil servant. Her husband had been a judge in the North-West Provinces, and after
his death at Peshawar she came back to England, and after a year in London found herself starving for
the ampler air and sunshine of the country to take the place of the fogs and griminess of town. She had,
too, a special reason for settling in Maxley, since her ancestors up till a hundred years ago had long been
native to the place, and in the old churchyard, now disused, are many gravestones bearing her maiden
name of Chaston. Big and energetic, her vigorous and genial personality speedily woke Maxley up to a
higher degree of sociality than it had ever known. Most of us were bachelors or spinsters or elderly folk
not much inclined to exert ourselves in the expense and effort of hospitality, and hitherto the gaiety of a
small tea-party, with bridge afterwards and galoshes (when it was wet) to trip home in again for a
solitary dinner, was about the climax of our festivities. But Mrs. Amworth showed us a more gregarious
way, and set an example of luncheon parties and little dinners, which we began to follow. On other
nights when no such hospitality was on foot, a lone man like myself found it pleasant to know that a call
on the telephone to Mrs. Amworth's house not a hundred yards off, and an inquiry as to whether I might
come over after dinner for a game of piquet before bedtime, would probably evoke a response of
welcome. There she would be, with a comrade-like eagerness for companionship, and there was a glass
of port and cup of coffee and a cigarette and game of piquet. She played the piano, too, in a free and
exuberant manner, and had a charming voice and sang to her own accompaniment; and as the days grew
long and the light lingered late, we played our game in her garden, which in the course of a few months
she had turned from being a nursery for slugs and snails into a glowing patch of luxuriant blossoming.
She was always cheery and jolly; she was interested in everything, and in music, in gardening, in games
of all sorts was a competent performer. Everybody (with one exception) liked her, everybody felt her to
bring with her the tonic of a sunny day. That one exception was Francis Urcombe; he, though he
confessed he did not like her, acknowledged that he was vastly interested in her. This always seemed
strange to me, for pleasant and jovial as she was, I could see nothing in her that could call forth
conjecture or intrigued surmise, so healthy and unmysterious a figure did she present. But of the
genuineness of Urcombe's interest there could be no doubt; one could see him watching and scrutinizing
her. In matter of age, she frankly volunteered the information that she was forty-five; but her briskness,
her activity, her unravaged skin, her coal-black hair, made it difficult to believe that she was not
adopting an unusual device, and adding ten years on to her age instead of subtracting them.
Often, also, as our quite unsentimental friendship ripened, Mrs. Amworth would ring me up and propose
her advent. If I was busy writing, I was to give her, so we definitely bargained, a frank negative, and in
answer I could hear her jolly laugh and her wishes for a successful evening of work. Sometimes, before
file:///Users/carolynsigler/Desktop/benson_mrsamworth.txt (2 of 11)10/26/2006 5:42:11 AM
file:///Users/carolynsigler/Desktop/benson_mrsamworth.txt
her proposal arrived, Urcombe would already have stepped across from
his house opposite for a smoke and a chat, and he, hearing who my intending visitor was, always urged
me to beg her to come. She and I should play our piquet, said he, and he would look on, if we did not
object, and learn something of the game. But I doubt whether he paid much attention to it, for nothing
could be clearer than that, under that penthouse of forehead and thick eyebrows, his attention was fixed
not on the cards, but on one of the players. But he seemed to enjoy an hour spent thus, and often, until
one particular evening in July, he would watch her with the air of a man who has some deep problem in
front of him. She, enthusiastically keen about our game, seemed not to notice his scrutiny. Then came
that evening, when, as I see in the light of subsequent events, began the first twitching of the veil that hid
the secret horror from my eyes. I did not know it then, though I noticed that thereafter, if she rang up to
propose coining round, she always asked not only if I was at leisure, but whether Mr. Urcombe was with
me. If so, she said, she would not spoil the chat of two old bachelors, and laughingly wished me good
night.
Urcombe, on this occasion, had been with me for some half-hour before Mrs. Amworth's appearance,
and had been talking to me about the medieval beliefs concerning vampirism, one of those borderland
subjects which he declared had not been sufficiently studied before it had been consigned by the medical
profession to the dust-heap of exploded superstitions. There he sat, grim and eager, tracing, with that
pellucid clearness which had made him in his Cambridge days so admirable a lecturer, the history of
those mysterious visitations. In them all there were the same general features; one of those ghoulish
spirits took up its abode in a living man or woman, conferring supernatural powers of bat-like flight and
glutting itself with nocturnal blood-feasts. When its host died it continued to dwell in the corpse, which
remained undecayed. By day it rested, by night it left the grave and went
นาง AMWORTHอีเอฟเบนสันหมู่บ้านของ Maxley ซึ่งล่าสุดฤดูร้อนและฤดูใบไม้ร่วง เหตุการณ์ประหลาดเหล่านี้เกิดขึ้น ตั้งอยู่บนการheathery และ ห่มสนค่อยของ Sussex ในอังกฤษทั้งหมด คุณอาจไม่พบสถานการณ์ saner และหวานกว่าลมจะพัดจากทิศใต้ มาลาเดนกับเครื่องเทศของทะเล การลงของสูงของตะวันออกป้องกัน inclemencies มีนาคม และจากตะวันตกและทิศเหนือ ลมซึ่งแหล่งท่องเที่ยวกว่าไมล์ป่าหอมและเฮ เป็นหมู่บ้านตัวเองไม่สำคัญพอที่ point ของประชากร แต่อุดมไปด้วยสิ่งอำนวยความสะดวกและความสวยงาม ครึ่งทางลงถนนเดียว มีถนนกว้างขวาง และพื้นที่หญ้าด้าน ยืนน้อยนอร์แมนโบสถ์และสุสานโบราณยาว disused: สำหรับเซสท์มีโหลเล็ก ขรึมจอร์เจียบ้าน bricked แดง และยาว เรียง มีการสแควร์สวนดอกไม้หน้า และมีแถบ ampler ด้านหลัง คะแนน และคู่ของคะแนนของแรงของการบุกเบิกบ้านใกล้เคียง กระท่อมมุงจากทำคลัสเตอร์ทั้งหมดของความสงบhabitations ความสงบสุขทั่วไป อย่างไรก็ตาม จะเศร้าเสียวันเสาร์และอาทิตย์ สำหรับเรานอนบนถนนสายหลักระหว่างลอนดอนไบรตัน และแย่ของเรากลายเป็น งานการบิน motorcarsและรถจักรยาน หนังสือภายนอกหมู่บ้านขอทานให้ช้าลงไปเท่านั้นน่าจะ ส่งเสริมให้เขาเร่งความเร็วของพวกเขา อยู่ถนนตรง และเปิด และมีจริง ๆ ไม่มีเหตุผลว่าทำไมพวกเขาควรทำอย่างอื่น โดยวิธีการประท้วง ดังนั้น ฝ่าย Maxley ครอบคลุม noses และปากของพวกเขามีผ้าเช็ดหน้าของพวกเขาพวกเขาดูมอเตอร์รถใกล้ แต่ เป็นถนนเป็น asphalted พวกเขาต้องไม่จริง ๆ มาตรการเหล่านี้กับฝุ่น แต่ดึกในคืนวันอาทิตย์ มีฝูงชนของ scorchersผ่าน และเราลงหลักปักฐานอีกครั้งเพื่อสงบร่าเริง และสบาย ๆ 5 วัน รถไฟนัดที่ก่อกวนประเทศมากฝากอีกเนื่องจากส่วนใหญ่ของประชากรของ Maxley อยู่ไม่มันทั้งหมดฉัน possessor โชคดีของบ้านจอร์เจียเล็ก ๆ เหล่านี้อย่างใดอย่างหนึ่ง และพิจารณาตนเองไม่น้อยโชคดีที่มีให้ น่าสนใจ และกระตุ้นเพื่อนบ้านเป็น Francis Urcombe ที่ สุดยืนยันของ Maxleyites ไม่ได้ไปไหนอยู่บ้าน ที่ยืนเพียงตรงข้ามกับฉันในการถนน เกือบสองปี วันที่ ที่ว่ายังอยู่ในชีวิตกลาง หมู่บ้านเขาลาออกจากตำแหน่งของเขาProfessorship สรีรวิทยาที่มหาวิทยาลัยแคมบริดจ์ และทุ่มเทตัวเองเพื่อการศึกษาของรหัสญาณและปรากฏการณ์ที่อยากรู้อยากเห็นซึ่งดูเหมือนเกี่ยวจริงและด้าน psychical มนุษย์เท่า ๆ กันธรรมชาติ แน่นอนเขาเกษียณไม่กับเขาหลงแปลก uncharted สถานที่อยู่ในขอบเขตและเส้นขอบของวิทยาศาสตร์ การดำรงอยู่ซึ่งถูกปฏิเสธอย่างแข็งขันดังนั้น โดยยิ่งเป็นรูปธรรมจิต สำหรับเขา advocated ว่า นักเรียนแพทย์ทุกคนควรมีหน้าที่ต้องผ่านบางจัดเรียงของexamination in mesmerism, and that one of the tripos papers should be designed to test their knowledgein such subjects as appearances at time of death, haunted houses, vampirism, automatic writing, andpossession."Of course they wouldn't listen to me," ran his account of the matter, "for there is nothing that theseseats of learning are so frightened of as knowledge, and the road to knowledge lies in the study of thingslike these. The functions of the human frame are, broadly speaking, known. They are a country, anyhow,file:///Users/carolynsigler/Desktop/benson_mrsamworth.txt (1 of 11)10/26/2006 5:42:11 AMfile:///Users/carolynsigler/Desktop/benson_mrsamworth.txtthat has been charted and mapped out. But outside that lie huge tracts of undiscovered country, whichcertainly exist, and the real pioneers of knowledge are those who, at the cost of being derided ascredulous and superstitious, want to push on into those misty and probably perilous places. I felt that Icould be of more use by setting out without compass or knapsack into the mists than by sitting in a cagelike a canary and chirping about what was known. Besides, teaching is very bad for a man who knowshimself only to be a learner; you only need to be a self-conceited ass to teach."Here, then, in Francis Urcombe, was a delightful neighbor to one who, like myself, has an uneasy andburning curiosity about what he called the "misty and perilous places"; and this last spring we had afurther and most welcome addition to our pleasant little community, in the person of Mrs. Amworth,
widow of an Indian civil servant. Her husband had been a judge in the North-West Provinces, and after
his death at Peshawar she came back to England, and after a year in London found herself starving for
the ampler air and sunshine of the country to take the place of the fogs and griminess of town. She had,
too, a special reason for settling in Maxley, since her ancestors up till a hundred years ago had long been
native to the place, and in the old churchyard, now disused, are many gravestones bearing her maiden
name of Chaston. Big and energetic, her vigorous and genial personality speedily woke Maxley up to a
higher degree of sociality than it had ever known. Most of us were bachelors or spinsters or elderly folk
not much inclined to exert ourselves in the expense and effort of hospitality, and hitherto the gaiety of a
small tea-party, with bridge afterwards and galoshes (when it was wet) to trip home in again for a
solitary dinner, was about the climax of our festivities. But Mrs. Amworth showed us a more gregarious
way, and set an example of luncheon parties and little dinners, which we began to follow. On other
nights when no such hospitality was on foot, a lone man like myself found it pleasant to know that a call
on the telephone to Mrs. Amworth's house not a hundred yards off, and an inquiry as to whether I might
come over after dinner for a game of piquet before bedtime, would probably evoke a response of
welcome. There she would be, with a comrade-like eagerness for companionship, and there was a glass
of port and cup of coffee and a cigarette and game of piquet. She played the piano, too, in a free and
exuberant manner, and had a charming voice and sang to her own accompaniment; and as the days grew
long and the light lingered late, we played our game in her garden, which in the course of a few months
she had turned from being a nursery for slugs and snails into a glowing patch of luxuriant blossoming.
She was always cheery and jolly; she was interested in everything, and in music, in gardening, in games
of all sorts was a competent performer. Everybody (with one exception) liked her, everybody felt her to
bring with her the tonic of a sunny day. That one exception was Francis Urcombe; he, though he
confessed he did not like her, acknowledged that he was vastly interested in her. This always seemed
strange to me, for pleasant and jovial as she was, I could see nothing in her that could call forth
conjecture or intrigued surmise, so healthy and unmysterious a figure did she present. But of the
genuineness of Urcombe's interest there could be no doubt; one could see him watching and scrutinizing
her. In matter of age, she frankly volunteered the information that she was forty-five; but her briskness,
her activity, her unravaged skin, her coal-black hair, made it difficult to believe that she was not
adopting an unusual device, and adding ten years on to her age instead of subtracting them.
Often, also, as our quite unsentimental friendship ripened, Mrs. Amworth would ring me up and propose
her advent. If I was busy writing, I was to give her, so we definitely bargained, a frank negative, and in
answer I could hear her jolly laugh and her wishes for a successful evening of work. Sometimes, before
file:///Users/carolynsigler/Desktop/benson_mrsamworth.txt (2 of 11)10/26/2006 5:42:11 AM
file:///Users/carolynsigler/Desktop/benson_mrsamworth.txt
her proposal arrived, Urcombe would already have stepped across from
his house opposite for a smoke and a chat, and he, hearing who my intending visitor was, always urged
me to beg her to come. She and I should play our piquet, said he, and he would look on, if we did not
object, and learn something of the game. But I doubt whether he paid much attention to it, for nothing
could be clearer than that, under that penthouse of forehead and thick eyebrows, his attention was fixed
not on the cards, but on one of the players. But he seemed to enjoy an hour spent thus, and often, until
one particular evening in July, he would watch her with the air of a man who has some deep problem in
front of him. She, enthusiastically keen about our game, seemed not to notice his scrutiny. Then came
that evening, when, as I see in the light of subsequent events, began the first twitching of the veil that hid
the secret horror from my eyes. I did not know it then, though I noticed that thereafter, if she rang up to
propose coining round, she always asked not only if I was at leisure, but whether Mr. Urcombe was with
me. If so, she said, she would not spoil the chat of two old bachelors, and laughingly wished me good
night.
Urcombe, on this occasion, had been with me for some half-hour before Mrs. Amworth's appearance,
and had been talking to me about the medieval beliefs concerning vampirism, one of those borderland
subjects which he declared had not been sufficiently studied before it had been consigned by the medical
profession to the dust-heap of exploded superstitions. There he sat, grim and eager, tracing, with that
pellucid clearness which had made him in his Cambridge days so admirable a lecturer, the history of
those mysterious visitations. In them all there were the same general features; one of those ghoulish
spirits took up its abode in a living man or woman, conferring supernatural powers of bat-like flight and
glutting itself with nocturnal blood-feasts. When its host died it continued to dwell in the corpse, which
remained undecayed. By day it rested, by night it left the grave and went
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