I have had this book saved up for some time now as a Christmas read and I have resisted the temptation to open it up earlier. I have read and reviewed Woman in Black and Mist in the Mirror some months ago and if you take another look at those posts, you will note that I was scared witless by both these stories. If you want to be so frightened that despite pressing need you do not go to the bathroom all night because you are scared to set foot out of bed, then these two are for you.
Bearing all this in mind, I decided not to read this on Christmas Eve, stuck to my schedule of A Christmas Carol as is my wont, and opened up The Man in the Picture on Christmas Day afternoon when it was bright and clear, I had company (my elder daughter on one sofa riveted by Philip Pullman who she has just discovered) and knew that there was somebody to clutch if I got panicky.
A neat little handbag size book, just 145 pages along but, as with many of Susan Hill's books, you don't need a line or a page more, it is all there. Opening paragraph perfect: "The story was told to me by my old tutor, Theo Parmitter, as we sat beside the fire in his college room one bitterly cold January night". Ghost stories should always start by a coal fire in a dimly lit room. Always.
Theo Parmitter tells the story of a picture he bought some years ago and which has always had a troubling effect on him. It is kept in heavy shadow and when his visitor, Oliver, switches on the lamp he sees a Venetian carnival scene. The painting depicts a crowd in masks and cloaks milling around waiting for a gondola, the scene lit by torches and flares, silver ripples on the water and other parts in deep shadow.
Now, I love Venice, one of my favourite cities but I tell you, nothing would induce me to walk down its narrow alleyways in the dusk or at night. Beautiful in daylight, even when heaving with tourists and visitors, as soon as the coaches and boats go home and Venice takes back ownership of itself, the light dims and evening arrives, a quietness descends which I have always found menacing, even when sitting in a piazza lit by candlelight eating a bowlful of pasta and drinking a glass of wine. I keep thinking of that incredibly terrifying film Don't Look Now and I feel a prickle between my shoulder blades and keep looking round to see if anybody is behind me. So, I was very familiar with the feeling of uneasiness that permeates this story.
Theo tells of his acquisition of the painting and how every time he came back into his rooms, it drew him and he 'spent too much time looking into every corner, every single face'. Some months passed and he was again sitting by a fire when he happened to glance at the picture for a second. Something made him look more closely as cleaning had revealed fresh depths:
"I had studied the faces over and over again and each time I found more..... one figure caught my eye and stood out from all the rest and although he was near the front of the picture, I did not think I had noticed the man before.....he seemed to be looking at me and into this room.....two of the revellers close to him wore masks and both appeared to have their hands upon him......as if they were trying to keep hold of him or even pull him back. .....he was looking away from the scene because he did not want to be part of it and into my room at me ....with what I can only describe as pleading. But for what? What was he asking?"
Right that is enough. I am not going to tell you any more as I feel you should get hold of this book and read it yourself. Not as terrifying as Woman in Black or Mist in the Mirror but creepy creepy creepy and when I read the final page I shivered and went 'Ooooh'. 'Good Mum?' queried Daughter No 1 from the depths of Pullman.
I just nodded and put the book back on the shelf and very warily went through to the kitchen to make a cup of tea and then into my bedroom to remove the little souvenir face mask I had bought in Venice some years ago which somehow I had never felt happy with.
It is now residing in the charity shop bag...
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