August 18, 2025 • 10 mins
In this enchanting memoir, the author takes us on a nostalgic journey through her school days, originally serialized in The Girls Own Paper from October 1896 to September 1897. Filled with heartfelt stories about beloved teachers, cherished friends, and the childhood fears that lingered into adulthood, this account also offers a vibrant depiction of the most memorable summer of her youth. Summary by Cori Samuel.
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Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:00):
Part four of My School Days by Enesbit. This LibriVox
recording is in the public domain. Part four In the
Dark How can I write of it? Sitting here in
the shifting shade of the lime trees, with the sunny
daisied grass stretching away to the border where the hollyhocks
(00:22):
and lilies and columbines are, My ears filled with the
soft swish wish of the gardener's scythe of the other
end of the garden, and the merry little voices of
the children away in the meadow. Only by shutting my
eyes and ears to the sweet sounds and sights of
summer and the sun can I recall at all for
(00:43):
you the dead silences, the frozen terrors of the long
dark nights when I was little and lonely, and very
very much afraid. The first thing I remember that frightened
me was running into my father's dress room and finding
him playing at wild beasts with my brothers. He wore
(01:05):
his great fur traveling coat inside out, and his roars
were completely convincing. I was borne away, screaming, and dreamed
of wild beasts for many a long night afterwards. Then
came some nursery charades, I was the high born orphan
whom gypsies were to steal, and my part was to
(01:26):
lie in a cradle and at the proper moment to
be carried away shrieking. I understood my part perfectly. I
was about three, I suppose, and had rehearsed it more
than once. Being carried off in the arms of the gipsy.
My favorite sister was nothing to scream at, I thought,
But she told me to scream, and I did it. Unfortunately, however,
(01:50):
there had been no dress rehearsals, and when on the
night of the performance, the high born Orphan found itself
close to a big black bonnet and a hideous mask,
it did scream to some purpose, and, presently screaming itself
into some sort of fit or swoon, was put to
bed and stayed there for many days, which passed dream like.
(02:13):
But that old woman haunted my dreams for years, haunts
them still. Indeed, I tell you I come across her
in my dreams. To this day. She bends over me
and puts her face close to mine, and I wake
with a spasm of agonized terror. Only now it is
not horrible to me to waken in the dark. I
(02:36):
draw a few long breaths, and as soon as my
heart beats a little less wildly, I fall asleep again.
But a child who wakes from an ugly dream does
not fall asleep so quickly. For to a child who
is frightened, the darkness and the silence of its lonely
room are only a shade less terrible than the wild
(02:57):
horrors of dream land. One used to lie awake in
the silence, listening, listening to the pad pad of one's heart,
straining one's ears to make sure that it was not
the pad pad of something else, something unspeakable, creeping towards one.
Out of the horrible, dense dark. One used to lie
(03:19):
quite quite still. I remember listening, listening, And when my
nurse came to bed and tucked me up, she used
to find my pillow wet and say to the under nurse, weakness.
You know, the precious poppet doesn't seem to get any stronger.
But my pillow was not wet with tears of weakness.
(03:40):
These were the dews of agony and terror. My nurse, ah,
how good she was to me, never went downstairs to
supper after she found out my terrors, which she very
quickly did She used to sit in the day nursery
with the door open a tiny crack, and that lie
was company because I knew I had only to call
(04:03):
out and someone who loved me would come in and
banish fear. But a light without human companionship was worse
than darkness, especially a little light. Night lights deepening the shadows,
with their horrid possibilities, are a mere refinement of cruelty.
And some friends who thought to do me a kindness
(04:24):
by leaving the gas burning low, gave me one of
the most awful nights I ever had. It was a
strange house in Sutherland Gardens, a house with large rooms
and heavy hangings, with massive wardrobes and deep ottoman boxes.
The immense four post beds stood out about a yard
from the wall, for some convenience of sweeping reason, I believe.
(04:49):
Consider the horror of having behind you, as you lay
trembling in the chill linen of a strange bed, a
dark space, no comforting solid walls that you could put
your hand up to and touch, but a dark space
from which, even now, in the black silence, something might
(05:10):
be stealthily creeping, something which would presently lean over you
in the dark, whose touch you would feel, not knowing
whether it were the old woman in the mask or
some new terror. That was the torture of the first night.
The next I begged that the gas might be left
full on. It was, and I fell asleep in comparative security.
(05:35):
But while I slept came some thrifty soul, and, finding
the gas burning to waste, turned it down, not out down.
I awoke in a faint light and presently sat up
in bed to see where it came from. And this
is what I saw. A corpse laid out under white draperies,
(06:00):
and at its foot a skeleton with luminous skull and
outstretched bony arm. I knew, somewhere far away, and deep down,
my reason knew that the dead body was a white
dress laid on a long ottoman, that the skull was
the opal globe of the gas, and the arm the
pipe of the gas bracket. But that was not reason's hour.
(06:25):
Imagination held sway, and her, poor little victim, who was
ten years old then and ought to have known better,
sat up in bed hour after hour, with the shadowy
void behind her, the dark curtains on each side, and
in front that horror. Next day I went home, which
(06:46):
was perhaps a good thing for my brain. When my
father was alive, we lived in a big house in
Kennington Lane, where he taught young men agriculture and chemistry.
My father had a bit meadow and garden, and had
a sort of small farm there fancy a farm in Kennington.
(07:06):
Among the increase that blessed his shed was a two
headed calf. The heads and shoulders of this were stuffed
and inspired me with a terror, which my brothers increased
by pursuing me with a terrible object. But one of
my father's pupils, to whom I owe that and many
other kindnesses, one day seized me under one arm, and
(07:28):
the two headed horror under the other, and thus equipped
we pursued my brothers. They fled shrieking, and I never
feared it again. In a dank, stone flagged room, where
the boots were blacked and the more unwieldy chemicals housed,
there was nailed on the wall the black skin of
an emu. That skin, with its wiry black feathers that
(07:53):
fluttered dismally in the draft, was no mere bird's skin
to me. It hated me, It wished me ill. It
was always lurking for me in the dark, ready to
rush out at me. It was waiting for me at
the top of the flight, while the old woman with
the mask stretched skinny hands out to grasp my little legs.
As I went up the nursery stairs. I never passed
(08:16):
the skin without covering my eyes with my hands. From
this terror that walked by night. I was delivered by
mister Cairns, now public analyst for Sheffield. He took me
on his shoulder, where I felt quite safe, reluctant but
not resisting to within a couple of yards of the
e me you now, he said, will you do what
(08:39):
I tell you? Not any nearer? I said, evasively, Now
you know I won't let it hurt you? Yes, then
will you stroke it if I do first? I didn't
want to to please me. That argument was conclusive for
(08:59):
I love him. Then we approached the black feathers, I
clinging desperately to his neck and sobbing convulsively. No, no, no,
not any nearer. But he was kind and wise and
insisted his big hand smoothed down the feathers. Now, Daisy,
(09:21):
you know you promised give me your hand. I shut
my eyes tight and let him draw my hand down
the dusty feathers. Then I opened my eyes a little bit.
Now you stroke it, stroke the poor emu, I did so,
are you afraid? Now? Curiously enough I wasn't. Poor mister
(09:47):
Kenns paid dearly for his kindness. For several weeks I
gave him no peace, but insisted on being taken at
all hours of the day and night to stroke the
poor emu. So proud is one of a new courage.
After we left Kennington, I seemed to have had a
period of more ordinary terrors, of dreams from which to
(10:09):
awaken was mere relief, not a horror scarcely less than
that of the dream itself. I dreamed of cows and dogs,
of falling houses and crumbling precipices. It was not till
that night at Roumon that the old horror of the
dark came back, deepened by superstitious dread. But all this
(10:30):
time I have not told you about the mummies at Bordeaux,
and now there is no room for them here. They
must go into the next chapter. End of Part four
Part four of My School Days by Enesbit. This LibriVox
recording is in the public domain. Part four In the
Dark How can I write of it? Sitting here in
the shifting shade of the lime trees, with the sunny
daisied grass stretching away to the border where the hollyhocks
(00:22):
and lilies and columbines are, My ears filled with the
soft swish wish of the gardener's scythe of the other
end of the garden, and the merry little voices of
the children away in the meadow. Only by shutting my
eyes and ears to the sweet sounds and sights of
summer and the sun can I recall at all for
(00:43):
you the dead silences, the frozen terrors of the long
dark nights when I was little and lonely, and very
very much afraid. The first thing I remember that frightened
me was running into my father's dress room and finding
him playing at wild beasts with my brothers. He wore
(01:05):
his great fur traveling coat inside out, and his roars
were completely convincing. I was borne away, screaming, and dreamed
of wild beasts for many a long night afterwards. Then
came some nursery charades, I was the high born orphan
whom gypsies were to steal, and my part was to
(01:26):
lie in a cradle and at the proper moment to
be carried away shrieking. I understood my part perfectly. I
was about three, I suppose, and had rehearsed it more
than once. Being carried off in the arms of the gipsy.
My favorite sister was nothing to scream at, I thought,
But she told me to scream, and I did it. Unfortunately, however,
(01:50):
there had been no dress rehearsals, and when on the
night of the performance, the high born Orphan found itself
close to a big black bonnet and a hideous mask,
it did scream to some purpose, and, presently screaming itself
into some sort of fit or swoon, was put to
bed and stayed there for many days, which passed dream like.
(02:13):
But that old woman haunted my dreams for years, haunts
them still. Indeed, I tell you I come across her
in my dreams. To this day. She bends over me
and puts her face close to mine, and I wake
with a spasm of agonized terror. Only now it is
not horrible to me to waken in the dark. I
(02:36):
draw a few long breaths, and as soon as my
heart beats a little less wildly, I fall asleep again.
But a child who wakes from an ugly dream does
not fall asleep so quickly. For to a child who
is frightened, the darkness and the silence of its lonely
room are only a shade less terrible than the wild
(02:57):
horrors of dream land. One used to lie awake in
the silence, listening, listening to the pad pad of one's heart,
straining one's ears to make sure that it was not
the pad pad of something else, something unspeakable, creeping towards one.
Out of the horrible, dense dark. One used to lie
(03:19):
quite quite still. I remember listening, listening, And when my
nurse came to bed and tucked me up, she used
to find my pillow wet and say to the under nurse, weakness.
You know, the precious poppet doesn't seem to get any stronger.
But my pillow was not wet with tears of weakness.
(03:40):
These were the dews of agony and terror. My nurse, ah,
how good she was to me, never went downstairs to
supper after she found out my terrors, which she very
quickly did She used to sit in the day nursery
with the door open a tiny crack, and that lie
was company because I knew I had only to call
(04:03):
out and someone who loved me would come in and
banish fear. But a light without human companionship was worse
than darkness, especially a little light. Night lights deepening the shadows,
with their horrid possibilities, are a mere refinement of cruelty.
And some friends who thought to do me a kindness
(04:24):
by leaving the gas burning low, gave me one of
the most awful nights I ever had. It was a
strange house in Sutherland Gardens, a house with large rooms
and heavy hangings, with massive wardrobes and deep ottoman boxes.
The immense four post beds stood out about a yard
from the wall, for some convenience of sweeping reason, I believe.
(04:49):
Consider the horror of having behind you, as you lay
trembling in the chill linen of a strange bed, a
dark space, no comforting solid walls that you could put
your hand up to and touch, but a dark space
from which, even now, in the black silence, something might
(05:10):
be stealthily creeping, something which would presently lean over you
in the dark, whose touch you would feel, not knowing
whether it were the old woman in the mask or
some new terror. That was the torture of the first night.
The next I begged that the gas might be left
full on. It was, and I fell asleep in comparative security.
(05:35):
But while I slept came some thrifty soul, and, finding
the gas burning to waste, turned it down, not out down.
I awoke in a faint light and presently sat up
in bed to see where it came from. And this
is what I saw. A corpse laid out under white draperies,
(06:00):
and at its foot a skeleton with luminous skull and
outstretched bony arm. I knew, somewhere far away, and deep down,
my reason knew that the dead body was a white
dress laid on a long ottoman, that the skull was
the opal globe of the gas, and the arm the
pipe of the gas bracket. But that was not reason's hour.
(06:25):
Imagination held sway, and her, poor little victim, who was
ten years old then and ought to have known better,
sat up in bed hour after hour, with the shadowy
void behind her, the dark curtains on each side, and
in front that horror. Next day I went home, which
(06:46):
was perhaps a good thing for my brain. When my
father was alive, we lived in a big house in
Kennington Lane, where he taught young men agriculture and chemistry.
My father had a bit meadow and garden, and had
a sort of small farm there fancy a farm in Kennington.
(07:06):
Among the increase that blessed his shed was a two
headed calf. The heads and shoulders of this were stuffed
and inspired me with a terror, which my brothers increased
by pursuing me with a terrible object. But one of
my father's pupils, to whom I owe that and many
other kindnesses, one day seized me under one arm, and
(07:28):
the two headed horror under the other, and thus equipped
we pursued my brothers. They fled shrieking, and I never
feared it again. In a dank, stone flagged room, where
the boots were blacked and the more unwieldy chemicals housed,
there was nailed on the wall the black skin of
an emu. That skin, with its wiry black feathers that
(07:53):
fluttered dismally in the draft, was no mere bird's skin
to me. It hated me, It wished me ill. It
was always lurking for me in the dark, ready to
rush out at me. It was waiting for me at
the top of the flight, while the old woman with
the mask stretched skinny hands out to grasp my little legs.
As I went up the nursery stairs. I never passed
(08:16):
the skin without covering my eyes with my hands. From
this terror that walked by night. I was delivered by
mister Cairns, now public analyst for Sheffield. He took me
on his shoulder, where I felt quite safe, reluctant but
not resisting to within a couple of yards of the
e me you now, he said, will you do what
(08:39):
I tell you? Not any nearer? I said, evasively, Now
you know I won't let it hurt you? Yes, then
will you stroke it if I do first? I didn't
want to to please me. That argument was conclusive for
(08:59):
I love him. Then we approached the black feathers, I
clinging desperately to his neck and sobbing convulsively. No, no, no,
not any nearer. But he was kind and wise and
insisted his big hand smoothed down the feathers. Now, Daisy,
(09:21):
you know you promised give me your hand. I shut
my eyes tight and let him draw my hand down
the dusty feathers. Then I opened my eyes a little bit.
Now you stroke it, stroke the poor emu, I did so,
are you afraid? Now? Curiously enough I wasn't. Poor mister
(09:47):
Kenns paid dearly for his kindness. For several weeks I
gave him no peace, but insisted on being taken at
all hours of the day and night to stroke the
poor emu. So proud is one of a new courage.
After we left Kennington, I seemed to have had a
period of more ordinary terrors, of dreams from which to
(10:09):
awaken was mere relief, not a horror scarcely less than
that of the dream itself. I dreamed of cows and dogs,
of falling houses and crumbling precipices. It was not till
that night at Roumon that the old horror of the
dark came back, deepened by superstitious dread. But all this
(10:30):
time I have not told you about the mummies at Bordeaux,
and now there is no room for them here. They
must go into the next chapter. End of Part four
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