The Last Tenant — A Closer Reading

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In Category - Historical Psychological Social Fiction

Authors: Farjeon, B. L. (Benjamin Leopold), 1833-1903 Digital Source: Project Gutenberg Gutenberg Release Year: 2013 First Publication Year: Not confirmed

Key Word: London (England) -- Fiction; Haunted houses -- Fiction Target Reader: Readers of public-domain and historical texts

Book Edition: Project Gutenberg digital edition Book Language: en

Edition facts

Words 77,024

Reading time 335 min

Text sections 10

The catalog record for The Last Tenant — A Closer Reading provides practical reading context through 77,024 words, 5 hr 35 min estimated reading time, and 10 detected text sections.

The text analysis averages about 15.3 words per sentence, while the detected sections provide another way to judge how the source is divided.

Project Gutenberg metadata also associates the work with “London (England) -- Fiction,” connecting these edition facts with the source record’s subject description.

Source: Project Gutenberg record #43199

A husband's contentment is disrupted when his wife insists on moving, leading them to a haunted house in Lamb's Terrace. The narrator's investigation uncovers a destitute squatter, Barbara, whose survival story is intertwined with the house's tragic past and her friend Molly.

Editorial Edition Score 4.8/5

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Description quality20 pts
Title & short description10 pts
Source metadata20 pts
Text length15 pts
Chapters / structure15 pts
EPUB file integrity20 pts

Total of 100 points, scaled to a 2.5-5.0 range. Editions with an empty description or a missing EPUB file are not scored.

Edition quality

File: pg43199

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I. My Wife Makes Up her Mind to Move,

II. House-Hunting à la Mode,

III. An Old Friend Unexpectedly Presents Himself

IV. Bob Millet Gives us Some Curious Information about the House in Lamb's Terrace,

V. We Look Over the House in Lamb's Terrace and Receive a Shock,

VI. The Answer to the Bell,

VII. I Make Some Singular Experiments,

VIII. I Take Bob into my Confidence,

IX. I Pay Bob Millet a Visit,

X. Ronald Elsdale Gives Opinions,

XI. Bob Relates to me Some Particulars of Ronald Elsdale's Delusions,

XII. A House on Fire,

XIII. I Take the Haunted House,

XIV. A Meager Report from the Inquiry Agent,

XV. What the Inquest Revealed,

XVI. In 79 Lamb's Terrace,

XIX. Important Information,

XXI. Barbara Gives us Some Valuable Information,

XXII. Mr. Nisbet Visits Lamb's Terrace,

XXIV. We Arrive in Paris,

XXV. We Come to a Halt,

XXVI. A Good Night's Work,

XXVII. A Word with Mme. Bernstein,

XXVIII. Mme. Bernstein Reveals,

XXIX. Dr. Cooper is Impressed,

XXX. Mr. Nisbet Takes a Decided Step,

MY WIFE MAKES UP HER MIND TO MOVE.

From a peculiar restlessness in my wife's movements, I gathered that she was considering some scheme which threatened to disturb the peaceful surroundings of my life. Upon two or three occasions lately she had reproached me for not being sufficiently lofty in my social views, and although the tone in which she addressed me was free from acerbity, her words conveyed the impression that in some dark way I was inflicting an injury upon her. Familiar with her moods, and understanding the best way in which to treat them, I made no inquiries as to the precise nature of this injury, but waited for her to disclose it--which I was aware she would not do until she was quite prepared.

I am not, in any sense of the term, an ambitious man, being happily blessed with a peaceful and contented mind which renders me unwilling to make any departure from my usual habits. As regards old-fashioned ways I am somewhat of a conservative; I do not care for new things and new sensations, and I am not forever looking up at persons above me, and sighing for their possessions and enjoyments. Indeed, I am convinced that the happiest lot is that of the mortal who is neither too high nor too low, and who is in possession of a competence which will serve for modest pleasures, without exciting the envy of friends and acquaintances. Such a competence was mine; such pleasures were mine. Secure from storms and unnecessary worries--by which I mean worries self-inflicted by fidgety persons, or persons discontented with their lot--I should have been quite satisfied to remain all my life in our cozy ten-roomed house, which we had inhabited for twenty years, and in which we had been as comfortable as reasonable beings can expect to be in life. Not so my wife, the best of creatures in her way, but lately (as I subsequently discovered) tormented with jealousy of certain old friends who, favored by fortune, had moved a step or two up the social ladder. It was natural, when these friends visited us, that they should dilate with pride upon their social rise, and should rather loftily, and with an air of superiority, seize the opportunity of describing the elegances of their new houses and furniture. Their fine talk amused me, and I listened to it undisturbed; but it rendered my wife restless and uneasy, and the upshot of it was that one morning, during breakfast, she said:

"You have nothing particular to do to-day, my dear?"

"No, nothing particular," I replied.

"Then you won't mind coming with me to see some new houses."

I gasped. The murder was out.

"Some new houses!" I cried.

"You can't expect me to go alone," she said calmly. "It would hardly be safe--to say nothing of its impropriety--for a lady, unaccompanied, to wander through a number of empty houses with the street door shut. We read of such dreadful things in the papers."

"Quite true; they are enough to make one's hair stand on end. It would not be prudent. But what necessity is there for you to go into a number of empty houses?"

"How stupid you are!" she exclaimed. "You know we must move; you know that it is impossible for us to remain in this house any longer."

"Such a question! And the house in the state it is!"

"A very comfortable state, Maria. There is nothing whatever the matter with it."

"There is everything the matter with it."

"Oh, if you say so----"

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The narrator of The Last Tenant opens by describing himself as a man of peaceful habits, content with his cozy ten-roomed house and modest competence. His wife's restlessness, however, soon propels them into house-hunting and, eventually, into the eerie property at 79 Lamb's Terrace. The novel's early chapters establish a contrast between domestic stability and the unsettling pull of the unknown, a tension that deepens as the narrator becomes increasingly absorbed in the house's secrets.

A Reluctant Investigator

The narrator's voice is that of a cautious, observant man who prefers old-fashioned ways and avoids ambition. He describes himself as “not forever looking up at persons above me,” and his wife reproaches him for lacking lofty social views. This dynamic sets up a central tension: the narrator is drawn into a mystery not by his own curiosity but by external pressures. His methodical approach—waiting for his wife to disclose her schemes, making “no inquiries” until she is ready—mirrors his later investigative style. He gathers information patiently, as seen when he interviews the squatter Barbara, allowing her to “ramble on in her own way” rather than pressing her with abrupt questions. This deliberate pacing gives the novel a psychological depth, focusing on the narrator's internal responses rather than mere plot mechanics.

Barbara's Voice and Survival

Barbara, the young woman living secretly in the haunted house, speaks in a distinct dialect that contrasts sharply with the narrator's polished prose. Her account of survival—gathering coal from wagon droppings, burning furniture for warmth, and dodging police by never lighting a stove fire—is rendered in vivid, colloquial language: “I could 'ardly move, but I knew I was done for if I didn't stir my pegs.” Her resourcefulness is matched by her emotional anchor: Molly, a friend who taught her about heaven and hell and whose words “kept me up over and over agin.” Barbara's story is not merely a tale of hardship; it is a testament to the power of memory and moral instruction. The narrator notes that her cheeks glow and eyes sparkle as she speaks, suggesting that the act of telling her story is itself transformative. Her presence reframes the haunted house not as a site of supernatural terror but as a refuge for the desperate.

The House as a Silent Witness

The house in Lamb's Terrace is more than a setting; it is a repository of secrets. The narrator's investigations reveal that Barbara has lived there for years without detection, coming and going “allus very careful,” peeping round corners, and hiding at the sound of a step. Her claim that she can “hear a blade o' grass whisper” underscores the hyper-vigilance required for such an existence. The house itself becomes a character through its material details: the empty stove, the coal cellar, the furniture gradually burned for warmth. The narrator's experiments—such as ringing the bell and observing the response—suggest a methodical attempt to understand the house's rhythms. The novel's structure, with chapters titled “The Answer to the Bell” and “I Make Some Singular Experiments,” emphasizes the process of discovery. The house's silence is not empty; it is filled with the echoes of Barbara's footsteps and the memory of Molly.

Readers approaching The Last Tenant should attend to the interplay between the narrator's measured observations and Barbara's raw, urgent testimony. The novel rewards attention to small details—the way a character hesitates, the specific objects that accumulate meaning. Farjeon builds suspense not through gothic excess but through the slow revelation of human desperation and resilience. The haunted house, ultimately, is a space where social invisibility and personal history converge.

That rainy afternoon, I kept returning to the narrator’s quiet ache for Barbara, the way her survival felt both fragile and stubborn, like moss in a cracked wall. The book ended, but that gray unease lingered, and I found myself pulling down Red as a Rose is She: A Novel — Key Ideas to Explore almost without thinking. It offered a softer counterpoint, all delicate feeling and gentle resolve, until the rain stopped and I realized both stories shared the same quiet pulse of endurance.