So, it shall happen surely, through many years to come, that ghostly stories shall be told of the stain upon the floor
​Many years ago, when I first read Dickens' rendering, at the end of Chapter 48 of Bleak House, of the death of Tulkinghorn, I was, I admit it freely, blown away. (I've reproduced the final five paragraphs below plus a link to the chapter in full, should you fancy drinking in the pre-amble cadences, for instance, of its view from way-on-high of moonlit England.) These days, I'm not quite so enamoured.
I'm not even sure where to place it within my current (August 2026) preoccupation with narrative supernaturalism. You can argue, certainly, that the painting on the ceiling of Tulkinghorn's room is, in this context, gratuitously macabre in the way that aspects of M R James's "ghost" stories, half a century after the publication of Bleak House, seem, to me at least, gratuitously macabre.
Or crassly melodramatic.
Or slightly camp.
Or... or... or...
I think we can all agree that the book would be vastly poorer for the loss of these paragraphs. But do they advance the narrative? Enrich the plot? Does Dickens expect his ideal reader to ponder their significance? Or merely to experience a brief shivery frisson of spooky-woo?
And yes, it's perhaps worth noting that the previous chapter, attendant on the death of Jo, concludes with a bitter evocation of the Lord's Prayer. Worth noting also that Bleak House was an illustrated production and Dickens can surely be excused for seeking ways to make the most of this relatively new media opportunity. See below. I've attempted to reproduce two illustrative iterations of the Tulkinghorn scene.
Lastly (but perhaps most significantly) note the "ghost stories shall be told" passive construction. Presumably by the sorts of befuddled sentimentalists who'll know no better.
So... maybe Dickens has managed to pull off something rather clever here. And... well... admirable.
For now, though, I'll merely suggest that many grown-up writers, metaphysical flirts that they are, tend to be rather coy about their supernaturalist tendencies.
FOR MANY YEARS, the persistent Roman has been pointing, with no particular meaning, from that ceiling. It is not likely that he has any new meaning in him to-night. Once pointing, always pointing — like any Roman, or even Briton, with a single idea. There he is, no doubt, in his impossible attitude, pointing, unavailingly, all night long. Moonlight, darkness, dawn, sunrise, day. There he is still, eagerly pointing, and no one minds him.
But, a little after the coming of the day, come people to clean the rooms. And either the Roman has some new meaning in him, not expressed before, or the foremost of them goes wild; for, looking up at his outstretched hand, and looking down at what is below it, that person shrieks and flies. The others, looking in as the first one looked, shriek and fly too, and there is an alarm in the street.
What does it mean? No light is admitted into the darkened chamber, and people unaccustomed to it, enter, and treading softly, but heavily, carry a weight into the bed-room, and lay it down. There is whispering and wondering all day, strict search of every corner, careful tracing of steps, and careful noting of the disposition of every article of furniture. All eyes look up at the Roman, and all voices murmur, “If he could only tell what he saw!”
He is pointing at a table, with a bottle (nearly full of wine) and a glass upon it, and two candles that were blown out suddenly, soon after being lighted. He is pointing at an empty chair, and at a stain upon the ground before it that might be almost covered with a hand. These objects lie directly within his range. An excited imagination might suppose that there was something in them so terrific, as to drive the rest of the composition, not only the attendant big-legged boys, but the clouds and flowers and pillars too — in short, the very body and soul of Allegory, and all the brains it has — stark mad. It happens surely, that every one who comes into the darkened room and looks at these things, looks up at the Roman, and that he is invested in all eyes with mystery and awe, as if he were a paralysed dumb witness.
So, it shall happen surely, through many years to come, that ghostly stories shall be told of the stain upon the floor, so easy to be covered, so hard to be got out; and that the Roman, pointing from the ceiling, shall point, so long as dust and damp and spiders spare him, with far greater significance than he ever had in Mr. Tulkinghorn's time, and with a deadly meaning. For, Mr. Tulkinghorn's time is over for evermore; and the Roman pointed at the murderous hand uplifted against his life, and pointed helplessly at him, from night to morning, lying face downward on the floor, shot through the heart.
