Ingrid Bergman and Charles Boyer in a Screenshot from the trailer of Gaslight (1944) (Public Domain)
Having spent my childhood and an unconscionable portion of my adulthood in an unremarkable suburban ranch house, 20 years ago I was delighted to move into a rambling brick Victorian mansion boasting all the character that my former domicile lacked. The building (which also contains the editorial office of The Syncopated Times) challenged and inspired my wife and myself with its quaint plumbing, its fanciful wiring, and its refreshing lack of bland modernity. The change was from Hanna-Barbera to Charles Dana Gibson; from Space Age to Gilded Age.
Despite its attendant inconveniences, the move was mostly salubrious.
There were surprises. When at last I decided to replace the tacky Colonial chandelier in the dining room with something more stylistically appropriate to the vintage of the house, I discovered that the electric fixture was suspended from a fitting that capped the gas line which had originally provided illumination to the room. If we were luddish enough to want to install gas lighting, I’m certain the line would still provide the means for us to do so.
So much for actual gas lighting, with its attendant heat and danger, and its necess
