"Good-morning, Colston. I am in luck, it seems. You have often said that
my commendation of your literary work was mere civility, and here you
find me absorbed--actually merged--in your latest story in the
_Messenger_. Nothing less shocking than your touch upon my shoulder
would have roused me to consciousness."
"The proof is stronger than you seem to know," replied the man
addressed: "so keen is your eagerness to read my story that you are
willing to renounce selfish considerations and forego all the pleasure
that you could get from it."
"I don't understand you," said the other, folding the newspaper that he
held and putting it into his pocket. "You writers are a queer lot,
anyhow. Come, tell me what I have done or omitted in this matter. In
what way does the pleasure that I get, or might get, from your work
depend on me?"
"In many ways. Let me ask you how you would enjoy your breakfast if you
took it in this street car. Suppose the phonograph so perfected as to be
able to give you an entire opera,--singing, orchestration, and all; do
you think you would get much pleasure out of it if you turned it on at
your office during business hours? Do you really care for a serenade by
Schubert when you hear it fiddled by an untimely Italian on a morning
ferryboat? Are you always cocked and primed for enjoyment? Do you keep
every mood on tap, ready to any demand? Let me remind you, sir, that the
story which you have done me the honor to begin as a means of becoming
oblivious to the discomfort of this car is a ghost story!"
"Well?"
"Well! Has the reader no duties corresponding to his privileges? You
have paid five cents for that newspaper. It is yours. You have the right
to read it when and where you will. Much of what is in it is neither
helped nor harmed by time and place and mood; some of it actually
requires to be read at once--while it is fizzing. But my story is not of
that character. It is not 'the very latest advices' from Ghostland. You
are not expected to keep yourself _au courant_ with what is going on in
the realm of spooks. The stuff will keep until you have leisure to put
yourself into the frame of mind appropriate to the sentiment of the
piece--which I respectfully submit that you cannot do in a street car,
even if you are the only passenger. The solitude is not of the right
sort. An author has rights which the reader is bound to respect."
"For specific example?"
"The right to the reader's undivided attention. To deny him this is
immoral. To make him share your attention with the rattle of a street
car, the moving panorama of the crowds on the sidewalks, and the
buildings beyond--with any of the thousands of distractions which make
our customary environment--is to treat him with gross injustice. By God,
it is infamous!"
The speaker had risen to his feet and was steadying himself by one of
the straps hanging from the roof of the car. The other man looked up at
him in sudden astonishment, wondering how so trivial a grievance could
seem to justify so strong language. He saw that his friend's face was
uncommonly pale and that his eyes glowed like living coals.
"You know what I mean," continued the writer, impetuously crowding his
words--"you know what I mean, Marsh. My stuff in this morning's
_Messenger_ is plainly sub-headed 'A Ghost Story.' That is ample notice
to all. Every honorable reader will understand it as prescribing by
implication the conditions under which the work is to be read."
The man addressed as Marsh winced a trifle, then asked with a smile:
"What conditions? You know that I am only a plain business man who
cannot be supposed to understand such things. How, when, where should I
read your ghost story?"
"In solitude--at night--by the light of a candle. There are certain
emotions which a writer can easily enough excite--such as compassion or
merriment. I can move you to tears or laughter under almost any
circumstances. But for my ghost story to be effective you must be made
to feel fear--at least a strong sense of the supernatural--and that is a
difficult matter. I have a right to expect that if you read me at all
you will give me a chance; that you will make yourself accessible to the
emotion that I try to inspire."
The car had now arrived at its terminus and stopped. The trip just
completed was its first for the day and the conversation of the two
early passengers had not been interrupted. The streets were yet silent
and desolate; the house tops were just touched by the rising sun. As
they stepped from the car and walked away together Marsh narrowly eyed
his companion, who was reported, like most men of uncommon literary
ability, to be addicted to various destructive vices. That is the
revenge which dull minds take upon bright ones in resentment of their
superiority. Mr. Colston was known as a man of genius. There are honest
souls who believe that genius is a mode of excess. It was known that
Colston did not drink liquor, but many said that he ate opium. Something
in his appearance that morning--a certain wildness of the eyes, an
unusual pallor, a thickness and rapidity of speech--were taken by Mr.
Marsh to confirm the report. Nevertheless, he had not the self-denial to
abandon a subject which he found interesting, however it might excite
his friend.
"Do you mean to say," he began, "that if I take the trouble to observe
your directions--place myself in the conditions that you demand:
solitude, night and a tallow candle--you can with your ghostly work give
me an uncomfortable sense of the supernatural, as you call it? Can you
accelerate my pulse, make me start at sudden noises, send a nervous
chill along my spine and cause my hair to rise?"
Colston turned suddenly and looked him squarely in the eyes as they
walked. "You would not dare--you have not the courage," he said. He
emphasized the words with a contemptuous gesture. "You are brave enough
to read me in a street car, but--in a deserted house--alone--in the
forest--at night! Bah! I have a manuscript in my pocket that would kill
you."
Marsh was angry. He knew himself courageous, and the words stung him.
"If you know such a place," he said, "take me there to-night and leave
me your story and a candle. Call for me when I've had time enough to
read it and I'll tell you the entire plot and--kick you out of the
place."
That is how it occurred that the farmer's boy, looking in at an unglazed
window of the Breede house, saw a man sitting in the light of a candle.