It was pithily said by one of old that a bore is a man who insists upon
talking about himself when you want to talk about yourself. There is
some truth in the saying, no doubt; but surely it should not apply to
the relation of an author to his readers. So long, at least, as they
are holding his book in their hands, it is a fair inference that they
do not wish to talk about themselves just that moment; indeed, it is
not a violent hypothesis to suggest that perhaps they are then willing
enough to have him talk about himself. For the egotistic garrulity of
the author there is, in fact, no more fit occasion than in the final
pages of his book. At that stage of the game he may fairly enough count
on the good humor of his readers, since those who might be dissatisfied
with him would all have yielded to discouragement long before the
postscript was reached.
The customary preface is not so pleasant a place for a confidential
chat as the unconventional postscript. The real value and the true
purpose of the preface is to serve as a telephone for the writer of the
book and to bear his message to the professional book-reviewers. On the
other hand, only truly devoted readers will track the author to his
lair in a distant postscript. While it might be presumptuous for him to
talk about himself before the unknown and anonymous book-reviewers, he
cannot but be rejoiced at the chance of a gossip with his old friends,
the gentle readers.
Perhaps the present author cannot drop into conversation more easily
than by here venturing upon the expression of a purely personal
feeling--his own enjoyment in the weaving of the unsubstantial webs of
improbable adventure that fill the preceding pages. With an ironic
satisfaction was it that a writer who is not unaccustomed to be called
a mere realist here attempted fantasy, even though the results of his
effort may reveal invention only and not imagination. It may even be
that it was memory (mother of the muses) rather than invention
(daughter of necessity) which inspired the 'Primer of Imaginary
Geography.' I have an uneasy wonder whether I should ever have gone on
this voyage of discovery with Mynheer Vanderdecken, past the Bohemia
which is a desert country by the sea, if I had not in my youth been
allowed to visit 'A Virtuoso's Collection'; and yet, to the best of my
recollection, it was no recalling of Hawthorne's tale, but a casual
glance at the Carte du Pays de Tendre in a volume of Moliere, which
first set me upon collecting the material for an imaginary geography.
In the second of these little fantasies the midnight wanderer saw
certain combats famous in all literature and certain dances. Where it
was possible use was made of the actual words of the great authors who
had described these combats and these dances, the descriptions being
condensed sometimes and sometimes their rhythm being a little modified
so that they should not be out of keeping with the more pedestrian
prose by which they were accompanied. Thus, as it happens, the dances
of little Pearl and of Topsy could be set forth, fortunately, almost in
the very phrases of Hawthorne and of Mrs. Stowe, while I was forced to
describe as best I could myself the gyrations of the wife who lived in
'A Doll's House' and of her remote predecessor as a "new woman," the
daughter of Herodias. The same method was followed in the writing of
the third of these tales, although the authors then drawn upon were
most of them less well known; and the only quotation of any length was
the one from Irving describing the mysterious deeds of the headless
horseman.
Now it chanced that the 'Dream-Gown of the Japanese Ambassador,'
instead of appearing complete in one number of a magazine, as the two
earlier tales had done, was published in various daily newspapers in
three instalments. In the first of these divisions the returned
traveller fell asleep and saw himself in the crystal ball; in the
second he went through the rest of his borrowed adventures; and in the
third his friend awakened him and unravelled the mystery. When the
second part appeared a clergyman who had read the 'Sketch-Book' (even
though he had never heard of the 'Forty Seven Ronins,' or the
'Shah-Nameh,' or the 'Custom of the Country') took his pen and sat down
and wrote swiftly to a newspaper, declaring that this instalment of my
tale had been "cribbed bodily, and almost _verbatim et literatim_,
in one-third of its entire length, from the familiar 'Legend of Sleepy
Hollow.'" He asked sarcastically if the copyright notice printed at the
head of my story was meant to apply also to the passages plagiarized
from Irving. He declared also that "it is unfortunate for literary
persons of the stamp of the author of 'Vignettes of Manhattan' that
there still exist readers who do not forget what they have read that is
worth remembering. Such readers are not to be imposed on by the most
skilful bunglers (_sic_) who endeavor to pass off as their own the
work of greater men."
The writer of this letter had given his address, Christ Church Rectory,
----, N.J. (I suppress the name of the village for the sake of his
parishioners as I suppress the name of the man for the sake of his
family). Therefore I wrote to him at once, telling him that if he had
read the third and final instalment of my story with the same attention
he had given to the second part he would understand why I was expecting
to receive from him an apology for the letter he had sent to the
newspaper. In time there reached me this inadequate and disingenuous
response, hardly worthy to be called even an apology for an apology:
"In reply to your courteous communication, let me say that had I
seen the close of your short story, I should have grasped the
situation more fully, and should doubtless have refrained from
giving it any special attention.
"When one considers, however, the manner in which your copy was
published by the paper, deferring the explanation until the
appearance of the third instalment, it must be acknowledged that
there was opportunity for surprise and criticism. The fault should
have been found with the way in which the article was published,
rather than with the story itself, that appearing at its conclusion
a self-confessed mosaic of quotations. Needless to add that its
author's aim to amuse, entertain, and instruct has been manifestly
subserved.
"Yours most sincerely,
"---- ----"
Of another tale ('Sixteen Years without a Birthday') I have nothing to
say--except to record a friend's remark after he had finished it, that
he had "read something very like it not long before in a newspaper;" so
perhaps I may be permitted to declare that I had not read something
very like it anywhere, but had, to the best of my belief, "made it all
up out of my own head." Nor need I say anything about the 'Rival
Ghosts'--except to note that it is here reprinted from an earlier
collection of stories which has now for years been out of print.
The last tale of all, the 'Twinkling of an Eye,' received the second
prize for the best detective story, offered by a newspaper
syndicate--the first prize being taken by a story written by Miss Mary
E. Wilkins and Mr. J. E. Chamberlain. The use of the camera as a
detective agency had been suggested to me by a brief newspaper
paragraph glanced at casually several years before. And I confess that
it was with not a little amusement that I employed this device, since I
had then recently seen my 'Vignettes of Manhattan' criticized as being
"photographic in method." Here again I had no reason to doubt the
originality of my plot; and here once more was my confidence shattered,
and I was forced to confess that fiction can never hope to keep ahead
of fact.
After the 'Twinkling of an Eye' was published in the newspapers which
had joined in offering the prizes, it was printed again in one of the
smaller magazines. There it was read by a gentleman connected with a
hardware house in Grand Rapids, who wrote to me, informing me that the
story I had laboriously pieced together had--in some of its details, at
least--been anticipated by real life more than a year before I sat down
to write out my narrative. This gentleman has now kindly given me
permission to quote from his letter those passages which may be of
interest to readers of the 'Twinkling of an Eye':
It appears that the cash-drawer of the hardware store, in which small
change was habitually left over night for use in the morning before the
banks open, was robbed three nights running, although only a few
dollars were taken at a time. "The large vault, in which are kept the
firm's papers, had not been tampered with, and the work was evidently
that of some petty thief. The night-watchman was a trusted employee,
and my father did not wish to accuse him unjustly. And, besides, he did
not wish to warn the thief. So nothing was said to the watchman. The
nights on which the till had been tapped were Thursday, Friday, and
Saturday. Father goes down to the store every Sunday morning for about
half an hour to open the mail, and it was then that he discovered the
Saturday night theft. Directly after Sunday dinner, father went down to
see an electrical friend of his, who executed a plan which my father
had devised. The cash-drawer was situated in one corner of the office
(quite a large one), in which both the wholesale and retail business is
transacted. He placed a large detective camera in the corner opposite
the till, and beside it, and a little behind, a quantity of flash-light
powder in a receptacle. This powder was connected by electric wires
with the till in such a manner, that when the drawer was opened the
circuit would be completed and the powder ignited. Everything worked to
perfection. The office is always left dark at night, so the shutter of
the camera could be left open without spoiling the film. The camera was
in place Sunday evening, but the thief stayed away. It was set again on
Monday night, and that time we got him. A small wire was attached to a
weight near the camera extending to the till. As the thief started to
open the drawer the weight made a slight noise. He glanced in the
direction of the noise, started, pulled the weight a little farther,
and we had his picture. Detectives had already been working on the
case, and the thief was identified and arrested on the strength of the
portrait. When he was informed that we had his picture, he made a full
confession. He said that when the flash-light went off he nearly
fainted from fright."
* * * * *
After this experience I am tempted to give up all hope that I can ever
invent anything which is not a fact, even before I make it up. I am now
prepared, therefore, to discover that I did really have an interview
with Count Cagliostro, and also that I was actually an unwilling
witness at the wedding of the rival ghosts.
(1896.)