The Ghost Ship - Richard Middleton
THE GHOST-SHIP
by Richard Middleton
Thanks are due to the Editors of _The Century_,
_English Review_, _Vanity Fair_, and _The Academy_, for
permission to reproduce most of the stories in this volume.
Preface
The other day I said to a friend, "I have just been reading in proof
a volume of short stories by an author named Richard Middleton. He is
dead. It is an extraordinary book, and all the work in it is full of
a quite curious and distinctive quality. In my opinion it is very
fine work indeed."
It would be so simple if the business of the introducer or
preface-writer were limited to such a straightforward, honest, and
direct expression of opinion; unfortunately that is not so. For most
of us, the happier ones of the world, it is enough to say "I like
it," or "I don't like it," and there is an end: the critic has to
answer the everlasting "Why?" And so, I suppose, it is my office,
in this present instance, to say why I like the collection of tales
that follows.
I think that I have found a hint as to the right answer in two of
these stories. One is called "The Story of a Book," the other "The
Biography of a Superman." Each is rather an essay than a tale, though
the form of each is narrative. The first relates the sad bewilderment
of a successful novelist who feels that, after all, his great work
was something less than nothing.
He could not help noticing that London had discovered the
secret which made his intellectual life a torment. The
streets were more than a mere assemblage of houses,
London herself was more than a tangled skein of streets,
and overhead heaven was more than a meeting-place of
individual stars. What was this secret that made words
into a book, houses into cities, and restless and
measurable stars into an unchanging and immeasurable
universe?
Then from "The Biography of a Superman" I select this very striking
passage:--
Possessed of an intellect of great analytic and
destructive force, he was almost entirely lacking
in imagination, and he was therefore unable
to raise his work to a plane in which the mutually
combative elements of his nature might have been
reconciled. His light moments of envy, anger, and
vanity passed into the crucible to come forth
unchanged. He lacked the magic wand, and his work
never took wings above his conception.
Now compare the two places; "the streets were more than a mere
assemblage of houses;" . . . "his light moments . . . passed into the
crucible to come forth unchanged. He lacked the magic wand." I think
these two passages indicate the answer to the "why" that I am forced
to resolve; show something of the secret of the strange charm which
"The Ghost-Ship" possesses.
It delights because it is significant, because it is no mere
assemblage of words and facts and observations and incidents, it
delights because its matter has not passed through the crucible
unchanged. On the contrary, the jumble of experiences and impressions
which fell to the lot of the author as to us all had assuredly been
placed in the athanor of art, in that furnace of the sages which is
said to be governed with wisdom. Lead entered the burning of the
fire, gold came forth from it.
This analogy of the process of alchemy which Richard Middleton has
himself suggested is one of the finest and the fittest for our
purpose; but there are many others. The "magic wand" analogy comes to
much the same thing; there is the like notion of something ugly and
insignificant changed to something beautiful and significant.
Something ugly; shall we not say rather something formless transmuted
into form! After all, the Latin Dictionary declares solemnly that
"beauty" is one of the meanings of "forma" And here we are away from
alchemy and the magic wand ideas, and pass to the thought of the
first place that I have quoted: "the streets were more than a mere
assemblage of houses," The puzzle is solved; the jig-saw--I think
they call it--has been successfully fitted together, There in a box
lay all the jagged, irregular pieces, each in itself crazy and
meaningless and irritating by its very lack of meaning: now we see
each part adapted to the other and the whole is one picture and one
purpose.
But the first thing necessary to this achievement is the recognition
of the fact that there is a puzzle. There are many people who go
through life persuaded that there isn't a puzzle at all; that it was
only the infancy and rude childhood of the world which dreamed a vain
dream of a picture to be made out of the jagged bits of wood, There
never has been a picture, these persons say, and there never will be
a picture, all we have to do is to take the bits out of the box, look
at them, and put them back again. Or, returning to Richard
Middleton's excellent example: there is no such thing as London,
there are only houses. No man has seen London at any time; the very
word (meaning "the fort on the lake") is nonsensical; no human eye
has ever beheld aught else but a number of houses; it is clear that
this "London" is as mythical and monstrous and irrational a concept
as many others of the same class. Well, people who talk like that are
doubtless sent into the world for some useful but mysterious process;
but they can't write real books. Richard Middleton knew that there
was a puzzle; in other words, that the universe is a great mystery;
and this consciousness of his is the source of the charm of "The
Ghost Ship."
I have compared this orthodox view of life and the
universe and the fine art that results from this view to the solving
of a puzzle; but the analogy is not an absolutely perfect one. For if
you buy a jig-saw in a box in the Haymarket, you take it home with
you and begin to put the pieces together, and sooner or later the
toil is over and the difficulties are overcome: the picture is clear
before you. Yes, the toil is over, but so is the fun; it is but poor
sport to do the trick all over again. And here is the vast
inferiority of the things they sell in the shops to the universe: our
great puzzle is never perfectly solved. We come across marvellous
hints, we join line to line and our hearts beat with the rapture of a
great surmise; we follow a certain track and know by sure signs and
signals that we are not mistaken, that we are on the right road; we
are furnished with certain charts which tell us "here there be
water-pools," "here is a waste place," "here a high hill riseth," and
we find as we journey that so it is. But, happily, by the very nature
of the case, we can never put the whole of the picture together, we
can never recover the perfect utterance of the Lost Word, we can
never say "here is the end of all the journey." Man is so made that
all his true delight arises from the contemplation of mystery, and
save by his own frantic and invincible folly, mystery is never taken
from him; it rises within his soul, a well of joy unending.
Hence it is that the consciousness of this mystery, resolved into the
form of art, expresses itself usually (or always) by symbols, by the
part put for the whole. Now and then, as in the case of Dante, as it
was with the great romance-cycle of the Holy Graal, we have a sense
of completeness. With the vision of the Angelic Rose and the sentence
concerning that Love which moves the sun and the other stars there is
the shadow of a catholic survey of all things; and so in a less
degree it is as we read of the translation of Galahad. Still, the
Rose and the Graal are but symbols of the eternal verities, not those
verities themselves in their essences; and in these later days when
we have become clever--with the cleverness of the Performing Pig--it
is a great thing to find the most obscure and broken indications of
the things which really are. There is the true enchantment of true
romance in the Don Quixote--for those who can understand--but it is
delivered in the mode of parody and burlesque; and so it is with the
extraordinary fantasy, "The Ghost-Ship," which gives its name to this
collection of tales. Take this story to bits, as it were; analyse it;
you will be astonished at its frantic absurdity: the ghostly galleon
blown in by a great tempest to a turnip-patch in Fairfield, a little
village lying near the Portsmouth Road about half-way between London
and the sea; the farmer grumbling at the loss of so many turnips; the
captain of the weird vessel acknowledging the justice of the claim
and tossing a great gold brooch to the landlord by way of satisfying
the debt; the deplorable fact that all the decent village ghosts
learned to riot with Captain Bartholomew Roberts; the visit of the
parson and his godly admonitions to the Captain on the evil work he
was doing; mere craziness, you will say?
Yes; but the strange thing is that as, in spite of all jocose tricks
and low-comedy misadventures, Don Quixote departs from us with a
great light shining upon him; so this ghost-ship of Richard
Middleton's, somehow or other, sails and anchors and re-sails in an
unearthly glow; and Captain Bartholomew's rum that was like hot oil
and honey and fire in the veins of the mortals who drank of it, has
become for me one of the _nobilium poculorum_ of story. And thus did
the ship put forth from the village and sail away in a great tempest
of wind--to what unimaginable seas of the spirit!
The wind that had been howling outside
like an outrageous dog had all of a sudden
turned as melodious as the carol-boys of a
Christmas Eve.
We went to the door, and the wind burst it
open so that the handle was driven clean into
the plaster of the wall. But we didn't think
much of that at the time; for over our heads,
sailing very comfortably through the windy
stars, was the ship that had passed the
summer in landlord's field. Her portholes
and her bay-window were blazing with lights,
and there was a noise of singing and fiddling
on her decks. "He's gone," shouted landlord
above the storm, "and he's taken half the
village with him!" I could only nod in
answer, not having lungs like bellows of
leather.
I declare I would not exchange this short, crazy, enchanting fantasy
for a whole wilderness of seemly novels, proclaiming in decorous
accents the undoubted truth that there are milestones on the
Portsmouth Road.
Arthur Machen.
The Ghost-Ship
Fairfield is a little village lying near the Portsmouth Road about
half-way between London and the sea. Strangers who find it by
accident now and then, call it a pretty, old-fashioned place; we who
live in it and call it home don't find anything very pretty about it,
but we should be sorry to live anywhere else. Our minds have taken
the shape of the inn and the church and the green, I suppose. At all
events we never feel comfortable out of Fairfield.
Of course the Cockneys, with their vasty houses and noise-ridden
streets, can call us rustics if they choose, but for all that
Fairfield is a better place to live in than London. Doctor says that
when he goes to London his mind is bruised with the weight of the
houses, and he was a Cockney born. He had to live there himself when
he was a little chap, but he knows better now. You gentlemen may
laugh--perhaps some of you come from London way--but it seems to me
that a witness like that is worth a gallon of arguments.
Dull? Well, you might find it dull, but I assure you that I've
listened to all the London yarns you have spun tonight, and they're
absolutely nothing to the things that happen at Fairfield. It's
because of our way of thinking and minding our own business. If one
of your Londoners were set down on the green of a Saturday night when
the ghosts of the lads who died in the war keep tryst with the lasses
who lie in the church-yard, he couldn't help being curious and
interfering, and then the ghosts would go somewhere where it was
quieter. But we just let them come and go and don't make any fuss,
and in consequence Fairfield is the ghostiest place in all England.
Why, I've seen a headless man sitting on the edge of the well in
broad daylight, and the children playing about his feet as if he were
their father. Take my word for it, spirits know when they are well
off as much as human beings.
Still, I must admit that the thing I'm going to tell you about was
queer even for our part of the world, where three packs of
ghost-hounds hunt regularly during the season, and blacksmith's
great-grandfather is busy all night shoeing the dead gentlemen's
horses. Now that's a thing that wouldn't happen in London, because of
their interfering ways, but blacksmith he lies up aloft and sleeps as
quiet as a lamb. Once when he had a bad head he shouted down to them
not to make so much noise, and in the morning he found an old guinea
left on the anvil as an apology. He wears it on his watch-chain now.
But I must get on with my story; if I start telling you about the
queer happenings at Fairfield I'll never stop.
It all came of the great storm in the spring of '97, the year that we
had two great storms. This was the first one, and I remember it very
well, because I found in the morning that it had lifted the thatch of
my pigsty into the widow's garden as clean as a boy's kite. When I
looked over the hedge, widow--Tom Lamport's widow that was--was
prodding for her nasturtiums with a daisy-grubber. After I had
watched her for a little I went down to the "Fox and Grapes" to tell
landlord what she had said to me. Landlord he laughed, being a
married man and at ease with the sex. "Come to that," he said, "the
tempest has blowed something into my field. A kind of a ship I
think it would be."
I was surprised at that until he explained that it was only a
ghost-ship and would do no hurt to the turnips. We argued that
it had been blown up from the sea at Portsmouth, and then we
talked of something else. There were two slates down at the
parsonage and a big tree in Lumley's meadow. It was a rare
storm.
I reckon the wind had blown our ghosts all over England.
They were coming back for days afterwards with foundered horses
and as footsore as possible, and they were so glad to get back
to Fairfield that some of them walked up the street crying like
little children. Squire said that his great-grandfather's
great-grandfather hadn't looked so dead-beat since the battle
of Naseby, and he's an educated man.
What with one thing and another, I should think it was a week before
we got straight again, and then one afternoon I met the landlord on
the green and he had a worried face. "I wish you'd come and have a
look at that ship in my field," he said to me; "it seems to me it's
leaning real hard on the turnips. I can't bear thinking what the
missus will say when she sees it."
I walked down the lane with him, and sure enough there was a
ship in the middle of his field, but such a ship as no man had
seen on the water for three hundred years, let alone in the
middle of a turnip-field. It was all painted black and covered
with carvings, and there was a great bay window in the stern
for all the world like the Squire's drawing-room. There was a
crowd of little black cannon on deck and looking out of her
port-holes, and she was anchored at each end to the hard
ground. I have seen the wonders of the world on picture-postcards,
but I have never seen anything to equal that.
"She seems very solid for a ghost-ship," I said, seeing the landlord
was bothered.
"I should say it's a betwixt and between," he answered, puzzling it
over, "but it's going to spoil a matter of fifty turnips, and missus
she'll want it moved." We went up to her and touched the side, and it
was as hard as a real ship. "Now there's folks in England would call
that very curious," he said.
Now I don't know much about ships, but I should think that that
ghost-ship weighed a solid two hundred tons, and it seemed to me
that she had come to stay, so that I felt sorry for landlord, who was
a married man. "All the horses in Fairfield won't move her out of my
turnips," he said, frowning at her.
Just then we heard a noise on her deck, and we looked up and saw that
a man had come out of her front cabin and was looking down at us very
peaceably. He was dressed in a black uniform set out with rusty gold
lace, and he had a great cutlass by his side in a brass sheath. "I'm
Captain Bartholomew Roberts," he said, in a gentleman's voice, "put
in for recruits. I seem to have brought her rather far up the
harbour."
"Harbour!" cried landlord; "why, you're fifty miles from the sea."
Captain Roberts didn't turn a hair. "So much as that, is it?" he said
coolly. "Well, it's of no consequence."
Landlord was a bit upset at this. "I don't want to be unneighbourly,"
he said, "but I wish you hadn't brought your ship into my field. You
see, my wife sets great store on these turnips."
The captain took a pinch of snuff out of a fine gold box that he
pulled out of his pocket, and dusted his fingers with a silk
handkerchief in a very genteel fashion. "I'm only here for a few
months," he said; "but if a testimony of my esteem would pacify your
good lady I should be content," and with the words he loosed a great
gold brooch from the neck of his coat and tossed it down to landlord.
Landlord blushed as red as a strawberry. "I'm not denying she's fond
of jewellery," he said, "but it's too much for half a sackful of
turnips." And indeed it was a handsome brooch.
The captain laughed. "Tut, man," he said, "it's a forced sale, and
you deserve a good price. Say no more about it;" and nodding good-day
to us, he turned on his heel and went into the cabin. Landlord walked
back up the lane like a man with a weight off his mind. "That tempest
has blowed me a bit of luck," he said; "the missus will be much
pleased with that brooch. It's better than blacksmith's guinea, any
day."
Ninety-seven was Jubilee year, the year of the second Jubilee, you
remember, and we had great doings at Fairfield, so that we hadn't
much time to bother about the ghost-ship though anyhow it isn't our
way to meddle in things that don't concern us. Landlord, he saw his
tenant once or twice when he was hoeing his turnips and passed the
time of day, and landlord's wife wore her new brooch to church every
Sunday. But we didn't mix much with the ghosts at any time, all
except an idiot lad there was in the village, and he didn't know the
difference between a man and a ghost, poor innocent! On Jubilee Day,
however, somebody told Captain Roberts why the church bells were
ringing, and he hoisted a flag and fired off his guns like a loyal
Englishman. 'Tis true the guns were shotted, and one of the round
shot knocked a hole in Farmer Johnstone's barn, but nobody thought
much of that in such a season of rejoicing.
It wasn't till our celebrations were over that we noticed that
anything was wrong in Fairfield. 'Twas shoemaker who told me first
about it one morning at the "Fox and Grapes." "You know my great
great-uncle?" he said to me.
"You mean Joshua, the quiet lad," I answered, knowing him well.
"Quiet!" said shoemaker indignantly. "Quiet you call him, coming home
at three o'clock every morning as drunk as a magistrate and waking up
the whole house with his noise."
"Why, it can't be Joshua!" I said, for I knew him for one of the most
respectable young ghosts in the village.
"Joshua it is," said shoemaker; "and one of these nights he'll find
himself out in the street if he isn't careful."
This kind of talk shocked me, I can tell you, for I don't like to
hear a man abusing his own family, and I could hardly believe that a
steady youngster like Joshua had taken to drink. But just then in
came butcher Aylwin in such a temper that he could hardly drink his
beer. "The young puppy! the young puppy!" he kept on saying; and it
was some time before shoemaker and I found out that he was talking
about his ancestor that fell at Senlac.
"Drink?" said shoemaker hopefully, for we all like company in our
misfortunes, and butcher nodded grimly.
"The young noodle," he said, emptying his tankard.
Well, after that I kept my ears open, and it was the same story all
over the village. There was hardly a young man among all the ghosts
of Fairfield who didn't roll home in the small hours of the morning
the worse for liquor. I used to wake up in the night and hear them
stumble past my house, singing outrageous songs. The worst of it was
that we couldn't keep the scandal to ourselves and the folk at
Greenhill began to talk of "sodden Fairfield" and taught their
children to sing a song about us:
"Sodden Fairfield, sodden Fairfield, has no use for bread-and-butter,
Rum for breakfast, rum for dinner, rum for tea, and rum for supper!"
We are easy-going in our village, but we didn't like that.
Of course we soon found out where the young fellows went to get the
drink, and landlord was terribly cut up that his tenant should have
turned out so badly, but his wife wouldn't hear of parting with the
brooch, so that he couldn't give the Captain notice to quit. But as
time went on, things grew from bad to worse, and at all hours of the
day you would see those young reprobates sleeping it off on the
village green. Nearly every afternoon a ghost-wagon used to jolt down
to the ship with a lading of rum, and though the older ghosts seemed
inclined to give the Captain's hospitality the go-by, the youngsters
were neither to hold nor to bind.
So one afternoon when I was taking my nap I heard a knock at the
door, and there was parson looking very serious, like a man with a
job before him that he didn't altogether relish. "I'm going down to
talk to the Captain about all this drunkenness in the village, and I
want you to come with me," he said straight out.
I can't say that I fancied the visit much, myself, and I tried to
hint to parson that as, after all, they were only a lot of ghosts it
didn't very much matter.
"Dead or alive, I'm responsible for the good conduct," he said, "and
I'm going to do my duty and put a stop to this continued disorder.
And you are coming with me John Simmons." So I went, parson being a
persuasive kind of man.
We went down to the ship, and as we approached her I could see the
Captain tasting the air on deck. When he saw parson he took off his
hat very politely and I can tell you that I was relieved to find that
he had a proper respect for the cloth. Parson acknowledged his salute
and spoke out stoutly enough. "Sir, I should be glad to have a word
with you."
"Come on board, sir; come on board," said the Captain, and I could
tell by his voice that he knew why we were there. Parson and I
climbed up an uneasy kind of ladder, and the Captain took us into the
great cabin at the back of the ship, where the bay-window was. It was
the most wonderful place you ever saw in your life, all full of gold
and silver plate, swords with jewelled scabbards, carved oak chairs,
and great chests that look as though they were bursting with guineas.
Even parson was surprised, and he did not shake his head very hard
when the Captain took down some silver cups and poured us out a drink
of rum. I tasted mine, and I don't mind saying that it changed my
view of things entirely. There was nothing betwixt and between about
that rum, and I felt that it was ridiculous to blame the lads for
drinking too much of stuff like that. It seemed to fill my veins with
honey and fire.
Parson put the case squarely to the Captain, but I didn't listen much
to what he said; I was busy sipping my drink and looking through the
window at the fishes swimming to and fro over landlord's turnips.
Just then it seemed the most natural thing in the world that they
should be there, though afterwards, of course, I could see that that
proved it was a ghost-ship.
But even then I thought it was queer when I saw a drowned sailor
float by in the thin air with his hair and beard all full of bubbles.
It was the first time I had seen anything quite like that at
Fairfield.
All the time I was regarding the wonders of the deep parson was
telling Captain Roberts how there was no peace or rest in the village
owing to the curse of drunkenness, and what a bad example the
youngsters were setting to the older ghosts. The Captain listened
very attentively, and only put in a word now and then about boys
being boys and young men sowing their wild oats. But when parson had
finished his speech he filled up our silver cups and said to parson,
with a flourish, "I should be sorry to cause trouble anywhere where I
have been made welcome, and you will be glad to hear that I put to
sea tomorrow night. And now you must drink me a prosperous voyage."
So we all stood up and drank the toast with honour, and that noble
rum was like hot oil in my veins.
After that Captain showed us some of the curiosities he had brought
back from foreign parts, and we were greatly amazed, though
afterwards I couldn't clearly remember what they were. And then I
found myself walking across the turnips with parson, and I was
telling him of the glories of the deep that I had seen through the
window of the ship. He turned on me severely. "If I were you, John
Simmons," he said, "I should go straight home to bed." He has a way
of putting things that wouldn't occur to an ordinary man, has parson,
and I did as he told me.