The Sociable Ghost 3The Reporter Meets the Leader of the Four Hundred
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Literature · Science Fiction & Fantasy
The Sociable Ghost 3
The Reporter Meets the Leader of the Four Hundred
HarperEnglish
The Sociable Ghost and the newspaper man continued their walk though the ghost still limped painfully. The reporter tried to bring himself to offer his arm for the ghost to lean upon, but somehow he could not seem to care to get too close to the living skeleton as he mentally considered him. Still he would not willingly have dispensed with his company. Finally the ghost took up the conversation where he had left it off.
“I was not born then, let alone being dead, but I have often conversed with the founders of this mother of churches in this country, and also the founders of those first families at our reunions. You just ought to hear them go on about the extravagance of their descendants. They say that when they were taking up subscriptions for building the new steeple, Joseph Aspinwall gave one pound six, and Oliver Schuyler put down one pound; Mrs. Coddington gave two pounds, while Gilbert Livingstone gave five shillings and six pence. Philip Schuyler donated six shillings, Mrs. Hamilton gave two pounds fifteen shillings, and Rip Van Dam, one pound six shillings, and so on no one giving much, if any more than two pounds. This was while John Cruger was vestryman with Isaac Decker and Josephus Bayard as co-laborers. I notice that the women were more generous then as now to church matters and needs, and it has always been a question with me why this is so. Now, is it because as a general rule the women did not have to work for the money as the husbands did, and so they did not appreciate its value, or is it because the women are by nature more generous and more religious than men? I heard somewhere once that it was said that it is the women who sustain the churches. Well, I don’t care, Wow! That toe twinges!”
All this did not interest the young reporter as much as the ghost seemed to think it should, but politeness forbade him to make any sign. His appetite was whetted for what was to come and he did not wish to destroy his chances. He had a vague idea that he had read something like this in the archives of this old and honored church, while preparing a description of the three hundredth anniversary, but as he saw that the ghost liked to enlighten his ignorance he wisely kept silence. At this moment the ghost said:
“Come on, it will soon be time now. But before we go take one look at the headstone erected to the memory of William Bradford. He was the first Government printer and spent fifty years in the service, and left this world worn out with old age and labor. He printed the first Bible in this country, and his old press is kept as a memorial.
“He was a decent, simple, hardworking chap, and used all his strength in his work. And, he didn't get rich either. Well; maybe you have seen instances of the truly good getting the fool good to sign away their lives for the benefit of the truly good. I put this matter in a mild form, for I am apt to get hot under the collar when I think of how many of the fool-good fellows are bound down to a life of underpaid toil to give others the benefit of it all.”
Here the ghost paused impressively, and the reporter bowed seriously as though fully agreeing with him. In fact he did fully agree with the ghost completely, for he knew something of the matter himself in a small way. The ghost resumed:
“When I say the truly good, I mean those who are so very good that the fool-good are blinded by their reputation and so toil for them for next to nothing. I tell you, publishers have no pudding down here, and the religious ones seem to be singled out for special punishment. One man is here tonight who used to run a religious paper. All he paid his writers was one dollar a column, and however hard they tried they couldn’t earn over six or seven dollars a week. He made contracts with the poor fellows to write for him alone, so they could not help themselves when he cut down the number of columns. One of these unfortunate men wrote a book while this contract was in force and it made quite a success and blow me! if the religious chap did not go and claim the book, too. How it would have turned out I do not know for the publisher died. I'll show him to you when we go down, that is if you would care to see him.”
“You bet I would!” said the reporter with sudden warmth. Whereupon the ghost said in a manner to calm his just anger:
“I don't think they are all so bad. But one thing I have noticed and that is that all the publishers have money, and all the things that money brings, while the great majority of the writers are poor, some of them miserably so. All the religious publishers and editors are down here and rather flock together. They seem to enjoy talking over the tricks of trade. I used to think that I was something of a pirate, too, in my way, and therefore their conversations interested me more probably, than they might otherwise have done. If you were to hear them talk together you would think much less of them than you do now.”
“I couldn’t!” answered the young man, with emphasis and conviction.
“I will show you another thing tonight that ought to please you if you take any special interest in publishers, and that is what is done with those publishers who make the writers wait for their money until their stories are published. It would be a balm for the hearts of the authors, and I wish you would let the writers know about it. It may be a poor satisfaction for those who die before their stories are published. It has always been a satisfaction to me to whale the fellow that tries to cheat me out of my own, and if I can’t whale him to see someone else do it and do it up brown.”
“They tell us that we must speak no evil of the dead,” said the young man tritely.
“These dead don't wait for anyone to tell what they have done, They think it is all right. What they have to suffer in seeing the papers, or the books they used to work on and about done so much better than they could do while alive! The policies of the whole thing are changed in many cases and that is very bitter. Well, with one last word on this subject I will let them alone. It seems to me that when a man writes a book or a story and offers it for sale, he has the same right to offer it as an artist his picture, or a cabinet-maker to offer his wares, and I can't see why the author should have to wait for his pay any more than the others. If it suits the publisher enough to cause him to buy it the buyer should pay for it. I have heard men tell here how they had had stories accepted for publication and kept there year after year, and then they died before they were published. And, as soon as they did die the publishers used them at once and paid nothing even to the widows. Now, of course, I have no means of knowing much about these matters, but it seems to me to be an outrage if it is true. I used to write poetry on shipboard, at night, and I am sure that I should not have liked this sort of treatment, if it is true.”
“Some of them are several times meaner than any you have mentioned. But, show them to me if you please,” said the reporter, who had a bone to pick with two or three dead publishers.
“I will. I am sorry for poor Bradford, for they have gone and restored his whole epitaph. He was good to me when I first came down and kindly taught me the rules. It is a bit rough until you have learned the ropes after you are dead.”
“Will you excuse me if I ask you a question? I have always been led to think that those who are dead dislike to hear the word dead. They are supposed to prefer to hear, ‘passed into spirit life’ and ‘gone to Summerland’ instead. All the mediums use that word, in palliation and instead of the harsher one. Dead, gives one a shock to hear,” asked the young man in a laudable desire to learn all he could.
“Poppycock and moonshine!” was the unexpected response. “There is no such thing as a medium. No, sir; they get your money and—do you suppose that one of them could get you the invitation to come down here tonight? You are soon to enter the very doors of ghostdom, but not through the efforts of any medium. No, sir; they trade upon your sense of loss and sorrow when anyone of yours dies, and they foster and encourage your desire to penetrate the mystery of the future life. They get your money by fraud, working upon your best sentiments. They ought to be keelhauled, and should be if I had my way. I'd string them to the yardarm and whack them with a rope’s end. If the tie that bound you to anyone you loved is broken by death there is no third party that can come and for a certain sum in cash become the medium of communication between you, and I say, lick the man that tells you different. You are getting this straight from a real ghost. In my warmth I had almost forgotten that you asked if we who are dead dislike to hear anyone say the word Dead. Quite the contrary, for we are dead and it would be very silly to try to disguise the fact, and we do not try to down here. Fact is truth and truth governs down here. Dead we are and dead we stay, and after all I am not sure that we are not quite as well, and sometimes better off, than when alive. If we miss some things we escape others. Well, come on; but before we go let me say that the Trinity ghosts are the hosts tonight and they feel themselves the most aristocratic ghosts in the land, so I wished to caution you so that you would avoid hurting anyone’s feelings by seeming to doubt it.”
“I shall be very careful, sir, and hope you will be near enough to forewarn me of any possible mistake. I assure you that I appreciate this distinguished honor more than I can say. But, I should like to ask if any of the Vanderbilts will be here tonight?”
“No, young man; there will be no Vanderbilts here tonight. But I can tell you something else that may interest you, and that is where old John Jacob Astor is tonight. You have doubtless heard that the old man was a worker from head to foot. Work was ingrained in his thrifty nature. He wandered all over America to buy up fur skins. For a long time he carried them on his back, so we are told, until his business had grown so that he required help, and could afford to pay for it. Even then he would gladly have carried them all, so great was his instinct of thrift. Then, when he found he could not tie them up alone he bought a baling press. This baling press he came to love. It marked for him the very spirit of progress, though it is a clumsy old thing made of beams and iron levers and screws. To this he confided his ambitions and joys and sorrows. So when his year of dormant waiting is over, like ours, and he is at liberty to amuse himself as he wishes for the few hours before the penance begins, The Master lets him choose between this evening of festivity and his own desire. His ghost is now down in the sub-cellar of the great John Ruszits fur company, where the women of four generations have brought their furs. This company was formed in 1851, and Astor died a few years before. The new Ruszits company must have felt a certain friendship for the old man, though there is no record of their ever dining together, for when the old baling press was about to be sold for junk, at auction, with the rest of the effects of the old fur house, they purchased it and had it set up in the sub-cellar and have carefully preserved it ever since. It is about thirty feet below the surface of the street. It is pretty sure that the present members of the family have no desire to keep it as an heirloom.
“That is about all of the old man’s effects left intact, and he is naturally drawn toward it, and now he is standing there in the pungent odor of raw pelts, and turning that baling press for all he is worth and if ghosts can sweat he is sweating now and enjoying himself in the keenest delight.”
“I should think he would prefer to spend the evening at the magnificent library which his money gave to the world. That is a noble sight, and I should think he would be glad to get out of the ground for a while.”
“My young friend, John Jacob Astor, the founder of that family, loved his business better than money. He could not be hired to leave the old press for all the books there is in it. When he is debarred from his present occupation he puts in his time turning over the raw furs in this place and inhaling their pungent odor, familiar and redolent of the old days. The rest of his time he sleeps and takes the repose which his active spirit would not allow him on earth.”
The young newspaper man thought a little about these things and remembered that only a few days ago he had been in this very warehouse where he had seen so much of beauty and value and yet missed seeing this old baling press, and he rather wondered, too, how anyone could prefer the penetrating odor of raw skins to the fresh air of night under the stars. He could understand how the sight and feel of the soft finished garments might appeal to one, but he only said:
“I don’t see why the Family should care for a better name and fame than that the old man left—that of an industrious, frugal and honest man—”
Before the young man could finish his sentence he became aware of a perfect cloud of shadowy forms, and all seemed to be gathering around him. He began to wish that he had gone for the whiskey and failed to return. His companion sat on the edge of a tombstone from which he had seemed to exude when he first made his appearance.
They had returned to that place while talking and as he did so he rubbed his stubbed toe, and for a few minutes no one said or did anything. At last the ghost said in a sibilant whisper:
“I think there would be time for one more smoke if you would be so good. The guests are gathering fast and I will smoke fast, too.”
The young man hastily filled the pipe with the last of the tobacco and the ghost smoked it and handed it back, saying:
“The tobacco is nearly all powder and does not smoke so well as the rest. No, no, I am not blaming you, but only saying that one of my experiences in life has been that when we do not use the good things of life with moderation we are sure to find the last lacking in flavor. Now, I could not resist one last smoke when I knew I might never have another, and in so doing I drained the cup to the dregs, so to speak—”
“Excuse me for interrupting, but if I am alive next year, and you will tell me how I can find you, I will come and bring such creature comforts as you may wish to have. If you will tell me—”
“I thank you with all my heart, and would suggest that the liquid refreshment might be rum, good Jamaica rum. I acquired a taste for that, and beyond that and a good smoke I can ask for nothing for it may have occurred to you that I have no need for food.
“We are now about to go below for the banquet and general reunion of such of us as have become acquainted. There will be some guests from Derby, Conn., and some of their relatives, and there will be some Revolutionary soldiers, and quite a number of tramp ghosts. A few sailors will also be here. They have been lying in a forgotten place over in Brooklyn and they are now being rooted out of there for someone wants to build a house. And I notice there seven old fellows who have been lying under the Hall of Records. There was once a cemetery there and many more are there but I shall not be the one to go and tell where. It is bad enough to be waiting for your passport without having to be a tramp ghost beside. Many of the old Revolutionary heroes lie there and in the language of a poet: ‘The knights are dust, And their good swords are rust; Their souls are with the saints, we trust.'
“Ah, well! Ladies will also grace the feast. The only unpleasant thing is that we have never been able to sweep away class distinctions, and pride of birth. And, I must confess that I am as bad as anyone, for whenever I see a sailor I just ache to send him to the forecastle, and of course there is no such place here. You have heard of the ruling passion being strong in death. It remains with us much as it was before we died, and it seems as if nothing can be of much moral or spiritual good until we get our passports.”
Just as the newspaper man was about to ask again about the passports, the other ghosts were so near that he waited, and at that moment a tall ghost stood up very straight, and smoothing a lock of imaginary hair from his forehead, said:
“Ladies and gentlemen—.” Then he paused and looked so steadily at the young man that he felt his heart sink into his boots, but the tall ghost contented himself with one long regard, and then he continued:
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have met here tonight to fulfill our yearly duty, and to meet in friendly intercourse. I hope you will all have a good time.”
As he said this he sat down on the edge of a crumbling headstone and glared around. There were murmurs of approbation and he rose and bowed with as much grace as was possible to a ghost who had scarcely a dozen remnants of his shroud hanging around him. But this absence of raiment did not seem to affect the ghosts in the least, and only one or two appeared to notice that their shrouds were in need of repair.
They were now by the northwest corner of the Church, and at a sign from the tall ghost they all followed him and marched around back to the Lawrence tomb. This was thrown open like a door in the solid masonry, and they began to descend in couples, such a crowd that they looked like mist, and no one stood out a distinct individuality in the transit.
The good-natured ghost then took the newspaper man by the arm and they followed the rest. No one took the slightest notice of them for which the man not yet dead was very thankful. He did not half like the idea of going down into the bowels of the earth among all these ghosts. As soon as they were down the young man saw to his surprise that there was a room so vast that his sight could not penetrate it to the end of it nor the width in any direction. It was lighted with a radiance so suave and pure that he wondered from whence it came.
The vast place was sustained by many columns of the finest marble, and was arched somewhat after the fashion of the church above. He could not repress an exclamation of surprise and pleasure, for never in his life did he see anything approaching it for beauty. Every column was carved in a different manner, and it seemed to him as if all the artists in the world or that ever lived had each made one, and this in competition with the others. One would be covered with flowers of such delicacy and perfection that it was impossible to believe them of marble, and the young man put out his hand and touched some of them to make sure that they were not some new and colorless plants growing down here. Others were covered with the most intricate designs, and the eye wearied in trying to follow the lines, so interlaced and complicated they were.
Others looked like lace. The fine lace pattern could be traced in all its daintiness, and it was a marvel of skill. Some of the columns resembled the tracery on the walls of the Alhambra, and some had vines through which peeped women’s faces in all moods, ages and degrees of beauty. Twin columns stood in one place and, on these nothing but children’s faces. Some of the babies carved on them were laughing, others crying, and so crowded, one beside another, and one above another that one wondered how so many could have been found in the world. Some of the babies were dead, others sick, some asleep, some plump and dimpled and more wan and wasted. Babies, babies, and yet more babies. The newspaper man was lost in astonishment at the number of them and the exquisiteness of the artist’s work. He examined so many of these beautiful columns that his brain was weary with the effort.
Then he turned his gaze to the lighting of this immense place, and was surprised that he had not noticed it at first. There were arches innumerable, and each one of these was covered with glowing vines, all such as bear flowers. In some places were hung baskets of the most gorgeous orchids, with their pendant foliage. Many of the columns had passion vines covered with their mysterious blossoms. There were roses and clematis and hundreds of other flowers that he had never seen, all climbing up those arches, and drooping in graceful festoons. He suddenly became aware that all the light emanated from the flowers and the leaves of these climbing plants. The passion flowers emitted light of the natural color of these blossoms, and the roses shed soft radiance. Even the leaves and tendrils were incandescent. Every bud and flower gave its share of light and the effect of all these together was one of marvelous richness, yet it was delicate and beautiful beyond description.
The odor of the different flowers hung on the air until it was almost oppressive, but yet so delicious. The young man thought what a success this kind of lighting and decoration would be for some of the smart set who are always trying to find something new with which to surprise their guests. He made a mental note of it and said to himself that other men had become leaders in the domains of swelldom on less than this, and he decided to keep his eyes open for any other novelty which could be transplanted above ground.
There was a breeze from somewhere, and he saw that the festoons of incandescent flowers were swaying in the wind, and the movement set free hundreds of delicious odors until now unsuspected. He was trying to study out a plan by which the danger of fire could be avoided, and still preserve all the marvelous effect of the illumination. As he stood lost in his admiration he became aware that a man was watching him. As he turned the man made a ceremonious bow and said:
“Excuse me, sir; but may I ask if you are really as much interested in the decorations as you appear to be?”
“I certainly am,” answered the young man, “and I wonder who could have done it. It must have taken many minds and many hands to have accomplished it. I am filled with wonder at the master mind that conceived it. Can you tell me anything about it?”
“Yes, for the original idea was mine, though many hands helped in carrying out the details. While I was alive, being a man of wealth and leisure, I amused myself in getting up unique affairs intended to amuse Society. I planned many things, both of a public and private nature, and if you will look over the files of the society papers of my time you will see that all were successful, even when I had but earthly hands and intelligence to depend upon. Our insight is keener now and our hands are no longer the clumsy things of life. Here I have but to formulate an idea and the artists, electricians and florists know my exact meaning; I flatter myself that the decorations here tonight are pretty fine. I do not believe that anyone could surpass them. What do you think?”
“I flatter myself that the decorations are fine”
“I think it is marvelous. But, please tell me—am I not speaking to the great—”
“Hush, young man. No one is great or small here. Only some have more power than others for certain reasons. I undertook the getting up of this affair just to keep my hand in. I hope that when I get my passport I may be able to run things in the next sphere as I did in my own circle while I was alive.”
The young man did not know exactly how to talk to the great man and so waited in silence for him to take up the conversation again. He did this by asking if the young man had noted many expressions of regret in the newspapers at the time of his demise.
The young man took note of the word demise and decided that somehow it sounded better than the less subdued one of Death, in a general way, and he thought it would sound so much better down here that he should make use of it. So he looked sympathetically at the ghost, who stood expectantly waiting, and said that he had been in school at the time, but he remembered perfectly well, and he had also heard the principal of the school tell the scholars about the demise of so famous a man, and one so useful. That his example was a noble one for the rising generation. While he was trying to think of something else to say, the ghost suddenly and very irrelevantly said:
“My dear sir, what do you consider the most satisfactory word in the English language?”
The young man blushed and stammered lamely that he did not exactly know, but would be glad if the shade of such an authority would enlighten him.
The great man pushed out his chest, and said pompously:
“I should say it is, satisfaction. I think there is no other word so strong in point of expressing a meaning to my mind. Now, I can say that I am in a state of complete satisfaction so far as the success of the origination of this fete is concerned. I have arranged so many other affairs out of doors that I was glad to try my hand in a new field. It has resulted in perfect satisfaction.”
Here he paused to allow the young listener to signify that he fully concurred in the statement. The ghost passed his skeleton hand across his chin and in a philosophical manner continued:
“Life is full of unsatisfied ambitions and general unrest of mind, and hunger for food or power that nothing can satisfy but the actual realization and final satisfaction of all longings. There is another satisfaction, and that is realized revenge. When I came down here and left all the vanities and pomp of the world behind me, I heard that a certain society woman who had often tried to rebel and set aside my authority, and sometimes did really annoy me very much and interfered with my plans to a most unreasonable extent, said that now that I was gone Society could draw a long breath and call its soul its own. This woman prided herself on her fine presence. She even boasted that Death itself could not make her ugly or less imposing. I saw her a few minutes ago, and I honestly think she makes the worst-looking ghost I ever saw. I assure you that was a great satisfaction. But, to return to the decorations here. I would ask, have you seen the card room?”
“Card room! I was always led to think cards the invention of the Evil one, and I certainly never expected to find them here.”
“My dear sir; you are behind the age. Cards are not by any means wicked in themselves, nor is it wicked to play them. The whole 600 play cards. Some of their card parties are among the most interesting functions down here. If Tom, Dick or Harry sit around in common places and play stud poker for the drinks, that is one thing. If Mrs. Schuyler Van Astorbilt has a card party, why it is all right to play poker, euchre or bridge whist, and if some lose why the others must win. They all are able to lose without depriving their families of bread. Therefore it is no sin for Society to play cards. I have decided that bridge whist is not worse than casino. There has been a lot of rot talked about the smart set, but not half of it is true—ah, yes; in a minute!”
This last was said by the man who had been talking with the reporter to a man who appeared to be quite excited about something. They talked for a few minutes in whispers, and then the newcomer, satisfied, went away, and the social leader and planner of the fete returned to the newspaper man with an apology, and said:
“You saw me just now? Well, that man came to tell me that there is a professional gambler in the card room. I must go and put him out. It would never do to let a professional gambler associate with our set. Many of them are here. Will you come with me?”
