The Ghost: A Modern Fantasy

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am eight years older now. It had never occurred to me that I am
advancing in life and experience until, in setting myself to recall
the various details of the affair, I suddenly remembered my timid
confusion before the haughty mien of the clerk at Keith Prowse's.
I had asked him: "Have you any amphitheatre seats for the Opera to-night?"
He did not reply. He merely put his lips together and waved his hand
slowly from side to side.
Not perceiving, in my simplicity, that he was thus expressing a
sublime pity for the ignorance which my demand implied, I innocently
proceeded: "Nor balcony?"
This time he condescended to speak.
"Noth--ing, sir."
Then I understood that what he meant was: "Poor fool! why don't you
ask for the moon?"
I blushed. Yes, I blushed before the clerk at Keith Prowse's, and
turned to leave the shop. I suppose he thought that as a Christian it
was his duty to enlighten my pitiable darkness.
"It's the first Rosa night to-night," he said with august affability.
"I had a couple of stalls this morning, but I've just sold them over
the telephone for six pound ten."
He smiled. His smile crushed me. I know better now. I know that clerks
in box-offices, with their correct neckties and their air of
continually doing wonders over the telephone, are not, after all, the
grand masters of the operatic world. I know that that manner of theirs
is merely a part of their attire, like their cravats; that they are
not really responsible for the popularity of great sopranos; and that
they probably go home at nights to Fulham by the white omnibus, or to
Hammersmith by the red one--and not in broughams.

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"I see," I observed, carrying my crushed remains out into the street.
Impossible to conceal the fact that I had recently arrived from
Edinburgh as raw as a ploughboy!
If you had seen me standing irresolute on the pavement, tapping my
stick of Irish bog-oak idly against the curbstone, you would have
seen a slim youth, rather nattily dressed (I think), with a shadow of
brown on his upper lip, and a curl escaping from under his hat, and
the hat just a little towards the back of his head, and a pretty good
chin, and the pride of life in his ingenuous eye. Quite unaware that
he was immature! Quite unaware that the supple curves of his limbs had
an almost feminine grace that made older fellows feel paternal! Quite
unaware that he had everything to learn, and that all his troubles lay
before him! Actually fancying himself a man because he had just taken
his medical degree....
The June sun shone gently radiant in a blue sky, and above the roofs
milky-bosomed clouds were floating in a light wind. The town was
bright, fresh, alert, as London can be during the season, and the
joyousness of the busy streets echoed the joyousness of my heart (for
I had already, with the elasticity of my years, recovered from the
reverse inflicted on me by Keith Prowse's clerk). On the opposite side
of the street were the rich premises of a well-known theatrical club,
whose weekly entertainments had recently acquired fame. I was, I
recollect, proud of knowing the identity of the building--it was one
of the few things I did know in London--and I was observing with
interest the wondrous livery of the two menials motionless behind the
glass of its portals, when a tandem equipage drew up in front of the
pile, and the menials darted out, in their white gloves, to prove that
they were alive and to justify their existence.

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It was an amazingly complete turnout, and it well deserved all the
attention it attracted, which was considerable. The horses were
capricious, highly polished grays, perhaps a trifle undersized, but
with such an action as is not to be bought for less than twenty-five
guineas a hoof; the harness was silver-mounted; the dog-cart itself a
creation of beauty and nice poise; the groom a pink and priceless
perfection. But the crown and summit of the work was the driver--a
youngish gentleman who, from the gloss of his peculiarly shaped collar
to the buttons of his diminutive boots, exuded an atmosphere of
expense. His gloves, his scarf-pin, his watch-chain, his mustache, his
eye-glass, the crease in his nether garments, the cut of his
coat-tails, the curves of his hat--all uttered with one accord the
final word of fashion, left nothing else to be said. The correctness
of Keith Prowse's clerk was as naught to his correctness. He looked as
if he had emerged immaculate from the outfitter's boudoir, an
achievement the pride of Bond Street.
As this marvellous creature stood up and prepared to alight from the
vehicle, he chanced to turn his eye-glass in my direction. He scanned
me carelessly, glanced away, and scanned me again with a less detached
stare. And I, on my part, felt the awakening of a memory.
"That's my cousin Sullivan," I said to myself. "I wonder if he wants
to be friends."
Our eyes coquetted. I put one foot into the roadway, withdrew it,
restored it to the roadway, and then crossed the street.

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It was indeed the celebrated Sullivan Smith, composer of those so
successful musical comedies, "The Japanese Cat," "The Arabian Girl,"
and "My Queen." And he condescended to recognize me! His gestures
indicated, in fact, a warm desire to be cousinly. I reached him. The
moment was historic. While the groom held the wheeler's head, and the
twin menials assisted with dignified inactivity, we shook hands.
"How long is it?" he said.
"Fifteen years--about," I answered, feeling deliciously old.
"Remember I punched your head?"
"Rather!" (Somehow I was proud that he had punched my head.) "No credit to me," he added magnanimously, "seeing I was years older
than you and a foot or so taller. By the way, Carl, how old did you
say you were?"
He regarded me as a sixth-form boy might regard a fourth-form boy.
"I didn't say I was any age," I replied. "But I'm twenty-three."
"Well, then, you're quite old enough to have a drink. Come into the
club and partake of a gin-and-angostura, old man. I'll clear all this
away."
He pointed to the equipage, the horses, and the groom, and with an
apparently magic word whispered into the groom's ear he did in fact
clear them away. They rattled and jingled off in the direction of
Leicester Square, while Sullivan muttered observations on the groom's
driving.
"Don't imagine I make a practice of tooling tandems down to my club,"
said Sullivan. "I don't. I brought the thing along to-day because I've
sold it complete to Lottie Cass. You know her, of course?"

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"I don't."
"Well, anyhow," he went on after this check, "I've sold her the entire
bag of tricks. What do you think I'm going to buy?"
"What?"
"A motor-car, old man!"
In those days the person who bought a motor-car was deemed a fearless
adventurer of romantic tendencies. And Sullivan so deemed himself. The
very word "motor-car" then had a strange and thrilling romantic sound
with it.
"The deuce you are!" I exclaimed.
"I am," said he, happy in having impressed me. He took my arm as though
we had been intimate for a thousand years, and led me fearlessly past
the swelling menials within the gate to the club smoking-room, and put
me into a grandfather's chair of pale heliotrope plush in front of an
onyx table, and put himself into another grandfather's chair of
heliotrope plush. And in the cushioned quietude of the smoking-room,
where light-shod acolytes served gin-and-angostura as if serving
gin-and-angostura had been a religious rite, Sullivan went through an
extraordinary process of unchaining himself. His form seemed to be
crossed and re-crossed with chains--gold chains. At the end of one gold
chain was a gold cigarette-case, from which he produced gold-tipped
cigarettes. At the end of another was a gold matchbox. At the end of
another, which he may or may not have drawn out by mistake, were all
sorts of things--knives, keys, mirrors, and pencils. A singular
ceremony! But I was now in the world of gold.
And then smoke ascended from the gold-tipped cigarettes as incense from
censers, and Sullivan lifted his tinted glass of gin-and-angostura, and
I, perceiving that such actions were expected of one in a theatrical
club, responsively lifted mine, and the glasses collided, and Sullivan
said: "Here's to the end of the great family quarrel."

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"I'm with you," said I.
And we sipped.
My father had quarrelled with his mother in an epoch when even musical
comedies were unknown, and the quarrel had spread, as family quarrels
do, like a fire or the measles. The punching of my head by Sullivan in
the extinct past had been one of its earliest consequences.
"May the earth lie lightly on them!" said Sullivan.
He was referring to the originators of the altercation. The tone in
which he uttered this wish pleased me--it was so gentle. It hinted
that there was more in Sullivan than met the eye, though a great deal
met the eye. I liked him. He awed me, and he also seemed to me
somewhat ridiculous in his excessive pomp. But I liked him.
The next instant we were talking about Sullivan Smith. How he
contrived to switch the conversation suddenly into that channel I
cannot imagine. Some people have a gift of conjuring with
conversations. They are almost always frankly and openly interested in
themselves, as Sullivan was interested in himself. You may seek to
foil them; you may even violently wrench the conversation into other
directions. But every effort will be useless. They will beat you. You
had much better lean back in your chair and enjoy their legerdemain.
In about two minutes Sullivan was in the very midst of his career.
"I never went in for high art, you know. All rot! I found I could
write melodies that people liked and remembered." (He was so used to
reading interviews with himself in popular weeklies that he had caught
the formalistic phraseology, and he was ready apparently to mistake
even his cousin for an interviewer. But I liked him.) "And I could get
rather classy effects out of an orchestra. And so I kept on. I didn't
try to be Wagner. I just stuck to Sullivan Smith. And, my boy, let me
tell you it's only five years since 'The Japanese Cat' was produced,
and I'm only twenty-seven, my boy! And now, who is there that doesn't
know me?" He put his elbows on the onyx. "Privately, between cousins,
you know, I made seven thousand quid last year, and spent half that. I
live on half my income; always have done; always shall. Good
principle! I'm a man of business, I am, Carl Foster. Give the public
what they want, and save half your income--that's the ticket. Look at
me. I've got to act the duke; it pays, so I do it. I am a duke. I get
twopence apiece royalty on my photographs. That's what you'll never
reach up to, not if you're the biggest doctor in the world." He
laughed. "By the way, how's Jem getting along? Still practising at
Totnes?"

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"Yes," I said.
"Doing well?"
"Oh! So--so! You see, we haven't got seven thousand a year, but we've
got five hundred each, and Jem's more interested in hunting than in
doctoring. He wants me to go into partnership with him. But I don't
see myself."
"Ambitious, eh, like I was? Got your degree in Edinburgh?"
I nodded, but modestly disclaimed being ambitious like he was.
"And your sister Lilian?"
"She's keeping house for Jem."
"Pretty girl, isn't she?"
"Yes," I said doubtfully. "Sings well, too."
"So you cultivate music down there?"
"Rather!" I said. "That is, Lilian does, and I do when I'm with her.
We're pretty mad on it. I was dead set on hearing Rosetta Rosa in
'Lohengrin' to-night, but there isn't a seat to be had. I suppose I
shall push myself into the gallery."
"No, you won't," Sullivan put in sharply. "I've got a box. There'll be
a chair for you. You'll see my wife. I should never have dreamt of
going. Wagner bores me, though I must say I've got a few tips from
him. But when we heard what a rush there was for seats Emmeline
thought we ought to go, and I never cross her if I can help it. I made
Smart give us a box."
"I shall be delighted to come," I said. "There's only one Smart, I
suppose? You mean Sir Cyril?"
"The same, my boy. Lessee of the Opera, lessee of the Diana, lessee of
the Folly, lessee of the Ottoman. If any one knows the color of his
cheques I reckon it's me. He made me--that I will say; but I made him,
too. Queer fellow! Awfully cute of him to get elected to the County
Council. It was through him I met my wife. Did you ever see Emmeline
when she was Sissie Vox?"

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"I'm afraid I didn't."
"You missed a treat, old man. There was no one to touch her in boys'
parts in burlesque. A dashed fine woman she is--though I say it,
dashed fine!" He seemed to reflect a moment. "She's a spiritualist. I
wish she wasn't. Spiritualism gets on her nerves. I've no use for it
myself, but it's her life. It gives her fancies. She got some sort of
a silly notion--don't tell her I said this, Carlie--about Rosetta
Rosa. Says she's unlucky--Rosa, I mean. Wanted me to warn Smart
against engaging her. Me! Imagine it! Why, Rosa will be the making of
this opera season! She's getting a terrific salary, Smart told me."
"It's awfully decent of you to offer me a seat," I began to thank him.
"Stuff!" he said. "Cost me nothing." A clock struck softly.
"Christopher! it's half-past twelve, and I'm due at the Diana at
twelve. We're rehearsing, you know."
We went out of the club arm in arm, Sullivan toying with his
eye-glass.
"Well, you'll toddle round to-night, eh? Just ask for my box. You'll
find they'll look after you. So long!"
He walked off.
"I say," he cried, returning hastily on his steps, and lowering his
voice, "when you meet my wife, don't say anything about her
theatrical career. She don't like it. She's a great lady now. See?"
"Why, of course!" I agreed.
He slapped me on the back and departed.
It is easy to laugh at Sullivan. I could see that even then--perhaps
more clearly then than now. But I insist that he was lovable. He had
little directly to do with my immense adventure, but without him it
could not have happened. And so I place him in the forefront of the
narrative.