



Produced by Tom Harris




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.