After-Supper Ghost Stories

by Jerome K. Jerome

  “Um,” he mused, “how about the child that tells everybody not to cry, and then dies?”

  “Oh, and a good riddance to it!” I replied peevishly. “There are too many children in this world. Look what a noise they make, and what a lot of money they cost in boots!”

  My editor agreed that I did not appear to be in the proper spirit to write a pathetic child story.

  He enquired if I had thought of the old man who wept over the faded love letters on Christmas Eve; and I said that I had, and that I considered him an old idiot.

  “Would a dog story do?” he continued. “Something about a dead dog – that’s always popular.”

  “Not Christmassy enough,” I argued.

  The betrayed maiden was suggested; but dismissed, on reflection, as being too broad a subject for the pages of a “Companion for the Home Circle” – our subtitle.

  “Well, think it over for another day,” said my editor. “I don’t want to have to go to Jenks. He can only be pathetic as a costermonger, and our lady readers don’t always like the expressions.”

  I thought I would go and ask the advice of a friend of mine – a very famous and popular author; in fact, one of the most famous and popular authors of the day. I was very proud of his friendship, because he was a very great man indeed: not great, perhaps, in the earnest meaning of the word; not great like the greatest men – the men who do not know that they are great – but decidedly great, according to the practical standard. When he wrote a book, a hundred thousand copies would be sold during the first week; and when a play of his was produced, the theatre was crammed for five hundred nights. And of each new work it was said that it was more clever and grand and glorious than were even the works he had written before.

  Wherever the English language was spoken, his name was an honoured household word. Wherever he went, he was fêted and lionized and cheered. Descriptions of his charming house, of his charming sayings and doings, of his charming self, were in every newspaper.

  Shakespeare was not one half so famous in his day as —— is in his.

  Fortunately, he happened to be still in town, and on being ushered into his sumptuously furnished study, I found him sitting before one of the windows, smoking an after-dinner cigar.

  He offered me one from the same box. ——’s cigars are not to be refused. I know he pays half a crown apiece for them by the hundred; so I accepted, lit up and, sitting down opposite to him, told him my trouble.

  He did not answer immediately after I had finished, and I was just beginning to think that he could not have been listening, when – with his eyes looking out through the open window to where, beyond the smoky city, it seemed as if the sun, in passing through, had left the gates of the sky ajar behind him – he took his cigar from his lips, and said:

  “Do you want a real pathetic story? I can tell you one if you do. It is not very long, but it is sad enough.”

  He spoke in so serious a tone that almost any reply seemed out of place and I remained silent.

  “It is the story of a man who lost his own self,” he continued, still looking out upon the dying light, as though he read the story there, “who stood by the deathbed of himself, and saw himself slowly die, and knew that he was dead – for ever.

  “Once upon a time there lived a poor boy. He had little in common with other children. He loved to wander by himself, to think and dream all day. It was not that he was morose, or did not care for his comrades, only that something within kept whispering to his childish heart that he had deeper lessons to comprehend than his schoolmates had. And an unseen hand would lead him away into the solitude where alone he could learn their meaning.

  “Ever amid the babel of the swarming street, would he hear strong, silent voices, speaking to him as he walked, telling him of the work that would one day be entrusted to his hands – work for God, such as is given to only the very few to do, work for the helping of God’s children in the world, for the making of them stronger and truer and higher – and, in some dimly lighted corner, where for a moment they were alone, he would stand and raise his boyish hands to heaven, and thank God for this great promised gift of noble usefulness, and pray that he might ever prove worthy of the trust; and, in the joy of his coming work, the little frets of life floated like driftwood on a deepening river; and as he grew, the voices spoke to him ever more plainly, until he saw his work before him clearly, as a traveller on the hilltop sees the pathway through the vale.

  “And so the years passed, and he became a man, and his labour lay ready to his hand.

  “And then a foul demon came and tempted him – the demon that has killed many a better man before, that will kill many a great man yet – the demon of worldly success. And the demon whispered evil words into his ear, and – God forgive him! – he listened.

  “‘Of what good to you, think you, will it be, your writing mighty truths and noble thoughts? What will the world pay for them? What has ever been the reward of the earth’s greatest teachers and poets – the men who have given their lives to the best service of mankind – but neglect and scorn and poverty? Look around! What are the wages of the few earnest workers of today but a pauper’s pittance, compared with the wealth that is showered down on those who jig to the tune that the crowd shouts for? Ay, the true singers are honoured when they are dead – those that are remembered; and the thoughts from their brains once fallen, whether they themselves are remembered or not, stir, with ever-widening circles to all time, the waters of human life. But of what use is that to themselves, who starved? You have talent, genius. Riches, luxury, power can be yours – soft beds and dainty foods. You can be great in the greatness that the world can see, famous with fame your own ears will hear. Work for the world, and the world will pay you promptly; the wages the gods give are long delayed.’

  “And the demon prevailed over him, and he fell.

  “And, instead of being the servant of God, he became the slave of men. And he wrote for the multitude what they wanted to hear, and the multitude applauded and flung money to him, and as he would stoop to pick it up, he would grin and touch his cap, and tell them how generous and noble they were.

  “And the spirit of the artist that is handmaiden to the spirit of the prophet departed from him, and he grew into the clever huckster, the smart tradesman, whose only desire was to discover the public taste, that he might pander to it.

  “‘Only tell me what it is you like,’ he would cry in his heart, ‘that I may write it for you, good people! Will you have again the old lies? Do you still love the old dead conventions, the worn-out formulas of life, the rotting weeds of evil thoughts that keep the fresh air from the flowers?

  “‘Shall I sing again to you the childish twaddle you have heard a million times before? Shall I defend for you the wrong, and call it right? Shall I stab Truth in the back for you, or praise it?

  “‘How shall I flatter you today, and in what way tomorrow and the next day? Only tell me what you wish me to say, what you wish me to think, that I may say it and think it, good people, and so get your pence and your plaudits!’

  “Thus he became rich and famous and great; and had fine clothes to wear and rich foods to eat, as the demon had promised him, and servants to wait on him, and horses, and carriages to ride in; and he would have been happy – as happy as such things can make a man – only that at the bottom of his desk there lay (and he had never had the courage to destroy them) a little pile of faded manuscripts, written in boyish hand, that would speak to him of the memory of a poor lad who had once paced the city’s feet-worn stones, dreaming of no other greatness than that of being one of God’s messengers to men, and who had died, and had been buried for all eternity, long years ago.”

  It was a very sad story, but not exactly the sort of sad story, I felt, that the public wants in a Christmas number. So I had to fall back upon the broken-hearted maiden after all!

  The New Utopia
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  I had spent an extremely interesting evening. I had dined with some very “advanced” friends of mine at the “National Socialist Club”. We had had an excellent dinner: the pheasant, stuffed with truffles, was a poem; and when I say that the ’49 Château Lafite was worth the price we had to pay for it, I do not see what more I can add in its favour.

  After dinner, and over the cigars (I must say they do know how to stock good cigars at the National Socialist Club), we had a very instructive discussion about the coming equality of man and the nationalization of capital.

  I was not able to take much part in the argument myself, because, having been left when a boy in a position which rendered it necessary for me to earn my own living, I have never enjoyed the time and opportunity to study these questions.

  But I listened very attentively while my friends explained how, for the thousands of centuries during which it had existed before they came, the world had been going on all wrong, and how, in the course of the next few years or so, they meant to put it right.

  Equality of all mankind was their watchword – perfect equality in all things – equality in possessions, and equality in position and influence, and equality in duties, resulting in equality in happiness and contentment.

  The world belonged to all alike, and must be equally divided. Each man’s labour was the property, not of himself, but of the state which fed and clothed him, and must be applied, not to his own aggrandizement, but to the enrichment of the race.

  Individual wealth – the social chain with which the few had bound the many, the bandit’s pistol by which a small gang of robbers had thieved from the whole community the fruits of its labours – must be taken from the hands that too long had held it.

  Social distinctions – the barriers by which the rising tide of humanity had hitherto been fretted and restrained – must be for ever swept aside. The human race must press onward to its destiny (whatever that might be), not as at present, a scattered horde, scrambling, each man for himself, over the broken ground of unequal birth and fortune – the soft sward reserved for the feet of the pampered, the cruel stones left for the feet of the cursed – but an ordered army, marching side by side over the level plain of equity and equality.

  The great bosom of our Mother Earth should nourish all her children, like and like; none should be hungry, none should have too much. The strong man should not grasp more than the weak; the clever should not scheme to seize more than the simple. The earth was man’s, and the fullness thereof; and among all mankind it should be portioned out in even shares. All men were equal by the laws of Nature, and must be made equal by the laws of man.

  With inequality comes misery, crime, sin, selfishness, arrogance, hypocrisy. In a world in which all men were equal, there would exist no temptation to evil, and our natural nobility would assert itself.

  When all men were equal, the world would be heaven – freed from the degrading despotism of God.

  We raised our glasses and drank to Equality, sacred Equality; and then ordered the waiter to bring us green chartreuse and more cigars.

  I went home very thoughtful. I did not go to sleep for a long while; I lay awake, thinking over this vision of a new world that had been presented to me.

  How delightful life would be, if only the scheme of my socialistic friends could be carried out. There would be no more of this struggling and striving against each other, no more jealousy, no more disappointment, no more fear of poverty! The state would take charge of us from the hour we were born until we died, and provide for all our wants from the cradle to the coffin, both inclusive, and we should need to give no thought even to the matter. There would be no more hard work (three hours’ labour a day would be the limit, according to our calculations, that the state would require from each adult citizen, and nobody would be allowed to do more – I should not be allowed to do more) – no poor to pity, no rich to envy – no one to look down upon us, no one for us to look down upon (not quite so pleasant this latter reflection) – all our life ordered and arranged for us – nothing to think about except the glorious destiny (whatever that might be) of Humanity!

  Then thought crept away to sport in chaos, and I slept.

  * * *

  When I awoke, I found myself lying under a glass case, in a high, cheerless room. There was a label over my head; I turned and read it. It ran as follows.

  MAN – ASLEEP

  PERIOD – 19TH CENTURY

  THIS MAN WAS FOUND ASLEEP IN A HOUSE IN LONDON, AFTER THE GREAT SOCIAL REVOLUTION OF 1899. FROM THE ACCOUNT GIVEN BY THE LANDLADY OF THE HOUSE, IT WOULD APPEAR THAT HE HAD ALREADY, WHEN DISCOVERED, BEEN ASLEEP FOR OVER TEN YEARS (SHE HAVING FORGOTTEN TO CALL HIM). IT WAS DECIDED, FOR SCIENTIFIC PURPOSES, NOT TO AWAKE HIM, BUT JUST TO SEE HOW LONG HE WOULD SLEEP ON, AND HE WAS ACCORDINGLY BROUGHT AND DEPOSITED IN THE “MUSEUM OF CURIOSITIES”, ON FEBRUARY 11TH, 1900.

  Visitors are requested not to squirt water through the air holes.

  An intelligent-looking old gentleman, who had been arranging some stuffed lizards in an adjoining case, came over and took the cover off me.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked. “Anything disturbed you?”

  “No,” I said. “I always wake up like this when I feel I’ve had enough sleep. What century is this?”

  “This,” he said, “is the twenty-ninth century. You have been asleep for just one thousand years.”

  “Ah! Well, I feel all the better for it,” I replied, getting down off the table. “There’s nothing like having one’s sleep out.”

  “I take it you are going to do the usual thing,” said the old gentleman to me, as I proceeded to put on my clothes, which had been lying beside me in the case. “You’ll want me to walk round the city with you, and explain all the changes to you, while you ask questions and make silly remarks?”

  “Yes,” I replied, “I suppose that’s what I ought to do.”

  “I suppose so,” he muttered. “Come on, and let’s get it over,” and he led the way from the room.

  As we went downstairs, I said:

  “Well, is it all right, now?”

  “Is what all right?” he replied.

  “Why, the world,” I answered. “A few friends of mine were arranging, just before I went to bed, to take it to pieces and fix it up again properly. Have they got it all right by this time? Is everybody equal now, and sin and sorrow and all that sort of thing done away with?”

  “Oh, yes,” replied my guide. “You’ll find everything all right now. We’ve been working away pretty hard at things while you’ve been asleep. We’ve just got this earth about perfect now, I should say. Nobody is allowed to do anything wrong or silly; and as for equality, tadpoles ain’t in it with us.”

  (He talked in rather a vulgar manner, I thought, but I did not like to reprove him.)

  We walked out into the city. It was very clean and very quiet. The streets, which were designated by numbers, ran out from each other at right angles, and all presented exactly the same appearance. There were no horses or carriages about; all the traffic was conducted by electric cars. All the people that we met wore a quiet, grave expression, and were so much like each other as to give one the idea that they were all members of the same family. Everyone was dressed, as was also my guide, in a pair of grey trousers and a grey tunic, buttoning tight round the neck and fastened round the waist by a belt. Each man was clean-shaven, and each man had black hair.

  I said:

  “Are all these men twins?”

  “Twins! Good gracious, no!” answered my guide. “Whatever made you fancy that?”

  “Why, they all look so much alike,” I replied, “and they’ve all got black hair!”

  “Oh, that’s the regulation colour for hair,” explained my companion. “We’ve all got black hair. If a man’s hair is not black naturally, he has to have it dyed black.”

  “Why?” I asked
.

  “Why!” retorted the old gentleman, somewhat irritably. “Why, I thought you understood that all men were now equal. What would become of our equality if one man or woman were allowed to swagger about in golden hair, while another had to put up with carrots? Men have not only got to be equal in these happy days, but to look it, as far as can be. By causing all men to be clean-shaven, and all men and women to have black hair cut the same length, we obviate, to a certain extent, the errors of Nature.”

  I said:

  “Why black?”

  He said he did not know, but that was the colour which had been decided upon.

  “Who by?” I asked.

  “By THE MAJORITY,” he replied, raising his hat and lowering his eyes, as if in prayer.

  We walked further, and passed more men. I said:

  “Are there no women in this city?”

  “Women!” exclaimed my guide. “Of course there are. We’ve passed hundreds of them!”

  “I thought I knew a woman when I saw one,” I observed, “but I can’t remember noticing any.”

  “Why, there go two, now,” he said, drawing my attention to a couple of persons near to us, both dressed in the regulation grey trousers and tunics.

  “How do you know they are women?” I asked.

  “Why, you see the metal numbers that everybody wears on their collar?”

  “Yes: I was just thinking what a number of policemen you had, and wondering where the other people were!”

  “Well, the even numbers are women; the odd numbers are men.”

  “How very simple,” I remarked. “I suppose after a little practice you can tell one sex from the other almost at a glance?”

  “Oh yes,” he replied, “if you want to.”

  We walked on in silence for a while. And then I said:

  “Why does everybody have a number?”

  “To distinguish him by,” answered my companion.

  “Don’t people have names, then?”