Shall I die in my bed
decently
and as an English gentleman should die;
or, in one last walk on the Mall, will my soul be wrenched from me to
take its place forever and ever by the side of that ghastly phantasm?
or, in one last walk on the Mall, will my soul be wrenched from me to
take its place forever and ever by the side of that ghastly phantasm?
Kipling - Poems
I knew, moreover,
that it was my destiny to die slowly and a little every day. My only
anxiety was to get the penance over as quietly as might be. Alternately
I hungered for a sight of Kitty and watched her outrageous flirtations
with my successor--to speak more accurately, my successors--with amused
interest. She was as much out of my life as I was out of hers. By day I
wandered with Mrs. Wessington almost content. By night I implored Heaven
to let me return to the world as I used to know it. Above all these
varying moods lay the sensation of dull, numbing wonder that the Seen
and the Unseen should mingle so strangely on this earth to hound one
poor soul to its grave.
* * * * *
August 27. --Heatherlegh has been indefatigable in his attendance on me;
and only yesterday told me that I ought to send in an application for
sick leave. An application to escape the company of a phantom! A request
that the Government would graciously permit me to get rid of five ghosts
and an airy 'rickshaw by going to England. Heatherlegh's proposition
moved me to almost hysterical laughter. I told him that I should await
the end quietly at Simla; and I am sure that the end is not far off.
Believe me that I dread its advent more than any word can say; and I
torture myself nightly with a thousand speculations as to the manner of
my death.
Shall I die in my bed decently and as an English gentleman should die;
or, in one last walk on the Mall, will my soul be wrenched from me to
take its place forever and ever by the side of that ghastly phantasm?
Shall I return to my old lost allegiance in the next world, or shall
I meet Agnes loathing her and bound to her side through all eternity?
Shall we two hover over the scene of our lives till the end of Time?
As the day of my death draws nearer, the intense horror that all living
flesh feels toward escaped spirits from beyond the grave grows more and
more powerful. It is an awful thing to go down quick among the dead with
scarcely one-half of your life completed. It is a thousand times more
awful to wait as I do in your midst, for I know not what unimaginable
terror. Pity me, at least on the score of my "delusion," for I know you
will never believe what I have written here Yet as surely as ever a man
was done to death by the Powers of Darkness I am that man.
In justice, too, pity her. For as surely as ever woman was killed by
man, I killed Mrs. Wessington. And the last portion of my punishment is
ever now upon me.
* * * * *
MY OWN TRUE GHOST STORY
As I came through the Desert thus it was--
As I came through the Desert.
--The City of Dreadful Night.
Somewhere in the Other World, where there are books and pictures and
plays and shop windows to look at, and thousands of men who spend their
lives in building up all four, lives a gentleman who writes real stories
about the real insides of people; and his name is Mr. Walter Besant.
But he will insist upon treating his ghosts--he has published half
a workshopful of them--with levity.
that it was my destiny to die slowly and a little every day. My only
anxiety was to get the penance over as quietly as might be. Alternately
I hungered for a sight of Kitty and watched her outrageous flirtations
with my successor--to speak more accurately, my successors--with amused
interest. She was as much out of my life as I was out of hers. By day I
wandered with Mrs. Wessington almost content. By night I implored Heaven
to let me return to the world as I used to know it. Above all these
varying moods lay the sensation of dull, numbing wonder that the Seen
and the Unseen should mingle so strangely on this earth to hound one
poor soul to its grave.
* * * * *
August 27. --Heatherlegh has been indefatigable in his attendance on me;
and only yesterday told me that I ought to send in an application for
sick leave. An application to escape the company of a phantom! A request
that the Government would graciously permit me to get rid of five ghosts
and an airy 'rickshaw by going to England. Heatherlegh's proposition
moved me to almost hysterical laughter. I told him that I should await
the end quietly at Simla; and I am sure that the end is not far off.
Believe me that I dread its advent more than any word can say; and I
torture myself nightly with a thousand speculations as to the manner of
my death.
Shall I die in my bed decently and as an English gentleman should die;
or, in one last walk on the Mall, will my soul be wrenched from me to
take its place forever and ever by the side of that ghastly phantasm?
Shall I return to my old lost allegiance in the next world, or shall
I meet Agnes loathing her and bound to her side through all eternity?
Shall we two hover over the scene of our lives till the end of Time?
As the day of my death draws nearer, the intense horror that all living
flesh feels toward escaped spirits from beyond the grave grows more and
more powerful. It is an awful thing to go down quick among the dead with
scarcely one-half of your life completed. It is a thousand times more
awful to wait as I do in your midst, for I know not what unimaginable
terror. Pity me, at least on the score of my "delusion," for I know you
will never believe what I have written here Yet as surely as ever a man
was done to death by the Powers of Darkness I am that man.
In justice, too, pity her. For as surely as ever woman was killed by
man, I killed Mrs. Wessington. And the last portion of my punishment is
ever now upon me.
* * * * *
MY OWN TRUE GHOST STORY
As I came through the Desert thus it was--
As I came through the Desert.
--The City of Dreadful Night.
Somewhere in the Other World, where there are books and pictures and
plays and shop windows to look at, and thousands of men who spend their
lives in building up all four, lives a gentleman who writes real stories
about the real insides of people; and his name is Mr. Walter Besant.
But he will insist upon treating his ghosts--he has published half
a workshopful of them--with levity.
