The Suitable Surroundings

by Ambrose Bierce

THE NIGHT One midsummer night a farmer's boy living about ten miles from the cityof Cincinnati was following a bridle path through a dense and darkforest. He had lost himself while searching for some missing cows, andnear midnight was a long way from home, in a part of the country withwhich he was unfamiliar. But he was a stout-hearted lad, and knowing hisgeneral direction from his home, he plunged into the forest withouthesitation, guided by the stars. Coming into the bridle path, andobserving that it ran in the right direction, he followed it. The night was clear, but in the woods it was exceedingly dark. It wasmore by the sense of touch than by that of sight that the lad kept thepath. He could not, indeed, very easily go astray; the undergrowth onboth sides was so thick as to be almost impenetrable. He had gone intothe forest a mile or more when he was surprised to see a feeble gleam oflight shining through the foliage skirting the path on his left. Thesight of it startled him and set his heart beating audibly. "The old Breede house is somewhere about here," he said to himself."This must be the other end of the path which we reach it by from ourside. Ugh! what should a light be doing there?" Nevertheless, he pushed on. A moment later he had emerged from theforest into a small, open space, mostly upgrown to brambles. There wereremnants of a rotting fence. A few yards from the trail, in the middleof the "clearing," was the house from which the light came, through anunglazed window. The window had once contained glass, but that and itssupporting frame had long ago yielded to missiles flung by hands ofventuresome boys to attest alike their courage and their hostility tothe supernatural; for the Breede house bore the evil reputation of beinghaunted. Possibly it was not, but even the hardiest sceptic could notdeny that it was deserted--which in rural regions is much the samething. Looking at the mysterious dim light shining from the ruined window theboy remembered with apprehension that his own hand had assisted at thedestruction. His penitence was of course poignant in proportion to itstardiness and inefficacy. He half expected to be set upon by all theunworldly and bodiless malevolences whom he had outraged by assisting tobreak alike their windows and their peace. Yet this stubborn lad,shaking in every limb, would not retreat. The blood in his veins wasstrong and rich with the iron of the frontiersman. He was but tworemoves from the generation that had subdued the Indian. He started topass the house. As he was going by he looked in at the blank window space and saw astrange and terrifying sight,--the figure of a man seated in the centreof the room, at a table upon which lay some loose sheets of paper. Theelbows rested on the table, the hands supporting the head, which wasuncovered. On each side the fingers were pushed into the hair. The faceshowed dead-yellow in the light of a single candle a little to one side.The flame illuminated that side of the face, the other was in deepshadow. The man's eyes were fixed upon the blank window space with astare in which an older and cooler observer might have discernedsomething of apprehension, but which seemed to the lad altogethersoulless. He believed the man to be dead. The situation was horrible, but not with out its fascination. The boystopped to note it all. He was weak, faint and trembling; he could feelthe blood forsaking his face. Nevertheless, he set his teeth andresolutely advanced to the house. He had no conscious intention--it wasthe mere courage of terror. He thrust his white face forward into theilluminated opening. At that instant a strange, harsh cry, a shriek,broke upon the silence of the night--the note of a screech-owl. The mansprang to his feet, overturning the table and extinguishing the candle.The boy took to his heels. THE DAY BEFORE "Good-morning, Colston. I am in luck, it seems. You have often said thatmy commendation of your literary work was mere civility, and here youfind me absorbed--actually merged--in your latest story in the_Messenger_. Nothing less shocking than your touch upon my shoulderwould have roused me to consciousness." "The proof is stronger than you seem to know," replied the manaddressed: "so keen is your eagerness to read my story that you arewilling to renounce selfish considerations and forego all the pleasurethat you could get from it." "I don't understand you," said the other, folding the newspaper that heheld and putting it into his pocket. "You writers are a queer lot,anyhow. Come, tell me what I have done or omitted in this matter. Inwhat way does the pleasure that I get, or might get, from your workdepend on me?" "In many ways. Let me ask you how you would enjoy your breakfast if youtook it in this street car. Suppose the phonograph so perfected as to beable to give you an entire opera,--singing, orchestration, and all; doyou think you would get much pleasure out of it if you turned it on atyour office during business hours? Do you really care for a serenade bySchubert when you hear it fiddled by an untimely Italian on a morningferryboat? Are you always cocked and primed for enjoyment? Do you keepevery mood on tap, ready to any demand? Let me remind you, sir, that thestory which you have done me the honor to begin as a means of becomingoblivious to the discomfort of this car is a ghost story!" "Well?" "Well! Has the reader no duties corresponding to his privileges? Youhave paid five cents for that newspaper. It is yours. You have the rightto read it when and where you will. Much of what is in it is neitherhelped nor harmed by time and place and mood; some of it actuallyrequires to be read at once--while it is fizzing. But my story is not ofthat character. It is not 'the very latest advices' from Ghostland. Youare not expected to keep yourself _au courant_ with what is going on inthe realm of spooks. The stuff will keep until you have leisure to putyourself into the frame of mind appropriate to the sentiment of thepiece--which I respectfully submit that you cannot do in a street car,even if you are the only passenger. The solitude is not of the rightsort. An author has rights which the reader is bound to respect." "For specific example?" "The right to the reader's undivided attention. To deny him this isimmoral. To make him share your attention with the rattle of a streetcar, the moving panorama of the crowds on the sidewalks, and thebuildings beyond--with any of the thousands of distractions which makeour customary environment--is to treat him with gross injustice. By God,it is infamous!" The speaker had risen to his feet and was steadying himself by one ofthe straps hanging from the roof of the car. The other man looked up athim in sudden astonishment, wondering how so trivial a grievance couldseem to justify so strong language. He saw that his friend's face wasuncommonly pale and that his eyes glowed like living coals. "You know what I mean," continued the writer, impetuously crowding hiswords--"you know what I mean, Marsh. My stuff in this morning's_Messenger_ is plainly sub-headed 'A Ghost Story.' That is ample noticeto all. Every honorable reader will understand it as prescribing byimplication the conditions under which the work is to be read." The man addressed as Marsh winced a trifle, then asked with a smile:"What conditions? You know that I am only a plain business man whocannot be supposed to understand such things. How, when, where should Iread your ghost story?" "In solitude--at night--by the light of a candle. There are certainemotions which a writer can easily enough excite--such as compassion ormerriment. I can move you to tears or laughter under almost anycircumstances. But for my ghost story to be effective you must be madeto feel fear--at least a strong sense of the supernatural--and that is adifficult matter. I have a right to expect that if you read me at allyou will give me a chance; that you will make yourself accessible to theemotion that I try to inspire." The car had now arrived at its terminus and stopped. The trip justcompleted was its first for the day and the conversation of the twoearly passengers had not been interrupted. The streets were yet silentand desolate; the house tops were just touched by the rising sun. Asthey stepped from the car and walked away together Marsh narrowly eyedhis companion, who was reported, like most men of uncommon literaryability, to be addicted to various destructive vices. That is therevenge which dull minds take upon bright ones in resentment of theirsuperiority. Mr. Colston was known as a man of genius. There are honestsouls who believe that genius is a mode of excess. It was known thatColston did not drink liquor, but many said that he ate opium. Somethingin his appearance that morning--a certain wildness of the eyes, anunusual pallor, a thickness and rapidity of speech--were taken by Mr.Marsh to confirm the report. Nevertheless, he had not the self-denial toabandon a subject which he found interesting, however it might excitehis friend. "Do you mean to say," he began, "that if I take the trouble to observeyour directions--place myself in the conditions that you demand:solitude, night and a tallow candle--you can with your ghostly work giveme an uncomfortable sense of the supernatural, as you call it? Can youaccelerate my pulse, make me start at sudden noises, send a nervouschill along my spine and cause my hair to rise?" Colston turned suddenly and looked him squarely in the eyes as theywalked. "You would not dare--you have not the courage," he said. Heemphasized the words with a contemptuous gesture. "You are brave enoughto read me in a street car, but--in a deserted house--alone--in theforest--at night! Bah! I have a manuscript in my pocket that would killyou." Marsh was angry. He knew himself courageous, and the words stung him."If you know such a place," he said, "take me there to-night and leaveme your story and a candle. Call for me when I've had time enough toread it and I'll tell you the entire plot and--kick you out of theplace." That is how it occurred that the farmer's boy, looking in at an unglazedwindow of the Breede house, saw a man sitting in the light of a candle. THE DAY AFTER Late in the afternoon of the next day three men and a boy approached theBreede house from that point of the compass toward which the boy hadfled the preceding night. The men were in high spirits; they talked veryloudly and laughed. They made facetious and good-humored ironicalremarks to the boy about his adventure, which evidently they did notbelieve in. The boy accepted their raillery with seriousness, making noreply. He had a sense of the fitness of things and knew that one whoprofesses to have seen a dead man rise from his seat and blow out acandle is not a credible witness. Arriving at the house and finding the door unlocked, the party ofinvestigators entered without ceremony. Leading out of the passage intowhich this door opened was another on the right and one on the left.They entered the room on the left--the one which had the blank frontwindow. Here was the dead body of a man. It lay partly on one side, with the forearm beneath it, the cheek on thefloor. The eyes were wide open; the stare was not an agreeable thing toencounter. The lower jaw had fallen; a little pool of saliva hadcollected beneath the mouth. An overthrown table, a partly burnedcandle, a chair and some paper with writing on it were all else that theroom contained. The men looked at the body, touching the face in turn.The boy gravely stood at the head, assuming a look of ownership. It wasthe proudest moment of his life. One of the men said to him, "You're agood 'un"--a remark which was received by the two others with nods ofacquiescence. It was Scepticism apologizing to Truth. Then one of themen took from the floor the sheet of manuscript and stepped to thewindow, for already the evening shadows were glooming the forest. Thesong of the whip-poor-will was heard in the distance and a monstrousbeetle sped by the window on roaring wings and thundered away out ofhearing. The man read: THE MANUSCRIPT "Before committing the act which, rightly or wrongly, I have resolved on and appearing before my Maker for judgment, I, James R. Colston, deem it my duty as a journalist to make a statement to the public. My name is, I believe, tolerably well known to the people as a writer of tragic tales, but the somberest imagination never conceived anything so tragic as my own life and history. Not in incident: my life has been destitute of adventure and action. But my mental career has been lurid with experiences such as kill and damn. I shall not recount them here--some of them are written and ready for publication elsewhere. The object of these lines is to explain to whomsoever may be interested that my death is voluntary--my own act. I shall die at twelve o'clock on the night of the 15th of July--a significant anniversary to me, for it was on that day, and at that hour, that my friend in time and eternity, Charles Breede, performed his vow to me by the same act which his fidelity to our pledge now entails upon me. He took his life in his little house in the Copeton woods. There was the customary verdict of 'temporary insanity.' Had I testified at that inquest--had I told all I knew, they would have called _me_ mad!" Here followed an evidently long passage which the man reading read tohimself only. The rest he read aloud. "I have still a week of life in which to arrange my worldly affairs and prepare for the great change. It is enough, for I have but few affairs and it is now four years since death became an imperative obligation. "I shall bear this writing on my body; the finder will please hand it to the coroner. "JAMES R. COLSTON. "P.S.--Willard Marsh, on this the fatal fifteenth day of July I hand you this manuscript, to be opened and read under the conditions agreed upon, and at the place which I designated. I forego my intention to keep it on my body to explain the manner of my death, which is not important. It will serve to explain the manner of yours. I am to call for you during the night to receive assurance that you have read the manuscript. You know me well enough to expect me. But, my friend, it _will be after twelve o'clock._ May God have mercy on our souls! "J.R.C." Before the man who was reading this manuscript had finished, the candlehad been picked up and lighted. When the reader had done, he quietlythrust the paper against the flame and despite the protestations of theothers held it until it was burnt to ashes. The man who did this, andwho afterward placidly endured a severe reprimand from the coroner, wasa son-in-law of the late Charles Breede. At the inquest nothing couldelicit an intelligent account of what the paper had contained. FROM "THE TIMES" "Yesterday the Commissioners of Lunacy committed to the asylum Mr. James R. Colston, a writer of some local reputation, connected with the _Messenger_. It will be remembered that on the evening of the 15th inst. Mr. Colston was given into custody by one of his fellow-lodgers in the Baine House, who had observed him acting very suspiciously, baring his throat and whetting a razor--occasionally trying its edge by actually cutting through the skin of his arm, etc. On being handed over to the police, the unfortunate man made a desperate resistance, and has ever since been so violent that it has been necessary to keep him in a strait-jacket. Most of our esteemed contemporary's other writers are still at large."

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