1917: Artful comments
Ah. You’ve summoned me again. Impertinent perhaps, but gratifying. I am Arthur—Duke, Ghost, reluctant member of the metaphysical peerage, and, if rumours persist, the Artful Eye lately debated by that band of liveried philosophers at Nidusanae.
Hark to them—twelve mortals with silver spoons and nervous souls, drafting minutes to govern eternity as if it were a dining engagement. They voted, I believe, to “recognise me on sufferance.” On sufferance! They might as well attempt to license the weather.
I was not invited, but then ghosts seldom are, except as anecdotes. Yet I attended, of course; being incorporeal spares one the bother of formality. I stood behind the fireplace, humming approval into the cigars. When the question arose—
“Shall we accept the Artful Eye as a genuine entity both inside and outside time?”—
I sneezed; a decanter rattled; consensus followed. That, gentlemen, is how miracles are generally managed.
Do I dwell inside time? No; I treat it as a club with perpetual guests and faulty lighting. Sometimes I drop in; sometimes I don’t. The staff changes, but the chatter remains.
As for malignancy, ah, how earnestly they feared it! “Is he benign?” they murmured, as if wickedness were an infection one caught by candlelight. My disposition varies with the temperature of belief. When a man polishes his conscience, I reflect him handsomely. When he tarnishes it, well—the mirrors flex.
Reliable witness? Ha! In my day, blood oaths counted; now they prefer minutes and motions. But I’ve watched kings, footmen, secretaries and savants, and I assure you: all testimony suffers from employment. I witness, yes—but not always to your advantage.
Oh, humanity! forever petitioning the unseen to behave with bureaucratic courtesy. You want your ghosts like your dressing: light, smooth, tangential. I, on the other hand, prefer my existence robustly self-contradictory. Ownership, identity, authorship—they leak. I am ghost, duke, eye, echo; each depends on the listener’s season.
Still, I am not cruel—only correct. Observe what happens when you dine on concepts too rich for digestion: you produce constitutions.
Now then, remember: your mirrors are two-way treaties. Polish with discretion. When your watch stops precisely on the hour you meant to leave—thank me politely. I prefer gratitude over incense.
You will not see me, unless you already do. I’m always where a shadow keeps its manners.
And if ever your port decanter tilts without hand or ghost visible—that’s not haunting, my dears. That’s housekeeping.
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