Books with title The Blue Ghost

This is a pre-1923 historical reproduction that was curated for quality. Quality assurance was conducted on each of these books in an attempt to remove books with imperfections introduced by the digitization process. Though we have made best efforts - the books may have occasional errors that do not impede the reading experience. We believe this work is culturally important and have elected to bring the book back into print as part of our continuing commitment to the preservation of printed works worldwide.

Our narrator, Carl, is a tough character not to like. When the story starts he's not very confident and, as we're reminded frequently, very young. The latter's an important point because it's the excuse for every stupid thing he does during the course of the novel. Even so, he's smart enough and not judgmental or egotistical. Plus, he doesn't go into freak out mode when confronted with the strange and unusual–a useful skill to have in this book.

The novel opens with Carl Foster, a recently qualified doctor, coming to London to try and make his fortune. He meets a famous tenor, Signor Alresca, who suffers a dreadful injury backstage and Foster tends to him. He thus meets the lead soprano, Rosetta Rosa, and falls hopelessly in love with her. Alresca takes Foster under his wing and they travel to Alresca's home in Bruges. It is clear to Foster that Alresca has some strange obsession. Foster also notices a stranger who seems to be dogging his footsteps. Things take an even more sinister turn when Alresca inexplicably dies...

First published in 1907, The Ghost was the first of many "fantasias on modern times" written by Arnold Bennett. These illustrated his ability to produce not only realistic novels, perfected in his portrayals of provincial English life set in the Staffordshire scenery of his childhood, but also more sensational stories, written after his move to London where he developed a far more cosmopolitan interest. A supernatural story, The Ghost tells the tale of a beautiful opera star, Rosetta Rosa, whose beauty seems to cast a spell upon all those who meet her. When Carl Foster, a young doctor, sees Rosa at a London opera, and is instantly captivated, he soon finds himself plagued by mysterious happenings, and begins to see a malignant, spectral figure everywhere he turns. When another man enraptured by Rosa mysteriously dies, Carl begins to wonder whether loving her could bring with it a deadly curse. Moving between London and Paris, this fast-paced story draws the reader into a ghostly world of twists, turns, drama, and suspense

I am eight years older now. It had never occurred to me that I am advancing in life and experience until, in setting myself to recall the various details of the affair, I suddenly remembered my timid confusion before the haughty mien of the clerk at Keith Prowse's.I had asked him:"Have you any amphitheatre seats for the Opera to-night?"He did not reply. He merely put his lips together and waved his hand slowly from side to side.Not perceiving, in my simplicity, that he was thus expressing a sublime pity for the ignorance which my demand implied, I innocently proceeded:"Nor balcony?"This time he condescended to speak."Noth—ing, sir."Then I understood that what he meant was: "Poor fool! why don't you ask for the moon?"I blushed. Yes, I blushed before the clerk at Keith Prowse's, and turned to leave the shop. I suppose he thought that as a Christian it was his duty to enlighten my pitiable darkness."It's the first Rosa night to-night," he said with august affability. "I had a couple of stalls this morning, but I've just sold them over the telephone for six pound ten."He smiled. His smile crushed me. I know better now. I know that clerks in box-offices, with their correct neckties and their air of continually doing wonders over the telephone, are not, after all, the grand masters of the operatic world. I know that that manner of theirs is merely a part of their attire, like their cravats; that they are not really responsible for the popularity of great sopranos; and that they probably go home at nights to Fulham by the white omnibus, or to Hammersmith by the red one—and not in broughams.