ALIENS
BY
WILLIAM McFEE
AUTHOR OF "CASUALS OF THE SEA"
GARDEN CITY NEW YORK
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
1918
Copyright, 1918, by
Doubleday, Page & Company.
All rights reserved, including that of translation into
foreign languages, including the Scandinavian
TO MARGERY ALLINGHAM
PREFACE
[Publisher's Note: It should be explained that an earlier version of"Aliens" was published in London in 1914, and some copies were alsodistributed in the United States. After the issue of "Casuals of theSea" the present publishers purchased the rights to "Aliens" and urgedMr. McFee to re-write the story. His account of the history of this bookis here inserted, and will undoubtedly take its place among the mostentertaining and interesting prefaces in modern literature.]
So many people are unaware of the number of works of fiction which havebeen rewritten after publication. I was rather surprised myself when Icame to recapitulate them. I wouldn't go so far as to say that secondeditions, like second thoughts, are the best, because I at once think of"The Light that Failed." But I do believe that under the very unusualcircumstances of the genesis and first issue of Aliens I am justifiedin offering a maturer and more balanced representation of what that bookstands for.
The notion of a character like Mr. Carville came to me while I was busyfinishing "Casuals of the Sea" during the late fall of 1912. A shortstory was the result. It went to many likely and unlikely publishers,for I knew very little of the field. I don't know whether the "FarmJournal" (of which I am a devoted reader) got it, but it is quiteprob[Pg viii]able. A mad artist who lived near us, in an empty store along witha studio stove and three priceless Kakemonos, told me he would "put menext" an editor of his acquaintance. I forget the name of the paper now,but I think it had some connection with women's clothes. I sent in mystory, but unfortunately my friend forgot to put me next, for I gotneither cash nor manuscript. The next time I passed the empty store, Istepped in to explain, but the artist had a black eye, and his owninterest was so engrossed in Chinese lacquer-work and a stormy divorcecase he had coming on shortly, that I was struck dumb. What was a shortstory in comparison with such issues? And I knew he had no more opinionof me as an author than I had of him as an artist.
But when another typed copy came back from a round of visits to Americanmagazines, I kept it. I had a strong conviction that, in making a bookof what was then only a rather vague short story, I was not such a foolas the mad artist seemed to think. I reckoned his judgment had beenwarped by the highly eccentric environment in which he delighted. Theempty store in which he lived, like a rat in a shipping-case, was newand blatant. It thrust its blind, lime-washed window-front out over thesidewalk. Over the lime-wash one could see the new pine shelving alongthe walls loaded with innumerable rolls of wall-paper. Who wasresponsible for this moribund stock I could never discover. Perhaps themad artist imagined them to be priceless Kakemonos of such transcendentand blinding[Pg ix] beauty that he did not dare unroll them. They resembled alibrary of papyrus manuscripts. Here and there among them stood someexq