Pretty good, returned the Doctor. But whats the use of killing off your audience that way? Its better business to let em live, I say. Suppose Nero gave a London audience that little musicale he provided at Queen Elizabeths Wednesday night. How many purely mortal beings, do you think, would have come out alive?
Not one, said Shakespeare. I was mighty glad that night that we were an immortal band. If it had been possible to kill us wed have died then and there.
Thats all right, said Nero, with a significant shake of his head. As my friend Bacon makes Ingo say, Beware, my lord, of jealousy. You never could play a garden hose, much less a fiddle.
What do you mean my attributing those words to Bacon? demanded Shakespeare, getting red in the face.
Oh, come now, William, remonstrated Nero. Its all right to pull the wool over the eyes of the mortals. Thats what theyre there for; but as for uswere all in the secret here. Whats the use of putting on nonsense with us?
Well see in a minute what the use is, retorted the Avonian. Well have Bacon down here. Here he touched an electric button, and Charon came in answer.
Charon, bring Doctor Johnson the usual glass of ale. Get some ice for the Emperor, and ask Lord Bacon to step down here a minute.
I dont want any ice, said Nero.
Not now, retorted Shakespeare, but you will in a few minutes. When we have finished with you, youll want an iceberg. Im getting tired of this idiotic talk about not having written my own works. Theres one thing about Neros music that Ive never said, because I havent wanted to hurt his feelings, but since he has chosen to cast aspersions upon my honesty I havent any hesitation in saying it now. I believe it was one of his fiddlings that sent Nature into convulsions and caused the destruction of Pompeiiso there! Put that on your music rack and fiddle it, my little Emperor.
Neros face grew purple with anger, and if Shakespeare had been anything but a shade he would have fared ill, for the enraged Roman, poising his cue on high as though it were a lance, hurled it at the impertinent dramatist with all his strength, and with such accuracy of aim withal that it pierced the spot beneath which in life the heart of Shakespeare used to beat.
Good shot, said Doctor Johnson, nonchalantly. If you had been a mortal, William, it would have been the end of you.
You cant kill me, said Shakespeare, shrugging his shoulders. I know seven dozen actors in the United States who are trying to do it, but they cant. I wish theyd try to kill a critic once in a while instead of me, though, he added. I went over to Boston one night last week, and, unknown to anybody, I waylaid a fellow who was to play Hamlet that night. I drugged him, and went to the theatre and played the part myself. It was the coldest house you ever saw in your life. When the audience did applaud, it sounded like an ice-man chopping up ice with a small pick. Several times I looked up at the galleries to see if there were not icicles growing on them, it was so cold. Well, I did the best could with the part, and next morning watched curiously for the criticisms.
Favorable? asked the Doctor.
They all dismissed me with a line, said the dramatist. Said my conception of the part was not Shakespearian. And thats criticism!
No, said the shade of Emerson, which had strolled in while Shakespeare was talking, that isnt criticism; thats Boston.
Who discovered Boston, anyhow? asked Doctor Johnson. It wasnt Columbus, was it?
Oh no, said Emerson. Old Governor Winthrop is to blame for that. When he settled at Charlestown he saw the old Indian town of Shawmut across the Charles.
And Shawmut was the Boston microbe, was it? asked Johnson.
Yes, said Emerson.
Spelt with a P, I suppose? said Shakespeare. P-S-H-A-W, Pshaw, M-U-T, mut, Pshawmut, so called because the inhabitants are always muttering pshaw. Eh?
Pretty good, said Johnson. I wish Id said that.
Well, tell Boswell, said Shakespeare. Hell make you say it, and itll be all the same in a hundred years.
Lord Bacon, accompanied by Charon and the ice for Nero and the ale for Doctor Johnson, appeared as Shakespeare spoke. The philosopher bowed stiffly at Doctor Johnson, as though he hardly approved of him, extended his left hand to Shakespeare, and stared coldly at Nero.
Did you send for me, William? he asked, languidly.
I did, said Shakespeare. I sent for you because this imperial violinist here says that you wrote Othello.
What nonsense, said Bacon. The only plays of yours I wrote were Ham
Sh! said Shakespeare, shaking his head madly. Hush. Nobodys said anything about that. This is purely a discussion of Othello.
The fiddling ex-Emperor Nero, said Bacon, loudly enough to be heard all about the room, is mistaken when he attributes Othello to me.
Aha, Master Nero! cried Shakespeare triumphantly. What did I tell you?
Then I erred, that is all, said Nero. And I apologize. But really, my Lord, he added, addressing Bacon, I fancied I detected your fine Italian hand in that.
No. I had nothing to do with the Othello, said Bacon. I never really knew who wrote it.
Never mind about that, whispered Shakespeare. Youve said enough.
Thats good too, said Nero, with a chuckle. Shakespeare here claims it as his own.
Bacon smiled and nodded approvingly at the blushing Avonian.
Will always was having his little joke, he said. Eh, Will? How we fooled em on Hamlet, eh, my boy? Ha-ha-ha! It was the greatest joke of the century.
Well, the laugh is on you, said Doctor Johnson. If you wrote Hamlet and didnt have the sense to acknowledge it, you present to my mind a closer resemblance to Simple Simon than to Socrates. For my part, I dont believe you did write it, and I do believe that Shakespeare did. I can tell that by the spelling in the original edition.
Shakespeare was my stenographer, gentlemen, said Lord Bacon. If you want to know the whole truth, he did write Hamlet, literally. But it was at my dictation.
I deny it, said Shakespeare. I admit you gave me a suggestion now and then so as to keep it dull and heavy in spots, so that it would seem more like a real tragedy than a comedy punctuated with deaths, but beyond that you had nothing to do with it.
I side with Shakespeare, put in Emerson. Ive seen his autographs, and no sane person would employ a man who wrote such a villanously bad hand as an amanuensis. Its no use, Bacon, we know a thing or two. Im a New-Englander, I am.
Well, said Bacon, shrugging his shoulders as though the results of the controversy were immaterial to him, have it so if you please. There isnt any money in Shakespeare these days, so whats the use of quarrelling? I wrote Hamlet, and Shakespeare knows it. Others know it. Ah, here comes Sir Walter Raleigh. Well leave it to him. He was cognizant of the whole affair.
I leave it to nobody, said Shakespeare, sulkily.
I leave it to nobody, said Shakespeare, sulkily.
Whats the trouble? asked Raleigh, sauntering up and taking a chair under the cue-rack. Talking politics?
Not we, said Bacon. Its the old question about the authorship of Hamlet. Will, as usual, claims it for himself. Hell be saying he wrote Genesis next.
Well, what if he does? laughed Raleigh. We all know Will and his droll ways.
No doubt, put in Nero. But the question of Hamlet always excites him so that wed like to have it settled once and for all as to who wrote it. Bacon says you know.
I do, said Raleigh.
Then settle it once and for all, said Bacon. Im rather tired of the discussion myself.
Shall I tell em, Shakespeare? asked Raleigh.
Its immaterial to me, said Shakespeare, airily. If you wishonly tell the truth.
Very well, said Raleigh, lighting a cigar. Im not ashamed of it. I wrote the thing myself.
There was a roar of laughter which, when it subsided, found Shakespeare rapidly disappearing through the door, while all the others in the room ordered various beverages at the expense of Lord Bacon.
CHAPTER III: WASHINGTON GIVES A DINNER
It was Washingtons Birthday, and the gentleman who had the pleasure of being Father of his Country decided to celebrate it at the Associated Shades floating palace on the Styx, as the Elysium Weekly Gossip, a Journal of Society, called it, by giving a dinner to a select number of friends. Among the invited guests were Baron Munchausen, Doctor Johnson, Confucius, Napoleon Bonaparte, Diogenes, and Ptolemy. Boswell was also present, but not as a guest. He had a table off to one side all to himself, and upon it there were no china plates, silver spoons, knives, forks, and dishes of fruit, but pads, pens, and ink in great quantity. It was evident that Boswells reportorial duties did not end with his labors in the mundane sphere.
The dinner was set down to begin at seven oclock, so that the guests, as was proper, sauntered slowly in between that hour and eight. The menu was particularly choice, the shades of countless canvas-back ducks, terrapin, and sheep having been called into requisition, and cooked by no less a person than Brillat-Savarin, in the hottest oven he could find in the famous cooking establishment superintended by the government. Washington was on hand early, sampling the olives and the celery and the wines, and giving to Charon final instructions as to the manner in which he wished things served.
The first guest to arrive was Confucius, and after him came Diogenes, the latter in great excitement over having discovered a comparatively honest man, whose name, however, he had not been able to ascertain, though he was under the impression that it was something like Burpin, or Turpin, he said.
At eight the brilliant company was arranged comfortably about the board. An orchestra of five, under the leadership of Mozart, discoursed sweet music behind a screen, and the feast of reason and flow of soul began.
This is a great day, said Doctor Johnson, assisting himself copiously to the olives.
Yes, said Columbus, who was also a guestyes, it is a great day, but it isnt a marker to a little day in October I wot of.
Still sore on that point? queried Confucius, trying the edge of his knife on the shade of a salted almond.
Oh no, said Columbus, calmly. I dont feel jealous of Washington. He is the Father of his Country and I am not. I only discovered the orphan. I knew the country before it had a father or a mother. There wasnt anybody who was willing to be even a sister to it when I knew it. But G. W. here took it in hand, groomed it down, spanked it when it needed it, and started it off on the career which has made it worth while for me to let my name be known in connection with it. Why should I be jealous of him?
I am sure I dont know why anybody anywhere should be jealous of anybody else anyhow, said Diogenes. I never was and I never expect to be. Jealousy is a quality that is utterly foreign to the nature of an honest man. Take my own case, for instance. When I was what they call alive, how did I live?
I dont know, said Doctor Johnson, turning his head as he spoke so that Boswell could not fail to hear. I wasnt there.
Boswell nodded approvingly, chuckled slightly, and put the Doctors remark down for publication in The Gossip.
Youre doubtless right, there, retorted Diogenes. What you dont know would fill a circulating library. WellI lived in a tub. Now, if I believed in envy, I suppose you think Id be envious of people who live in brownstone fronts with back yards and mortgages, eh?
Id rather live under a mortgage than in a tub, said Bonaparte, contemptuously.
I know you would, said Diogenes. Mortgages never bothered youbut I wouldnt. In the first place, my tub was warm. I never saw a house with a brownstone front that was, except in summer, and then the owner cursed it because it was so. My tub had no plumbing in it to get out of order. It hadnt any flights of stairs in it that had to be climbed after dinner, or late at night when I came home from the club. It had no front door with a wandering key-hole calculated to elude the key ninety-nine times out of every hundred efforts to bring the two together and reconcile their differences, in order that their owner may get into his own house late at night. It wasnt chained down to any particular neighborhood, as are most brownstone fronts. If the neighborhood ran down, I could move my tub off into a better neighborhood, and it never lost value through the deterioration of its location. I never had to pay taxes on it, and no burglar was ever so hard up that he thought of breaking into my habitation to rob me. So why should I be jealous of the brownstone-house dwellers? I am a philosopher, gentlemen. I tell you, philosophy is the thief of jealousy, and I had the good-luck to find it out early in life.
There is much in what you say, said Confucius. But theres another side to the matter. If a man is an aristocrat by nature, as I was, his neighborhood never could run down. Wherever he lived would be the swell section, so that really your last argument isnt worth a stewed icicle.
Stewed icicles are pretty good, though, said Baron Munchausen, with an ecstatic smack of his lips. Ive eaten them many a time in the polar regions.
I have no doubt of it, put in Doctor Johnson. Youve eaten fried pyramids in Africa, too, havent you?
Only once, said the Baron, calmly. And I cant say I enjoyed them. They are rather heavy for the digestion.
Thats so, said Ptolemy. Ive had experience with pyramids myself.
You never ate one, did you, Ptolemy? queried Bonaparte.
Not raw, said Ptolemy, with a chuckle. Though Ive been tempted many a time to call for a second joint of the Sphinx.
There was a laugh at this, in which all but Baron Munchausen joined.
I think it is too bad, said the Baron, as the laughter subsidedI think it is very much too bad that you shades have brought mundane prejudice with you into this sphere. Just because some people with finite minds profess to disbelieve my stories, you think it well to be sceptical yourselves. I dont care, however, whether you believe me or not. The fact remains that I have eaten one fried pyramid and countless stewed icicles, and the stewed icicles were finer than any diamond-back rat Confucius ever had served at a state banquet.