“I call it self-indulgence.”
“You, my lord, are a savage.”
“Do you call me a savage, you crowned and anointed buffoon! You jewelled and gilded puppet, good for nothing but silly folk to gape at!”
“Very well. I withdraw ‘savage’; it was an unworthy name for a King to apply to a Bishop of his own Church. But I shall say this; you are not a gentlephantom.”
“The rank is but the guinea stamp. I was one of the World’s Workers.”
“Then we shall never agree. You were devoted to what Davies here”—the King nodded toward me—”would doubtless call the Work Ethic. Whereas I was devoted to the Pleasure Principle. I enjoyed life and I encouraged enjoyment in others. On balance I think my kind of person has done rather more for mankind than yours.”
But John Strachan was not to be talked down. “Upon what is a University built if not upon the Work Ethic? What has the scholar to offer to his God greater than Work and Prayer?”
“What would God make of a university filled with nothing but sweaty psalm-singers?” said the King. “God, as a gentleman and an Anglican, must certainly appreciate scholarship, intellectual dignity, connoisseurship—all the attributes of civilization, and civilization owes more to the Pleasure Principle than it does to the Work Ethic, which is rnoneygrubbing humbug. That was why I took pains to put a representative of the Pleasure Principle in this University at its beginning. Yes, right under your nose, my careful friend, and you never saw what I had done.”
“And what was that?” The Bishop’s voice was scornful and suspicious.
“It wasn’t a that; it was a who,” said the King.
“Who, then?”
“A member of my family.”
“Hut! There was no member of your family here at the founding.”
“Oh, but there was. Surely you remember him? Indeed you yourself appointed him. Have you forgotten the Reverend John McCaul, first professor of Classics, and successor to yourself as President of the University?”
“John McCaul; a man of God; a man after my own heart!”
“Perhaps. But also my nephew.”
It is impossible for a ghost to have a seizure of apoplexy, but certainly that was what the ghost of Bishop Strachan seemed to be suffering. As he fought for breath, the King continued triumphantly.
“Surely you remember, my lord, that John McCaul came to Canada under the direct patronage of the Archbishop of Canterbury? My brothers were a wild lot of fellows, and they had many sons on the wrong side of the blanket. Like any good English family, we followed the custom of the day: convicts to Australia—bastards to Canada. John McCaul was of the Blood Royal.”
With a mighty effort, the Bishop raised his hand, and, like a meteor, a volume of the Dictionary of National Biography emerged from one of the arrow-slits in the Robarts Library and sailed down into his outstretched hand, open at page 446 of Volume XII. The King and I read therein an entry describing the somewhat unremarkable life of one Alexander McCaul, an Irish scholar and divine, which concluded with the curt entry: “He left several sons.”
“Aha,” said the King, “you observe that this very Victorian compilation says nothing whatever about the good parson’s wife. But she was well-known in her day. Well-known to my brother Fred, among others. Young John was his lad. You must have heard the rumours?”
The Bishop was shielding his eyes with his hand, but he shook his head.
Now it was the King’s turn. He lifted his hand and at once came the response from Robarts—a volume bound in red which I had no trouble in recognizing as University College—a Portrait, edited by Claude T. Bissell. There, on pages 4 and 5, the Bishop and I read: “The Reverend John McCaul remained Professor of Classics, and became President of the University of Toronto. He had come to Canada in 1839 as Principal of Upper Canada College, on the special recommendation of the Archbishop of Canterbury; and this fact, as well as certain rumours as to his royal parentage explain perhaps his preferment in Canada, and his survival of forty years of bitter controversy over university affairs”.
“There, you see,” said the King. “It was obvious to anybody who looked at him; obvious still, if you take a good look at the portrait of young Jack in the Great Hall of Hart House. He’s the spitting image of my brother Augustus Frederick, Duke of Sussex. Fred was always fond of classics, so the lad came by it honestly. Fred asked the Archbishop to find something for young Jack, and of course he did.”
It seemed to me that the King had won, hands down, and I thought it a little ungenerous of him to dance upon the body of a fallen foe.
“Come along, Dr. Strachan, we must return our books to the Library; others may want them, you know.” He tossed the history of University College into the air, and like a swallow it sped back to Robarts; the Bishop’s book was slower to return than it had been in coming, and laboured in its flight, like a turkey. The King continued to rub salt into the wound.
“I think it rather shabby of the University to have grudged John McCaul some recognition of his royal parentage. I want you to take care of that, Davies. In this Sesquicentennial year, you must have—well, not the royal arms, but the arms of the Duke of Sussex affixed to the top of the frame of his picture. With a proper attaint of bastardy on it, of course. It would do a little something to make up for the University’s shabby treatment of me.”
Bishop Strachan’s face was still buried in his hands, but his voice, choked with tears, could be heard. “Och, Johnnie McCaul, could ye no have confided your shame to your Bishop?” he sobbed.
“Oh don’t be such an old Goosey Gander, Strachan,” said the King. “McCaul’s bastardy was his glory, and reflected glory on this University. Consider the Pleasure Principle and dry your eyes. You look a perfect quiz. And be realistic Strachan (His Majesty insisted on giving full, phlegmy Scottish honours to the name)—how do you expect anyone to survive as a University President who is not, in one sense or another, a bastard? Now Davies, I rely on you; have that heraldic ornament on young Jack’s frame before the Sesquicentennial Year ends.”
Here was a pretty kettle of fish! But I remembered something Vincent Massey had told me, years ago.
“Your Majesty is by no means forgotten in this University,” said I. “Have you visited the Senate Chamber?”
“Should I?”
“If you would be so gracious as to do so,” said I, “you would see that above the Chancellor’s great chair in that handsome room there is a splendid achievement of arms. You would immediately recognize them, Sire, for they are your own. And they were placed there by the designer of that room, who was also the Founder of this College.”
“Damme, that was handsomely done of Vincent Massey,” said the King. “I knew there was some reason why I came to weep in Massey College. An understanding spirit, that’s what I discerned here.”
“Mr. Massey told me it was not managed without some dispute,” said I. “The late Canon Cody, who was President at that time, was strongly against it; he objected that you were a bad example to Canadian youth. But in the end Mr. Massey prevailed. So you see, the Pleasure Principle is symbolized at the very heart of the University.”
“And can do it nothing but good,” said the King, beaming. Then he drew a splendid watch from his pocket. “I must be going,” said he, “if I am to be in time to hear The Magic Flute; little Mozart is conducting it himself. Farewell for the present, Davies; and you might just as well get on with that job on McCaul’s portrait. Hope to see you in Elysium.”
“But not too soon,” I murmured, bowing as the King melted into the night air. I turned to take leave of Bishop Strachan, but he had gone already. Where he had stood were several little holes in the path, where his bitter tears had eaten into the stone.
The Xerox in the Lost Room
Those of you who have attended several of these Christmas Parties are aware how extensively, indeed extravagantly, this College is haunted. Every year a ghost; sometimes more than one. I cannot explain how a new building i
n a new country—or a country that pretends it is new, although in reality it is very old—comes to be so afflicted with what our university sociologists call “spectral density”. I suspect it has something to do with the concentration of our College community, senior and junior, on intellectual things. There is in Nature a need for balance, a compensating principle which demands in our case that where there is too much rationality there should be occasional outbreaks of irrationality. I offer my explanation tentatively, because I am no philosopher and certainly no scientist, and detractors have said that rationality is a quality by which I am seldom overwhelmed.
It could also be that there is a housing shortage in the World Beyond, just as there is here below. Everybody is aware of the alarming rate at which the world’s population is increasing. In the lifetime of some of us it has very nearly doubled. More people and thus, inevitably, more ghosts. Where are they to put themselves? Many of them are emigrating from the lands of their origin and coming to Canada, which is still comparatively open, especially in the spiritual aspect of things. That may be the explanation.
Over the years our ghosts have tended to be from the upper ranks of the spirit world; it is an odd fact that the poor and humble rarely have ghosts. Celebrated people have haunted us; now and then we have bagged a spectral crowned head, but as a general thing our ghosts are drawn from the intelligentsia. I confess with shame that this has betrayed me into a measure of vanity. I catch myself wondering, early in January, “Who will it be this year?” And then I consult a list of anniversaries falling in the year to come. Ghosts, you know, are not always tied to the places where their earthly life was passed; now and then they are granted a freedom of movement which is called a Witches Sabbatical.
Last January I looked eagerly to see who would be on tour, so to speak, and my eye fell upon the name of Henrik Ibsen. It was the 150th anniversary of his birth, and all over the world a good deal of fuss was going to be made. Ibsen! My mouth watered. To be visited by that mighty dramatist, considered by so many people to be the greatest of his kind since Shakespeare—what a cultural coup that would be! Why would he visit us? Canada reflects the social world of Ibsen as much as any country in the world today. Surely he would come to Canada, if only to sneer. And, as you know, we contain within our walls the University’s Centre for the Study of Drama, and I knew that Ibsen would be in their minds, and on their tongues. Surely the great man would favour us with a few morose words. But then I reproached myself. It is stupid to count your ghosts before they are manifested. Down, vanity! Down, worldly aspiration, I cried; and they downed. But not totally. From time to time I surprised, at the back of my mind, an unworthy hankering.
When December arrived, I was nervously aware that time was getting on. Henrik Ibsen was late. It was not like him. All through his life he was known for his punctiliousness about appointments. If he said he would do a thing, he would do it, especially if it were something disagreeable. But then I came to my senses; Ibsen had promised nothing; this whole business of his visit was a foolish whimwham of my own. You should be ashamed of yourself, I said; and I was obediently ashamed of myself. Nevertheless, deep in the undisciplined abyss of my mind, that hankering continued.
The resolution of the affair came, as it so often does, on the night of our College Dance. It has long been my custom, after the supper which is a feature of our dance, to go out into the quad and take a few turns up and down. It is then that I often see ghosts. Nothing to do with the supper, I assure you, because I never take anything but a cup of coffee. Perhaps it has something to do with the excitement of seeing this quiet place turned, for one evening, into a palace of delights. So, as I paced the familiar flagstones in the chill air, I was not surprised to see a stranger standing—lurking, to be more precise—in a dark corner.
My heart leapt within me. Was it he? The figure was slight for Henrik Ibsen who, as you know from his photographs, was built rather like a barrel encased in a frock coat. And the hat—where was the resplendent silk hat which was the great man’s invariable outdoor wear? As I drew nearer it was plain that the figure was wrapped in a cloak, which, even in darkness, looked shabby. And the hat was quite wrong; it was a three-cornered hat. Unless Ibsen had chosen for some inexplicable reason to get himself up as a figure from the early eighteenth century, this was the wrong ghost. I was disappointed and annoyed and perhaps I spoke abruptly. What I said was “Well?” with that upward intonation that makes it clear that it is not at all well.
“If you please,” said the ghost, “I am looking for a modest, dry lodging in quiet surroundings.”
“This is an odd time to be looking for a room,” said I. “You should come back in daylight and speak to the Bursar. If you are able to appear in daylight,” I added, nastily.
“Please don’t be severe with me,” said the ghost in such a pitiful tone that I felt ashamed of myself. “My need is very great, and I must find a place tonight, or terrible things will happen to me.” He was almost weeping.
“I have no wish to be severe,” said I, “but you must understand that this college has a purpose to fulfil in the university, and that purpose makes no provision for—”
“For people in my situation?” said the ghost. “But you are famous for your hospitality toward ghosts. Ah, but I see,” he continued, “You are only interested in famous ghosts, and I am a sadly obscure person. That has been the pathos of my life. If I were not such a failure, I would use a stronger word than pathos; I would say tragedy.”
Poor fellow! I felt thoroughly ashamed of myself. Here I was, hankering after the ghost of a world-famous dramatist and behaving with abominable callousness to a poor phantom whose life had been a tragedy perhaps deeper than any Ibsen had conceived. Tears filled my eyes.
I should have known better. Ghosts are all rampaging egotists—forces of egotism that refuse to accept death as a fact. The ghost before me was now fixing me with a baleful glare, and I felt its hand laid with icy firmness on my sleeve.
“List, list to me,” said the ghost; “I could a tale unfold whose lightest word, would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood—”
“All right, all right,” I said impatiently. “If you must—and believe me I know how communicative you ghosts can be—let me have it as briefly as possible, and without poetry. I’m very well up in Hamlet. Who are you?”
“That is my trouble,” said the ghost. “I’m a private person, but not therefore utterly without poetry and feeling. In life I was that particular type of gentleperson called a Poor Relation.”
“Whose Poor Relation were you?” said I.
“A Rich Relation’s, of course. He was a country squire in Gloucestershire. Not an ill-natured fellow. He knew I had no prospects and no luck, and he let me live in his manor house in a subordinate position, helping with the estate accounts, writing letters, teaching the children a little Latin, and sometimes drawing scale plans for his drainage projects, while he and the Vicar were out shooting. You know the kind of things Poor Relations do. I had been something of a scholar, you see, and I had hoped for a college fellowship, but I had no influential friends; I had hoped to enter the Church, but the Bishop had too many nephews, and altogether I was a failure and a dependant. I didn’t complain. Not very much, that is to say. But I was a cousin of the squire, and it irked me that the servants treated me so badly.”
This was the sorriest excuse for a ghost I had ever met. Failure in the spirit world is particularly chilling, and I was beginning to shiver. But I couldn’t break away. It would have been unfeeling.
“But you have apparently achieved some success after death,” said I. “You are a ghost, and you are far from home. How have you got leave to travel?”
“That is the saddest part of my story,” said he. “But you must hear me out. Don’t bustle me.”
I groaned, but I had not the heart to leave him.
“It came to a head this very night, two hundred and fifty years ago,” said the ghost. “It was on December the ninth, in 172
8. Our good King George II had just entered the eleventh year of his long reign—”
“Yes, yes,” said I; “I know a little history myself. Do make haste.”
“What a fidget you are,” said the ghost, rather sharply I thought for a Poor Relation. “Then hear me. My cousin, the squire and his lady had gone to Sudeley Castle, to a ball. I was not invited. Of course not. I was a nobody and I had no fine clothes. I was left at home without even a word of apology. Nor had any dinner been ordered. My cousin’s wife, who was inclined to be mean, said that doubtless I could get something in the kitchen with the servants.
“That would not have been so bad, because the servants saw to it that they ate very well, but it meant that I had to brave my greatest enemy, the butler; he took every chance to make me feel my position as a Poor Relation. And that night he was particularly tyrannous, because he was drunk. We quarrelled. He killed me.”
“Stabbed you?” I asked.
“No.”
“Shot you? The great kitchen blunderbuss, kept above the chimney, loaded in case of burglars? In his drunken rage the butler tore it from its place and shot you while the womenfolk screamed?”
“You have been seeing too much television,” said the ghost. “The eighteenth century wasn’t like that at all.”
I continued to be hopeful and romantic. “But the quarrel,” I said; “he insulted you, spoke slightingly of your birth, and your good blood was aroused. You lunged at him with your sword, but lost your footing, and he seized the sword and stabbed you to the heart. Please say it was like that.”
“I never owned a sword in my life,” said the ghost. “Nasty, dangerous things. No: I’ll tell you exactly how it was. I was rather drunk myself, you see, and we were having a dispute about how to make boot-blacking. I had complained that the blacking he used had too much brown sugar in it. You know, the secret of good boot-blacking is the proportion of brown sugar to the amount of soot and vinegar. It’s the butler’s work to make it. And I said he put in too much brown sugar. I said my boots were always sticky. He said I lied. I said he forgot himself in the presence of his betters. He said what betters, and I was no more than a servant myself and begged the Squire’s old wigs. Then I absent-mindedly picked up a table fork and stuck it into his right buttock. He must have had very soft flesh because it went much farther in than I had expected. Right up to the handle. Then he picked up a pewter tankard and hit me over the head, and to my surprise and indignation I fell to the floor, dead as a nit.”
High Spirits: A Collection of Ghost Stories Page 18
