“And please note one other thing. The boards-play Henry the Eighth was not from the chest. It was written half by me and half by a friend of mine. We wished to test our own powers against those of the mysterious writer or writers of the masterworks from the chest, against the powers of Great Tom Fool. And we did not disgrace ourselves in the test.
“No, I cannot explain more than I know. The treasure chests had been signed into the customhouse of Calais under the title ‘Tom Fool—His Polylogues.’ I believe that it was so titled more in humor than in ignorance. Though a monologue means a speech of one person, and a dialogue means speeches of several persons, a polylogue could only humorously mean the speeches of quite some several persons. The word would rather mean a ‘much talking’ or a ‘garrulousness.’ And I did have great profit out of the lesser of those garrulous old chests, those polylogic coffers.
“Can I not make a guess as to the true identity of Tom Fool or Tom Crowd, you ask me? Aye, I can and I will. I was never shy about making educated guesses.
“Sometimes it takes history several centuries to coalesce several apparently different persons into one truly valid person. Thus great Caesar really was a ‘triumvirate,’ a uniting of three apparently different men, though the manner of it, in his case, is still unexplained in history. Men of great power do sometimes produce fetches or doubles or appearances of themselves without wishing to do so. We know from Holy Scripture that the name Thomas means ‘twin.’ I believe that our Tom Fool was a double twin, that he was one overflowing man with several attendant spooks who were only aspects of himself. And I believe that these spooks or aspects could and did have independent names and careers; and could even survive, for a while, the bodily death of the prime man. It had to be a full man to compose those masterworks which I later acquired and made known to the world. It had to be an absolutely overflowing (into several different vessels) man to compose those still greater and much more numerous masterworks that are in that larger chest that I had not gold enough to ransom and acquire and make known.”
“Is somebody having us?” Emery Briton of the Happy Braindom bunch mumbled. “Who do we know who makes up stories of that flavor?”
“Oh, I don't think so, Em,” Byron Verre of the same Braindom said. “I believe this is the real Shakespeare, as well as he can be called up, spinning his real guesses on the subject.”
And the real Shakespeare, as well as he could be called up, continued: “Certainly I had seven hidden years in my life, as this lady over here asks me. 'Twas in those hidden years, and not in the open years, that I found the Treasure Chests.
“Was I burned at the stake? someone asks. Or beheaded? Or stabbed to death? No, not I, though I have smelled the smell of all those deaths as coming from Great Tom Fool of the masterworks. But I died with my boots off, and in bed. Or rather in a little day bed in the kitchen whence I could see the larch trees out of the window, and the green garden, and the duck pond.
“—and the duck pond, and the duck pond, and the duck pond…”
“That is the end of this psychic scan conjured up out of my data storage brain in London,” said Toff, the extension of the talented British machine. “I wonder how to turn the fellow off. Oh, he turned himself off.”
The psychic depth scan of the historical Shakespeare fell silent and disappeared at the same time.
“Oh, I'll open for a million dollars. I'd be ashamed to mention a lesser sum,” a pub-rep named Donald Waxley-Williams spoke with feigned indifference. “What are you talking about, interloper?” Shepherd O'Shire, the Proctor of Happy Braindom Ltd., demanded.
“It wouldn't be fair to open the auction before the end of our presentation,” Dude uttered. “Not fair to us.”
Then there appeared the scan or spook of a man who radiated talent, though not real intelligence or real power. Several of the viewers believed that they recognized him from the portrait that Fliccius had done of him. But there was much less of the fellow in the scan-flesh or the spook-flesh than in the old portrait. The painter had filled the empty places of the man with his own invention. The apparition began to speak in a nervous and jerky manner:
“I am Tom, the younger son of a small English gentleman of the Midlands. I was the most presuming upstart of all of them. I was not born to such poverty as two of the others, but I had great poverty inside myself.
“But I rose, and not by intelligence or strength. I rose by fury. Listen, I sent God Himself into a state of shock and recoil from which He never recovered. But the details of my life show a rising order that was not in myself. I belonged to Jesus College at Cambridge. I had two wives, one of them English and one of them German, and I had to give both of them up. My resentment at these unwilling renunciations almost set fire to the realm. I became Archbishop of Canterbury. Great power was in my hands for some years, and yet it was always a sly power.
“Yes, though I wonder how you came to ask such a question—yes I did have seven hidden years in my life. No man can be properly mysterious without them.
“I was really a sort of jeweler, a lapidary who did wonderful and fiery things, mostly in miniature. But I speak in analogy. I did that exquisite work in words and not in stones. I am possibly the finest stylist who ever wrote in Latin — or in English. And I produced two sorts of masterworks. One of them has been published in millions and millions of copies for hundreds of years now. How ironical that it should be called The Common Book. And my other masterwork was the Scenario for England. I wrote it in the form of many sly directives and instructions and letters to key persons. I wrote it, and England lived it out, followed my Scenario.
“The other things? What other things are you asking about? Oh, the plays and the poetries. They were not bad at all. They were really the best things of their sort ever done in this world. Yes, I suppose I should count them among my masterworks.
“They were found in coffers in Calais, you say? Yes, I always had a Calais connection. In our century, Calais was the place. In your century, I suppose, such things would be lodged in a Swiss bank rather than in the Calais customhouse.
“What end did I have? But it is not ended. There is still a tall score to settle for that. They burned me at the stake; that was my bodily end. I hated it, every horrible second of it. I hated it, hated it, hated it, hated it…”
The spook-scan fell silent and then disappeared.
“Oh, I believe that I like the gadget more and more as we go along,” pub-rep George Hebert said. “I'll bid ten million dollars for it just to get the ball to rolling.” “Why are we back to this meaningless jabber about money?” Proctor Shepherd O'Shire asked.
“Wait till the end of the presentation, folks,” uttered that French machine Dingo. “Things will get richer and richer.”
Then, after a bit, another scan-spook appeared. Several of the viewers believed that they recognized him from the portrait that Hans Holbein the Younger had done of him. But there was much more to the fellow, in scan-flesh or spook-flesh, than there had been in the old picture. The painter had not been able to crowd near all the power of this man into his portrait. Then the apparition began to speak in sparse words, but with a richly toned voice. In scope that voice was equal to a short orchestra at least: “I am Tom, the son of a beerhouse keeper in Putney. Aye, you know the disreputable place, on the south bank of the Thames a little above London.
“I was a vagabond, then a mercenary soldier in Italy and other places, then a moneylender. For only a short time did I lend money to small men. Then I loaned it to dukes and princes and kings, and I held kingdoms in pawn. Yes, I was a baseborn upstart, an upstart of the upstarts.
“Yes, I did have seven hidden years in my life. May they remain hidden!
“I was much in the company of intelligent men, of the most intelligent generation there has ever been from the beginning of the world until now. But in all my life I never met another man so intelligent as myself. I had a lust for magnificence, but at the same time I had a lust for plainness. And the second lust won. I had a burn
ing compassion, but I also had a burning cruelty. And the second fire consumed the first. I was accounted a complex man, but my genius in administration lay in my being able to simplify things.
“ 'Twas I who looted the monasteries and all the abbey lands of England. I manipulated realms. I was a man of power. I became a baron, and Lord Great Chamberlain, and Earl of Essex. The king was like whiting in my hands, for a while. Yes, for a while.
“I had private excellences also. I had as fine a singing voice as there was in all England. And I had a masterly way with words. The plays you ask? The entertainments? How do you queer people and queer machines (I can hardly tell some of you from the others) know about them? Yes, I wrote golden entertainments. They were loaded full of the greatness of human people. I wonder what became of them? I left instructions for disposing of all my other belongings, but I left no instructions for disposing of the entertainments. I had kept them in a carpenter's tool chest.
“No, no, I was not burned at the stake. How could such an error have crept into the plain account of my life? I died on the scaffold, beheaded. I had always worked the hell side of the road, along with the king. It was over mere details of our hellish advocacy that we fell out and he had me killed. But I rather startled them all when I declared for the full faith on the scaffold. No, of course I did not recant my declaration. Has such a lie been told of me? I died in the full faith. And so I saved my tarred and gnawed and besmirched and marinated and brine-pickled (but immortal and spacious) soul. And yet I find that the temporary (though the centuries of it seem tedious), tall flames of Purgatory bother me more than they would a less corpulent man.
“How much do I believe the plays, the entertainments, are worth? you ask. Oh, they are priceless, utterly priceless. And I do not speak lightly there!”
Then Big Tom from Putney, the powerful and many-worlded man, faded away.
“What a consummate gadget it all is!” Efraim McSweeny, a pub-rep, cried in creamy ecstasy. “What good copy we can build on these imaginative foundations! I'll jump the bid to fifty million.” “I do not understand this money madness at all,” Shepherd O'Shire the Proctor growled. “It is Tom-Fool money indeed.”
And then still another scan-spook came like smoke, thickened, and took form. And several of those present believed that they recognized this newest apparition from a picture John Melo had done of him. The arrival spoke with a pleasantly ringing voice, almost like bells, like laughing bells:
“I am Tom, the son of a rich lawyer. An upstart? you ask. No, not I. I was ‘to the manner born,’ a phrase of my own that is usually mishandled. But perhaps there was nowhere for me to go except down, after such a start.
“No, no, I did not come from Putney. Why would anybody come from Putney? Mostly I lived in Chelsea.
“Did I say that the king was like whiting in my hands? I don't remember saying it, and it wasn't so. Am I the same spook who was here just two moments ago? you ask. Really, I don't know. Where I am now we have neither time nor sequence. Oh, surely I'd remember such curious folks as you if I'd been here just two moments ago! I visit here singly in my person, but you may well be seeing me split or doubled for all that I know.
“I tried to mold the king, yes, but I failed at it. I led him like a horse to the water, but I could not make him drink—that's a phrase of my own.
“Of what accomplishment in my life am I most proud? Oh, of bringing Greek to newest Europe and helping to unlock its sciences and arts and treasures. I was one of no more than twenty men in Western Europe whom you might have called a Greek scholar without laughing. But really I am most proud of standing against a tide when most people were not able to withstand it.
“Oh, certainly I was a man of power. I was Lord Chancellor of England, no mean office. Did I have seven hidden years in my life? you ask me. No. There was never anything hidden about me. It's true that I did have seven very obscure years, but that was only the way my tide of fortune ebbed for a while. Well, so one of you asks with some exasperation, did I not at least have a mysterious journey during my obscure years? Yes, I did that, several of them, very long and very mysterious. And I will not make them less mysterious by telling you about them.
“Aye, I did write plays or dialogues. I gave the name polylogues to them to indicate that they were more deep textured and more action hinged than other dialogues. And I gave the name to them because it had a comical sound. Yes, I did polylogues and entertainments and enjoyments. They were for very small audiences, so small that every person present would be given one or two sets of lines to read. Somehow they made a busy life seem less busy. I left a cofferful of the pleasantries. Yes, very likely they did go to Calais with some of my other pleasant things. As Lord Chancellor of England, I naturally kept my more lively papers at the customhouse at Calais in France. In our century, many of us kept things at that customhouse.
“Do I believe that I had the finest singing voice in all England? you ask. How odd and how probing of you to ask such a question. Yes, I do believe it, for it was true. I was quite vain about it.
“Yes, I recognize the occupation of some of you present. You are publishers' bagmen (ah, and women) are you not? I'd recognize you more easily perhaps than would some of my other aspects.
“Am I now, or have I ever been Shakespeare? one of you bagmen asks me. I heard the name Shakespeare only on one evening in my life. When I was a young man we played a game of looking into a glass globe and asking of the spirits who lived in it such questions as ‘Who is walking on my grave a century hence?’ ‘Who is wearing my mantle and speaking with my voice?’ ‘Who is eating my fruit and breathing with my breath?’ And when I asked these questions of the glass globe, the name Shakespeare was spoken back to me clearly.
“Are the polylogues, the plays, truly worthy and remarkable? you ask. Yes, they are. There have never been such remarkable devices since pen first learned to speak with human voice. They are so rich that it is like not being able to see the field for the pearls buried in it. Bagmen, look to your bags!
“Was I burned at the stake? No, no. There's some confusion if the records show that I was. I was beheaded on the scaffold as a man of distinction would be. I was not burned at the stake like a meanling. And I did not, as prelude to my death, say the cute things that are attributed to me. Gah, they cloy!
“Of course I died in the faith. And of course I did not recant. Had I recanted, I would not have died then. Perhaps I'd be living yet.”
Then the apparition faded out. Well, it faded out about ninety-nine percent. And it apologized for hanging around, in wispy words as easy as a breeze:
“I'll be quiet here, and hardly to be seen. But I must bide here a while to satisfy my own curiosity. I must learn the price of him who is priced, since I am a part of that him. Continue, people and metallurgies, as if I were not here, for I'm here but slightly.”
“Some proof, some coherent proof,” the pub-rep named Marjory Manmangler sang out. “When can we see and examine the ‘greater’ treasure chest that is supposedly in the Calais custom-house yet?” “Oh, we can have a scan on it here almost immediately,” Toff the talented British machine stated. “But whether we recover the great coffer or not does not really matter, except for the carefully staged drama of its recovery and presentation; and that could be better done at another location with other props. The contents of the great coffer have all been copied. And a copy of that copy now resides in my data brain in London.
“And the texts themselves will not matter, except that Tanglewood Press, if the successful bidder, would probably build a large shrine with an eternal flame to house them. But you folks would put your Harrisburg Hacks to rewriting them anyhow. What do you call them—The Harrisburg Nine?”
“The Harrisburg Nineteen now. We've expanded,” pub-rep Manmangler said, “and we call them revisionists, not hacks.”
“I'll bid a cool hundred-million dollars.” Pub-rep Enox Eberly spoke solidly. “This penny-ante approach is so tedious.”
“Wai
t till the presentation is finished, folks,” Dude uttered. “Let's be fair, to us.”
“Dude,” Arsene Gopherwood of the Happy Braindom group whispered to that mechanism-in-residence, “there's a proverb: don't wait till the iron gets too damned hot before you strike. And three shells and one pea are enough for any con game. More shells will confuse it.”
“They won't confuse us, pea-shooter human,” the French machine Dingo stated. “Do you think you can teach us how to suck eggs?”
“Oh, there isn't any way they can overdo it,” said pub-rep Sheila McGuntry. “Let the little machines shovel it on. It's super-gadget all the way anyhow. They aren't missing a trick. The great man must have a humble beginning, or he must at least be interiorly humble. And the seven hidden years of the life are essential, with the presumption that they were spent imbibing knowledge in High Tibet or in the Kingdom of Prester John on the Blue Nile or some other fulfilling place. And the cruel execution at the end is essential also. So is it that the great man must have the best singing voice in England. And the archiest of the archetypes is the business of the treasure chests in the Calais customhouse, that dark and sinister building that is prototypically identical with Aladdin's Cave. It gives us so much to work with. Oh, don't change a line of it. It's perfect!”
“We will proceed.” Dude spoke grandly, and it was as if a curtain went up for one more act of the polylogue drama. Then a rather grandiose scan-spook-person solidified in flowing scarlet and gold robes. Some of the viewers believed that they recognized him from the painting Sampson Strong had done of him a few centuries before. And the appearance spoke with firm regality: “I am Tom, the son of a hog butcher of Ipswich in Suffolk. One can't be more baseborn than that. But I rose, by my pleasant and urbane ruthlessness, as one admirer of mine had worded it.
The Man Who Talled Tales: Collected Short Stories of R.A. Lafferty Page 279
