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II A DISPUTED AUTHORSHIP “HOW are you, Charon?” said Shakespeare, as the
Janitor assisted him on board. “Any one here to-night?” “Yes, sir,” said Charon. “Lord Bacon is up in
the library, and Doctor Johnson is down in the billiard-room, playing pool with
Nero.” “Ha-ha!” laughed Shakespeare. “Pool, eh?
Does Nero play pool?” “Not as well as he does the fiddle, sir,” said the
Janitor, with a twinkle in his eye. Shakespeare entered the house and tossed up an
obolus. “Heads — Bacon; tails — pool with Nero and Johnson,” he said. The coin came down with heads up, and Shakespeare
went into the pool-room, just to show the Fates that he didn’t care a tuppence
for their verdict as registered through the obolus. It was a peculiar
custom of Shakespeare’s to toss up a coin to decide questions of little consequence,
and then do the thing the coin decided he should not do. It showed, in
Shakespeare’s estimation, his entire independence of those dull persons who
supposed that in them was centred the destiny of all mankind. The Fates,
however, only smiled at these little acts of rebellion, and it was common
gossip in Erebus that one of the trio had told the Furies that they had
observed Shakespeare’s tendency to kick over the traces, and always acted
accordingly. They never let the coin fall so as to decide a question the
way they wanted it, so that unwittingly the great dramatist did their will
after all. It was a part of their plan that upon this occasion
Shakespeare should play pool with Doctor Johnson and the Emperor Nero, and
hence it was that the coin bade him repair to the library and chat with Lord
Bacon. “Hullo, William,” said the Doctor, pocketing three
balls on the break. “How’s our little Swanlet of Avon this afternoon?” “Worn out,” Shakespeare replied. “I’ve been
hard at work on a play this morning, and I’m tired.” “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,” said
Nero, grinning broadly. “You are a bright spirit,” said Shakespeare, with a
sigh. “I wish I had thought to work you up into a tragedy.” “I’ve often wondered why you didn’t,” said Doctor
Johnson. “He’d have made a superb tragedy, Nero would. I don’t
believe there was any kind of a crime he left uncommitted. Was there,
Emperor?” “Yes. I never wrote an English dictionary,”
returned the Emperor, dryly. “I’ve murdered everything but English, though.” “I could have made a fine tragedy out of you,” said
Shakespeare. “Just think what a dreadful climax for a tragedy it would
be, Johnson, to have Nero, as the curtain fell, playing a violin solo.” “Pretty good,” returned the Doctor. “But what’s
the use of killing off your audience that way? It’s better business to
let ’em live, I say. Suppose Nero gave a London audience that little
musicale he provided at Queen Elizabeth’s 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 we’d have died then and there.” “That’s 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.
“It’s all right to pull the wool over the eyes of the mortals. That’s
what they’re there for; but as for us — we’re all in the secret here.
What’s the use of putting on nonsense with us?” “We’ll see in a minute what the use is,” retorted the
Avonian. “We’ll 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 don’t want any ice,” said Nero. “Not now,” retorted Shakespeare, “but you will in a
few minutes. When we have finished with you, you’ll want an
iceberg. I’m getting tired of this idiotic talk about not having written
my own works. There’s one thing about Nero’s music that I’ve never said,
because I haven’t wanted to hurt his feelings, but since he has chosen to cast
aspersions upon my honesty I haven’t any hesitation in saying it now. I
believe it was one of his fiddlings that sent Nature into convulsions and
caused the destruction of Pompeii — so there! Put that on your music rack
and fiddle it, my little Emperor.” Nero’s 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
“Good shot,” said Doctor Johnson, nonchalantly.
“If you had been a mortal, William, it would have been the end of you.” “You can’t kill me,” said Shakespeare, shrugging his
shoulders. “I know seven dozen actors in the United States who are trying
to do it, but they can’t. I wish they’d 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 that’s criticism!” “No,” said the shade of Emerson, which had strolled
in while Shakespeare was talking, “that isn’t criticism; that’s Boston.” “Who discovered Boston, anyhow?” asked Doctor
Johnson. “It wasn’t 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 I’d said
that.” “Well, tell Boswell,” said Shakespeare. “He’ll
make you say it, and it’ll be all the same in a hundred years.”  LORD BACON, ACCOMPANIED BY CHARON, APPEARED
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. Nobody’s 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.
“You’ve said enough.” “That’s 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 didn’t have the sense to
acknowledge it, you present to my mind a closer resemblance to Simple Simon
than to Socrates. For my part, I don’t 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.
“I’ve seen his autographs, and no sane person would employ a man who wrote such
a villanously bad hand as an amanuensis. It’s no use, Bacon, we know a
thing or two. I’m 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 isn’t any money in Shakespeare these days, so what’s the
use of quarrelling? I wrote Hamlet, and Shakespeare knows
it. Others know it. Ah, here comes Sir Walter Raleigh. We’ll
leave it to him. He was cognizant of the whole affair.” “I leave it to nobody,” said Shakespeare, sulkily. “What’s the trouble?” asked Raleigh, sauntering up
and taking a chair under the cue-rack. “Talking politics?” “Not we,” said Bacon. “It’s the old question
about the authorship of Hamlet. Will, as usual, claims it for
himself. He’ll 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 we’d 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.
“I’m rather tired of the discussion myself.” “Shall I tell ’em, Shakespeare?” asked Raleigh. “It’s immaterial to me,” said Shakespeare,
airily. “If you wish — only tell the truth.” “Very well,” said Raleigh, lighting a cigar.
“I’m 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. |
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