High Spirits - A Collection Of Ghost Stories Part 7

What should I say? Once, in my youth, I met Mr. King. He was old and near to death: I was young and impressionable, and I still remember the penetration of his glance, which seemed to be looking right through me, and weighing my possible value to the Liberal Party. He did not speak. I saida"I remember the phrase perfectly, because it seemed to me to be particularly apt, under the circ.u.mstancesa"I said, aHow do you do, Sir?a Now I said it again, taking up the conversation from the point where it had been dropped all those many years ago.

The Little Table tapped briskly, now. Nine: pause; one, thirteen: pause; twenty-two, five, eighteen, twenty-five; pause: twenty-three, five, twelve, and twelve again. aHe said, aI am very well,a a I whispered to my wife. aI know,a said she: aI was counting.a I shall not give you all the detail of the conversation that followed. The counting was hard work, not merely because Mr. King was a somewhat impetuous rapper, but because he was, to my surprise, an impressionistic speller. So I shall merely tell you what was said, shorn of all the psychic trappings.

aAm I to infer that you are among the Blessed?a said I.

The answer, now I reflect on it, was ambiguous. aI am among friends,a said WLMK.

aLiberals?a I asked.

aNaturally,a came the reply.

aAsk him about Sir Wilfrid Laurier,a my wife prompted.

aIs Sir Wilfrid with you?a One rap. aYes.a aHappy, I trust?a Here the Little Table seemed to lose control of itself. It tapped very rapidly, in a singular rhythm; eight-one, eight-one, eight-one. Which, as you have immediately grasped, is Ha, Ha, Ha! Then some very rapid tapping which, so far as I could follow it, said something about somebodyas nose being out of joint. Then the laughing signal again. I was about to ask if Sir Wilfrid had suffered some posthumous damage to his nose, and how, and why, but I saw my wife frowning and shaking her head. So I dropped the subject of Sir Wilfrid.

What next? Extraordinary as it may seem, I could not think of a thing to say to the spirit of Mr. King. My wife saw that I was at a loss. aTry him about his dog,a said she.

aDog?a said I, not understanding.

aPat,a said she; ahis dear doggie, his greatest friend.a I have never cared much for dogs. But I know that dog-lovers are susceptible to flattery on the subject of their pets, and I felt that I had put my foot in it about Sir Wilfrid; Laurier, and must recover lost ground. aHowas Pat?a I asked.

The table seemed to brighten up. It did some frisky tapping. Two-fifteen-twenty-three: twenty-three-fifteen-twenty-three. Bow-wow. Obviously it was Pat himself talking, so I feigned great benevolence and patted the table with the faux bonhomie I adopt toward other peopleas dogs. The table responded by rapping twenty-three, fifteen, fifteen again, and six. Woof. And, so far as I was concerned, that was enough from Pat.

I thought of people in the Other World from whom I might like to have a message. Vincent Ma.s.sey, of course! Often, since his death, I have wished I could have the benefit of his advice. aHow is Mr. Ma.s.sey?a I asked. The table tapped sulkily for a few seconds.

aDonat know and donat care,a was the message.

I remembered what I should have thought of earlier. Mr. King and Mr. Ma.s.sey had not seen eye to eye.

aStill sc.r.a.pping,a I whispered to my wife. But the Little Table overheard me, and tapped some very rapid comment which caught me off my guard, so that I was only able to transcribe the words aopinionated,a ainsubordinatea and aelitista. But whether they referred to Mr. Ma.s.sey or to me, I cannot say.

This was discouraging. I saw no reason why I should sit in this College and listen to Mr. King being nasty about its Founder. But what was there to say? He seemed to be so touchy. Then I had what I supposed was a happy inspiration. I noticed the copy of A Very Double Life that my wife had placed on the floor beside her.

aHave you read Colonel Staceyas book?a I asked.

There was a significant pause. Then a single rap. Yes.

aItas selling very well,a I said, glad to be on an ample and chatty theme at last. aYou must be pleased.a It seemed to me that the temperature in the room dropped suddenly. aOh, you think that, do you?a rapped the Little Table, with unusual deliberation. I was overcome by one of my terrible failures of tact. I am generally pretty good at tact, but as it is an acquired faculty with me, and not an inherent trait, I sometimes put my foot in it, when talking to difficult people. aI suppose you are glad to be an object of so much interest,a I said.

The Little Table rapped and rapped and rapped. aI should have thought that my career offered enough of interest to the people of the country to which I devoted the whole of my career comma and my not inconsiderable talents,a it said, awithout a discussion of my youthful work among fallen women. Poor comma unhappy creatures dash asoiled dovesa was the term I always applied to them when I thought about them dash I went among them with but one thought in mind. I sought comma by talking to them seriously and sympathetically about the principles of Liberalism comma to win them from a life of shame to useful political activity. But so far as I could discover, not one of them ever went to the polls to cast the vote which was her democratic birth-right. I should have thought that in the present enthusiasm for Womenas Liberation dash a cause very dear to my heart, as it was near to the heart of the n.o.ble woman who was the inspiration of all that was best in me dash I allude, needless to say, to my dear Mothera"a And here there was a pause, which, as an old aficionado of political meetings I knew was meant for applause, so I applauded loudly; after I had made my hands very red, the Little Table resumed. aI should have thought, I say, that my name would be mentioned as one of the earliest enthusiasts for the Womenas Cause semi-colon that I should be mentioned with Henrik Ibsen comma with Bernard Shaw comma with the sainted Christabel Pankhurst and the never sufficiently to be lauded Nellie McClung. But it was not to be. No comma it has been suggested that my interest in women was of a carnal origin. And all because Jack Pickersgill hadnat the common gumption to destroy those d.a.m.ned diaries. Now you listen to me, young mana"a and the Little Table rapped on and on. I was so stunned to be addressed as ayoung mana that I forgot to count, and I observed that my wife was becoming drowsy under the spell of Mr. Kingas platform style and the tediousness of all that rapped-out punctuation. At last, after something like half an hour of telegraphed eloquence, the Little Table was still.

aSorry about that,a said I. aBut Iam afraid thereas nothing I can do about it. Shall I arrange an encounter with the author of the book? Would you like to rap with Colonel Stacey?a Two decisive raps. No. And that was all. Worn out with our night listening to the mighty dead, my wife and I crept upstairs, to seek much needed repose.

I wanted to go back the next night, but my wife disagreed. aHeall make another speech,a said she. aBesides, I think itas unlucky to quarrel with spirits. Leave the wretched table alone, and Iall get it out of the house as soon as I can.a And there, for some time, the matter rested.

There is in my nature a generous portion of curiosity. I make no apology for it, and indeed I encourage and cherish it. Curiosity is part of the cement that holds society together; for many years I was a journalist, and a journalist without curiosity is useless. After Quebecas historic decision in the election of November 15 you will understand how I itched to have another talk with the Little Table. There must be something to be got out of the ghost of Mackenzie King, some scoop which I could, at the right moment, reveal to the world. So, after a few weeks of iron self-control, I broke down, and crept away by myself to the room in the depths of my house.

It was December the sixth when I went to the room where the Little Table was. My spirits rose as I saw that the glow of purple light arose from it, even more intense than it had been before. Would I be able to establish contact through it, I wondered, without the help of another person? I sat down and placed my hands, fingers spread, on its surface. I need not have worried; immediately I felt the thrill that told me the Little Table was ready to speak.

aMr. King, are you there?a I whispered.

The retort was not in the best of. humour. aWhat do you think?a the table rapped. aYouave been away long enough. What brings you here now?a aIt is the sixth of December,a I said.

aWhat of it?a rapped the table.

aIt is St. Nicholasas day,a I replied. aHe has always been kind to me.a aDo you expect me as a Presbyterian, to pay attention to such rubbish,a said the spirit of Mackenzie King, in a series of short, brittle raps.

Off to a bad start, I thought. It is one of my weaknesses to imagine that everybody shares my enthusiasm for saints. The Little Table was clicking on.

aSuperst.i.tion will be the ruin of you, Davies,a it said. aI have seen many a man of minor talents, like yourself, go utterly to pot because of superst.i.tion. Brace up, man, comma brace up.a Look whoas talking, I thought. This is the man who spent so many of his private hours talking to spirits by means of this very Little Table at which I now sit. This is the man who addresses me by this tedious, farcical business of table-rapping, instead of manifesting himself and talking to me ghost to man, as a serious spirit should. But I subdued my indignation and spoke gently.

aI have come,a I said, abecause I hope that you will favour me with an exclusive interview. I should greatly value your opinion of the present state of Confederation. Taking the long viewa"which I a.s.sume is one of the prerogatives of your present positiona"what do you think is likely to happen in Quebec? Is Separatism a political gambit or a genuine threat?a There was a pause. Thena"aDonat trouble me with such nonsense,a rapped Mr. King. aDo you suppose I have nothing to keep me busy here? My present Cabinet demands the most careful management, in spite of my success in bringing about a decisive Tory overthrowa"a I could hold in no longer. For the first time, I interrupted the Little Table. I seized it and held it firmly to the ground, thereby, so to speak, choking Mr. King off in mid-speech. This was precisely what I wanted.

aCabinet?a I said. aTory overthrow? Do you mean that you are in power ina"ina"?a I did not know how to finish the question.

aThe greatest victory of my career,a came the reply. aI have reduced the Tories to a miserable, seedy rump, and their Leader is trying to prevent a final break.a aWhat Leader?a said I, breathless with curiosity.

aWho has always been the leader of the Conservative Party, whatever puppet may have appeared to mortal eyes to hold that office?a said Mr. King.

I knew, of course. That is to say, I knew who had always appeared to Mr. King to be the Tory Leader. My mind trembled on the verge of total disorder. aMr. King,a I whispered, aare you telling me that you have brought about Separatism ina"a But I did not like to speak the word. To a Presbyterian it might seem offensive. I changed the form of the question. aMr. King,a said I; awhere are you?a At that instant, it seemed to me that the Little Table became extremely hot. But it tapped merrily. And what it tapped amazed me greatly. Mr. King was not a slangy man, but I suppose that when he was a youth, an undergraduate in this University, he had acquired a few of the slang expressions of his contemporaries. Anyhow, what the Little Table rapped, almost giggling as it did so, was: aNone of your beeswax!a aBut Mr. King!a I persisted. aDonat leave me just yet. You must know that your successor on earth has recently been described in an extremely influential American newspaper as aperhaps the worldas most gifted leadera. Tell me something helpful that I may pa.s.s on to Pierre Elliot Trudeau.a The table stopped its giggling in an instant. It became, not hot, but icy cold. aYou tell Trudeau this from me!a it bangeda"yes, it banged on the floor. And then it began to tap so fast that it took all my concentration to make out the letters of its clumsy, rattling language. They seemed to mean little, until I understood that the tapping was now in French. But what French! It was politicianas French, which is a language in itself, understood by few. I could not make out, with clarity, what Mr. King wanted me to tell Mr. Trudeau, except that he seemed to be summoning him to join himself, wherever he was, with the utmost speed. Mr. King seemed to have a place for Mr. Trudeau in his new dominion, but I gathered that it was not in the Cabinet. I thought I caught something about athe hot-seat.a The Little Table was not made to withstand such vehemence. At the height of the tirade, one of the little feet broke off, and suddenly there was silence.

I had the Little Table mended, the next day, by Norbert. He said he had a suitable piece of wood, which he had taken out of one of the fixtures of the College Chapel, that would do the job almost invisibly.

But the Little Table never spoke again. I suppose there are things, such as pieces of wood from our Chapel, that are intolerable to Presbyterian ghosts, and especially those who have achieved Separatism by what used to be called the Harrowing of h.e.l.l.

The King Enjoys His Own Again

A hundred and fifty years is a long time, you will all agree, for a man to suffer misunderstanding and wrong. My task tonight is to attempt to put right such a misunderstanding. The length of time I have mentioned makes it clear at once that I am speaking on behalf of a ghost. Oh, if it were only one ghost! Because there are two; and I can feel them very near me as I address you now. Both are determined that I should support the version of the history of this University that they think the right one. Much hangs on which side I take.

A week ago tonight we held our College Christmas Dance. My wife and I left at about one oaclock, and went to bed, but I was unable to sleep. I had an uneasy sense that someone had been there whom I had failed to greet, because I try to speak, or at least leer hospitably, at everybody. I rose: I prowled. I went to a window and, looking down, I was surprised to see someone in the quadrangle walking alone in a posture of dejectiona"someone in an academic gown.

Gowns are often seen in the quad, buta"at two in the morning? And was there not about the figure a singularity, a distinction greater than is common among academics? I went out into the night for a nearer look.

Whoever it was paced up and down the stone paths, and as I came nearer, I heard what was unquestionably the sound of deep sobs. The figure was weeping! Some unhappy youth who had been, as they say, given the mitt by his partner at the dance? I hid behind a tree, to hear better. The broken utterance became audible: aO, the black ingrat.i.tude of it,a said the rich, fruity voice; aAll this fuss, and not a worda"not one solitary worda"about me. Itas cruel, cruel!a I am not a man to withhold sympathy from any suffering soul, and I popped out from behind my tree.

aExcuse me,a said I; amay I be of any a.s.sistancea"a At that moment the figure moved into a gleam of moonlight, and you may judge of my dismay when I saw that the moonlight pa.s.sed right through it! A cold greater than that of December seized upon me and my heart sank. For I knew that this much-haunted establishment was once again being visited by a ghost. But whose ghost this time?

Then I knew. It could be none other. What I had mistaken for a gown was in fact a voluminous cloak, and when the figure turned to me the elegance of the clothes beneath the ghostly yet blinding blaze of stars and orders and diamonds in the moonlight, and more than anything else that great head, that florid, fleshy face, that beaky nose, those drooping eyelids, and the splendidly curled chestnut hair could belong to but one person. It was King George the Fourth. I bowed. It is not easy to bow elegantly in pyjamas, but old theatrical training came to my aid and I think it was not a bad bow. aYour Majesty,a said I.

aSo you know me,a said the figure. aI had concluded that I was utterly forgotten here.a I muttered something about the University Department of History.

aPah,a said the King. aDeluded toadies to a totally wrong principle. I should know. I am History, suppressed and distorted History. O Ingrat.i.tude! How sharper than a serpentas tooth it is to have founded a thankless University.a I mumbled some disclaimer, but the King spoke on. aIt is now 1977 and this graceless inst.i.tution is celebrating what it is pleased to call its Sesquicentennial. But has a word been said about the Monarch who, by a stroke of the pen, brought it into being? Donat think Iam angry. No, no. But I am hurt. Deeply, terribly hurt. So what have you to say?a Me? It is not my job to deal with such things. Let the Public Relations people explain. Let the President explain. Let the Lieutenant-Governor, who acted as Chairman of the Sesquicentennial Committee, explain. But none of them were there. No, no; they were snug in their beds, and I was face to face with a sobbing, ignored Founder.

aI can only appeal to your magnanimity, Sire,a I said. aYou know what academics are. Simple folk whose minds rarely stray beyond the present. And really, Ia"what can I do?a aIall tell you in good time,a said the King. aBut first a matter of curiosity; something led me here; something led me to this place; some notion that in this College, at least, I might find understanding. What do you think it can have been?a What was I to say? aHumble as I am,a I ventured, aI apologize on behalf of us all. I am sure no affront was intended.a He was not mollified. A look of bitterness succeeded to grief in his countenance. aPshaw,a he said. aI notice none of you forgot John Strachan. Tell me, what does this University find that is so special about John Strachan?a I spoke without thinking. aAs our Foundera"a said I, causing the King to interrupt in a temper.

aOh Founder, Founder, Founder! Strachan was forever founding something! McGill University, your great rivala"he had a finger in that pie. And Trinity, your neighboura"they toady to him there as a Founder. But in this University he wasnat a Founder, he was merely an organizer! Did he ever open his sporran and lay down a penny-piece? Because I did! This University would have been nowhere without my money.a The word amoneya as we all know, has strong magical overtones. Silently, but impressively, we were joined by another figure, and to my experienced eye that figure was a phantom. It was John Strachan, without a doubt, in the full day-dress of an Anglican Bishopa"gaiters, ap.r.o.n, squarecut long coat, and above all that peculiar hat like a stovepipe with a wireless aerial on either side, which gives a Bishop the appearance of one who is in perpetual receipt of messages from outer s.p.a.ce. His square, granite face was marked with the look of intense disapproval so often seen in the Scot who has risen high in the world. John Strachan, without a doubt. The word amoneya had brought him back from the grave.

aDid I hear a suggestion,a he said in a withering tone, aThat I contributed nothing to the founding of this inst.i.tution?a aNo money, at any rate,a said the King, who had no fear of this apparition. aI laid down a st.u.r.dy thousand pounds a year, which in terms of todayas money was very handsome. Indeed, I canat understand, with what must be a hundred and fifty thousand pounds of my money, why this place is in need of money now.a aAs I recall, that money was provided from public funds,a said the Bishop.

But the King did not bat an eye. aI suppose it was,a said he; aI could hardly be expected to fuss about where it came from. The important fact is that I granted it and you got it, so I suppose we may say you had it from me.a aYour Majesty might say that,a said the Bishop, abut other donors have given from their own pockets.a aMeaning yourself, I suppose?a said the King.

aA Bishop does not make known his contributions to worthy causes,a said John Strachan.

aThatas gammon,a said the King. aCome along, Strachan, how much real money did you stump up?a aI must respectfully request your Majesty not to press a question that offends against Christian principle,a said the Bishop, and I thought he seemed uncomfortable.

aAha! Got you,a said the King; aIall wager fifty guineas you gave nothing at all,a and he laughed like a schoolboy.

aSir, you are disrespectful of my cloth,a shouted Strachan, fire darting from his eyes.

aPish for your cloth,a said the King. aYour cloth may be well enough, but the cut and fit are abominable. If you mean I donat respect you as a Bishop, youare wrong. It is well-known that I was vastly respectful of Bishops, when I chose my own. But you were one of my niece Victoriaas creations, and she had a sentimental taste for Scotchmen.a Now it was the Bishopas turn to show hurt feelings. Tears dimmed those stony eyes. aThis is a manas reward for a life of the most stringent devotion to G.o.d, to duty and the cause of education,a said he; ahow sharper than a serpentas tooth it is to meet a thankless Monarch!a aFiddle-faddle,a said the King. aWhat do you need of grat.i.tude from your Monarch. Your name has been whooped and hallooed about this University for the past year, and more. Youave had more grat.i.tude than you deserve, because much of it was filched from me!a The Bishop stopped weeping, and roared. aYou! Who slaved and contrived to set this University firmly on its feet? Who endured the reproach and ignominy of an ungrateful government and an indifferent populace? Whose hair turned gray under the strain of that shocking and discriminatory Charter you signeda"without reading it, I am surea"until I was able to enlarge its scope and make a University that was truly for the people of this great land?a aA University which you subsequently described as aa G.o.dless imitation of Babel,a a said the King; aand after you had given it that nasty dig you skipped away and founded Trinity, which was much more to your liking. Oh, you were a mighty Founder, and such a tyrant as no King would dare to emulate. Donat lecture me as if I didnat know this Universityas history. Donat I remember (after my time on earth, of course) when the greedy Government took it over as an addition to their lunatic asylum, and didnat they have the ugliness to call it the University Lunatic Asylum? Not such a bad name, when you think of it. And donat twaddle about your hair going gray. No man needs to endure such things if he has a good valet.a And here King George IV touched his head with conscious pride, and indeed his splendidly curled wig was a work of art.

aHuuut!a said the Bishop. It was his version of a laugh. aVanity of vanities, all is vanity.a aThatas one of the truest things in the Bible,a said the King, quite affably. aIf it werenat for vanity we should still be running about in our skins, painted a horrid blue. Vanity is one of the mainsprings of human progress.a The King seemed to be getting the better of the argument. I remembered that John Strachanas motto had been Prudent But Fearless. Now he showed a sudden change of mood toward what, in a character less granitic than his, might be described as soapy.

aAs a Bishop,a he said, ait would ill beseem me to show a want of charity toward any of G.o.das creaturesa"even toward one whose earthly life was verra far from being a suitable pattern for a Christian King. I am truly sorry that you suppose yourself to have been overlooked by a University in whose founding you played a trifling, purely ceremonial parta"a The King broke in. aHow could I have done more than I did? The University of London was being founded that same year, and of course I had a great deal to do with that. The older universities were offended, so I had to found those readerships in mineralogy and geology at Oxford to appease them. And you know how much I was involved in the Literary Fund, granting them a Charter, and as much money as I could sc.r.a.pe up at the time. I was always short. Generositya"itas a costly indulgence, Bishop. Literature was my real love. Byrona"how I admired him; and do you know, for a time at least, he admired me. And n.o.ble, generous Walter Scotta"a dear friend. I always meant to do something in the way of a Civil List recognition for Jane Austena"dear, ironical Jane, her pretty novels taught me so much about peoplea"even though she was somewhat hard on the clergy. And in all that, I couldnat do much more than I did for little Toronto, now could I? Was it to be expected? Such a busy life, you see.a The Bishop looked sour, like a man who has been outbid at an auction. aBusy,a said he; aaye, busy in the pursuit of pleasure.a aTrue, true,a said the King, not in the least daunted. aIave been called that, you knowa"the Prince of Pleasure.a aAnd where has it brought you?a said the Bishop. aThink, think man, upon your present unhappy state.a aWhat unhappy state?a said the King, much surprised. aIam as happy asa"well, as happy as a King. I mingle in admirable society, and I donat have to be tedious any more about rank. I can see as much as I please of the literary company I always longed for. Insteada"of course itas not proper for ordinary people to kiss and tell, but I am a Kinga"dear Jane Austen has been one of my mistresses for the pasta"oh, well over a century. No great sensation in bed, I a.s.sure you, but a wonderful talker; so I talk to Jane and sleep with other ladies whose talent lies that way.a The Bishop was furious. aReprobate!a he roared, quite forgetting what is due from a Bishop to the Defender of his Faith; adare you tell me that you pursue your dissolute courses unrebuked in h.e.l.l?a aWho said anything about h.e.l.l?a said the King, much surprised. aYou donat suppose Iam in h.e.l.l, do you?a aIf not h.e.l.l, where?a aIn Elysium, of course. Where are you?a aI am in Paradise,a said the Bishop, like a man transformed. aIn Jerusalem, the golden, with milk and honey blessed. Can you believe it, when I arrived, there was not a University, or a good private school, or an a.s.sociation for the Improvement of Deserving Artisans, or an almshouse for the widows of indigent clergy, or a Society for the Relief of Decayed Gentlewomen, or a Society for distributing trusses to the ruptured poor, or a single evidence of practical benevolence in the whole of Paradise? And it has been my glorious care to found them all. And to found many, many more. And there are persons of wealth, to be cajoled and bullied and shamed into giving me the money to do it. Oh, what glorious tussles Iave had with some of them! Man, itas Heaven. Work, work, work, and found, found, found, and beg, beg, beg without cease. I have turned the new Jerusalem into a splendid likeness of modern Toronto. Oh, the goodness of our bountiful Creator! He has even provided Sina"Sin in unlimited quant.i.ty and horrendous quality, for his Blessed Ones like myself to struggle with and combat and overcome. At this present moment I am busy with an area of the New Jerusalem where shameless men resort to have their bodies rubbed by unclothed women. Aye, and there is an abomination quite new since my time, a group called The Gays, and it is my resolve to a.s.sail their New Sodom. How can a poor lost soul like yourself judge of the holy ecstasy that Paradise is to a man like me?a aIall keep to Elysium,a said the King.

aBut you ought to be in h.e.l.l,a shouted the Bishop.

aOh it would be h.e.l.l to you, just as your Paradise would be h.e.l.l to me,a said the King. aYouad find Elysium way over your head. The daylight hours are spent in a sort of perpetual banquet, interspersed with expeditions on the water, and thereas an opera every evening. And after lights outa"no, no, Bishop, not for you. Of course I build a lot of new palaces, and you should see the gardens Iam planning. And furniture! Had it never struck you that a really satisfactory hereafter would involve perpetual delicious anxieties about new furniture? Anda"this is G.o.das charity at its most thoughtfula"n.o.body ever sends in a bill!a The Bishopas face was an arena in which Pity wrestled with Outraged Virtue. aMan, man,a he said, ado ye never tire of pleasure?a aTirea"of pleasure? What an extraordinary idea. Do you ever tire of good works?a aNever! But good works, inspired by faitha"a aWhat kind of faith? Do you make nothing of my lifelong faith in art and beauty? I wasnat an artist myselfa"except perhaps in my personal appearancea"but I was a great patron, a great appreciator and inspirer, a commissioner of fine things, and a notable collector. Do you call that nothing?a aI call it self-indulgence.a aYou, my lord, are a savage.a aDo you call me a savage, you crowned and anointed buffoon! You jewelled and gilded puppet, good for nothing but silly folk to gape at!a aVery well. I withdraw asavagea; 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.a aThe rank is but the guinea stamp. I was one of the Worldas Workers.a aThen we shall never agree. You were devoted to what Davies hereaa"the King nodded toward mea"awould 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.a But John Strachan was not to be talked down. aUpon what is a University built if not upon the Work Ethic? What has the scholar to offer to his G.o.d greater than Work and Prayer?a aWhat would G.o.d make of a university filled with nothing but sweaty psalm-singers?a said the King. aG.o.d, as a gentleman and an Anglican, must certainly appreciate scholarship, intellectual dignity, connoisseurshipa"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.a aAnd what was that?a The Bishopas voice was scornful and suspicious.

aIt wasnat a that; it was a who,a said the King.

aWho, then?a aA member of my family.a aHut! There was no member of your family here at the founding.a aOh, but there was. Surely you remember him? Indeed you yourself appointed him. Have you forgotten the Reverend John McCaul, first professor of Cla.s.sics, and successor to yourself as President of the University?a aJohn McCaul; a man of G.o.d; a man after my own heart!a aPerhaps. But also my nephew.a 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.

aSurely 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 Australiaa"b.a.s.t.a.r.ds to Canada. John McCaul was of the Blood Royal.a 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: aHe left several sons.a aAha,a said the King, ayou observe that this very Victorian compilation says nothing whatever about the good parsonas 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?a The Bishop was shielding his eyes with his hand, but he shook his head.

Now it was the Kingas turn. He lifted his hand and at once came the response from Robartsa"a volume bound in red which I had no trouble in recognizing as University Collegea"a Portrait, edited by Claude T. Bissell. There, on pages 4 and 5, the Bishop and I read: aThe Reverend John McCaul remained Professor of Cla.s.sics, and became President of the University of Toronto. He had come to Canada in 1839 as Princ.i.p.al 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 affairsa.

aThere, you see,a said the King. aIt 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. Heas the spitting image of my brother Augustus Frederick, Duke of Suss.e.x. Fred was always fond of cla.s.sics, so the lad came by it honestly. Fred asked the Archbishop to find something for young Jack, and of course he did.a 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.

aCome along, Dr. Strachan, we must return our books to the Library; others may want them, you know.a He tossed the history of University College into the air, and like a swallow it sped back to Robarts; the Bishopas 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.

aI 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 havea"well, not the royal arms, but the arms of the Duke of Suss.e.x affixed to the top of the frame of his picture. With a proper attaint of b.a.s.t.a.r.dy on it, of course. It would do a little something to make up for the Universityas shabby treatment of me.a Bishop Strachanas face was still buried in his hands, but his voice, choked with tears, could be heard. aOch, Johnnie McCaul, could ye no have confided your shame to your Bishop?a he sobbed.

aOh donat be such an old Goosey Gander, Strachan,a said the King. aMcCaulas b.a.s.t.a.r.dy 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)a"how do you expect anyone to survive as a University President who is not, in one sense or another, a b.a.s.t.a.r.d? Now Davies, I rely on you; have that heraldic ornament on young Jackas frame before the Sesquicentennial Year ends.a Here was a pretty kettle of fish! But I remembered something Vincent Ma.s.sey had told me, years ago.

aYour Majesty is by no means forgotten in this University,a said I. aHave you visited the Senate Chamber?a aShould I?a aIf you would be so gracious as to do so,a said I, ayou would see that above the Chancelloras 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.a aDamme, that was handsomely done of Vincent Ma.s.sey,a said the King. aI knew there was some reason why I came to weep in Ma.s.sey College. An understanding spirit, thatas what I discerned here.a aMr. Ma.s.sey told me it was not managed without some dispute,a said I. aThe 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. Ma.s.sey prevailed. So you see, the Pleasure Principle is symbolized at the very heart of the University.a aAnd can do it nothing but good,a said the King, beaming. Then he drew a splendid watch from his pocket. aI must be going,a said he, aif 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 McCaulas portrait. Hope to see you in Elysium.a aBut not too soon,a 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 in a new countrya"or a country that pretends it is new, although in reality it is very olda"comes to be so afflicted with what our university sociologists call aspectral densitya. 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 worldas 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, aWho will it be this year?a 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 pa.s.sed; 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 Shakespearea"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 Universityas 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 a.s.sure 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 standinga"lurking, to be more precisea"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 hata"where was the resplendent silk hat which was the great manas 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 aWell?a with that upward intonation that makes it clear that it is not at all well.

aIf you please,a said the ghost, aI am looking for a modest, dry lodging in quiet surroundings.a aThis is an odd time to be looking for a room,a said I. aYou should come back in daylight and speak to the Bursar. If you are able to appear in daylight,a I added, nastily.

aPlease donat be severe with me,a said the ghost in such a pitiful tone that I felt ashamed of myself. aMy need is very great, and I must find a place tonight, or terrible things will happen to me.a He was almost weeping.

aI have no wish to be severe,a said I, abut you must understand that this college has a purpose to fulfil in the university, and that purpose makes no provision fora"a aFor people in my situation?a said the ghost. aBut you are famous for your hospitality toward ghosts. Ah, but I see,a he continued, aYou 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.a 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 egotistsa"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.

aList, list to me,a said the ghost; aI could a tale unfold whose lightest word, would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blooda"a aAll right, all right,a I said impatiently. aIf you musta"and believe me I know how communicative you ghosts can bea"let me have it as briefly as possible, and without poetry. Iam very well up in Hamlet. Who are you?a aThat is my trouble,a said the ghost. aIam a private person, but not therefore utterly without poetry and feeling. In life I was that particular type of gentleperson called a Poor Relation.a aWhose Poor Relation were you?a said I.

aA Rich Relationas, 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 didnat 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.a 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 couldnat break away. It would have been unfeeling.

aBut you have apparently achieved some success after death,a said I. aYou are a ghost, and you are far from home. How have you got leave to travel?a aThat is the saddest part of my story,a said he. aBut you must hear me out. Donat bustle me.a I groaned, but I had not the heart to leave him.

aIt came to a head this very night, two hundred and fifty years ago,a said the ghost. aIt was on December the ninth, in 1728. Our good King George II had just entered the eleventh year of his long reigna"a aYes, yes,a said I; aI know a little history myself. Do make haste.a aWhat a fidget you are,a said the ghost, rather sharply I thought for a Poor Relation. aThen 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 n.o.body and I had no fine clothes. I was left at home without even a word of apology. Nor had any dinner been ordered. My cousinas wife, who was inclined to be mean, said that doubtless I could get something in the kitchen with the servants.

aThat 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.a aStabbed you?a I asked.

aNo.a aShot 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?a aYou have been seeing too much television,a said the ghost. aThe eighteenth century wasnat like that at all.a I continued to be hopeful and romantic. aBut the quarrel,a I said; ahe 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.a aI never owned a sword in my life,a said the ghost. aNasty, dangerous things. No: Iall 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. Itas the butleras 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 Squireas old wigs. Then I absent-mindedly picked up a table fork and stuck it into his right b.u.t.tock. 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.a This was the lowest ghost I had ever been pestered by. A wearer of second-hand wigs! Brained in a kitchen brawl with a pewter pot! And he had the gall to haunt Ma.s.sey College! Nevertheless, as a tale of low-life, this had its interest.

aWhat happened then?a I asked.

aThat was the cream of the whole thing,a said the ghost, as near to laughter as a ghost can get. aYou see, as soon as the butler hit me with that pot, I found myself about nine inches above the ground, watching everythinga"myself stretched out on the floor, the cook trying to staunch the blood from my head with a towel, all the maids in hysterics, the footman saying he knew it would come to this some day, and the butler, as white as a sheet, blubbering: aOh zur, come back I beg aee. I never went fur to do it, zur. Come back and Iall go light on the brown sugar as long as I live, indeed zur, I will.a But it was hopeless. I was gone, so far as they were concerned. The butler ran off and became a highwayman, but he was too fat and stupid for the work, and he was caught and hanged within a year.

aBut there was one thing about the affair that was truly impressive. The cook was a wise woman, in her fashion, and before the butler ran off she begged him to taste my blooda"just a little, just to dip his finger in the blood and lick it. He refused. She took a few licks herself, to show him that there was nothing really unpleasant about it, but of course she was professionally accustomed to tasting uncooked substances. Why? Because, you see, she knew that if he did that my ghost would never be able to appear. Now you remember that, if ever you kill anybody; swallow some of his blood, or youall be sorry. But of course in these days so many murderers are careless and ignorant that what I am telling you has almost been forgotten. I have always been glad that butler was thoroughly stupid; otherwise my fine career, my real achievement, would have been impossible.a The ghost was markedly more cheerful, now. aDo you know, that was the best thing that ever happened to me? From being a Poor Relation, I was suddenly promoted to Family Ghost. My cousin and his wife were proud of me, and as succeeding generations appeared in the manor I became quite a celebrity. I was once investigated by the Society for Psychical Research, and Harry Price himself gave me the coveted three star rating: Accredited Spectre, First Cla.s.s.a I continued to be patient, under difficulties. aBut what brings you here?a I asked. A ghost from Gloucestershire with a nice little local reputationa"what sent him travelling?

He groaned. All ghosts groan, and it is a very disquieting sound. This ghost was a first-rate groaner.

aYou read the newspapers, I suppose?a he said.

aUnfailingly,a I replied.

aZena Cherry?a said he.

aReligiously,a said I, and made the sign of the gossip columnista"one hand cupped to the ear, the other reaching for the pencil.

aThen surely you remember her account of the old English manor house that had been bought by a Toronto entrepreneur and re-built, stone by stone, in Don Mills, near the Bridle Path?a I did remember it.