Frenzied Fiction. Stephen Leacock
of Congress under the Constitution. Now, you remember the Constitution when they made it. Is the law all right?”
There was silence.
“How does it stand, great-grandfather?” I said. “Will it hold water?”
Then he spoke.
“Over here,” he said, “there are no laws, no members of Congress and no Adamsons; it’s all bright and beautiful and—”
“Great-grandfather,” I said, as I hung up the receiver in disgust, “you are a Mutt!”
I never spoke to him again. Yet I feel sorry for him, feeble old soul, flitting about in the Illimitable, and always so punctual to hurry to the telephone, so happy, so feeble-witted and courteous; a better man, perhaps, take it all in all, than he was in life; lonely, too, it may be, out there in the Vastness. Yet I never called him up again. He is happy. Let him stay.
Indeed, my acquaintance with the spirit world might have ended at that point but for the good offices, once more, of my Friend.
“You find your great-grandfather a little slow, a little dull?” he said. “Well, then, if you want brains, power, energy, why not call up some of the spirits of the great men, some of the leading men, for instance, of your great-grandfather’s time?”
“You’ve said it!” I exclaimed. “I’ll call up Napoleon Bonaparte.”
I hurried to the agency.
“Is it possible,” I asked, “for me to call up the Emperor Napoleon and talk to him?”
Possible? Certainly. It appeared that nothing was easier. In the case of Napoleon Bonaparte the nominal fee had to be ten dollars in place of five; but it seemed to me that, if Great-grandfather cost five, Napoleon Bonaparte at ten was cheapness itself.
“Will it take long to get him?” I asked anxiously.
“We’ll send out a tracer for him right away,” they said.
Like Great-grandfather, Napoleon was punctual. That I will say for him. If in any way I think less of Napoleon Bonaparte now than I did, let me at least admit that a more punctual, obliging, willing man I never talked with.
He came in two minutes.
“He’s on the line now,” they said.
I took up the receiver, trembling.
“Hello!” I called. “Est-ce que c’est l’Empereur Napoleon a qui j’ai l’honneur de parler?”
“How’s that?” said Napoleon.
“Je demande si je suis en communication avec l’Empereur Napoleon—”
“Oh,” said Napoleon, “that’s all right; speak English.”
“What!” I said in surprise. “You know English? I always thought you couldn’t speak a word of it.”
He was silent for a minute. Then he said:
“I picked it up over here. It’s all right. Go right ahead.”
“Well,” I continued, “I’ve always admired you so much, your wonderful brain and genius, that I felt I wanted to speak to you and ask you how you are.”
“Happy,” said Napoleon, “very happy.”
“That’s good,” I said. “That’s fine! And how is it out there? All bright and beautiful, eh?”
“Very beautiful,” said the Emperor.
“And just where are you?” I continued. “Somewhere out in the Unspeakable, I suppose, eh?”
“Yes,” he answered, “out here beyond.”
“That’s good,” I said. “Pretty happy, eh?”
“Very happy,” said Napoleon. “Tell everybody how happy I am.”
“I know,” I answered. “I’ll tell them all. But just now I’ve a particular thing to ask. We’ve got a big war on, pretty well the whole world in it, and I thought perhaps a few pointers from a man like you—”
But at this point the attendant touched me on the shoulder. “Your time is up,” he said.
I was about to offer to pay at once for two minutes more when a better idea struck me. Talk with Napoleon? I’d do better than that. I’d call a whole War Council of great spirits, lay the war crisis before them and get the biggest brains that the world ever produced to work on how to win the war.
Who should I have? Let me see! Napoleon himself, of course. I’d bring him back. And for the sea business, the submarine problem, I’d have Nelson. George Washington, naturally, for the American end; for politics, say, good old Ben Franklin, the wisest old head that ever walked on American legs, and witty too; yes, Franklin certainly, if only for his wit to keep the council from getting gloomy; Lincoln—honest old Abe—him certainly I must have. Those and perhaps a few others.
I reckoned that a consultation at ten dollars apiece with spirits of that class was cheap to the verge of the ludicrous. Their advice ought to be worth millions—yes, billions—to the cause.
The agency got them for me without trouble. There is no doubt they are a punctual crowd, over there beyond in the Unthinkable.
I gathered them all in and talked to them, all and severally, the payment, a merely nominal matter, being made, pro forma, in advance.
I have in front of me in my rough notes the result of their advice. When properly drafted it will be, I feel sure, one of the most important state documents produced in the war.
In the personal sense—I have to admit it—I found them just a trifle disappointing. Franklin, poor fellow, has apparently lost his wit. The spirit of Lincoln seemed to me to have none of that homely wisdom that he used to have. And it appears that we were quite mistaken in thinking Disraeli a brilliant man; it is clear to me now that he was dull—just about as dull as Great-grandfather, I should say. Washington, too, is not at all the kind of man we thought him.
Still, these are only personal impressions. They detract nothing from the extraordinary value of the advice given, which seems to me to settle once and for ever any lingering doubt about the value of communications with the Other Side.
My draft of their advice runs in part as follows:
The Spirit of Nelson, on being questioned on the submarine problem, holds that if all the men on the submarines were where he is everything would be bright and happy. This seems to me an invaluable hint. There is nothing needed now except to put them there.
The advice of the Spirit of Napoleon about the campaign on land seemed to me, if possible, of lower value than that of Nelson on the campaign at sea. It is hardly conceivable that Napoleon has forgotten where the Marne is. But it may have changed since his day. At any rate, he says that, if ever the Russians cross the Marne, all is over. Coming from such a master-strategist, this ought to be attended to.
Franklin, on being asked whether the United States had done right in going into the war, said “Yes”; asked whether the country could with honour have stayed out, he said “No.” There is guidance here for thinking men of all ranks.
Lincoln is very happy where he is. So, too, I was amazed to find, is Disraeli. In fact, it was most gratifying to learn that all of the great spirits consulted are very happy, and want everybody to know how happy they are. Where they are, I may say, it is all bright and beautiful.
Fear of trespassing on their time prevented me from questioning each of them up to the full limit of the period contracted for.
I understand that I have still to my credit at the agency five minutes’ talk with Napoleon, available at any time, and similarly five minutes each with Franklin and Washington, to say nothing of ten minutes’ unexpired time with Great-grandfather.
All of these opportunities I am willing to dispose of at a reduced rate to anyone still sceptical of the reality of the spirit world.
V. The Sorrows of a Summer Guest
Let