I received a second visit from Stephen Leacock’s ghost last evening. I wasn’t really in the mood, having been absorbed in a massive project during the past three weeks, but ghosts are not inclined to pay attention to one’s moods. Or at least so I believe, on the basis of what I admit is very limited experience.
The mood of this ghost was truculent. “Where have you been?” he demanded. “I’ve been watching for your bloggerings and I haven’t seen them for weeks.”
“Aha!” said I. “So you do watch.”
“Of course. I keep an eye on everything that anybody writes about me. Libel, you know.”
“And how would you launch a suit for libel?” I enquired politely. “Are you allowed do that from the other side?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t had cause to try. People are mostly kind to me. Excessively so, even. But you haven’t answered my question. Where have you been?”
“Don’t be hard on me, Professor. I only missed one week. I have been busy writing something else.”
“And what might that have been?”
“Well, this may sound silly to you, but I have been writing lyrics to Yiddish music, lyrics which tell the story of the Megillah, as an unusual kind of Purim spiel for our synagogue. One song for each chapter of the Book of Esther. That’s a lot of lyrics, and each song different. I told you before that that’s the kind of thing I do. It can be totally absorbing. I had no time for you, or anything much else.”
“Ah. You mingle with the Jews, do you?”
“Yes I do, being attached to one, and I don’t think we should get into that. McGill had quotas in your day, and I haven’t yet seen any evidence that you objected to them. You may have done, but I haven’t seen the evidence.”
“I didn’t object, because it was none of my business. It was the Registrar’s job to decide who could come to McGill. It was my job to teach them economics and political science. Men, women, Jews—I taught them all, just the same, and helped them if they needed it. Personally I would have preferred an all-male university, and I said so, but it wasn’t my job to decide that.”
“Do you know what is bothering me, more than anything else right now. You heaped such scorn on people who believed in spiritualism, and yet here you are, ectoplasm and all, the—I won’t say living embodiment, because you are neither, and I won’t say tangible manifestation, because you aren’t that either—ethereal representation, if I may so term you, of yourself. Have you changed your mind about the scorn?”
“Not at all. People can believe in ghosts if they want, or not believe, I don’t care. I do care that unscrupulous people used to promote belief in spiritualism and take advantage of believers to steal their money. Spiritualism as practised was a confidence trick, and I scorned it as such, both the tricksters and the people who allowed themselves to be tricked. Especially the latter. But you aren’t paying a dime to have me here, and if somebody was charging you I wouldn’t be here.”
“Well, that’s fair enough, I grant you. We perform ‘Q’ by the way, or did you know that? We find it highly suitable.”
“I knew about that. I came to some of your concerts last year, keeping out of sight, of course. So what are you going to do this year?”
“We’re not sure yet. We’re calling the concert ‘Elongated Leacock’, to indicate that we intend to grapht onto your material, as we did with ‘Ho for Happiness’ last year. We’ll include it again this year. As for the rest of it, I am coming to believe that your life is actually more interesting, from the contemporary perspective, than what you wrote. I am wondering what I might be able to do with that idea.”
“Elongated Leacock, eh? Something like this, perhaps?” Whereupon he stretched himself out of his chair and wrapped himself around the room several times in a long ectoplasmic strand.
“Very impressive!” I exclaimed, applauding. “Could you come and do that at our concerts?”
“Oh, I’ll be there, but I won’t perform. I retired from that game years ago.” He de-elongated himself, and coagulated once more into his chair. “But I have an idea for you, no charge. Why don’t you do my life the way you did the Book of Esther, using the tunes of my time?”
“You mean, I presume, Victorian tunes.”
“Yes, I suppose that would be appropriate. I was born in the middle of Queen Victoria’s reign, and never really got over it.”
“So you said. I believe that’s true, which is one of the reasons I like you, being a bit of a Victorian myself.” I mused on the possibilities while he shimmered gently where he was. “I think you have hit on an idea, and I’m going to look into it. Will you help?”
“Of course. I’ll be with you every step of the way. It sounds like a splendid idea to me. I’ll be your ghost writer.” And he laughed uproariously at his own joke, as was, according to his biographers, his wont.
When he had finished I said, “I may even have a copy of the old McGill Song Book around here. That would be a great place to start.”
“Indeed it would. Press on, boy, press on.”
“Wrong image,” I said. “I don’t press, I grapht.”
“Well then, grapht on.” And with that he vanished.