“No such thing ever appeared,” I told him. “The man Gridd, in whom you trusted—rather foolishly I am afraid—published a biography of you, written by himself; and it has been an enormous and infamous success. I should not have mentioned this, be sure, had not you invited me to do so.”
“I left my autobiography complete in his hands,” said the Professor, much concerned.
“It was probably a very different work to the one he has published,” I replied. “In fact, not to mince matters, if all or even one half of what the man Gridd has written of you was true, Professor, you wouldn’t be here. He makes you a flagrant scoundrel and worse, for in his pages you appear as the most nauseous, calculating, double-dealing humbug and hypocrite that ever played a public part on earth and deceived mankind.”
“This is very disturbing,” said the Professor. “I never thought such baseness was possible. Why, I rescued Thomas Gridd from the gutter when he was a boy!”
“The usual reward of the great—well doing, ill report. Gridd was not the sort of man to forgive such a Samaritan,” I said. “They’ve torn me to pieces since I left them—not a doubt of it. But you don’t care, do you?”
“I care very much,” he answered. “I care for my Institute; I care for my dear wife; I care for my family. And, what is more, I won’t suffer it if I can bring our sub-committee to see the outrage with my eyes. In the interests of reputation there are certain great ones daily gathered together amongst us for the express purpose of adjudicating between the quick and dead in these affairs; and many a startling, literary Nemesis and unexplained, quick-handed and providential act of justice is the direct result of our personal interest and personal power in such matters. Where our reputations are concerned, we are in fact permitted some supernatural indulgences. This is a case in point, and if ever a literary ghost had a grievance, I take it that I who speak to you am that spirit. Come with me immediately; the sub-committee is sitting at this moment. It consists of Mr. Ben Jonson in the chair, Doctor Johnson and Mr. Carlyle. The last clamoured to be put on it so unceasingly after the little matter of Mr. Froude that we had to meet his wishes, and Virgil resigned in his favour. You see Virgil’s contemporaries have come by their own now, and it was right that the recent generations should have a modern representative.”
In another moment we stood before the three great shades.
“Welcome, Master Parkinson; what would you?” asked immortal Ben.
“Be brief, sir, for we are busy to-day,” added Doctor Johnson. “I beg therefore that you will unfold your purpose with as little flux of words as may be necessary to its elucidation.”
Carlyle did not speak, but thrust out his chin, as he does in the picture by Watts, and listened.