A House Boat on the Styx

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A HOUSE-BOAT ON THE STYX
by John Kendrick Bangs


CHAPTER I: CHARON MAKES A DISCOVERY


Charon, the Ferryman of renown, was cruising slowly along the Styx one
pleasant Friday morning not long ago, and as he paddled idly on he
chuckled mildly to himself as he thought of the monopoly in ferriage
which in the course of years he had managed to build up.

"It's a great thing," he said, with a smirk of satisfaction--"it's a
great thing to be the go-between between two states of being; to have the
exclusive franchise to export and import shades from one state to the
other, and withal to have had as clean a record as mine has been.
Valuable as is my franchise, I never corrupted a public official in my
life, and--"

Here Charon stopped his soliloquy and his boat simultaneously. As he
rounded one of the many turns in the river a singular object met his
gaze, and one, too, that filled him with misgiving. It was another
craft, and that was a thing not to be tolerated. Had he, Charon, owned
the exclusive right of way on the Styx all these years to have it
disputed here in the closing decade of the Nineteenth Century? Had not
he dealt satisfactorily with all, whether it was in the line of ferriage
or in the providing of boats for pleasure-trips up the river? Had he not
received expressions of satisfaction, indeed, from the most exclusive
families of Hades with the very select series of picnics he had given at
Charon's Glen Island? No wonder, then, that the queer-looking boat that
met his gaze, moored in a shady nook on the dark side of the river,
filled him with dismay.

"Blow me for a landlubber if I like that!" he said, in a hardly audible
whisper. "And shiver my timbers if I don't find out what she's there
for. If anybody thinks he can run an opposition line to mine on this
river he's mightily mistaken. If it comes to competition, I can carry
shades for nothing and still quaff the B. & G. yellow-label benzine three
times a day without experiencing a financial panic. I'll show 'em a
thing or two if they attempt to rival me. And what a boat! It looks for
all the world like a Florentine barn on a canal-boat."

Charon paddled up to the side of the craft, and, standing up in the
middle of his boat, cried out,

"Ship ahoy!"

There was no answer, and the Ferryman hailed her again. Receiving no
response to his second call, he resolved to investigate for himself; so,
fastening his own boat to the stern-post of the stranger, he clambered on
board. If he was astonished as he sat in his ferry-boat, he was
paralyzed when he cast his eye over the unwelcome vessel he had boarded.
He stood for at least two minutes rooted to the spot. His eye swept over
a long, broad deck, the polish of which resembled that of a ball-room
floor. Amidships, running from three-quarters aft to three-quarters
forward, stood a structure that in its lines resembled, as Charon had
intimated, a barn, designed by an architect enamoured of Florentine
simplicity; but in its construction the richest of woods had been used,
and in its interior arrangement and adornment nothing more palatial could
be conceived.

"What's the blooming thing for?" said Charon, more dismayed than ever.
"If they start another line with a craft like this, I'm very much afraid
I'm done for after all. I wouldn't take a boat like mine myself if there
was a floating palace like this going the same way. I'll have to see the
Commissioners about this, and find out what it all means. I suppose
it'll cost me a pretty penny, too, confound them!"

A prey to these unhappy reflections, Charon investigated further, and the
more he saw the less he liked it. He was about to encounter opposition,
and an opposition which was apparently backed by persons of great
wealth--perhaps the Commissioners themselves. It was a consoling thought
that he had saved enough money in the course of his career to enable him
to live in comfort all his days, but this was not really what Charon was
after. He wished to acquire enough to retire and become one of the smart
set. It had been done in that section of the universe which lay on the
bright side of the Styx, why not, therefore, on the other, he asked.

"I'm pretty well connected even if I am a boatman," he had been known to
say. "With Chaos for a grandfather, and Erebus and Nox for parents, I've
just as good blood in my veins as anybody in Hades. The Noxes are a
mighty fine family, not as bright as the Days, but older; and we're
poor--that's it, poor--and it's money makes caste these days. If I had
millions, and owned a railroad, they'd call me a yacht-owner. As I
haven't, I'm only a boatman. Bah! Wait and see! I'll be giving swell
functions myself some day, and these upstarts will be on their knees
before me begging to be asked. Then I'll get up a little aristocracy of
my own, and I won't let a soul into it whose name isn't mentioned in the
Grecian mythologies. Mention in Burke's peerage and the Elite
directories of America won't admit anybody to Commodore Charon's house
unless there's some other mighty good reason for it."

Foreseeing an unhappy ending to all his hopes, the old man clambered
sadly back into his ancient vessel and paddled off into the darkness.
Some hours later, returning with a large company of new arrivals, while
counting up the profits of the day Charon again caught sight of the new
craft, and saw that it was brilliantly lighted and thronged with the most
famous citizens of the Erebean country. Up in the bow was a spirit band
discoursing music of the sweetest sort. Merry peals of laughter rang out
over the dark waters of the Styx. The clink of glasses and the popping
of corks punctuated the music with a frequency which would have delighted
the soul of the most ardent lover of commas, all of which so overpowered
the grand master boatman of the Stygian Ferry Company that he dropped
three oboli and an American dime, which he carried as a pocket-piece,
overboard. This, of course, added to his woe; but it was forgotten in an
instant, for some one on the new boat had turned a search-light directly
upon Charon himself, and simultaneously hailed the master of the ferry-
boat.

"Charon!" cried the shade in charge of the light. "Charon, ahoy!"

"Ahoy yourself!" returned the old man, paddling his craft close up to the
stranger. "What do you want?"

"You," said the shade. "The house committee want to see you right away."

"What for?" asked Charon, cautiously.

"I'm sure I don't know. I'm only a member of the club, and house
committees never let mere members know anything about their plans. All I
know is that you are wanted," said the other.

"Who are the house committee?" queried the Ferryman.

"Sir Walter Raleigh, Cassius, Demosthenes, Blackstone, Doctor Johnson,
and Confucius," replied the shade.

"Tell 'em I'll be back in an hour," said Charon, pushing off. "I've got
a cargo of shades on board consigned to various places up the river. I've
promised to get 'em all through to-night, but I'll put on a couple of
extra paddles--two of the new arrivals are working their passage this
trip--and it won't take as long as usual. What boat is this, anyhow?"

"The _Nancy Nox_, of Erebus."

"Thunder!" cried Charon, as he pushed off and proceeded on his way up the
river. "Named after my mother! Perhaps it'll come out all right yet."

More hopeful of mood, Charon, aided by the two dead-head passengers, soon
got through with his evening's work, and in less than an hour was back
seeking admittance, as requested, to the company of Sir Walter Raleigh
and his fellow-members on the house committee. He was received by these
worthies with considerable effusiveness, considering his position in
society, and it warmed the cockles of his aged heart to note that Sir
Walter, who had always been rather distant to him since he had carelessly
upset that worthy and Queen Elizabeth in the middle of the Styx far back
in the last century, permitted him to shake three fingers of his left
hand when he entered the committee-room.

"How do you do, Charon?" said Sir Walter, affably. "We are very glad to
see you."

"Thank you, kindly, Sir Walter," said the boatman. "I'm glad to hear
those words, your honor, for I've been feeling very bad since I had the
misfortune to drop your Excellency and her Majesty overboard. I never
knew how it happened, sir, but happen it did, and but for her Majesty's
kind assistance it might have been the worse for us. Eh, Sir Walter?"

The knight shook his head menacingly at Charon. Hitherto he had managed
to keep it a secret that the Queen had rescued him from drowning upon
that occasion by swimming ashore herself first and throwing Sir Walter
her ruff as soon as she landed, which he had used as a life-preserver.

"'Sh!" he said, _sotto voce_. "Don't say anything about that, my man."

"Very well, Sir Walter, I won't," said the boatman; but he made a mental
note of the knight's agitation, and perceived a means by which that
illustrious courtier could be made useful to him in his scheming for
social advancement.

"I understood you had something to say to me," said Charon, after he had
greeted the others.

"We have," said Sir Walter. "We want you to assume command of this
boat."

The old fellow's eyes lighted up with pleasure.

"You want a captain, eh?" he said.

"No," said Confucius, tapping the table with a diamond-studded
chop-stick. "No. We want a--er--what the deuce is it they call the
functionary, Cassius?"

"Senator, I think," said Cassius.

Demosthenes gave a loud laugh.

"Your mind is still running on Senatorships, my dear Cassius. That is
quite evident," he said. "This is not one of them, however. The title
we wish Charon to assume is neither Captain nor Senator; it is Janitor."

"What's that?" asked Charon, a little disappointed. "What does a Janitor
have to do?"

"He has to look after things in the house," explained Sir Walter. "He's
a sort of proprietor by proxy. We want you to take charge of the house,
and see to it that the boat is kept shipshape."

"Where is the house?" queried the astonished boatman.

"This is it," said Sir Walter. "This is the house, and the boat too. In
fact, it is a house-boat."

"Then it isn't a new-fangled scheme to drive me out of business?" said
Charon, warily.

"Not at all," returned Sir Walter. "It's a new-fangled scheme to set you
up in business. We'll pay you a large salary, and there won't be much to
do. You are the best man for the place, because, while you don't know
much about houses, you do know a great deal about boats, and the boat
part is the most important part of a house-boat. If the boat sinks, you
can't save the house; but if the house burns, you may be able to save the
boat. See?"

"I think I do, sir," said Charon.

"Another reason why we want to employ you for Janitor," said Confucius,
"is that our club wants to be in direct communication with both sides of
the Styx; and we think you as Janitor would be able to make better
arrangements for transportation with yourself as boatman, than some other
man as Janitor could make with you."

"Spoken like a sage," said Demosthenes.

"Furthermore," said Cassius, "occasionally we shall want to have this
boat towed up or down the river, according to the house committee's
pleasure, and we think it would be well to have a Janitor who has some
influence with the towing company which you represent."

"Can't this boat be moved without towing?" asked Charon.

"No," said Cassius.

"And I'm the only man who can tow it, eh?"

"You are," said Blackstone. "Worse luck."

"And you want me to be Janitor on a salary of what?"

"A hundred oboli a month," said Sir Walter, uneasily.

"Very well, gentlemen," said Charon. "I'll accept the office on a salary
of two hundred oboli a month, with Saturdays off."

The committee went into executive session for five minutes, and on their
return informed Charon that in behalf of the Associated Shades they
accepted his offer.

"In behalf of what?" the old man asked.

"The Associated Shades," said Sir Walter. "The swellest organization in
Hades, whose new house-boat you are now on board of. When shall you be
ready to begin work?"

"Right away," said Charon, noting by the clock that it was the hour of
midnight. "I'll start in right away, and as it is now Saturday morning,
I'll begin by taking my day off."




CHAPTER 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. "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 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.




CHAPTER III: WASHINGTON GIVES A DINNER


It was Washington's Birthday, and the gentleman who had the pleasure of
being Father of his Country decided to celebrate it at the Associated
Shades' floating palace on the Styx, as the Elysium _Weekly Gossip_, "a
Journal of Society," called it, by giving a dinner to a select number of
friends. Among the invited guests were Baron Munchausen, Doctor Johnson,
Confucius, Napoleon Bonaparte, Diogenes, and Ptolemy. Boswell was also
present, but not as a guest. He had a table off to one side all to
himself, and upon it there were no china plates, silver spoons, knives,
forks, and dishes of fruit, but pads, pens, and ink in great quantity. It
was evident that Boswell's reportorial duties did not end with his labors
in the mundane sphere.

The dinner was set down to begin at seven o'clock, so that the guests, as
was proper, sauntered slowly in between that hour and eight. The menu
was particularly choice, the shades of countless canvas-back ducks,
terrapin, and sheep having been called into requisition, and cooked by no
less a person than Brillat-Savarin, in the hottest oven he could find in
the famous cooking establishment superintended by the government.
Washington was on hand early, sampling the olives and the celery and the
wines, and giving to Charon final instructions as to the manner in which
he wished things served.

The first guest to arrive was Confucius, and after him came Diogenes, the
latter in great excitement over having discovered a comparatively honest
man, whose name, however, he had not been able to ascertain, though he
was under the impression that it was something like Burpin, or Turpin, he
said.

At eight the brilliant company was arranged comfortably about the board.
An orchestra of five, under the leadership of Mozart, discoursed sweet
music behind a screen, and the feast of reason and flow of soul began.