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Unit 10 Satire in Literature
The
Immortal Bard
Isaac
Asimov
“Oh, yes,” said Dr. Phineas Welch, “I
can bring back the spirits of the illustrious
dead.”
He
was
a
little
drunk,
or
maybe
he
wouldn?t
have
said
it.
Of
course,
it
was
perfectly all right to get a little
drunk at the annual Christmas party.
Scott Robertson, the school?s young
English instructor, adjusted his glasses and
looked to right and left to see if they
were overheard.
“Really, Dr.
Welch.”
“I mean it. And not just
the spirits. I bring back the bodies, too.”
“I wouldn?t have said it
were possible,” said Robertson primly.
“Why not? A
simple matter of temporal transference.”
“You mean time travel? But that?s
quite—
uh
—unusual.”
“Not if you
know
how.”
“Well, how, Dr. Welch?”
“Think I?m
going to tell you?” asked the physicist gravely.
He looked vaguely about
for another
drink and didn?t find any. He said, “I brought
quite a few back. Archimedes,
Newton,
Galileo. Poor fellows.”
“Didn?t they like it here?
I should think they?d have been fascinated by our
modern
science,” said Robertson. He was
beginning to enjoy the conversation.
“Oh, they were. They were. Especially
Archimedes. I thought he?d go mad with joy at
first
after
I explained a
little of it in some Greek I?d
boned up
on, but no
—
no
—”
“What was wrong?”
“Just a
different culture. They couldn?t get used to our
way of life. They got terribly
lonely
and frightened. I had to send them back.”
“That?s too bad.”
“Yes. Great minds, but not
flexible minds. Not universal. So I tried
Shakespeare.”
“What?” yelled Robertson.
This was getting closer to home.
“Don?t yell, my boy,” said Welch. “It?s
bad manners.”
“Did you say you brought
back Shakespeare?”
“I did. I
needed someone with a universal mind; someone who
knew people well
enough to be able to
live with them centuries away from his own time.
Shakespeare was
the man. I?ve got his
signature. As a memento, you know.”
“On you?” asked
Robertson, eyes
bugging.
“Right here.”
Welch fumbled in one
vest
pocket after another. “Ah, here it is.”
A
little piece of pasteboard was passed to the
instructor. On one side it said: “L.
Klein
&
Sons,
Wholesale
Hardware.”
On
t
he
other
side,
in
straggly
script,
was
written,
“Willm Shakesper.”
A wild surmise
filled Robertson. “What did he look like?”
“Not like his pictures. Bald and an
ugly mustache. He spoke in a thick brogue. Of
course, I did my best to please him
with our times.
I told him
we thought highly of his
plays and
still put them on the boards. In fact, I said we
thought they were the greatest
pieces
of literature in the English language, maybe in
any language.”
“Good. Good,” said Robertson
breat
hlessly.
“I
said
people
had
written
volumes
of
commentaries
on
his
plays.
Naturally
he
wanted to see one and I got one for him
from the library.”
“And?”
“Oh,
he
was
fascinated.
Of
course,
he
had
trouble
with
the
current
idioms
and
references
to
events
since
1600,
but
I
helped
out
.
Poor
fellow.
I
don?t
think
he
ever
expected such
treatment. He kept saying, ?God ha? mercy!
What cannot be racked from
words in five centuries?
One could
wring, methinks, a flood from a damp clout!”
“He
wouldn?t say that.”
“Why not? He wrote his
plays as quickly as he could. He said he had to
on account
of
the deadlines. He wrote Hamlet in less
than six months. The plot was an old one. He
just polished it up
.”
“That?s
all
they
do
to
a
telescope
mirror.
Just
polish
it
up,”
said
the
English
instructor
indignantly.
The
physicist
disregarded
him.
He
made
out
an
untouched
cocktail
on
the
bar
some feet away and
sidled toward it. “I told the immortal bard that
we even gave college
courses in
Shakespeare.”
“I give one.”
“I
know.
I
enrolled
him
in
your
evening
extension course.
I
never
saw
a
man
so
eager to
find out what posterity thought of him as poor
Bill was. He worked hard at it.”
“You enrolled
William Shakespeare in my course?” mumbled
Robertson. Even as
an alcoholic
fantasy, the thought staggered him. And was it an
alcoholic fantasy? He was
beginning to
recall a bald man with a queer way of talking...
“Not under his
real name, of course,” said Dr. Welch. “Never mind
what he went
under. It was a mistake,
t
hat?s all. A big mistake. Poor
fellow.” He had the cocktail now
and
shook his head at it.
“Why was it a mistake? What
happened?”
“I
had
to
send
him
back
to
1600,”
roared
Welch
indignantly.
“How
much
humiliation do you think a man can
stand?”
“What humiliation are you talking
about?”
Dr. Welch tossed off the cocktail.
“Why, you poor simpleton,
you flunked him.”
不朽的诗人
1
“哦，对了，
”菲尼亚斯韦尔奇博士说，
“我可以使那
些故去的名人还魂。
”
2
他有点醉了，不然他不会这样胡说。当然，一年一度的圣诞聚会，喝得有点醉也是
无可厚非的。
3
斯科特罗伯逊，某学校年轻的英文讲师，整整眼镜，环顾左右，看看是否有人无意
间听到
他们之间的谈话。
4
“当真啊，韦尔奇博士。
”
5
“我是当真的。还不只是灵魂，我还能使他们的肉体复
生。
”
6
“我觉得这不可能，
”罗伯逊一本正经地说。
7
“为什么不可能？这只不过是简单的时间转移。
”
8
“你是
说时空旅行？那真是太——呃——离奇了。
”
9
“会者不难嘛。
”
10
“那怎么做呢，韦尔奇博士？”
11
“你以为我会告诉你吗？”物理学家严肃地说。他心不在焉地环顾四周，想再找酒
喝，但没有找到。他说：
“我已经让好几个人回来过了：阿基米德，牛
顿，伽利略。这帮可
怜的家伙。
”
12
“他们不喜欢这里吗？我还以为他们会对这儿的现代科
学着迷呢，
”
罗伯逊说。
他已
经开始喜欢他们之间的谈话了。
13
“哦，是的，他们是着迷了，尤其是阿基米德。我特意温习了一下希腊文，给他解
释一点现代科学，我以为他听了会高兴得发狂，可是没有??没有??”
14
“出什么岔子啦？”
15
“就是文化差异，他们不习惯我们的生活方式，他们感
到非常孤独，还怕得要死。
我只好把他们送回去了。
”
16
“真糟糕”
。
17
“是啊。伟大的智者，但头脑不灵活，不能随遇而安。
所以我试了试莎士比亚。
”
18
“
什么
？”罗伯逊喊起来。这下真的触
动他了。
19
“别喊，老兄，<
/p>
”韦尔奇说。
“多不雅啊。
”
20
“你说你把莎士比亚弄回来了？”
21
“没错。我需要一个随遇而安的智者。一个了解人世，
能与相隔几个世纪的人共同
生活的人。莎士比亚正是那样的人。我有他的签名。作为一个
纪念，你知道。
”
22
“你带着吗？”罗伯逊问，眼睛瞪得老大。
23
“就在这里。
”
韦尔奇把马甲口袋一个个摸过来。
“啊，在这儿。
”
24
他将一个小小的硬纸片递给这位讲
师。
一面上写着：
“
L.
克莱因父子五金批发公司。
”
另一面上字迹潦草地写
着：
“
Willm
Shakesper
。
”
25
罗伯逊满腹狐疑。
“他看上去
怎么样？”
26
“跟图片上的不
一样，秃头，长着难看的八字须。说话满口土腔。当然，我竭力使
他喜欢我们的时代。<
/p>
我告诉他我们都很欣赏他的戏剧，
而且还在上演。
我跟他说事实上我们
认为他的戏剧是英国文学中，也许是全世界，最伟大的文学
作品。
”
27
< br>“说得好！说得好！
”罗伯逊呼吸急促地说。
28
“我告诉他人们为他的戏剧写的评论一本又一本，数不
胜数。他自然想看一本，所
以我就从图书馆弄了一本给他。
”<
/p>
29
“然后呢？”
30
“哦，他着迷了。当然，他不懂那些现代用语，也不知道
1600
年以来发生的事情，
不过我帮他解决了。可怜的家伙。我想他是想不到会受
到这种待遇的。他不断地说：
‘啊，
我的上帝！
在五个世纪的时间里还有什么不能从文字里榨出来呢？吾以为，
人们都能从一块
湿布中拧出洪水来了。
’
”
31
“他不会那样说的。
”
32
“为什么不会？他写剧本时写得非常快。
他说因为交稿期限的缘故，
他不得不这样。
他花了不
到
6
个月时间完成了《哈姆雷特》的写作。情节是老的，他只是
润色加工，使其
亮丽些。
”
33
“那是人们对望远镜镜片干的活，擦一擦让它亮丽些，
”这位英文讲师愤慨地说。
34
物理学家没有理他的碴。他看到几英尺远的吧台上有一杯没有喝过的鸡尾酒，侧着
身慢慢走过去。
“我告诉这位不朽的诗人我们大学里还开莎士比亚课呢
。
”
35
“
我
就开了一门。
”
36
“我知道。我帮他在你上的夜校课注了册。
我从来没有看到像可怜的比尔那样如此
急于知道后人是怎么看他的。他学得很认真。
”
37
“你
让威廉莎士比亚上我的课？”罗伯逊咕哝道。即使这只是酒精作用下的一种幻
觉，
这种想法还是令他吃惊。
再说，
这是酒精作用
下的幻觉吗？他开始回忆起一个秃头的人，
说话怪怪的??
38
“当然，没有用他的真名，
”
韦尔奇博士说。
“他用什么名字没有关系。这是一个
< br>错误，仅此而已。一个巨大的错误。可怜的家伙。
”他现在已经拿到鸡尾酒了，对
着酒摇摇
头。
39
“为什么是个错误？出了什么事？”
40
“我不得不将他送回到
160
0
年，
”
韦
尔奇愤怒地吼道。
“你认为一个人能够忍受多
大程度的羞辱？”
41
“你说的羞辱指什么？”
42 <
/p>
韦尔奇博士将鸡尾酒一饮而尽。
“哎呀，你这可怜的傻瓜。你给了
他一个不及格。
”
Running for Governor
A few
months ago I was nominated for Governor of the
great State of New York, to
run
against
Stewart
L.
Woodford
and
John
T.
Hoffman,
on
an
independent
ticket.
I
somehow
felt
that
I
had
one
prominent
advantage
over
these
gentlemen,
and
that was,
good character. It
was easy to see by the newspapers, that if ever
they had known what it
was to bear a
good name, that time had gone by. It was plain
that in these latter years
they had
become familiar with all manner of shameful
crimes. But at the very moment
that
I
was
exalting
my
advantage
and
joying
in
it
in
secret,
there
was
a
muddy
undercurrent of discomfort
to hear my name bandied about in
familiar connection with those of such people. I
grew
more
and
more
disturbed.
Finally
I
wrote
my
grandmother
about
it.
Her
answer
came
quick
and sharp. She said:
You have never
done one single thing in all your life to be
ashamed of
-- not one.
Look
at
the
newspapers
--
look
at
them
and
comprehend
what
sort
of
characters
Woodford and
Hoffman are, and then see if you are willing to
lower yourself to their level
and enter
a public canvass with them.
It was my
very thought! I did not sleep a single moment that
night. But after all, I
could not
recede. I was fully committed and must go on with
the fight. As I was looking
listlessly
over the papers at breakfast, I came across this
paragraph, and I may truly say I
never
was so confounded before:
PERJURY. --
Perhaps, now that Mr. Mark Twain is before the
people as a candidate
for Governor, he
will condescend to explain how he came to be
convicted of perjury by
thirty-four
witnesses, in Wakawak, Cochin China, in 1863, the
intent of which perjury was
to rob a
poor native widow and her helpless family of a
meagre plantain patch, their only
stay
and support in their bereavement and their
desolation. Mr. Twain owes it to himself,
as well as to the great people whose
suffrages he asks, to clear this matter up. Will
he do
it?
I thought I should
burst with amazement! Such a cruel, heartless
charge -- I never
had seen Cochin
China! I never had beard of Wakawak! I didn't know
a plantain patch
from a kangaroo! I did
not know what to do. I was crazed and helpless. I
let the day slip
away without doing
anything at all. The next morning the same paper
had this -- nothing
more:
SIGNIFICANT.
--
Mr.
Twain,
it
will
be
observed,
is
suggestively
silent
about
the
Cochin China perjury.
[Mem.
--
During
the
rest
of
the
campaign
this
paper
never
referred
to
me
in
any
other way
than as
Next came the
WANTED
TO
KNOW.
--
Will
the
new
candidate
for
Governor
deign
to
explain
to
certain of his fellow-citizens (who are
suffering to vote for him!) the little
circumstance of
his cabin-mates in
Montana losing small valuables from time to time,
until at last, these
things having been
invariably found on Mr. Twain's person or in his
he rolled his traps in), they felt
compelled to give him a friendly admonition for
his own
good, and so tarred and
feathered him and rode him on a rail, and then
advised him to
leave a permanent vacuum
in the place he usually occupied in the camp. Will
he do this?
Could
anything
be
more
deliberately
malicious
than
that?
For
I
never
was
in
Montana in my life.
[After this, this journal customarily
spoke of me as
I got to picking up
papers apprehensively -- much as one would lift a
desired blanket
which he had some idea
might have a rattlesnake under it. One day this
met my eye:
THE
LIE
NAILED!
--
By
the
sworn
affidavits
of
Michael
O'Flanagan,
Esq.,
of
the
Five Points, and Mr. Kit Burns and Mr.
John Allen, of Water street, it is established
that
Mr.
Mark
Twain's
vile
statement
that
the
lamented
grandfather
of
our
noble
standard-bearer,
John
T.
Hoffman,
was
hanged
for
highway
robbery,
is
a
brutal
and
gratuitous
LIE,
without
a
single
shadow
of
foundation
in
fact.
It
is
disheartening
to
virtuous men to see such shameful means
resorted to to achieve political success as the
attacking
of
the
dead
in
their
graves
and
defiling
their
honored
names
with
slander.
When we think of the anguish this
miserable falsehood must cause the innocent
relatives
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