[page 243, column 2, continued:] |
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 THAT
Pierre
Bon-Bon was a restaurateur of uncommon qualifications, no man
who,
during the reign of ———, frequented the little Câfé in the
cul-de-sac Le Febvre at Rouen, will, I imagine, feel himself at liberty
to dispute. That Pierre Bon-Bon was, in an equal degree, skilled in the
philosophy [page 244:] of that period is, I presume, still more
especially
undeniable.
His patés à la fois were beyond doubt immaculate;
but what pen can do justice to his essays sur la Nature — his
thoughts sur l'Ame — his observations sur l'Esprit?
If his omelettes
— if his fricandeaux were inestimable, what littérateur
of that day would not have given twice as much for an "Idée
de
Bon-Bon" as for all the trash of "Idées" of all the
rest
of the savants? Bon-Bon had ransacked libraries which no other
man had ransacked — had read more than any other would have entertained
a
notion
of reading — had understood more than any other would have conceived
the
possibility of understanding; and although, while he flourished, there
were not wanting
some authors at Rouen to assert "that his dicta
evinced neither the purity of the Academy, nor the depth of the Lyceum"
— although, mark me, his doctrines were by no means very generally
comprehended,
still it did not follow that they were difficult of comprehension. It
was,
I think, on account of their self-evidency that many persons were led
to
consider them abstruse. It is to Bon-Bon — but let this go no farther —
it is to Bon-Bon that Kant himself is mainly indebted for his
metaphysics.
The former was indeed not a Platonist, nor strictly speaking an
Aristotelian
— nor did he, like the modern Leibnitz, waste those precious hours
which
might be employed in the invention of a fricasée, or, facili
gradú, the analysis of a sensation, in frivolous attempts at
reconciling
the obstinate oils and waters of ethical discussion. Not at all.
Bon-Bon
was Ionic — Bon-Bon was equally Italic. He reasoned à priori
— He reasoned also à posteriori. His ideas were innate —
or otherwise. He believed in George of Trebizond — He believed in
Bossarion
[[Bessarion]]. Bon-Bon was emphatically a — Bon-Bonist. I have
spoken of the
philosopher in his capacity
of restaurateur. I would not, however, have any friend of mine
imagine
that, in fulfilling his hereditary duties in that line, our hero wanted
a proper estimation of their dignity and importance. Far from it. It
was
impossible to say in which branch of his profession he took the greater
pride. In his opinion the powers of the intellect held intimate
connection
with the capabilities of the stomach. I am not sure, indeed, that he
greatly
disagreed with the Chinese, who hold that the soul lies in the abdomen.
The Greeks at all events were right, he thought, who employed the same
words for the mind and the diaphragm.* By this I
do not mean to
insinuate
a charge of gluttony, or indeed any other serious charge to the
prejudice
of the metaphysician. If Pierre Bon-Bon had his failings — and what
great
man has not a thousand? — if Pierre Bon-Bon, I say, had his failings,
they
were failings of very little importance — faults indeed which, in other
tempers, have often been looked upon rather in the light of virtues. As
regards one of these foibles, I should not even have mentioned it in
this
history but for the remarkable
prominency — the extreme alto relievo
— in which it jutted out from the plane of his general disposition. —
He
could never let slip an opportunity of making a bargain. Not that
he was
avaricious — no. It was by no
means
necessary to the satisfaction of the philosopher, that the bargain
should
be to his own proper advantage. Provided a trade could be effected — a
trade of any kind, upon any terms, or under any circumstances — a
triumphant
smile was seen for many days thereafter to enlighten his countenance,
and
a knowing wink of the eye to give evidence of his sagacity. At any
epoch it
would not be very wonderful if a
humor so peculiar as the one I have just mentioned, should elicit
attention
and remark. At the epoch of our narrative, had this peculiarity not
attracted
observation, there would have been room for wonder indeed. It was soon
reported that, upon all occasions of the kind, the smile of Bon-Bon was
wont to differ widely from the downright grin with which he would laugh
at his own jokes, or welcome an acquaintance. Hints were thrown out of
an exciting nature; stories were told of perilous bargains made in a
hurry
and repented of at leisure; and instances were adduced of unaccountable
capacities, vague longings, and unnatural inclinations implanted by the
author of all evil for wise purposes of his own. The
philosopher had
other weaknesses — but they
are
scarcely worthy our serious examination. For example, there are few men
of extraordinary profundity who are found wanting in an inclination for
the bottle. Whether this inclination be [column 2:] an exciting
cause, or rather a
valid proof, of such profundity, it is a nice thing to say. Bon-Bon, as
far as I can learn, did not think the subject adapted to minute
investigation;
— nor do I. Yet in the indulgence of a propensity so truly classical,
it
is not to be supposed that the restaurateur would lose sight of
that
intuitive
discrimination which was wont to characterize, at one and the same
time,
his essais and his omelettes. In his seclusions the Vin
de
Bourgogne
had
its allotted hour, and there were appropriate moments for the
Côtes du
Rhone. With him Sauterne was to Medoc what Catullus was to Homer. He
would
sport with a syllogism in sipping St. Peray, but unravel an argument
over
Clos de Vougeot, and upset a theory in a torrent of Chambertin. Well
had
it been if the
same quick sense of propriety had attended him in the
peddling
propensity to which I have formerly alluded — but this was by no means
the case. Indeed, to say the truth, that trait of mind in the
philosophic
Bon-Bon did begin at length to assume a character of strange
intensity
and mysticism, and appeared deeply tinctured with the diablerie
of his
favorite German studies. To enter
the little Câfe in the Cul-de-Sac Le
Febre [[Febvre]]
was, at the period of our tale, to enter the sanctum of a man
of
genius.
Bon-Bon was a man of genius. There was not a sous-cuisinier in
Rouen,
who
could not have told you that Bon-Bon was a man of genius. His very cat
knew it, and forebore to whisk her tail in the presence of the man of
genius.
His large water-dog was acquainted with the fact, and upon the approach
of his master, betrayed his sense of inferiority by a sanctity of
deportment,
a debasement of the ears, and a dropping of the lower jaw not
altogether
unworthy of a dog. It is, however, true that much of this habitual
respect
might have been attributed to the personal appearance of the
metaphysician.
A distinguished exterior will, I am constrained to say, have its weight
even
with a beast; and I am willing to allow much in the outward man of the restaurateur
calculated to impress the imagination
of the quadruped.
There
is a peculiar majesty about the atmosphere of the little great — if I
may
be permitted so equivocal an expression — which mere physical bulk
alone
will be found at all times inefficient in creating. If, however,
Bon-Bon
was barely three feet in height, and if his head was diminutively
small,
still it was impossible to behold the rotundity of his stomach without
a sense of magnificence nearly bordering upon the sublime. In its size
both dogs and men must have seen a type of his acquirements — in its
immensity
a fitting habitation for his immortal soul. I might
here — if it
so pleased me — dilate upon
the matter of habiliment, and other mere circumstances of the external
metaphysician. I might hint that the hair of our hero was worn short,
combed
smoothly over his forehead, and surmounted by a conical-shaped white
flannel
cap and tassels — that his pea-green jerkin was not after the fashion
of
those worn by the common class of restaurateurs at that day —
that the
sleeves
were something fuller than the reigning costume permitted — that the
cuffs
were turned up,
not as usual in that barbarous period, with cloth of
the
same quality and color as the garment, but faced in a more fanciful
manner
with the particolored velvet of Genoa — that his slippers were of a
bright
purple, curiously filigreed, and might have been manufactured in Japan,
but for the exquisite pointing of the toes, and the brilliant tints of
the binding and embroidery — that his breeches were of the yellow
satin-like
material called aimable — that his sky-blue cloak, resembling
in form a
dressing-wrapper, and richly bestudded all over with crimson devices,
floated
cavalierly upon his shoulders like a mist of the morning — and that his
tout ensemble gave rise to the remarkable words of
Benevenuta, the
Improvisatrice
of Florence, "that it was difficult to say whether Pierre Bon-Bon was
indeed
a bird of Paradise, or the rather a very Paradise of perfection." — I
might,
I say, expatiate upon all these points if I pleased; — but I forbear: —
merely
personal details may be left to historical novelists; — they are
beneath
the moral dignity of matter-of-fact. I have
said that "to
enter the Câfé in the Cul-de-Sac
Le Febvre was to enter the sanctum of a man of genius" — but
then it
was
only the man of genius who could duly estimate the merits of the sanctum.
A sign, consisting of a vast folio, swung before the entrance. On one
side
of the volume was painted a bottle; on the reverse a pate. On
the back
were visible in large letters Œuvres de Bon-Bon. Thus was
delicately
shadowed
forth the two-fold occupation of the proprietor. [page 245:]Upon
stepping over
the threshold, the whole
interior
of the building presented itself to view. A long, low-pitched room, of
antique construction, was indeed all the accommodation afforded by the Càfe.
In a corner of the apartment stood the bed of the metaphysician.
An array of curtains, together with a canopy à la Greque,
gave it an
air
at once classic and comfortable. In the corner diagonary opposite,
appeared,
in direct family communion, the properties of the kitchen and the bibliotheque.
A dish of polemics stood peacefully upon the dresser. Here lay an
oven-full
of the latest ethics — there a kettle of dudecimo melanges.
Volumes of
German morality were hand and glove with the gridiron — a toasting fork
might be discovered by the side of Eusebius — Plato reclined at his
ease
in the frying pan — and contemporary manuscripts were filed away upon
the
spit. In other
respects
the Càfe de Bon-Bon might be
said
to differ little from the usual restaurants of the period. A
large fire-place
yawned opposite the door. On the right of the fire-place an open
cupboard
displayed a formidable array of labelled bottles. It was
here, about
twelve o'clock one night,
during
the severe winter of ——, that Pierre Bon-Bon, after having listened for
some time to the comments of his neighbors upon his singular propensity
— that Pierre Bon-Bon, I say, having turned them all out of his house,
locked the door upon them with an oath, and betook himself in no very
pacific
mood to the comforts of a leather-bottomed arm-chair, and a fire of
blazing
faggots. It was
one of those
terrific nights which are
only
met with once or twice during a century. It snowed fiercely, and the
house
tottered to its centre with the floods of wind that, rushing through
the
crannies in the wall, and pouring impetuously down the chimney, shook
awfully
the curtains of the philosopher's bed, and disorganized the economy of
his patépans and papers. The huge folio sign that swung without,
exposed
to the fury of the tempest, creaked ominously, and gave out a moaning
sound
from its stanchions of solid oak. It was
in no placid
temper, I say, that the
metaphysician
drew up his chair to its customary station by the hearth. Many
circumstances
of a perplexing nature had occurred during the day, to disturb the
serenity
of his meditations. In attempting des œufs à la Princesse,
he had
unfortunately
perpetrated an omelette à la Reine; the discovery of a
principle in
ethics
had been frustrated by the overturning of a stew; and last, not least,
he had been thwarted in one of those admirable bargains which he at all
times took such especial delight in bringing to a successful
termination.
But in the chafing of his mind at these unaccountable vicissitudes,
there
did not fail to be mingled some degree of that nervous anxiety which
the
fury of a boisterous night is so well calculated to produce. Whistling
to his more immediate vicinity the large black water-dog we have spoken
of before, and settling himself uneasily in his chair, he could not
help
casting a wary and unquiet eye
towards those distant recesses of the
apartment
whose inexorable shadows not even the red fire-light itself could more
than
partially succeed in overcoming. Having completed a scrutiny whose
exact
purpose was perhaps unintelligible to himself, he drew close to his
seat
a small table covered with books and papers, and soon became absorbed
in
the task of re-touching a voluminous manuscript, intended for
publication
on the morrow. He had
been thus
occupied for some minutes, when
"I
am in no hurry, Monsieur Bon-Bon," suddenly whispered a whining voice
in
the apartment. "The
devil!"
ejaculated our hero, starting to his
feet, overturning the table at his side, and staring around him in
astonishment. "Very
true," calmly
replied the voice. "Very
true! — what
is very true? — how came you
here?"
vociferated the metaphysician, as his eye fell upon something which lay
stretched at full-length upon the bed. "I was
saying," said
the intruder, without
attending
to the interrogatives, "I was saying, that I am not at all pushed for
time — that the business upon which I took the liberty of calling, is
of
no pressing importance — in short, that I can very well wait until you
have finished your Exposition." "My
Exposition! —
there now! — how do you know? —
how came you to understand that I was writing an Exposition? —
good
God!" "Hush!"
replied the
figure, in a shrill
under tone;
and, arising quickly from the bed, he made a single step towards [column
2:] our
hero,
while an iron lamp that depended overhead swung convulsively back from
his approach. The
philosopher's
amazement did not prevent a
narrow
scrutiny of the stranger's dress and appearance. The outlines of his
figure,
exceedingly lean, but much above the common height, were rendered
minutely
distinct by means of a faded suit of black cloth which fitted tight to
the skin, but was otherwise cut very much in the style of a century
ago.
These garments had evidently been intended for a much shorter person
than
their present owner. His ankles and wrists were left naked for several
inches. In his shoes, however, a pair of very brilliant buckles gave
the
lie to the extreme poverty implied by the other portions of his dress.
His head was bare,
and entirely bald, with the exception of a hinder-part,
from which depended a queue of considerable length. A pair of
green
spectacles,
with side glasses, protected his eyes from the influence of the light,
and at the same time prevented our hero from ascertaining either their
color or their conformation. About the entire person there was no
evidence
of a shirt; but a white cravat, of filthy appearance, was tied with
extreme
precision around the throat, and the ends, hanging down formally side
by
side, gave (although I dare say unintentionally) the idea of an
ecclesiastic.
Indeed, many other points both in his appearance and demeanor might
have
very well sustained a conception of that nature. Over his left ear, he
carried, after the fashion of a modern clerk, an instrument resembling
the stylus of the ancients. In a breast-pocket of his coat
appeared
conspicuously
a small black volume fastened with clasps of steel. This book, whether
accidentally or not, was so turned outwardly from the person as to
discover
the words "Rituel Catholique" in white letters upon the back.
His
entire
physiognomy was interestingly saturnine — even cadaverously pale. The
forehead
was lofty, and deeply furrowed with the ridges of contemplation. The
corners
of the mouth were drawn down into an expression of the most submissive
humility. There was also a clasping of the hands, as he stepped towards
our hero — a deep sigh — and altogether a look of such utter sanctity
as
could not have failed to be unequivocally preposessing. Every shadow of
anger faded from the countenance of the metaphysician, as, having
completed
a satisfactory survey of his visiter's person, he shook him cordially
by
the hand, and conducted him to a seat. There
would however
be a radical error in
attributing
this instantaneous transition of feeling in the philosopher, to any one
of those causes which might naturally be supposed to have had an
influence.
Indeed, Pierre Bon-Bon, from what I have been able to understand of his
disposition, was of all men the least likely to be imposed upon by any
speciousness of exterior deportment. It was impossible that so accurate
an observer of men and things should have failed to discover, upon the
moment, the real character of the personage who had thus intruded upon
his hospitality. To say no more, the conformation of his visiter's feet
was sufficiently remarkable — he maintained lightly upon his head an
inordinately
tall hat — there was a tremulous swelling about the hinder part of his
breeches — and the vibration of his coat tail was a palpable fact.
Judge,
then, with what feelings of satisfaction our hero found himself thrown
thus at once into the society of a person for whom he had at all times
entertained the most unqualified respect. He was, however, too much of
the diplomatist to let escape him any intimation of his suspicions in
regard
to the true state of affairs. It was not his cue to appear at all
conscious
of the high honor he thus unexpectedly enjoyed; but, by leading his
guest
into the conversation, to elicit some important ethical ideas, which
might,
in obtaining a place in his contemplated publication, enlighten the
human
race, and at the same time immortalize himself — ideas which, I should
have added, his visiter's great age, and well-known proficiency in the
science of morals, might very well have enabled him to afford. Actuated
by these
enlightened views, our hero
bade
the gentleman sit down, while he himself took occasion to throw some
faggots
upon the fire, and place upon the now re-established table some bottles
of Mousseux. Having quickly completed these operations, he drew
his
chair vis-à-vis to his companion's, and waited
until the latter should open
the
conversation. But, plans even the most skilfully matured, are often
thwarted
in the outset of their application — and the restaurateur found
himself nonplussed by the very first words of his visiter's
speech. "I see
you know me,
Bon-Bon," said he: "ha! ha!
ha!
— he! he! he! — hi! hi! hi! — ho! ho! ho! — hu! hu! hu!" — and the
devil,
dropping at once the sanctity of his demeanor, opened to its fullest
extent
a mouth from ear to ear, so as to display a set of jagged and fang-like
teeth, and throwing back his head, laughed long, loudly, wickedly, and
uproariously, while the black dog, crouching down upon his haunches,
joined
lustily in the chorus, and the tabby cat, flying off at a tangent,
stood
up on end, and shrieked in the farthest corner of the apartment. Not so
the
philosopher: he was too much a man of
the world either to laugh like the dog, or by shrieks to betray the
indecorous
trepidation of the cat. It must be confessed, he felt a little
astonishment
to see the white letters which formed the words "Rituel Catholique"
on
the book in his guest's pocket, momently changing both their color and
their import, and in a few seconds, in place of the original title, the
words "Régitre des Condamnés" blazed forth in
characters of red. This
startling
circumstance, when Bon-Bon replied to his visiter's remark, imparted to
his manner an air of embarrassment which probably might not otherwise
have been observed. "Why,
sir," said the
philosopher, "why, sir, to
speak
sincerely — I believe you are — upon my word — the d——dest — that is to
say, I think — I imagine — I have some faint — some very
faint idea — of the remarkable honor ——" "Oh! —
ah! — yes! —
very well!" interrupted his
Majesty;
"say no more — I see how it is." And hereupon, taking off his green
spectacles,
he wiped the glasses carefully with the sleeve of his coat, and
deposited
them in his pocket. If
Bon-Bon had been
astonished at the incident of
the book, his amazement was now much increased by the spectacle which
here
presented itself to view. In raising his eyes, with a strong feeling of
curiosity to ascertain the color of his guest's, he found them by no
means
black, as he had anticipated — nor gray, as might have been imagined —
nor yet hazel nor blue — nor indeed yellow nor red — nor purple — nor
white
— nor green — nor any other color in the heavens above, or in the earth
beneath, or in the waters under the earth. In short, Pierre Bon-Bon not
only saw plainly that his Majesty had no eyes whatsoever, but could
discover
no indications of their having existed at any previous period — for the
space where eyes should naturally have been, was, I am constrained to
say,
simply a dead level of flesh. It was
not in the
nature of the metaphysician to
forbear making some inquiry into the sources of so strange a
phenomenon;
and the reply of his Majesty was at once prompt, dignified, and
satisfactory. "Eyes!
my dear
Bon-Bon — eyes! did you say? — oh!
— ah! — I perceive! The ridiculous prints, eh, which are in
circulation,
have given you a false idea of my personal appearance? Eyes! — true.
Eyes,
Pierre Bon-Bon, are very well in their proper place — that, you
would
say,
is the head? — right — the head of a worm. To you likewise
these
optics
are indispensable — yet I will convince you that my vision is more
penetrating
than your own. There is a cat I see in the corner — a pretty cat — look
at her — observe her well. Now, Bon-Bon, do you behold the thoughts —
the
thoughts, I say, — the ideas — the reflections — which are being
engendered
in her pericranium? There it is, now — you do not! She is thinking we
admire
the length of her tail and the profundity of her mind. She has just
concluded
that I am the most distinguished of ecclesiastics, and that you are the
most superficial of metaphysicians. Thus you see I am not altogether
blind;
but to one of my profession, the eyes you speak of would be merely an
incumbrance,
liable at any time to be put out by a toasting-iron or a pitchfork. To
you, I allow, these optical affairs are indispensable. Endeavor,
Bon-Bon,
to use them well; — my vision is the soul." Hereupon
the guest
helped himself to the wine
upon
the table, and pouring out a bumper for Bon-Bon, requested him to drink
it without scruple, and make himself perfectly at home. "A
clever book that
of yours, Pierre," resumed
his
Majesty, tapping our friend knowingly upon the shoulder, as the latter
put down his glass after a thorough compliance with his visiter's
injunction.
"A clever book that of yours, upon my honor. It's a work after my own
heart.
Your arrangement of the matter, I think, however, might be improved,
and
many of your notions remind me of Aristotle. That philosopher was one
of
my most intimate acquaintances. I liked him as much for his terrible
ill
temper, as for his happy knack at making a blunder. There is only one
solid
truth in [column 2:] all that he has written, and for that I
gave him the hint out
of pure compassion for his absurdity. I suppose, Pierre Bon-Bon, you
very
well know to what divine moral truth I am alluding?" "Cannot
say that I
——" "Indeed!
— why it
was I who told Aristotle, that,
by
sneezing, men expelled superfluous ideas through the proboscis." "Which
is — hiccup! —
undoubtedly the
case," said the metaphysician,
while he poured out for himself another bumper of Mousseux, and offered
his snuff-box to the fingers of his visiter. "There
was Plato,
too," continued his Majesty,
modestly
declining the snuff-box and the compliment it implied — "there was
Plato,
too, for whom I, at one time, felt all the affection of a friend. You
knew
Plato, Bon-Bon? — ah, no, I beg a thousand pardons. He met me at
Athens,
one day, in the Parthenon, and told me he was distressed for an idea. I
bade him write down that [[Greek text:]] x xxxx xxxx xxxxx. [[:Greek
text]] He said that he would do
so, and went home, while I stepped over to the pyramids. But my
conscience
smote me for having uttered a truth, even to aid a friend, and
hastening
back to Athens, I arrived behind the philosopher's chair as he was
inditing
the [[Greek text:]] 'xxxx.' [[:Greek text]] Giving
the lammda [[lambda]] a
fillip with my finger, I
turned
it upside down. So the sentence now reads [[Greek text:]] 'xxx xx
x xxxx', [[:Greek text]] and is,
you perceive, the fundamental doctrine in his metaphysics." "Were
you ever at
Rome?" asked the restaurateur,
as he finished his second bottle of Mousseux, and drew from the closet
a larger supply of Chambertin. But
once, Monsieur
Bon-Bon, but once. There was a
time," said the devil, as if reciting some passage from a book — "there
was a time when occurred an anarchy of five years, during which the
republic,
bereft of all its officers, had no magistracy besides the tribunes of
the
people, and these were not legally vested with any degree of executive
power — at that time, Monsieur Bon-Bon — at that time only I
was in
Rome,
and I have no earthly acquaintance, consequently, with any of its
philosophy."*"What do
you think
of — what do you think of —
hiccup!
— Epicurus?" "What do
I think of whom?" said the devil, in
astonishment;
"you cannot surely mean to find any fault with Epicurus! What do I
think
of Epicurus! Do you mean me, sir? — I am Epicurus! I am the
same
philosopher
who wrote each of the three hundred treatises commemorated by Diogenes
Laertes." "That's
a lie!" said
the metaphysician, for the
wine
had gotten a little into his head. "Very
well! — very
well, sir! — very well,
indeed,
sir!" said his Majesty, apparently much flattered. "That's
a lie!"
repeated the restaurateur,
dogmatically,
"that's a — hiccup! — a lie!" "Well,
well, have it
your own way!" said the
devil,
pacifically; and Bon-Bon, having beaten his Majesty at argument,
thought
it his duty to conclude a second bottle of Chambertin. "As I
was saying,"
resumed the visiter, "as I
was
observing a little while ago, there are some very outre notions
in that
book of yours, Monsieur Bon-Bon. What, for instance, do you mean by all
that humbug about the soul? Pray, sir, what is the soul?" "The —
hiccup! —
soul," replied the
metaphysician,
referring to his MS., "is undoubtedly ——" "No,
sir!" "Indubitably ——" "No,
sir!" "Indisputably ——" "No, sir!" "Evidently ——" "No,
sir!" "Incontrovertibly ——" "No,
sir!" "Hiccup!
——" "No,
sir!" "And
beyond all
question, a ——" "No sir,
the soul is
no such thing!" (Here, the
philosopher,
looking daggers, took occasion to make an end, upon the spot, of his
third
bottle of Chambertin.) "Then —
hiccup! —
pray, sir — what — what is
it?" [page 247:]"That is
neither
here nor there, Monsieur
Bon-Bon,"
replied his Majesty, musingly. "I have tasted — that is to say, I have
known some very bad souls, and some too — pretty good ones." Here he
smacked
his lips, and, having unconsciously let fall his hand upon the volume
in
his pocket, was seized with a violent fit of sneezing. He
continued: "There
was the soul
of Cratinus — passable:
Aristophanes
— racy: Plato — exquisite — not your Plato, but Plato the comic
poet:
your
Plato would have turned the stomach of Cerberus — faugh! Then let me
see!
there were Nœvius, and Andronicus, and Plautus, and Terentius. Then
there
were Lucilius, and Catullus, and Naso, and Quintus Flaccus, — dear
Quinty!
as I called him
when he sung a seculare for my amusement, while I
toasted
him, in pure good humor, on a fork. But they want flavor, these
Romans.
One fat Greek is worth a dozen of them, and besides will keep,
which
cannot
be said of a Quirite. — Let us taste your Sauterne." Bon-Bon
had by this
time made up his mind to the nil
admirari, and endeavored to hand down the bottles in question. He
was,
however,
conscious of a strange sound in the room like the wagging of a tail. Of
this, although extremely indecent in his Majesty, the philosopher took
no notice: — simply kicking the dog, and requesting him to be quiet.
The
visiter continued: "I found
that Horace
tasted very much like
Aristotle;
— you know I am fond of variety. Terentius I could not have told from
Menander.
Naso, to my astonishment, was Nicander in disguise. Virgilius had a
strong
twang of Theocritus. Martial put me much in mind of Archilochus — and
Titus
Livius was positively Polybius and none other." "Hiccup!" here replied Bon-Bon, and his majesty proceeded: "But if
I have a penchant, Monsieur Bon-Bon — if
I have a penchant, it is for a philosopher. Yet, let me
tell you, sir,
it is not every dev — I mean it is not every gentleman who knows how to
choose a philosopher. Long ones are not
good; and the best, if not
carefully
shelled, are apt to be a little rancid on account of the gall!" "Shelled!" "I mean,
taken out of
the carcass." "What do
you think
of a — hiccup! — physician?" "Don't
mention them!
— ugh! ugh!" (Here his
Majesty retched violently.) "I never tasted but one — that rascal
Hippocrates!
— smelt of asafœtida — ugh! ugh! ugh! — caught a wretched cold washing
him in the Styx — and after all he gave me the cholera morbus." "The —
hiccup! —
wretch!" ejaculated Bon-Bon, "the
— hiccup! — abortion of a pill-box!" — and the philosopher dropped a
tear. "After
all,"
continued the visiter, "after all,
if
a dev — if a gentleman wishes to live, he must have more
talents than
one
or two; and with us a fat face is an evidence of diplomacy." "How
so?" "Why we
are
sometimes exceedingly pushed for
provisions.
You must know that, in a climate so sultry as mine, it is frequently
impossible
to keep a spirit alive for more than two or three hours; and after
death,
unless pickled immediately, (and a pickled spirit is not good,)
they
will
— smell — you understand, eh? Putrefaction is always to be apprehended
when the souls are consigned to us in the usual way." "Hiccup!
— hiccup! —
good God! how do you
manage?" Here the
iron lamp
commenced swinging with
redoubled
violence, and the devil half started from his seat; — however, with a
slight
sigh, he recovered his composure, merely saying to our hero in a low
tone:
"I tell you what, Pierre Bon-Bon, we must have no more
swearing." The host
swallowed
another bumper, by way of
denoting
thorough comprehension and acquiescence, and the visiter continued: "Why,
there are several ways of managing. The
most
of us starve: some put up with the pickle: for my part I purchase my
spirits vivente corpore, in which case I find they keep very
well." "But the
body! —
hiccup! — the body!!!" "The
body, the body
— well, what of the body? —
oh!
ah! I perceive. Why, sir, the body is not at all affected by
the
transaction. I have made innumerable purchases of the kind in my day,
and
the parties never experienced any inconvenience. There were Cain and
Nimrod,
and Nero, and Caligula, [column 2:] and Dionysius, and
Pisistratus, and — and a
thousand
others, who never knew what it was to have a soul during the latter
part
of their lives; yet, sir, these men adorned society. Why is n't
[[isn't]]
there A——, now, whom you know as well as I? Is he not in
possession
of his faculties, mental and corporeal? Who writes a keener epigram?
Who
reasons more wittily? Who —— but, stay! I have his agreement in my
pocket-book." Thus
saying, he
produced a red leather wallet,
and
took from it a number of papers. Upon some of these Bon-Bon caught a
glimpse
of the letters Machi — Maza — Robesp —
with the words Caligula, George,
Elizabeth. His Majesty selected a narrow slip of parchment, and
from it
read aloud the following words:
"In
consideration of
certain mental endowments
which
it is unnecessary to specify, and in further consideration of one
thousand
louis d'or, I being aged one year and one month, do hereby make over to
the bearer of this agreement all my right, title, and appurtenance in
the
shadow called my soul." (Signed) A . . . . .*
(Here
His Majesty repeated a
name
which I did not feel justified in indicating more unequivocally.)"A
clever fellow
that," resumed he; "but like
you,
Monsieur Bon-Bon, he was mistaken about the soul. The soul a shadow,
truly!
The soul a shadow! Ha! ha! ha! — he! he! he! — hu! hu! hu! Only think
of
a fricasséed shadow!" "Only
think —
hiccup! — of a fricasséed shadow!"
exclaimed our hero, whose faculties were becoming much illuminated by
the
profundity of his Majesty's discourse. "Only
think of a
hiccup! — fricasséed shadow!!
Now,
damme! — hiccup! — humph! If I would have been such a — hiccup!
—
nincompoop! My soul, Mr. — humph!" "Your
soul, Monsieur
Bon-Bon?" "Yes,
sir — hiccup!
— my soul is" — "What,
sir?" "No
shadow, damme!" "Did you
mean to
say" — "Yes,
sir, my soul
is — hiccup! — humph! — yes,
sir." "Did not
intend
to assert" — "My
soul
is —
hiccup! — peculiarly qualified for
— hiccup! — a" — "What,
sir?" "Stew." "Ha!" "Soufflée." "Eh?" "Fricassée." "Indeed!" "Ragout
and
fricandeau — and see here, my good
fellow!
I'll let you have it — hiccup! — a bargain." Here the philosopher
slapped
his Majesty upon the back. "Couldn't think of such a thing," said the latter calmly, at the same time rising from his seat. The metaphysician stared. "Am
supplied at
present," said his Majesty. "Hic-cup! — e-h?" said the philosopher. "Have no
funds on
hand." "What?" "Besides, very unhandsome in me —" "Sir!" "To take
advantage
of" — "Hic-cup!" "Your
present
disgusting and ungentlemanly
situation." Here the
visiter
bowed and withdrew — in what
manner
could not precisely be ascertained — but in a well-concerted effort to
discharge a bottle at "the villain," the slender chain was severed that
depended from the ceiling, and the metaphysician prostrated by the
downfall
of the lamp. |
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