[page 127:] |
||
 THAT Pierre Bon-Bon was a
restaurateur
of uncommon qualifications, no man who, during the reign of ——,
frequented
the little Câfe in the cul-de-sac Le Febvre at Rouen, will, I
imagine,
feel himself at liberty to dispute. That {{1840-01:
Pierre Bon-Bon // 1842-02: he }} was, in an
equal
degree, skilled in the philosophy 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 {{1840-01: ' // 1842-02: " }} Idée
de
Bon-Bon {{1840-01: ' // 1842-02:
" }} as for all the trash
of all the {{1840-01: ' // 1842-02:
" }} Idées {{1840-01: ' // 1842-02: " }} 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 [page 128:] 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
entire
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 not
indeed
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 fricassée, or, facili gradu,
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 a priori. He reasoned also a
posteriori. His ideas were innate — or otherwise. He believed in
George
of Trebizond. He believed in Bossarion. 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 duplicate profession he took
the
greater pride. In his opinion the powers of the mind held intimate [page
129:] connection with the capabilities of the stomach. 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
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 that [page
130:] restaurateur would laugh at his own jokes, or
welcome
an acquaintance. Hints were thrown out of an exciting nature {{1840-01: — // 1842-02: ; }}
stories
were told of perilous bargains made in a hurry and repented of at
leisure {{1840-01: — }}
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 {{1840-01:
— // 1842-02: ; }} but they
are
scarcely worthy of 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 an exciting cause, or
rather
a valid proof, of such profundity, it is impossible 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. {{1840-02: 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. {{1840-01:
In his seclusions the Vin de
Bourgogne had its allotted hour, and there were appropriate moments for
the Côtes du Rhone. }} Well had it been if the
same quick sense of
propriety
had attended him in the peddling propensity to which I have formerly
alluded {{1840-01: — // 1842-02:
; }} but this was by no means the [page 131:]
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, however singular it may seem, appeared deeply tinctured
with the grotesque diablerie of his favorite German studies. To enter the little Café
in the Cul-de-Sac
Le 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 forbore 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 [page
132:] 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 {{1840-01: — //
1842-02: , }} if it so pleased me {{1840-01: — // 1842-02: , }}
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 {{1840-01: — //
1842-02: ; }} that his pea-green jerkin was not
after the fashion
of
those worn by the common class of restaurateurs at that day {{1840-01: — // 1842-02: ; }}
that
the sleeves were something fuller than the reigning costume permitted {{1840-01: — // 1842-02: ; }}
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 {{1840-01: — // 1842-02: ; }}
that his
slippers
were of a bright purple, curiously filagreed, and might have been
manufactured
in Japan, but for the exquisite pointing of the toes, and the brilliant
tints of the binding and embroidery {{1840-01:
— // 1842-02: ; }} that his breeches were of the
yellow
satin-like material called aimable {{1840-01:
— // 1842-02: ; }} 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 {{1840-01: — // 1842-02:
; }} 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 [page 133:] was indeed a
bird
of Paradise, or the rather a very Paradise of perfection." I have said that "to enter the Café
in the Cul-de-Sac Le Febvre was to enter the sanctum of a man
of
genius" {{1840-01: — // 1842-02:
; }} 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 paté. On the back were visible in large letters the
words Æuvres de Bon-Bon. Thus was delicately
shadowed forth the
two-fold occupation of the proprietor. 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 Café.
In a corner of the apartment stood the
bed of the
metaphysician.
An array of curtains, together with a canopy à la
Gréque,
gave it an air at once classic and comfortable. In the corner
diagonally
opposite, appeared, in direct and friendly communion, the properties of
the kitchen and the bibliothéque. A dish of polemics
stood
peacefully upon the dresser. Here lay an oven-full of the latest ethics
— there a kettle of duodecimo 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 Café
de
Bon-Bon
might be [page 134:] said to differ little from
the Cafés of the period. A gigantic fire-place
yawned
opposite
the door. On the right of the fire-place an open cupboard displayed a
formidable
array of labelled bottles. There Mousseux, Chambertin, St. George,
Richbourg,
Bordeaux, Margaux, Haubrion, Leonville, Medoc, Sauterne, Bârac,
Preignac,
Grave, Lafitte, and St. Peray, contended with many other names of
lesser
celebrity for the honor of being quaffed. From the ceiling, suspended
by
a chain, swung a fantastic iron lamp, throwing a hazy light over the
room,
and relieving in some measure the placidity of the scene. 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 a {{1840-01:
sacre Dieu // 1842-02: sacré }}
, 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. {{1840-01:
The snow drifted down bodily
in
enormous masses, // 1842-02: It snowed firecely, }}
and the Café de Bon-Bon tottered to its
very 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
paté-pans and papers. The huge folio sign that swung without,
exposed
to the fury of the tempest, [page 135:] creaked
ominously,
and gave out a moaning sound from its stanchions of solid oak. I have said that it was in no very
placid temper
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 {{1840-01: — // 1842-02:
; }} the discovery of a principle in ethics had been
frustrated
by the overturning of a stew {{1840-01: —
// 1842-02: ; }} 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 closer to his seat a small table
covered
with books and papers, and soon became absorbed in the task of
retouching
a voluminous manuscript, intended for publication on the morrow. [page
136:] {{1842-02: He had been thus
occupied for some minutes when }} "I am in no hurry,
Monsieur Bon-Bon" {{1840-01: — //
1842-02:
suddenly }} whispered
a whining voice in the apartment. "The devil!" {{1840-01: — //
1842-02: , }} ejaculated our hero,
starting to
his
feet, overturning the table at his side, and staring around him in
astonishment. "Very true" {{1840-01: — //
1842-02: , }} calmly replied the
voice. "Very true! — what is very true? —
how came you
here?" {{1840-01: — // 1842-02: ,
}} vociferated the metaphysician, as his eye
fell upon something which
lay
stretched at full length upon the bed. "I was saying" {{1840-01: — //
1842-02: , }} said the intruder,
without
attending
to the interrogatories {{1840-01: — //
1842-02: , }} "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!" {{1840-01: — //
1842-02: , }} replied the figure in a
shrill under
tone:
and, arising quickly from the bed, he made a single step towards our
hero,
while the iron lamp 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 a
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 [page
137:]
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 the 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 colour 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 [page
138:] 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 {{1840-01:
unequivocally }} prepossessing. 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 — there was a tremulous swelling in 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 — of a person for whom he had
at all times entertained such unqualified respect. He was, however, too
much of the diplomatist to let escape him any intimation of his
suspicions,
or rather — I should say — his certainty in regard to the true state of
affairs. It was not his cue to appear at all [page 139:]
conscious of the high honour he thus unexpectedly enjoyed, but by
leading
his guest into 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 the powerful Vin de Mousseux. Having quickly completed these
operations, he drew his chair vis-a-vis to his companion's, and
waited until he 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 entirely nonplused
by the
very
first words of his visiter's speech. "I see you know me, Bon-Bon," {{1840-01:
— // 1842-02: , }} said
he: {{1840-01: — // 1842-02: , }}
"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, loud, wickedly, and
uproariously,
while the black dog, crouching down upon his haunches, joined lustily
in
the chorus, and the tabby cat, [page 140:] 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, however, that 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 Regitre des Condamnés blaze 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 might not
probably have otherwise been observable. "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!" {{1840-01:
— // 1842-02: , }}
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 [page
141:] 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 cadaverous flesh. It was not in the nature of the
metaphysician to
forbear making some inquiry into the sources of so strange a
phenomenon,
and to his surprise 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 {{1840-01:
— // 1842-02: ; }} 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
— engendering in her pericranium? There it is now! — you do not. She is
thinking [page 142:] we admire the profundity of
her
mind. She has just concluded that I am the most distinguished of
ecclesiastics,
and that you are the most superfluous 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 optics 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" {{1840-01:
— // 1842-02: , }} 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 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 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 I told Aristotle that
by sneezing [page 143:] men expelled superfluous
ideas through
the proboscis." "Which is — hiccup! — undoubtedly the
case" {{1840-01: — // 1842-02: , }}
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" {{1840-01:
— // 1842-02: , }} continued
his majesty,
modestly
declining the snuff-box and the compliment — "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:]] xxxxxxxx [[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 {{1840-01: the lie, //
1842-02: 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 'xxxx [[Greek text]].'
Giving
the {{1840-01: gamma // 1842-02:
lamma [[lambda]] }} a fillip with my finger I turned it
upside down. So the
sentence
now reads 'xxxxxxxxxxxx [[Greek text]],' and is, {{1842-02:
as }} you perceive, the
fundamental
doctrine of 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 Vin de 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 [page 144:]
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, {{1840-01: consequently //
1842-02: therefore }} ,
with any of its philosophy."* "What do you think of Epicurus? —
what do you
think
of — hiccup! — Epicurus?" "What do I think of whom?" {{1840-01:
— // 1842-02: , }}
said the
devil
in astonishment {{1840-01:
— // 1842-02: , }} "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 {{1840-01: same }}
philosopher who wrote each of the three hundred treatises
commemorated by Diogenes Laertes. {{1842-02:
It's sure it's a fact. }} " "That's a lie!" {{1840-01:
— // 1842-02: , }} said the
metaphysician, for the
wine had gotten a little into his head. "Very well! — very well, sir! — very
well indeed,
sir" {{1840-01:
— // 1842-02: , }} said his majesty. "That's a lie!" {{1840-01:
— // 1842-02: , }} repeated the restaurateur
dogmatically {{1840-01:
— // 1842-02: , }} "that's a — hiccup! — lie!""Well, well! have it your own way" {{1840-01:
— // 1842-02: , }} said the
devil
pacifically: and Bon-Bon, having beaten his majesty at an argument,
thought
it his duty to conclude a second bottle of Chambertin."As I was saying" {{1840-01:
— // 1842-02: , }} resumed the
visiter {{1840-01:
— // 1842-02: , }} "as I
was
observing a little while ago, there are some very outré
notions
in that book of yours, Monsieur Bon-Bon. What, for instance, do you
mean
by all [page 145:] 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 {{1842-02: , being in high
dudgeon, }}
finished his third bottle of Chambertin.) "Then — hic-cup! — pray — sir {{1840-01:
— // 1842-02: , }} what {{1840-01:
— // 1842-02: , }} what is
it?" "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 the devil
licked
his lips, and, having unconsciously let fall his hand upon the volume
in
his pocket, was seized with a violent fit of sneezing. {{1840-01: His majesty
continued. }}{{1842-02: He continued }} "There was the soul of Cratinus —
passable: {{1840-01: — }}
Aristophanes
— racy: {{1840-01: — }}
Plato — exquisite: {{1840-01:
— }} not your Plato, but Plato the
comic
poet: your Plato [page 146:] 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 Quintius Flaccus — dear Quinty! as I called him when he sung
a seculare for my amusement {{1840-01:
, while I toasted him in pure good
humor
on a fork. // 1842-02: — }} 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 black water-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 {{1840-01: — // 1842-02: ; }}
and
Titus
Livy was positively Polybius and none other." "Hic — cup!" {{1840-01:
— // 1842-02: , }} 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 [page
147:] 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 {{1840-01:
them // 1842-02: one }} ! — 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!" {{1840-01:
— // 1842-02: , }}
ejaculated Bon-Bon —
"the
— hic-cup! — abortion of a pill-box!" {{1840-01:
— // 1842-02: ; }} and the philosopher dropped a
tear. "After all" {{1840-01: — //
1842-02: , }} continued the visiter {{1840-01: — // 1842-02: , }}
"after all,
if a dev — if a gentleman wishes to live {{1840-01:
, }} he must have more
talents
than one or two; and with us {{1842-02: ,
}} 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 spirits are consigned to us in the usual way." [page
148:] "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 {{1840-01: — // 1842-02: ; }}
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. {{1840-01: " // 1842-02:
Will you mind that, eh? — will you?" }}Bon-Bon swallowed another bumper, {{1842-02:
by way of denoting comprehension and acquiescence, }}
and
his 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!!!" {{1840-01: — }}
vociferated
the philosopher, as he finished a bottle of Sauterne. "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, 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'nt there
A——, now, whom you know as well as I? Is he not in possession
of
all his faculties, mental and corporeal? Who writes a keener epigram?
Who
reasons more [page 149:] 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 . . . , RICH . . . . , and the
words CALIGULA and 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 farther 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 do not feel myself justifiable in indicating
more
unequivocally.) "A clever fellow that A . . . . ." {{1840-01:
— // 1842-02: , }}
resumed he;
"but like you, Monsieur Bon-Bon, he was mistaken about the soul. The
soul
a shadow truly! — no such nonsense, Monsieur Bon-Bon. The soul a
shadow!!
ha! ha! ha! — he! he! he! — hu! hu! hu! Only think of a {{1840-01: fricasséed // 1842-02:
fricasseed }} shadow!""Only think — hiccup! — of a {{1840-01:
fricasséed // 1842-02: fricasseed }}
shadow!!" echoed our hero, whose faculties were becoming gloriously
illuminated
by the profundity of his majesty's discourse."Only think of a — hiccup! — {{1840-01: fricasséed // 1842-02: fricasseed }} shadow!!! [page 150:] 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 not 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!" "Souflée." "Eh?" "Fricassée." "Indeed!" "Ragout or fricandeau — and see here!
— I'll let
you have it — hiccup! — a bargain." "Could'nt think of such a thing,"
said his
majesty
calmly, at the same time arising from his seat. {{1842-02: [[new
paragraph, with appropriate indenation]] }} The
metaphysician
stared. "Am supplied at present," said his
majesty. "Hiccup! — e-h?" {{1840-01: —
// 1842-02: , }} said the
philosopher. "Have no funds on hand." "What?" "Besides, very {{1840-01:
ungentlemanly // 1842-02: unhandsome }} in me" —
"Sir!" [page 151:] "To take advantage of" — "Hiccup!" "Your present {{1842-02:
ungentlemanly and disgusting }} situation."Here
his majesty bowed and withdrew {{1840-01:
— // 1842-02: , }} in what
manner
the philosopher could not precisely ascertain {{1840-01:
— // 1842-02: ; }} but {{1842-02:
, }} 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. |
||