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Edgar Allan Poe: Bon-Bon
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Poe
BON-BON
by Edgar Allan Poe
1850
Quand un bon vin meuble mon estomac
Je suis plus savant que
Balzac-
Plus sage que Pibrac;
Mon brass seul faisant l'attaque
De
la nation Coseaque,
La mettroit au sac;
De Charon je passerois le
lac
En dormant dans son bac,
J'irois au fier Eac,
Sans que mon
coeur fit tic ni tac,
Premmer du tabac.
--French
Vaudeville
THAT Pierre Bon-Bon was a restaurateur of uncommon qualifications, 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 of that period is, I presume still more especially undeniable.
His pates a 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
litterateur of that day would not have given twice as much for an "Idee de
Bon-Bon" as for all the trash of "Idees" of all the rest of the savants?
Bon-Bon had ransacked libraries which no other man had ransacked–had 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
fricasee 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 Trebizonde–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 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 held 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 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 Cotes 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 Cafe 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-cusinier 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 way 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 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 Cafe 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
Oeuvres 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 Cafe. In a corner of the
apartment stood the bed of the metaphysician. An army of curtains, together
with a canopy a la Grecque, 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 ovenful 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 Cafe de Bon-Bon might be said to differ little from
the usual restaurants of the period. A fireplace yawned opposite the door.
On the right of the fireplace an open cupboard displayed a formidable array
of labelled bottles.
It was here, about twelve o'clock one night during the severe winter the
comments of his neighbours 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 fagots.
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 pate-pans 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 oeufs a la Princesse, he had
unfortunately perpetrated an omelette a 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 toward those distant recesses
of the apartment whose inexorable shadows not even the red firelight 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 retouching 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 undertone; and, arising quickly
from the bed, he made a single step toward our hero, while an iron lamp that
depended over-head 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 toward 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 visitor'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 fagots 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-a-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 Regitre des
Condamnes 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 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 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 o nous estin aulos. 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 'aulos.'"
"Giving the lambda a fillip with my finger, I turned it upside down. So
the sentence now read 'o nous estin augos', and is, you perceive, the
fundamental doctrines 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."*
*Ils ecrivaient sur la Philosophie (Cicero, Lucretius, Seneca) mais
c'etait la Philosophie Grecque.–Condorcet.
"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–hic-cup!–pray, sir–what–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 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
Naevius, 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 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."
"Hic-cup!" 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–hic-cup!–physician?"
"Don't mention them!–ugh! ugh! ugh!" (Here his Majesty retched
violently.) "I never tasted but one–that rascal Hippocrates!–smelt of
asafoetida–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–hic-cup!- absorption 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, 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 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.)
*Quere-Arouet?
"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 fricasseed shadow!"
"Only think–hiccup!–of a fricasseed shadow!" exclaimed our hero, whose
faculties were becoming much illuminated by the profundity of his Majesty's
discourse.
"Only think of a hiccup!–fricasseed 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 you not intend to assert-"
"My soul is–hiccup!–peculiarly qualified for–hiccup!–a-"
"What, sir?"
"Stew."
"Ha!"
"Soufflee."
"Eh!"
"Fricassee."
"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.
"Hiccup–e-h?" said the philosopher.
"Have no funds on hand."
"What?"
"Besides, very unhandsome in me-"
"Sir!"
"To take advantage of-"
"Hiccup!"
"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.
THE END
Edgar Allan Poe: Bon-Bon
Up to the EServer | The Complete Works of Edgar Allan
Poe
BON-BON
by Edgar Allan Poe
1850
Quand un bon vin meuble mon estomac
Je suis plus savant que
Balzac-
Plus sage que Pibrac;
Mon brass seul faisant l'attaque
De
la nation Coseaque,
La mettroit au sac;
De Charon je passerois le
lac
En dormant dans son bac,
J'irois au fier Eac,
Sans que mon
coeur fit tic ni tac,
Premmer du tabac.
--French
Vaudeville
THAT Pierre Bon-Bon was a restaurateur of uncommon qualifications, 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 of that period is, I presume still more especially undeniable.
His pates a 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
litterateur of that day would not have given twice as much for an "Idee de
Bon-Bon" as for all the trash of "Idees" of all the rest of the savants?
Bon-Bon had ransacked libraries which no other man had ransacked–had 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
fricasee 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 Trebizonde–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 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 held 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 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 Cotes 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 Cafe 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-cusinier 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 way 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 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 Cafe 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
Oeuvres 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 Cafe. In a corner of the
apartment stood the bed of the metaphysician. An army of curtains, together
with a canopy a la Grecque, 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 ovenful 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 Cafe de Bon-Bon might be said to differ little from
the usual restaurants of the period. A fireplace yawned opposite the door.
On the right of the fireplace an open cupboard displayed a formidable array
of labelled bottles.
It was here, about twelve o'clock one night during the severe winter the
comments of his neighbours 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 fagots.
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 pate-pans 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 oeufs a la Princesse, he had
unfortunately perpetrated an omelette a 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 toward those distant recesses
of the apartment whose inexorable shadows not even the red firelight 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 retouching 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 undertone; and, arising quickly
from the bed, he made a single step toward our hero, while an iron lamp that
depended over-head 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 toward 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 visitor'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 fagots 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-a-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 Regitre des
Condamnes 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 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 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 o nous estin aulos. 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 'aulos.'"
"Giving the lambda a fillip with my finger, I turned it upside down. So
the sentence now read 'o nous estin augos', and is, you perceive, the
fundamental doctrines 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."*
*Ils ecrivaient sur la Philosophie (Cicero, Lucretius, Seneca) mais
c'etait la Philosophie Grecque.–Condorcet.
"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–hic-cup!–pray, sir–what–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 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
Naevius, 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 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."
"Hic-cup!" 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–hic-cup!–physician?"
"Don't mention them!–ugh! ugh! ugh!" (Here his Majesty retched
violently.) "I never tasted but one–that rascal Hippocrates!–smelt of
asafoetida–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–hic-cup!- absorption 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, 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 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.)
*Quere-Arouet?
"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 fricasseed shadow!"
"Only think–hiccup!–of a fricasseed shadow!" exclaimed our hero, whose
faculties were becoming much illuminated by the profundity of his Majesty's
discourse.
"Only think of a hiccup!–fricasseed 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 you not intend to assert-"
"My soul is–hiccup!–peculiarly qualified for–hiccup!–a-"
"What, sir?"
"Stew."
"Ha!"
"Soufflee."
"Eh!"
"Fricassee."
"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.
"Hiccup–e-h?" said the philosopher.
"Have no funds on hand."
"What?"
"Besides, very unhandsome in me-"
"Sir!"
"To take advantage of-"
"Hiccup!"
"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.
THE END
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