by Poe · Cluster: Temptation · Good vs Evil · Serpent Snake
Abstract
A comic tale in which a vain restaurateur-philosopher is visited by the Devil, who eats souls and declines to buy Bon-Bon’s; a satire on metaphysics, wine, and the philosopher’s pride through a Faustian comedy.
Testo / Text
Parti / Parts
Readability (prose)64.5 Flesch ease8.3 FK grade11.4 Fog12% complex16.1 words/sent
Connections
Topoi: World Upside Down Archetypes: Satanic Figure, Trickster Motifs: Wine and Drink, Supernatural, Food and Feasting, Book Reading, Concealment Hidden Identity Themes & Concepts: Temptation, Good vs Evil, Pride, Self-Knowledge, Satire of Society, Grotesque Forms & Genres: Short Story, Satire Historical References: Classical Antiquity Characters: Satan, Faust
Testo integrale / Full text
Quand un bon vin meuble mon estomac, Je suis plus savant que Balzac— Plus sage que Pibrac; Mon bras seul faisant l’attaque De la nation Cossaque, 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, Présenter du tabac. —French Vaudeville
That Pierre Bon-Bon was a _restaurateur_ of uncommon qualifications,
no man who, during the reign of——, frequented the little Câfé
in the cul-de-sac Le Febre 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 _patés à la fois_ were beyond doubt immaculate; but
what pen can do justice to his essays _sur la Nature_—his
thoughts _sur l’Ame_—his observations _sur l’Esprit?_ If
his _omelettes_—if his _fricandeaux_ were inestimable,
what _littérateur_ of that day would not have given twice as much for
an “_Idée de Bon-Bon_” as for all the trash of “_Idées_” of all
the rest of the _savants?_ Bon-Bon had ransacked libraries which no
other man had ransacked—had more than any other would have
entertained a notion of reading—had understood more than any other
would have conceived the possibility of understanding; and although, while
he flourished, there were not wanting some authors at Rouen to assert
“that his _dicta_ evinced neither the purity of the Academy, nor the
depth of the Lyceum”—although, mark me, his doctrines were by no
means very generally comprehended, still it did not follow that they were
difficult of comprehension. It was, I think, on account of their
self-evidency that many persons were led to consider them abstruse. It is
to Bon-Bon—but let this go no farther—it is to Bon-Bon that
Kant himself is mainly indebted for his metaphysics. The former was indeed
not a Platonist, nor strictly speaking an Aristotelian—nor did he,
like the modern Leibnitz, waste those precious hours which might be
employed in the invention of a _fricasée_ or, _facili gradú_,
the analysis of a sensation, in frivolous attempts at reconciling the
obstinate oils and waters of ethical discussion. Not at all. Bon-Bon was
Ionic—Bon-Bon was equally Italic. He reasoned _à priori_—He
reasoned also _à posteriori_. His ideas were innate—or
otherwise. He believed in George of Trebizonde—He believed in
Bossarion [Bessarion]. Bon-Bon was emphatically a—Bon-Bonist.
I have spoken of the philosopher in his capacity of _restaurateur_. I
would not, however, have any friend of mine imagine that, in fulfilling
his hereditary duties in that line, our hero wanted a proper estimation of
their dignity and importance. Far from it. It was impossible to say in
which branch of his profession he took the greater pride. In his opinion
the powers of the intellect held intimate connection with the capabilities
of the stomach. I am not sure, indeed, that he greatly disagreed with the
Chinese, who 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. (*1) 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.
{*1} MD
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 _café_ in the _cul-de-sac_ Le Febre 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 _café_ in the _cul-de-sac_ Le Febre 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 _paté_. On the back were
visible in large letters _Œuvres 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 army of
curtains, together with a canopy _à la Grècque_, 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
_mélanges_. 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 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 of ——, that Pierre Bon-Bon, after having listened to
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 à la Princesse_, he had
unfortunately perpetrated an _omelette à la Reine;_ the discovery of a
principle in ethics had been frustrated by the overturning of a stew; and
last, not least, he had been thwarted in one of those admirable bargains
which he at all times took such especial delight in bringing to a
successful termination. But in the chafing of his mind at these
unaccountable vicissitudes, there did not fail to be mingled some degree
of that nervous anxiety which the fury of a boisterous night is so well
calculated to produce. Whistling to his more immediate vicinity the large
black water-dog we have spoken of before, and settling himself uneasily in
his chair, he could not help casting a wary and unquiet eye 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 visitor’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 visitor’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-à-vis_ to his
companion’s, and waited until the latter should open the conversation. But
plans even the most skilfully matured are often thwarted in the outset of
their application—and the _restaurateur_ found himself _nonplussed_ by
the very first words of his visitor’s speech.
“I see you know me, Bon-Bon,” said he; “ha! ha! ha!—he! he! he!—hi!
hi! hi!—ho! ho! ho!—hu! hu! hu!”—and the devil, dropping
at once the sanctity of his demeanor, opened to its fullest extent a mouth
from ear to ear, so as to display a set of jagged and fang-like teeth,
and, throwing back his head, laughed long, loudly, wickedly, and
uproariously, while the black dog, crouching down upon his haunches,
joined lustily in the chorus, and the tabby cat, flying off at a tangent,
stood up on end, and shrieked in the farthest corner of the apartment.
Not so the philosopher; he was too much a man of the world either to laugh
like the dog, or by shrieks to betray the indecorous trepidation of the
cat. It must be confessed, he felt a little astonishment to see the white
letters which formed the words “_Rituel Catholique_” on the book in his
guest’s pocket, momently changing both their color and their import, and
in a few seconds, in place of the original title the words _Régitre des
Condamnes_ blazed forth in characters of red. This startling circumstance,
when Bon-Bon replied to his visitor’s remark, imparted to his manner an
air of embarrassment which probably might, not otherwise have been
observed.
“Why sir,” said the philosopher, “why sir, to speak
sincerely—I believe you are—upon my word—the
d——dest—that is to say, I think—I imagine—I
_have_ some faint—some _very_ faint idea—of the
remarkable honor—”
“Oh!—ah!—yes!—very well!” interrupted his Majesty; “say
no more—I see how it is.” And hereupon, taking off his green
spectacles, he wiped the glasses carefully with the sleeve of his coat,
and deposited them in his pocket.
If Bon-Bon had been astonished at the incident of the book, his amazement
was now much increased by the spectacle which here presented itself to
view. In raising his eyes, with a strong feeling of curiosity to ascertain
the color of his guest’s, he found them by no means black, as he had
anticipated—nor gray, as might have been imagined—nor yet
hazel nor blue—nor indeed yellow nor red—nor purple—nor
white—nor green—nor any other color in the heavens above, or
in the earth beneath, or in the waters under the earth. In short, Pierre
Bon-Bon not only saw plainly that his Majesty had no eyes whatsoever, but
could discover no indications of their having existed at any previous
period—for the space where eyes should naturally have been was, I am
constrained to say, simply a dead level of flesh.
It was not in the nature of the metaphysician to forbear making some
inquiry into the sources of so strange a phenomenon, and the reply of his
Majesty was at once prompt, dignified, and satisfactory.
“Eyes! my dear Bon-Bon—eyes! did you say?—oh!—ah!—I
perceive! The ridiculous prints, eh, which are in, circulation, have given
you a false idea of my personal appearance? Eyes!—true. Eyes, Pierre
Bon-Bon, are very well in their proper place—that, you would say, is
the head?—right—the head of a worm. To you, likewise, these
optics are indispensable—yet I will convince you that my vision is
more penetrating than your own. There is a cat I see in the corner—a
pretty cat—look at her—observe her well. Now, Bon-Bon, do you
behold the thoughts—the thoughts, I say,—the ideas—the
reflections—which are being engendered in her pericranium? There it
is, now—you do not! She is thinking we admire the length of her tail
and the profundity of her mind. She has just concluded that I am the most
distinguished of ecclesiastics, and that you are the most superficial of
metaphysicians. Thus you see I am not altogether blind; but to one of my
profession, the eyes you speak of would be merely an incumbrance, liable
at any time to be put out by a toasting-iron, or a pitchfork. To you, I
allow, these optical affairs are indispensable. Endeavor, Bon-Bon, to use
them well;—my vision is the soul.”
Hereupon the guest helped himself to the wine upon the table, and pouring
out a bumper for Bon-Bon, requested him to drink it without scruple, and
make himself perfectly at home.
“A clever book that of yours, Pierre,” resumed his Majesty, tapping our
friend knowingly upon the shoulder, as the latter put down his glass after
a thorough compliance with his visitor’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 visitor.
“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 δ
υοῦς εστιν
αυλος. 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 ‘αυλος.’
“Giving the lambda a fillip with my finger, I turned it upside down. So
the sentence now read ‘δ
υοῦς εστιν
αυγος’, 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.”
(*2)
{*2} 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 visitor—“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 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 the _nil admirari_ and endeavored
to hand down the bottles in question. He was, however, conscious of a
strange sound in the room like the wagging of a tail. Of this, although
extremely indecent in his Majesty, the philosopher took no notice:—simply
kicking the dog, and requesting him to be quiet. The visitor 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!—abortion
of a pill-box!”—and the philosopher dropped a tear.
“After all,” continued the visitor, “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 visitor 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
isn’t there A——, now, who you know as well as I? Is
_he_ not in possession of his faculties, mental and corporeal? Who
writes a keener epigram? Who reasons more wittily? Who—but stay! I
have his agreement in my pocket-book.”
Thus saying, he produced a red leather wallet, and took from it a number
of papers. Upon some of these Bon-Bon caught a glimpse of the letters
_Machi—Maza—Robesp_—with the words _Caligula, George,
Elizabeth_. His Majesty selected a narrow slip of parchment, and from it
read aloud the following words:
“In consideration of certain mental endowments which it is unnecessary to
specify, and in further consideration of one thousand louis d’or, I being
aged one year and one month, do hereby make over to the bearer of this
agreement all my right, title, and appurtenance in the shadow called my
soul. (Signed) A....” {*4} (Here His Majesty repeated a name which I did
not feel justified in indicating more unequivocally.)
{*4} 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 fricasséed shadow!” exclaimed our
hero, whose faculties were becoming much illuminated by the profundity of
his Majesty’s discourse.
“Only think of a hiccup!—fricasséed shadow!! Now, damme!—hiccup!—humph!
If _I_ would have been such a—hiccup!—nincompoop! _My_ soul, Mr.—humph!”
“_Your_ soul, Monsieur Bon-Bon?”
“Yes, sir—hiccup!—_my_ soul is—”
“What, sir?”
“_No_ shadow, damme!”
“Did you mean to say—”
“Yes, sir, my soul is—hiccup!—humph!—yes, sir.”
“Did 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 visitor 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.