Chapter III: Washington Gives a Dinner
It was Washington's Birthday, and the gentleman who had
the pleasure of being Father of his Country decided to
celebrate it at the Associated Shades' floating palace
on the Styx, as the Elysium Weekly Gossip, "a Journal
of Society," called it, by giving a dinner to a select
number of friends. Among the invited guests were Baron
Munchausen, Doctor Johnson, Confucius, Napoleon Bonaparte,
Diogenes, and Ptolemy. Boswell was also present, but not
as a guest. He had a table off to one side all to himself,
and upon it there were no china plates, silver spoons,
knives, forks, and dishes of fruit, but pads, pens, and
ink in great quantity. It was evident that Boswell's reportorial
duties did not end with his labors in the mundane sphere.
The dinner was set down to begin at seven o'clock, so
that the guests, as was proper, sauntered slowly in between
that hour and eight. The menu was particularly choice,
the shades of countless canvas-back ducks, terrapin, and
sheep having been called into requisition, and cooked
by no less a person than Brillat-Savarin, in the hottest
oven he could find in the famous cooking establishment
superintended by the government. Washington was on hand
early, sampling the olives and the celery and the wines,
and giving to Charon final instructions as to the manner
in which he wished things served.
The first guest to arrive was Confucius, and after him
came Diogenes, the latter in great excitement over having
discovered a comparatively honest man, whose name, however,
he had not been able to ascertain, though he was under
the impression that it was something like Burpin, or Turpin,
he said.
At eight the brilliant company was arranged comfortably
about the board. An orchestra of five, under the leadership
of Mozart, discoursed sweet music behind a screen, and
the feast of reason and flow of soul began.
"This is a great day," said Doctor Johnson, assisting
himself copiously to the olives.
"Yes," said Columbus, who was also a guest — "yes, it
is a great day, but it isn't a marker to a little day
in October I wot of."
"Still sore on that point?" queried Confucius, trying
the edge of his knife on the shade of a salted almond.
"Oh no," said Columbus, calmly. "I don't feel jealous
of Washington. He is the Father of his Country and I am
not. I only discovered the orphan. I knew the country
before it had a father or a mother. There wasn't anybody
who was willing to be even a sister to it when I knew
it. But G.W. here took it in hand, groomed it down, spanked
it when it needed it, and started it off on the career
which has made it worth while for me to let my name be
known in connection with it. Why should I be jealous of
him?"
"I am sure I don't know why anybody anywhere should be
jealous of anybody else anyhow," said Diogenes. "I never
was and I never expect to be. Jealousy is a quality that
is utterly foreign to the nature of an honest man. Take
my own case, for instance. When I was what they call alive,
how did I live?"
"I don't know," said Doctor Johnson, turning his head
as he spoke so that Boswell could not fail to hear. "I
wasn't there."
Boswell nodded approvingly, chuckled slightly, and put
the Doctor's remark down for publication in The Gossip.
"You're doubtless right, there," retorted Diogenes. "What
you don't know would fill a circulating library. Well — I
lived in a tub. Now, if I believed in envy, I suppose
you think I'd be envious of people who live in brownstone
fronts with back yards and mortgages, eh?"
"I'd rather live under a mortgage than in a tub," said
Bonaparte, contemptuously.
"I know you would," said Diogenes. "Mortgages never bothered
you — but I wouldn't. In the first place, my tub was warm.
I never saw a house with a brownstone front that was,
except in summer, and then the owner cursed it because
it was so. My tub had no plumbing in it to get out of
order. It hadn't any flights of stairs in it that had
to be climbed after dinner, or late at night when I came
home from the club. It had no front door with a wandering
key-hole calculated to elude the key ninety-nine times
out of every hundred efforts to bring the two together
and reconcile their differences, in order that their owner
may get into his own house late at night. It wasn't chained
down to any particular neighborhood, as are most brownstone
fronts. If the neighborhood ran down, I could move my
tub off into a better neighborhood, and it never lost
value through the deterioration of its location. I never
had to pay taxes on it, and no burglar was ever so hard
up that he thought of breaking into my habitation to rob
me. So why should I be jealous of the brownstone-house
dwellers? I am a philosopher, gentlemen. I tell you, philosophy
is the thief of jealousy, and I had the good-luck to find
it out early in life."
"There is much in what you say," said Confucius. "But
there's another side to the matter. If a man is an aristocrat
by nature, as I was, his neighborhood never could run
down. Wherever he lived would be the swell section, so
that really your last argument isn't worth a stewed icicle."
"Stewed icicles are pretty good, though," said Baron
Munchausen, with an ecstatic smack of his lips. "I've
eaten them many a time in the polar regions."
"I have no doubt of it," put in Doctor Johnson. "You've
eaten fried pyramids in Africa, too, haven't you?"
"Only once," said the Baron, calmly. "And I can't say
I enjoyed them. They are rather heavy for the digestion."
"That's so," said Ptolemy. "I've had experience with
pyramids myself."
"You never ate one, did you, Ptolemy?" queried Bonaparte.
"Not raw," said Ptolemy, with a chuckle. "Though I've
been tempted many a time to call for a second joint of
the Sphinx."
There was a laugh at this, in which all but Baron Munchausen
joined.
"I think it is too bad," said the Baron, as the laughter
subsided — "I think it is very much too bad that you shades
have brought mundane prejudice with you into this sphere.
Just because some people with finite minds profess to
disbelieve my stories, you think it well to be sceptical
yourselves. I don't care, however, whether you believe
me or not. The fact remains that I have eaten one fried
pyramid and countless stewed icicles, and the stewed icicles
were finer than any diamond-back rat Confucius ever had
served at a state banquet."
"Where's Shakespeare to-night?" asked Confucius, seeing
that the Baron was beginning to lose his temper, and wishing
to avoid trouble by changing the subject. "Wasn't he invited,
General?"
"Yes," said Washington, "he was invited, but he couldn't
come. He had to go over the river to consult with an autograph
syndicate they've formed in New York. You know, his autographs
sell for about one thousand dollars apiece, and they're
trying to get up a scheme whereby he shall contribute
an autograph a week to the syndicate, to be sold to the
public. It seems like a rich scheme, but there's one thing
in the way. Posthumous autographs haven't very much of
a market, because the mortals can't be made to believe
that they are genuine; but the syndicate has got a man
at work trying to get over that. These Yankees are a mighty
inventive lot, and they think perhaps the scheme can be
worked. The Yankee IS an inventive genius."
"It was a Yankee invented that tale about your not being
able to prevaricate, wasn't it, George?" asked Diogenes.
Washington smiled acquiescence, and Doctor Johnson returned
to Shakespeare.
"I'd rather have a morning-glory vine than one of Shakespeare's
autographs," said he. "They are far prettier, and quite
as legible."
"Mortals wouldn't," said Bonaparte.
"What fools they be!" chuckled Johnson.
At this point the canvas-back ducks were served, one
whole shade of a bird for each guest.
"Fall to, gentlemen," said Washington, gazing hungrily
at his bird. "When canvas-back ducks are on the table
conversation is not required of any one."
"It is fortunate for us that we have so considerate a
host," said Confucius, unfastening his robe and preparing
to do justice to the fare set before him. "I have dined
often, but never before with one who was willing to let
me eat a bird like this in silence. Washington, here's
to you. May your life be chequered with birthdays, and
may ours be equally well supplied with feasts like this
at your expense!"
The toast was drained, and the diners fell to as requested.
"They're great, aren't they?" whispered Bonaparte to
Munchausen.
"Well, rather," returned the Baron. "I don't see why
the mortals don't erect a statue to the canvas-back."
"Did anybody at this board ever have as much canvas-back
duck as he could eat?" asked Doctor Johnson.
"Yes," said the Baron. "I did. Once."
"Oh, you!" sneered Ptolemy. "You've had everything."
"Except the mumps," retorted Munchausen. "But, honestly,
I did once have as much canvas-back duck as I could eat."
"It must have cost you a million," said Bonaparte. "But
even then they'd be cheap, especially to a man like yourself
who could perform miracles. If I could have performed
miracles with the ease which was so characteristic of
all your efforts, I'd never have died at St. Helena."
"What's the odds where you died?" said Doctor Johnson.
"If it hadn't been at St. Helena it would have been somewhere
else, and you'd have found death as stuffy in one place
as in another."
"Don't let's talk of death," said Washington. "I am sure
the Baron's tale of how he came to have enough canvas-back
is more diverting."
"I've no doubt it is more perverting," said Johnson.
"It happened this way," said Munchausen. "I was out for
sport, and I got it. I was alone, my servant having fallen
ill, which was unfortunate, since I had always left the
filling of my cartridge-box to him, and underestimated
its capacity. I started at six in the morning, and, not
having hunted for several months, was not in very good
form, so, no game appearing for a time, I took a few practice
shots, trying to snip off the slender tops of the pine-trees
that I encountered with my bullets, succeeding tolerably
well for one who was a little rusty, bringing down ninety-nine
out of the first one hundred and one, and missing the
remaining two by such a close margin that they swayed
to and fro as though fanned by a slight breeze. As I fired
my one hundred and first shot what should I see before
me but a flock of these delicate birds floating upon the
placid waters of the bay!"
"Was this the Bay of Biscay, Baron?" queried Columbus,
with a covert smile at Ptolemy.
"I counted them," said the Baron, ignoring the question,
"and there were just sixty-eight. 'Here's a chance for
the record, Baron,' said I to myself, and then I made
ready to shoot them. Imagine my dismay, gentlemen, when
I discovered that while I had plenty of powder left I
had used up all my bullets. Now, as you may imagine, to
a man with no bullets at hand, the sight of sixty-eight
fat canvas-backs is hardly encouraging, but I was resolved
to have every one of those birds; the question was, how
shall I do it? I never can think on water, so I paddled
quietly ashore and began to reflect. As I lay there deep
in thought, I saw lying upon the beach before me a superb
oyster, and as reflection makes me hungry I seized upon
the bivalve and swallowed him. As he went down something
stuck in my throat, and, extricating it, what should it
prove to be but a pearl of surpassing beauty. My first
thought was to be content with my day's find. A pearl
worth thousands surely was enough to satisfy the most
ardent lover of sport; but on looking up I saw those ducks
still paddling contentedly about, and I could not bring
myself to give them up. Suddenly the idea came, the pearl
is as large as a bullet, and fully as round. Why not use
it? Then, as thoughts come to me in shoals, I next reflected,
'Ah — but this is only one bullet as against sixty-eight
birds:' immediately a third thought came, 'why not shoot
them all with a single bullet? It is possible, though
not probable.' I snatched out a pad of paper and a pencil,
made a rapid calculation based on the doctrine of chances,
and proved to my own satisfaction that at some time or
another within the following two weeks those birds would
doubtless be sitting in a straight line and paddling about,
Indian file, for an instant. I resolved to await that
instant. I loaded my gun with the pearl and a sufficient
quantity of powder to send the charge through every one
of the ducks if, perchance, the first duck were properly
hit. To pass over wearisome details, let me say that it
happened just as I expected. I had one week and six days
to wait, but finally the critical moment came. It was
at midnight, but fortunately the moon was at the full,
and I could see as plainly as though it had been day.
The moment the ducks were in line I aimed and fired. They
every one squawked, turned over, and died. My pearl had
pierced the whole sixty-eight."
Boswell blushed.
"Ahem!" said Doctor Johnson. "It was a pity to lose the
pearl."
"That," said Munchausen, "was the most interesting part
of the story. I had made a second calculation in order
to save the pearl. I deduced the amount of powder necessary
to send the gem through sixty-seven and a half birds,
and my deduction was strictly accurate. It fulfilled its
mission of death on sixty-seven and was found buried in
the heart of the sixty-eighth, a trifle discolored, but
still a pearl, and worth a king's ransom."
Napoleon gave a derisive laugh, and the other guests
sat with incredulity depicted upon every line of their
faces.
"Do you believe that story yourself, Baron?" asked Confucius.
"Why not?" asked the Baron. "Is there anything improbable
in it? Why should you disbelieve it? Look at our friend
Washington here. Is there any one here who knows more
about truth than he does? He doesn't disbelieve it. He's
the only man at this table who treats me like a man of
honor."
"He's host and has to," said Johnson, shrugging his shoulders.
"Well, Washington, let me put the direct question to
you," said the Baron. "Say you aren't host and are under
no obligation to be courteous. Do you believe I haven't
been telling the truth?"
"My dear Munchausen," said the General, "don't ask me.
I'm not an authority. I can't tell a lie — not even when
I hear one. If you say your story is true, I must believe
it, of course; but — ah — really, if I were you, I wouldn't
tell it again unless I could produce the pearl and the
wish-bone of one of the ducks at least."
Whereupon, as the discussion was beginning to grow acrimonious,
Washington hailed Charon, and, ordering a boat, invited
his guests to accompany him over into the world of realities,
where they passed the balance of the evening haunting
a vaudeville performance at one of the London music-halls.
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