"My dear," said Mr. Grapewine, over the dinner-table, about a fortnight
before Christmas,--"how many days to Christmas?"
Mrs. Grapewine counted on her fingers; looked a little uncertain up
towards the ceiling, and at last applied to the calendar on the wall
behind her, exclaiming, when she had mentally calculated the time,--
"Week and six days; comes on Thursday."
"True," said Mr. Grapewine, and he fell to devouring the residuum of his
meal, a very savory mixture, which he swallowed with an amazing relish.
"There!" said he, after the last sip of coffee, "I believe I don't want
another thing to eat till Christmas-day. Mrs. G., you have the art of
concocting the most appetizing meals. I never seem to get enough of
them."
"Two a day!" suggested Mrs. Grapewine, in her sharp manner.
"No, no, no! Mrs. G., you _are_ an experienced cateress, that I
confess. But there is a delicacy in the thing which two such meals a day
would utterly destroy. You misunderstand me? It is the expectancy, the
snuffing up of the fumes beforehand, the very consciousness of your
inability to cope with it, which makes such a meal delicious. Now two a
day would leave a man no chance to get properly hungry. That's the
point. It is the preparation, the deferred hope, which render a good
dinner one of the completest luxuries of life. The hungrier one is, the
more prolonged the satisfaction of the palate. I don't think I have ever
been hungry to the fullest extent of my capacity in my life."
"Trip across Sahara!" interpolated Mrs. Grapewine.
"Yes, that would do, my dear; but I think we could accomplish it at home
by artificial means. I _think_ we could. Fasting would not do,
because the appetite would at last grow unable to discriminate. Drugs
would enfeeble it. (I'll thank you for another cup of coffee, my dear.
Ah, delicious cup of coffee!)--Drugs would enfeeble it. There is really
no direct stimulant that I know of; but I _think_ we could
intensify the appetite by a little course of diplomacy. Let us eat
frugally--sandwiches, crackers and cheese, potted meats--for the next
two weeks; and, if you please, cook us at each luncheon-time, as a sort
of stimulating accompaniment, some odorous dish,--roast-beef, stuffed
leg of lamb, roast turkey, codfish, anything with an odor,--which we
shall smell, but not taste of. Don't you see, madam?"
"No!"
"Don't you see that our stomachs will yearn for these strong delicacies,
and, going unsatisfied, will relish them the more when we at last attack
them?"
"No!"
"You have something to propose then, my dear. What is it? What have you
to propose?"
"Turkish bath!"
"What a woman you are. A Turkish bath! How, Mrs. Grapewine, can a
Turkish bath tickle a man's appetite? How can a Turkish----"
"Empty stomach."
"Ah, now I begin to see: a Turkish bath on an empty stomach. Yes, yes;
very good. But, perhaps, if we tried my plan and yours together, we
should arrive at the ideal appetite. I think a Christmas feast composed
of guests each with such an appetite would be nearly the greatest
pleasure we can know. Well, well, madam, let us think of it (The bell?
Yes, quite through)," and, saying this last to the tinkling of the
little silver bell, Mr. Grapewine got up from the table, undid the
napkin from his neck, and yawned both his arms quite over his fat, rosy
head as he trode towards the door. Mrs. Grapewine's step was like her
conversation,--sharp and decisive. She took her husband's arm in an
angular manner and led him, still yawning, to the sofa in the library,
where she set herself over against him, ready to hear his plans.
"Let us have a Christmas banquet, my dear," Mr. Grapewine steadily
rubbed his eyes and yawned.
"Who?" said Mrs. Grapewine.
"Why, Totty and his wife, and Colonel Killiam, and--and Dr. Tuggle and
lady, and old Mrs. Gildenfenny and--and----" Mr. Grapewine snored.
"Who?" said Mrs. Grapewine, somewhat loudly.
--"And--and--Pill."
"Who's Pill?" said she.
"Why--oh, I mean your poor cousin Pillet. It would be a kindness to him,
you know."
"Yes," said she.
"Will that be enough? Let me see, that is seven--nine with us two."
"Quite enough," said she. And so Mr. Grapewine, arousing himself, rose
from the sofa, put on his hat and coat, and went out to his business.
He was full of the idea. He talked about it to his clerks at the store.
He looked into restaurant windows, humming a tune in the excess of his
delight. He looked into bakers' windows and confectionery shops, and a
whiff of frying bacon from a little blind court he passed almost set him
dancing. Indeed, Mr. Grapewine was a man of juvenile impulse. In figure
as well as character he seemed rather to have expanded into a larger
sort of babyhood than to have left that stage of his life behind. His
face was broad and rosy and whiskerless, his hands were round and
well-dimpled, and his body chubby to a degree. Once an idea got
possession of him, he was its bondsman until another conquered it and
enslaved him anew. But, really loving good cheer above everything else,
his latest whim tickled him into laughter whenever it entered his mind.
It was the happiest idea of his life.
"Why, sir," he said to his book-keeper, "I think if a man would practise
my system he could easily eat a whole turkey--not to speak of other
dishes--at a meal. Magnificent idea! William. I wonder no one ever
thought of it before. Wonderful!"
"A little bilious, sir," said William.
"Bilious! bilious! Why, my man, how can anything produce biliousness in
an empty stomach? No; it may bring inertia,--the Lotos does that,--but
never biliousness."
In the evening, Mr. Grapewine visited the Turkish baths and learned all
about them before he went home. He encountered another idea on his way
thither, and was taken captive by it without resistance. He could
not--it would never do--it would not be courteous to eat so plentifully
in the presence of guests whose appetites were merely natural. Nor could
he well ask them to take the stimulating course he proposed for himself.
But they _could_ take a Turkish bath, and it would be quite a neat
little social device to enclose a ticket for a bath with each
invitation.
"There, madam!" he said to Mrs. Grapewine, "I think that's perfect. We
shall have the heartiest, merriest dinner on Christmas-day that man ever
devoured. Bring pen and paper, and I'll write to all the guests
immediately, ma'am."
After a moment's scratching of the pen, Mr. Grapewine leaned back in his
chair and held off the wet sheet at arm's length, reading with strong
emphasis as follows,--
"DEAR CAPTAIN KILLIAM,--Mrs. Grapewine and myself would be most happy to
have you join a small company of friends at our house on Christmas-day,
for dinner, at one P.M. The affair will be quite informal, and, to add
to the thorough enjoyment of it, I enclose a coupon for a Turkish-bath,
which please use on Christmas morning before the hour named.
"Yours, sincerely,
"GEORGE GRAPEWINE."
By the next morning Mr. Grapewine's invitations had found their way to
the breakfast-tables of all his expected guests.
* * * * *
Mr. Pillet's breakfast-table was composed of the top of a flat trunk,
and to find its way there the invitation went up three pairs of stairs.
Mr. Pillet was a writer, and his income was by no means as great as his
ability. He had often to point out a similar disparity in the lives of
other writers, because this was his one way of accounting for his want
of success. He did not write books, to be sure. He only wrote poetical
advertisements. But they were printed and paid for, and this gave him a
sort of prestige among his less lucky friends. He was seedy; only
moderately clean, and wholly unshaven, thus avoiding, by one happy
invention, both soap and the barber. Fierce he was to look at, with his
rugged beard and eyebrows, and fierce in his resentment of the world's
indifference. A Christmas invitation to the Grapewine's made his eyes
glisten with delight: a good dinner, guests to tell his tale to, and
women, lovely women, who would sympathize with his unrequited hopes. He
read on:
"I enclose a ticket for a Turkish bath----"
"Great heavens!" he cried, "what can this mean?"
He read the words again, and then read the coupon.
"Insulted! Insulted by a man I have ever befriended. He must apologize.
I'll shake the words from his throat. I'll--I'll not eat another
mouthful till I have his apology! Turkish bath! Why----" and Mr. Pillet
walked violently--gesticulating, with the open note in his hand--up and
down the creaking floor of his apartment. He did not finish his
breakfast, but put on his hat--perhaps forgetting an overcoat--and
hurried down-stairs.
* * * * *
Colonel Killiam took breakfast at the "Furlough Club." He perused Mr.
Grapewine's note with a majestic condescension, and decided to go to the
dinner, where, of course, those present would recognize his superior
rank. Each sentence he read was sandwiched between two sips of
chocolate, and he reached the latter clause only by slow degrees. When
he got that far, the colonel started to his feet and sternly summoned
the waiter.
"Ask Major Fobbs to call at my table as soon as he can."
The waiter obeyed, and Major Fobbs followed him back to the colonel's
table.
"Major," said the colonel, "will you please spell those words?"
"T-u-r-k-i-s-h b-a-t-h, Turkish bath," read the major.
"Thank heaven, I am still rational!" said the colonel. "I feared reason
was dethroned. Thank you, major. Good-day," and Colonel Killiam strode
out of the room, rigid with indignation.
Old Mrs. Gildenfenny received her invitation over a breakfast-table that
stood against her bedside. The note was handed in by an aged servant,
who thereupon leaned over her mistress's shoulder and helped her to read
it. Mrs. Gildenfenny was an energetic old lady; but she loved, most of
all things in the world, her idle hour in bed of a morning with a
smoking meal of hot-cakes and coffee at her elbow. She disliked, most of
all things in the world, to be robbed of this comfort, and she hated the
being who committed such an offence with a vehemence which was her chief
characteristic. The two old women read Mrs. Gildenfenny's note aloud en
duet, with now and then a pleased comment. Mrs. Gildenfenny said she
would wear her green silk, and gave directions, as she read on, about
her shoes, her hair, her linen and twenty articles of her toilet that
came into her mind at mention of dining out.
"Lord a-mercy!" says Mrs. Gildenfenny, when she had read a little
further; "Lord a-mercy! if I'm not decent, why does he ask me? Why don't
he say, at once, 'Please wash yourself before you come; and if you can't
afford soap and water, here's a ticket'? Susan, get me up! Dress me
right away! I must have this explained."
"But your breakfast, ma'am," says Susan.
"Eat? eat? with such a thing on my mind? No! I'll go at once to his
house!" and in a few moments Mrs. Gildenfenny also went out.
* * * * *
Mr. and Mrs. Totty were served with their invitation over a
breakfast-table where meekness and humility were administered with the
rolls and poured out with the weak cambric tea of the little ones. The
meal was an impressive ceremony, where discourses on duty and against
excess of the palate were often the only relishes present.
Mr. Totty would paint the miseries of the epicure, and Mrs.
Totty those of the dyspeptic, in words of eloquence which made
milk-and-sugar-and-water a liquid of priceless moral value, though they
never succeeded in strengthening its nutritive effects. While the eldest
Totty had answered the postman's summons, Mr. Totty was exhorting his
youngest son to avoid butter to his bread as a pitfall through which he
must eventually come to a state of depravity too dreadful to be put in
words. He opened the envelope very deliberately, supposing it to contain
a bill, but with a smile on his benevolent face which betokened a
reverent spirit under suffering. As he read the opening lines and went
onward, the smile passed through the stages of surprise, gratification,
appetite, eagerness, and then passed into a look of doubt. He laughed in
a gently acid way, and said,--
"My dear, Mr. Grapewine invites us to a Christmas dinner, which, of
course, we could not attend----"
"Why not?" exclaims Mrs. Totty, eagerly.
"Which it would do gross injury to our principles to attend," continued
Mr. Totty; "and I will call on him, with our refusal, this morning,
myself."
Mrs. Totty resignedly helped him on with his overcoat, and submitted to
the mildly spoken decree which was law in the house of the Tottys.
In a short time her husband went out with the invitation in his pocket
and a look of unusual benevolence in his eyes.
Dr. Tuggle and lady read the invitation together over their
breakfast-table, and fell to quarrelling so dreadfully about the purport
of Mr. Grapewine's singular request, that the doctor rushed from the
house, threatening to pull Mr. Grapewine's nose, and to divorce himself
forever from his hateful spouse.
On this same morning Mr. Grapewine's bell was rung five times, at very
short intervals, in the most tremendously violent manner, and five loud
altercations took place in the hall between the servant and the five
callers.
"Where is he?"
"Bring him down, or I'll go up after him!"
"What does he mean by it?"
"Insult a respectable lady!"
"Let me catch him, that's all!"
"Where has he gone?"
"I'll send him a challenge by Fobbs!"
"Where's his wife?"
This was what Mr. Grapewine, listening at the top of the stairs, heard
in a confused tumult in his parlor. He could not understand it. He was
extremely agitated; but the servant insisted on his going down, and he
did so, clad in a loose morning dress and slippers. As he entered the
parlor-door he was met by four furious gentlemen and an elderly lady,
flourishing his invitations in their hands and crying hotly for
explanations.
"What do you mean, sir? What do you mean by alluding to my--my toilet in
this impertinent manner?" said Colonel Killiam.
The light began to flow in upon Mr. Grapewine's puzzled understanding.
He confessed his mistake, and would have urged them to forget it and
come to the dinner as if nothing had happened, but before he could do so
he found himself alone in the room, with five notes of invitation on the
floor at his feet, and nothing but the remembrance of one of the best
ideas he had ever had in his life.