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.