Devil Stories Part 11

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 colour of his guest's, he found them by no means black, as he had antic.i.p.ated--nor grey, as might have been imagined--nor yet hazel nor blue--nor indeed yellow nor red--nor purple--nor white--nor green--nor any other colour 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 s.p.a.ce 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 inc.u.mbrance, liable at any time to be put out by a toasting-iron or a pitchfork. To you, I allow, these optical affairs are indispensable. Endeavour, 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 b.u.mper 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 gla.s.s after a thorough compliance with his visitor's injunction. "A clever book that of yours, upon my honour. 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 compa.s.sion 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 b.u.mper of Mousseaux, and offering 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 '? ???? ?st?? a????.' 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 'a????.'

"Giving the lambda a fillip with my finger, I turned it upside down.

So the sentence now reads '? ???? ?st?? a????,' and is, you perceive, the fundamental doctrine in his metaphysics."

"Were you ever at Rome?" asked the _restaurateur_, as he finished his second bottle of Mousseaux, 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 pa.s.sage 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."[14]

[14] 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 surely do not 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 an 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 _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--hiccup!--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--pa.s.sable: 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 sang a _saeculare_ for my amus.e.m.e.nt, while I toasted him, in pure good humour, on a fork. But they want _flavour_, 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 endeavoured 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 tw.a.n.g of Theocritus. Martial put me much in mind of Archilochus--and t.i.tus Livius was positively Polybius and none other."

"Hiccup!" 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 sh.e.l.led, are apt to be a little rancid on account of the gall."

"Sh.e.l.led!!"

"I mean taken out of the carca.s.s."

"What do you think of a--hiccup!--physician?"

"_Don't_ mention them!--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!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Bon-Bon, "the--hiccup!--abortion of a pill-box!"--and the philosopher dropped a tear.