A House-Boat on the Styx
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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.
CHAPTER IV: HAMLET MAKES A SUGGESTION
It was a beautiful night on the Styx, and the silvery surface of that picturesque stream was dotted with gondolas, canoes, and other craft to an extent that made Charon feel like a highly prosperous savings-bank. Within the house-boat were gathered a merry party, some of whom were on mere pleasure bent, others of whom had come to listen to a debate, for which the entertainment committee had provided, between the venerable patriarch Noah and the late eminent showman P. T. Barnum. The question to be debated was upon the resolution passed by the committee, that “The Animals of the Antediluvian Period were Far More Attractive for Show Purposes than those of Modern Make,” and, singular to relate, the affirmative was placed in the hands of Mr. Barnum, while to Noah had fallen the task of upholding the virtues of the modern freak. It is with the party on mere pleasure bent that we have to do upon this occasion. The proceedings of the debating-party are as yet in the hands of the official stenographer, but will be made public as soon as they are ready.
The pleasure-seeking group were gathered in the smoking-room of the club, which was, indeed, a smoking-room of a novel sort, the invention of an unknown shade, who had sold all the rights to the club through a third party, anonymously, preferring, it seemed, to remain in the Elysian world, as he had been in the mundane sphere, a mute inglorious Edison. It was a simple enough scheme, and, for a wonder, no one in the world of substantialities has thought to take it up. The smoke was stored in reservoirs, just as if it were so much gas or water, and was supplied on the hot-air furnace principle from a huge furnace in the hold of the house-boat, into which tobacco was shovelled by the hired man of the club night and day. The smoke from the furnace, carried through flues to the smoking-room, was there received and stored in the reservoirs, with each of which was connected one dozen rubber tubes, having at their ends amber mouth-pieces. Upon each of these mouth-pieces was arranged a small meter registering the amount of smoke consumed through it, and for this the consumer paid so much a foot. The value of the plan was threefold. It did away entirely with ashes, it saved to the consumers the value of the unconsumed tobacco that is represented by the unsmoked cigar ends, and it averted the possibility of cigarettes.
Enjoying the benefits of this arrangement upon the evening in question were Shakespeare, Cicero, Henry VIII., Doctor Johnson, and others. Of course Boswell was present too, for a moment, with his note-book, and this fact evoked some criticism from several of the smokers.
“You ought to be up-stairs in the lecture-room, Boswell,” said Shakespeare, as the great biographer took his seat behind his friend the Doctor. “Doesn’t the Gossip want a report of the debate?”
“It does,” said Boswell; “but the Gossip endeavors always to get the most interesting items of the day, and Doctor Johnson has informed me that he expects to be unusually witty this evening, so I have come here.”
“Excuse me for saying it, Boswell,” said the Doctor, getting red in the face over this unexpected confession, “but, really, you talk too much.”
“That’s good,” said Cicero. “Stick that down, Boz, and print it. It’s the best thing Johnson has said this week.”
Boswell smiled weakly, and said: “But, Doctor, you did say that, you know. I can prove it, too, for you told me some of the things you were going to say. Don’t you remember, you were going to lead Shakespeare up to making the remark that he thought the English language was the greatest language in creation, whereupon you were going to ask him why he didn’t learn it?”
“Get out of here, you idiot!” roared the Doctor. “You’re enough to give a man apoplexy.”
“You’re not going back on the ladder by which you have climbed, are you, Samuel?” queried Boswell, earnestly.
“The wha-a-t?” cried the Doctor, angrily. “The ladder—on which I climbed? You? Great heavens! That it should come to this! . . . Leave the room—instantly! Ladder! By all that is beautiful—the ladder upon which I, Samuel Johnson, the tallest person in letters, have climbed! Go! Do you hear?”
Boswell rose meekly, and, with tears coursing down his cheeks, left the room.
“That’s one on you, Doctor,” said Cicero, wrapping his toga about him. “I think you ought to order up three baskets of champagne on that.”
“I’ll order up three baskets full of Boswell’s remains if he ever dares speak like that again!” retorted the Doctor, shaking with anger. “He—my ladder—why, it’s ridiculous.”
“Yes,” said Shakespeare, dryly. “That’s why we laugh.”
“You were a little hard on him, Doctor,” said Henry VIII. “He was a valuable man to you. He had a great eye for your greatness.”
“Yes. If there’s any feature of Boswell that’s greater than his nose and ears, it’s his great I,” said the Doctor.
“You’d rather have him change his I to a U, I presume,” said Napoleon, quietly.
The Doctor waved his hand impatiently. “Let’s drop him,” he said. “Dropping one’s biographer isn’t without precedent. As soon as any man ever got to know Napoleon well enough to write him up he sent him to the front, where he could get a little lead in his system.”
“I wish I had had a Boswell all the same,” said Shakespeare. “Then the world would have known the truth about me.”
“It wouldn’t if he’d relied on your word for it,” retorted the Doctor. “Hullo! here’s Hamlet.”
As the Doctor spoke, in very truth the melancholy Dane appeared in the doorway, more melancholy of aspect than ever.
“What’s the matter with you?” asked Cicero, addressing the new-comer. “Haven’t you got that poison out of your system yet?”
“Not entirely,” said Hamlet, with a sigh; “but it isn’t that that’s bothering me. It’s Fate.”
“We’ll get out an injunction against Fate if you like,” said Blackstone. “Is it persecution, or have you deserved it?”
“I think it’s persecution,” said Hamlet. “I never wronged Fate in my life, and why she should pursue me like a demon through all eternity is a thing I can’t understand.”
“Maybe Ophelia is back of it,” suggested Doctor Johnson. “These women have a great deal of sympathy for each other, and, candidly, I think you behaved pretty rudely to Ophelia. It’s a poor way to show your love for a young woman, running a sword through her father every night for pay, and driving the girl to suicide with equal frequency, just to show theatre-goers what a smart little Dane you can be if you try.”
“’Tisn’t me does all that,” returned Hamlet. “I only did it once, and even then it wasn’t as bad as Shakespeare made it out to be.”
“I put it down just as it was,” said Shakespeare, hotly, “and you can’t dispute it.”
“Yes, he can,” said Yorick. “You made him tell Horatio he knew me well, and he never met me in his life.”
“I never told Horatio anything of the sort,” said Hamlet. “I never entered the graveyard even, and I can prove an alibi.”
“And, what’s more, he couldn’t have made the remark the way Shakespeare has it, anyhow,” said Yorick, “and for a very good reason. I wasn’t buried in that graveyard, and Hamlet and I can prove an alibi for the skull, too.”
“It was a good play, just the same,” said Cicero.
“Very,” put in Doctor Johnson. “It cured me of insomnia.”
“Well, if you don’t talk in your sleep, the play did a Christian service to the world,” retorted Shakespeare. “But, really, Hamlet, I thought I did the square thing by you in that play. I meant to, anyhow; and if it has made you unhappy, I’m honestly sorry.”
“Spoken like a man,” said Yorick.
“I don’t mind the play so much,” said Hamlet, “but the way I’m represented by these fellows who play it is the thing that rubs me the wrong way. Why, I even hear that there’s a troupe out in the western part of the United States that puts the thing on with three Hamlets, two ghosts, and a pair of blood-hounds. It’s called the Uncle-Tom-Hamlet Combination, and instead of my falling in love with one crazy Ophelia, I am made to woo three dusky maniacs named Topsy on a canvas ice-floe, while the blood-hounds bark behind the scenes. What sort of treatment is that for a man of royal lineage?”
“It’s pretty rough,” said Napoleon. “As the poet ought to have said, ‘Oh, Hamlet, Hamlet, what crimes are committed in thy name!’”
“I feel as badly about the play as Hamlet does,” said Shakespeare, after a moment of silent thought. “I don’t bother much about this wild Western business, though, because I think the introduction of the bloodhounds and the Topsies makes us both more popular in that region than we should be otherwise. What I object to is the way we are treated by these so-called first-class intellectual actors in London and other great cities. I’ve seen Hamlet done before a highly cultivated audience, and, by Jove, it made me blush.”
“Me too,” sighed Hamlet. “I have seen a man who had a walk on him that suggested spring-halt and locomotor ataxia combined impersonating my graceful self in a manner that drove me almost crazy. I’ve heard my ‘To be or not to be’ soliloquy uttered by a famous tragedian in tones that would make a graveyard yawn at mid-day, and if there was any way in which I could get even with that man I’d do it.”
“It seems to me,” said Blackstone, assuming for the moment a highly judicial manner—“it seems to me that Shakespeare, having got you into this trouble, ought to get you out of it.”
“But how?” said Shakespeare, earnestly. “That’s the point. Heaven knows I’m willing enough.”
Hamlet’s face suddenly brightened as though illuminated with an idea. Then he began to dance about the room with an expression of glee that annoyed Doctor Johnson exceedingly.
“I wish Darwin could see you now,” the Doctor growled. “A kodak picture of you would prove his arguments conclusively.”
“Rail on, O philosopher!” retorted Hamlet. “Rail on! I mind your railings not, for I the germ of an idea have got.”
“Well, go quarantine yourself,” said the Doctor. “I’d hate to have one of your idea microbes get hold of me.”
“What’s the scheme?” asked Shakespeare.
“You can write a play for me!” cried Hamlet. “Make it a farce-tragedy. Take the modern player for your hero, and let me play him. I’ll bait him through four acts. I’ll imitate his walk. I’ll cultivate his voice. We’ll have the first act a tank act, and drop the hero into the tank. The second act can be in a saw-mill, and we can cut his hair off on a buzz-saw. The third act can introduce a spile-driver with which to drive his hat over his eyes and knock his brains down into his lungs. The fourth act can be at Niagara Falls, and we’ll send him over the falls; and for a grand climax we can have him guillotined just after he has swallowed a quart of prussic acid and a spoonful of powdered glass. Do that for me, William, and you are forgiven. I’ll play it for six hundred nights in London, for two years in New York, and round up with a one-night stand in Boston.”