Short Fiction, Edgar Allan Poe [best autobiographies to read TXT] 📗

Majesty, tapping our friend knowingly upon the shoulder, as the latter put down his glass after a thorough compliance with his visitor’s injunction. “A clever book that of yours, upon my honor. 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 compassion 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 bumper of Mousseux, and offered his snuffbox to the fingers of his visitor.

“There was Plato, too,” continued his Majesty, modestly declining the snuffbox 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 ό νοῦϛ εστιν αυλοϛ. 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 ‘αυλοϛ.’

“Giving the lamma a fillip with my finger, I turned it upside down. So the sentence now read ‘ό νοῦϛ εστιν αυγοϛ’, and is, you perceive, the fundamental doctrines in his metaphysics.”

“Were you ever at Rome?” asked the restaurateur, as he finished his second bottle of Mousseux, 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 passage 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.”6

“What do you think of⁠—what do you think of⁠—hiccup!⁠—Epicurus?”

“What do I think of whom?” said the devil, in astonishment, “you cannot surely 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 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 outré 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—passable: 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 sung a seculare for my amusement, while I toasted him, in pure good humor, on a fork. But they want flavor, 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 endeavored 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 twang of Theocritus. Martial put me much in mind of Archilochus⁠—and Titus Livius was positively Polybius and none other.”

“Hic-cup!” 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 shelled, are apt to be