Further Foolishness by Stephen Leacock (howl and other poems .TXT) 📕

But it would be out of the question to indicate by name the whole of the notable assemblage. Indeed, certain of the guests, while carrying in their faces and attitudes something strangely and elusively familiar, seemed in a sense to be nameless, and to represent rather types and abstractions than actual personalities. Such was the case, for instance, with a female member of the company, seated in a place of honour near the host, whose demure garb and gentle countenance seemed to indicate her as a Lady Pacifist, but denied all further identification. The mild, ecclesiastical features of a second guest, so entirely Christian in its expression as to be almost devoid of expression altogether, marked him at once as An Eminent Divine, but, while puzzlingly suggestive of an actual and well-known person, seemed to elude exact recognition. His accent, when he presently spoke, stamped him as British and his garb was that of the Established Church. Another guest appeared to answer to the general designation of Capitalist or Philanthropist, and seemed from his prehensile grasp upon his knife and fork to typify the Money Power. In front of this guest, doubtless with a view of indicating his extreme wealth and the consideration in which he stood, was placed a floral decoration representing a broken bank, with the figure of a ruined depositor entwined among the debris.

Of these nameless guests, two individuals alone, from the very significance of their appearance, from their plain dress, unsuited to the occasion, and from the puzzled expression of their faces, seemed out of harmony with the galaxy of distinction which surrounded them. They seemed to speak only to one another, and even that somewhat after the fashion of an appreciative chorus to what the rest of the company was saying; while the manner in which they rubbed their hands together and hung upon the words of the other speakers in humble expectancy seemed to imply that they were present in the hope of gathering rather than shedding light. To these two humble and obsequious guests no attention whatever was paid, though it was understood, by those who knew, that their names were The General Public and the Man on the Street.

"A sad spectacle," said the Negro President, and he sighed as he spoke. "One wonders if our civilisation, if our moral standards themselves, are slipping from us." Then half in reverie, or as if overcome by the melancholy of his own thought, he lifted a spoon from the table and slid it gently into the bosom of his faded uniform.

"Put back that spoon!" called The Lady Pacifist sharply.

"Pardon!" said the Negro President humbly, as he put it back. The humiliation of generations of servitude was in his voice.

"Come, come," exclaimed Mr. Jennings Bryan cheerfully, "try a little more of the grape juice?"

"Does it intoxicate?" asked the President.

"Never," answered Mr. Bryan. "Rest assured of that. I can guarantee it. The grape is picked in the dark. It is then carried, still in the dark, to the testing room. There every particle of alcohol is removed. Try it."

"Thank you," said the President. "I am no longer thirsty."

"Will anybody have some more of the grape juice?" asked Mr. Bryan, running his eye along the ranks of the guests.

No one spoke.

"Will anybody have some more ground peanuts?"

No one moved.

"Or does anybody want any more of the shredded tan bark? No? Or will somebody have another spoonful of sunflower seeds?"

There was still no sign of assent.

"Very well, then," said Mr. Bryan, "the banquet, as such, is over, and we now come to the more serious part of our business. I need hardly tell you that we are here for a serious purpose. We are here to do good. That I know is enough to enlist the ardent sympathy of everybody present."

There was a murmur of assent.

"Personally," said The Lady Pacifist, "I do nothing else."

"Neither do I," said the guest who has been designated The Philanthropist, "whether I am producing oil, or making steel, or building motor-cars."

"Does he build motor-cars?" whispered the humble person called The Man in the Street to his fellow, The General Public.

"All great philanthropists do things like that," answered his friend. "They do it as a social service so as to benefit humanity; any money they make is just an accident. They don't really care about it a bit. Listen to him. He's going to say so."

"Indeed, our business itself," The Philanthropist continued, while his face lighted up with unselfish enthusiasm, "our business itself—"

"Hush, hush!" said Mr. Bryan gently. "We know—"

"Our business itself," persisted The Philanthropist, "is one great piece of philanthropy."

Tears gathered in his eyes.

"Come, come," said Mr. Bryan firmly, "we must get to business. Our friend here," he continued, turning to the company at large and indicating the Negro President on his right, "has come to us in great distress. His beautiful island of Haiti is and has been for many years overwhelmed in civil war. Now he learns that not only Haiti, but also Europe is engulfed in conflict. He has heard that we are making proposals for ending the war —indeed, I may say are about to declare that the war in Europe must stop—I think I am right, am I not, my friends?"

There was a general chorus of assent.

"Naturally then," continued Mr. Bryan, "our friend the President of Haiti, who is overwhelmed with grief at what has been happening in his island, has come to us for help. That is correct, is it not?"

"That's it, gentlemen," said the Negro President, in a voice of some emotion, wiping the sleeve of his faded uniform across his eyes. "The situation is quite beyond my control. In fact," he added, shaking his head pathetically as he relapsed into more natural speech, "dis hyah chile, gen'l'n, is clean done beat with it. Dey ain't doin' nuffin' on the island but shootin', burnin', and killin' somethin' awful. Lawd a massy! it's just like a real civilised country, all right, now. Down in our island we coloured people is feeling just as bad as youse did when all them poor white folks was murdered on the Lusitania!"

But the Negro President had no sooner used the words "Murdered on the Lusitania," than a chorus of dissent and disapproval broke out all down the table.

"My dear sir, my dear sir," protested Mr. Bryan, "pray moderate your language a little, if you please. Murdered? Oh, dear, dear me, how can we hope to advance the cause of peace if you insist on using such terms?"

"Ain't it that? Wasn't it murder?" asked the President, perplexed.

"We are all agreed here," said The Lady Pacifist, "that it is far better to call it an incident. We speak of the 'Lusitania Incident,'" she added didactically, "just as one speaks of the Arabic Incident, and the Cavell Incident, and other episodes of the sort. It makes it so much easier to forget."