The Cream of the Jest by James Branch Cabell (the first e reader TXT) 📕

“After all, money is not everything. The richest people are not always the happiest, in spite of their luxury.”

“You gentlemen can take it from me,” asserted the aeronaut, “that many poor people get a lot of pleasure out of life.”

“Now, really though, that reminds me⁠—children are very close observers, and, as you may have noticed, they ask the most remarkable questions. My little boy asked me, only last Tuesday, why poor people are always so polite and kind⁠—”

“Well, little pitchers have big ears⁠—”

“What you might call a chip of the old block, eh?⁠—so that mighty little misses him?”

“I may be prejudiced, but I thought it pretty good, coming from a kid of six⁠—”

“And it is perfectly true, gentlemen⁠—the poor are kind to each other. Now, I believe just being kind makes you happier⁠—”

“And I often think that is a better sort of religion than just dressing up in your best clothes and going to church regularly on Sundays⁠—”

“That is a very true thought,” another chimed in.

“And expressed, upon my word, with admirable clarity⁠—”

“Oh, whatever pretended pessimists in search of notoriety may say, most people are naturally kind, at heart⁠—”

“I would put it that Christianity, in spite of the carping sneers of science so-called, has led us once for all to recognize the vast brotherhood of man⁠—”

“So that, really, the world gets better every day⁠—”

“We have quite abolished war, for instance⁠—”

“My dear sir, were there nothing else, and even putting aside the outraged sentiments of civilized humanity, another great or prolonged war between any two of the leading nations is unthinkable⁠—”

“For the simple reason, gentlemen, that we have perfected our fighting machines to such an extent that the destruction involved would be too frightful⁠—”

“Then, too, we are improving the automobile to such an extent⁠—”

“Oh, in the end it will inevitably supplant the horse⁠—”

“It seems almost impossible to realize how we ever got along without the automobile⁠—”

“Do you know, I would not be surprised if some day horses were exhibited in museums⁠—”

“As rare and nearly extinct animals? Come, now, that is pretty good⁠—”

“And electricity is, as one might say, just in its infancy⁠—”

“The telephone, for instance⁠—our ancestors would not have believed in the possibilities of such a thing⁠—”

“And, by George, they talk of giving an entire play with those moving-picture machines⁠—acting the whole thing out, you know.”

“Oh, yes, we live in the biggest, brainiest age the world has ever known⁠—”

“And America is going to be the greatest nation in it, before very long, commercially and in every way⁠ ⁠…”

So the talk flowed on, with Felix Kennaston contributing very little thereto. Indeed, Felix Kennaston, the dreamer, was rather ill-at-ease among these men of action, and listened to their observations with perturbed attention. He sat among the great ones of earth⁠—not all of them the very greatest, of course, but each a person of quite respectable importance. It was the sort of gathering that in boyhood⁠—and in later life also, for that matter⁠—he had foreplanned to thrill and dazzle, as he perfectly recollected. But now, with the opportunity, he somehow could not think of anything quite suitable to say⁠—of anything which would at once do him justice and be admiringly received.

Therefore he attempted to even matters by assuring himself that the talk of these efficient people was lacking in brilliance and real depth, and expressed sentiments which, microscopically viewed, did not appear to be astoundingly original. If these had been less remarkable persons he would have thought their conversation almost platitudinous. And not one of these much-talked-about men, whatever else he might have done, could have written Men Who Loved Alison! Kennaston cherished that reflection as he sedately partook of a dish he recollected to have seen described, on menu cards, as “Hungarian goulash” and sipped sherry of no very extraordinary flavor.⁠ ⁠…

He was to remember how plain the fare was, and more than once, was to refer to this meal⁠—quite casually⁠—beginning “That reminds me of what Such-an-one said once, when I was lunching with him,” or perhaps, “The last time I lunched with So-and-so, I remember⁠—” With such gambits he was able, later on, to introduce to us of Lichfield several anecdotes which, if rather pointless, were at least garnished with widely-known names.

There was a Cabinet meeting that afternoon, and luncheon ended, the personage wasted scant time in dismissing his guests.

“It has been a very great pleasure to meet you, Mr. Kennaston,” quoth the personage, wringing Kennaston’s hand.

Kennaston suitably gave him to understand that they shared ecstasy in common.

“Those portions of your book relating to the sigil of Scoteia struck me as being too explicit,” the personage continued, bluffly, but in lowered tones. The two stood now, beneath a great stuffed elk’s head, a little apart from the others. “Do you think it was quite wise? I seem to recall a phrase⁠—about birds⁠—”

But Kennaston’s thoughts were vaguely dental. And there is no denying Kennaston was astounded. Nor was he less puzzled when, as if in answer to Kennaston’s bewildered look, the personage produced from his waistcoat pocket a small square mirror, which he half-exhibited, but retained secretively in the palm of his hand. “Yes, the hurt may well be twofold⁠—I am presupposing that, as a country-gentleman, you have raised white pigeons, Mr. Kennaston?” he said, meaningly.

“Why, no, they keep up such a maddening cooing and purring on warm days, and drum so on tin roofs”⁠—Kennaston stammered⁠—“that I long ago lost patience with the birds of Venus, whatever the tincture of their plumage. There used to be any number of them on our place, though⁠—”

“Ah, well,” the personage said, with a wise nod, and a bright gleam of teeth, “you exercise the privilege common to all of us⁠—and my intended analogy falls through. In any event, it has been a great pleasure to meet you. Come and see me again, Mr. Kennaston⁠—and meanwhile, think over what I have said.”

And that was all. Kennaston returned to Alcluid in a whirl of formless speculations. The mirror and the insane query as to white