The Idiot at Home Page 5

  IV

  AS TO A SMALL DINNER

  "THE COOK HAD TAKEN WINGS UNTO HERSELF"]

  It was sad but true. Mr. and Mrs. Idiot had invited Mr. Whitechoker andMr. and Mrs. Pedagog and the Poet to dinner, and for some reason oranother the cook had taken wings unto herself and flown, and the guestswere expected within two hours.

  "I see now," said the Idiot, "why they call it taking French leave.Nobody who doesn't understand French understands it. If it wasn'tFrench, or if somebody would translate it for us, we might be able tocomprehend it; as it is, it is one of the mysteries, and, as usual, wemust make the best of it. Life, after all, my dear, consists largely ofmaking the best of things."

  "Well, I'm sure I don't know what to do," said Mrs. Idiot, despairfully,"unless you telegraph them all not to come, and tell them why."

  "It is too late to do that," said the Idiot, looking at his watch."They've probably all left home by this time. Poets and clergymen andold people like Mr. and Mrs. Pedagog always do start an hour too early,for fear of missing their train."

  "I wouldn't care so much about the Poet," said Mrs. Idiot; "he doesn'tknow enough about housekeeping, anyhow, to make it matter. But Mr.Whitechoker and Mr. and Mrs. Pedagog--I simply can't ask them to campout, as it were. The very fact that Mrs. Pedagog would becomesympathetic immediately she learned what had happened would in itself beunbearable."

  "I thought women liked sympathy?" said the Idiot, with a propermanifestation of surprise.

  "So they do; but you might just as well talk about claret as meaning onething as of sympathy being all of the same brand," Mrs. Idiot answered."Certain kinds of claret are insufferable--sour and heady. I supposethere are sixty different kinds."

  "Sixty-two," said the Idiot, blandly. "The sixty you mean and two morewhose names I have forgotten."

  "I wish you would be serious for a moment," Mrs. Idiot retorted, with asnear an approach to irritation as was possible to one of her amiabledisposition. "And it's just the same way with sympathy," she continued;"Mrs. Pedagog will lay this whole trouble to my inexperience. Probablyshe never had a servant take French leave in her life on the eve of adinner-party."

  "I'll bet she didn't," said the Idiot. "And for why? Because she nevergave a dinner-party in all her life. The habits of early life cling untoold age, and even as in her early days as a boarding-house keeper shenever gave anything, so now she doubtless considers giving a dinner as areckless waste of opportunity. And she is quite right. Does a lawyerinvite his friends to join him in an opinion? Never. Does Mr. Tiffanyrequest Mr. and Mrs. Idiot to accept a diamond tiara given in theirhonor? Not. Does a true poet, with three names on his autograph, give apoem to anybody when he can sell it? Not if he knows it. Why, then,expect a landlady, by birth and previous training, to _give_ a dinner?"

  "I notice," said Mrs. Idiot, severely, "that you are always willing togive your views!"

  "'TWO BIG BOXES OF POTATOES, A CAN OF FRENCH PEASE, AND ABOTTLE OF SARSAPARILLA'"]

  "Precisely, my dear, and that proves my point," replied the Idiot,amiably. "I am not a professional viewer, and I am not a photographer bytrade. Therefore, why should I not _give_ my views? But really," headded, "I wouldn't bother; it'll all come out right. I don't know justhow, but I am confident we shall have the most glorious dinner of ourlives. When I was down cellar this morning looking at the gas-meter Isaw two big boxes full of potatoes, a can of French pease, and a bottleof sarsaparilla, and if they don't like what they get it will be becausethey are exacting. And I'll wager you from what I know of their mannersthat if you gave them dried apples, cold tongue, and milk they'd say itwas the most delightful repast they ever sat down to."

  "But _I'd_ know they didn't mean it," said Mrs. Idiot, smiling in spiteof her woe.

  "And that brings up the question, why should your conscience betroubled by the insincerity of others?" said he. "Now, I'll tell youwhat we'll do. You fry the potatoes and I'll boil the can of pease; Ithink four minutes will boil them hard, like an egg, and together we'llput the sarsaparilla on ice, and bluff the whole thing through. Bluffingwas always my strong point, and I have noticed, my dear, that inwhatever I have tried to do since we were married you have contributedat least ninety per cent. to success. My bluff plus your efforts to makethe thing a go will send our dinner to a premium."

  Mrs. Idiot remained properly silent. As a matter of fact, she was noteven listening. She was considering. What on earth to do was thequestion in her mind, and it so entirely absorbed it that shefortunately had little left for the rather easy views of the Idiothimself.

  "What is a dinner, anyhow?" the Idiot added, after the silence had tohis mind become oppressive. "Is it a mere meal? Do the Poet and Mr. andMrs. Pedagog and Mr. Whitechoker come here merely to get something toeat? Or do they come for the pleasure of our society, or for thepleasure of leaving home, or what? As I understand it, people go out todine not because they have not a sufficiency of food at home, butbecause they wish to meet other people. That's what I do. I can alwayshave something better to eat at home than I can get at somebody else'shouse; and furthermore, it is a more natural meal. Dinners generally aremade up of pretty little things that nobody likes, and have nosustenance in them. A successful dinner lies not in successful cooking,but in pleasing conversation. Wherefore, it is not the cook, but thehost and hostess who make a failure or a success of a dinner."

  "Then I presume if we simply spread the table and let you talk ourguests will be satisfied?" said Mrs. Idiot, blandly.

  "Precisely," the Idiot replied. "It will be delightful. Just think ofthe menu! Instead of oysters I will indulge in a few opinions as to theintellectual qualities of bivalves generally, finishing up with aglowing tribute to the man who is content to be a clam and not talk toomuch. In the place of _puree_ we will tackle some such subject as thefuture of Spain. I think I could ladle out a few sound ideas on thatsubject that would be as clear as the purest _consomme_. Then for fish,that would be easy. A good trout story, with imagination sauce, would dovery well. For the _entree_ I will give you one of my most recent poems,and the roast will be--"

  "And the rest of us are to sit and twiddle our thumbs while yousoliloquize?" demanded Mrs. Idiot. "I rather think not. I will providethe roast, my dear John, and it will consist largely of remarks upon theways of cooks."

  "A very proper subject for a roast," observed the Idiot, complacently,"and in your present frame of mind I think it will be not only welldone, but rare as well, with plenty of crisp. And so we can simply talkthis dinner through. It will be novel, certainly, and if you provideplenty of bread and butter no one need go away hungry."

  "Very true," Mrs. Idiot answered. "And now that you have had your fun,suppose we put our minds on the serious aspect of the case. Two hoursfrom now four people are coming here hungry--"

  "I have it!" cried the Idiot, delightedly. "Let's _borrow_ a cook! Idon't believe it's ever been done before. It would be splendid, notonly in getting us out of our troubles, but in establishing an entirelynew principle in domestic science. What is the use of neighbors who willnot be neighborly and lend you their most cherished possession?"

  "None at all," sighed Mrs. Idiot, despairingly.

  "'THE PEOPLE DOWN-STAIRS BORROWED OUR DINING-ROOMCHAIRS'"]

  "Now, when we lived in our flat in New York the people up-stairsborrowed our ice," said the Idiot; "the people down-stairs borrowed ourdining-room chairs; the people across the hall borrowed butter and milkand eggs, and I think we once borrowed a lemon from the people on thetop floor."

  "Never!" cried Mrs. Idiot.

  "Yes, we did, my dear," insisted the Idiot. "At least I did. You and thechildren were off in the country, and one hot summer's night, two yearsago, I was consumed with a desire for a glass of lemonade, and as therewere no lemons in the house, or the flat, I sent out to borrow. I beganat the basement and worked up towards the roof, and ultimately got whatI wanted, although, as I have said, it was the top-flat people I got itfrom."

  "And did you ever
return it?" demanded Mrs. Idiot.

  "I regret to say that I didn't," said the Idiot. "But I will, and withinterest. I wonder what two years' interest on a lemon is!" he added. "Isuppose that a borrowed lemon compounded at the rate of six per cent.could be paid off by a lemon and one small Bermuda potato. I will sendmy check for both to those people to-morrow. What was their name?"

  "I never knew," said Mrs. Idiot. "I never liked them, and I nevercalled. I am sorry you are under obligations to them."

  "Only for a lemon, though, dear," said the Idiot, "at six per cent."

  "But what does all this prove?" demanded the poor little housekeeper.

  "That the principle of lending is recognized among neighbors," the Idiotexplained. "If a neighbor will lend a lemon, surely a neighbor will lenda cook. The principle involved is the same in both cases. Particularlyso in this case, for my experience with cooks has been that they are,after all, for the most part nothing but human lemons. If the departedBridget had been anything but full of sourness she would not have leftus so unexpectedly."

  "You don't really think for a moment, do you, that the Jimpsonberryswould lend us their cook, or that she would come, or that I would askthem?" said Mrs. Idiot.

  "Well, I suppose not," said the Idiot. "I suppose not. _But I don't seewhy!_ First, the Jimpsonberrys, as our neighbors, ought to be willing toget us out of our trouble. Second, we don't ask their cook to come fornothing. By coming she will receive an addition to her wages which willhelp her to endow a policeman with a moderate fortune some day when shemarries him. As for your asking Mrs. Jimpsonberry to lend us her cookfor a few hours, that is the main objection. When one borrows one mustgive collateral, and it may be that it would embarrass you to offer Mikeas security for the safe return of the Jimpsonberrys' cook. Anyhow, Isee weak points in my plan, and we'd better abandon it. If theJimpsonberrys' cook is the only available incendiary in theneighborhood, we'd better stop where we are. When we dined atJimpsonberrys' last week I went away feeling that Jimpsonberry ought tocollect fire insurance on that dinner. It wasn't cooked; it was a plaincase of arson."

  It was at this precise moment, when poor Mrs. Idiot was beginning todespair of getting any advice of value from her husband, that thetelephone-bell rang, and the Idiot rose up to answer the call.

  "Hello!" he said.

  "Oh! Hello, old man!" he added. "That you? Glad to see you."

  "Yes," he continued, after a pause. "Of course we expect you."

  "Seven o'clock sharp," he remarked, a moment later. "You'll surely behere?" Then after a second pause, he added:

  "Good! You can stay all night if you wish; we've plenty of room.Good-bye."

  "'WHO WAS IT?' ASKED MRS. IDIOT"]

  "Who was it?" asked Mrs. Idiot, as the Idiot hung up the receiver of thetelephone.

  "The Poet," replied the Idiot. "He wanted to know at what hour dinnerwas."

  "Oh, dear!" cried Mrs. Idiot. "Why didn't you tell him the dinner isn'tfor to-night, but to-morrow night?"

  "Didn't need to, my dear," said the Idiot, lighting a cigarette. "We'vemade a slight mistake. You invited these people, it now appears, for thetwenty-ninth."

  "Certainly," said Mrs. Idiot.

  "Well, my love," said the Idiot, with an affectionate glance, "to-day isthe--ah--the twenty-eighth."

  Mrs. Idiot drew a sigh of relief.

  "My!" she cried, "what a blessing! I wonder how I got so mixed!"

  "It's economy, perhaps," suggested the Idiot. "If you will insist onbuying out-of-date diaries and last year's calendars at bargain-countersbecause they are cheap, I don't really see how you can expect to keep upwith the times."

  Mrs. Idiot laughed heartily. Her relief of mind was unmistakable.

  "What would you have done, John, if this had really been the night?" sheasked later.

  "Oh, I don't know," said the Idiot. "I think I should have taken you toNew York to dinner, and bluffed our guests into believing they had comeup on the wrong night. It is very easy for a host to put his guests inthe wrong if he wants to. I don't, but if I must, I must."

  As it was, the family dinner that night was a great success in spite ofthe absence of the cook, because Mrs. Idiot, who is an expert with thechafing-dish, found several odds and ends in the late cook's domains,which, under her expert manipulation, became dishes which the Idiot saidafterwards "remained long in the memory without proving too permanent atax upon the digestion."