Olympian Nights

"Political or merely family?" said he.

"Family," said I.

Memnon busied himself about the window and in a moment, gazing through it, I had the pleasure of seeing my two boys eating their supper and challenging each other to mortal combat over a delinquent strawberry resting upon the tablecloth.

"Give me a little politics, Memnon," said I, as the elder boy thrashed the younger, not getting the strawberry, however, which in a quick moment, between blows, the younger managed to swallow. "They seem to be about as usual at home."

And I was immediately made aware of the intentions of the administration at Washington merely by looking through a window. There were the President and his cabinet and—some others who assist in making up the mind of the statesman.

"Now a dash of crime," said I.

"High or low?" asked Memnon, fingering the push-button alongside of the window.

"The highest you've got," said I.

I shall not describe what I saw. It was not very horrible. It was rather discouraging. It dealt wholly with the errors of what is known as Society. It showed the mistakes of persons for whom I had acquired a feeling of awe. It showed so much that I summoned Memnon to shut the glass off. I was really afraid somebody else might see. And I did not wish to lose my respect for people who were leaders in the highest walks of social life. Still, a great many things that have happened since in high life have not been wholly surprising to me. I have furthermore so ordered my own goings and comings since that time that I have no fear of what the Peeping Toms of Olympus may see. If mankind could only be made to understand that this window of Olympus opens out upon every act of their lives, there might be radical reforms in some quarters where it would do a deal of good, although to the general public there seems to be no need for it.

At this point a waiter put a small wafer about as large as a penny upon the table.

"H'm—what's that, Memnon?" I asked.

"Essence of melon," said he.

"Good, is it?" I queried.

"You might taste it and see, sir," he said, with a smile. "It is one of a lot especially prepared for Jupiter."

I put the thing in my mouth, and oh, the sensation that followed! I have eaten melons, and I have dreamed melons, but never in either experience was there to be found such an ecstasy of taste as I now got.

"Another, Memnon—another!" I cried.

"If you wish, sir," said he. "But very imprudent, sir. That wafer was constructed from six hundred of the choicest—"

"Quite right," said I, realizing the situation; "quite right. Six hundred melons are enough for any man. What do you propose to give me now?"

"Oeufs Midas," said Memnon.

"Sounds rather rich," I observed.

"It would cost you 4,650,000 francs for a half portion at a Paris café, if you could get it there—which you can't."

"And what, Memnon," said I, "is the peculiarity of eggs Midas?"

"It's nothing but an omelet, sir," he replied; "but it is made of eggs laid by the goose of whom you have probably read in the Personal Recollections of Jack the Giant-Killer. They are solid gold."

"Heavens!" I cried. "Solid gold! Great Scott, Memnon, I can't digest a solid gold omelet. What do you think I am—an assay office?"

Memnon grinned until every tooth in his head showed, making his mouth look like the keyboard of a grand piano.

"It is perfectly harmless the way it is prepared in the kitchen, sir," he explained. "It isn't an eighteen-karat omelet, as you seem to think. The eggs are solid, but the omelet is not. It is, indeed, only six karats fine. The alloy consists largely of lactopeptine, hydrochloric acid, and various other efficient digestives which render it innocuous to the most delicate digestion."

"Very well, Memnon," I replied, making a wry face, "bring it on. I'll try a little of it, anyhow." I must confess it did not sound inviting, but a guest should never criticise the food that is placed before him. My politeness was well repaid, for nothing more delicate in the way of an omelet has ever titillated my palate. There was a slight metallic taste about it at first, but I soon got over that, just as I have got used to English oysters, which, when I eat them, make me feel for a moment as if I had bitten off the end of a brass door-knob; and had I not calculated the cost, I should have asked for a second helping.

Memnon then brought me a platter containing a small object that looked like a Hamburg steak, and a most delicious cup of café au lait.

"Filet Olympus," he observed, "and coffee direct from the dairy of the gods."

Both were a joy.

"Never tasted such a steak!" I said, as the delicate morsel actually melted like butter in my mouth.

"No, sir, you never did," Memnon agreed. "It is cut from the steer bred for the sole purpose of supplying Jupiter and his family with tenderloin. We take the calf when it is very young, sir, and surround it with all the luxuries of a bovine existence. It is fed on the most delicate fodder, especially prepared by chemists under the direction of Æsculapius. The cattle, instead of toughening their muscles by walking to pasture, are waited upon by cow-boys in livery. A gentle amount of exercise, just enough to keep them in condition, is taken at regular hours every day, and at night they are put to sleep in feather beds and covered with eiderdown quilts at seven o'clock."

"Don't they rebel?" I asked. "I should think a moderately active calf would be hard to manage that way."

"Oh, at first a little, but after a while they come to like it, and by the time they are ready for killing they are as tender as humming birds' tongues," said Memnon. "If you take him young enough, you can do almost anything you like with a calf."

It seemed like a marvellous scheme, and far more humane than that of fattening geese for the sale of their livers.

"And this coffee, Memnon? You said it was fresh from the dairy of the gods. You get your coffee from the dairy?" I asked.

"The breakfast coffee—yes, sir," replied Memnon. "Fresh every morning. You must ask the steward to let you see the café-au-lait herd—"

"The what?" I demanded.

"The café-au-lait herd," repeated Memnon. "A special permit is required to go through the coffee pasture where these cows are fed. Some one, who had a grudge against Pales, who is in charge of the dairymaids, got into the field one night and sowed a lot of chicory in with the coffee, and the result was that the next season we got the worst coffee from those cows you ever tasted. So they made a rule that no one is allowed to go there any more without a card from the steward."

"You don't mean to say—" I began.

"Yes, I do," said Memnon. "It is true. We pasture our cows on a coffee farm, and, instead of milk, we get this that you are drinking."

"Wonderful idea!" said I.

"It is, indeed," said Memnon; "that is, from your point of view. From ours, it does not seem so strange. We are used to marvels here, sir," he continued. "Would you care for anything more, sir?"

"No, Memnon," said I. "I have fared sumptuously—my—ah—my appetite is somewhat taken away by all these tremendous things."

"I will have an appetite up for you, if you wish," he replied, simply, as if it were the easiest thing in the world.

"No, thank you," said I. "I think I'll wait until I am acclimated. I never eat heavily for the first twenty-four hours when I am in a strange place."

And with this I went to the door, feeling, I must confess, a trifle ill. The steak and coffee were all right, but there was a suggestion of pain in my right side. I could not make up my mind if it were the six hundred melons or whether a nugget from the omelet had got caught in my vermiform appendix.

At any rate, I didn't wish to eat again just then.

At the door the sedan-chair and the two little blackamoors were awaiting me.

"We have orders to take you to the Zoo, sah," said Sambo.