The Sellers family were just starting to dinner when Washington burst upon them with his surprise. For an instant the Colonel looked nonplussed, and just a bit uncomfortable; and Mrs. Sellers looked actually distressed; but the next moment the head of the house was himself again, and exclaimed:
“All right, my boy, all right—always glad to see you—always glad to hear your voice and take you by the hand. Don’t wait for special invitations—that’s all nonsense among friends. Just come whenever you can, and come as often as you can—the oftener the better. You can’t please us any better than that, Washington; the little woman will tell you so herself. We don’t pretend to style. Plain folks, you know—plain folks. Just a plain family dinner, but such as it is, our friends are always welcome, I reckon you know that yourself, Washington. Run along, children, run along; Lafayette,1 stand off the cat’s tail, child, can’t you see what you’re doing?—Come, come, come, Roderick Dhu, it isn’t nice for little boys to hang onto young gentlemen’s coat tails—but never mind him, Washington, he’s full of spirits and don’t mean any harm. Children will be children, you know. Take the chair next to Mrs. Sellers, Washington—tut, tut, Marie Antoinette, let your brother have the fork if he wants it, you are bigger than he is.”
Washington contemplated the banquet, and wondered if he were in his right mind. Was this the plain family dinner? And was it all present? It was soon apparent that this was indeed the dinner: it was all on the table: it consisted of abundance of clear, fresh water, and a basin of raw turnips—nothing more.
Washington stole a glance at Mrs. Sellers’s face, and would have given the world, the next moment, if he could have spared her that. The poor woman’s face was crimson, and the tears stood in her eyes. Washington did not know what to do. He wished he had never come there and spied out this cruel poverty and brought pain to that poor little lady’s heart and shame to her cheek; but he was there, and there was no escape. Col. Sellers hitched back his coat sleeves airily from his wrists as who should say “Now for solid enjoyment!” seized a fork, flourished it and began to harpoon turnips and deposit them in the plates before him
“Let me help you, Washington—Lafayette pass this plate Washington—ah, well, well, my boy, things are looking pretty bright, now, I tell you. Speculation—my! the whole atmosphere’s full of money. I would’nt take three fortunes for one little operation I’ve got on hand now—have anything from the casters? No? Well, you’re right, you’re right. Some people like mustard with turnips, but—now there was Baron Poniatowski—Lord, but that man did know how to live!—true Russian you know, Russian to the back bone; I say to my wife, give me a Russian every time, for a table comrade. The Baron used to say, ‘Take mustard, Sellers, try the mustard,—a man can’t know what turnips are in perfection without, mustard,’ but I always said, ‘No, Baron, I’m a plain man and I want my food plain—none of your embellishments for Beriah Sellers—no made dishes for me! And it’s the best way—high living kills more than it cures in this world, you can rest assured of that.—Yes indeed, Washington, I’ve got one little operation on hand that—take some more water—help yourself, won’t you?—help yourself, there’s plenty of it.—You’ll find it pretty good, I guess. How does that fruit strike you?”
Washington said he did not know that he had ever tasted better. He did not add that he detested turnips even when they were cooked loathed them in their natural state. No, he kept this to himself, and praised the turnips to the peril of his soul.
“I thought you’d like them. Examine them—examine them—they’ll bear it. See how perfectly firm and juicy they are—they can’t start any like them in this part of the country, I can tell you. These are from New Jersey—I imported them myself. They cost like sin, too; but lord bless me, I go in for having the best of a thing, even if it does cost a little more—it’s the best economy, in the long run. These are the Early Malcolm—it’s a turnip that can’t be produced except in just one orchard, and the supply never is up to the demand. Take some more water, Washington—you can’t drink too much water with fruit—all the doctors say that. The plague can’t come where this article is, my boy!”
“Plague? What plague?”
“What plague, indeed? Why the Asiatic plague that nearly depopulated London a couple of centuries ago.”
“But how does that concern us? There is no plague here, I reckon.”
“Sh! I’ve let it out! Well, never mind—just keep it to yourself. Perhaps I oughtn’t said anything, but its bound to come out sooner or later, so what is the odds? Old McDowells wouldn’t like me to—to—bother it all, I’ll jest tell the whole thing and let it go. You see, I’ve been down to St. Louis, and I happened to run across old Dr. McDowells—thinks the world of me, does the doctor. He’s a man that keeps himself to himself, and well he may, for he knows that he’s got a reputation that covers the whole earth—he won’t condescend to open himself out to many people, but lord bless you, he and I are just like brothers; he won’t let me go to a hotel when I’m in the city—says I’m the only man that’s company to him, and I don’t know but there’s some truth in it, too, because although I never like to glorify myself and make a great to-do over what I am or what I can do or what I know, I don’t mind saying here among friends that I am better read up in most sciences, maybe, than the general run of professional men in these days. Well, the other day he let me into a little secret, strictly on the quiet, about this matter of the plague.
“You see it’s booming right along in our direction—follows the Gulf Stream, you know, just as all those epidemics do, and within three months it will be just waltzing through this land like a whirlwind! And whoever it touches can make his will and contract for the funeral. Well you can’t cure it, you know, but you can prevent it. How? Turnips! that’s it! Turnips and water! Nothing like it in the world, old McDowells says, just fill yourself up two or three times a day, and you can snap your fingers at the plague. Sh!—keep mum, but just you confine yourself to that diet and you’re all right. I wouldn’t have old McDowells know that I told about it for anything—he never would speak to me again. Take some more water, Washington—the more water you drink, the better. Here, let me give you some more of the turnips. No, no, no, now, I insist. There, now. Absorb those. They’re, mighty sustaining—brim full of nutriment—all the medical books say so. Just eat from four to seven good-sized turnips at a meal, and drink from a pint and a half to a quart of water, and then just sit around a couple of hours and let them ferment. You’ll feel like a fighting cock next day.”
Fifteen or twenty minutes later the Colonel’s tongue was still chattering away—he had piled up several future fortunes out of several incipient “operations” which he had blundered into within the past week, and was now soaring along through some brilliant expectations born of late promising experiments upon the lacking ingredient of the eye-water. And at such a time Washington ought to have been a rapt and enthusiastic listener, but he was not, for two matters disturbed his mind and distracted his attention. One was, that he discovered, to his confusion and shame, that in allowing himself to be helped a second time to the turnips, he had robbed those hungry children. He had not needed the dreadful “fruit,” and had not wanted it; and when he saw the pathetic sorrow in their faces when they asked for more and there was no more to give them, he hated himself for his stupidity and pitied the famishing young things with all his heart. The other matter that disturbed him was the dire inflation that had begun in his stomach. It grew and grew, it became more and more insupportable. Evidently the turnips were “fermenting.” He forced himself to sit still as long as he could, but his anguish conquered him at last.
He rose in the midst of the Colonel’s talk and excused himself on the plea of a previous engagement. The Colonel followed him to the door, promising over and over again that he would use his influence to get some of the Early Malcolms for him, and insisting that he should not be such a stranger but come and take pot-luck with him every chance he got. Washington was glad enough to get away and feel free again. He immediately bent his steps toward home.
In bed he passed an hour that threatened to turn his hair gray, and then a blessed calm settled down upon him that filled his heart with gratitude. Weak and languid, he made shift to turn himself about and seek rest and sleep; and as his soul hovered upon the brink of unconciousness, he heaved a long, deep sigh, and said to himself that in his heart he had cursed the Colonel’s preventive of rheumatism, before, and now let the plague come if it must—he was done with preventives; if ever any man beguiled him with turnips and water again, let him die the death.
If he dreamed at all that night, no gossiping spirit disturbed his visions to whisper in his ear of certain matters just then in bud in the East, more than a thousand miles away that after the lapse of a few years would develop influences which would profoundly affect the fate and fortunes of the Hawkins family.
| 1. In those old days the average man called his children after his most revered literary and historical idols; consequently there was hardly a family, at least in the West, but had a Washington in it—and also a Lafayette, a Franklin, and six or eight sounding names from Byron, Scott, and the Bible, if the offspring held out. To visit such a family, was to find one’s self confronted by a congress made up of representatives of the imperial myths and the majestic dead of all the ages. There was something thrilling about it, to a stranger, not to say awe inspiring. [back] |