Truth in Wine (The Banquet)

It was on one of the last days in July, at ten o'clock in the evening, when the participants in that banquet assembled together. Date and year I have forgotten; indeed, this would be interesting only to one's memory of details, and not to one's recollection of the contents of what experience. The "spirit of the occasion" and whatever impressions are recorded in one's mind under that heading, concerns only one's recollections; and just as generous wine gains in flavor by passing the Equator, because of the evaporation of its watery particles, likewise does recollection gain by getting rid of the watery particles of memory; and yet recollection becomes as little a mere figment of the imagination by this process as does the generous wine.

The guests at that banquet gathered at ten o'clock in the evening on one of the last days of July. I have forgotten the date and year. Those details would interest only someone remembering specifics, not someone recalling the substance of an experience. The "spirit of the occasion" and whatever impressions the mind gathers under that heading belong only to recollection. Just as fine wine gains flavor by crossing the Equator, because its watery parts evaporate, so recollection improves. Recollection sheds the watery parts of memory. Yet this process no more turns recollection into a mere product of the imagination than it does fine wine.

The participants were five in number: John, with the epithet of the Seducer, Victor Eremita, Constantin Constantius, and yet two others whose names I have not exactly forgotten—which would be a matter of small importance—but whose names I did not learn. It was as if these two had no proper names, for they were constantly addressed by some epithet. The one was called the Young Person. Nor was he more than twenty and some years, of slender and delicate build, and of a very dark complexion. His face was thoughtful; but more pleasing even was its lovable and engaging expression which betokened a purity of soul harmonizing perfectly with the soft charm, almost feminine, and the transparency of his whole presence. This external beauty of appearance was lost sight of, however, in one's next impression of him; or, one kept it only in mind whilst regarding a youth nurtured or—to use a still tenderer expression—petted into being, by thought, and nourished by the contents of his own soul—a youth who as yet had had nothing to do with the world, had been neither aroused and fired, nor disquieted and disturbed. Like a sleep-walker he bore the law of his actions within himself, and the amiable, kindly expression of his countenance concerned no one, but only mirrored the disposition of his soul.

There were five participants: John, known as the Seducer, Victor Eremita, Constantin Constantius, and two others. I had not exactly forgotten the other two men’s names, which would have mattered little. Rather, I had never learned their names. It was as if these two had no names of their own, since they were always addressed by some nickname. One was called the Young Person. He was only in his early twenties, slender and delicately built, with a very dark complexion. His face was thoughtful, but even more pleasing was its lovable, engaging expression. His expression revealed a purity of soul perfectly in harmony with his gentle, almost feminine charm and transparent presence. Yet on closer acquaintance, you lost sight of his outward beauty. Or you remembered his beauty only while seeing him as a youth nurtured into being by thought. To put it even more tenderly, thought had pampered him into being. He was nourished by the contents of his own soul. He had so far had nothing to do with the world. The world had neither stirred and fired him up nor unsettled and disturbed him. Like a sleepwalker, he carried within himself the law governing his actions. The pleasant, kindly expression on his face was directed at no one. His expression merely reflected the state of his soul.

The other person they called the Dressmaker, and that was his occupation. Of him it was impossible to get a consistent impression. He was dressed according to the very latest fashion, with his hair curled and perfumed, fragrant with eau-de-cologne. One moment his carriage did not lack self-possession, whereas in the next it assumed a certain dancing, festive air, a certain hovering motion, which, however, was kept in rather definite bounds by the robustness of his figure. Even when he was most malicious in his speech his voice ever had a touch of the smoothtonguedness of the shop, the suaveness of the dealer in fancy-goods, which evidently was utterly disgusting to himself and only satisfied his spirit of defiance. As I think of him now I understand him better, to be sure, than when I first saw him step out of his carriage and I involuntarily laughed. At the same time there is some contradiction left still. He had transformed or bewitched himself, had by the magic of his own will assumed the appearance of one almost half-witted, but had not thereby entirely satisfied himself; and this is why his reflectiveness now and then peered forth from beneath his disguise.

They called the other person the Dressmaker, and that was his occupation. It was impossible to form a consistent impression of him. He wore the very latest fashions, with his hair curled and perfumed, and smelled of eau-de-cologne. One moment he carried himself with confidence. The next, his movements took on a dancing, festive air, as though he were floating. His sturdy build, however, kept these movements within fairly definite limits. Even when his words were most malicious, his voice always retained something of a shopkeeper’s smooth sales talk. He had the polished charm of a dealer in fancy goods. This charm clearly disgusted him utterly and satisfied only his defiant spirit. Thinking of him now, I certainly understand him better than when I first saw him step out of his carriage. At that first sight, I laughed involuntarily. Yet some contradiction still remains. He had transformed or bewitched himself. Through the magic of his own will, he had made himself look almost half-witted. But he had not entirely satisfied himself with this transformation. That was why his thoughtful nature sometimes showed through his disguise.

As I think of it now it seems rather absurd that five such persons should get a banquet arranged. Nor would anything have come of it, I suppose, if Constantin had not been one of us. In a retired room of a confectioner's shop where they met at times, the matter had been broached once before, but had been dropped immediately when the question arose as to who was to head the undertaking. The Young Person was declared unfit for that task, the Dressmaker affirmed himself to be too busy. Victor Eremita did not beg to be excused because "he had married a wife or bought a yoke of oxen which he needed to prove";¹ but, he said, even if he should make an exception, for once, and come to the banquet, yet he would decline the courtesy offered him to preside at it, and he therewith "entered protest at the proper time.²" This, John considered a work spoken in due season; because, as he saw it, there was but one person able to prepare a banquet, and that was the possessor of the wishing-table which set itself with delectable things whenever he said to it "Cover thyself!" He averred that to enjoy the charms of a young girl in haste was not always the wisest course; but as to a banquet, he would not wait for it, and generally was tired of it a long while before it came off. However, if the plan was to be carried into effect he would make one condition, which was, that the banquet should be so arranged as to be served in one course. And that all were agreed on. Also, that the settings for it were to be made altogether new, and that afterwards they were to be destroyed entirely; ay, before rising from table one was to hear the preparation for their destruction. Nothing was to remain; "not even so much," said the Dressmaker, "as there is left of a dress after it has been made over into a hat." "Nothing," said John, "because nothing is more unpleasant than a sentimental scene, and nothing more disgusting than the knowledge that somewhere or other there is an external setting which in a direct and impertinent fashion pretends to be a reality."

Looking back now, it seems rather absurd that five such people should arrange a banquet. Nor would anything have come of the plan, I suppose, if Constantin had not been one of us. They sometimes met in a private room at a confectioner's shop, where the idea had come up once before. But they immediately dropped the plan when the question arose of who would take charge. The Young Person was declared unfit for the task. The Dressmaker said he was too busy. Victor Eremita did not ask to be excused because "he had married a wife or bought a yoke of oxen which he needed to prove".¹ But even if he made an exception and came to the banquet, he said, he would decline the honor of presiding. With that, he "formally registered his objection in good time.²" John considered this a timely remark. As he saw it, only one person could prepare a banquet. That person owned the wishing-table, which covered itself with delicious food whenever its owner said, "Set yourself!" John insisted that enjoying a young girl's charms in a hurry was not always the wisest course. But he would not wait for a banquet. Usually, he was tired of a banquet long before it took place. However, if the plan went ahead, he would set one condition: the whole banquet must be served in one course. Everyone agreed to that. They also agreed that the entire setting for the banquet must be newly made and completely destroyed afterward. Indeed, before rising from the table, they must hear preparations being made to destroy it. Nothing was to remain. "Not even as much," said the Dressmaker, "as remains of a dress after it has been made into a hat." "Nothing," said John, "because nothing is more unpleasant than a sentimental scene. And nothing is more disgusting than knowing that somewhere, some physical setting directly and impertinently claims to be a reality."

When the conversation had thus became animated, Victor Eremita suddenly arose, struck an attitude on the floor, beckoned with his hand in the fashion of one commanding and, holding his arm extended as one lifting a goblet, he said, with the gesture of one waving a welcome: "With this cup whose fragrance already intoxicates my senses, whose cool fire already inflames my blood, I greet you, beloved fellow-banqueters, and bid you welcome; being entirely assured that each one of you is sufficiently satisfied by our merely speaking about the banquet; for our Lord satisfied the stomach before satisfying the eye, but the imagination acts in the reverse fashion." Thereupon he inserted his hand in his pocket, took from it a cigar-case, struck a match, and began to smoke. When Constantin Constantius protested against this sovereign free way of transforming the banquet planned into an illusory fragment of life, Victor declared that he did not believe for one moment that such a banquet could be got up and that, in any case, it had been a mistake to let it become the subject of discussion in advance. "Whatever is to be good must come at once; for 'at once' is the divinest of all categories and deserves to be honored as in the language of the Romans: ex templo,³ because it is the starting point for all that is divine in life, and so much so that what is not done at once is of evil." However, he remarked, he did not care to argue this point. In case the others wished to speak and act differently he would not say a word, but if they wished him to explain the sense of his remarks more fully he must have leave to make a speech, because he did not consider it all desirable to provoke a discussion on the subject.

As the conversation grew lively, Victor Eremita suddenly stood up and struck a pose in the middle of the floor. He beckoned with a commanding gesture and held out his arm as though raising a goblet. Then, with a welcoming wave, he said: "With this cup, whose fragrance already intoxicates my senses, whose cool fire already inflames my blood, I greet you, beloved fellow guests. Welcome! I am entirely certain that simply talking about the banquet is enough to satisfy each of you. For our Lord satisfied the stomach before satisfying the eye, but the imagination works in the opposite order." Then he reached into his pocket, took out a cigar case, struck a match, and began to smoke. Constantin Constantius protested at this high-handed freedom to turn their planned banquet into an imaginary fragment of life. Victor declared that he did not believe for a moment that such a banquet could be arranged. In any case, discussing the banquet beforehand had been a mistake. "Whatever is to be good must happen at once. For 'at once' is the most divine of all categories. It deserves to be honored as it is in the language of the Romans: ex templo,³ because it is the starting point for everything divine in life. So much so that whatever is not done at once is of evil." However, he said, he did not want to argue the point. If the others wished to speak and act differently, he would not say a word. But if they wanted a fuller explanation of his remarks, they must let him make a speech. For he thought it entirely undesirable to provoke a discussion of the subject.

Permission was given him; and as the others called on him to do so at once, he spoke as follows: "A banquet is in itself a difficult matter, because even if it be arranged with ever so much taste and talent there is something else essential to its success, to wit, good luck. And by this I mean not such matters as most likely would give concern to an anxious hostess, but something different, a something which no one can make absolutely sure of: a fortunate harmonizing of the spirit and the minutiæ of the banquet, that fine ethereal vibration of chords, that soul-stirring music which cannot be ordered in advance from the town-musicians. Look you, therefore is it a hazardous thing to undertake, because if things do go wrong, perhaps from the very start, one may suffer such a depression and loss of spirits that recovery from it might involve a very long time.

He was given permission, and the others urged him to speak at once. He said: "A banquet is a difficult undertaking in itself. However tastefully and skillfully it is arranged, its success still depends on something else: good luck. I do not mean the things most likely to worry an anxious hostess. I mean something different, something no one can ever guarantee. The mood and every detail of the banquet must come together in harmony. There must be that delicate, airy vibration of chords, that soul-stirring music you cannot order beforehand from the town musicians. You see, then, why arranging a banquet is risky. Because if things go wrong, perhaps from the very start, you may sink into depression and lose heart. Recovering from such a state might take a very long time.

"Sheer habit and thoughtlessness are father and godfather to most banquets, and it is only due to the lack of critical sense among people that one fails to notice the utter absence of any idea in them. In the first place, women ought never to be present at a banquet. Women may be used to advantage only in the Greek style, as a chorus of dancers. As it is the main thing at a banquet that there be eating and drinking, woman ought not to be present; for she cannot do justice to what is offered; or, if she can, it is most unbeautiful. Whenever a woman is present the matter of eating and drinking ought to be reduced to the very slightest proportions. At most, it ought to be no more than some trifling feminine occupation, to have something to busy one's hands with. Especially in the country a little repast of this kind—which, by the way, should be put at other times than the principal meals—may be extremely delightful; and if so, always owing to the presence of the other sex. To do like the English, who let the fair sex retire as soon as the real drinking is to start, is to fall between two stools, for every plan ought to be a whole, and the very manner with which I take a seat at the table and seize hold of knife and fork bears a definite relation to this whole. In the same sense a political banquet presents an unbeautiful ambiguity inasmuch as one does not⁴ want to cut down to a very minimum the essentials of a banquet, and yet does not wish to have the speeches thought of as having been made over the cups.

"Sheer habit and thoughtlessness are the father and godfather of most banquets. Only because people lack critical judgment do they fail to notice that these banquets have no underlying idea. First of all, women should never be present at a banquet. Women can serve a useful role only in the Greek style, as a chorus of dancers. Since eating and drinking are the main point of a banquet, a woman should not be present. She cannot do justice to the food and drink offered. Or, if she can, the sight is most unattractive. Whenever a woman is present, eating and drinking should be kept to an absolute minimum. At most, eating and drinking should be a trivial, feminine activity, something to keep one's hands busy. Especially in the country, a light meal of this kind may be extremely delightful. Such meals, by the way, should take place outside the main mealtimes. And if such a meal is delightful, the delight is always due to the presence of the other sex. The English have the ladies withdraw as soon as the serious drinking begins. Following their example is to fall between two stools, for every plan should form a coherent whole. Even the way I sit down at the table and pick up my knife and fork relates to that whole. In the same way, a political banquet involves an unattractive ambiguity. One does not⁴ want to reduce the essentials of a banquet to an absolute minimum. Yet one does not want the speeches to be regarded as having been made over drinks."

"So far, we are agreed, I suppose; and our number—in case anything should come of the banquet—is correctly chosen, according to that beautiful rule: neither more than the Muses nor fewer than the Graces. Now I demand the greatest superabundance of everything thinkable. That is, even though everything be not actually there, yet the possibility of having it must be at one's immediate beck and call, aye, hover temptingly over the table, more seductive even than the actual sight of it. I beg to be excused, however, from banqueting on sulphur-matches or on a piece of sugar which all are to suck in turn. My demands for such a banquet will, on the contrary, be difficult to satisfy; for the feast itself must be calculated to arouse and incite that unmentionable longing which each worthy participant is to bring with him. I require that the earth's fertility be at our service, as though everything sprouted forth at the very moment the desire for it was born. I desire a more luxurious abundance of wine than when Mephistopheles needed but to drill holes into the table to obtain it. I demand an illumination more splendid than have the gnomes when they lift up the mountain on pillars and dance in a sea of blazing light. I demand what most excites the senses, I demand their gratification by deliciously sweet perfumes, more superb than any in the Arabian Nights. I demand a coolness which voluptuously provokes desire and breathes relaxation on desire satisfied. I demand a fountain's unceasing enlivenment. If Mæcenas could not sleep without hearing the splashing of a fountain, I cannot eat without it. Do not misunderstand me, I can eat stockfish without it, but I cannot eat at a banquet without it; I can drink water without it, but I cannot drink wine at a banquet without it. I demand a host of servants, chosen and comely, as if I sate at table with the gods; I demand that there shall be music at the feast, both strong and subdued; and I demand that it shall be an accompaniment to my thoughts; and what concerns you, my friends, my demands regarding you are altogether incredible. Do you see, by reason of all these demands—which are as many reasons against it—I hold a banquet to be a pium desideratum,⁵ and am so far from desiring a repetition of it that I presume it is not feasible even a first time."

"So far, I suppose we agree. And if the banquet comes to anything, our number follows that beautiful rule: neither more than the Muses nor fewer than the Graces. Now I demand the greatest possible abundance of everything imaginable. Even if everything is not actually present, the possibility of having it must be instantly at our command. Yes, that possibility must hover temptingly over the table, more seductive even than the sight of the things themselves. But please excuse me from dining on sulphur-matches or a piece of sugar that everyone takes turns sucking. My demands for such a banquet will, on the contrary, be difficult to satisfy. For the feast itself must stir and excite that unmentionable longing each worthy participant is to bring with him. I require the earth's fertility to be at our service, as though everything sprouted the moment we desired it. I want a more luxurious abundance of wine than when Mephistopheles needed only to drill holes in the table. I demand lighting more splendid than the gnomes enjoy when they lift the mountain on pillars and dance in blazing light. I demand whatever excites the senses most. I demand that the senses be satisfied with deliciously sweet perfumes, more superb than any in the Arabian Nights. I demand a coolness that sensuously stirs desire and breathes relaxation over desire once satisfied. I demand the constant refreshment of a fountain. If Mæcenas could not sleep without hearing a fountain splash, I cannot eat without that sound. Do not misunderstand me. I can eat stockfish without a fountain, but I cannot eat at a banquet without one. I can drink water without a fountain, but I cannot drink wine at a banquet without one. I demand a host of carefully chosen, handsome servants, as if I were dining with the gods. I demand music at the feast, both powerful and subdued. And I demand that the music accompany my thoughts. As for you, my friends, my demands on you are altogether incredible. You see, all these demands give me just as many reasons against holding a banquet. Because of them, I consider a banquet a pium desideratum,⁵ and I am far from wanting to repeat one. Indeed, I presume a banquet is not feasible even the first time."

The only one who had not actually participated in this conversation, nor in the frustration of the banquet, was Constantin. Without him, nothing would have been done save the talking. He had come to a different conclusion and was of the opinion that the idea might well be realized, if one but carried the matter with a high hand.

Constantin was the only one who had not actually joined the conversation or taken part in disrupting the banquet. Without him, nothing would have happened beyond the talk. He had reached a different conclusion. He thought the idea might well work if someone simply took firm control of the matter.

Then some time passed, and both the banquet and the discussion about it were forgotten, when suddenly, one day, the participants received a card of invitation from Constantius for a banquet the very same evening. The motto of the party had been given by him as: In Vino Veritas, because there was to be speaking, to be sure, and not only conversation; but the speeches were not to be made except in vino, and no truth was to be uttered there excepting that which is in vino—when the wine is a defense of the truth and the truth a defense of the wine.

Some time passed, and both the banquet and the discussion about it were forgotten. Then suddenly, one day, the participants received an invitation card from Constantius for a banquet that very evening. He had chosen the party’s motto: In Vino Veritas, because there would be speeches, of course, not just conversation. But the speeches were to be made only in vino, and no truth was to be spoken except the truth in vino. This was when wine defended truth, and truth defended wine.

The place had been chosen in the woods, some ten miles distant from Copenhagen. The hall in which they were to feast had been newly decorated and in every way made unrecognizable; a smaller room, separated from the hall by a corridor, was arranged for an orchestra. Shutters and curtains were let down before all windows, which were left open. The arrangement that the participants were to drive to the banquet in the evening hour was to intimate to them—and that was Constantin's idea—what was to follow. Even if one knows that one is driving to a banquet, and the imagination therefore indulges for a moment in thoughts of luxury, yet the impression of the natural surroundings is too powerful to be resisted. That this might possibly not be the case was the only contingency he apprehended; for just as there is no power like the imagination to render beautiful all it touches, neither is there any power which can to such a degree disturb all—misfortune conspiring—if confronted with reality. But driving on a summer evening does not lure the imagination to luxurious thoughts, but rather to the opposite. Even if one does not see it or hear it, the imagination will unconsciously create a picture of the longing for home which one is apt to feel in the evening hours—one sees the reapers, man and maid, returning from their work in the fields, one hears the hurried rattling of the hay wagon, one interprets even the far-away lowing from the meadows as a longing. Thus does a summer evening suggest idyllic thoughts, soothing even a restless mind with its assuagement, inducing even the soaring imagination to abide on earth with an indwelling yearning for home as the place from whence it came, and thus teaching the insatiable mind to be satisfied with little, by rendering one content; for in the evening hour time stands still and eternity lingers.

The chosen place was in the woods, some ten miles from Copenhagen. The hall where they would feast had been newly decorated and made unrecognizable in every way. A smaller room, separated from the hall by a corridor, had been set up for an orchestra. All the windows were left open, with shutters closed and curtains drawn across them. The guests were to travel to the banquet by carriage in the evening. Constantin intended the evening journey to hint at what would follow. Even when you know you are going to a banquet, your imagination only briefly turns to thoughts of luxury. The natural surroundings make too powerful an impression to resist. Constantin’s only fear was that the surroundings might not have this effect. For just as no power can beautify everything it touches like imagination, no power can disrupt everything as thoroughly. This happens when imagination confronts reality and misfortune joins in. But a carriage ride on a summer evening does not draw the imagination toward luxury. Instead, the ride draws it in the opposite direction. Even without anything to see or hear, the imagination unconsciously pictures the longing for home that evening often brings. You see the reapers, men and young women, returning from their work in the fields. You hear the hurried rattle of the hay wagon. You interpret even the distant lowing from the meadows as a longing. In this way, a summer evening brings peaceful country scenes to mind. The evening’s soothing influence calms even a restless mind. It draws even the soaring imagination back to earth, filled with a deep longing for home, where it came from. By making us content, the evening teaches even the insatiable mind to be satisfied with little. For in the evening, time stands still and eternity lingers.

Thus they arrived in the evening hour: those invited; for Constantin had come out somewhat earlier. Victor Eremita who resided in the country not far away came on horseback, the others in a carriage. And just as they had discharged it, a light open vehicle rolled in through the gate carrying a merry company of four journeymen who were entertained to be ready at the decisive moment to function as a corps of destruction: just as firemen are stationed in a theatre, for the opposite reason at once to extinguish a fire.

So the invited guests arrived in the evening. Constantin had come out a little earlier. Victor Eremita lived nearby in the country and came on horseback. The others arrived in a carriage. Just as they dismissed the carriage, a light, open vehicle rolled through the gate. It carried a merry group of four journeymen hired to stand ready at the decisive moment as a demolition crew. They were like firemen stationed in a theatre, though firemen serve the opposite purpose: to put out a fire immediately.

So long as one is a child one possesses sufficient imagination to maintain one's soul at the very top-notch of expectation—for a whole hour in the dark room, if need be; but when one has grown older one's imagination may easily cause one to tire of the Christmas tree before seeing it.

As long as you are a child, your imagination is strong enough to keep your soul at peak anticipation. You can wait a whole hour in a dark room, if need be. But when you grow older, your imagination may easily make you tire of the Christmas tree before seeing it.

The folding doors were opened. The effect of the radiant illumination, the coolness wafting toward them, the beguiling fragrance of sweet perfumes, the excellent taste of the arrangements, for a moment overwhelmed the feelings of those entering; and when, at the same time, strains from the ballet of "Don Juan" sounded from the orchestra, their persons seemed transfigured and, as if out of reverence for an unseen spirit about them, they stopped short for a moment like men who have been roused by admiration and who have risen to admire.

The folding doors opened. The brilliant lighting, the cool air drifting toward them, and the alluring scent of sweet perfumes overwhelmed those entering. The tasteful arrangements added to this momentary effect. At the same time, the orchestra played music from the ballet of "Don Juan," and the guests seemed transformed. They paused briefly, as if in reverence for an unseen spirit around them. They were like men stirred by admiration who had risen to admire.

Whoever knows that happy moment, whoever has appreciated its delight, and has not also felt the apprehension lest suddenly something might happen, some trifle perhaps, which yet might be sufficient to disturb all! Whoever has held the lamp of Aladdin in his hand and has not also felt the swooning of pleasure, because one needs but to wish? Whoever has held what is inviting in his hand and has not also learned to keep his wrist limber to let go at once, if need be?

Who has known that happy moment and enjoyed its delight without also fearing that something might suddenly happen? Perhaps some small thing might still be enough to spoil it all! Who has held Aladdin’s lamp without also feeling dizzy with pleasure because all one needs to do is wish? Who has held something tempting without also learning to keep their wrist loose, ready to let go if need be?

Thus they stood side by side. Only Victor stood alone, absorbed in thought; a shudder seemed to pass through his soul, he almost trembled; he collected himself and saluted the omen with these words: "Ye mysterious, festive, and seductive strains which drew me out of the cloistered seclusion of a quiet youth and beguiled me with a longing as mighty as a recollection, and terrible, as though Elvira had not even been seduced but had only desired to be! Immortal Mozart, thou to whom I owe all; but no! as yet I do not owe thee all. But when I shall have become an old man—if ever I do become an old man; or when I shall have become ten years older—if ever I do; or when I am become old—if ever I shall become old; or when I shall die—for that, indeed, I know I shall: then shall I say: immortal Mozart, thou to whom I owe all—and then I shall let my admiration, which is my soul's first and only admiration, burst forth in all its might and let it make away with me, as it often has been on the point of doing. Then have I set my house in order,⁶ then have I remembered my beloved one, then have I confessed my love, then have I fully established that I owe thee all, then am I occupied no longer with thee, with the world, but only with the grave thought of death."

So they stood side by side. Only Victor stood alone, lost in thought. A shudder seemed to pass through his soul, and he almost trembled. He gathered himself and greeted the omen with these words: "You mysterious, festive, seductive melodies drew me out of the sheltered solitude of my quiet youth. You enchanted me with a longing as powerful as a memory, and terrible. It was as though Elvira had not even been seduced but had only wished to be! Immortal Mozart, I owe you everything. But no! Not yet. But when I have become an old man, if I ever do, or when I am ten years older, if I ever am. Or when I have grown old, if I ever grow old. Or when I die, for I know I will. Then I will say: immortal Mozart, I owe you everything. And then I will let my admiration burst out with all its power. It is my soul's first and only admiration. I will let that admiration destroy me, as it has often nearly done. Then I will have put my house in order.⁶ Then I will have remembered my beloved. Then I will have confessed my love. Then I will have fully established that I owe you everything. Then I will no longer be occupied with you or with the world, but only with the solemn thought of death."

Now there came from the orchestra that invitation in which joy triumphs most exultantly, and heaven-storming soars aloft above Elvira's sorrowful thanks; and gracefully apostrophizing, John repeated: "Viva la liberta"—"et veritas," said the Young Person; "but above all, in vino," Constantin interrupted them, seating himself at the table and inviting the others to do likewise.

Then the orchestra sounded the invitation in which joy triumphs most exultantly. The music soared toward heaven, high above Elvira's sorrowful thanks. Calling out gracefully, John repeated: "Viva la liberta." "Et veritas," said the Young Person. "But above all, in vino," Constantin interrupted them, sitting down at the table and inviting the others to join him.

How easy to prepare a banquet; yet Constantin declared that he never would risk preparing another. How easy to admire; yet Victor declared that he never again would lend words to his admiration; for to suffer a discomfiture is more dreadful than to become an invalid in war! How easy to express a desire, if one has the magic lamp; yet that is at times more terrible than to perish of want!

How easy it is to prepare a banquet! Yet Constantin declared he would never risk preparing another. How easy it is to admire! Yet Victor declared he would never again put his admiration into words. For suffering humiliation is more dreadful than being disabled in war! How easy it is to express a wish if you have the magic lamp! Yet expressing a wish can sometimes be more terrible than dying from want!

They were seated. In the same moment the little company were launched into the very middle of the infinite sea of enjoyment—as if with one single bound. Each one had addressed all his thoughts and all his desires to the banquet, had prepared his soul for the enjoyment which was offered to overflowing and in which their souls overflowed. The experienced driver is known by his ability to start the snorting team with a single bound and to hold them well abreast; the well-trained steed is known by his lifting himself in one absolutely decisive leap: even if one or the other of the guests perhaps fell short in some particular, certainly Constantin was a good host.

They sat down. At that same moment, the little group plunged into the very middle of an endless sea of enjoyment. It was as if they had made a single leap. Each guest had focused all his thoughts and all his desires on the banquet. Each had prepared his soul for the enjoyment offered in overflowing abundance, and their souls overflowed with it. You can recognize an experienced driver by how he starts his snorting team with a single bound. He also keeps the horses running evenly side by side. You can recognize a well-trained horse by how it springs forward in one completely decisive leap. Even if one or another guest perhaps fell short in some respect, Constantin was certainly a good host.

Thus they banqueted. Soon, conversation had woven its beautiful wreaths about the banqueters, so that they sat garlanded. Now, it was enamored of the food, now of the wine, and now again of itself; now, it seemed to develop into significance, and then again it was altogether slight. Soon, fancy unfolded itself—the splendid one which blows but once, the tender one which straightway closes its petals; now, there came an exclamation from one of the banqueters: "These truffles are superb," and now, an order of the host: "This Chateau Margaux!" Now, the music was drowned in the noise, now it was heard again. Sometimes the servants stood still as if in pausa, in that decisive moment when a new dish was being brought out, or a new wine was ordered and mentioned by name, sometimes they were all a bustle. Sometimes there was a silence for a moment, and then the re-animating spirit of the music went forth over the guests. Now, one with some bold thought would take the lead in the conversation and the others followed after, almost forgetting to eat, and the music would sound after them as it sounds after the jubilant shouts of a host storming on; now, only the clinking of glasses and the clattering of plates was heard and the feasting proceeded in silence, accompanied only by the music that joyously advanced and again stimulated conversation. Thus they banqueted.

So they feasted. Soon, conversation had woven beautiful wreaths around the guests, so that they sat crowned with garlands. At one moment, conversation delighted in the food, at another in the wine, and then in itself. Sometimes it seemed to grow meaningful, then became entirely trivial again. Soon, imagination blossomed, with splendid flowers that bloom only once and delicate flowers whose petals close at once. Now one guest exclaimed: "These truffles are superb," and now the host gave an order: "This Chateau Margaux!" Sometimes the noise drowned out the music, and sometimes the music could be heard again. Sometimes the servants stood still as if on pause. These were the decisive moments when a new dish arrived, or a new wine was ordered and named. At other times, all the servants bustled about. Sometimes silence fell for a moment, and then the music's reviving spirit swept over the guests. Now someone would lead the conversation with a bold thought, and the others followed, almost forgetting to eat. The music followed them like music following the triumphant shouts of an army charging forward. Then only the clinking of glasses and clattering of plates could be heard. The feast continued in silence, accompanied only by the music, which moved joyfully forward and stirred conversation again. So they feasted.

How poor is language in comparison with that symphony of sounds unmeaning, yet how significant, whether of a battle or of a banquet, which even scenic representation cannot imitate and for which language has but a few words! How rich is language in the expression of the world of ideas, and how poor, when it is to describe reality!

How poor language is compared with that symphony of sounds, meaningless yet so full of meaning! Whether from a battle or a banquet, these sounds cannot be imitated even on stage. And language has only a few words for them! How rich language is when expressing the world of ideas, and how poor when describing reality!

Only once did Constantin abandon his omnipresence in which one actually lost sight of his presence. At the very beginning he got them to sing one of the old drinking songs, "by way of calling to mind that jolly time when men and women feasted together," as he said—a proposal which had the positively burlesque effect he had perhaps calculated it should have. It almost gained the upper hand when the Dressmaker wanted them to sing the ditty: "When I shall mount the bridal bed, hoiho!" After a couple of courses had been served Constantin proposed that the banquet should conclude with each one's making a speech, but that precautions should be taken against the speakers' divagating too much. He was for making two conditions, viz., there were to be no speeches until after the meal; and no one was to speak before having drunk sufficiently to feel the power of the wine—else he was to be in that condition in which one says much which under other circumstances one would leave unsaid—without necessarily having the connection of speech and thought constantly interrupted by hiccoughs.⁷ Before speaking, then, each one was to declare solemnly that he was in that condition. No definite quantity of wine was to be required, capacities differed so widely. Against this proposal, John entered protest. He could never become intoxicated, he averred, and when he had come to a certain point he grew the soberer the more he drank. Victor Eremita was of the opinion that any such preparatory premeditations to insure one's becoming drunk would precisely militate against one's becoming so. If one desired to become intoxicated the deliberate wish was only a hindrance. Then there ensued some discussion about the divers influences of wine on consciousness, and especially about the fact that, in the case of a reflective temperament, an excess of wine may manifest itself, not in any particular impetus but, on the contrary, in a noticeably cool self-possession. As to the contents of the speeches, Constantin proposed that they should deal with love, that is, the relation between man and woman. No love stories were to be told though they might furnish the text of one's remarks.

Only once did Constantin give up being everywhere at once, a habit that actually made his presence go unnoticed. At the very beginning, he got them to sing one of the old drinking songs. This was "to recall that jolly time when men and women feasted together," as he said. His proposal had a downright farcical effect, perhaps just as he had intended. The farce almost took over when the Dressmaker wanted them to sing the ditty: "When I climb into the bridal bed, hoiho!" After a couple of courses had been served, Constantin proposed that the banquet should end with everyone making a speech. But they should take precautions to keep the speakers from wandering too far off the subject. He proposed two conditions. There were to be no speeches until after the meal. And no one was to speak before drinking enough to feel the power of the wine. Each speaker should be in a state to say much that, under other circumstances, he would leave unsaid. His speech and train of thought need not, however, be constantly interrupted by hiccups.⁷ Before speaking, each person was to declare solemnly that he had reached that state. No fixed amount of wine was required, since people's capacities differed so widely. John objected to this proposal. He could never become drunk, he insisted. Once he reached a certain point, the more he drank, the more sober he became. Victor Eremita thought that planning ahead to make sure one got drunk would work against getting drunk. If someone wanted to become drunk, the deliberate wish would only get in the way. A discussion followed about the different effects of wine on consciousness. They focused especially on how too much wine may affect a reflective person. Rather than producing any particular impulse, it may produce noticeably cool self-control. As for the content of the speeches, Constantin proposed that they should deal with love, meaning the relationship between man and woman. No love stories were to be told, though they might serve as the basis for someone's remarks.

The conditions were accepted. All reasonable and just demands a host may make on his guests were fulfilled: they ate and drank, and "drank and were filled with drink," as the Bible has it;⁸ that is, they drank stoutly.

The conditions were accepted. The guests met all the reasonable and fair demands a host may make of them. They ate and drank, and "drank and were filled with drink," as the Bible puts it.⁸ In other words, they drank heavily.

The desert was served. Even if Victor had not, as yet, had his desire gratified to hear the splashing of a fountain—which, for that matter, he had luckily forgotten since that former conversation—now champagne flowed profusely. The clock struck twelve. Thereupon Constantin commanded silence, saluted the Young Person with a goblet and the words quod felix sit faustumque⁹ and bade him to speak first.

Dessert was served. Even if Victor had not yet fulfilled his wish to hear a fountain splashing, champagne now flowed freely. Fortunately, he had forgotten that wish since the earlier conversation. The clock struck twelve. Then Constantin called for silence and raised a goblet to the Young Person with the words quod felix sit faustumque⁹. He asked the Young Person to speak first.