A soup conversation

[magid]

I thought of Minoanmiss when I read this dialogue from Thomas Gray in Copenhagen: in which the philosopher cat meets the ghost of Hans Christian Andersen (Philip J Davis), pp. 37-29:

Lucas Fysst: Soup, may I taste you?
Soup: Please, Be my guest.
L.F.: Hmm. Splendid. You are an alimentary joy. You are a bouillabaisse.
Soup: If you say so, sir. However, I do not feel myself to be a bouillabaisse. I feel myself rather a potage.
L.F.: You are much too aristocratic for a potage, O noble bouillabaisse.
Soup: Tell me. If I’m a bouillabaisse, what is my genealogy? Am I related to the Bouillabaisses of the Ancién Regime? How was I born?
L.F.: How were you born? Don’t embarrass me. I’m quite Victorian, you know.
Soup: Come, come, this is the twenty-first century, nearly. You can’t shock me.
L.F.: Well, How shall I put it? You’re just a little something I tossed off.
Soup: You mean I’m not the first? There’ve been others? You go around tossing off soups, do you?
L.F.: I admit it. There’ve been others. A mulligatawny in Cambridge. A bisque in Boston. The urge arises once in a while.
Soup: Something lacks, sir. Though flattered, I feel myself manqué for a bouillabaisse. A wee bit of garlic? A small piece of crab or langouste? The odd clam?
L.F.: Do not speak to me of langouste. We live in the Land of Sild and Torsk. I deem thee a bouillabaisse, and there’s an end to it. Mastery reveals itself in limitation. So wrote the great Goethe. I tell you that langouste is neither necessary nor sufficient for you to be deemed a bouillabisse.
Soup: The odd clam?
L.F.: Unnecessary. Do you know the story of Sir Roger Manning, O soup? No? Well, I shall tell you. Sir Roger was a distinguished oripologist, or something like that. At Oxford, you know. And Queens at Cambridge (or maybe it was Jesus College) wanted him badly. And he accepted their offer, but when he got there they wouldn’t all in his pet dog. You see, Queens (or perhaps Jesus College) had a rule prohibiting dogs.
Sir Roger said firmly, “No dog, no Manning.” Wouldn’t budge. Stubborn as a mule. So what to do? The Fellows of Queens (could it have been Jesus?) met in an extraordinary session. The Master, splendid chap, really splendid, head screwed on right, spoke up.
“Since 1653, when the Senior Preceptor was bitten and died of distemper, this College has had a rule to exclude dogs. However, this College has never excluded cats. Never. I shall now put it to the Fellows othis College that Sir Roger Manning’s dog be deemed a cat. Those in favour will respond by saying ‘placet.’ Those against will say ‘non placet.”
And placet, placet, placet it was, all the way. What would Thomas Gray have thought of that: a dog deemed to be a cat?
Soup: I feel increasingly limited. In quantity.
L.F. (spooning considerable quantities into his mouth): Though surely not in bouillabaissekeit.
Soup: I go now. I am more and more limited. I vanish. I evanesce. I fade. My raison d’être is fulfilled…
L.F.: You see? What did I tell you? A mulligatawny would never speak French. Hmmm. What am I hearing? An evanescent soup speaking French? What am I saying? Am I hallucinating? What’s overcoming me? Is life too hard; the tasks thereof too complex? Oh Thomas, I wish thow wert here beside me in Copenhagen. We should show the world a trick or two then. You and I and the world, Thomas.