The Philosopher’s Supper – 220
Your Choice: Listen or Read
Scene: A warm tavern hums with laughter and candlelight. The companions sit around a worn oak table as the door opens and Adam Smith enters, carrying a bundle of freshly printed books.
Dearest Mary,
How strange and sweet it is to dine at the table of a man whose thoughts have just taken physical form. The tavern was thick with candlelight and the hum of voices, yet when Smith entered—his arms full of freshly printed volumes—the room seemed to hush. He laid the parcel down beside us, and the faint smell of ink rose like incense.
Claire was the first to speak, naturally, teasing him that a philosopher should never arrive bearing his own scripture. Smith only smiled and said that the true weight of a book is not in its paper but in the minds it stirs. That line silenced even her for a heartbeat—though only a heartbeat.
When the serving girl asked where we’d like to sit, Smith, who had been perfectly calm until that moment, turned red as the tavern wine. He began gesturing with both hands, stammering something about how “Miss Clairmont surely prefers the fire’s warmth—no, no, not too close—yes, here beside me, the light is better for her complexion.” Poor Dugald Stewart coughed into his handkerchief, trying not to laugh.
Claire, enjoying the spectacle, curtsied as though presented at court and took her place beside him with a smile that could have melted the Scottish frost. I swear, Smith’s philosophical composure evaporated. When she asked what he wrote in the margins of his own proofs, he nearly dropped his spoon.
Over bread and stew he spoke of invisible bonds—how sympathy may guide not only our hearts but our commerce, if we but trust it. I confess, I have never before heard economics spoken of with such moral tenderness. He said, “Wealth is not the hoarding of coin but the widening of trust.” It struck me deeply.
Outside, the wind pressed against the windowpanes. I thought of our own time, where walls rise higher than bridges, and wondered whether his words might still save us.
Ever yours,
Percy Shelley