Pierre Schlag’s My Dinner at Langdell’s (2004). An excerpt:
It was one of those cold wet April Cambridge mornings. Too
wet for fog, but too indifferent for rain. My head ached. My lips
were dry and my tongue felt bloated. The fever had surely come
back. Worse — the laudanum was wearing off.Tonight would be dinner at Langdell’s. To say I was
apprehensive does not quite capture my condition. It was to be
an important affair. I had been asked to attend. It felt like a
convocation of sorts — though to what end, I remained unaware.It occurred to me that not everyone is invited to Langdell’s
for dinner — certainly not wayward law professors from the
provinces. This was an extraordinary opportunity. I took out
the engraved invitation from my navy overcoat, just to make
sure it was really there. It was, of course — though having
taken it out three or four times previously this morning, the
cream-colored paper fibers had begun to separate. The paper
felt gummy and the ink was smudged. I coughed and drew my
coat around my shoulders. A drink would help.Langdell, of course, did not know of my present situation.
And realistically, how could he? His professional life ended in
1895 when he retired from The Law School. Mine didn’t really
begin (if I can call it a beginning at all) until 1991. It would be
a chance meeting. By the time I started teaching, he had been
dead for nearly 85 years.I realized, of course, that this would make our encounter
all the more difficult, all the more awkward. Indeed, you might
reasonably wonder how could we meet at all? A fair question. It
is not everyday that a fictional narrator can have dinner with a
man who’s been dead for close to 100 years. The problems from
both sides are significant. The literary challenge alone is
immense.