His meditations had not made him averse to food. It would be pleasant
to get into communication with the kind of reality that could be chewed
with the teeth. Spike reflected as he slowly descended the stairs that
Belash, who could prove the world was an illusion, never missed a meal.
There was something profoundly unconvincing about Belash when he sat
mathematically proving the world a hoax and at the same time ate a
_Chateaubriand_ running over with butter and red juice.
In the dining room were only the priest, reading the London _Times_,
the big Swede, whose tragedy was now so far away he could permit
himself a smile and an appetite, the other American who sat polishing
black-rimmed glasses, preparing to read a letter. Flecker felt that
they all glanced dubiously at him.
_Hors d'œuvre_, to Flecker's surprise, was one shirred egg in a little
frying pan of its own. Its Cyclopean regard, yellow as a sunset, fixed
him steadily. He sprinkled it with black pepper, stuck it with the
sharp edge of bread crust. The egg taste was smooth and non-exclamatory
and healthy; the butter's was cold, rich, suave. The bread crust had a
noisy, scratchy, autumnal taste. He wondered could he paint a picture
of a flavor?
Berthe took the débris of the first course away, nudging him with her
knee as she reached over his shoulder. The sour, dark wine puckered his
mouth. It exploded all recollection of the _hors d'œuvre_, and made his
teeth hungry for what might come next.
On a blue plate the hearts of three artichoke, baked in a golden
batter. They were crisp on the outside, soft in the center; their
perfume, winged with a memory of garlic, sent Flecker's rapturous
blue eyes to the ceiling. Coming down they met the eyes of the priest
also suffused with emotion. Flecker swerved his glance quickly to the
window; the priest, as politely, looked at the kitchen door. They began
almost shyly to eat.
And after this came a little hill of cold _haricots verts_ with oil
and vinegar and, _comme decor_, a disk or two of sliced carrots,
glowing like coral against the solemn green of the beans. And then
there was a wait. Finally a heavy, aromatic, dark red perfume swirled
into the dining room ahead of Berthe.
"_Fraises des bois_," sighed the priest.
Flecker inhaled slowly, the aroma of the first wild strawberries of
the season. He heaped them up and put a cap of sugar on them. Why, he
wondered, was _nature mort_ so often bowls, napkins, cups, bottles,
newspapers, shoes, furniture, fruit--and so seldom _food_--never a
shirred egg! And why not a shirred egg? Why not a bowl of French fried
potatoes with a stalk of celery standing up in a glass?
He directed his thoughts to lima beans, considered the unctuous curve
of their fat bodies, their honest flavor. There was a way of eating
them with olive oil and a drop of vinegar and pepper, and things. It
would be good to paint a round cream-and-gilt plate with lima beans
and, in a background of dark color, a slender glinting bottle of
green-gold oil and a silver vinegar cruet.... He would try for the
spirit of the bean. Those with palates and eyes capable of profound
experience would look with wonder. His portrait of the beans would
provide a fleeting glimpse of the One, of beauty,--for edible lima
beans, _qua_ edible lima beans, are themselves a manifestation of
reality and should therefore be reverently painted in their mysterious
lima-beanness. People would look at his lima beans and see not only
"significant form," but catch a glimpse of the significance; they
would think of the nameless mystery of flavor, of human desire, famine
and plenty, of farmers, of soldiers, of the world turning in the dark
heavens! Spike could never understand why those who talked so much of
"significant form" were so averse to having form mean something....
"Black coffee," bitter, redolent of the pot--disgusting. He drank his
tiny cupful. It was like the moral tacked on to a beautiful story.
As he left the dining room, he winked at Berthe who stood beaming at
him from the kitchen door.
The _concierge_ said, "_Y a rien pour vous!_"
No letter, no money from Waterville! He wondered if his uncle's
grocery store had gone into bankruptcy!
In the street the sun was again too bright, the trees too green.
Tomorrow he must go back to the witch in the _Café de Lilas_.