PART I. THE COOK'S DECAMERON

Prologue

The Marchesa di Sant'Andrea finished her early morning cup of tea, and

then took up the batch of correspondence which her maid had placed on

the tray. The world had a way of treating her in kindly fashion, and

hostile or troublesome letters rarely veiled their ugly faces under the

envelopes addressed to her; wherefore the perfection of that pleasant

half-hour lying between the last sip of tea and the first step to meet

the new day was seldom marred by the perusal of her morning budget. The

apartment which she graced with her seemly presence was a choice one in

the Mayfair Hotel, one which she had occupied for the past four or five

years during her spring visit to London; a visit undertaken to keep

alive a number of pleasant English friendships which had begun in Rome

or Malta. London had for her the peculiar attraction it has for so many

Italians, and the weeks she spent upon its stones were commonly the

happiest of the year.

The review she took of her letters before breaking the seals first

puzzled her, and then roused certain misgivings in her heart. She

recognised the handwriting of each of the nine addresses, and at the

same time recalled the fact that she was engaged to dine with every one

of the correspondents of this particular morning. Why should they all

be writing to her? She had uneasy forebodings of postponement, and she

hated to have her engagements disturbed; but it was useless to prolong

suspense, so she began by opening the envelope addressed in the familiar

handwriting of Sir John Oglethorpe, and this was what Sir John had to

say--

"My Dear Marchesa, words, whether written or spoken, are powerless to

express my present state of mind. In the first place, our dinner on

Thursday is impossible, and in the second, I have lost Narcisse and

forever. You commented favourably upon that supreme of lobster and the

Ris de Veau a la Renaissance we tasted last week, but never again

will you meet the handiwork of Narcisse. He came to me with admirable

testimonials as to his artistic excellence; with regard to his moral

past I was, I fear, culpably negligent, for I now learn that all the

time he presided over my stewpans he was wanted by the French police on

a charge of murdering his wife. A young lady seems to have helped him;

so I fear Narcisse has broken more than one of the commandments in

this final escapade. The truly great have ever been subject to

these momentary aberrations, and Narcisse being now in the hands of

justice--so called--our dinner must needs stand over, though not, I

hope, for long. Meantime the only consolation I can perceive is the

chance of a cup of tea with you this afternoon."

"J. O."

Sir John Oglethorpe had been her husband's oldest and best friend. He

and the Marchesa had first met in Sardinia, where they had both of them

gone in pursuit of woodcock, and since the Marchesa had been a widow,

she and Sir John had met either in Rome or in London every year. The

dinner so tragically manque had been arranged to assemble a number of

Anglo-Italian friends; and, as Sir John was as perfect as a host as

Narcisse was as a cook, the disappointment was a heavy one. She threw

aside the letter with a gesture of vexation, and opened the next.

"Sweetest Marchesa," it began, "how can I tell you my grief at having

to postpone our dinner for Friday. My wretched cook (I gave her

seventy-five pounds a year), whom I have long suspected of intemperate

habits, was hopelessly inebriated last night, and had to be conveyed out

of the house by my husband and a dear, devoted friend who happened to be

dining with us, and deposited in a four-wheeler. May I look in tomorrow

afternoon and pour out my grief to you? Yours cordially,

"Pamela St. Aubyn Fothergill."

When the Marchesa had opened four more letters, one from Lady Considine,

one from Mrs. Sinclair, one from Miss Macdonnell, and one from Mrs.

Wilding, and found that all these ladies were obliged to postpone their

dinners on account of the misdeeds of their cooks, she felt that the

laws of average were all adrift. Surely the three remaining letters

must contain news of a character to counterbalance what had already been

revealed, but the event showed that, on this particular morning,

Fortune was in a mood to strike hard. Colonel Trestrail, who gave in

his chambers carefully devised banquets, compounded by a Bengali who was

undoubtedly something of a genius, wrote to say that this personage had

left at a day's notice, in order to embrace Christianity and marry a

lady's-maid who had just come into a legacy of a thousand pounds under

the will of her late mistress. Another correspondent, Mrs. Gradinger,

wrote that her German cook had announced that the dignity of womanhood

was, in her opinion, slighted by the obligation to prepare food for

others in exchange for mere pecuniary compensation. Only on condition of

the grant of perfect social equality would she consent to stay, and Mrs.

Gradinger, though she held advanced opinions, was hardly advanced far

enough to accept this suggestion. Last of all, Mr. Sebastian van der

Roet was desolate to announce that his cook, a Japanese, whose dishes

were, in his employer's estimation, absolute inspirations, had decamped

and taken with him everything of value he could lay hold of; and more

than desolate, that he was forced to postpone the pleasure of welcoming

the Marchesa di Sant' Andrea at his table.

When she had finished reading this last note, the Marchesa gathered the

whole mass of her morning's correspondence together, and uttering a few

Italian words which need not be translated, rolled it into a ball and

hurled the same to the farthest corner of the room. "How is it," she

ejaculated, "that these English, who dominate the world abroad, cannot

get their food properly cooked at home? I suppose it is because they, in

their lofty way, look upon cookery as a non-essential, and consequently

fall victims to gout and dyspepsia, or into the clutches of some

international brigandaccio, who declares he is a cordon bleu. One hears

now and again pleasant remarks about the worn-out Latin races, but I

know of one Latin race which can do better than this in cookery." And

having thus delivered herself, the Marchesa lay back on the pillows and

reviewed the situation.

She was sorry in a way to miss the Colonel's dinner. The dishes which

the Bengali cook turned out were excellent, but the host himself was

a trifle dictatorial and too fond of the sound of his own voice, while

certain of the inevitable guests were still worse. Mrs. Gradinger's

letter came as a relief; indeed the Marchesa had been wondering why

she had ever consented to go and pretend to enjoy herself by eating

an ill-cooked dinner in company with social reformers and educational

prigs. She really went because she liked Mr. Gradinger, who was as

unlike his wife as possible, a stout youth of forty, with a breezy

manner and a decided fondness for sport. Lady Considine's dinners were

indifferent, and the guests were apt to be a bit too smart and too

redolent of last season's Monte Carlo odour. The Sinclairs gave good

dinners to perfectly selected guests, and by reason of this virtue,

one not too common, the host and hostess might be pardoned for being

a little too well satisfied with themselves and with their last new

bibelot. The Fothergill dinners were like all other dinners given by the

Fothergills of society. They were costly, utterly undistinguished, and

invariably graced by the presence of certain guests who seemed to have

been called in out of the street at the last moment. Van der Roet's

Japanese menus were curious, and at times inimical to digestion, but

the personality of the host was charming. As to Sir John Oglethorpe, the

question of the dinner postponed troubled her little: another repast,

the finest that London's finest restaurant could furnish, would

certainly be forthcoming before long. In Sir John's case, her

discomposure took the form of sympathy for her friend in his recent

bereavement. He had been searching all his life for a perfect cook,

and he had found, or believed he had found, such an one in Narcisse;

wherefore the Marchesa was fully persuaded that, if that artist should

evade the guillotine, she would again taste his incomparable handiwork,

even though he were suspected of murdering his whole family as well as

the partner of his joys.

That same afternoon a number of the balked entertainers foregathered in

the Marchesa's drawing-room, the dominant subject of discourse being the

approaching dissolution of London society from the refusal of one human

to cook food for another. Those present were gathered in two groups. In

one the Colonel, in spite of the recent desertion of his Oriental,

was asserting that the Government should be required to bring over

consignments of perfectly trained Indian cooks, and thus trim the

balance between dining room and kitchen; and to the other Mrs.

Gradinger, a gaunt, ill-dressed lady in spectacles, with a commanding

nose and dull, wispy hair, was proclaiming in a steady metallic voice,

that it was absolutely necessary to double the school rate at once

in order to convert all the girls and some of the boys as well, into

perfectly equipped food-cooking animals; but her audience gradually fell

away, and in an interval of silence the voice of the hostess was heard

giving utterance to a tentative suggestion.

"But, my dear, it is inconceivable that the comfort and the movement of

society should depend on the humours of its servants. I don't blame them

for refusing to cook if they dislike cooking, and can find other work as

light and as well paid; but, things being as they are, I would suggest

that we set to work somehow to make ourselves independent of cooks."

"That 'somehow' is the crux, my dear Livia," said Mrs. Sinclair. "I have

a plan of my own, but I dare not breathe it, for I'm sure Mrs. Gradinger

would call it 'anti-social,' whatever that may mean."

"I should imagine that it is a term which might be applied to any scheme

which robs society of the ministrations of its cooks," said Sir John.

"I have heard mathematicians declare that what is true of the whole is

true of its parts," said the Marchesa. "I daresay it is, but I never

stopped to inquire. I will amplify on my own account, and lay down

that what is true of the parts must be true of the whole. I'm sure that

sounds quite right. Now I, as a unit of society, am independent of cooks

because I can cook myself, and if all the other units were independent,

society itself would be independent--ecco!"

"To speak in this tone of a serious science like Euclid seems rather

frivolous," said Mrs. Gradinger. "I may observe--" but here mercifully

the observation was checked by the entry of Mrs. St. Aubyn Fothergill.

She was a handsome woman, always dominated by an air of serious

preoccupation, sumptuously, but not tastefully dressed. In the social

struggle upwards, wealth was the only weapon she possessed, and wealth

without dexterity has been known to fail before this. She made efforts,

indeed, to imitate Mrs. Sinclair in the elegancies of menage, and to

pose as a woman of mind after the pattern of Mrs. Gradinger; but

the task first named required too much tact, and the other powers of

endurance which she did not possess.

"You'll have some tea, Mrs. Fothergill?" said the Marchesa. "It's so

good of you to have come."

"No, really, I can't take any tea; in fact, I couldn't take any lunch

out of vexation at having to put you off, my dear Marchesa."

"Oh, these accidents will occur. We were just discussing the best way of

getting round them," said the Marchesa. "Now, dear,"--speaking to Mrs.

Sinclair--"let's have your plan. Mrs. Gradinger has fastened like a

leech on the Canon and Mrs. Wilding, and won't hear a word of what you

have to say."

"Well, my scheme is just an amplification of your mathematical

illustrations, that we should all learn to cook for ourselves. I regard

it no longer as impossible, or even difficult, since you have informed

us that you are a mistress of the art. We'll start a new school of

cookery, and you shall teach us all you know."

"Ah, my dear Laura, you are like certain English women in the hunting

field. You are inclined to rush your fences," said the Marchesa with a

deprecatory gesture. "And just look at the people gathered here in

this room. Wouldn't they--to continue the horsey metaphor--be rather an

awkward team to drive?"

"Not at all, if you had them in suitable surroundings. Now, supposing

some beneficent millionaire were to lend us for a month or so a nice

country house, we might install you there as Mistress of the stewpans,

and sit at your feet as disciples," said Mrs. Sinclair.

"The idea seems first-rate," said Van der Roet; "and I suppose, if we

are good little boys and girls, and learn our lessons properly, we may

be allowed to taste some of our own dishes."

"Might not that lead to a confusion between rewards and punishments?"

said Sir John.

"If ever it comes to that," said Miss Macdonnell with a mischievous

glance out of a pair of dark, flashing Celtic eyes, "I hope that our

mistress will inspect carefully all pupils' work before we are asked

to eat it. I don't want to sit down to another of Mr. Van der Roet's

Japanese salads made of periwinkles and wallflowers."

"And we must first catch our millionaire," said the Colonel.

During these remarks Mrs. Fothergill had been standing "with parted lips

and straining eyes," the eyes of one who is seeking to "cut in." Now

came her chance. "What a delightful idea dear Mrs. Sinclair's is. We

have been dreadfully extravagant this year over buying pictures, and

have doubled our charitable subscriptions, but I believe I can still

promise to act in a humble way the part of Mrs. Sinclair's millionaire.

We have just finished doing up the 'Laurestinas,' a little place we

bought last year, and it is quite at your service, Marchesa, as soon as

you liketo occupy it."

This unlooked-for proposition almost took away the Marchesa's breath.

"Ah, Mrs. Fothergill," she said, "it was Mrs. Sinclair's plan, not mine.

She kindly wishes to turn me into a cook for I know not how long, just

at the hottest season of the year, a fate I should hardly have chosen

for myself."

"My dear, it would be a new sensation, and one you would enjoy beyond

everything. I am sure it is a scheme every one here will hail with

acclamation," said Mrs. Sinclair. All other conversation had now ceased,

and the eyes of the rest of the company were fixed on the speaker.

"Ladies and gentlemen," she went on, "you have heard my suggestion, and

you have heard Mrs. Fothergill's most kind and opportune offer of her

country house as the seat of our school of cookery. Such an opportunity

is one in ten thousand. Surely all of us---even the Marchesa--must see

that it is one not to be neglected."

"I approve thoroughly," said Mrs. Gradinger; "the acquisition of

knowledge, even in so material a field as that of cookery, is always a

clear gain."

"It will give Gradinger a chance to put in a couple of days at Ascot,"

whispered Van der Roet.

"Where Mrs. Gradinger leads, all must follow," said Miss Macdonnell.

"Take the sense of the meeting, Mrs. Sinclair, before the Marchesa has

time to enter a protest."

"And is the proposed instructress to have no voice in the matter?" said

the Marchesa, laughing.

"None at all, except to consent," said Mrs. Sinclair; "you are going to

be absolute mistress over us for the next fortnight, so you surely might

obey just this once."

"You have been denouncing one of our cherished institutions, Marchesa,"

said Lady Considine, "so I consider you are bound to help us to replace

the British cook by something better."

"If Mrs. Sinclair has set her heart on this interesting experiment. You

may as well consent at once, Marchesa," said the Colonel, "and teach

us how to cook, and--what may be a harder task--to teach us to eat what

other aspirants may have cooked."

"If this scheme really comes off," said Sir John, "I would suggest that

the Marchesa should always be provided with a plate of her own up her

sleeve--if I may use such an expression--so that any void in the menu,

caused by failure on the part of the under-skilled or over-ambitious

amateur, may be filled by what will certainly be a chef-d'oeuvre."

"I shall back up Mrs. Sinclair's proposition with all my power," said

Mrs. Wilding. "The Canon will be in residence at Martlebridge for

the next month, and I would much rather be learning cookery under the

Marchesa than staying with my brother-in-law at Ealing."

"You'll have to do it, Marchesa," said Van der Roet; "when a new idea

catches on like this, there's no resisting it."

"Well, I consent on one condition--that my rule shall be absolute,"

said the Marchesa, "and I begin my career as an autocrat by giving

Mrs. Fothergill a list of the educational machinery I shall want, and

commanding her to have them all ready by Tuesday morning, the day on

which I declare the school open."

A chorus of applause went up as soon as the Marchesa ceased speaking.

"Everything shall be ready," said Mrs. Fothergill, radiant with delight

that her offer had been accepted, "and I will put in a full staff of

servants selected from our three other establishments."

"Would it not be as well to send the cook home for a holiday?" said the

Colonel. "It might be safer, and lead to less broth being spoilt."

"It seems," said Sir John, "that we shall be ten in number, and I would

therefore propose that, after an illustrious precedent, we limit our

operations to ten days. Then if we each produce one culinary poem a day

we shall, at the end of our time, have provided the world with a hundred

new reasons for enjoying life, supposing, of course, that we have no

failures. I propose, therefore, that our society be called the 'New

Decameron.'"

"Most appropriate," said Miss Macdonnell, "especially as it owes its

origin to an outbreak of plague--the plague in the kitchen."

The First Day

On the Tuesday morning the Marchesa travelled down to the "Laurestinas,"

where she found that Mrs. Fothergill had been as good as her word.

Everything was in perfect order. The Marchesa had notified to her pupils

that they must report themselves that same evening at dinner, and she

took down with her her maid, one of those marvellous Italian servants

who combine fidelity with efficiency in a degree strange to the denizens

of more progressive lands. Now, with Angelina's assistance, she proposed

to set before the company their first dinner all'Italiana, and the last

they would taste without having participated in the preparation. The

real work was to begin the following morning.

The dinner was both a revelation and a surprise to the majority of

the company. All were well travelled, and all had eaten of the mongrel

French dishes given at the "Grand" hotels of the principal Italian

cities, and some of them, in search of adventures, had dined at London

restaurants with Italian names over the doors, where--with certain

honourable exceptions--the cookery was French, and not of the best,

certain Italian plates being included in the carte for a regular

clientele, dishes which would always be passed over by the English

investigator, because he now read, or tried to read, their names for the

first time. Few of the Marchesa's pupils had ever wandered away from

the arid table d'hote in Milan, or Florence, or Rome, in search of the

ristorante at which the better class of townsfolk were wont to take

their colazione. Indeed, whenever an Englishman does break fresh ground

in this direction, he rarely finds sufficient presence of mind to

controvert the suggestions of the smiling minister who, having spotted

his Inglese, at once marks down an omelette aux fines herbes and a

biftek aux pommes as the only food such a creature can consume. Thus the

culinary experiences of Englishmen in Italy have led to the perpetuation

of the legend that the traveller can indeed find decent food in the

large towns, "because the cooking there is all French, you know," but

that, if he should deviate from the beaten track, unutterable horrors,

swimming in oil and reeking with garlic, would be his portion. Oil

and garlic are in popular English belief the inseparable accidents

of Italian cookery, which is supposed to gather its solitary claim to

individuality from the never-failing presence of these admirable, but

easily abused, gifts of Nature.

"You have given us a delicious dinner, Marchesa," said Mrs. Wilding

as the coffee appeared. "You mustn't think me captious in my

remarks--indeed it would be most ungracious to look a gift-dinner in

the--What are you laughing at, Sir John? I suppose I've done something

awful with my metaphors--mixed them up somehow."

"Everything Mrs. Wilding mixes will be mixed admirably, as admirably,

say, as that sauce which was served with the Manzo alla Certosina," Sir

John replied.

"That is said in your best style, Sir John," replied Mrs. Wilding; "but

what I was going to remark was, that I, as a poor parson's wife, shall

ask for some instruction in inexpensive cooking before we separate.

The dinner we have just eaten is surely only within the reach of rich

people."

"I wish some of the rich people I dine with could manage now and then to

reach a dinner as good," said the Colonel.

"I believe it is a generally received maxim, that if you want a truth

to be accepted you must repeat the same in season and out, whenever you

have the opportunity," said the Marchesa. "The particular truth I have

now in mind is the fact that Italian cookery is the cookery of a poor

nation, of people who have scant means wherewith to purchase the very

inferior materials they must needs work with; and that they produce

palatable food at all is, I maintain, a proof that they bring high

intelligence to the task. Italian culinary methods have been developed

in the struggle when the cook, working with an allowance upon which an

English cook would resign at once, has succeeded by careful manipulation

and the study of flavouring in turning out excellent dishes made of fish

and meat confessedly inferior. Now, if we loosen the purse-strings

a little, and use the best English materials, I affirm that we shall

achieve a result excellent enough to prove that Italian cookery is

worthy to take its stand beside its great French rival. I am glad Mrs.

Wilding has given me an opportunity to impress upon you all that its

main characteristics are simplicity and cheapness, and I can assure her

that, even if she should reproduce the most costly dishes of our course,

she will not find any serious increase in her weekly bills. When I use

the word simplicity, I allude, of course, to everyday cooking. Dishes of

luxury in any school require elaboration, care, and watchfulness."

Menu--Dinner {*}

Zuppa d'uova alla Toscana. Tuscan egg-soup.

Sogliole alla Livornese. Sole alla Livornese.

Manzo alla Certosina. Fillet of beef, Certosina sauce.

Minuta alla Milanese. Chickens' livers alla Milanese.

Cavoli fiodi ripieni. Cauliflower with forcemeat.

Cappone arrosto con insalata. Roast capon with salad.

Zabajone. Spiced custard.

Uova al pomidoro. Eggs and tomatoes.

* The recipes for the dishes contained in all these menus

will be found in the second part of the book. The limits of

the seasons have necessarily been ignored.

The Second Day

Wednesday's luncheon was anticipated with some curiosity, or even

searchings of heart, as in it would appear the first-fruits of the hand

of the amateur. The Marchesa wisely restricted it to two dishes, for the

compounding of which she requisitioned the services of Lady Considine,

Mrs. Sinclair, and the Colonel. The others she sent to watch Angelina

and her circle while they were preparing the vegetables and the dinner

entrees. After the luncheon dishes had been discussed, they were both

proclaimed admirable. It was a true bit of Italian finesse on the part

of the Marchesa to lay a share of the responsibility of the first meal

upon the Colonel, who was notoriously the most captious and the hardest

to please of all the company; and she did even more than make him

jointly responsible, for she authorised him to see to the production

of a special curry of his own invention, the recipe for which he always

carried in his pocket-book, thus letting India share with Italy in the

honours of the first luncheon.

"My congratulations to you on your curry, Colonel Trestrail," said Miss

Macdonnell. "You haven't followed the English fashion of flavouring a

curry by emptying the pepper-pot into the dish?"

"Pepper properly used is the most admirable of condiments," the Colonel

said.

"Why this association of the Colonel and pepper?" said Van der Roet.

"In this society we ought to be as nice in our phraseology as in our

flavourings, and be careful to eschew the incongruous. You are coughing,

Mrs. Wilding. Let me give you some water."

"I think it must have been one of those rare grains of the Colonel's

pepper, for you must have a little pepper in a curry, mustn't you,

Colonel? Though, as Miss Macdonnell says, English cooks generally overdo

it."

"Vander is in one of his pleasant witty moods," said the Colonel, "but I

fancy I know as much about the use of pepper as he does about the use of

oil colours; and now we have, got upon art criticism, I may remark,

my dear Vander, I have been reminded that you have been poaching on my

ground. I saw a landscape of yours the other day, which looked as if

some of my curry powder had got into the sunset. I mean the one poor

blind old Wilkins bought at your last show."

"Ah, but that sunset was an inspiration, Colonel, and consequently

beyond your comprehension."

"It is easy to talk of inspiration," said Sir John, "and, perhaps, now

that we are debating a matter of real importance, we might spend our

time more profitably than in discussing what is and what is not a good

picture. Some inspiration has been brought into our symposium, I venture

to affirm that the brain which devised and the hand which executed the

Tenerumi di Vitello we have just tasted, were both of them inspired. In

the construction of this dish there is to be recognised a breath of the

same afflatus which gave us the Florentine campanile, and the Medici

tombs, and the portrait of Monna Lisa. When we stand before any one of

these masterpieces, we realise at a glance how keen must have been the

primal insight, and how strenuous the effort necessary for the evolution

of so consummate an achievement; and, with the savour of the Tenerumi di

Vitello still fresh, I feel that it deserves to be added to the list of

Italian capo lavori. Now, as I was not fortunate enough to be included

in the pupils' class this morning, I must beg the next time the dish

is presented to us--and I imagine all present will hail its renaissance

with joy--that I may be allowed to lend a hand, or even a finger, in its

preparation."

"Veal, with the possible exception of Lombard beef, is the best meat we

get in Italy," said the Marchesa, "so an Italian cook, when he wants to

produce a meat dish of the highest excellence, generally turns to veal

as a basis. I must say that the breast of veal, which is the part we had

for lunch today, is a somewhat insipid dish when cooked English fashion.

That we have been able to put it before you in more palatable form, and

to win for it the approval of such a connoisseur as Sir John Oglethorpe,

is largely owing to the judicious use of that Italian terror--more dire

to many English than paper-money or brigands--garlic."

"The quantity used was infinitesimal," said Mrs. Sinclair, "but it seems

to have been enough to subdue what I once heard Sir John describe as the

pallid solidity of the innocent calf."

"I fear the vein of incongruity in our discourse, lately noted by Van

der Roet, is not quite exhausted," said Sir John. "The Colonel was up in

arms on account of a too intimate association of his name with pepper,

and now Mrs. Sinclair has bracketed me with the calf, a most useful

animal, I grant, but scarcely one I should have chosen as a yokefellow;

but this is a digression. To return to our veal. I had a notion that

garlic had something to do with the triumph of the Tenerumi, and, this

being the case, I think it would be well if the Marchesa were to give us

a dissertation on the use of this invaluable product."

"As Mrs. Sinclair says, the admixture of garlic in the dish in question

was a very small one, and English people somehow never seem to realise

that garlic must always be used sparingly. The chief positive idea they

have of its characteristics is that which they gather from the odour of

a French or Italian crowd of peasants at a railway station. The effect

of garlic, eaten in lumps as an accompaniment to bread and cheese, is

naturally awful, but garlic used as it should be used is the soul, the

divine essence, of cookery. The palate delights in it without being able

to identify it, and the surest proof of its charm is manifested by the

flatness and insipidity which will infallibly characterise any dish

usually flavoured with it, if by chance this dish should be prepared

without it. The cook who can employ it successfully will be found to

possess the delicacy of perception, the accuracy of judgment, and the

dexterity of hand, which go to the formation of a great artist. It is a

primary maxim, and one which cannot be repeated too often, that garlic

must never be cut up and used as part of the material of any dish. One

small incision should be made in the clove, which should be put into the

dish during the process of cooking, and allowed to remain there until

the cook's palate gives warning that flavour enough has been extracted.

Then it must be taken out at once. This rule does not apply in equal

degree to the use of the onion, the large mild varieties of which may

be cooked and eaten in many excellent bourgeois dishes; but in all fine

cooking, where the onion flavour is wanted, the same treatment which I

have prescribed for garlic must be followed."

The Marchesa gave the Colonel and Lady Considine a holiday that

afternoon, and requested Mrs. Gradinger and Van der Roet to attend

in the kitchen to help with the dinner. In the first few days of the

session the main portion of the work naturally fell upon the Marchesa

and Angelina, and in spite of the inroads made upon their time by

the necessary directions to the neophytes, and of the occasional

eccentricities of the neophytes' energies, the dinners and luncheons

were all that could be desired. The Colonel was not quite satisfied with

the flavour of one particular soup, and Mrs. Gradinger was of opinion

that one of the entrees, which she wanted to superintend herself, but

which the Marchesa handed over to Mrs. Sinclair, had a great deal too

much butter in its composition. Her conscience revolted at the action of

consuming in one dish enough butter to solace the breakfast-table of

an honest working man for two or three days; but the faintness of these

criticisms seemed to prove that every one was well satisfied with the

rendering of the menu of the day.

Menu--Lunch

Tenerumi di Vitello. Breast of veal.

Piccione alla minute. Pigeons, braized with liver, &c.

Curry

Menu--Dinner

Zuppa alla nazionale. Soup alla nazionale.

Salmone alla Genovese. Salmon alla Genovese.

Costolette alla Costanza. Mutton cutlets alla Costanza.

Fritto misto alla Villeroy. Lamb's fry alla Villeroy.

Lattughe al sugo. Stuffed Lettuce.

Dindo arrosto alla Milanese. Roast turkey alla Milanese.

Crema montata alle fragole. Strawberry cream.

Tartufi alla Dino. Truffles alla Dino.

The Third Day

"I observe, dear Marchesa," said Mrs. Fothergill at breakfast on

Thursday morning, "that we still follow the English fashion in our

breakfast dishes. I have a notion that, in this particular especially,

we gross English show our inferiority to the more spirituelles nations

of the Continent, and I always feel a new being after the light meal of

delicious coffee and crisp bread and delicate butter the first morning I

awake in dear Paris."

"I wonder how it happens, then, that two goes of fish, a plateful of

omelette, and a round and a half of toast and marmalade are necessary to

repair the waste of tissue in dear England?" Van der Roet whispered to

Miss Macdonnell.

"It must be the gross air of England or the gross nature of the--"

The rest of Miss Macdonnell's remark was lost, as the Marchesa cried

out in answer to Mrs. Fothergill, "But why should we have anything but

English breakfast dishes in England? The defects of English cookery

are manifest enough, but breakfast fare is not amongst them. In these

England stands supreme; there is nothing to compare with them, and they

possess the crowning merit of being entirely compatible with English

life. I cannot say whether it may be the effect of the crossing, or of

the climate on this side, or that the air of England is charged with

some subtle stimulating quality, given off in the rush and strain of

strenuous national life, but the fact remains that as soon as I find

myself across the Channel I want an English breakfast. It seems that I

am more English than certain of the English themselves, and I am sorry

that Mrs. Fothergill has been deprived of her French roll and butter.

I will see that you have it to-morrow, Mrs. Fothergill, and to make the

illusion complete, I will order it to be sent to your room."

"Oh no, Marchesa, that would be giving too much trouble, and I am

sure you want all the help in the house to carry out the service as

exquisitely as you do," said Mrs. Fothergill hurriedly, and blushing as

well as her artistic complexion would allow.

"I fancy," said Mrs. Sinclair, "that foreigners are taking to English

breakfasts as well as English clothes. I noticed when I was last in

Milan that almost every German or Italian ate his two boiled eggs for

breakfast, the sign whereby the Englishman used to be marked for a

certainty."

"The German would probably call for boiled eggs when abroad on account

of the impossibility of getting such things in his own country. No

matter how often you send to the kitchen for properly boiled eggs in

Germany, the result is always the same cold slush," said Mrs. Wilding;

"and I regret to find that the same plague is creeping into the English

hotels which are served by German waiters."

"That is quite true," said the Marchesa; "but in England we have no time

to concern ourselves with mere boiled eggs, delicious as they are. The

roll of delicacies is long enough, or even too long without them. When

I am in England, I always lament that we have only seven days a week and

one breakfast a day, and when I am in Italy I declare that the reason

why the English have overrun the world is because they eat such mighty

breakfasts. Considering how good the dishes are, I wonder the breakfasts

are not mightier than they are."

"It always strikes me that our national barrenness of ideas appears as

plainly in our breakfasts as anywhere," said Mrs. Gradinger. "There is a

monotony about them which--"

"Monotony!" interrupted the Colonel. "Why, I could dish you up a fresh

breakfast every day for a month. Your conservative tendencies must be

very strong, Mrs. Gradinger, if they lead you to this conclusion."

"Conservative! On the contrary, I--that is, my husband--always votes for

Progressive candidates at every election," said Mrs. Gradinger, dropping

into her platform intonation, at the sound of which consternation arose

in every breast. "I have, moreover, a theory that we might reform our

diet radically, as well as all other institutions; but before I expound

this, I should like to say a few words on the waste of wholesome food

which goes on. For instance, I went for a walk in the woods yesterday

afternoon, where I came upon a vast quantity of fungi which our ignorant

middle classes would pronounce to be poisonous, but which I--in common

with every child of the intelligent working-man educated in a board

school where botany is properly taught--knew to be good for food."

"Excuse me one moment," said Sir John, "but do they really use

board-school children as tests to see whether toadstools are poisonous

or not?"

"I do not think anything I said justified such an inference," said Mrs.

Gradinger in the same solemn drawl; "but I may remark that the children

are taught from illustrated manuals accurately drawn and coloured. Well,

to come back to the fungi, I took the trouble to measure the plot on

which they were growing, and found it just ten yards square. The average

weight of edible fungus per square yard was just an ounce, or a hundred

and twelve pounds per acre. Now, there must be at least twenty millions

of acres in the United Kingdom capable of producing these fungi without

causing the smallest damage to any other crop, wherefore it seems that,

owing to our lack of instruction, we are wasting some million tons

of good food per annum; and I may remark that this calculation

pre-supposes, that each fungus springs only once in the season; but I

have reason to believe that certain varieties would give five or six

gatherings between May and October, so the weight produced would be

enormously greater than the quantity I have named."

Here Mrs. Gradinger paused to finish her coffee, which was getting cold,

and before she could resume, Sir John had taken up the parole. "I think

the smaller weight will suffice for the present, until the taste for

strange fungi has developed, or the pressure of population increased.

And before stimulating a vastly increased supply, it will be necessary

to extirpate the belief that all fungi, except the familiar mushroom,

are poisonous, and perhaps to appoint an army of inspectors to see that

only the right sort are brought to market."

"Yes, and that will give pleasant and congenial employment to those

youths of the working-classes who are ambitious of a higher career than

that of their fathers," said Lady Considine, "and the ratepayers will

rejoice, no doubt, that they are participating in the general elevation

of the masses."

"Perhaps Mrs. Gradinger will gather a few of her less deadly fungi, and

cook them and eat them herself, pour encourager les autres," said Miss

Macdonnell. "Then, if she doesn't die in agonies, we may all forswear

beef and live on toadstools."

"I certainly will," said Mrs. Gradinger; "and before we rise from table

I should like--"

"I fear we must hear your remarks at dinner, Mrs. Gradinger," said the

Marchesa. "Time is getting on, and some of the dishes to-day are rather

elaborate, so now to the kitchen."

Menu--Lunch.

Risotto alla Genovese. Savoury rice.

Pollo alla Villereccia. Chicken alla Villereccia.

Lingue di Castrato alla cucinira. Sheeps' tongues alla cucinira.

Menu--Dinner

Zuppa alla Veneziana. Venetian soup.

Sogliole alla giardiniera. Sole with Vegetables.

Timballo alla Romana. Roman pie.

Petto di Castrato alla salsa di burro. Breast of mutton with butter sauce.

Verdure miste. Mixed vegetables.

Crema rappresa. Coffee cream.

Ostriche alla Veneziana. Oyster savoury.

The Fourth Day

THE Colonel was certainly the most severely critical member of the

company. Up to the present juncture he had been sparing of censure, and

sparing of praise likewise, but on this day, after lunch, he broke forth

into loud praise of the dish of beef which appeared in the menu. After

specially commending this dish he went on--

"It seems to me that the dinner of yesterday and to-day's lunch bear

the cachet of a fresh and admirable school of cookery. In saying this

I don't wish to disparage the traditions which have governed the

preparation of the delicious dishes put before us up to that date, which

I have referred to as the parting of the ways, the date when the palate

of the expert might detect a new hand upon the keys, a phrase once

employed, I believe, with regard to some man who wrote poetry. To meet

an old friend, or a thoroughly tested dish, is always pleasant, but old

friends die or fall out, and old favourite dishes may come to pall at

last; and for this reason I hold that the day which brings us a new

friend or a new dish ought to be marked with white chalk."

"And I think some wise man once remarked," said Sir John, "that the

discovery of a dish is vastly more important than the discovery of a

star, for we have already as many stars as we can possibly require, but

we can never have too many dishes."

"I was wondering whether any one would detect the variations I made

yesterday, but I need not have wondered, with such an expert at table as

Colonel Trestrail," said the Marchesa with a laugh. "Well, the Colonel

has found me out; but from the tone of his remarks I think I may

hope for his approval. At any rate, I'm sure he won't move a vote of

censure."

"If he does, we'll pack him off to town, and sentence him to dine at his

club every day for a month," said Lady Considine.

"What crime has this particular club committed?" said Mrs. Sinclair in a

whisper.

"Vote of censure! Certainly not," said the Colonel, with an angry

ring in his voice. Mrs. Sinclair did not love him, and had calculated

accurately the carrying power of her whisper. "That would be the basest

ingratitude. I must, however, plead guilty to an attack of curiosity,

and therefore I beg you, Marchesa, to let us into the secret of your

latest inspiration."

"Its origin was commonplace enough," said the Marchesa, "but in a way

interesting. Once upon a time--more years ago than I care to remember--I

was strolling about the Piazza Navona in Rome, and amusing myself by

going from one barrow to another, and turning over the heaps of

rubbish with which they were stocked. All the while I was innocently

plagiarising that fateful walk of Browning's round the Riccardi Palace

in Florence, the day when he bought for a lira the Romana homocidiorum.

The world knows what was the outcome of Browning's purchase, but it will

probably never fathom the full effect of mine. How do his lines run?"

"These

I picked the book from. Five compeers in flank

Stood left and right of it as tempting more--

A dog's-eared Spicilegium, the fond tale

O' the frail one of the Flower, by young Dumas,

Vulgarised Horace for the use of schools,

The Life, Death, Miracles of Saint Somebody,

Saint Somebody Else, his Miracles, Death and Life."

"Well, the choice which lay before me on one particular barrow was fully

as wide, or perhaps wider than that which met the poet's eye, but after

I had espied a little yellow paper-covered book with the title La Cucina

Partenopea, overo il Paradiso dei gastronomi, I looked no farther. What

infinite possibilities of pleasure might lie hidden under such a name.

I secured it, together with the Story of Barlaam and Josaphat, for

thirty-five centesimi, and handed over the coins to the hungry-eyed old

man in charge, who regretted, I am sure, when he saw the eager look upon

my face, that he had not marked the books a lira at least. I should now

be a rich woman if I had spent all the money I have spent as profitably

as those seven sold. Besides being a master in the art of cookery, the

author was a moral philosopher as well; and he addresses his reader in

prefatory words which bespeak a profound knowledge of life. He writes:

'Though the time of man here on earth is passed in a never-ending

turmoil, which must make him often curse the moment when he opened his

eyes on such a world; though life itself must often become irksome

or even intolerable, nevertheless, by God's blessing, one supreme

consolation remains for this wretched body of ours. I allude to that

moment when, the forces being spent and the stomach craving support, the

wearied mortal sits down to face a good dinner. Here is to be found an

effectual balm for the ills of life: something to drown all remembrance

of our ill-humours, the worries of business, or even family quarrels.

In sooth, it is only at table that a man may bid the devil fly away with

Solomon and all his wisdom, and give himself up to an earthly delight,

which is a pleasure and a profit at the same time.'"

"The circumstances under which this precious book was found seem to

suggest a culinary poem on the model of the 'Ring and the Book,"' said

Mrs. Sinclair, "or we might deal with the story in practical shape by

letting every one of us prepare the same dish. I fancy the individual

renderings of the same recipe would vary quite as widely as the versions

of the unsavoury story set forth in Mr. Browning's little poem."

"I think we had better have a supplementary day for a trial of the sort

Mrs. Sinclair suggests," said Miss Macdonnell. "I speak with the memory

of a preparation of liver I tasted yesterday in the kitchen--one of the

dishes which did not appear at dinner."

"That is rather hard on the Colonel," said Van der Roet; "he did his

best, and now, see how hard he is trying to look as if he didn't know

what you are alluding to!"

"I never in all my life--" the Colonel began; but the Marchesa, fearing

a storm, interfered. "I have a lot more to tell you about my little

Neapolitan book," she went on, "and I will begin by saying that, for the

future, we cannot do better than make free use of it. The author opens

with an announcement that he means to give exact quantities for every

dish, and then, like a true Neapolitan, lets quantities go entirely,

and adopts the rule-of-thumb system. And I must say I always find the

question of quantities a difficult one. Some books give exact measures,

each dish being reckoned enough for four persons, with instructions to

increase the measures in proportion to the additional number of diners

but here a rigid rule is impossible, for a dish which is to serve by

itself, as a supper or a lunch, must necessarily be bigger than one

which merely fills one place in a dinner menu. Quantities can be given

approximately in many cases, but flavouring must always be a question of

individual taste. Latitude must be allowed, for all cooks who can turn

out distinguished work will be found to be endowed with imagination,

and these, being artists, will never consent to follow a rigid rule of

quantity. To put it briefly, cooks who need to be told everything, will

never cook properly, even if they be told more than everything. And

after all, no one takes seriously the quantities given by the chef of a

millionaire or a prince; witness the cook of the Prince de Soubise, who

demanded fifty hams for the sauces and garnitures of a single supper,

and when the Prince protested that there could not possibly be found

space for them all on the table, offered to put them all into a glass

bottle no bigger than his thumb. Some of Francatelli's quantities are

also prodigious, as, for instance, when to make a simple glaze he calls

for three pounds of gravy beef, the best part of a ham, a knuckle of

veal, an old hen, and two partridges."

Menu--Lunch

Maccheroni al sugillo. Macaroni with sausage and tomatoes.

Manzo in insalata. Beef, pressed and marinated.

Lingue di vitello all'Italiana. Calves' tongues.

Menu--Dinner.

Zuppa alla Modanese. Modenese soup.

Merluzzo in salamoia. Cod with sauce piquante.

Pollastro in istufa di pomidoro. Stewed chicken with tomatoes.

Porcelletto farcito alla Corradino. Stuffed suckling pig.

Insalata alla Navarino. Navarino salad.

Bodino di semolino. Semolina pudding.

Frittura di cocozze. Fried cucumber.

The Fifth Day

The following day was very warm, and some half-dozen of the party

wandered into the garden after lunch and took their coffee under a big

chestnut tree on the lawn. "And this is the 16th of June," said Lady

Considine. "Last year, on this very day, I started for Hombourg. I

can't say I feel like starting for Hombourg, or any other place, just at

present."

"But why should any one of us want to go to Hombourg?" said Sir John.

"Nobody can be afraid of gout with the admirable diet we enjoy here."

"I beg you to speak for yourself, Sir John," said Lady Considine. "I

have never yet gone to Hombourg on account of gout."

"Of course not, my dear friend, of course not; there are so many reasons

for going to Hombourg. There's the early rising, and the band, and the

new people one may meet there, and the change of diet--especially the

change of diet. But, you see, we have found our change of diet within an

hour of London, so why--as I before remarked--should we want to rush off

to Hombourg?"

"I am a firm believer in that change of diet," said Mrs. Wilding,

"though in the most respectable circles the true-bred Briton still talks

about foreign messes, and affirms that anything else than plain British

fare ruins the digestion. I must say my own digestion is none the worse

for the holiday I am having from the preparations of my own 'treasure.'

I think we all look remarkably well; and we don't quarrel or snap at

each other, and it would be hard to find a better proof of wholesome

diet than that."

"But I fancied Mrs. Gradinger looked a little out of sorts this morning,

and I'm sure she was more than a little out of temper when I asked her

how soon we were to taste her dish of toadstools," said Miss Macdonnell.

"I expect she had been making a trial of the British fungi in her

bedroom," said Van der Roet; "and then, you see, our conversation isn't

quite 'high toned' enough for her taste. We aren't sufficiently awake to

the claims of the masses. Can any one explain to me why the people who

are so full of mercy for the mass, are so merciless to the unit?"

"That is her system of proselytising," said the Colonel, "and if she

is content with outward conversion, it isn't a bad one. I often feel

inclined to agree to any proposition she likes to put forward, and I

would, if I could stop her talking by my submission."

"You wouldn't do that, Colonel, even in your suavest mood," said Van

der Roet; "but I hope somebody will succeed in checking her flow of

discourse before long. I'm getting worn to a shadow by the grind of that

awful voice."

"I thought your clothes were getting a bit loose," said the Colonel,

"but I put that phenomenon down to another reason. In spite of Mrs.

Wilding's praise of our present style of cooking, I don't believe our

friend Vander finds it substantial enough to sustain his manly bulk, and

I'll tell you the grounds of my belief. A few mornings ago, when I was

shaving, I saw the butcher bring into the house a splendid sirloin, and

as no sirloin has appeared at table, I venture to infer that this

joint was a private affair of Vander's, and that he, as well as Mrs.

Gradinger, has been going in for bedroom cookery. Here comes the

Marchesa; we'll ask her to solve the mystery."

"I can account for the missing sirloin," said the Marchesa. "The Colonel

is wrong for once. It went duly into the kitchen, and not to Mr. Van der

Roet's bedroom; but I must begin with a slight explanation, or rather

apology. Next to trial by jury, and the reverence paid to rank, and the

horror of all things which, as poor Corney Grain used to say, 'are

not nice,' I reckon the Sunday sirloin, cooked and served, one and

indivisible as the typical fetish of the great English middle class.

With this fact before my eyes, I can assure you I did not lightly lay a

hand on its integrity. My friends, you have eaten that sirloin without

knowing it. You may remember that yesterday after lunch the Colonel was

loud in praise of a dish of beef. Well, that beef was a portion of the

same, and not the best portion. The Manzo in insalata, which pleased

the Colonel's palate, was that thin piece at the lower end, the chief

function of which, when the sirloin is cooked whole, seems to lie in

keeping the joint steady on the dish while paterfamilias carves it. It

is never eaten in the dining-room hot, because every one justly prefers

and goes for the under cut; neither does it find favour at lunch next

day, for the reason that, as cold beef, the upper cut is unapproachable.

I have never heard that the kitchen hankers after it inordinately;

indeed, its ultimate destination is one of the unexplained mysteries of

housekeeping. I hold that never, under any circumstances, should it be

cooked with the sirloin, but always cut off and marinated and braized as

we had it yesterday. Thus you get two hot dishes; our particular sirloin

has given us three. The parts of this joint vary greatly in flavour, and

in texture as well, and by accentuating this variation by treatment

in the kitchen, you escape that monotony which is prone to pervade the

table so long as the sirloin remains in the house. Mrs. Sinclair is

sufficiently experienced as a housekeeper to know that the dish of

fillets we had for dinner last night was not made from the under cut

of one sirloin. It was by borrowing a little from the upper part that I

managed to fill the dish, and I'm sure that any one who may have got

one of the uppercut fillets had no cause to grumble. The Filetto di Bue

which we had for lunch to-day was the residue of the upper cut, and,

admirable as is a slice of cold beef taken from this part of the joint,

I think it is an excellent variation to make a hot dish of it sometimes.

On the score of economy, I am sure that a sirloin treated in this

fashion goes a long way further."

"The Marchesa demolishes one after another of our venerable institutions

with so charming a despatch that we can scarcely grieve for them," said

Sir John. "I am not philosopher enough to divine what change may come

over the British character when every man sits down every day to

a perfectly cooked dinner. It is sometimes said that our barbarian

forefathers left their northern solitudes because they hankered after

the wine and delicate meats of the south, and perhaps the modern Briton

may have been led to overrun the world by the hope of finding a greater

variety of diet than he gets at home. It may mean, Marchesa, that this

movement of yours for the suppression of English plain cooking will mark

the close of our national expansion."

"My dear Sir John, you may rest assured that your national expansion, as

well as your national cookery, will continue in spite of anything we

may accomplish here, and I say good luck to them both. When have I ever

denied the merits of English cookery?" said the Marchesa. "Many of its

dishes are unsurpassed. These islands produce materials so fine, that no

art or elaboration can improve them. They are best when they are cooked

quite plainly, and this is the reason why simplicity is the key-note of

English cookery. A fine joint of mutton roasted to a turn, a plain fried

sole with anchovy butter a broiled chop or steak or kidney, fowls or

game cooked English fashion, potatoes baked in their skins and eaten

with butter and salt, a rasher of Wiltshire bacon and a new-laid egg,

where will you beat these? I will go so far as to say no country can

produce a bourgeoises dish which can be compared with steak and kidney

pudding. But the point I want to press home is that Italian cookery

comes to the aid of those who cannot well afford to buy those prime

qualities of meat and fish which allow of this perfectly plain

treatment. It is, as I have already said, the cookery of a nation short

of cash and unblessed with such excellent meat and fish and vegetables

as you lucky islanders enjoy. But it is rich in clever devices of

flavouring, and in combinations, and I am sure that by its help English

people of moderate means may fare better and spend less than they spend

now, if only they will take a little trouble."

Menu--Lunch

Gnocchi alla Romana. Semolina with parmesan.

Filetto di Bue al pistacchi. Fillet of beef with pistachios

Bodini marinati. Marinated rissoles.

Menu--Dinner.

Zuppa Crotopo. Croute au pot soup.

Sogliole alla Veneziana. Fillets of sole.

Ateletti alla Sarda. Atelets of ox-palates, &c.

Costolette di Montone alla Nizzarda. Mutton cutlets.

Pollo alla Fiorentina. Fowl with macaroni.

Crema tartara alla Caramella. Caramel cream.

Uova rimescolati al tartufi. Eggs with truffles.

The Sixth Day

The following morning, at breakfast, a servant announced that Sir John

Oglethorpe was taking his breakfast in his room, and that there was no

need to keep anything in reserve for him. It was stated, however, that

Sir John was in no way indisposed, and that he would join the party at

lunch.

He seated himself in his usual place, placid and fresh as ever; but,

unharmed as he was physically, it was evident to all the company that

he was suffering from some mental discomposure. Miss Macdonnell, with a

frank curiosity which might have been trying in any one else, asked him

point-blank the reason of his absence from the meal for which, in

spite of his partiality for French cookery, he had a true Englishman's

devotion.

"I feel I owe the company some apology for my apparent churlishness," he

said; "but the fact is, that I have received some very harrowing, but

at the same time very interesting, news this morning. I think I told you

the other day how the vacancy in my kitchen has led up to a very real

tragedy, and that the abhorred Fury was already hovering terribly near

the head of poor Narcisse. Well, I have just received from a friend in

Paris journals containing a full account of the trial of Narcisse and of

his fair accomplice. The worst has come to pass, and Narcisse has been

doomed to sneeze into the basket like a mere aristocrat or politician

during the Terror I was greatly upset by this news, but I was

interested, and in a measure consoled, to find an enclosure amongst

the other papers, an envelope addressed to me in the handwriting of the

condemned man. This voix d'outre tombe, I rejoice to say, confides to

me the secret of that incomparable sauce of his, a secret which I feared

might be buried with Narcisse in the prison ditch."

The Marchesa sighed as she listened. The recipe of the sauce was safe

indeed, but she knew by experience how wide might be the gulf between

the actual work of an artist and the product of another hand guided by

his counsels, let the hand be ever so dexterous, and the counsels ever

so clear. "Will it be too much," she said, "to ask you to give us the

details of this painful tragedy?"

"It will not," Sir John replied reflectively. "The last words of many a

so-called genius have been enshrined in literature: probably no one

will ever know the parting objurgation of Narcisse. I will endeavour,

however, to give you some notion as to what occurred, from the budget

I have just read. I fear the tragedy was a squalid one. Madame, the

victim, was elderly, unattractive in person, exacting in temper, and

the owner of considerable wealth--at least, this is what came out at

the trial. It was one of those tangles in which a fatal denouement is

inevitable; and, if this had not come through Mademoiselle Sidonie,

it would have come through somebody else. The lovers plotted to remove

madame by first drugging her, then breaking her skull with the

wood chopper, and then pitching her downstairs so as to produce the

impression that she had met her death in this fashion. But either the

arm of Mademoiselle Sidonie--who was told off to do the hammering--was

unskilled in such work, or the opiate was too weak, for the victim began

to shriek before she gave up the ghost. Detection seemed imminent, so

Narcisse, in whom the quality of discretion was evidently predominant,

bolted at once and got out of the country. But the facts were absolutely

clear. The victim lived long enough to depose that Mademoiselle Sidonie

attacked her with the wood chopper, while Narcisse watched the door.

The advocate of Narcisse did his work like a man. He shed the regulation

measure of tears; he drew graphic pictures of the innocent youth of

Narcisse, of his rise to eminence, and of his filial piety as evidenced

by the frequent despatch of money and comestibles to his venerable

mother, who was still living near Bourges. Once a year, too, this

incomparable artist found time to renew his youth by a sojourn in the

simple cottage which saw his birth, and by embracing the giver of

his life. Was it possible that a man who treated one woman with such

devotion and reverence could take the life of another? He adduced

various and picturesque reasons to show that such an event must be

impossible, but the jury took the opposite view. Some one had to be

guillotined, and the intelligent jury decided that Paris could spare

Narcisse better than it could spare Mademoiselle Sidonie. I fear the

fact that he had deigned to sell his services to a brutal islander may

have helped them to come to this conclusion, but there were other and

more weighty reasons. Of the supreme excellence of Narcisse as an

artist the jury knew nothing, so they let him go hang--or worse--but

of Mademoiselle Sidonie they knew a good deal, and their knowledge, I

believe, is shared by certain English visitors to Paris. She is one of

the attractions of the Fantasies d'Arcadie, and her latest song, Bonjour

Coco, is sung and whistled in every capital of Europe; so the jury,

thrusting aside as mere pedantry the evidence of facts, set to work to

find some verdict which would not eclipse the gaiety of La Ville Lumiere

by cutting short the career of Mademoiselle Sidonie. The art of the chef

appealed to only a few, and he dies a mute, but by no means inglorious

martyr: the art of the chanteuse appeals to the million, the voice of

the many carries the day, and Narcisse must die."

"It is a revolting story," said Mrs. Gradinger, "and one possible only

in a corrupted and corrupting society. It is wonderful, as Sir John

remarks, how the conquering streams of tendency manifest themselves

even in an affair like this. Ours is a democratic age, and the wants and

desires of the many, who find delight in this woman's singing, override

the whims of the pampered few, the employers of such costly luxuries as

men cooks."

"You see you are a mere worm, Sir John," laughed Miss Macdonnell, "and

you had better lay out your length to be trampled on."

"Yes, I have long foreseen our fate, we who happen to possess what our

poor brother hankers after. Well, perhaps I may take up the worm's role

at once and 'turn', that is, burn the recipe of Narcisse."

"O Sir John, Sir John," cried Mrs. Sinclair "any such burning would

remind me irresistibly of Mr. Mantalini's attempts at suicide. There

would be an accurate copy in your pocket-book, and besides this you

would probably have learnt off the recipe by heart."

"Yes, we know our Sir John better than that, don't we?" said the

Marchesa; "but, joking apart, Sir John, you might let me have the

recipe at once. It would go admirably with one of our lunch dishes for

to-morrow."

But on the subject of the sauce, Sir John--like the younger Mr.

Smallweed on the subject of gravy--was adamant. The wound caused by the

loss of Narcisse was, he declared, yet too recent: the very odour of the

sauce would provoke a thousand agonising regrets. And then the hideous

injustice of it all: Narcisse the artist, comparatively innocent (for

to artists a certain latitude must be allowed), to moulder in quicklime,

and this greedy, sordid murderess to go on ogling and posturing with

superadded popularity before an idiot crowd unable to distinguish a

Remoulade from a Ravigotte! "No, my dear Marchesa," he said, "the secret

of Narcisse must be kept a little longer, for, to tell the truth, I have

an idea. I remember that ere this fortunes have been made out of sauces,

and if this sauce be properly handled and put before the public, it may

counteract my falling, or rather disappearing rents. If only I could

hit upon a fetching name, and find twenty thousand pounds to spend in

advertising, I might be able once more to live on my acres."

"Oh, surely we shall be able to find you a name between us," said Mrs.

Wilding; "money, and things of that sort are to be procured in the city,

I believe; and I daresay Mr. Van der Roet will design a pretty label for

the sauce bottles."

Menu--Lunch.

Pollo all'olive. Fowl with olives.

Scaloppine di rive. Veal cutlets with rice.

Sedani alla parmigiana. Stewed celery.

Menu--Dinner.

Zuppa primaverile. Spring soup

Sote di Salmone al funghi. Salmon with mushrooms.

Tenerumi d'Agnello alla veneziana. Breast of lamb alla Veneziana.

Testa di Vitello alla sorrentina. Calf's head alla Sorrentina.

Fagiano alla perigo. Pheasant with truffles.

Torta alla cremonese. Cremona tart.

Uova alla fiorentina. Egg savoury.

The Seventh Day

"It seems invidious to give special praise where everything is so good,"

said Mrs. Sinclair next day at lunch, "but I must say a word about that

clear soup we had at dinner last night. I have never ceased to regret

that my regard for manners forbade me ask for a second helping."

"See what it is to have no manners," said Van der Roet. "I plunged

boldly for another portion of that admirable preparation of calf's head

at dinner. If I hadn't, I should have regretted it for ever after.

Now, I'm sure you are just as curious about the construction of these

masterpieces as I am, Mrs. Sinclair, so we'll beg the Marchesa to let us

into the secret."

"Mrs. Sinclair herself had a hand in the calf's-head dish, 'Testa di

Vitello alla sorrentina,' so perhaps I may hand over that part of the

question to her. I am very proud that one of my pupils should have won

praise from such a distinguished expert as Mr. Van der Roet, and I

leave her to expound the mystery of its charm. I think I may without

presumption claim the clear soup as a triumph, and it is a discovery of

my own. The same calf's head which Mrs. Sinclair has treated with such

consummate skill, served also as the foundation for the stock of the

clear soup. This stock certainly derived its distinction from the

addition of the liquor in which the head was boiled. A good consomme can

no doubt be made with stock-meat alone, but the best soup thus made will

be inferior to that we had for dinner last night. Without the calf's

head you will never get such softness, combined with full roundness

on the tongue, and the great merit of calf's head is that it lets you

attain this excellence without any sacrifice of transparency."

"I have marvelled often at the clearness of your soups, Marchesa,"

said the Colonel. "What clearing do you use to make them look like pale

sherry?"

"No one has any claim to be called a cook who cannot make soup without

artificial clearing," said the Marchesa. "Like the poet, the consomme

is born, not made. It must be clear from the beginning, an achievement

which needs care and trouble like every other artistic effort, but one

nevertheless well within the reach of any student who means to succeed.

To clear a soup by the ordinary medium of white of egg or minced beef

is to destroy all flavour and individuality. If the stock be kept from

boiling until it has been strained, it will develop into a perfectly

clear soup under the hands of a careful and intelligent cook. The

fleeting delicate aroma which, as every gourmet will admit, gives such

grateful aid to the palate, is the breath of garden herbs and of herbs

alone, and here I have a charge to bring against contemporary cookery. I

mean the neglect of natural in favour of manufactured flavourings. With

regard to herbs, this could not always have been the rule, for I never

go into an old English garden without finding there a border with all

the good old-fashioned pot herbs growing lustily. I do not say that the

use of herbs is unknown, for of course the best cookery is impossible

without them, but I fear that sage mixed with onion is about the only

one which ever tickles the palate of the great English middle-class. And

simultaneously with the use of herb flavouring in soup has arisen the

practice of adding wine, which to me seems a very questionable one. If

wine is put in soup at all, it must be used so sparingly as to render

its presence imperceptible. Why then use it at all? In some sauces wine

is necessary, but in all cases it is as difficult to regulate as garlic,

and requires the utmost vigilance on the part of the cook."

"My last cook, who was very stout and a little middle-aged, would always

use flavouring sauces from the grocer's rather than walk up to the

garden, where we have a most seductive herb bed," said Mrs. Wilding;

"and then, again, the love of the English for pungent-made sauces is

another reason for this makeshift practice. 'Oh, a table-spoonful of

somebody's sauce will do for the flavouring,' and in goes the sauce, and

the flavouring is supposed to be complete. People who eat their chops,

and steaks, and fish, and game, after having smothered the natural

flavour with the same harsh condiment, may be satisfied with a cuisine

of this sort, but to an unvitiated palate the result is nauseous."

"Yet as a Churchwoman, Mrs. Wilding, you ought to speak with respect

of English sauces. I think I have heard how a libation of one of them,

which was poured over a certain cathedral, has made it look as good as

new," said Miss Macdonnell, "and we have lately learned that one of the

most distinguished of our party is ambitious to enter the same career."

"I would suggest that Sir John should devote all that money he proposes

to make by the aid of his familiar spirit--the ghost of Narcisse--to the

building of a temple in honour of the tenth muse, the muse of cookery,"

said Mrs. Sinclair; "and what do you think, Sir John, of a name I dreamt

of last night for your sauce, 'The New Century Sauce'? How will that

do?"

"Admirably," said Sir John after a moment's pause; "admirably enough to

allow me to offer you a royalty on every bottle sold. 'The New Century

Sauce', that's the name for me; and now to set to work to build the

factory, and to order plans for the temple of the tenth muse."

Menu--Lunch.

Maccheroni al pomidoro. Macaroni with tomatoes,

Vitello alla pellegrina. Veal cutlets alla pellegrina.

Animelle al sapor di targone. Sweetbread with tarragon sauce.

Menu--Dinner.

Zuppa alla Canavese. Soup alla Canavese

Naselli con piselli. Whiting with peas.

Coscia di manzo al forno. Braized ribs of beef.

Lingua alla Visconti. Tongue with grapes.

Anitra selvatica. Wild duck.

Zabajone ghiacciato. Iced syllabub.

Crostatini alla capucina. Savoury of rice, truffles, &c.

The Eighth Day

"We are getting unpleasantly near the end of our time," said the

Colonel, "but I am sure not one of us has learnt one tithe of what the

Marchesa has to teach."

"My dear Colonel Trestrail," said the Marchesa, "an education in cookery

does not mean the teaching of a certain number of recipes. Education, I

maintain, is something far higher than the mere imparting of facts; my

notion of it is the teaching of people to teach themselves, and this

is what I have tried to do in the kitchen. With some of you I am sure I

have succeeded, and a book containing the recipe of every dish we have

tried will be given to every pupil when we break up."

"I think the most valuable lesson I have learnt is that cookery is a

matter for serious study," said Mrs. Sinclair. "The popular English view

seems to be that it is one of those things which gets itself done. The

food is subjected to the action of heat, a little butter, or pepper, or

onion, being added by way of flavouring, and the process is complete. To

put it bluntly, it requires at least as much mental application to

roast a fowl as to cut a bodice; but it does not strike the average

Englishwoman in this way, for she will spend hours in thinking and

talking about dressmaking (which is generally as ill done as her

cooking), while she will be reluctant to give ten minutes to the

consideration as to how a luncheon or supper dish shall be prepared. The

English middle classes are most culpably negligent about the food

they eat, and as a consequence they get exactly the sort of cooks they

deserve to get. I do not blame the cooks; if they can get paid for

cooking ill, why should they trouble to learn to cook well?"

"I agree entirely," said Mrs. Wilding. "That saying, 'What I like is

good plain roast and boiled, and none of your foreign kickshaws,' is, as

every one knows, the stock utterance of John Bull on the stage or in

the novel; and, though John Bull is not in the least like his fictitious

presentment, this form of words is largely responsible for the waste and

want of variety in the English kitchen. The plain roast and boiled means

a joint every day, and this arrangement the good plain cook finds an

admirable one for several reasons: it means little trouble, and it means

also lots of scraps and bones and waste pieces. The good plain cook

brings all the forces of obstruction to bear whenever the mistress

suggests made dishes; and, should this suggestion ever be carried out,

she takes care that the achievement shall be of a character not likely

to invite repetition. Not long ago a friend of mine was questioning a

cook as to soups, whereupon the cook answered that she had never been

required to make such things where she had lived; all soups were bought

in tins or bottles, and had simply to be warmed up. Cakes, too,

were outside her repertoire, having always been 'had in' from the

confectioner's, while 'entrys' were in her opinion, and in the opinion

of her various mistresses, 'un'ealthy' and not worth making."

"My experience is that, if a mistress takes an interest in cooking, she

will generally have a fairly efficient cook," said Mrs. Fothergill. "I

agree with Mrs. Sinclair that our English cooks are spoilt by neglect;

and I think it is hard upon them, as a class, that so many inefficient

women should be able to pose as cooks while they are unable to boil a

potato properly."

"And the so-called schools of cookery are quite useless in what they

teach," said Miss Macdonnell. "I once sent a cook of mine to one to

learn how to make a clear soup, and when she came back, she sent up,

as an evidence of her progress, a potato pie coloured pink and green, a

most poisonous-looking dish--and her clear soups were as bad as ever."

Said the Colonel, "I will beg leave to enter a protest against the

imperfections of that repast which is supposed to be the peculiar

delight of the ladies, I allude to afternoon tea. I want to know why

it is that unless I happen to call just when the tea is brought up--I

grant, I know of a few houses which are honourable exceptions--I am

fated to drink that most abominable of all decoctions, stewed lukewarm

tea. 'Will you have some tea? I'm afraid it isn't quite fresh,' the

hostess will remark without a blush. What would she think if her husband

at dinner were to say, 'Colonel, take a glass of that champagne. It was

opened the day before yesterday, and I daresay the fizz has gone off a

little'? Tea is cheap enough, and yet the hostess seldom or never thinks

of ordering up a fresh pot. I believe it is because she is afraid of the

butler."

"I sympathise with you fully, Colonel," said Lady Considine, "and my

withers are unwrung. You do not often honour me with your presence

on Tuesdays, but I am sure I may claim to be one of your honourable

exceptions."

"Indeed you may," said the Colonel. "Perhaps men ought not to intrude

on these occasions; but I have a preference for taking tea in a pretty

drawing-room, with a lot of agreeable women, rather than in a club

surrounded by old chaps growling over the latest job at the War Office,

and a younger brigade chattering about the latest tape prices, and the

weights for the spring handicaps."

"All these little imperfections go to prove that we are not a nation of

cooks," said Van der Roet. "We can't be everything. Heine once said that

the Romans would never have found time to conquer the world if they had

been obliged to learn the Latin grammar; and it is the same with us. We

can't expect to found an empire all over the planet, and cook as well

as the French, who--perhaps wisely--never willingly emerge from the four

corners of their own land."

"There is energy enough left in us when we set about some purely

utilitarian task," said Mrs. Wilding, "but we never throw ourselves into

the arts with the enthusiasm of the Latin races. I was reading the other

day of a French costumier who rushed to inform a lady, who had ordered

a turban, of his success, exclaiming, 'Madame, apres trots nun's

d'insomnie les plumes vent placees.' And every one knows the story of

Vatel's suicide because the fish failed to arrive. No Englishman would

be capable of flights like these."

"Really, this indictment of English cookery makes me a little nervous,"

said Lady Considine "I have promised to join in a driving tour through

the southern counties. I shudder to think of the dinners I shall have to

eat at the commercial hotels and posting-houses on our route."

"English country inns are not what they ought to be, but now and then

you come across one which is very good indeed, as good, if not better,

than anything you could find in any other country; but I fear I must

admit that, charges considered, the balance is against us," said Sir

John.

"When you start you ought to secure Sir John's services as courier, Lady

Considine," said the Marchesa. "I once had the pleasure of driving for

a week through the Apennines in a party under his guidance, and I can

assure you we found him quite honest and obliging."

"Ah, Marchesa, I was thinking of that happy time this very morning,"

said Sir John. "Of Arezzo, where we were kept for three days by rain,

which I believe is falling there still. Of Cortona, with that wonderful

little restaurant on the edge of the cliff, whence you see Thrasumene

lying like a silver mirror in the plain below. Of Perugia, the august,

of Gubbio, Citta di Castello, Borgo San Sepolcro, Urbino, and divers

others. If you go for a drive in Italy, you still may meet with humours

of the road such as travellers of old were wont to enjoy. I well

remember on the road between Perugia and Gubbio we began to realise we

were indeed traversing mountain paths. On a sudden the driver got down,

waved his arms, and howled to some peasants working in a field below.

These, on their part, responded with more arm-waving and howling,

directed apparently towards a village farther up the hill, whereupon we

were assailed with visions of brigands, and amputated ears, and ransom.

But at a turn of the road we came upon two magnificent white oxen,

which, being harnessed on in front, drew us, and our carriages and

horses as well, up five miles of steep incline. These beautiful

fellows, it seemed, were what the driver was signalling for, and not

for brigands. Again, every inn we stayed at supplied us with some

representative touch of local life and habit. Here the whole personnel

of the inn, reinforced by a goodly contingent of the townsfolk, would

accompany us even into our bedrooms, and display the keenest interest

in the unpacking of our luggage. There the cook would come and take

personal instructions as to the coming meal, throwing out suggestions

the while as to the merits of this or that particular dish, and in one

place the ancient chambermaid insisted that one of the ladies, who had

got a slight cold, should have the prete put into her bed for a short

time to warm it. You need not look shocked, Colonel. The prete in

question was merely a wooden frame, in the midst of which hangs a

scaldino filled with burning ashes--a most comforting ecclesiastic, I

can assure you. All the inns we visited had certain characteristics in

common. The entrance is always dirty, and the staircase too, the dining

rooms fairly comfortable, the bedrooms always clean and good, and the

food much better than you would expect to find in such out-of-the-way

places; indeed I cannot think of any inn where it was not good and

wholesome, while often it was delicious. In short, Lady Considine, I

strongly advise you to take a drive in Italy next spring, and if I am

free I shall be delighted to act as courier."

"Sir John has forgotten one or two touches I must fill in," said the

Marchesa. "It was often difficult to arrange a stopping-place for lunch,

so we always stocked our basket before starting. After the first day's

experience we decided that it was vastly more pleasant to take our

meal while going uphill at a foot-pace, than in the swing and jolt of a

descent, so the route and the pace of the horses had to be regulated in

order to give us a good hour's ascent about noon. Fortunately hills are

plentiful in this part of Italy, and in the keen air we generally made

an end of the vast store of provisions we laid in, and the generous

fiascho was always empty a little too soon. Our drive came to an end at

Fano, whither we had gone on account of a strange romantic desire of Sir

John to look upon an angel which Browning had named in one of his poems.

Ah! how vividly I can recall our pursuit of that picture. It was a wet,

melancholy day. The people of Fano were careless of the fame of their

angel, for no one knew the church which it graced. At last we came

upon it by the merest chance, and Sir John led the procession up to the

shrine, where we all stood for a time in positions of mock admiration.

Sir John tried hard to keep up the imposition, but something, either his

innate honesty or the chilling environment of disapproval of Guercino's

handiwork, was too much for him. He did his best to admire, but the

task was beyond his powers, and he raised no protest when some scoffer

affirmed that, though Browning might be a great poet, he was a mighty

poor judge of painting, when he gave in his beautiful poem immortality

to this tawdry theatrical canvas. 'I think,' said Sir John, 'we had

better go back to the hotel and order lunch. It would have been wiser

to have ordered it before we left.' We were all so much touched by his

penitence that no one had the heart to remind him how a proposition as

to lunch had been made by our leading Philistine as soon as we arrived,

a proposition waved aside by Sir John as inadmissible until the

'Guardian Angel' should have been seen and admired."

"I plead guilty," said Sir John. "I think this experience gave a

death-blow to my career as an appreciator. Anyhow, I quite forget what

the angel was like, and for reminiscences of Fano have to fall back

upon the excellent colazione we ate in the externally unattractive, but

internally admirable, Albergo del Moro."

Menu--Lunch.

Astachi all'Italiana. Lobster all'Italiana

Filetto di bue alla Napolitana. Fillet of beef with Neapolitan sauce.

Risotto alla spagnuola. Savoury rice.

Menu--Dinner.

Zuppa alla Romana. Soup with quenelles.

Salmone alla Genovese. Salmon alla Genovese.

Costolette in agro-dolce. Mutton cutlets with Roman sauce.

Flano di spinacci. Spinach in a mould.

Cappone con rive. Capon with rice.

Croccante di mandorle. Almond sweet.

Ostriche alla Napolitana. Oyster savoury.

The Ninth Day

"Since I have been associated with the production of a dinner, I have

had my eyes opened as to the complicated nature of the task, and the

numerous strings which have to be pulled in order to ensure success,"

said the Colonel; "but, seeing that a dinner-party with well-chosen

sympathetic guests and distinguished dishes represents one of the

consummate triumphs of civilisation, there is no reason to wonder. To

achieve a triumph of any sort demands an effort."

"Effort," said Miss Macdonnell. "Yes, effort is the word I associate

with so many middle-class English dinners. It is an effort to the hosts,

who regard the whole business as a mere paying off of debts; and an

effort to the guests, who, as they go to dress, recall grisly memories

of former similar experiences. It often astonishes me that dinner-giving

of this character should still flourish."

"The explanation is easy," said Van der Roet; "it flourishes because it

gives a mark of distinction. It is a delicious moment for Mrs. Johnson

when she is able to say to Mrs. Thompson, 'My dear, I am quite worn-out;

we dined out every day last week, and have four more dinners in the next

five days.' These good people show their British grit by the persistency

with which they go on with their penitential hospitality, and their lack

of ideas in never attempting to modify it so as to make it a pleasure

instead of a disagreeable duty."

"It won't do to generalise too widely, Van der Roet," said Sir John.

"Some of these good people surely enjoy their party-giving; and, from my

own experience of one or two houses of this sort, I can assure you the

food is quite respectable. The great imperfection seems to lie in the

utter want of consideration in the choice of guests. A certain number

of people and a certain quantity of food shot into a room, that is their

notion of a dinner-party."

"Of course we understand that the success of a dinner depends much more

on the character of the guests than on the character of the food," said

Mrs. Sinclair; "and most of us, I take it, are able to fill our tables

with pleasant friends; but what of the dull people who know none but

dull people? What gain will they get by taking counsel how they shall

fill their tables?"

"More, perhaps, than you think, dear Mrs. Sinclair," said Sir John.

"Dull people often enjoy themselves immensely when they meet dull people

only. The frost comes when the host unwisely mixes in one or two

guests of another sort--people who give themselves airs of finding more

pleasure in reading Stevenson than the sixpenny magazines, and who don't

know where Hurlingham is. Then the sheep begin to segregate themselves

from the goats, and the feast is manque."

"Considering what a trouble and anxiety a dinner-party must be to the

hostess, even under the most favouring conditions, I am always at a

loss to discover why so many women take so much pains, and spend a

considerable sum of money as well, over details which are unessential,

or even noxious," said Mrs. Wilding. "A few flowers on the table are all

very well--one bowl in the centre is enough--but in many houses the cost

of the flowers equals, if it does not outrun, the cost of all the rest

of the entertainment. A few roses or chrysanthemums are perfect as

accessories, but to load a table with flowers of heavy or pungent scent

is an outrage. Lilies of the valley are lovely in proper surroundings,

but on a dinner-table they are anathema. And then the mass of paper

monstrosities which crowd every corner. Swans, nautilus shells, and even

wild boars are used to hold up the menu. Once my menu was printed on a

satin flag, and during the war the universal khaki invaded the dinner

table. Ices are served in frilled baskets of paper, which have a

tendency to dissolve and amalgamate with the sweet. The only paper on

the table should be the menu, writ plain on a handsome card."

"No one can complain of papery ices here," said the Marchesa. "Ices may

be innocuous, but I don't favour them, and no one seems to have felt the

want of them; at least, to adopt the phrase of the London shopkeeper,

'I have had no complaints.' And even the ice, the very emblem of purity,

has not escaped the touch of the dinner-table decorator. Only a few days

ago I helped myself with my fingers to what looked like a lovely peach,

and let it flop down into the lap of a bishop who was sitting next to

me. This was the hostess's pretty taste in ices."

"They are generally made in the shape of camelias this season," said Van

der Roet. "I knew a man who took one and stuck it in his buttonhole."

"I must say I enjoy an ice at dinner," said Lady Considine. "I know the

doctors abuse them, but I notice they always eat them when they get the

chance."

"Ah, that is merely human inconsistency," said Sir John. "I am inclined

to agree with the Marchesa that ice at dinner is an incongruity, and may

well be dispensed with. I think I am correct, Marchesa, in assuming that

Italy, which has showered so many boons upon us, gave us also the taste

for ices."

"I fear I must agree," said the Marchesa. "I now feel what a blessing

it would have been for you English if you had learnt from us instead the

art of cooking the admirable vegetables your gardens produce. How is it

that English cookery has never found any better treatment for vegetables

than to boil them quite plain? French beans so treated are tender, and

of a pleasant texture on the palate, but I have never been able to find

any taste in them. They are tasteless largely because the cook persists

in shredding them into minute bits, and I maintain that they ought to

be cooked whole--certainly when they are young--and sautez, a perfectly

plain and easy process, which is hard to beat. Plain boiled cauliflower

is doubtless good, but cooked alla crema it is far better; indeed, it

is one of the best vegetable dishes I know. But perhaps the greatest

discovery in cookery we Italians ever made was the combination of

vegetables and cheese. There are a dozen excellent methods of cooking

cauliflower with cheese, and one of these has come to you through

France, choux-fleurs au gratin, and has become popular. Jerusalem

artichokes treated in the same fashion are excellent; and the cucumber,

nearly always eaten raw in England, holds a first place as a vegetable

for cooking. I seem to remember that every one was loud in its praises

when we tasted it as an adjunct to Manzo alla Certosina. Why is it

that celery is for the most part only eaten raw with cheese? We have

numberless methods of cooking it in Italy, and beetroot and lettuce as

well. There is no spinach so good as English, and nowhere is it so badly

cooked; it is always coarse and gritty because so little trouble is

taken with it, and I can assure you that the smooth, delicate dish which

we call Flano di spinacci is not produced merely by boiling and chopping

it, and turning it out into a dish."

Menu--Lunch

Minestrone alla Milanese. Vegetable broth.

Coniglio alla Provenzale. Rabbit alla Provenzale.

Insalata di pomidoro. Tomato salad.

Menu--Dinner.

Zuppa alla Maria Pia. Soup alla Maria Pia.

Anguilla con ortaggi alla Milanese. Eels with vegetables.

Manzo con sugo di barbabietoli. Fillet of beef with beetroot sauce.

Animelle alla parmegiana. Sweetbread with parmesan.

Perniciotti alla Gastalda. Partridges alla Gastalda.

Uova ripiani. Stuffed eggs.

The Tenth Day

The sun rose on the tenth and last day at the "Laurestinas" as he

was wont to rise on less eventful mornings. At breakfast the Marchesa

proposed that the lunch that day should be a little more ornate than

usual, and the dinner somewhat simpler. She requisitioned the services

of six of the company to prepare the lunch, and at the same time

announced that they would all have a holiday in the afternoon except

Mrs. Sinclair, whom she warned to be ready to spend the afternoon in the

kitchen helping prepare the last dinner.

Four dishes, all admirable, appeared at lunch, and several of the party

expressed regret that the heat of the weather forbade them from tasting

every one; but Sir John was not of these. He ate steadily through the

menu, and when he finally laid down his knife and fork he heaved a sigh,

whether of satisfaction or regret it were hard to say.

"It is a commonplace of the deepest dye to remark that ingratitude is

inherent in mankind," he began; "I am compelled to utter it, however, by

the sudden longing I feel for a plate from the hand of the late lamented

Narcisse after I have eaten one of the best luncheons ever put on a

table."

"Experience of one school of excellence has caused a hankering after the

triumphs of another," said Miss Macdonnell "There is one glory of the

Marchesa, there is, or was, another of Narcisse, and the taste of the

Marchesa's handiwork has stimulated the desire of comparision. Never

mind, Sir John, perhaps in another world Narcisse may cook you--"

"Oh stop, stop, for goodness' sake," cried Sir John, "I doubt whether

even he could make me into a dainty dish to set before the King of

Tartarus, though the stove would no doubt be fitted with the latest

improvements and the fuel abundant."

"Really, Sir John, I'm not sure I ought not to rise and protest," said

Mrs. Wilding, "and I think I would if it weren't our last day."

"Make a note of Sir John's wickedness, and pass it on to the Canon for

use in a sermon," said Van der Roet.

"I can only allow you half-an-hour, Laura," said the Marchesa to Mrs.

Sinclair, "then you must come and work with me for the delectation of

these idle people, who are going to spend the afternoon talking scandal

under the chestnuts."

"I am quite ready to join you if I can be of any help," said Mrs.

Gradinger. "When knowledge is to be acquired, I am always loath to

stand aside, not for my own sake so much as for the sake of others less

fortunate, to whom I might possibly impart it hereafter."

"You are very good," said the Marchesa, "but I think I must adhere to my

original scheme of having Mrs. Sinclair by herself. I see coffee is now

being taken into the garden, so we will adjourn, if you please."

After the two workers had departed for the kitchen, an unwonted silence

fell on the party under the chestnuts. Probably every one was pondering

over the imminent dissolution of the company, and wondering whether

to regret or rejoice. The peace had been kept marvellously well,

considering the composition of the company. Mrs. Fothergill at times had

made a show of posing as the beneficent patron, and Mrs. Gradinger had

essayed to teach what nobody wanted to learn; but firm and judicious

snubbing had kept these persons in their proper places. Nearly every one

was sorry that the end had come. It had been real repose to Mrs. Wilding

to pass ten days in an atmosphere entirely free from all perfume of the

cathedral close. Lady Considine had been spending freely of late, and

ten days' cessation of tradesmen's calls, and servants on board wages,

had come as a welcome relief. Sir John had gained a respite from the

task he dreaded, the task of going in quest of a successor to Narcisse.

Now as he sat consuming his cigarette in the leisurely fashion so

characteristic of his enjoyment--and those who knew him best were

wont to say that Sir John practiced few arts so studiously as that of

enjoyment--he could not banish the figure of Narcisse from his reverie.

A horrible thought assailed him that this obsession might spring from

the fact that on this very morning Narcisse might have taken his last

brief walk out of the door of La Roquette, and that his disembodied

spirit might be hovering around. Admirable as the cookery of the

Marchesa had been, and fully as he had appreciated it, he felt he would

give a good deal to be assured that on this the last evening of the

New Decameron he might sit down to a dinner prepared by the hand of his

departed chef.

That evening the guests gathered round the table with more empressement

than usual. The Marchesa seemed a little flurried, and Mrs. Sinclair, in

a way, shared her excitement. The menu, for the first time, was written

in French, a fact which did not escape Sir John's eye. He made no remark

as to the soup; it was the best of its kind, and its French name made it

no better than the other triumphs in the same field which the Marchesa

had achieved. But when Sir John tasted the first mouthful of the fish he

paused, and after a reflective and regretful look at his plate, he cast

his eye round the table. All the others, however, were too busily intent

in consuming the Turbot la Vatel to heed his interrogative glance, so he

followed suit, and after he had finished his portion, asked, sotto voce,

for another bit.

In the interval before the service of the next dish Sir John made

several vain attempts to catch the Marchesa's eye, and more than once

tried to get in a word; but she kept up a forced and rather nervous

conversation with Lady Considine and Van der Roet, and refused to

listen. As Sir John helped himself to the next dish, Venaison sauce

Grand Veneur, the feeling of astonishment which had seized him when he

first tasted the fish deepened into something like Consternation. Had

his palate indeed deceived him, or had the Marchesa, by some subtle

effort of experimental genius, divined the secret of Narcisse--the

secret of that incomparable sauce, the recipe of which was safely

bestowed in his pocket-book? Occasionally he had taken a brief nap under

the verandah after lunch: was it possible that in his sleep he might

have murmured, in her hearing, words which gave the key of the mystery,

and the description of those ingredients which often haunted his dreams?

One thing was certain, that the savour which rose from the venison

before him was the same which haunted his memory as the parting effort

of the ill-starred Narcisse.

Sir John was the least superstitious of mortals, still here he was face

to face with one of these conjunctions of affairs which the credulous

accept as manifestations of some hidden power, and sceptics as

coincidences and nothing more. All the afternoon he had been thinking

of Narcisse, and yearning beyond measure for something suggestive of his

art; and here, on his plate before him, was food which might have been

touched by the vanished hand. The same subtle influence pervaded the

Chartreuse a la cardinal, the roast capon and salad, and the sweet.

At last, when the dinner was nearly over, and when the Marchesa had

apparently said all she had to say to Van der Roet, he lifted up his

voice and said, "Marchesa, who gave you the recipe for the sauce with

which the venison was served this evening?"

The Marchesa glanced at Mrs. Sinclair, and then struck a hand-bell on

the table. The door opened, and a little man, habited in a cook's dress

of spotless white, entered and came forward. "M. Narcisse," said the

Marchesa, "Sir John wants to know what sauce was used in dressing the

venison; perhaps you can tell him."

Here the Marchesa rose and left the room, and all the rest followed her,

feeling it was unmeet that such a reunion should be witnessed by other

eyes, however friendly they might be.

* * * * *

"Now, you must tell us all about it," said Lady Considine, as soon as

they got into the drawing-room, "and how you ever managed to get him out

of this scrape."

"Oh, there isn't much to tell," said the Marchesa. "Narcisse was

condemned, indeed, but no one ever believed he would be executed. One of

my oldest friends is married to an official high up in the Ministry of

Justice, and I heard from her last week that Narcisse would certainly

be reprieved; but I never expected a free pardon. Indeed, he got this

entirely because it was discovered that Mademoiselle Sidonie, his

accomplice, was really a Miss Adah Levine, who had graduated at a

music-hall in East London, and that she had announced her intention

of retiring to the land of her birth, and ascending to the apex of her

profession on the strength of her Parisian reputation. Then it was that

the reaction in favour of Narcisse set in; the boulevards could not

stand this. The journals dealt with this new outrage in their best

Fashoda style; the cafes rang with it: another insult cast upon unhappy

France, whose destiny was, it seemed, to weep tears of blood to the end

of time. There were rumours of an interpellation in the Chamber, the

position of the Minister of the Interior was spoken of as precarious,

indeed the Eclaireur reported one evening that he had resigned. Pockets

were picked under the eyes of sergents de ville, who were absorbed in

proclaiming to each other their conviction of the innocence of Narcisse,

and the guilt of cette coquine Anglaise. Cabmen en course ran down

pedestrians by the dozen, as they discussed l'affaire Narcisse to an

accompaniment of whip-cracking. In front of the Cafe des Automobiles a

belated organ-grinder began to grind the air of Mademoiselle Sidonie's

great song Bonjour Coco, whereupon the whole company rose with howls and

cries of, 'A bas les Anglais, a bas les Juifs. 'Conspuez Coco.' In less

than five minutes the organ was disintegrated, and the luckless minstrel

flying with torn trousers down a side street. For the next few days la

haute gomme promenaded with fragments of the piano organ suspended from

watch chains as trophies of victory. But this was not all. Paris broke

out into poetry over l'affaire Narcisse, and here is a journal sent

to me by my friend which contains a poem in forty-nine stanzas by

Aristophane le Beletier, the cher maitre of the 'Moribonds,' the very

newest school of poetry in Paris. I won't inflict the whole of it on

you, but two stanzas I must read--

"'Puisse-je te rappeler loin des brouillards maudits.

Vers la France, sainte mere et nourrice!

Reviens a Lutece, de l'art vrai paradis,

Je t'evoque, O Monsieur Narcisse!

Quitte les saignants bifteks, de tes mains sublimes

Gueris le sein meurtri de ta mere!

Detourne ton glaive trenchant de tes freles victimes

Vers l'Albion et sa triste Megere.'"

"Dear me, it sounds a little like some other Parisian odes I have read

recently," said Lady Considine. "The triste Megere, I take it, is poor

old Britannia, but what does he mean by his freles victimes?"

"No doubt they are the pigeons and the rabbits, and the chickens and the

capons which Narcisse is supposed to have slaughtered in hecatombs, in

order to gorge the brutal appetite of his English employer," said Miss

Macdonnell. "After disregarding such an appeal as this M. Narcisse had

better keep clear of Paris for the future, for if he should go back and

be recognised I fancy it would be a case of 'conspuvez Narcisse."'

"The French seem to have lost all sense of exactness," said Mrs.

Gradinger, "for the lines you have just read would not pass muster as

classic. In the penultimate line there are two syllables in excess of

the true Alexandrine metre, and the last line seems too long by one.

Neither Racine nor Voltaire would have taken such liberties with

prosody. I remember a speech in Phaedre of more than a hundred lines

which is an admirable example of what I mean. I dare say some of you

know it. It begins:--

"Perfide! oses-tu bien te montrer devant moi? Monstre,"

but before the reciter could get fairly under way the door mercifully

opened, and Sir John entered. He advanced towards the Marchesa, and

shook her warmly by the hand, but said nothing; his heart was evidently

yet too full to allow him to testify his relief in words. He was

followed closely by the Colonel, who, taking his stand on the

hearth-rug, treated the company to a few remarks, couched in a strain of

unwonted eulogy. In the whole course of his life he had never passed

a more pleasant ten days, though, to be sure, he had been a little

mistrustful at first. As to the outcome of the experiment, if they

all made even moderate use of the counsels they had received from the

Marchesa, the future of cookery in England was now safe. He was not

going to propose a formal vote of thanks, because anything he could say

would be entirely insufficient to express the gratitude he felt, and

because he deemed that each individual could best thank the Marchesa on

his or her behalf.

There was a momentary silence when the Colonel ceased, and then a

clearing of the throat and a preliminary movement of the arms gave

warning that Mrs. Gradinger was going to speak. The unspoken passage

from Racine evidently sat heavily on her chest. Abstracted and

overwrought as he was, these symptoms aroused in Sir John a

consciousness of impending danger, and he rushed, incontinent, into the

breach, before the lady's opening sentence was ready.

"As Colonel Trestrail has just remarked, we, all of us, are in debt to

the Marchesa in no small degree; but, in my case, the debt is tenfold.

I am sure you all understand why. As a slight acknowledgment of the

sympathy I have received from every one here, during my late trial, I

beg to ask you all to dine with me this day week, when I will try to

set before you a repast a la Francaise, which I hope may equal, I cannot

hope that it will excel, the dinners all'Italiana we have tasted in this

happy retreat. Narcisse and I have already settled the menu."

"I am delighted to accept," said the Marchesa. "I have no engagement,

and if I had I would throw my best friend over."

"And this day fortnight you must all dine with me," said Mrs. Sinclair.

"I will spend the intervening days in teaching my new cook how to

reproduce the Marchesa's dishes. Then, perhaps, we may be in a better

position to decide on the success of the Marchesa's experiment."

* * * * *

The next morning witnessed the dispersal of the party. Sir John and

Narcisse left by an early train, and for the next few days the reforming

hand of the last-named was active in the kitchen. He arrived before the

departure of the temporary aide, and had not been half-an-hour in the

house before there came an outbreak which might easily have ended in the

second appearance of Narcisse at the bar of justice, as homicide, this

time to be dealt with by a prosaic British jury, which would probably

have doomed him to the halter. Sir John listened over the balusters to

the shrieks and howls of his recovered treasure, and wisely decided to

lunch at his club. But the club lunch, admirable as it was, seemed flat

and unappetising after the dainty yet simple dishes he had recently

tasted; and the following day he set forth to search for one of those

Italian restaurants, of which he had heard vague reports. Certainly the

repast would not be the same as at the "Laurestinas," but it might serve

for once. Alas! Sir John did not find the right place, for there are

"right places" amongst the Italian restaurants of London. He beat a

hasty retreat from the first he entered, when the officious proprietor

assured him that he would serve up a dejeuner in the best French style.

At the second he chose a dish with an Italian name, but the name was the

only Italian thing about it. The experiment had failed. It seemed as

if Italian restaurateurs were sworn not to cook Italian dishes, and the

next day he went to do as best he could at the club.

But before he reached the club door he recalled how, many years ago, he

and other young bloods used to go for chops to Morton's, a queer little

house at the back of St. James' Street, and towards Morton's he

now turned his steps. As he entered it, it seemed as if it was only

yesterday that he was there. He beheld the waiter, with mouth all awry,

through calling down the tube. The same old mahogany partitions to the

boxes, and the same horse-hair benches. Sir John seated himself in a

box, where there was one other luncher in the corner, deeply absorbed

over a paper. This luncher raised his head and Sir John recognised Van

der Roet.

"My dear Vander, whatever brought you here, where nothing is to be had

but chops? I didn't know you could eat a chop."

"I didn't know it myself till to-day," said Van der Roet, with a hungry

glance at the waiter, who rushed by with a plate of smoking chops in

each hand. "The fact is, I've had a sort of hankering after an Italian

lunch, and I went out to find one, but I didn't exactly hit on the right

shop, so I came here, where I've been told you can get a chop properly

cooked, if you don't mind waiting."

"Ah! I see," said Sir John, laughing. "We've both been on the same

quest, and have been equally unlucky. Well, we shall satisfy our hunger

here at any rate, and not unpleasantly either."

"I went to one place," said Van der Roet "and before ordering I asked

the waiter if there was any garlic in the dish I had ordered. 'Garlic,

aglio, no, sir, never.' Whereupon I thought I would go somewhere else.

Next I entered the establishment of Baldassare Romanelli. How could

a man with such a name serve anything else than the purest Italian

cookery, I reasoned, so I ordered, unquestioning, a piatio with an

ideal Italian name, Manzo alla Terracina. Alas! the beef used in the

composition thereof must have come in a refrigerating chamber from

pastures more remote than those of Terracina, and the sauce served with

it was simply fried onions. In short, my dish was beefsteak and onions,

and very bad at that. So in despair I fell back upon the trusty British

chop."

As Van der Roet ceased speaking another guest entered the room, and he

and Sir John listened attentively while the new-comer gave his order.

There was no mistaking the Colonel's strident voice. "Now, look here! I

want a chop underdone, underdone, you understand, with a potato, and a

small glass of Scotch whisky, and I'll sit here."

"The Colonel, by Jove," said Sir John; "I expect he's been

restaurant-hunting too."

"Hallo!" said the Colonel, as he recognised the other two, "I never

thought I should meet you here: fact is, I've been reading about

agricultural depression' and how it is the duty of everybody to eat

chops so as to encourage the mutton trade, and that sort of thing."

"Oh, Colonel, Colonel," said Van der Roet. "You know you've been

hungering after the cookery of Italy, and trying to find a genuine

Italian lunch, and have failed, just as Sir John and I failed, and have

come here in despair. But never mind, just wait for a year or so, until

the 'Cook's Decameron' has had a fair run for its money, and then you'll

find you'll fare as well at the ordinary Italian restaurant as you did

at the 'Laurestinas,' and that's saying a good deal."