THE ART OF DINING.
"If you'd be a healthy sinner,
Eat with judgment when at dinner,
And remember with a shiver
Man is governed by his liver;
Viands rich and wine in plenty
Spoil life's _dolce far niente_.
He who shuns this vital question
Suffers soon from indigestion;
The corner-stone of dissipation
Is to act with moderation."
When the sceptre of the Cæsars passed into the hands of St. Peter and
his successors, it carried with it among other fixtures--to use a
legal expression--the art of giving a good dinner. The clergy have,
therefore, always been famous for their attention to creature
comforts, and among the various arts which they rescued from the wreck
of the classic world, the art of dining is certainly one of which they
were most careful.
In England the fat abbots and portly monks of the past have been
transmuted, through the agency of that royal magician, Henry VIII,
into the comfortable bishops and delectable vicars of the present; but
the change is actually only in the Thirty-nine Articles, and the
science of gastronomy still has its wisest savants among the clergy.
It is true that some ascetics, wishing to return to the bosom of the
Romish Church, have denied themselves all dainties in favour of
lentils and pulse; but, unlike Daniel and his friends, they are no
fairer for doing so; yet the general run of curates (provided they are
well paid), rectors, vicars, deans, bishops, yea, even archbishops,
are worthy successors to the clerical gourmands of the Middle Ages so
satirised by Rabelais, and are as careful of their cellars and
kitchens as of their churches and parishioners.
Mr. Clendon, dry-as-dust grubber among ancient folios as he was, by no
means neglected the substance for the shadow, and satisfied his brain,
his stomach, and his palate in equal measure--the former by means of
choice editions, the latter by choice viands; but, truth to tell, he
to all appearances throve more on the library than on the kitchen.
The number of guests at dinner, according to some gastronomical
worthy, should never be less than the three Graces nor greater than
the nine Muses, so Vicar Clendon had taken this sage advice by
limiting the friends assembled round his hospitable board to eight
people, the sexes being in equal numbers, _i.e_. four of the one and
four of the other.
The host took in Mrs. Valpy. A most admirable arrangement, as both
were fond of their victuals, and thought eating preferable to talking,
especially when the cook was a good one, as happened in this case.
Mr. Gelthrip escorted Mrs. Belswin. Fire and water! Sweet and sour!
Black and white! Two galley slaves chained together against their will
could not have been less suited than the clergyman and the companion
were to one another. Good-breeding forbade either resenting the
juxtaposition, so they had smiles on their faces and rage in their
hearts at being thus coupled so unsuitably by their Amphitryon.
The engaged ones, of course, went dining-room-wards together--a good
omen of the future, in the eyes of both, hinting that they would thus
wander side by side towards the good things of this life.
Archie was squire to Kaituna. Ecstasy! Rapture! Bliss! Ah, how poor a
language is English when required to express the joy of two lovers
coming together for a whole evening, who have not expected Fate or
Cupid or Mother Venus to be so kind.
Out of compliment to the month of roses, Vicar Clendon gave his guests
a distinctly pink dinner, which was a novelty, both as regards viands,
wines, and artistic arrangements. In the centre of the white
tablecloth there was an oval, shaped of moist-looking emerald moss,
filled with loose rose-leaves, from the midst of which sprang rich
clusters of the flower in red, in white, and in yellow, set off here
and there by masses of green leaves. No intrusive epergne to hide the
faces of the guests from one another, but a tiny fountain shooting up
a silver thread that fell again in diamond spray over the odorous
blossoms below--rose-wreaths for the white bosoms of the ladies, rose
bouquets with entanglements of delicate maiden-hair fern for the men,
and on imitation rose-leaf menus the names of the dishes in purple
ink. Viands for the most part rose-tinted by an artistic cook, and as
for wines, there was claret deeply red, port amethystine in tint,
sparkling burgundy of rosy hues, and from the roof roseate light
suffused from a red-shaded lamp. The whole prevailing tint of this
unique meal was the rose-red of dawn, and Parson Clendon, smiling
benignly from the head of the table, felt that he had achieved a
distinct success in the way of originality, a thing to be proud of in
this century of used-up ideas.
"The Romans," observed the vicar, discursively, by way of providing a
subject of conversation, "the Romans would have enjoyed a meal served
up in this fashion."
"You are thinking of Vitellius," asserted Mr. Gelthrip, in a
dictatorial manner.
"No, sir! I am thinking of Lucullus. A gourmet, sir, not a gourmand."
Mr. Gelthrip, not being sufficiently learned either in French or
gastronomy to appreciate the subtlety of this remark, wisely held his
tongue and went on with his soup.
"If we were like the Romans, father, we should be crowned with
garlands of roses," said Toby, in order to keep the ball of
conversation rolling.
"Instead of which we wear the roses in our buttonholes," added Archie,
gaily; "not so graceful, perhaps, but more comfortable."
"Ah, we're not at all classic," observed the host, regretfully;
"dining with Lucullus we should have reclined."
"How uncomfortable!" said Tommy, saucily; "as bad as having breakfast
in bed."
"Which is where you generally have it," interposed Mrs. Valpy,
reprovingly.
"Ah!" said Toby, with a world of meaning in his tone, "I am afraid you
have not studied one Dr. Watts----"
"The early to bed man, you mean," cried Mrs. Belswin. "Horrible! I
never could see the use of his cut-and-dried little proverbs."
"His poems, madam, are very edifying," remarked Gelthrip, in a
clerical manner.
"Very probably; and like most things edifying, very dreary."
She said this so tartly that Clendon _père_ was afraid of the probable
rejoinder of his curate, so made the first remark that came into his
mind apropos of nothing in particular.
"Our conversation is like that of Praed's vicar, very discursive; we
began with the Romans, we end with Dr. Watts."
"I prefer the Romans," declared Archie, sipping his wine.
"Not their dining, surely," observed Kaituna.
"No," whispered Archie, literally _sub rosa_, for she wore a
half-opened bud in her dark hair, "because you would not have been
present. The nineteenth century, with all its faults, has one great
virtue; it allows us to dine with you."
Kaituna laughed in a pretty confused manner, whereupon Mrs. Belswin
flashed her glorious dark eyes sympathetically on the pair, for she
was now quite in favour of this, to all appearances, imprudent
marriage. Reasons two. First, the young couple loved one another
devotedly, which appealed to her womanly and maternal instincts.
Second, the match would be objected to by Sir Rupert, which pleased
the revengeful part of her nature. With these two excellent reasons
she was very satisfied, so smiled kindly on the lovers.
"Burgundy, sir?"
"Thank you, Mrs. Belswin."
That lady bowed cordially to her host and touched the rim of her glass
lightly with her lips. It is not now customary for gentlemen to drink
healths with the opposite sex at dinner, but 'tis an old-fashioned
custom, and therefore found favour with the vicar, lover of all things
antique, as he was.
"Drink to me only with thine eyes."
"A most excellent sentiment, Tobias," said his father, with a waggish
smile; "but we are not all so happily placed as you, my son."
"Every dog has its day, father."
"True! true! most true. 'Et ego in Arcadia fui.' Eh, Mr. Gelthrip?"
"I am not married, sir," responded that gentleman, stiffly.
"Nor is he likely to be," whispered Archie to his neighbour. "How
lucky--for the possible Mrs. Gelthrip."
"I'm not so sure of that," she replied in the same tone; "every Jack
has his Jill."
"Even I?"
"Yes, I suppose so."
"Oh! you are not certain?"
"How can I be certain? You do not wear your heart on your sleeve."
"Do I not?"
Kaituna was somewhat taken aback at this direct way of putting it,
and, not feeling inclined to reply in the only way in which she could
do so, looked round for a mode of escape from the pertinacity of her
companion. Help came from the vicar.
"Miss Pethram, I understand your father is coming home again."
"Yes, Mr. Clendon; I am pleased to say he is."
"Ah, no doubt! no doubt! Well, I can tell him you have been in safe
hands," responded the vicar, bowing to Mrs. Belswin, who acknowledged
the compliment with a somewhat doubtful smile.
"You have never seen Sir Rupert?" asked Toby, politely.
Mrs. Belswin started, drew her handkerchief--a flimsy feminine thing
of lace and cambric--across her dry lips, and laughed in an
embarrassed fashion as she replied--
"No, I have not seen him; but, of course, Kaituna has told me all
about him."
"Ah!" said the vicar, eyeing the rosy bubbles flashing in his glass,
"I remember Rupert Pethram very well before he went out to New
Zealand. He was a gay, light-hearted boy; but now, alas! tempora
mutantur et nos mutamur in illis."
"I can't fancy my father ever having been gay and light-hearted,"
cried Kaituna, doubtfully. "Ever since I can remember him he has been
so grave and solemn."
"Trouble! trouble!" sighed the vicar; "it changes us all."
Mrs. Belswin, affecting to arrange the wreath at her breast, darted a
lightning glance at the old man from under her long lashes.
"I wonder if Rupert told you anything," she thought, rapidly. "Bah!
what do I care if he did? This fool can do me no harm. There is only
one man I'm afraid of meeting--Rupert Pethram himself. Well, perhaps I
shall not need to meet him."
She smiled cruelly as she thought of the harm she proposed to do her
unfortunate husband, and listened idly to Mr. Gelthrip, who was
holding forth in his usual dogmatic style on the good which a moneyed
man like Sir Rupert could do to the parish of Deswarth.
"I hope, Miss Pethram," he said, turning to Kaituna, "that you will
urge upon your father the advisability of throwing open the picture
gallery at Thornstream to the villagers, in order to encourage a taste
for art."
"But they know nothing about art. The _Illustrated London News_ and
the _Graphic_ form their idea of pictures."
"They can learn, Mr. Clendon; they can learn," replied the curate,
easily. "I should like them to appreciate the old masters."
"Egad, it's a thing I could never do," cried Toby, flippantly. "I much
prefer the modern painters."
"You are a Philistine, sir."
"Humph!" said Toby, under his breath, "and this Samson is slaughtering
me with the jawbone of an ass."
"Then music," pursued Gelthrip, waxing eloquent; "a little Wagner."
"Very little," said Archie, slily; "all chords and no melody."
"I don't quite understand you," remarked Tommy, addressing Mr.
Gelthrip with a demure smile. "You believe in Doctor Watts and Richard
Wagner. Isn't it rather difficult to reconcile the two things?"
"Not at all, Miss Valpy. Wagner is understandable by the meanest
mind."
"Meaning himself," whispered Archie, with a laugh.
"The fact is," observed Mr. Clendon, with mock solemnity, "that when
my worthy friend can get our labourers to descant learnedly on Claude
Lorraine, Michael Angelo, and Titian, read and appreciate George
Meredith's novels--of whom, Tobias, I have heard you speak--and
understand the advanced school of music, of which I myself know
nothing, he will have accomplished his life's work."
"It would be a worthy career for a man," said Gelthrip, energetically.
"So I think," remarked Mrs. Belswin, dryly; "but if you make all your
labourers so learned, Mr. Gelthrip, I'm afraid they won't do much
work. Instead of hedging and ditching, they will take to admiring the
sunsets."
"And to analysing the music of the lark."
"Or comparing the latest novelist's description of Nature to the
disadvantage of the real thing."
Mr. Gelthrip bore all this sarcasm with equanimity, smiling benignly
all the time. He was an enthusiast on the subject, and had a hide
impervious to shafts of ridicule, however skilfully launched. His
scheme was simple. Sir Rupert had plenty of money, and, judging from
his daughter's description, seemed to be philanthropically inclined.
Mr. Gelthrip had full power in the parish--as his superior was too
much taken up with the middle ages to pay attention to the nineteenth
century--so he determined, with the aid of Sir Rupert's money and his
own brains, to make Deswarth a model village in the matter of culture
and high art. As to religion--well, Mr. Gelthrip was a clergyman, and
thought he could mingle religion and high art together so as to make
them palatable to his children-of-nature parishioners. Meanwhile his
ideas stood in this order: culture, high art, religion. Alas for the
possible model parish and the souls of its occupants!
This, however, is talk of futurity; but at present, the ladies, headed
by Mrs. Valpy, retired, leaving the four gentlemen to their wine.
"Tobias!" said his father, benevolently--a man must feel benevolent
with a glass of '34 port in his hand. "Tobias, to the health of your
bride."
"Thank you, father," replied Toby, gratefully, touching his lips with
the glass. "Archie! to the future Mrs. Maxwell."
"Ah! Ah!" remarked the old gentleman, smiling. "Has it gone as far as
that?"
"Not yet, sir."
Archie was blushing deeply, being an ingenuous youth, and unused to
such public compliments.
"I'll bet," whispered Toby, looking at him gravely, "that you'll have
something to say to me to-night over a pipe."
"Do you think so?" faltered Archie, toying with his glass.
"I speak," said Clendon _fils_, "I speak from experience, having
proposed and been accepted."
"I can do the first, but what about the second?"
"Faint heart," remarked Toby, judiciously, "never won fair lady."
"Then I'll take your advice this very night," said Archie,
desperately.
"I am," remarked Toby, as he lifted his glass, "a prophet in a small
way. Old boy, your hand. To the health of our double marriage--and no
heeltaps."
Archie finished his glass.