Produced by David Widger
TANCRED
OR
THE NEW CRUSADE
By Benjamin Disraeli
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CHAPTER I.
_A Matter of Importance_
IN THAT part of the celebrated parish of St. George which is bounded on
one side by Piccadilly and on the other by Curzon Street, is a district
of a peculiar character. ‘Tis cluster of small streets of little houses,
frequently intersected by mews, which here are numerous, and sometimes
gradually, rather than abruptly, terminating in a ramification of those
mysterious regions. Sometimes a group of courts develops itself, and
you may even chance to find your way into a small market-place. Those,
however, who are accustomed to connect these hidden residences of
the humble with scenes of misery and characters of violence, need not
apprehend in this district any appeal to their sympathies, or any shock
to their tastes. All is extremely genteel; and there is almost as much
repose as in the golden saloons of the contiguous palaces. At any rate,
if there be as much vice, there is as little crime.
No sight or sound can be seen or heard at any hour, which could pain the
most precise or the most fastidious. Even if a chance oath may float on
the air from the stable-yard to the lodging of a French cook, ‘tis of
the newest fashion, and, if responded to with less of novel charm, the
repartee is at least conveyed in the language of the most polite of
nations. They bet upon the Derby in these parts a little, are interested
in Goodwood, which they frequent, have perhaps, in general, a weakness
for play, live highly, and indulge those passions which luxury and
refinement encourage; but that is all.
A policeman would as soon think of reconnoitring these secluded streets
as of walking into a house in Park Lane or Berkeley Square, to which,
in fact, this population in a great measure belongs. For here reside the
wives of house-stewards and of butlers, in tenements furnished by the
honest savings of their husbands, and let in lodgings to increase their
swelling incomes; here dwells the retired servant, who now devotes
his practised energies to the occasional festival, which, with his
accumulations in the three per cents., or in one of the public-houses of
the quarter, secures him at the same time an easy living, and the casual
enjoyment of that great world which lingers in his memory. Here may be
found his grace’s coachman, and here his lordship’s groom, who keeps a
book and bleeds periodically too speculative footmen, by betting odds
on his master’s horses. But, above all, it is in this district that
the cooks have ever sought a favourite and elegant abode. An air of
stillness and serenity, of exhausted passions and suppressed emotion,
rather than of sluggishness and of dullness, distinguishes this quarter
during the day.
When you turn from the vitality and brightness of Piccadilly, the
park, the palace, the terraced mansions, the sparkling equipages, the
cavaliers cantering up the hill, the swarming multitude, and enter
the region of which we are speaking, the effect is at first almost
unearthly. Not a carriage, not a horseman, scarcely a passenger; there
seems some great and sudden collapse in the metropolitan system, as if
a pest had been announced, or an enemy were expected in alarm by a
vanquished capital. The approach from Curzon Street has not this effect.
Hyde Park has still about it something of Arcadia. There are woods and
waters, and the occasional illusion of an illimitable distance of sylvan
joyance. The spirit is allured to gentle thoughts as we wander in what
is still really a lane, and, turning down Stanhope Street, behold that
house which the great Lord Chesterfield tells us, in one of his letters,
he was ‘building among the fields.’ The cawing of the rooks in his
gardens sustains the tone of mind, and Curzon Street, after a long,
straggling, sawney course, ceasing to be a thoroughfare, and losing
itself in the gardens of another palace, is quite in keeping with all
the accessories.
In the night, however, the quarter of which we are speaking is alive.
The manners of the population follow those of their masters. They keep
late hours. The banquet and the ball dismiss them to their homes at a
time when the trades of ordinary regions move in their last sleep, and
dream of opening shutters and decking the windows of their shops.
At night, the chariot whirls round the frequent corners of these little
streets, and the opening valves of the mews vomit forth their legion
of broughams. At night, too, the footman, taking advantage of a ball
at Holdernesse, or a concert at Lansdowne House, and knowing that,
in either instance, the link-boy will answer when necessary for his
summoned name, ventures to look in at his club, reads the paper, talks
of his master or his mistress, and perhaps throws a main. The shops of
this district, depending almost entirely for their custom on the classes
we have indicated, and kept often by their relations, follow the order
of the place, and are most busy when other places of business are
closed.
A gusty March morning had subsided into a sunshiny afternoon, nearly two
years ago, when a young man, slender, above the middle height, with a
physiognomy thoughtful yet delicate, his brown hair worn long, slight
whiskers, on his chin a tuft, knocked at the door of a house in
Carrington Street, May Fair. His mien and his costume denoted a
character of the class of artists. He wore a pair of green trousers,
braided with a black stripe down their sides, puckered towards the
waist, yet fitting with considerable precision to the boot of French
leather that enclosed a well-formed foot. His waistcoat was of maroon
velvet, displaying a steel watch-chain of refined manufacture, and a
black satin cravat, with a coral brooch. His bright blue frockcoat was
frogged and braided like his trousers. As the knocker fell from the
primrose-coloured glove that screened his hand, he uncovered, and
passing his fingers rapidly through his hair, resumed his new silk hat,
which he placed rather on one side of his head.
‘Ah! Mr. Leander, is it you?’ exclaimed a pretty girl, who opened the
door and blushed.
‘And how is the good papa, Eugenie? Is he at home? For I want to see him
much.’
‘I will show you up to him at once, Mr. Leander, for he will be very
happy to see you. We have been thinking of hearing of you,’ she added,
talking as she ushered her guest up the narrow staircase. ‘The good papa
has a little cold: ‘tis not much, I hope; caught at Sir Wallinger’s, a
large dinner; they would have the kitchen windows open, which spoilt all
the entrées, and papa got a cold; but I think, perhaps, it is as much
vexation as anything else, you know if anything goes wrong, especially
with the entrées------’
‘He feels as a great artist must,’ said Leander, finishing her sentence.
‘However, I am not sorry at this moment to find him a prisoner, for I
am pressed to see him. It is only this morning that I have returned from
Mr. Coningsby’s at Hellingsley: the house full, forty covers every
day, and some judges. One does not grudge one’s labour if we are
appreciated,’ added Leander; ‘but I have had my troubles. One of my
marmitons has disappointed me: I thought I had a genius, but on the
third day he lost his head; and had it not been---- Ah! good papa,’
he exclaimed, as the door opened, and he came forward and warmly shook
the hand of a portly man, advanced in middle life, sitting in an easy
chair, with a glass of sugared water by his side, and reading a French
newspaper in his chamber robe, and with a white cotton nightcap on his
head.
‘Ah! my child,’ said Papa Prevost, ‘is it you? You see me a prisoner;
Eugenie has told you; a dinner at a merchant’s; dressed in a draught;
everything spoiled, and I------’ and sighing, Papa Prevost sipped his
_eau sucrée_.
‘We have all our troubles,’ said Leander, in a consoling tone; ‘but
we will not speak now of vexations. I have just come from the country;
Daubuz has written to me twice; he was at my house last night; I found
him on my steps this morning. There is a grand affair on the tapis.
The son of the Duke of Bellamont comes of age at Easter; it is to be a
business of the thousand and one nights; the whole county to be feasted.
Camacho’s wedding will do for the peasantry; roasted oxen, and a
capon in every platter, with some fountains of ale and good Porto. Our
marmitons, too, can easily serve the provincial noblesse; but there is
to be a party at the Castle, of double cream; princes of the blood,
high relatives and grandees of the Golden Fleece. The duke’s cook is not
equal to the occasion. ‘Tis an hereditary chef who gives dinners of the
time of the continental blockade. They have written to Daubuz to send
them the first artist of the age,’ said Leander; ‘and,’ added he, with
some hesitation, ‘Daubuz has written to me.’
‘And he did quite right, my child,’ said Prevost, ‘for there is not a
man in Europe that is your equal. What do they say? That Abreu rivals
you in flavour, and that Gaillard has not less invention. But who can
combine _goût_ with new combinations? ‘Tis yourself, Leander; and there
is no question, though you have only twenty-five years, that you are the
chef of the age.’
‘You are always very good to me, sir,’ said Leander, bending his head
with great respect; ‘and I will not deny that to be famous when you are
young is the fortune of the gods. But we must never forget that I had an
advantage which Abreu and Gaillard had not, and that I was your pupil.’
‘I hope that I have not injured you,’ said Papa Prevost, with an air of
proud self-content. ‘What you learned from me came at least from a good
school. It is something to have served under Napoleon,’ added Prevost,
with the grand air of the Imperial kitchen. ‘Had it not been for
Waterloo, I should have had the cross. But the Bourbons and the cooks
of the Empire never could understand each other: They brought over an
emigrant chef, who did not comprehend the taste of the age. He wished to
bring everything back to the time of the _oeil de bouf_. When Monsieur
passed my soup of Austerlitz untasted, I knew the old family was doomed.
But we gossip. You wished to consult me?’
‘I want not only your advice but your assistance. This affair of the
Duke of Bellamont requires all our energies. I hope you will accompany
me; and, indeed, we must muster all our forces. It is not to be denied
that there is a want, not only of genius, but of men, in our art. The
cooks are like the civil engineers: since the middle class have taken to
giving dinners, the demand exceeds the supply.’
‘There is Andrien,’ said Papa Prevost; ‘you had some hopes of him?’
‘He is too young; I took him to Hellingsley, and he lost his head on
the third day. I entrusted the soufflées to him, and, but for the most
desperate personal exertions, all would have been lost. It was an affair
of the bridge of Areola.’
‘Ah! _mon Dieu!_ those are moments!’ exclaimed Prevost. ‘Gaillard and
Abreu will not serve under you, eh? And if they would, they could not be
trusted. They would betray you at the tenth hour.’
‘What I want are generals of division, not commanders-in-chief. Abreu is
sufficiently _bon garçon_, but he has taken an engagement with Monsieur
de Sidonia, and is not permitted to go out.’
‘With Monsieur de Sidonia! You once thought of that, my Leander. And
what is his salary?’
‘Not too much; four hundred and some perquisites. It would not suit me;
besides, I will take no engagement but with a crowned head. But Abreu
likes travelling, and he has his own carriage, which pleases him.’
‘There are Philippon and Dumoreau,’ said Prevost; ‘they are very safe.’
‘I was thinking of them,’ said Leander, ‘they are safe, under you.
And there is an Englishman, Smit, he is chef at Sir Stanley’s, but his
master is away at this moment. He has talent.’
‘Yourself, four chefs, with your marmitons; it would do,’ said Prevost.
‘For the kitchen,’ said Leander; ‘but who is to dress the tables?’
‘A-h!’ exclaimed Papa Prevost, shaking his head.
‘Daubuz’ head man, Trenton, is the only one I could trust; and he wants
fancy, though his style is broad and bold. He made a pyramid of pines
relieved with grapes, without destroying the outline, very good, this
last week, at Hellingsley. But Trenton has been upset on the railroad,
and much injured. Even if he recover, his hand will tremble so for the
next month that! could have no confidence in him.’
‘Perhaps you might find some one at the Duke’s?’
‘Out of the question!’ said Leander; ‘I make it always a condition
that the head of every department shall be appointed by myself. I take
Pellerini with me for the confectionery. How often have I seen the
effect of a first-rate dinner spoiled by a vulgar dessert! laid flat on
the table, for example, or with ornaments that look as if they had been
hired at a pastrycook’s: triumphal arches, and Chinese pagodas, and
solitary pines springing up out of ice-tubs surrounded with peaches, as
if they were in the window of a fruiterer of Covent Garden.’
‘Ah! it is incredible what uneducated people will do,’ said Prevost.
‘The dressing of the tables was a department of itself in the Imperial
kitchen.’
‘It demands an artist of a high calibre,’ said Leander. ‘I know only
one man who realises my idea, and he is at St. Petersburg. You do not
know Anastase? There is a man! But the Emperor has him secure. He can
scarcely complain, however, since he is decorated, and has the rank of
full colonel.’
‘Ah!’ said Prevost, mournfully, ‘there is no recognition of genius in
this country. What think you of Vanesse, my child? He has had a regular
education.’
‘In a bad school: as a pis aller one might put up with him. But his
eternal tiers of bonbons! As if they were ranged for a supper of the
Carnival, and my guests were going to pelt each other! No, I could not
stand Vanesse, papa.’
‘The dressing of the table: ‘tis a rare talent,’ said Prevost,
mournfully, ‘and always was. In the Imperial kitchen------’
‘Papa,’ said Eugenie, opening the door, and putting in her head, ‘here
is Monsieur Vanillette just come from Brussels. He has brought you a
basket of truffles from Ardennes. I told him you were on business, but
to-night, if you be at home, he could come.’
‘Vanillette!’ exclaimed Prevost, starting in his chair, ‘our little
Vanillette! There is your man, Le-ander. He was my first pupil, as you
were my last, my child. Bring up our little Vanillette, Eugenie. He is
in the household of King Leopold, and his forte is dressing the table!’