JABBERING AND JAM.
When the last lady had disappeared, and the Earl, taking his place at
the head of the table, had issued the military order “Gentlemen! Close
up the ranks, if you please!”, and when, in obedience to his command, we
had gathered ourselves compactly round him, the pompous man gave a deep
sigh of relief, filled his glass to the brim, pushed on the wine, and
began one of his favorite orations. “They are charming, no doubt!
Charming, but very frivolous. They drag us down, so to speak, to a lower
level. They——”
“Do not all pronouns require antecedent _nouns_?” the Earl gently
enquired.
“Pardon me,” said the pompous man, with lofty condescension. “I had
overlooked the noun. The ladies. We regret their absence. Yet we console
ourselves. _Thought is free._ With them, we are limited to _trivial_
topics—Art, Literature, Politics, and so forth. One can bear to discuss
_such_ paltry matters with a lady. But no man, in his senses—” (he
looked sternly round the table, as if defying contradiction) “—ever yet
discussed _WINE_ with a lady!” He sipped his glass of port, leaned back
in his chair, and slowly raised it up to his eye, so as to look through
it at the lamp. “The vintage, my Lord?” he enquired, glancing at his
host.
The Earl named the date.
“So I had supposed. But one likes to be certain. The _tint_ is, perhaps,
slightly pale. But the _body_ is unquestionable. And as for the
_bouquet_——”
Ah, that magic Bouquet! How vividly that single word recalled the scene!
The little beggar-boy turning his somersault in the road—the sweet
little crippled maiden in my arms—the mysterious evanescent
nurse-maid—all rushed tumultuously into my mind, like the creatures of a
dream: and through this mental haze there still boomed on, like the
tolling of a bell, the solemn voice of the great connoisseur of _WINE_!
Even _his_ utterances had taken on themselves a strange and dream-like
form. “No,” he resumed—and _why_ is it, I pause to ask, that, in taking
up the broken thread of a dialogue, one _always_ begins with this
cheerless monosyllable? After much anxious thought, I have come to the
conclusion that the object in view is the same as that of the schoolboy,
when the sum he is working has got into a hopeless muddle, and when in
despair he takes the sponge, washes it all out, and begins again. Just
in the same way the bewildered orator, by the simple process of denying
_everything_ that has been hitherto asserted, makes a clean sweep of the
whole discussion, and can ‘start fair’ with a fresh theory. “No,” he
resumed: “there’s nothing like cherry-jam, after all. That’s what _I_
say!”
“Not for _all_ qualities!” an eager little man shrilly interposed. “For
_richness_ of general tone I don’t say that it _has_ a rival. But for
_delicacy_ of modulation—for what one may call the ‘_harmonics_’ of
flavour—give _me_ good old _raspberry_-jam!”
“Allow me one word!” The fat red-faced man, quite hoarse with
excitement, broke into the dialogue. “It’s too important a question to
be settled by Amateurs! I can give you the views of a
_Professional_—perhaps the most experienced jam-taster now living. Why,
I’ve known him fix the age of strawberry-jam, to a _day_—and we all know
what a difficult jam it is to give a date to—on a single tasting! Well,
I put to him the _very_ question you are discussing. His words were
‘_cherry_-jam is best, for mere _chiaroscuro_ of flavour:
_raspberry_-jam lends itself best to those resolved discords that linger
so lovingly on the tongue: but, for rapturous _utterness_ of saccharine
perfection, it’s _apricot-jam first and the rest nowhere_!’ That was
well put, _wasn’t_ it?”
“Consummately put!” shrieked the eager little man.
“I know your friend well,” said the pompous man. “As a jam-taster, he
has no rival! Yet I scarcely think——”
But here the discussion became general: and his words were lost in a
confused medley of names, every guest sounding the praises of his own
favorite jam. At length, through the din, our host’s voice made itself
heard. “Let us join the ladies!” These words seemed to recall me to
waking life; and I felt sure that, for the last few minutes, I had
relapsed into the ‘eerie’ state.
“A strange dream!” I said to myself as we trooped upstairs. “Grown men
discussing, as seriously as if they were matters of life and death, the
hopelessly trivial details of mere _delicacies_, that appeal to no
higher human function than the nerves of the tongue and palate! What a
humiliating spectacle such a discussion would be in waking life!”
When, on our way to the drawing-room, I received from the housekeeper my
little friends, clad in the daintiest of evening costumes, and looking,
in the flush of expectant delight, more radiantly beautiful than I had
ever seen them before, I felt no shock of surprise, but accepted the
fact with the same unreasoning apathy with which one meets the events of
a dream, and was merely conscious of a vague anxiety as to how they
would acquit themselves in so novel a scene—forgetting that Court-life
in Outland was as good training as they could need for Society in the
more substantial world.
It would be best, I thought, to introduce them as soon as possible to
some good-natured lady-guest, and I selected the young lady whose
piano-forte-playing had been so much talked of. “I am sure you like
children,” I said. “May I introduce two little friends of mine? This is
Sylvie—and this is Bruno.”
The young lady kissed Sylvie very graciously. She would have done the
same for _Bruno_, but he hastily drew back out of reach. “Their faces
are new to me,” she said. “Where do you come from, my dear?”
I had not anticipated so inconvenient a question; and, fearing that it
might embarrass Sylvie, I answered for her. “They come from some
distance. They are only here just for this one evening.”
“How far have you come, dear?” the young lady persisted.
Sylvie looked puzzled. “A mile or two, I _think_,” she said doubtfully.
“A mile or _three_,” said Bruno.
“You shouldn’t say ‘a mile or _three_,’” Sylvie corrected him.
The young lady nodded approval. “Sylvie’s quite right. It isn’t usual to
say ‘a mile or _three_.’”
“It would be usual—if we said it often enough,” said Bruno.
It was the young lady’s turn to look puzzled now. “He’s very quick, for
his age!” she murmured. “You’re not more than seven, are you, dear?” she
added aloud.
“I’m not so many as _that_,” said Bruno. “I’m _one_. Sylvie’s _one_.
Sylvie and me is _two_. _Sylvie_ taught me to count.”
“Oh, I wasn’t _counting_ you, you know!” the young lady laughingly
replied.
“Hasn’t oo _learnt_ to count?” said Bruno.
The young lady bit her lip. “Dear! What embarrassing questions he _does_
ask!” she said in a half-audible ‘aside.’
“Bruno, you shouldn’t!” Sylvie said reprovingly.
“Shouldn’t _what_?” said Bruno.
“You shouldn’t ask—that sort of questions.”
“_What_ sort of questions?” Bruno mischievously persisted.
“What _she_ told you not,” Sylvie replied, with a shy glance at the
young lady, and losing all sense of grammar in her confusion.
“Oo ca’n’t pronounce it!” Bruno triumphantly cried. And he turned to the
young lady, for sympathy in his victory. “I _knewed_ she couldn’t
pronounce ‘umbrella-sting’!”
The young lady thought it best to return to the arithmetical problem.
“When I asked if you were _seven_, you know, I didn’t mean ‘how many
_children_?’ I meant ‘how many _years_——’”
“Only got _two_ ears,” said Bruno. “Nobody’s got _seven_ ears.”
“And you belong to this little girl?” the young lady continued,
skilfully evading the anatomical problem.
“No, I doosn’t belong to _her_!” said Bruno. “Sylvie belongs to _me_!”
And he clasped his arms round her as he added “She are my very mine!”
“And, do you know,” said the young lady, “I’ve a little sister at home,
exactly like _your_ sister? I’m sure they’d love each other.”
“They’d be very extremely useful to each other,” Bruno said,
thoughtfully. “And they wouldn’t want no looking-glasses to brush their
hair wiz.”
“Why not, my child?”
“Why, each one would do for the other one’s looking-glass, a-course!”
cried Bruno.
But here Lady Muriel, who had been standing by, listening to this
bewildering dialogue, interrupted it to ask if the young lady would
favour us with some music; and the children followed their new friend to
the piano.
Arthur came and sat down by me. “If rumour speaks truly,” he whispered,
“we are to have a real treat!” And then, amid a breathless silence, the
performance began.
She was one of those players whom Society talks of as ‘brilliant,’ and
she dashed into the loveliest of Haydn’s Symphonies in a style that was
clearly the outcome of years of patient study under the best masters. At
first it seemed to be the perfection of piano-forte-playing; but in a
few minutes I began to ask myself, wearily, “_What_ is it that is
wanting? _Why_ does one get no pleasure from it?”
Then I set myself to listen intently to every note; and the mystery
explained itself. There _was_ an almost-perfect mechanical
_correctness_—and there was nothing else! False notes, of course, did
not occur: she knew the piece too well for _that_; but there was just
enough irregularity of _time_ to betray that the player had no real
‘ear’ for music—just enough inarticulateness in the more elaborate
passages to show that she did not think her audience worth taking real
pains for—just enough mechanical monotony of accent to take all _soul_
out of the heavenly modulations she was profaning—in short, it was
simply irritating; and, when she had rattled off the finale and had
struck the final chord as if, the instrument being now done with, it
didn’t matter how many wires she broke, I could not even _affect_ to
join in the stereotyped “Oh, _thank_ you!” which was chorused around me.
Lady Muriel joined us for a moment. “Isn’t it _beautiful_?” she
whispered, to Arthur, with a mischievous smile.
“No, it isn’t!” said Arthur. But the gentle sweetness of his face quite
neutralised the apparent rudeness of the reply.
“Such execution, you know!” she persisted.
“That’s what she _deserves_,” Arthur doggedly replied: “but people are
so prejudiced against capital——”
“Now you’re beginning to talk nonsense!” Lady Muriel cried. “But you
_do_ like Music, don’t you? You said so just now.”
“Do I like _Music_?” the Doctor repeated softly to himself. “My dear
Lady Muriel, there is Music and Music. Your question is painfully vague.
You might as well ask ‘Do you like _People_?’”
Lady Muriel bit her lip, frowned, and stamped with one tiny foot. As a
dramatic representation of ill-temper, it was distinctly _not_ a
success. However, it took in _one_ of her audience, and Bruno hastened
to interpose, as peacemaker in a rising quarrel, with the remark “_I_
likes Peoples!”
Arthur laid a loving hand on the little curly head. “What? _All_
Peoples?” he enquired.
“Not _all_ Peoples,” Bruno explained. “Only but Sylvie—and Lady
Muriel—and him—” (pointing to the Earl) “and oo—and oo!”
“You shouldn’t point at people,” said Sylvie. “It’s very rude.”
“In Bruno’s World,” I said, “there are only _four_ People—worth
mentioning!”
“In Bruno’s World!” Lady Muriel repeated thoughtfully. “A bright and
flowery world. Where the grass is always green, where the breezes always
blow softly, and the rain-clouds never gather; where there are no wild
beasts, and no deserts——”
“There _must_ be deserts,” Arthur decisively remarked. “At least if it
was _my_ ideal world.”
“But what possible use is there in a _desert_?” said Lady Muriel.
“_Surely_ you would have no wilderness in your ideal world?”
Arthur smiled. “But indeed I _would_!” he said. “A wilderness would be
more necessary than a railway; and _far_ more conducive to general
happiness than church-bells!”
“But what would you use it for?”
“_To practise music in_,” he replied. “All the young ladies, that have
no ear for music, but insist on learning it, should be conveyed, every
morning, two or three miles into the wilderness. There each would find a
comfortable room provided for her, and also a cheap second-hand
piano-forte, on which she might play for hours, without adding one
needless pang to the sum of human misery!”
Lady Muriel glanced round in alarm, lest these barbarous sentiments
should be overheard. But the fair musician was at a safe distance. “At
any rate you must allow that she’s a sweet girl?” she resumed.
“Oh, certainly. As sweet as _eau sucrée_, if you choose—and nearly as
interesting!”
“You are incorrigible!” said Lady Muriel, and turned to me. “I hope you
found Mrs. Mills an interesting companion?”
“Oh, _that’s_ her name, is it?” I said. “I fancied there was _more_ of
it.”
“So there is: and it will be ‘at your proper peril’ (whatever that may
mean) if you ever presume to address her as ‘Mrs. Mills.’ She is ‘Mrs.
Ernest—Atkinson—Mills’!”
“She is one of those would-be grandees,” said Arthur, “who think that,
by tacking on to their surname all their spare Christian-names, with
hyphens between, they can give it an aristocratic flavour. As if it
wasn’t trouble enough to remember _one_ surname!”
By this time the room was getting crowded, as the guests, invited for
the evening-party, were beginning to arrive, and Lady Muriel had to
devote herself to the task of welcoming them, which she did with the
sweetest grace imaginable. Sylvie and Bruno stood by her, deeply
interested in the process.
“I hope you like my friends?” she said to them. “Specially my dear old
friend, Mein Herr (What’s become of him, I wonder? Oh, there he is!),
that old gentleman in spectacles, with a long beard?”
“He’s a grand old gentleman!” Sylvie said, gazing admiringly at ‘Mein
Herr,’ who had settled down in a corner, from which his mild eyes beamed
on us through a gigantic pair of spectacles. “And what a lovely beard!”
“What does he call his-self?” Bruno whispered.
“He calls himself ‘Mein Herr,’” Sylvie whispered in reply.
Bruno shook his head impatiently. “That’s what he calls his _hair_, not
his _self_, oo silly!” He appealed to me. “What doos he call his _self_,
Mister Sir?”
“That’s the only name _I_ know of,” I said. “But he looks very lonely.
Don’t you pity his grey hairs?”
“I pities his _self_,” said Bruno, still harping on the misnomer; “but I
doosn’t pity his _hair_, one bit. His _hair_ ca’n’t feel!”
“We met him this afternoon,” said Sylvie. “We’d been to see Nero, and
we’d had _such_ fun with him, making him invisible again! And we saw
that nice old gentleman as we came back.”
“Well, let’s go and talk to him, and cheer him up a little,” I said:
“and perhaps we shall find out what he calls himself.”