GAMMON AND SPINACH.
My landlady’s welcome had an extra heartiness about it: and though, with
a rare delicacy of feeling, she made no direct allusion to the friend
whose companionship had done so much to brighten life for me, I felt
sure that it was a kindly sympathy with my solitary state that made her
so specially anxious to do all she could think of to ensure my comfort,
and make me feel at home.
The lonely evening seemed long and tedious: yet I lingered on, watching
the dying fire, and letting Fancy mould the red embers into the forms
and faces belonging to bygone scenes. Now it seemed to be Bruno’s
roguish smile that sparkled for a moment, and died away: now it was
Sylvie’s rosy cheek: and now the Professor’s jolly round face, beaming
with delight. “You’re welcome, my little ones!” he seemed to say. And
then the red coal, which for the moment embodied the dear old Professor,
began to wax dim, and with its dying lustre the words seemed to die away
into silence. I seized the poker, and with an artful touch or two
revived the waning glow, while Fancy—no coy minstrel she—sang me once
again the magic strain I loved to hear.
“You’re welcome, little ones!” the cheery voice repeated. “I told them
you were coming. Your rooms are all ready for you. And the Emperor and
the Empress—well, I think they’re rather pleased than otherwise! In
fact, Her Highness said ‘I hope they’ll be in time for the Banquet!’
Those were her very words, I assure you!”
“Will Uggug be at the Banquet?” Bruno asked. And both children looked
uneasy at the dismal suggestion.
“Why, of course he will!” chuckled the Professor. “Why, it’s his
_birthday_, don’t you know? And his health will be drunk, and all that
sort of thing. What would the Banquet be without _him_?”
“Ever so much nicer,” said Bruno. But he said it in a _very_ low voice,
and nobody but Sylvie heard him.
The Professor chuckled again. “It’ll be a jolly Banquet, now _you’ve_
come, my little man! I _am_ so glad to see you again!”
“I ’fraid we’ve been very long in coming,” Bruno politely remarked.
“Well, yes,” the Professor assented. “However, you’re very short now
you’re come: that’s _some_ comfort.” And he went on to enumerate the
plans for the day. “The Lecture comes first,” he said. “_That_ the
Empress _insists_ on. She says people will eat so much at the Banquet,
they’ll be too sleepy to attend to the Lecture afterwards—and perhaps
she’s right. There’ll just be a little _refreshment_, when the people
first arrive—as a kind of surprise for the Empress, you know. Ever since
she’s been—well, not _quite_ so clever as she once was—we’ve found it
desirable to concoct little surprises for her. _Then_ comes the
Lecture——”
“What? The Lecture you were getting ready—ever so long ago?” Sylvie
enquired.
“Yes—that’s the one,” the Professor rather reluctantly admitted. “It
_has_ taken a goodish time to prepare. I’ve got so many other things to
attend to. For instance, I’m Court-Physician. I have to keep all the
Royal Servants in good health—and that reminds me!” he cried, ringing
the bell in a great hurry. “This is Medicine-Day! We only give Medicine
once a week. If we were to begin giving it every day, the bottles would
_soon_ be empty!”
“But if they were ill on the _other_ days?” Sylvie suggested.
“What, ill on the wrong _day_!” exclaimed the Professor. “Oh, that would
never do! A Servant would be dismissed _at once_, who was ill on the
wrong day! This is the Medicine for _today_,” he went on, taking down a
large jug from a shelf. “I mixed it, myself, first thing this morning.
Taste it!” he said, holding out the jug to Bruno. “Dip in your finger,
and taste it!”
Bruno did so, and made such an excruciatingly wry face that Sylvie
exclaimed, in alarm, “Oh, Bruno, you mustn’t!”
“It’s welly extremely nasty!” Bruno said, as his face resumed its
natural shape.
“Nasty?” said the Professor. “Why, of _course_ it is! What would
Medicine be, if it wasn’t _nasty_?”
“Nice,” said Bruno.
“I was going to say—” the Professor faltered, rather taken aback by the
promptness of Bruno’s reply, “—that _that_ would never do! Medicine
_has_ to be nasty, you know. Be good enough to take this jug, down into
the Servants’ Hall,” he said to the footman who answered the bell: “and
tell them it’s their Medicine for _today_.”
“Which of them is to drink it?” the footman asked, as he carried off the
jug.
“Oh, I’ve not settled _that_ yet!” the Professor briskly replied. “I’ll
come and settle that, soon. Tell them not to begin, on any account, till
I come! It’s really _wonderful_,” he said, turning to the children, “the
success I’ve had in curing Diseases! Here are some of my memoranda.” He
took down from the shelf a heap of little bits of paper, pinned together
in twos and threes. “Just look at _this_ set, now. ‘_Under-Cook Number
Thirteen recovered from Common Fever—Febris Communis_.’ And now see
what’s pinned to it. ‘_Gave Under-Cook Number Thirteen a Double Dose of
Medicine_.’ _That’s_ something to be proud of, _isn’t_ it?”
“But which happened _first_?” said Sylvie, looking very much puzzled.
The Professor examined the papers carefully. “They are not _dated_, I
find,” he said with a slightly dejected air: “so I fear I ca’n’t tell
you. But they _both_ happened: there’s no doubt of _that_. The
_Medicine’s_ the great thing, you know. The _Diseases_ are much less
important. You can keep a _Medicine_, for years and years: but nobody
ever wants to keep a _Disease_! By the way, come and look at the
platform. The Gardener asked me to come and see if it would do. We may
as well go before it gets dark.”
“We’d like to, very much!” Sylvie replied. “Come, Bruno, put on your
hat. Don’t keep the dear Professor waiting!”
“Ca’n’t find my hat!” the little fellow sadly replied. “I were rolling
it about. And it’s rolled itself away!”
“Maybe it’s rolled in _there_,” Sylvie suggested, pointing to a dark
recess, the door of which stood half open: and Bruno ran in to look.
After a minute he came slowly out again, looking very grave, and
carefully shut the cupboard-door after him.
“It aren’t in there,” he said, with such unusual solemnity, that
Sylvie’s curiosity was roused.
“What _is_ in there, Bruno?”
“There’s cobwebs—and two spiders—” Bruno thoughtfully replied, checking
off the catalogue on his fingers, “—and the cover of a picture-book—and
a tortoise—and a dish of nuts—and an old man.”
“An old man!” cried the Professor, trotting across the room in great
excitement. “Why, it must be the Other Professor, that’s been lost for
ever so long!”
[Illustration: THE OTHER PROFESSOR FOUND]
He opened the door of the cupboard wide: and there he was, the Other
Professor, sitting in a chair, with a book on his knee, and in the act
of helping himself to a nut from a dish, which he had taken down off a
shelf just within his reach. He looked round at us, but said nothing
till he had cracked and eaten the nut. Then he asked the old question.
“Is the Lecture all ready?”
“It’ll begin in an hour,” the Professor said, evading the question.
“First, we must have something to surprise the Empress. And then comes
the Banquet——”
“The Banquet!” cried the Other Professor, springing up, and filling the
room with a cloud of dust. “Then I’d better go and—and brush myself a
little. What a state I’m in!”
“He _does_ want brushing!” the Professor said, with a critical air,
“Here’s your hat, little man! I had put it on by mistake. I’d quite
forgotten I had _one_ on, already. Let’s go and look at the platform.”
“And there’s that nice old Gardener singing still!” Bruno exclaimed in
delight, as we went out into the garden. “I do believe he’s been singing
that very song ever since we went away!”
“Why, of course he has!” replied the Professor. “It wouldn’t be the
thing to leave off, you know.”
“Wouldn’t be _what_ thing?” said Bruno: but the Professor thought it
best not to hear the question. “What are you doing with that hedgehog?”
he shouted at the Gardener, whom they found standing upon one foot,
singing softly to himself, and rolling a hedgehog up and down with the
other foot.
“Well, I wanted fur to know what hedgehogs lives on: so I be a-keeping
this here hedgehog—fur to see if it eats potatoes——”
“Much better keep a potato,” said the Professor; “and see if hedgehogs
eat it!”
“That be the roight way, sure-ly!” the delighted Gardener exclaimed. “Be
you come to see the platform?”
“Aye, aye!” the Professor cheerily replied. “And the children have come
back, you see!”
The Gardener looked round at them with a grin. Then he led the way to
the Pavilion; and as he went he sang:—
“He looked again, and found it was
A Double Rule of Three:
‘And all its Mystery,’ he said,
‘Is clear as day to me!’”
“You’ve been _months_ over that song,” said the Professor. “Isn’t it
finished yet?”
“There be only one verse more,” the Gardener sadly replied. And, with
tears streaming down his cheeks, he sang the last verse:—
“He thought he saw an Argument
That proved he was the Pope:
He looked again, and found it was
A Bar of Mottled Soap.
‘A fact so dread,’ he faintly said,
‘Extinguishes all hope!’”
Choking with sobs, the Gardener hastily stepped on a few yards ahead of
the party, to conceal his emotion.
“Did _he_ see the Bar of Mottled Soap?” Sylvie enquired, as we followed.
“Oh, certainly!” said the Professor. “That song is his own history, you
know.”
Tears of an ever-ready sympathy glittered in Bruno’s eyes. “I’s _welly_
sorry he isn’t the Pope!” he said. “Aren’t _you_ sorry, Sylvie?”
“Well—I hardly know,” Sylvie replied in the vaguest manner. “Would it
make him any happier?” she asked the Professor.
“It wouldn’t make the _Pope_ any happier,” said the Professor. “Isn’t
the platform _lovely_?” he asked, as we entered the Pavilion.
“I’ve put an extra beam under it!” said the Gardener, patting it
affectionately as he spoke. “And now it’s that strong, as—as a mad
elephant might dance upon it!”
“Thank you _very_ much!” the Professor heartily rejoined. “I don’t know
that we shall exactly require—but it’s convenient to know.” And he led
the children upon the platform, to explain the arrangements to them.
“Here are three seats, you see, for the Emperor and the Empress and
Prince Uggug. But there must be two more chairs here!” he said, looking
down at the Gardener. “One for Lady Sylvie, and one for the smaller
animal!”
“And may I help in the Lecture?” said Bruno. “I can do some
conjuring-tricks.”
“Well, it’s not exactly a _conjuring_ lecture,” the Professor said, as
he arranged some curious-looking machines on the table. “However, what
can you do? Did you ever go through a table, for instance?”
“Often!” said Bruno. “_Haven’t_ I, Sylvie?”
The Professor was evidently surprised, though he tried not to show it.
“This must be looked into,” he muttered to himself, taking out a
note-book. “And first—what kind of table?”
“Tell him!” Bruno whispered to Sylvie, putting his arms round her neck.
“Tell him yourself,” said Sylvie.
“Ca’n’t,” said Bruno. “It’s a _bony_ word.”
“Nonsense!” laughed Sylvie. “You can say it well enough, if you only
try. Come!”
“Muddle—” said Bruno. “That’s a bit of it.”
“_What_ does he say?” cried the bewildered Professor.
“He means the multiplication-table,” Sylvie explained.
The Professor looked annoyed, and shut up his note-book again. “Oh,
that’s _quite_ another thing,” he said.
“It are ever so many other things,” said Bruno. “_Aren’t_ it, Sylvie?”
A loud blast of trumpets interrupted this conversation. “Why, the
entertainment has _begun_!” the Professor exclaimed, as he hurried the
children into the Reception-Saloon. “I had no idea it was so late!”
A small table, containing cake and wine, stood in a corner of the
Saloon; and here we found the Emperor and Empress waiting for us. The
rest of the Saloon had been cleared of furniture, to make room for the
guests. I was much struck by the great change a few months had made in
the faces of the Imperial Pair. A vacant stare was now the _Emperor’s_
usual expression; while over the face of the _Empress_ there flitted,
ever and anon, a meaningless smile.
“So you’re come at last!” the Emperor sulkily remarked, as the Professor
and the children took their places. It was evident that he was _very_
much out of temper: and we were not long in learning the cause of this.
He did not consider the preparations, made for the Imperial party, to be
such as suited their rank. “A common mahogany table!” he growled,
pointing to it contemptuously with his thumb. “Why wasn’t it made of
gold, I should like to know?”
“It would have taken a very long——” the Professor began, but the Emperor
cut the sentence short.
“Then the cake! Ordinary plum! Why wasn’t it made of—of——” He broke off
again. “Then the wine! Merely old Madeira! Why wasn’t it——? Then this
chair! That’s worst of all. Why wasn’t it a throne? One _might_ excuse
the other omissions, but I _ca’n’t_ get over the chair!”
“What _I_ ca’n’t get over,” said the Empress, in eager sympathy with her
angry husband, “is the _table_!”
“Pooh!” said the Emperor.
“It is much to be regretted!” the Professor mildly replied, as soon as
he had a chance of speaking. After a moment’s thought he strengthened
the remark. “_Everything_,” he said, addressing Society in general, “is
_very much_ to be regretted!”
A murmur of “Hear, hear!” rose from the crowded Saloon.
There was a rather awkward pause: the Professor evidently didn’t know
how to begin. The Empress leant forwards, and whispered to him. “A few
jokes, you know, Professor—just to put people at their ease!”
“True, true, Madam!” the Professor meekly replied. “This little boy——”
“_Please_ don’t make any jokes about _me_!” Bruno exclaimed, his eyes
filling with tears.
“I won’t if you’d rather I didn’t,” said the kind-hearted Professor. “It
was only something about a Ship’s Buoy: a harmless pun—but it doesn’t
matter.” Here he turned to the crowd and addressed them in a loud voice.
“Learn your A’s!” he shouted. “Your B’s! Your C’s! And your D’s! _Then_
you’ll be at your ease!”
There was a roar of laughter from all the assembly, and then a great
deal of confused whispering. “_What_ was it he said? Something about
bees, I fancy——.”
The Empress smiled in her meaningless way, and fanned herself. The poor
Professor looked at her timidly: he was clearly at his wits’ end again,
and hoping for another hint. The Empress whispered again.
“Some spinach, you know, Professor, as a surprise.”
The Professor beckoned to the Head-Cook, and said something to him in a
low voice. Then the Head-Cook left the room, followed by all the other
cooks.
“It’s difficult to get things started,” the Professor remarked to Bruno.
“When once we get started, it’ll go on all right, you’ll see.”
“If oo want to startle people,” said Bruno, “oo should put live frogs on
their backs.”
Here the cooks all came in again, in a procession, the Head-Cook coming
last and carrying something, which the others tried to hide by waving
flags all round it. “Nothing but flags, Your Imperial Highness! Nothing
but flags!” he kept repeating, as he set it before her. Then all the
flags were dropped in a moment, as the Head-Cook raised the cover from
an enormous dish.
[Illustration: ‘HER IMPERIAL HIGHNESS IS SURPRISED!’]
“What is it?” the Empress said faintly, as she put her spy-glass to her
eye. “Why, it’s _Spinach_, I declare!”
“Her Imperial Highness is surprised,” the Professor explained to the
attendants: and some of them clapped their hands. The Head-Cook made a
low bow, and in doing so dropped a spoon on the table, as if by
accident, just within reach of the Empress, who looked the other way and
pretended not to see it.
“I _am_ surprised!” the Empress said to Bruno. “Aren’t you?”
“Not a bit,” said Bruno. “I heard——” but Sylvie put her hand over his
mouth, and spoke for him. “He’s rather tired, I think. He wants the
Lecture to begin.”
“I want the _supper_ to begin,” Bruno corrected her.
The Empress took up the spoon in an absent manner, and tried to balance
it across the back of her hand, and in doing this she dropped it into
the dish: and, when she took it out again, it was full of spinach. “How
curious!” she said, and put it into her mouth. “It tastes just like
_real_ spinach! I thought it was an imitation—but I do believe it’s
real!” And she took another spoonful.
“It wo’n’t be real much longer,” said Bruno.
But the Empress had had enough spinach by this time, and somehow—I
failed to notice the exact process—we all found ourselves in the
Pavilion, and the Professor in the act of beginning the long-expected
Lecture.