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I remember a beautiful and remarkable instance of this which occurred but recently. I was privileged to dine at the family table of a great artist and there were present besides myself several others of sound learning and religious education from whom might be expected stimulating and rational conversation. We began I remember with the Pre-Raphaelites and ox-tail soup. Albert Durer started with the fish but “failed to stay the course,” as a sporting friend of my host remarked. He it was who brought the conversation round to the haven and heaven of all conversation—Cookery Book. He told a story of a haggis which drew from my host—an ardent Scotsman—a learned and literary defence of the haggis, which in common with the thistle, the bagpipes and Burns poetry it is a matter of patriotism for a Scotsman to uphold in the company of aliens. There was no doubt that my friend broke down in cross-examination as to the actual contents of the haggis, but as to the necessity of drinking raw whisky at short intervals during its consumption he was eloquent and convincing. When he had finished—or maybe before—I began to describe the inward beauties of a well-grilled mutton chop, and to detail an interesting discussion I had had the week before with a Dean of the Church of England on the respective merits of Sam’s Chop House in Manchester and the South Kensington Museum Grill Room. Listening is I fear a lost art for my entertaining reminiscences were broken into by a babel of tongues. Every one named his or her particular and favourite dish which was discussed rejected, laughed at and dismissed by the rest of the company. So loud was the clash of tongues that you might have imagined you were taking part in a solemn council at Pandemonium, when suddenly the shower of Cookery Book talk dried up and there was a pause, a lull—a silence. At that moment the youngest son of the house whose little curly head—like one of those heads of Sir Joshua’s angels—rested on his hands as he listened to the earnest converse of his grave elders—this child threw down before us a pearl of simple wisdom—“Surely you have forgotten bread sauce and chicken!” And so we had. The artist also remembered that we had left out sucking pig. The conversation started with renewed force. The whole question of onions in bread sauce was exhaustively debated and a happy evening was spent in congenial and intellectual conversation.