Pelham — Complete

“What a pity,” rejoined Guloseton, “that Ude, whose practical science was so perfect, should ever have written, or suffered others to write, the work published under his name; true it is that the opening part which you have so feelingly recited, is composed with a grace, a charm beyond the reach of art; but the instructions are vapid, and frequently so erroneous, as to make me suspect their authenticity; but, after all, cooking is not capable of becoming a written science—it is the philosophy of practice!”

“Ah! by Lucullus,” exclaimed I, interrupting my host, “what a visionary bechamelle! Oh, the inimitable sauce; these chickens are indeed worthy of the honour of being dressed. Never, my lord, as long as you live, eat a chicken in the country; excuse a pun, you will have foul fare.”

“‘J’ai toujours redoute la volaille perfide, Qui brave les efforts d’une dent intrepide; Souvent par un ami, dans ses champs entraine. J’ai reconnu le soir le coq infortune Qui m’avait le matin a l’aurore naissante Reveille brusquement de sa voix glapissante; Je l’avais admire dans le sein de la cour, Avec des yeux jaloux, j’avais vu son amour. Helas! la malheureux, abjurant sa tendresse, Exercait a souper sa fureur vengeresse.’

“Pardon the prolixity of my quotation for the sake of its value.”

“I do, I do,” answered Guloseton, laughing at the humour of the lines: till, suddenly checking himself, he said, “we must be grave, Mr. Pelham, it will never do to laugh. What would become of our digestions?”

“True,” said I, relapsing into seriousness; “and if you will allow me one more quotation, you will see what my author adds with regard to any abrupt interruption.

“‘Defendez que personne au milieu d’un banquet, Ne vous vienne donner un avis indiscret, Ecartez ce facheux qui vers vous s’achemine, Rien ne doit deranger l’honnete homme qui dine.”

“Admirable advice,” said Guloseton, toying with a filet mignon de poulet. “Do you remember an example in the Bailly of Suffren, who, being in India, was waited upon by a deputation of natives while he was at dinner. ‘Tell them,’ said he, ‘that the Christian religion peremptorily forbids every Christian, while at table, to occupy himself with any earthly subject, except the function of eating.’ The deputation retired in the profoundest respect at the exceeding devotion of the French general.”

“Well,” said I, after we had chuckled gravely and quietly, with the care of our digestion before us, for a few minutes—“well, however good the invention was, the idea is not entirely new, for the Greeks esteemed eating and drinking plentifully, a sort of offering to the gods; and Aristotle explains the very word, THoinai, or feasts, by an etymological exposition, ‘that it was thought a duty to the gods to be drunk;’ no bad idea of our classical patterns of antiquity. Polypheme, too, in the Cyclops of Euripides, no doubt a very sound theologian, says, his stomach is his only deity; and Xenophon tells us, that as the Athenians exceeded all other people in the number of their gods, so they exceeded them also in the number of their feasts. May I send your lordship an ortolan?”

“Pelham, my boy,” said Guloseton, whose eyes began to roll and twinkle with a brilliancy suited to the various liquids which ministered to their rejoicing orbs; “I love you for your classics. Polypheme was a wise fellow, a very wise fellow, and it was a terrible shame in Ulysses to put out his eye. No wonder that the ingenious savage made a deity of his stomach; to what known and visible source, on this earth, was he indebted for a keener enjoyment—a more rapturous and a more constant delight? No wonder he honoured it with his gratitude, and supplied it with his peace-offerings;—let us imitate so great an example:—let us make our digestive receptacles a temple, to which we will consecrate the choicest goods we possess;—let us conceive no pecuniary sacrifice too great, which procures for our altar an acceptable gift;—let us deem it an impiety to hesitate, if a sauce seems extravagant, or an ortolan too dear; and let our last act in this sublunary existence, be a solemn festival in honour of our unceasing benefactor.”

“Amen to your creed,” said I: “edibilatory Epicurism holds the key to all morality: for do we not see now how sinful it is to yield to an obscene and exaggerated intemperance?—would it not be to the last degree ungrateful to the great source of our enjoyment, to overload it with a weight which would oppress it with languor, or harass it with pain; and finally to drench away the effects of our impiety with some nauseous potation which revolts it, tortures it, convulses, irritates, enfeebles it, through every particle of its system? How wrong in us to give way to anger, jealousy, revenge, or any evil passion; for does not all that affects the mind operate also upon the stomach; and how can we be so vicious, so obdurate, as to forget, for a momentary indulgence, our debt to what you have so justly designated our perpetual benefactor?”

“Right,” said Lord Guloseton, “a bumper to the morality of the stomach.”

The desert was now on the table. “I have dined well,” said Guloseton, stretching his legs with an air of supreme satisfaction; “but—” and here my philosopher sighed deeply—“we cannot dine again till to-morrow! Happy, happy, happy common people, who can eat supper! Would to Heaven, that I might have one boon—perpetual appetite—a digestive Houri, which renewed its virginity every time it was touched. Alas! for the instability of human enjoyment. But now that we have no immediate hope to anticipate, let us cultivate the pleasures of memory. What thought you of the veau a la Dauphine?”

“Pardon me if I hesitate at giving my opinion, till I have corrected my judgment by yours.”

“Why, then, I own I was somewhat displeased—disappointed as it were—with that dish; the fact is, veal ought to be killed in its very first infancy; they suffer it to grow to too great an age. It becomes a sort of hobbydehoy, and possesses nothing of veal, but its insipidity, or of beef, but its toughness.”

“Yes,” said I, “it is only in their veal, that the French surpass us; their other meats want the ruby juices and elastic freshness of ours. Monsieur L—allowed this truth, with a candour worthy of his vast mind. Mon Dieu! what claret!—what a body! and, let me add, what a soul, beneath it! Who would drink wine like this? it is only made to taste. It is like first love—too pure for the eagerness of enjoyment; the rapture it inspires is in a touch, a kiss. It is a pity, my lord, that we do not serve perfumes at dessert: it is their appropriate place. In confectionary (delicate invention of the Sylphs,) we imitate the forms of the rose and the jessamine; why not their odours too? What is nature without its scents?—and as long as they are absent from our desserts, it is in vain that the Bard exclaims, that—

“‘L’observateur de la belle Nature, S’extasie en voyant des fleurs en confiture.’”

“It is an exquisite idea of yours,” said Guloseton—“and the next time you dine here, we will have perfumes. Dinner ought to be a reunion of all the senses—

“‘Gladness to the ear, nerve, heart, and sense.’”

There was a momentary pause. “My lord,” said I, “what a lusty lusciousness in this pear! it is like the style of the old English poets. What think you of the seeming good understanding between Mr. Gaskell and the Whigs?”

“I trouble myself little about it,” replied Guloseton, helping himself to some preserves—“politics disturb the digestion.”

“Well,” thought I, “I must ascertain some point in this man’s character easier to handle than his epicurism: all men are vain: let us find out the peculiar vanity of mine host.”

“The Tories,” said I, “seem to think themselves exceedingly secure; they attach no importance to the neutral members; it was but the other day, Lord—told me that he did not care a straw for Mr.—, notwithstanding he possessed four votes. Heard you ever such arrogance?”

“No, indeed,” said Golouston, with a lazy air of indifference—“are you a favourer of the olive?”

“No,” said I, “I love it not; it hath an under taste of sourness, and an upper of oil, which do not make harmony to my palate. But, as I was saying, the Whigs, on the contrary, pay the utmost deference to their partizans; and a man of fortune, rank, and parliamentary influence, might have all the power without the trouble of a leader.”

“Very likely,” said Guloseton, drowsily.

“I must change my battery,” thought I; but while I was meditating a new attack, the following note was brought me:—

“For God’s sake, Pelham, come out to me: I am waiting in the street to see you; come directly, or it will be too late to render me the service I would ask of you.

“R. Glanville.”

I rose instantly. “You must excuse me, Lord Guloseton, I am called suddenly away.”

“Ha! ha!” laughed the gourmand; “some tempting viand—post prandia Callirhoe.”

“My good lord,” said I, not heeding his insinuation—“I leave you with the greatest regret.”

“And I part from you with the same; it is a real pleasure to see such a person at dinner.”

“Adieu! my host—‘Je vais vivre et manger en sage.’”

CHAPTER LIX

I do defy him, and I spit at him,
Call him a slanderous coward and a villain—
Which to maintain I will allow him odds.

    —Shakspeare.

I found Glanville walking before the door with a rapid and uneven step.

“Thank Heaven!” he said, when he saw me—“I have been twice to Mivart’s to find you. The second time, I saw your servant, who told me where you were gone. I knew you well enough to be sure of your kindness.”

Glanville broke off aburptly: and after a short pause, said, with a quick, low, hurried tone—“The office I wish you to take upon yourself is this:—go immediately to Sir John Tyrrell, with a challenge from me. Ever since I last saw you, I have been hunting out that man, and in vain. He had then left town. He returned this evening, and quits it to-morrow: you have no time to lose.”

“My dear Glanville,” said I, “I have no wish to learn any secret you would conceal from me; but forgive me if I ask for some further instructions than those you have afforded me. Upon what plea am I to call out Sir John Tyrrell? and what answer am I to give to any excuses he may create?”

“I have anticipated your reply,” said Glanville, with ill-subdued impatience; “you have only to give this paper: it will prevent all discussion. Read it if you will; I have left it unsealed for that purpose.”

I cast my eyes over the lines Glanville thrust into my hand; they ran thus:—

“The time has at length come for me to demand the atonement so long delayed. The bearer of this, who is, probably, known to you, will arrange with any person you may appoint, the hour and place of our meeting. He is unacquainted with the grounds of my complaint against you, but he is satisfied of my honour: your second will, I presume, be the same with respect to yours. It is for me only to question the latter, and to declare you solemnly to be void alike of principle and courage, a villain, and a poltroon.

“Reginald Glanville.”

“You are my earliest friend,” said I, when I had read this soothing epistle; “and I will not flinch from the place you assign me: but I tell you fairly and frankly, that I would sooner cut off my right hand than suffer it to give this note to Sir John Tyrrell.”

Glanville made no answer; we walked on till he stopped suddenly, and said, “My carriage is at the corner of the street; you must go instantly; Tyrrell lodges at the Clarendon; you will find me at home on your return.”

I pressed his hand, and hurried on my mission. It was, I own, one peculiarly unwelcome and displeasing. In the first place, I did not love to be made a party in a business of the nature of which I was so profoundly ignorant. Besides, Glanville was more dear to me than any one, judging only of my external character, would suppose; and constitutionally indifferent as I am to danger for myself, I trembled like a woman at the peril I was instrumental in bringing upon him. But what weighed upon me far more than either of these reflections, was the recollection of Ellen. Should her brother fall in an engagement in which I was his supposed adviser, with what success could I hope for those feelings from her, which, at present, constituted the tenderest and the brightest of my hopes? In the midst of these disagreeable ideas the carriage stopped at the door of Tyrrel’s Hotel.

The waiter said Sir John was in the coffee-room; thither I immediately marched. Seated in the box nearest the fire sat Tyrrell, and two men, of that old-fashioned roue set, whose members indulged in debauchery, as if it were an attribute of manliness, and esteemed it, as long as it were hearty and English, rather a virtue to boast of, than a vice to disown. Tyrrel nodded to me familiarly as I approached him; and I saw, by the half-emptied bottles before him, and the flush of his sallow countenance, that he had not been sparing of his libations. I whispered that I wished to speak to him on a subject of great importance; he rose with much reluctance, and, after swallowing a large tumbler-full of port wine to fortify him for the task, he led the way to a small room, where he seated himself, and asked me, with his usual mixture of bluntness and good-breeding, the nature of my business. I made him no reply: I contented myself with placing Glanville’s billet doux in his hand. The room was dimly lighted with a single candle, and the small and capricious fire, near which the gambler was seated, threw its upward light, by starts and intervals, over the strong features and deep lines of his countenance. It would have been a study worthy of Rembrandt.