THE INN KITCHEN.
Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn? FALSTAFF.
DURING a journey that I once made through the Netherlands, I had arrivedone evening at the Pomme d'Or, the principal inn of a small Flemishvillage. It was after the hour of the table d'hote, so that I wasobliged to make a solitary supper from the relics of its ampler board.The weather was chilly; I was seated alone in one end of a great gloomydining-room, and, my repast being over, I had the prospect before meof a long dull evening, without any visible means of enlivening it. Isummoned mine host and requested something to read; he brought me thewhole literary stock of his household, a Dutch family Bible, an almanacin the same language, and a number of old Paris newspapers. As I satdozing over one of the latter, reading old news and stale criticisms,my ear was now and then struck with bursts of laughter which seemed toproceed from the kitchen. Every one that has travelled on the Continentmust know how favorite a resort the kitchen of a country inn is to themiddle and inferior order of travellers, particularly in that equivocalkind of weather when a fire becomes agreeable toward evening. I threwaside the newspaper and explored my way to the kitchen, to take a peepat the group that appeared to be so merry. It was composed partly oftravellers who had arrived some hours before in a diligence, and partlyof the usual attendants and hangers-on of inns. They were seated rounda great burnished stove, that might have been mistaken for an altar atwhich they were worshipping. It was covered with various kitchen vesselsof resplendent brightness, among which steamed and hissed a huge coppertea-kettle. A large lamp threw a strong mass of light upon the group,bringing out many odd features in strong relief. Its yellow rayspartially illumined the spacious kitchen, dying duskily away into remotecorners, except where they settled in mellow radiance on the broad sideof a flitch of bacon or were reflected back from well-scoured utensilsthat gleamed from the midst of obscurity. A strapping Flemish lass,with long golden pendants in her ears and a necklace with a golden heartsuspended to it, was the presiding priestess of the temple.
Many of the company were furnished with pipes, and most of them withsome kind of evening potation. I found their mirth was occasioned byanecdotes which a little swarthy Frenchman, with a dry weazen face andlarge whiskers, was giving of his love-adventures; at the end of each ofwhich there was one of those bursts of honest unceremonious laughter inwhich a man indulges in that temple of true liberty, an inn.
As I had no better mode of getting through a tedious blustering evening,I took my seat near the stove, and listened to a variety of travellers'tales, some very extravagant and most very dull. All of them, however,have faded from my treacherous memory except one, which I will endeavorto relate. I fear, however, it derived its chief zest from the manner inwhich it was told, and the peculiar air and appearance of the narrator.He was a corpulent old Swiss, who had the look of a veteran traveller.He was dressed in a tarnished green travelling-jacket, with a broad beltround his waist, and a pair of overalls with buttons from the hips tothe ankles. He was of a full rubicund countenance, with a double chin,aquiline nose, and a pleasant twinkling eye. His hair was light, andcurled from under an old green velvet travelling-cap stuck on one sideof his head. He was interrupted more than once by the arrival of guestsor the remarks of his auditors, and paused now and then to replenish hispipe; at which times he had generally a roguish leer and a sly joke forthe buxom kitchen-maid.
I wish my readers could imagine the old fellow lolling in a hugearm-chair, one arm a-kimbo, the other holding a curiously twistedtobacco-pipe formed of genuine ecume de mer, decorated with silver chainand silken tassel, his head cocked on one side, and a whimsical cut ofthe eye occasionally as he related the following story.
The Sketch-Book of Geoffrey Crayon Page 19
