A Little Dinner at Timmins's
Page 3
relished by Lord Fortyskewer and Lord Rolls; Sir Lawrence Porker
ate twice of it after Exeter races; and I think it might be good
enough for--"
"I will NOT have it, mamma!" said Rosa, with a stamp of her foot;
and Mrs. Gashleigh knew what resolution there was in that. Once,
when she had tried to physic the baby, there had been a similar
fight between them.
So Mrs. Gashleigh made out a carte, in which the soup was left with
a dash--a melancholy vacuum; and in which the pigeons were
certainly thrust in among the entrees; but Rosa determined they
never should make an entree at all into HER dinner-party, but that
she would have the dinner her own way.
When Fitz returned, then, and after he had paid the little bill of
6L. 14s. 6d. for the glass, Rosa flew to him with her sweetest
smiles, and the baby in her arms. And after she had made him
remark how the child grew every day more and more like him, and
after she had treated him to a number of compliments and caresses,
which it were positively fulsome to exhibit in public, and after
she had soothed him into good humor by her artless tenderness, she
began to speak to him about some little points which she had at
heart.
She pointed out with a sigh how shabby the old curtains looked
since the dear new glasses which her darling Fitz had given her had
been put up in the drawing-room. Muslin curtains cost nothing, and
she must and would have them.
The muslin curtains were accorded. She and Fitz went and bought
them at Shoolbred's, when you may be sure she treated herself
likewise to a neat, sweet pretty half-mourning (for the Court, you
know, is in mourning)--a neat sweet barege, or calimanco, or
bombazine, or tiffany, or some such thing; but Madame Camille, of
Regent Street, made it up, and Rosa looked like an angel in it on
the night of her little dinner.
"And, my sweet," she continued, after the curtains had been
accorded, "mamma and I have been talking about the dinner. She
wants to make it very expensive, which I cannot allow. I have been
thinking of a delightful and economical plan, and you, my sweetest
Fitz, must put it into execution."
"I have cooked a mutton-chop when I was in chambers," Fitz said
with a laugh. "Am I to put on a cap and an apron?"
"No: but you are to go to the 'Megatherium Club' (where, you
wretch, you are always going without my leave), and you are to beg
Monsieur Mirobolant, your famous cook, to send you one of his best
aides-de-camp, as I know he will, and with his aid we can dress the
dinner and the confectionery at home for ALMOST NOTHING, and we can
show those purse-proud Topham Sawyers and Rowdys that the HUMBLE
COTTAGE can furnish forth an elegant entertainment as well as the
gilded halls of wealth."
Fitz agreed to speak to Monsieur Mirobolant. If Rosa had had a
fancy for the cook of the Prime Minister, I believe the deluded
creature of a husband would have asked Lord John for the loan of
him.
IV.
Fitzroy Timmins, whose taste for wine is remarkable for so young a
man, is a member of the committee of the "Megatherium Club," and
the great Mirobolant, good-natured as all great men are, was only
too happy to oblige him. A young friend and protege of his, of
considerable merit, M. Cavalcadour, happened to be disengaged
through the lamented death of Lord Hauncher, with whom young
Cavalcadour had made his debut as an artist. He had nothing to
refuse to his master, Mirobolant, and would impress himself to be
useful to a gourmet so distinguished as Monsieur Timmins. Fitz
went away as pleased as Punch with this encomium of the great
Mirobolant, and was one of those who voted against the decreasing
of Mirobolant's salary, when the measure was proposed by Mr.
Parings, Colonel Close, and the Screw party in the committee of the
club.
Faithful to the promise of his great master, the youthful Cavalcadour
called in Lilliput Street the next day. A rich crimson velvet
waistcoat, with buttons of blue glass and gold, a variegated blue
satin stock, over which a graceful mosaic chain hung in glittering
folds, a white hat worn on one side of his long curling ringlets,
redolent with the most delightful hair-oil--one of those white hats
which looks as if it had been just skinned--and a pair of gloves not
exactly of the color of beurre frais, but of beurre that has been up
the chimney, with a natty cane with a gilt knob, completed the upper
part at any rate, of the costume of the young fellow whom the page
introduced to Mrs. Timmins.
Her mamma and she had been just having a dispute about the
gooseberry-cream when Cavalcadour arrived. His presence silenced
Mrs. Gashleigh; and Rosa, in carrying on a conversation with him in
the French language--which she had acquired perfectly in an elegant
finishing establishment in Kensington Square--had a great advantage
over her mother, who could only pursue the dialogue with very much
difficulty, eying one or other interlocutor with an alarmed and
suspicious look, and gasping out "We" whenever she thought a proper
opportunity arose for the use of that affirmative.
"I have two leetl menus weez me," said Cavalcadour to Mrs. Gashleigh.
"Minews--yes,--oh, indeed?" answered the lady.
"Two little cartes."
"Oh, two carts! Oh, we," she said. "Coming, I suppose?" And she
looked out of the window to see if they were there.
Cavalcadour smiled. He produced from a pocket-book a pink paper
and a blue paper, on which he had written two bills of fare--the
last two which he had composed for the lamented Hauncher--and he
handed these over to Mrs. Fitzroy.
The poor little woman was dreadfully puzzled with these documents,
(she has them in her possession still,) and began to read from the
pink one as follows:--
"DINER POUR 16 PERSONNES.
Potage (clair) a la Rigodon.
Do. a la Prince de Tombuctou.
Deux Poissons.
Saumon de Severne Rougets Gratines
a la Boadicee. a la Cleopatre.
Deux Releves.
Le Chapeau-a-trois-cornes farci a la Robespierre.
Le Tire-botte a l'Odalisque.
Six Entrees.
Saute de Hannetons a l'Epingliere.
Cotelettes a la Megatherium.
Bourrasque de Veau a la Palsambleu.
Laitances de Carpe en goguette a la Reine Pomare.
Turban de Volaille a l'Archeveque de Cantorbery."
And so on with the entremets, and hors d'oeuvres, and the rotis,
and the releves.
"Madame will see that the dinners are quite simple," said M.
Cavalcadour.
"Oh, quite!" said Rosa, dreadfully puzzled.
"Which would Madame like?"
"Which would we like, mamma?" Rosa asked; adding, as if after a
little thought, "I think, sir, we should prefer the blue one." At
which Mrs. Gashleigh nodded as knowingly as she could; though pink
or blue, I defy anybody to know what these cooks mean by their
jargon.
"If you please, Madame, we will go down below and examine the scene
of operations," Monsieur Cavalcadour said; and so he was marshalled
down the stairs to the kitchen, which he didn't like to name, and
appeared before the cook in all his splendor.
He cast a rapid glance round the premises, and a smile of something
like contempt lighted up his features. "Will you bring pen and
ink, if you please, and I will write down a few of the articles
which will be necessary for us? We shall require, if you please,
eight more stew-pans, a couple of braising-pans, eight saute-pans,
six bainmarie-pans, a freezing-pot with accessories, and a few more
articles of which I will inscribe the names." And Mr. Cavalcadour
did so, dashing down, with the rapidity of genius, a tremendous
list of ironmongery goods, which he handed over to Mrs. Timmins.
She and her mamma were quite frightened by the awful catalogue.
"I will call three days hence and superintend the progress of
matters; and we will make the stock for the soup the day before the
dinner."
"Don't you think, sir," here interposed Mrs. Gashleigh, "that one
soup--a fine rich mock-turtle, such as I have seen in the best
houses in the West of England, and such as the late Lord
Fortyskewer--"
"You will get what is wanted for the soups, if you please," Mr.
Cavalcadour continued, not heeding this interruption, and as bold
as a captain on his own quarter-deck: "for the stock of clear soup,
you will get a leg of beef, a leg of veal, and a ham."
"We, munseer," said the cook, dropping a terrified curtsy: "a leg
of beef, a leg of veal, and a ham."
"You can't serve a leg of veal at a party," said Mrs. Gashleigh;
"and a leg of beef is not a company dish."
"Madame, they are to make the stock of the clear soup," Mr.
Cavalcadour said.
"WHAT!" cried Mrs. Gashleigh; and the cook repeated his former
expression.
"Never, whilst I am in this house," cried out Mrs. Gashleigh,
indignantly; "never in a Christian ENGLISH household; never shall
such sinful waste be permitted by ME. If you wish me to dine,
Rosa, you must get a dinner less EXPENSIVE. The Right Honorable
Lord Fortyskewer could dine, sir, without these wicked luxuries,
and I presume my daughter's guests can."
"Madame is perfectly at liberty to decide," said M. Cavalcadour.
"I came to oblige Madame and my good friend Mirobolant, not
myself."
"Thank you, sir, I think it WILL be too expensive," Rosa stammered
in a great flutter; "but I am very much obliged to you."
"Il n'y a point d'obligation, Madame," said Monsieur Alcide Camille
Cavalcadour in his most superb manner; and, making a splendid bow
to the lady of the house, was respectfully conducted to the upper
regions by little Buttons, leaving Rosa frightened, the cook amazed
and silent, and Mrs. Gashleigh boiling with indignation against the
dresser.
Up to that moment, Mrs. Blowser, the cook, who had come out of
Devonshire with Mrs. Gashleigh (of course that lady garrisoned her
daughter's house with servants, and expected them to give her
information of everything which took place there) up to that
moment, I say, the cook had been quite contented with that
subterraneous station which she occupied in life, and had a pride
in keeping her kitchen neat, bright, and clean. It was, in her
opinion, the comfortablest room in the house (we all thought so
when we came down of a night to smoke there), and the handsomest
kitchen in Lilliput Street.
But after the visit of Cavalcadour, the cook became quite
discontented and uneasy in her mind. She talked in a melancholy
manner over the area-railings to the cooks at twenty-three and
twenty-five. She stepped over the way, and conferred with the cook
there. She made inquiries at the baker's and at other places about
the kitchens in the great houses in Brobdingnag Gardens, and how
many spits, bangmarry-pans, and stoo-pans they had. She thought
she could not do with an occasional help, but must have a kitchen-
maid. And she was often discovered by a gentleman of the police
force, who was, I believe, her cousin, and occasionally visited her
when Mrs. Gashleigh was not in the house or spying it:--she was
discovered seated with MRS. RUNDELL in her lap, its leaves
bespattered with her tears. "My pease be gone, Pelisse," she said,
"zins I zaw that ther Franchman!" And it was all the faithful
fellow could do to console her.
"---- the dinner!" said Timmins, in a rage at last. "Having it
cooked in the house is out of the question. The bother of it, and
the row your mother makes, are enough to drive one mad. It won't
happen again, I can promise you, Rosa. Order it at Fubsby's, at
once. You can have everything from Fubsby's--from footmen to
saltspoons. Let's go and order it at Fubsby's."
"Darling, if you don't mind the expense, and it will be any relief
to you, let us do as you wish," Rosa said; and she put on her
bonnet, and they went off to the grand cook and confectioner of the
Brobdingnag quarter.
V.
On the arm of her Fitzroy, Rosa went off to Fubsby's, that
magnificent shop at the corner of Parliament Place and Alicompayne
Square,--a shop into which the rogue had often cast a glance of
approbation as he passed: for there are not only the most wonderful
and delicious cakes and confections in the window, but at the
counter there are almost sure to be three or four of the prettiest
women in the whole of this world, with little darling caps of the
last French make, with beautiful wavy hair, and the neatest
possible waists and aprons.
Yes, there they sit; and others, perhaps, besides Fitz have cast a
sheep's-eye through those enormous plate-glass windowpanes. I
suppose it is the fact of perpetually living among such a quantity
of good things that makes those young ladies so beautiful. They
come into the place, let us say, like ordinary people, and
gradually grow handsomer and handsomer, until they grow out into
the perfect angels you see. It can't be otherwise: if you and I,
my dear fellow, were to have a course of that place, we should
become beautiful too. They live in an atmosphere of the most
delicious pine-apples, blanc-manges, creams, (some whipt, and some
so good that of course they don't want whipping,) jellies, tipsy-
cakes, cherry-brandy--one hundred thousand sweet and lovely things.
Look at the preserved fruits, look at the golden ginger, the
outspreading ananas, the darling little rogues of China oranges,
ranged in the gleaming crystal cylinders. Mon Dieu! Look at the
strawberries in the leaves. Each of them is as large nearly as a
lady's reticule, and looks as if it had been brought up in a
young ladies, behind the counter; they nibble off a little from the
side, and if they are very hungry, which can scarcely ever happen,
they are allowed to go to the crystal canisters and take out a
rout-cake or macaroon. In the evening they sit and tell each other
little riddles out of the bonbons; and when they wish to amuse
themselves, they read the most delightful remarks, in the French
language, about Love, and Cupid, and Beauty, before they place them
inside the crackers. They always are writing down good things into
Mr. Fubsby's ledgers. It must be a perfect feast to read them.
Talk of the Garden of Eden! I believe it was nothing to Mr.
Fubsby's house; and I have no doubt that after those young ladies
have been there a certain time, they get to such a pitch of
loveliness at last, that they become complete angels, with wings
sprouting out of their lovely shoulders, when (after giving just a
preparatory balance or two) they fly up to the counter and perch
there for a minute, hop down again, and affectionately kiss the
other young ladies, and say, "Good-by, dears! We shall meet again
la haut." And then with a whir of their deliciously scented wings,
away they fly for good, whisking over the trees of Brobdingnag
Square, and up into the sky, as the policeman touches his hat.
It is up there that they invent the legends for the crackers, and
the wonderful riddles and remarks on the bonbons. No mortal, I am
sure, could write them.
I never saw a man in such a state as Fitzroy Timmins in the
presence of those ravishing houris. Mrs. Fitz having explained
that they required a dinner for twenty persons, the chief young
lady asked what Mr. and Mrs. Fitz would like, and named a thousand
things, each better than the other, to all of which Fitz instantly
said yes. The wretch was in such a state of infatuation that I
believe if that lady had proposed to him a fricasseed elephant, or
a boa-constrictor in jelly, he would have said, "O yes, certainly;
put it down."
That Peri wrote down in her album a list of things which it would
make your mouth water to listen to. But she took it all quite
calmly. Heaven bless you! THEY don't care about things that are no
delicacies to them! But whatever she chose to write down, Fitzroy
let her.
After the dinner and dessert were ordered (at Fubsby's they furnish
everything: dinner and dessert, plate and china, servants in your
own livery, and, if you please, guests of title too), the married
couple retreated from that shop of wonders; Rosa delighted that the
trouble of the dinner was all off their hands but she was afraid it
would be rather expensive.
"Nothing can be too expensive which pleases YOU, dear," Fitz said.
"By the way, one of those young women was rather good-looking,"
Rosa remarked: "the one in the cap with the blue ribbons." (And
she cast about the shape of the cap in her mind, and determined to
have exactly such another.)
"Think so? I didn't observe," said the miserable hypocrite by her
side; and when he had seen Rosa home, he went back, like an
infamous fiend, to order something else which he had forgotten, he
said, at Fubsby's. Get out of that Paradise, you cowardly,
creeping, vile serpent you!
Until the day of the dinner, the infatuated fop was ALWAYS going to
Fubsby's. HE WAS REMARKED THERE. He used to go before he went to
chambers in the morning, and sometimes on his return from the
Temple: but the morning was the time which he preferred; and one
day, when he went on one of his eternal pretexts, and was
chattering and flirting at the counter, a lady who had been reading
yesterday's paper and eating a halfpenny bun for an hour in the
back shop (if that paradise may be called a shop)--a lady stepped
forward, laid down the Morning Herald, and confronted him.