四季随笔-the private papers of henry ryecroft(英文版)-第21章

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　melancholy　fixedness　on　I　know　not　what。　Better　to　betake　myself　to　the　old　mechanic　exercise　of　the　pen；　which　cheats　my　sense　of　time　wasted。
I　think　of　fogs　in　London；　fogs　of　murky　yellow　or　of　sheer　black；　such　as　have　often　made　all　work　impossible　to　me；　and　held　me；　a　sort　of　dyspeptic　owl；　in　moping　and　blinking　idleness。　On　such　a　day；　I　remember；　I　once　found　myself　at　an　end　both　of　coal　and　of　lamp…oil；　with　no　money　to　purchase　either；　all　I　could　do　was　to　go　to　bed；　meaning　to　lie　there　till　the　sky　once　more　became　visible。　But　a　second　day　found　the　fog　dense　as　ever。　I　rose　in　darkness；　I　stood　at　the　window　of　my　garret；　and　saw　that　the　street　was　illumined　as　at　night；　lamps　and　shop…fronts　perfectly　visible；　with　folk　going　about　their　business。　The　fog；　in　fact；　had　risen；　but　still　hung　above　the　house…tops；　impermeable　by　any　heavenly　beam。　My　solitude　being　no　longer　endurable；　I　went　out；　and　walked　the　town　for　hours。　When　I　returned；　it　was　with　a　few　coins　which　permitted　me　to　buy　warmth　and　light。　I　had　sold　to　a　second…hand　bookseller　a　volume　which　I　prized；　and　was　so　much　the　poorer　for　the　money　in　my　pocket。
Years　after　that；　I　recall　another　black　morning。　As　usual　at　such　times；　I　was　suffering　from　a　bad　cold。　After　a　sleepless　night；　I　fell　into　a　torpor；　which　held　me　unconscious　for　an　hour　or　two。　Hideous　cries　aroused　me；　sitting　up　in　the　dark；　I　heard　men　going　along　the　street；　roaring　news　of　a　hanging　that　had　just　taken　place。　〃Execution　of　Mrs。〃……I　forget　the　name　of　the　murderess。　〃Scene　on　the　scaffold！〃　It　was　a　little　after　nine　o'clock；　the　enterprising　paper　had　promptly　got　out　its　gibbet　edition。　A　morning　of　midwinter；　roofs　and　ways　covered　with　soot…grimed　snow　under　the　ghastly　fog…pall；　and；　whilst　I　lay　there　in　my　bed；　that　woman　had　been　led　out　and　hanged……hanged。　I　thought　with　horror　of　the　possibility　that　I　might　sicken　and　die　in　that　wilderness　of　houses；　nothing　above　me　but　〃a　foul　and　pestilent　congregation　of　vapours。〃　Overe　with　dread；　I　rose　and　bestirred　myself。　Blinds　drawn；　lamp　lit；　and　by　a　blazing　fire；　I　tried　to　make　believe　that　it　was　kindly　night。
V
Walking　along　the　road　after　nightfall；　I　thought　all　at　once　of　London　streets；　and；　by　a　freak　of　mind；　wished　I　were　there。　I　saw　the　shining　of　shop…fronts；　the　yellow　glistening　of　a　wet　pavement；　the　hurrying　people；　the　cabs；　the　omnibuses……and　I　wished　I　were　amid　it　all。
What　did　it　mean；　but　that　I　wished　I　were　young　again？　Not　seldom　I　have　a　sudden　vision　of　a　London　street；　perhaps　the　dreariest　and　ugliest；　which　for　a　moment　gives　me　a　feeling　of　home…sickness。　Often　it　is　the　High　Street　of　Islington；　which　I　have　not　seen　for　a　quarter　of　a　century；　at　least；　no　thoroughfare　in　all　London　less　attractive　to　the　imagination；　one　would　say；　but　I　see　myself　walking　there……walking　with　the　quick；　light　step　of　youth；　and　there；　of　course；　is　the　charm。　I　see　myself；　after　a　long　day　of　work　and　loneliness；　setting　forth　from　my　lodging。　For　the　weather　I　care　nothing；　rain；　wind；　fog……what　does　it　matter！　The　fresh　air　fills　my　lungs；　my　blood　circles　rapidly；　I　feel　my　muscles；　and　have　a　pleasure　in　the　hardness　of　the　stone　I　tread　upon。　Perhaps　I　have　money　in　my　pocket；　I　am　going　to　the　theatre；　and；　afterwards；　I　shall　treat　myself　to　supper……sausage　and　mashed　potatoes；　with　a　pint　of　foaming　ale。　The　gusto　with　which　I　look　forward　to　each　and　every　enjoyment！　At　the　pit…door；　I　shall　roll　and　hustle　amid　the　throng；　and　find　it　amusing。　Nothing　tires　me。　Late　at　night；　I　shall　walk　all　the　way　back　to　Islington；　most　likely　singing　as　I　go。　Not　because　I　am　happy……nay；　I　am　anything　but　that；　but　my　age　is　something　and　twenty；　I　am　strong　and　well。
Put　me　in　a　London　street　this　chill；　damp　night；　and　I　should　be　lost　in　barren　disfort。　But　in　those　old　days；　if　I　am　not　mistaken；　I　rather　preferred　the　seasons　of　bad　weather；　I　had；　in　fact；　the　true　instinct　of　townsfolk；　which　finds　pleasure　in　the　triumph　of　artificial　circumstance　over　natural　conditions；　delighting　in　a　glare　and　tumult　of　busy　life　under　hostile　heavens　which；　elsewhere；　would　mean　shivering　ill…content。　The　theatre；　at　such　a　time；　is　doubly　warm　and　bright；　every　shop　is　a　happy　harbour　of　refuge……there；　behind　the　counter；　stand　persons　quite　at　their　ease；　ready　to　chat　as　they　serve　you；　the　supper　bars　make　tempting　display　under　their　many　gas…jets；　the　public　houses　are　full　of　people　who　all　have　money　to　spend。　Then　clangs　out　the　piano…organ……and　what　could　be　cheerier！
I　have　much　ado　to　believe　that　I　really　felt　so。　But　then；　if　life　had　not　somehow　made　itself　tolerable　to　me；　how　should　I　have　lived　through　those　many　years？　Human　creatures　have　a　marvellous　power　of　adapting　themselves　to　necessity。　Were　I；　even　now；　thrown　back　into　squalid　London；　with　no　choice　but　to　abide　and　work　there……　should　I　not　abide　and　work？　Notwithstanding　thoughts　of　the　chemist's　shop；　I　suppose　I　should。
VI
One　of　the　shining　moments　of　my　day　is　that　when；　having　returned　a　little　weary　from　an　afternoon　walk；　I　exchange　boots　for　slippers；　out…of…doors　coat　for　easy；　familiar；　shabby　jacket；　and；　in　my　deep；　soft…elbowed　chair；　await　the　tea…tray。　Perhaps　it　is　while　drinking　tea　that　I　most　of　all　enjoy　the　sense　of　leisure。　In　days　gone　by；　I　could　but　gulp　down　the　refreshment；　hurried；　often　harassed；　by　the　thought　of　the　work　I　had　before　me；　often　I　was　quite　insensible　of　the　aroma；　the　flavour；　of　what　I　drank。　Now；　how　delicious　is　the　soft　yet　perating　odour　which　floats　into　my　study；　with　the　appearance　of　the　teapot！　What　solace　in　the　first　cup；　what　deliberate　sipping　of　that　which　follows！　What　a　glow　does　it　bring　after　a　walk　in　chilly　rain！　The　while；　I　look　around　at　my　books　and　pictures；　tasting　the　happiness　of　their　tranquil　possession。　I　cast　an　eye　towards　my　pipe；　perhaps　I　prepare　it；　with　seeming　thoughtfulness；　for　the　reception　of　tobacco。　And　never；　surely；　is　tobacco　more　soothing；　more　suggestive　of　humane　thoughts；　than　when　it　es　just　after　tea……itself　a　bland　inspirer。
In　nothing　is　the　English　genius　for　domesticity　more　notably　declared　than　in　the　institution　of　this　festival……almost　one　may　call　it　so……of　afternoon　tea。　Beneath　simple　roofs；　the　hour　of　tea　has　something　in　it　of　sacred；　for　it　marks　the　end　of　domestic　work　and　worry；　the　beginning　of　restful；　sociable　evening。　The　mere　chink　of　cups　and　saucers　tunes　the　mind　to　happy　repose。　I　care　nothing　for　your　five　o'clock　tea　of　modish　drawing…rooms；　idle　and　wearisome　like　all　else　in　which　that　world　has　part；　I　speak　of　tea　where　one　is　at　home　in　quite　another　than　the　worldly　sense。　To　admit　mere　strangers　to　your　tea…table　is　profanation；　on　the　other　hand；　English　hospitality　has　here　its　kindliest　aspect；　never　is　friend　more　wele　than　when　he　drops　in　for　a　cup　of　tea。　Where　tea　is　really　a　meal；　with　nothing　between　it　and　nine　o'clock　supper；　it　is……again　in　the　true　sense……the　homeliest　meal　of　the　day。　Is　it　believable　that　the　Chinese；　in　who　knows　how　many　centuries；　have　derived　from　tea　a　millionth　part　of　the　pleasure　or　the　good　which　it　has　brought　to　England　in　the　past　one　hundred　years？
I　like　to　look　at　my　housekeeper　when　she　carries　in　the　tray。　Her　mien　is　festal；　yet　in　her　smile　there　is　a　certain　gravity；　as　though　she　performed　an　office　which　honoured　her。　She　has　dressed　for　the　evening；　that　is　to　say；　her　clean　and　seemly　attire　of　working　hours　is　exchanged　for　garments　suitable　to　fireside　leisure；　her　cheeks　are　warm；　for　she　has　been　making　fragrant　toast。　Quickly　her　eye　glances　about　my　room；　but　only　to　have　the　pleasure　of　noting　that　all　is　in　order；　inconceivable　that　anything　serious　should　need　doing　at　this　hour　of　the　day。　She　brings　the　little　table　within　the　glow　of　the　hearth；　so　that　I　can　help　myself　without　changing　my　easy　position。　If　she　speaks；　it　will　only　be　a　pleasant　word　or　two；　should　she　have　anything　important　to　say；　the　moment　will　be　AFTER　tea；　not　before　it；　this　she　knows　by　instinct。　Perchance　she　may　just　stoop　to　sweep　back　a　cinder　which　has　fallen　since；　in　my　absence；　she　looked　after　the　fire；　it　is　done　quickly　and　silently。　Then；　still　smiling；　she　withdraws；　and　I　know　that　she　is　going　to　enjoy　her　own　tea；　her　own　toast；　in　the　warm；　fortable；　sweet…smelling　kitchen。
VII
One　has　heard　much　condemnation　of　the　English　kitchen。　Our　typical　cook　is　spoken　of　as　a　gross；　unimaginative　creature；　capable　only　of　roasting　or　seething。　Our　table　is　said　to　be　such　as　would　weary　or　revolt　any　but　gobbet…bolting　carnivores。　We　are　told　that　our　bread　is　the　worst　in　Europe；　an　indigestible　paste；　that　our　vegetables　are　diet　rather　for　the　hungry　animal　than　for　discriminative　man；　that　our　warm　beverages；　called　coffee　and　tea；　are　so　carelessly　or　ignorantly　brewed　that　they　preserve　no　simple　virtue　of　the　drink　as　it　is　known　in　other　lands。　To　be　sure；　there　is　no　lack　of　evidence　to　explain　such　censure。　The　class　which　provides　our　servants　is　undeniably　coarse　and　stupid；　and　its　handiwork　of　every　kind　too　often　bears　the　native　stamp。　For　all　that；　English　victuals　are；　in　quality；　the　best　in　the　world；　and　English　cookery　is　the　wholesomest　and　the　most　appetizing　known　to　any　temperate　clime。
As　in　so　many　other　of　our　good　points；　we　have　achieved　this　thing　unconsciously。　Your　ordinary　Englishwoman　engaged　in　cooking　probably　has　no　other　thought　than　to　make　the　food　masticable；　but　reflect　on　the　results；　when　the　thing　is　well　done；　and　there　appears　a　culinary　principle。　Nothing　could　be　simpler；　yet　nothing　more　right　and　reasonable。　The　aim　of　English　cooking　is　so　to　deal　with　the　raw　material　of　man's　nourishment　as　to　bring　out；　for　the　healthy　palate；　all　its　natural　juices　and　savours。　And　in　this；　when　the　cook　has　any　measure　of　natural　or　acquired　skill；　we　most　notably　succeed。　Our　beef　is　veritably　beef；　at　its　best；　such　beef　as　can　be　eaten　in　no　other　country　under　the　sun；　our　mutton　is　mutton　in　its　purest　essence……think　of　a　shoulder　of　Southdown　at　the　moment　when　the　first　jet　of　gravy　starts　under　the　carving　knife！　Each　of　our　vegetables　yields　its　separate　and　characteristic　sweetness。　It　never　occurs　to　us　to　disguise　the　genuine　flavour　of　food；　if　such　a　process　be　necessary；　then　something　is　wrong　with　the　food　itself。　Some　wiseacre　scoffed　at　us　as　the　people　with　only　one　sauce。　The　fact　is；　we　have　as　many　sauces　as　we　have　kinds　of　meat；　each；　in　the　process　of　cookery；　yields　its　native　sap；　and　this　is　the　best　of　all　sauces　conceivable。　Only　English　folk　know　what　is　meant　by　GRAVY；　consequently；　the　English　alone　are　petent　to　speak　on　the　question　of　sauce。
To　be　sure；　this　culinary　principle　presupposes　food　of　the　finest　quality。　If　your　beef　and　your　mutton　have　flavours　scarcely　distinguishable；　whilst　both　this　and　that　might　conceivably　be　veal；　you　will　go　to　work　in　quite　a　different　way；　your　object　must　then　be　to　disguise；　to　counterfeit；　to　add　an　alien　relish……in　short；　to　do　anything　EXCEPT　insist　upon　the　natural　quality　of　the　viand。　Happily；　the　English　have　never　been　driven　to　these　expedients。　Be　it　flesh；　fowl；　or　fish；　each　es　to　table　so　distinctly　and　eminently　itself　that　by　no　possibility　could　it　be　confused　with　anything　else。　Give　your　average　cook　a　bit　of　cod；　and　tell　her　to　dress　it　in　her　own　way。　The　good　creature　will　carefully　boil　it；　and　there　an　end　of　the　matter；　and　by　no　exercise　of　art　could　she　have　so　treated　the　fish　as　to　make　more　manifest　and　enjoyable　that　special　savour　which　heaven　has　bestowed　upon　cod。　Think　of　our　array　of　joints；　how　royal　is　each　in　its　own　way；　and　how　utterly　unlike　any　of　the　others。　Picture　a　boiled　leg　of　mutton。　It　is　mutton；　yes；　and　mutton　of　the　best；　nature　has　bestowed　upon　man　no　sweeter　morsel；　but　the　same　joint　roasted　is　mutton　too；　and　how　divinely　different！　The　point　is　that　these　differences　are　natural；　that；　in　eliciting　them；　we　obey　the　eternal　law　of　things；　and　no　human　caprice。　Your　artificial　relish　is　here　not　only　needless；　but　offensive。
In　the　case　of　veal；　we　demand　〃stuffing。〃　Yes；　for　veal　is　a　somewhat　insipid　meat；　and　by　experience　we　have　discovered　the　best　method　of　throwing　into　relief　such　inherent　goodness　as　it　has。　The　stuffing　does　not　disguise；　nor　seek　to　disguise；　it　accentuates。　Good　veal　stuffing……reflect！……is　in　itself　a　triumph　of　culinary　instinct；　so　bland　it　is；　and　yet　so　powerful　upon　the　gastric　juices。
Did　I　call　veal　insipid？　I　must　add　that　it　is　only　so　in　parison　with　English　beef　and　mutton。　When　I　think　of　the　〃brown〃　on　the　edge　of　a　really　fine　cut　of　veal……！
VIII
As　so　often　when　my　thought　has　gone　forth　in　praise　of　things　English；　I　find　myself　tormented　by　an　after…thought……the　reflection　that　I　have　praised　a　time　gone　by。　Now；　in　this　matter　of　English　meat。　A　newspaper　tells　me　that　English　beef　is　non…existent；　that　the　best　meat　bearing　that　name　has　merely　been　fed　up　in　England　for　a　short　time　before　killing。　Well；　well；　we　can　only　be　thankful　that　the　quality　is　still　so　good。　Real　English　mutton　still　exists；　I　suppose。　It　would　surprise　me　if　any　other　country　could　produce　the　shoulder　I　had　yesterday。
Who