But Scott’s young people never seem to hunger for embraces. They allow the most splendid opportunities to slip by without a single caress7. When Quentin Durward rescues the Countess Isabella at the siege of Liége, he does not pause to passionately8 kiss her cold lips; he gathers her up with all possible speed, and makes practical plans for getting her out of the way. When Edith Bellenden visits her imprisoned9 lover, no thought of kissing enters either mind. Henry Morton is indeed so overcome by “deep and tumultuous feeling” that he presses his visitor’s “unresisting hands;” but even this indulgence is of brief duration. Miss Bellenden quickly recovers her hands, and begins to discuss the situation with a great deal of sense and good feeling. Henry Bertram does not appear to have stolen a single kiss from that romantic and charming young woman, Julia Mannering, in the whole course of their clandestine10 courtship; and the propriety11 of Lord Glenvarloch’s behavior, when shut up in a cell with pretty Margaret Ramsay, must be remembered by all. “Naething{34} for you to sniggle and laugh at, Steenie,” observes King James reprovingly to the Duke of Buckingham, when that not immaculate nobleman betrays some faint amusement at the young Scotchman’s modesty12. “He might be a Father of the Church, in comparison of you, man.”
In the matter of venison pasties, however, we have a different tale to tell. There are probably ten of these toothsome dishes to every kiss, twenty of them to every burst of tears. Compare Quentin Durward as a fighter to Quentin Durward as a lover, and then, by way of understanding how he preserved his muscle, turn back to that delightful13 fourth chapter, where the French King plays the part of host at the famous inn breakfast. So admirably is the scene described in two short pages, so fine is the power of Scott’s genial14 human sympathy, that I have never been able, since reading it, to cherish for Louis XI. the aversion which is his rightful due. In vain I recall the familiar tales of his cruelty and baseness. In vain I remind myself of his treacherous15 plans for poor Durward’s destruction. ’Tis useless! I cannot dissociate him from that noble meal, nor{35} from the generous enthusiasm with which he provides for, and encourages, the splendid appetite of youth. The inn breakfast has but one peer, even in Scott’s mirthful pages, and to find it we must follow the fortunes of another monarch16 who masquerades to better purpose than does Ma?tre Pierre, whose asylum17 is the hermitage of St. Dunstan, and whose host is the jolly Clerk of Copmanhurst. The gradual progress and slow development of the holy hermit’s supper, which begins tentatively with parched18 pease and a can of water from St. Dunstan’s well, and ends with a mighty19 pasty of stolen venison and a huge flagon of wine, fill the reader’s heart—if he has a heart—with sound and sympathetic enjoyment20. It is one of the gastronomic21 delights of literature. Every step of the way is taken with renewed pleasure, for the humors of the situation are as unflagging as the appetites and the thirst of the revelers. Even the quarrel which threatens to disturb the harmony of the feast only adds to its flavor. Guest and host, disguised king and pretended recluse22, are as ready to fight as to eat; and, with two such champions, who shall say where the palm of victory hides?{36} Any weapon will suit the monk23, “from the scissors of Delilah, and the tenpenny nail of Jael, to the scimitar of Goliath,” though the good broadsword pleases him best. Any weapon will suit King Richard, and he is a match for Friar Tuck in all. Born brothers are they, though the throne of England waits for one, and the oaks of Sherwood Forest for the other.
“But there is neither east, nor west, border, nor breed, nor birth,
When two strong men stand face to face, though they come from the ends of the earth.”
In his descriptions of eating and drinking, Scott stands midway between the snug24, coarse, hearty25 enjoyment of Dickens, and the frank epicureanism of Thackeray, and he easily surpasses them both. With Dickens, the pleasure of the meal springs from the honest appetites which meet it—appetites sharpened often by the pinching pains of hunger. With Thackeray, it is the excellence26 of the entertainment itself which merits approbation27. With Scott, it is the spirit of genial good-fellowship which turns a venison pasty into a bond of brotherhood28, and strengthens, with a runlet of canary,{37} the human tie which binds29 us man to man. Dickens tries to do this, but does not often succeed, just because he tries. A conscious purpose is an irresistible30 temptation to oratory31, and we do not want to be preached to over a roast goose, nor lectured at through the medium of pork and greens. Scott never turns a table into a pulpit; it is his own far-reaching sympathy which touches the secret springs that move us to kind thoughts. Quentin Durward’s breakfast at the inn is worthy32 of Thackeray. Quentin Durward’s appetite is worthy of Dickens. But Quentin Durward’s host—the cruel and perfidious33 Louis—ah! no one but Scott would have dared to paint him with such fine, unhostile art, and no one but Scott would have succeeded.
In point of detail, however, Dickens defies competition. Before his vast and accurate knowledge the puny34 efforts of modern realism shrink into triviality and nothingness. What is the occasional dinner at a third-class New York restaurant, the roast chicken and mashed35 potatoes and cranberry36 tart37, eaten with such ostentatious veracity38, when compared to that unerring observation which penetrated39 into{38} every English larder40, which lifted the lid of every pipkin, and divined the contents of every mysterious and forbidding meat pie! Dickens knew when the Micawbers supped on lamb’s fry, and when on breaded chops; he knew the contents of Mrs. Bardell’s little saucepan simmering by the fire; he knew just how many pigeons lurked41 under the crust of John Browdie’s pasty; he knew every ingredient—and there are nearly a dozen of them—in the Jolly Sandboys’ stew42. There was not a muffin, nor a bit of toasted cheese, nor a slab43 of pease-pudding from the cook-shop, nor a rasher of bacon, nor a slice of cucumber, nor a dish of pettitoes eaten without his knowledge and consent. And, as it cost him no apparent effort to remember and tell all these things, it costs us no labor44 to read them. We are naturally pleased to hear that Mr. Vincent Crummles has ordered a hot beefsteak-pudding and potatoes at nine, and we hardly need to be reminded—even by the author—of the excellence of Mr. Swiveller’s purl. The advantage of unconscious realism over the premeditated article is a lack of stress on the author’s part, and a corresponding lack of fatigue45 on ours.{39}
Thackeray reaches the climax46 of really good cooking, and, with the art of a great novelist, he restrains his gastronomic details, and keeps them within proper bounds. Beyond his limits it is not wise to stray, lest we arrive at the land of gilded47 puppets, where Disraeli’s dukes and duchesses feast forever on ortolans, and pompetones of larks48, and lobster49 sandwiches; where young spendthrifts breakfast at five o’clock in the afternoon on soup and claret; and where the enamored Lothair feeds Miss Arundel “with cates as delicate as her lips, and dainty beverages50 which would not outrage51 their purity.” The “pies and preparations of many lands” which adorn52 the table of that distinguished53 dinner-giver, Mr. Brancepeth, fill us with vague but lamentable54 doubts. “Royalty55,” we are assured, “had consecrated56 his banquets” and tasted of those pies; but it is the province of royalty, as Mr. Ruskin reminds us, to dare brave deeds which commoners may be excused from attempting. Hugo Bohun, at the Duke’s banquet, fired with the splendid courage of his crusading ancestry57, dislodges the ortolans from their stronghold of aspic jelly, and gives to the entertainment{40} that air of glittering unreality which was Disraeli’s finest prerogative58, and which has been copied with facile fidelity59 by Mr. Oscar Wilde. “I see it is time for supper,” observes the ?sthetic Gilbert of the dialogues. “After we have discussed some Chambertin and a few ortolans, we will pass on to the question of the critic, considered in the light of the interpreter.” And when we read these lines, our lingering doubts as to whether Gilbert be a man or a mere60 mouthpiece for beautiful words, “a reed cut short and notched61 by the great god Pan for the production of flute-melodies at intervals,” fade into dejected certainty. That touch about the ortolans is so like Disraeli, that all Gilbert’s surpassing modern cleverness can no longer convince us of his vitality62. He needs but a golden plate to fit him for the ducal dining-table, where royalty, and rose-colored tapestry63, and “splendid nonchalance” complete the dazzling illusion. After which, we may sober ourselves with a parting glance at the breakfast-room of Tillietudlem, and at the fare which Lady Margaret Bellenden has prepared for Graham of Claverhouse and his troopers. “No tea,{41} no coffee, no variety of rolls, but solid and substantial viands—the priestly ham, the knightly64 surloin, the noble baron65 of beef, the princely venison pasty.” Here in truth is a vigorous and an honorable company, and here is a banquet for men.
点击收听单词发音
1 lame | |
adj.跛的,(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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2 investigations | |
(正式的)调查( investigation的名词复数 ); 侦查; 科学研究; 学术研究 | |
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3 edified | |
v.开导,启发( edify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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4 acrimoniously | |
adv.毒辣地,尖刻地 | |
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5 narratives | |
记叙文( narrative的名词复数 ); 故事; 叙述; 叙述部分 | |
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6 recollect | |
v.回忆,想起,记起,忆起,记得 | |
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7 caress | |
vt./n.爱抚,抚摸 | |
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8 passionately | |
ad.热烈地,激烈地 | |
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9 imprisoned | |
下狱,监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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10 clandestine | |
adj.秘密的,暗中从事的 | |
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11 propriety | |
n.正当行为;正当;适当 | |
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12 modesty | |
n.谦逊,虚心,端庄,稳重,羞怯,朴素 | |
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13 delightful | |
adj.令人高兴的,使人快乐的 | |
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14 genial | |
adj.亲切的,和蔼的,愉快的,脾气好的 | |
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15 treacherous | |
adj.不可靠的,有暗藏的危险的;adj.背叛的,背信弃义的 | |
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16 monarch | |
n.帝王,君主,最高统治者 | |
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17 asylum | |
n.避难所,庇护所,避难 | |
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18 parched | |
adj.焦干的;极渴的;v.(使)焦干 | |
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19 mighty | |
adj.强有力的;巨大的 | |
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20 enjoyment | |
n.乐趣;享有;享用 | |
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21 gastronomic | |
adj.美食(烹饪)法的,烹任学的 | |
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22 recluse | |
n.隐居者 | |
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23 monk | |
n.和尚,僧侣,修道士 | |
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24 snug | |
adj.温暖舒适的,合身的,安全的;v.使整洁干净,舒适地依靠,紧贴;n.(英)酒吧里的私房 | |
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25 hearty | |
adj.热情友好的;衷心的;尽情的,纵情的 | |
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26 excellence | |
n.优秀,杰出,(pl.)优点,美德 | |
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27 approbation | |
n.称赞;认可 | |
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28 brotherhood | |
n.兄弟般的关系,手中情谊 | |
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29 binds | |
v.约束( bind的第三人称单数 );装订;捆绑;(用长布条)缠绕 | |
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30 irresistible | |
adj.非常诱人的,无法拒绝的,无法抗拒的 | |
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31 oratory | |
n.演讲术;词藻华丽的言辞 | |
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32 worthy | |
adj.(of)值得的,配得上的;有价值的 | |
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33 perfidious | |
adj.不忠的,背信弃义的 | |
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34 puny | |
adj.微不足道的,弱小的 | |
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35 mashed | |
a.捣烂的 | |
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36 cranberry | |
n.梅果 | |
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37 tart | |
adj.酸的;尖酸的,刻薄的;n.果馅饼;淫妇 | |
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38 veracity | |
n.诚实 | |
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39 penetrated | |
adj. 击穿的,鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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40 larder | |
n.食物贮藏室,食品橱 | |
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41 lurked | |
vi.潜伏,埋伏(lurk的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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42 stew | |
n.炖汤,焖,烦恼;v.炖汤,焖,忧虑 | |
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43 slab | |
n.平板,厚的切片;v.切成厚板,以平板盖上 | |
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44 labor | |
n.劳动,努力,工作,劳工;分娩;vi.劳动,努力,苦干;vt.详细分析;麻烦 | |
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45 fatigue | |
n.疲劳,劳累 | |
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46 climax | |
n.顶点;高潮;v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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47 gilded | |
a.镀金的,富有的 | |
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48 larks | |
n.百灵科鸟(尤指云雀)( lark的名词复数 );一大早就起床;鸡鸣即起;(因太费力而不想干时说)算了v.百灵科鸟(尤指云雀)( lark的第三人称单数 );一大早就起床;鸡鸣即起;(因太费力而不想干时说)算了 | |
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49 lobster | |
n.龙虾,龙虾肉 | |
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50 beverages | |
n.饮料( beverage的名词复数 ) | |
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51 outrage | |
n.暴行,侮辱,愤怒;vt.凌辱,激怒 | |
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52 adorn | |
vt.使美化,装饰 | |
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53 distinguished | |
adj.卓越的,杰出的,著名的 | |
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54 lamentable | |
adj.令人惋惜的,悔恨的 | |
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55 royalty | |
n.皇家,皇族 | |
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56 consecrated | |
adj.神圣的,被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣,给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 );奉献 | |
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57 ancestry | |
n.祖先,家世 | |
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58 prerogative | |
n.特权 | |
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59 fidelity | |
n.忠诚,忠实;精确 | |
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60 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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61 notched | |
a.有凹口的,有缺口的 | |
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62 vitality | |
n.活力,生命力,效力 | |
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63 tapestry | |
n.挂毯,丰富多采的画面 | |
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64 knightly | |
adj. 骑士般的 adv. 骑士般地 | |
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65 baron | |
n.男爵;(商业界等)巨头,大王 | |
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