One lingers about the Cathedral a good deal, in Venice. There is a strong fascination1 about it—partly because it is so old, and partly because it is so ugly. Too many of the world’s famous buildings fail of one chief virtue—harmony; they are made up of a methodless mixture of the ugly and the beautiful; this is bad; it is confusing, it is unrestful. One has a sense of uneasiness, of distress2, without knowing why. But one is calm before St. Mark’s, one is calm within it, one would be calm on top of it, calm in the cellar; for its details are masterfully ugly, no misplaced and impertinent beauties are intruded3 anywhere; and the consequent result is a grand harmonious4 whole, of soothing5, entrancing, tranquilizing, soul-satisfying ugliness. One’s admiration6 of a perfect thing always grows, never declines; and this is the surest evidence to him that it is perfect. St. Mark’s is perfect. To me it soon grew to be so nobly, so augustly ugly, that it was difficult to stay away from it, even for a little while. Every time its squat7 domes8 disappeared from my view, I had a despondent9 feeling; whenever they reappeared, I felt an honest rapture—I have not known any happier hours than those I daily spent in front of Florian’s, looking across the Great Square at it. Propped10 on its long row of low thick-legged columns, its back knobbed with domes, it seemed like a vast warty11 bug12 taking a meditative13 walk.
St. Mark’s is not the oldest building in the world, of course, but it seems the oldest, and looks the oldest—especially inside.
When the ancient mosaics15 in its walls become damaged, they are repaired but not altered; the grotesque16 old pattern is preserved. Antiquity17 has a charm of its own, and to smarten it up would only damage it. One day I was sitting on a red marble bench in the vestibule looking up at an ancient piece of apprentice-work, in mosaic14, illustrative of the command to “multiply and replenish18 the earth.” The Cathedral itself had seemed very old; but this picture was illustrating19 a period in history which made the building seem young by comparison. But I presently found an antique which was older than either the battered20 Cathedral or the date assigned to the piece of history; it was a spiral-shaped fossil as large as the crown of a hat; it was embedded21 in the marble bench, and had been sat upon by tourists until it was worn smooth. Contrasted with the inconceivable antiquity of this modest fossil, those other things were flippantly modern—jejune—mere22 matters of day-before-yesterday. The sense of the oldness of the Cathedral vanished away under the influence of this truly venerable presence.
St. Mark’s is monumental; it is an imperishable remembrancer of the profound and simple piety23 of the Middle Ages. Whoever could ravish a column from a pagan temple, did it and contributed his swag to this Christian24 one. So this fane is upheld by several hundred acquisitions procured25 in that peculiar26 way. In our day it would be immoral27 to go on the highway to get bricks for a church, but it was no sin in the old times. St. Mark’s was itself the victim of a curious robbery once. The thing is set down in the history of Venice, but it might be smuggled28 into the Arabian Nights and not seem out of place there:
Nearly four hundred and fifty years ago, a Candian named Stammato, in the suite29 of a prince of the house of Este, was allowed to view the riches of St. Mark’s. His sinful eye was dazzled and he hid himself behind an altar, with an evil purpose in his heart, but a priest discovered him and turned him out. Afterward30 he got in again—by false keys, this time. He went there, night after night, and worked hard and patiently, all alone, overcoming difficulty after difficulty with his toil31, and at last succeeded in removing a great brick of the marble paneling which walled the lower part of the treasury32; this block he fixed33 so that he could take it out and put it in at will. After that, for weeks, he spent all his midnights in his magnificent mine, inspecting it in security, gloating over its marvels34 at his leisure, and always slipping back to his obscure lodgings35 before dawn, with a duke’s ransom36 under his cloak. He did not need to grab, haphazard37, and run—there was no hurry. He could make deliberate and well-considered selections; he could consult his esthetic38 tastes. One comprehends how undisturbed he was, and how safe from any danger of interruption, when it is stated that he even carried off a unicorn’s horn—a mere curiosity—which would not pass through the egress39 entire, but had to be sawn in two—a bit of work which cost him hours of tedious labor40. He continued to store up his treasures at home until his occupation lost the charm of novelty and became monotonous41; then he ceased from it, contented42. Well he might be; for his collection, raised to modern values, represented nearly fifty million dollars!
He could have gone home much the richest citizen of his country, and it might have been years before the plunder43 was missed; but he was human—he could not enjoy his delight alone, he must have somebody to talk about it with. So he exacted a solemn oath from a Candian noble named Crioni, then led him to his lodgings and nearly took his breath away with a sight of his glittering hoard44. He detected a look in his friend’s face which excited his suspicion, and was about to slip a stiletto into him when Crioni saved himself by explaining that that look was only an expression of supreme45 and happy astonishment46. Stammato made Crioni a present of one of the state’s principal jewels—a huge carbuncle, which afterward figured in the Ducal cap of state—and the pair parted. Crioni went at once to the palace, denounced the criminal, and handed over the carbuncle as evidence. Stammato was arrested, tried, and condemned47, with the old-time Venetian promptness. He was hanged between the two great columns in the Piazza—with a gilded48 rope, out of compliment to his love of gold, perhaps. He got no good of his booty at all—it was all recovered.
In Venice we had a luxury which very seldom fell to our lot on the continent—a home dinner with a private family. If one could always stop with private families, when traveling, Europe would have a charm which it now lacks. As it is, one must live in the hotels, of course, and that is a sorrowful business. A man accustomed to American food and American domestic cookery would not starve to death suddenly in Europe; but I think he would gradually waste away, and eventually die.
He would have to do without his accustomed morning meal. That is too formidable a change altogether; he would necessarily suffer from it. He could get the shadow, the sham49, the base counterfeit50 of that meal; but it would do him no good, and money could not buy the reality.
To particularize: the average American’s simplest and commonest form of breakfast consists of coffee and beefsteak; well, in Europe, coffee is an unknown beverage51. You can get what the European hotel-keeper thinks is coffee, but it resembles the real thing as hypocrisy52 resembles holiness. It is a feeble, characterless, uninspiring sort of stuff, and almost as undrinkable as if it had been made in an American hotel. The milk used for it is what the French call “Christian” milk—milk which has been baptized.
After a few months’ acquaintance with European “coffee,” one’s mind weakens, and his faith with it, and he begins to wonder if the rich beverage of home, with its clotted53 layer of yellow cream on top of it, is not a mere dream, after all, and a thing which never existed.
Next comes the European bread—fair enough, good enough, after a fashion, but cold; cold and tough, and unsympathetic; and never any change, never any variety—always the same tiresome54 thing.
Next, the butter—the sham and tasteless butter; no salt in it, and made of goodness knows what.
Then there is the beefsteak. They have it in Europe, but they don’t know how to cook it. Neither will they cut it right. It comes on the table in a small, round pewter platter. It lies in the center of this platter, in a bordering bed of grease-soaked potatoes; it is the size, shape, and thickness of a man’s hand with the thumb and fingers cut off. It is a little overdone55, is rather dry, it tastes pretty insipidly57, it rouses no enthusiasm.
Imagine a poor exile contemplating58 that inert59 thing; and imagine an angel suddenly sweeping60 down out of a better land and setting before him a mighty61 porterhouse steak an inch and a half thick, hot and sputtering62 from the griddle; dusted with a fragrant63 pepper; enriched with little melting bits of butter of the most unimpeachable64 freshness and genuineness; the precious juices of the meat trickling65 out and joining the gravy66, archipelagoed with mushrooms; a township or two of tender, yellowish fat gracing an outlying district of this ample county of beefsteak; the long white bone which divides the sirloin from the tenderloin still in its place; and imagine that the angel also adds a great cup of American home-made coffee, with a cream a-froth on top, some real butter, firm and yellow and fresh, some smoking hot-biscuits, a plate of hot buckwheat cakes, with transparent67 syrup68—could words describe the gratitude69 of this exile?
The European dinner is better than the European breakfast, but it has its faults and inferiorities; it does not satisfy. He comes to the table eager and hungry; he swallows his soup—there is an undefinable lack about it somewhere; thinks the fish is going to be the thing he wants—eats it and isn’t sure; thinks the next dish is perhaps the one that will hit the hungry place—tries it, and is conscious that there was a something wanting about it, also. And thus he goes on, from dish to dish, like a boy after a butterfly which just misses getting caught every time it alights, but somehow doesn’t get caught after all; and at the end the exile and the boy have fared about alike; the one is full, but grievously unsatisfied, the other has had plenty of exercise, plenty of interest, and a fine lot of hopes, but he hasn’t got any butterfly. There is here and there an American who will say he can remember rising from a European table d’h?te perfectly70 satisfied; but we must not overlook the fact that there is also here and there an American who will lie.
The number of dishes is sufficient; but then it is such a monotonous variety of unstriking dishes. It is an inane71 dead-level of “fair-to-middling.” There is nothing to accent it. Perhaps if the roast of mutton or of beef—a big, generous one—were brought on the table and carved in full view of the client, that might give the right sense of earnestness and reality to the thing; but they don’t do that, they pass the sliced meat around on a dish, and so you are perfectly calm, it does not stir you in the least. Now a vast roast turkey, stretched on the broad of his back, with his heels in the air and the rich juices oozing72 from his fat sides ... but I may as well stop there, for they would not know how to cook him. They can’t even cook a chicken respectably; and as for carving73 it, they do that with a hatchet74.
This is about the customary table d’h?te bill in summer:
Soup (characterless).
Roast—mutton or beef—tasteless—and some last year’s potatoes.
One vegetable—brought on in state, and all alone—usually insipid56 lentils, or string-beans, or indifferent asparagus.
Roast chicken, as tasteless as paper.
Decayed strawberries or cherries.
Sometimes the apricots and figs78 are fresh, but this is no advantage, as these fruits are of no account anyway.
The grapes are generally good, and sometimes there is a tolerably good peach, by mistake.
The variations of the above bill are trifling79. After a fortnight one discovers that the variations are only apparent, not real; in the third week you get what you had the first, and in the fourth the week you get what you had the second. Three or four months of this weary sameness will kill the robustest appetite.
It has now been many months, at the present writing, since I have had a nourishing meal, but I shall soon have one—a modest, private affair, all to myself. I have selected a few dishes, and made out a little bill of fare, which will go home in the steamer that precedes me, and be hot when I arrive—as follows:
Radishes. Baked apples, with cream
American coffee, with real cream.
American butter.
Fried chicken, Southern style.
Porter-house steak.
Saratoga potatoes.
Hot biscuits, Southern style.
Hot wheat-bread, Southern style.
Hot buckwheat cakes.
Virginia bacon, broiled.
Blue points, on the half shell.
San Francisco mussels, steamed.
Philadelphia Terapin soup.
Oysters roasted in shell-Northern style.
Lake trout, from Tahoe.
Sheep-head and croakers, from New Orleans.
American roast beef.
Roast turkey, Thanksgiving style.
Roast wild turkey. Woodcock.
Canvas-back-duck, from Baltimore.
Missouri partridges, broiled.
’Possum. Coon.
Boston bacon and beans.
Bacon and greens, Southern style.
Butter beans. Sweet potatoes.
Lettuce. Succotash. String beans.
Boiled potatoes, in their skins.
New potatoes, minus the skins.
Early rose potatoes, roasted in the ashes, Southern style, served hot.
Sliced tomatoes, with sugar or vinegar. Stewed tomatoes.
Green corn, cut from the ear and served with butter and pepper.
Green corn, on the ear.
Hot hoe-cake, Southern style.
Hot egg-bread, Southern style.
Hot light-bread, Southern style.
Buttermilk. Iced sweet milk.
Apple dumplings, with real cream.
Apple pie. Apple fritters.
Peach cobbler, Southern style
Pumpkin pie. Squash pie.
Fresh American fruits of all sorts, including strawberries which are not to be doled101 out as if they were jewelry102, but in a more liberal way. Ice-water—not prepared in the ineffectual goblet103, but in the sincere and capable refrigerator.
Americans intending to spend a year or so in European hotels will do well to copy this bill and carry it along. They will find it an excellent thing to get up an appetite with, in the dispiriting presence of the squalid table d’h?te.
Foreigners cannot enjoy our food, I suppose, any more than we can enjoy theirs. It is not strange; for tastes are made, not born. I might glorify104 my bill of fare until I was tired; but after all, the Scotchman would shake his head and say, “Where’s your haggis?” and the Fijian would sigh and say, “Where’s your missionary105?”
I have a neat talent in matters pertaining106 to nourishment107. This has met with professional recognition. I have often furnished recipes for cook-books. Here are some designs for pies and things, which I recently prepared for a friend’s projected cook-book, but as I forgot to furnish diagrams and perspectives, they had to be left out, of course.
RECIPE FOR AN ASH-CAKE
Take a lot of water and add to it a lot of coarse Indian-meal and about a quarter of a lot of salt. Mix well together, knead into the form of a “pone,” and let the pone stand awhile—not on its edge, but the other way. Rake away a place among the embers, lay it there, and cover it an inch deep with hot ashes. When it is done, remove it; blow off all the ashes but one layer; butter that one and eat.
N.B.—No household should ever be without this talisman108. It has been noticed that tramps never return for another ash-cake.
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RECIPE FOR NEW ENGLISH PIE
To make this excellent breakfast dish, proceed as follows: Take a sufficiency of water and a sufficiency of flour, and construct a bullet-proof dough109. Work this into the form of a disk, with the edges turned up some three-fourths of an inch. Toughen and kiln-dry in a couple days in a mild but unvarying temperature. Construct a cover for this redoubt in the same way and of the same material. Fill with stewed dried apples; aggravate110 with cloves111, lemon-peel, and slabs112 of citron; add two portions of New Orleans sugars, then solder113 on the lid and set in a safe place till it petrifies114. Serve cold at breakfast and invite your enemy.
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RECIPE FOR GERMAN COFFEE
Take a barrel of water and bring it to a boil; rub a chicory berry against a coffee berry, then convey the former into the water. Continue the boiling and evaporation115 until the intensity116 of the flavor and aroma117 of the coffee and chicory has been diminished to a proper degree; then set aside to cool. Now unharness the remains118 of a once cow from the plow119, insert them in a hydraulic120 press, and when you shall have acquired a teaspoon121 of that pale-blue juice which a German superstition122 regards as milk, modify the malignity123 of its strength in a bucket of tepid124 water and ring up the breakfast. Mix the beverage in a cold cup, partake with moderation, and keep a wet rag around your head to guard against over-excitement.
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1
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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intruded
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| n.侵入的，推进的v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的过去式和过去分词 )；把…强加于 | |
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harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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squat
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| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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domes
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| n.圆屋顶( dome的名词复数 )；像圆屋顶一样的东西；圆顶体育场 | |
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despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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warty
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| adj.有疣的，似疣的；瘤状 | |
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bug
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| n.虫子；故障；窃听器；vt.纠缠；装窃听器 | |
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meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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mosaic
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| n./adj.镶嵌细工的，镶嵌工艺品的，嵌花式的 | |
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mosaics
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| n.马赛克( mosaic的名词复数 )；镶嵌；镶嵌工艺；镶嵌图案 | |
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grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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replenish
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| vt.补充；(把…)装满；(再)填满 | |
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illustrating
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| 给…加插图( illustrate的现在分词 )； 说明； 表明； （用示例、图画等）说明 | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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embedded
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| a.扎牢的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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immoral
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| adj.不道德的，淫荡的，荒淫的，有伤风化的 | |
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smuggled
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suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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afterward
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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treasury
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| n.宝库；国库，金库；文库 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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marvels
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| n.奇迹( marvel的名词复数 )；令人惊奇的事物（或事例）；不平凡的成果；成就v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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lodgings
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ransom
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| n.赎金，赎身；v.赎回，解救 | |
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haphazard
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| adj.无计划的，随意的，杂乱无章的 | |
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esthetic
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| adj.美学的，审美的；悦目的，雅致的 | |
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egress
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| n.出去；出口 | |
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labor
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| 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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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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plunder
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| vt.劫掠财物，掠夺；n.劫掠物，赃物；劫掠 | |
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hoard
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| n./v.窖藏，贮存，囤积 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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counterfeit
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| vt.伪造，仿造；adj.伪造的，假冒的 | |
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beverage
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| n.(水，酒等之外的)饮料 | |
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hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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clotted
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| adj.凝结的v.凝固( clot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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overdone
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| v.做得过分( overdo的过去分词 )；太夸张；把…煮得太久；（工作等）过度 | |
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insipid
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| adj.无味的，枯燥乏味的，单调的 | |
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insipidly
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| adv.没有味道地，清淡地 | |
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contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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inert
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| adj.无活动能力的，惰性的；迟钝的 | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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62
sputtering
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| n.反应溅射法；飞溅；阴极真空喷镀；喷射v.唾沫飞溅( sputter的现在分词 )；发劈啪声；喷出；飞溅出 | |
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63
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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unimpeachable
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| adj.无可指责的；adv.无可怀疑地 | |
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trickling
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| n.油画底色含油太多而成泡沫状突起v.滴( trickle的现在分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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gravy
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| n.肉汁；轻易得来的钱，外快 | |
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67
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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68
syrup
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| n.糖浆，糖水 | |
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69
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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70
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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inane
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| adj.空虚的，愚蠢的，空洞的 | |
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72
oozing
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| v.（浓液等）慢慢地冒出，渗出( ooze的现在分词 )；使（液体）缓缓流出；（浓液）渗出，慢慢流出 | |
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73
carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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74
hatchet
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| n.短柄小斧；v.扼杀 | |
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75
salmon
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| n.鲑，大马哈鱼，橙红色的 | |
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76
pate
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| n.头顶；光顶 | |
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77
lettuce
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| n.莴苣；生菜 | |
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78
figs
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| figures 数字，图形，外形 | |
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79
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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80
oysters
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| 牡蛎( oyster的名词复数 ) | |
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81
oyster
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| n.牡蛎；沉默寡言的人 | |
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82
stewed
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| adj.焦虑不安的，烂醉的v.炖( stew的过去式和过去分词 )；煨；思考；担忧 | |
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83
broiled
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| a.烤过的 | |
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84
maple
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| n.槭树，枫树，槭木 | |
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85
clam
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| n.蛤，蛤肉 | |
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86
clams
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| n.蛤；蚌，蛤( clam的名词复数 )v.（在沙滩上）挖蛤( clam的第三人称单数 ) | |
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crabs
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| n.蟹( crab的名词复数 )；阴虱寄生病；蟹肉v.捕蟹( crab的第三人称单数 ) | |
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88
perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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90
trout
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| n.鳟鱼；鲑鱼(属) | |
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91
bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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cranberry
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| n.梅果 | |
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93
liens
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| n.留置权，扣押权( lien的名词复数 ) | |
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94
turnips
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| 芜青( turnip的名词复数 )； 芜菁块根； 芜菁甘蓝块根； 怀表 | |
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pumpkin
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| n.南瓜 | |
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96
mashed
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| a.捣烂的 | |
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pone
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| n.玉米饼 | |
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98
puffs
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| n.吸( puff的名词复数 )；（烟斗或香烟的）一吸；一缕（烟、蒸汽等）；（呼吸或风的）呼v.使喷出( puff的第三人称单数 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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99
mince
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| n.切碎物；v.切碎，矫揉做作地说 | |
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100
pastry
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| n.油酥面团，酥皮糕点 | |
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101
doled
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| 救济物( dole的过去式和过去分词 )； 失业救济金 | |
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102
jewelry
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| n.（jewllery）（总称）珠宝 | |
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103
goblet
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| n.高脚酒杯 | |
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104
glorify
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| vt.颂扬，赞美，使增光，美化 | |
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105
missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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106
pertaining
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| 与…有关系的，附属…的，为…固有的(to) | |
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107
nourishment
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| n.食物，营养品；营养情况 | |
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108
talisman
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| n.避邪物，护身符 | |
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109
dough
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| n.生面团；钱，现款 | |
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110
aggravate
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| vt.加重(剧)，使恶化；激怒，使恼火 | |
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111
cloves
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| n.丁香（热带树木的干花，形似小钉子，用作调味品，尤用作甜食的香料）( clove的名词复数 )；蒜瓣(a garlic ~|a ~of garlic) | |
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112
slabs
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| n.厚板，平板，厚片( slab的名词复数 )；厚胶片 | |
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113
solder
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| v.焊接，焊在一起；n.焊料，焊锡 | |
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114
petrifies
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| v.吓呆，使麻木( petrify的第三人称单数 )；使吓呆，使惊呆 | |
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115
evaporation
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| n.蒸发，消失 | |
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116
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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117
aroma
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| n.香气，芬芳，芳香 | |
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118
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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119
plow
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| n.犁，耕地，犁过的地；v.犁，费力地前进[英]plough | |
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120
hydraulic
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| adj.水力的；水压的，液压的；水力学的 | |
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121
teaspoon
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| n.茶匙 | |
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122
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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123
malignity
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| n.极度的恶意，恶毒；（病的）恶性 | |
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124
tepid
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| adj.微温的，温热的，不太热心的 | |
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125
fowls
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| 鸟( fowl的名词复数 )； 禽肉； 既不是这； 非驴非马 | |
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126
joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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