Читать книгу To Be Taken With Salt. Being an Essay on Teaching One's Grandmother to Suck Eggs - Peter McArthur - Страница 3

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The delicate mission of teaching my grandmother how to suck eggs was not undertaken lightly, but under the compulsion of a strong sense of duty and the guidance of a mind disciplined to the best methods of the new world. Yielding to no man in fervent loyalty, I determined to carry through the educational and philanthropic part of my task with the austere devotion of a scientist; but at the same time I did not hold it beneath my dignity to profit by the inevitable results with the sagacity of a business man. In consequence, my motives in visiting England were mixed but honorable and fell naturally under the following heads:

1. To discover the foundations in fact for the almost universal belief that our grandmother knows how to suck eggs.

2. In case she has forgotten or has never known this profitable art, to enquire if she is willing at this late day to receive instruction.

3. To learn whether a colonial may, without undue presumption, and with a reasonable profit, provide the eggs for the sucking.

Before recounting the adventures that befell me while prosecuting this high mission, I should perhaps offer a few words of explanation. From my infancy I had accepted with unquestioning faith the dogma that my grandmother knows how to suck eggs. Nor could this well be otherwise. My earliest recollections are of gentle intimations, accompanied by tolerant smiles, whose purpose seemed to be to convey to my growing mind a knowledge of the fact that in this accomplishment she is wonderfully proficient. But later in life my studies along the lines of the Higher Criticism, together with the frequent assertions of the European and American Press that my grandmother is suffering from mal-nutrition, led me to give the whole matter the critical attention which resulted in my filial and patriotic endeavours.

As is usual in such cases, the difficulties to be overcome did not at once present themselves to my mind. Being a loyal inhabitant of His Majesty’s Premier Dominion Beyond the Seas, I naturally regarded Britannia as my grandmother, and without preliminary embarrassment set out to visit her in her island home. The ocean voyage was accomplished without excitement, and, my mind being preoccupied with my great designs, with perhaps a trifle less than the usual amount of gossip, gambling and flirtation.

On the ninth day out, while the last man on board was completing the task of telling me the sad story of his life, land was sighted. When the cry went round the ship, I responded with something of awe. To me the white cliffs dimly intruding on the horizon marked the borders of fairyland, which I was now about to enter in gross material guise. Here at last was the Island of my dreams, the proud land of literature and ageless romance, and I felt in my profoundest soul that to approach on other than the wing of fancy was to do a deed of sacrilege.

I had little time to indulge these foolish thoughts, however, before I found myself in London, where my awakening began.

I had always pictured my grandmother Britannia as a real, living and breathing person, and somehow expected to find her seated magnificently within the borders of her four kingdoms with great lions crouched at either hand. Because of this I was conscious of a certain annoyance on finding the streets of the metropolis crowded with men, who, like myself, appeared to have separate and individual interests. I soon realized the absurdity of this attitude, but still I could not help indulging a last fancy that somewhere behind these grimy walls my grandmother might yet be found.

One day while walking along the Strand revolving this thought I stopped to admire the skill and authority of a courteous policeman before whom even the omnibus horses subdued their ramping spirits as the visible symbol of British Law. When he had finally disentangled the traffic and had gracefully stepped to the kerbstone, I accosted him in my most deferential manner.

‘Subdued their ramping spirits as the visible symbol of British Law.’

‘Pardon me,’ I began, ‘Have you seen anything of my grandmother?

‘What sort of lady is she, sir? I have seen a number of old ladies this morning.

‘A goodly, portly dame, i faith, and a corpulent, I replied, dropping into Shakespearean phrase. ‘Of a cheerful look, a pleasing eye and a most noble carriage.

As I said this he regarded me with a scowl of suspicion.

‘How did you get separated from her? he asked.

‘We didn’t get separated. The fact is I have never met her.

At this he smiled knowingly.

‘In that case the best thing you can do is to keep on hunting. You know London is a big place and you can find anything you want in it, if you only hunt long enough.

Thanking him kindly, I mingled again with the crowd, wondering if he knew how great a truth he had spoken, for I had long since realised that I could find anything I wanted anywhere and that the greatest egg ever cackled over by that good old hen Philosophy was sucked by the man who first said ‘The head of the table is where the MacGregor sits.

‘The greatest egg ever cackled over by that good old hen Philosophy.

This reflection reminded me of the hour, and presently I entered an eating-house of literary associations to satisfy my curiosity rather than my hunger. While examining the antiquities that gave the place its character, I could not help thinking what a good investment it would be for an author or artist of great reputation to buy a public-house and make it famous by being seen eating and drinking in it at all hours. When well established he could bequeath it to his descendants, and, by so doing, place them as far beyond the reach of poverty as if he had left them a landed estate. I was furthermore reflecting on the curious fact that so many of the best anecdotes we have about men of genius have been told by those with whom they have been drunk, and whom they would not have recognized in different circumstances, when my train of thought was suddenly interrupted by a man who was sitting at the opposite side of the table. He was worrying a rump steak, and showing marked symptoms of returning to a feral state.

Feeling that I had to do with a case of reversion to type I resolved to humour him and began as Mowgli might when addressing one of his fellows of the jungle.

‘Good killing? I enquired, unconcernedly.

He dropped his knife and fork and glared at me for a moment, then shook his head, muttering, ‘No, no, I was mistaken; I did not hear a human voice addressed to me. He then returned with a snarl to his steak.

Something of pathos about him made me persist.

‘Beastly weather we’ve been having lately, I remarked, adopting the usual British form of salutation.

At this he sprang from his seat, and, leaning across the table, asked in a voice trembling with emotion,

‘Did you really speak to me?

‘I did, I replied, relieving the embarrassment by shaking him warmly by the hand.

This action on my part touched him so deeply that he burst into tears. Waiting until his emotion had somewhat spent itself, I enquired the cause of his distress.

‘I am the lone New Zealander.’

Striking a dramatic attitude, he exclaimed impressively,

‘I am the lone New Zealander.

‘Indeed, I commented with deep interest, ‘your coming has long been both prophesied and plagiarized; but I am afraid that like all other great men, you have come slightly before your time. When I passed St. Paul’s this morning it was still standing, and judging by the general consistency of Thames water, I doubt that it offers any opportunities to a fisherman. And by the way, was it not the fisherman rather than the New Zealander who was lone?

‘The Moa.’

‘Oh, never mind those details, he cried, ‘but listen! Exactly three months ago I left the hemisphere of the moa and ornithorhynchus to visit the metropolis of the world. Despite the advice and experience of my friends, I brought with me not a single letter of introduction.

‘Ah, I exclaimed, interrupting him, ‘I see it all. No man would speak to you without an introduction, because people never do such things here. You are indeed the lone New Zealander, but from my own experience I can assure you that you would have been just as lonely had you come from anywhere else.

In this way a cordial relationship was established and we spent the remainder of the afternoon in lying eloquently about our respective countries and agreeing in the opinion that after all London as it stands to-day is merely a suburb of its marvellous reputation.