6
For our 'feast of the four birthdays' I wrote out a regular programme, which was honoured by the special attention of Golitsyn, one of the Commissioners at our trial, who asked me if the programme had been carried out exactly.
'A la lettre I ' I replied. He shrugged his shoulders, as if his own life had been a succession of Good Fridays spent in a monastery.
Our suppers were generally followed by a lively discussion over a question of the first importance, which was this - how ought the punch to be made ? Up to this point, the eating and drinking went on usually in perfect harmony, like a bill in parliament which is carried nem. con. But over the punch everyone had his own view ; and the previous meal enlivened the discussion. Was the punch to be set on fire now, or to be set on fire later ? How was it to be set on fire ? Was champagne or sauterne to be used
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1 27
to put it out ? Was the pineapple to be put in while it was still alight, or not ?
'While it's burning, of course I Then all the flavour will pass into the punch.' ·
'Nonsense ! The pineapple floats and will get burnt. That will simply spoil it.'
'That is all rubbish,' cries Ketscher, high above the rest; 'but I'll tell you what does matter - we must put out the candles.'
When the candles were out, all faces looked blue in the flickering light of the punch. The room was not large, and the burning rum soon raised the temperature to a tropical height. All were thirsty, but the punch was not ready. But Joseph, a French waiter sent from the restaurant, rose to the occasion : he brewed a kind of antithesis to the punch - an iced drink compounded of various wines with a foundation of brandy ; and as he poured in the French wine, he explained, like a true son of the grande nation, that the wine owed its excellence to having twice crossed the equator - 'Oui, oui, messieurs, deux fois l'equateur, messieurs I'
Joseph's cup was now a s cold a s the North Pole. When i t was finished, there was no need of any further liquid ; but Ketscher now called out, 'Time to put out the punch ! ' He was stirring a fiery lake in a soup-tureen, while the last lumps of sugar hissed and bubbled as they melted.
In goes the champagne, and the flame turns red and careers over the surface of the punch, looking somehow angry and menacing.
Then a desperate shout : 'My good man, are you mad ? The wax is dropping straight off the bottle into the punch.'
'Well, just you try yourself, in this heat, to hold the bottle so that the wax won't melt ! '
'You should knock it off first, of course,' continues the critic.
'The cups, the cups - have we enough to go round ? How many are we - ten, twelve, fourteen ? That's right.'
'We've not got fourteen cups.'
'Then the rest must take glasses.'
'The glasses will crack.'
'Not a bit of it, if you put the spoon in.'
The candles are re-lit, the last little tongue of flame darts to the centre of the bowl, twirls round, and disappears.
And all admit that the punch is a success, a splendid success.
128
C H I L DH O O D, Y O U T H A N D E X I L E
7
Next day I awake with a headache, clearly due to the punch.
That comes of mixing liquors. Punch is poison; I vow never to touch it in future.
My servant, Peter, comes in. 'You carne in last night, Sir, wearing someone else's hat, not so good a hat as your own.'
'The deuce take my hat I'
'Perhaps I had better go where you dined last night and enquire ? '
'Do you suppose, my good man, that one of the party went horne bare-headed ?'
'It can do no harm - just in case.'
Now it dawns upon me that the hat is a pretext, and that Peter had been invited to the scene of last night's revelry.
'All right, you can go. But first tell the cook to send me up some pickled cabbage.'
'I suppose, Sir, the birthday party went off well last night ? '
' I should rather think s o I There never was such a party in all my time at College.'
'I suppose you won't want me to go to the University with you today ? '
I feel remorse and make n o reply.
'Your papa asked me why you were not up yet. But I was a match for him. "He 4as a headache," I said, "and complained when I called him ; so I left the blinds down." And your papa said I was right.'
'For goodness sake, let me go to sleep I You wanted to go, so be off with you I '
'In a minute, Sir; I'll just order the cabbage first.'
Heavy sleep again seals my eyelids, and I wake in two hours'
time, feeling a good deal fresher. I wonder what my friends are doing. Ketscher and Ogarev were to spend the night where we dined. I must admit that the punch was very good ; but its effect on the head is annoying. To drink it out of a tumbler is a mistake, I am quite determined in future to drink it always out of a liqueur-glass.
Meanwhile my father has read the papers and interviewed the cook as usual.
'Have you a headache to-day ?' he asks.
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'Yes, a bad one.'
'Perhaps you've been working too hard.'
But the way he asked the question showed he did not believe that.
'Oh, I forgot; you were dining with your friends last night, eh ?'
'Yes, I was.'
'A birthday party ? And they treated you handsomely, I've no doubt. Did you have soup made with Madeira ? That sort of thing is not to my taste. I know one of your young friends is too often at the bottle; but I can't imagine where he gets the taste from.
His poor father used to give a dinner on his birthday, the twentyninth of June, and ask dl his relations ; but it was always a very modest, decent affair. But this modern fashion of champagne and sardines a l'huile - I don't like to see it. Your other friend, that unfortunate young Ogarev, is even worse. Here he is, left to himself in Moscow, with his pockets full of money. He is constantly sending his coachman, Jeremy, for wine; and the coachman has no objection, because the dealer gives him a present.'
'Well, I did have lunch with Ogarev. But I don't think my headache can be due to that. I think I will take a turn in the open air ; that always does me good.'
'By all means, but I hope you will dine at home.'
'Certainly; I shan't be long.'
8
But I must explain the allusion to Madeira in the soup. A year or more before the grand birthday party, I went out for a walk with Ogarev one day in Easter week, and, in order to escape dinner at home, I said that I had been invited to dine at their house by Ogarev's father.
My father did not care for my friends in general and used to call them by wrong names, though he always made the same mistake in addressing any of them : and Ogarev was less of a favourite than any, both because he wore his hair long and because he smoked without being asked to do so. But on the other hand, my father could hardly mutilate his own grandnephew's surname ; and also Ogarev's father, both by birth and fortune, belonged to the select circle of people whom my fa tiler recognised.