Not Very Exalted

Evening Star, Issue 23723, 2 November 1940, Page 3

Not Very Exalted

Written by MARY SCOTT, for the ‘ Evening Star *

They were discussing food. A boring subject and commonplace enough, you think. But you are wrong; there was nothing ordinary about this food. It was expensive, exotic, fastidious. In short, the women were showing ou. “My favourite luncheon dish? But I eat so little—an orange salad, perhaps, with walnuts and asparagus- —but done in the American style.” The luscious i descriptions were rather like Mrs Beaton—but a Mrs Beaton in reverse. 1 have not seen a copy of that lady s luxuriant outpourings since ray ear,y childhood, but 1 well remember my mother’s mirth over those recipes; the incredible extravagance, the wild lavisfaness, the unspeakable snobbery ot it all. The snobbery to-day is the exact opposite of Mrs Beaton’s; indeed, it would move that good lady to tears; it is a delicate, dietetic, fastidious snobbery; streamlined, modernistic, expensive. Listening idly to these women as they vied with each other to establish their own subtle superiority of taste, 1 was interested to watch them taces change as they talked of food. One girl seemed particularly to repay study. She sat apart, taking no apparent interest in the conversation, seeming, indeed, in her cool remoteness and charm, far enough removed from any dietary fascinations. (( She, at least, looks as if she lived on moonbeams and food or faery,” I thought. But presently her turn came. “ Wake up. Cecily, and tell us tout* favourite dish.” The grey eyes widened, and the quiet voice spoke surprisingly. “Oh, sausage and mash for me—with lots of rich brown gravy.” . , , T An O. Henry episode, you say, anal was at first ready to agree. Just the sort of contradiction he loved that gave spice to his stories and a sting in the tail of every anecdote. Yet, possibly ‘"because I have been unfortunate, it has rarely been iny luck to encounter O. Henry characters in real life. My friends don’t do these subtle, amazing, contradictory things. They usually run distressingly and dully true to form. _ And so I mistrusted Cecily. I fancied that behind that candid brow there lurked a sprite of mischief; that, in schoolgirl parlance, she “ was out to shock ” that bevy of delicate ladies. Certainly she had succeeded; the conversation had closed abruptly; indeed, how continue it after such a blow ? Had that been her intention ? Meeting her a few days later. I asked her boldly about it. “ I’m afraid I have a suspicious nature. What were you up to when you declared for sausage and mash?” “But I do like sausages,” she began. 1 “ Thev’re so adventurous. “ Now, don’t talk like an O. Henry heroine,” I implored, and she laughed. “Why O. Henry?” “Because I’m sure I’ve read a story of some girl who looked as fragile as you and then devoured a pound of heef_ steak with chips for breakfast.” Cecily suddenly became herself—and a very delightful self it was. “ I was imitating,” she admitted, “ but not (>. Henry. Don’t

you remember that story of Lady Dorothy Nevill?” I didn’t; I don’t think 1 had ever heard it, and she told it .forthwith.

It seems that this famous and witty lady of the Victorian age was once an audience at just such a discussion as 1 had overheard. A group of wealthy women were describing all the most exotic and expensive dishes that could bo imagined—but never seen, save upon the tables of the very rich. One outdid the other in her magnificence, until at last they appealed to Lady Dorothy. The aristocratic old lady roused herselt from some pleasant dream to say briskly: “Me? Oh, gimme a good blowout on tripe and onions.” It was a shattering blow and the conversation was hastily changed. Cecily had liked the story and the spirit of that subtle and charming woman. She had seen her opportunity and imitated it.“ But not tripe. 1 wish I could have said tripe—but 1 just couldn’t; not oven for the sake of ” dear Lady Dorothy. But sausages have a distinct appeal particularly to me just now. They re humble and commonplace . and ordinary—and yet there’s some spice to them. Oh dear, how tired I have crown of the excessive, how I long loi moderation—sensible, humble modern.tiou in everything—in diet and sentxments and talk. , I suppose it s too much to ask of people in war time, but how I do wish we ■'could cling to moderation, even through the worst of it.^ I found myself echoing Cecily’s wish. The truth is that it is growing increasingly difficult for us to be ordinary and moderate. As sorrow and sacrifice ami pain are touching us one by one—and there will be few whom they will not touch before we are through—we naturally enough take refuge on the heights or in the depths. The pleasant .plains of life have lost their attraction. No one would condemn the relief we find, sometimes in despair, sometimes in exaltation; it seems as if human nature must have some outlet, and one would not grudge it this—but for Ike inevitable reaction. To remain with teet solidly planted upon the plains were best ‘in the end. To try, above all things, not to rush to extremes is our hope of sanity. Not to .praise too blindly, to follow too slavishly; above all, not to hate too viciously. That, I think, is our worst danger—to be caught up in this great wave of hatred that is flooding round the world. “ How can I help hating the enemy, and what harm does it really do ? a girl asked me lately. The harm is to ourselves; the poison seeps through our own svstem. Moderation in all things. Crusades may have been won in of exaltation and extravagance, but modern warfare calls for something steadier, saner, more ordinary, something more enduring. In short—for sausage and mash rather than for oyster patties. Or, if the worst comes, for tripe and onions—and “ a good blow-out ” at that!