“Detestable.”
These short dialogues were accompanied by a number of furtive glances from the husband to acquaint his wife of some negligence, and both tried to give us to understand that they were quite at home in all those formulæ which in similar cases are reputed correct, and that all the blunders were the fault of the servants, who can never learn to wait. But these omissions were so numerous, and looks were of such little avail, that the husband had recourse to pinches and kicks, and his wife, who, until the present, had barely succeeded in rising superior to her spouse’s persecution, now became inflamed in the face, and had tears in her eyes.
“Dear madam, do not distress yourself about such trifles,” said her neighbour.
“Ah! I assure you I shall not do this kind of thing in the house again; you do know what it means; another time, Braulio, we’ll dine at the hotel, and then you’ll not have....”
“You, madam, shall do what I....”
“Braulio! Braulio!”
A terrible storm was about to burst; however, all the guests vied with each other in settling these disputes born of the desire to demonstrate the greatest refinement, and of which not the smallest components were Braulio’s mania, and the concluding remark which he again directed to the assembly with regard to the inutility of ceremony, by which he understood being properly served and knowing how to eat. Is there anything more ridiculous than those people who wish to pass for refined in the depths of the crassest ignorance of social usage, and who, to favour you, forcibly oblige you to eat and drink, and will not allow you to do what you like? And why are there people who only care to eat with a little more comfort on birthdays?
To add to all this, the child to my left violently knocked against a dish of ham and tomatoes a saucer of olives, of which one hit one of my eyes, and prevented me seeing clearly for the rest of the day; the stout gentleman to my right had taken the precaution to heap up on the cloth by the side of my bread the crumbs of his own and the bones of the birds which he had picked; and the guest opposite me, who piqued himself on his carving, had taken upon himself to make the autopsy of a capon, or cock, for nobody knew which, and whether by reason of the advanced age of the victim, or the lack of anatomical science of the executioner, the joints would not sever.
“This bird has no joints!” exclaimed the poor wretch, the drops of perspiration running down his face from his struggles, “for the carver is the labourer who digs that I may eat,” and then a wonderful occurrence took place. Upon one of the attacks the fork, as if in resentment, slipped on the animal, which, thus violently despatched, took a flight as in its happier days, and then quietly alighted on the tablecloth, as on a roost in the poultry yard.
The fright was general, and the alarm reached its climax when a sauce-boat, impelled by the bird’s wild career, upset, splashing my snow-white shirt. At this point the carver rose hastily, with a mind to chase the fugitive fowl, and as he precipitated himself upon it, a bottle to the right, which he knocked with his arm, abandoning its perpendicular position, poured out an abundant stream of Valdepeñas[14] over the capon and the cloth. The wine ran; the uproar increased; salt was abundantly sprinkled on the top of the wine to save the cloth; to save the table a napkin was inserted below the cloth, and an eminence arose on the site of so many ruins. A terrified maid-servant, who was bidden bear away the capon, now reposing in its own gravy, tilted the dish as she lifted it over me, and an accursed shower of grease descended like the dew upon the meadows to leave lasting traces on my pearl-grey pantaloons. The anguish and confusion of the girl are beyond bounds; she withdraws, unsuccessful in her excuses, and, turning round, collides with the waiter, who is carrying a dozen clean plates and a salver for the dessert wines, and the whole machine comes to the ground with the most horrible clatter and commotion.