We had not told her we were coming to England. In those days ladies didn't speak of their underwear or Aunt Tillie in public.…
About five that day, in our suite at the Ormsbee Arms, there was a rattle of ol iron (which told us the lift was rising, like the fumes of dead sinners from hell), and five minutes later there was a colossal knock at the door… as if William the Conqueror had come back and was attacking the shores of England again.
Mama opened the door, and there stood the remains of Aunt Tillie. She was thinner, and wrapped in fox furs and flowers.
She held out her arms to Mama an said, “Welcome to the tight little isle.… You're Sara, I guess.”
Mama nodded. “We've met at some weddings.”
“It still goes on, this taking in marriage,” she said. “Well, I thought I' totter over and see the family. I'm an old, lonely gal.…”
“So we've heard,” said Aunt Fran, who hadn't at all.
“My sister Fran,” said Mama. “An this is Stevie. He's seeing Europe for the first time.”
“A hell of a time,” said Aunt Tillie. “Europe is going to burn from both ends, and explode in the middle. Stevie, come kiss your old battleaxedof an aunt.”
I did.… She smelled of violets, good Scotch, and shaving lotion. She looked at me and patted my head. Her last husband was dead.…
“Too bad, boy, you're going to grow up in a dying world. Our age is going to die slowly between many wars. Everything will go… our culture, our ease, our habit of calling God our rich neighbor, our…” (my journal is full of such remarks).
Mama said, breaking into a very interesting talk, “I'm going out to buy Stevie an Eton jacket… I hope you'll pardon us?”
“Where is the Old Rip?” asked Aunt Tillie, lighting one of her little black cigars (this was an age when ladies did not smoke cigarettes… and cigars were even worse).
“You mean Gramp?” asked Aunt Fran.
“To think that old buzzard is a grandfather!”
“Six or seven times if we count little Rose,” I said.
“We count little Rose,” said Mama, growing very white around the nose, an her chin going very firm. Mama did not approve of Aunt Tillie. Just then the door opened and Gramp walked in, chewing on a coffee bean, a habit he had when traveling with Mama… since Mama did not like gentlemen to reek of good whisky in front of small children.
“Hell's hot corner!” said Gramp. “Tillie!”
“Magna Charta!” said Aunt Tillie, using the great document as an oath, I fear. Brother and sister wrasseled for position in each other's arms. It was touching. Even Mama smiled in a small way.
Gramp took us to a little place on a side street where they used to cut off heads in the old days… but where they only killed pheasants when we were there. You had to be known to a duke or a music hall comic before they would even let you eat there. And they always made you call up first and give your name before coming.
They made only one dish, and it was always served with your name on it. Pheasant Longstreet, or Pheasant Smith, or Pheasant Cohen, depending on what your name was at the moment.
Aunt Tillie told us in the old days she had had the dish under several names. Aunt Fran said, very low, that she could very well understand that; but Mama gave her the elbow in the politest way, and we ate our way through a lot of Pheasant Longstreet.
Gramp had them give him the trick of making it… here it is: Get your pheasant, bone it, and flatten it out. Stuff it with a dressing of the bird's own liver, truffles, mushrooms, chives, parsley, salt, pepper, and beef marrow beaten with butter. Tie up the bird after wrapping it in slices of white bread and thin spice ham. Roast in a tightly covered vessel as slowly as you dare. Pour its own hot juice over it, and serve… serve with a Clos de Cîteaux—about the best of the dry Burgundys, a waiter honestly told Mama one day. If you can't get the Clos de Cîteaux, I might suggest a California wine in its place.
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