Cuisine Provençale

At that instant a maid came in carrying a great dish. "Put it down

there", Mrs. Ramsey said, helping the Swiss girl to put gently before

her the huge brown pot in which was the Boeuf-en-Daube. An exquisite

scent of olives and oil and juice rose as Marthe, with a little

flourish, took the cover off. Mrs. Ramsey peered into the dish, with

its shiny walls and its confusion of sav'ry brown and yellow meats,

and its bay leaves and its wine, and said, speaking with great

pleasure in her voice "It is a French recipe of my grandmother's."

She waited. Her husband spoke. He was repeating something and she

knew it was poetry from the rhythm and the ring of exultation and

melancholy in his voice:

Come out and climb the garden path

Luriana, Lurilee

The China rose is all abloom

and buzzing with the yellow bee.*

She did not know what they meant, but, like music, the words seemed

to be spoken by her own voice.

Come out and climb the garden path

Luriana, Lurilee

To see the Kings go riding by

Over lawn and daisy lea

With their palm leaves and cedar

Luriana, Lurilee,

Luriana, Lurilee

He turned slightly towards her repeating the last words:

"Luriana, Lurilee, Luriana, Lurilee" and bowed to her as if he did her

homage.