Читать книгу Mr Weston's Good Wine - T. F. Powys - Страница 10

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Mr. Weston looked at his book again.

‘I see,’ he said, ‘that Farmer Mumby’s two sons are written down here. Their names are John and Martin, and in the margin there are a few notes about them, telling of their pursuits; but besides pointing guns at rabbits, riding high trotting horses and fast motor bicycles, what else can they do?’

‘You forbade me,’ said Michael, ‘to mention women.’

‘And it was proper, then, that I should,’ said Mr. Weston, ‘but we may come to them now, for in these modern times they are of some importance to our trade.’

‘And so they seem to be to the Mumbys,’ said Michael carelessly, ‘for besides being the cause of the death of Ada Kiddle, who was drowned in a deep pond, and behaving, until tired of them, in a merry manner with Ada’s two sisters, Phœbe and Ann, under the oak tree upon the green, the young Mumbys now begin to boast pleasantly that nothing either in earth or heaven shall prevent them from ravishing Jenny Bunce. But, strange though it may sound, up till this moment they have been prevented.’

‘But who has stopped them,’ enquired Mr. Weston, ‘from having their own way with the girl?’

‘Jenny, herself,’ replied Michael willingly, ‘who happens to be a good child.’

‘I am interested to hear it,’ said Mr. Weston, ‘and I am interested, too, in the habits and manners of these young men. It is evident to me that, though they have often viewed a girl—and not always decorously—they have not so far even seen the wrapping of a bottle of our wine. I doubt if they have even wished to handle a bottle.’

‘They do not suffer from asthma,’ remarked Michael, ‘that affects the heart and so brings the thought of death into the mind of a man, as Mr. Grobe does. They are not tormented by love, as is Mr. Bird, because they have an easy way out of that wood, for as soon as love pricks them with his arrow, they reply by a similar favour aimed at the nearest girl.’

‘But are there no customs in Folly Down,’ asked Mr. Weston, ‘that are proper to follow? Pray, do these young men give the maidens anything for what they do to them, or do they mean to marry them?’

‘No,’ said Michael, ‘they never part with a penny. They have been taught to believe—and German philosophy bears out this belief—that the world lit by the sun in the day and the moon by night was created on purpose that farmers’ sons, who ever by their hardy lives and innate cowardice escape all pestilence and war, may have all the women and cigarettes that they need, and pay for nothing.’

‘The devil!’ said Mr. Weston, a little hastily. ‘But you know the saying, that there is truth in wine, and even the sight of ours may, if it does no more, give to these young gentlemen a new experience.’

‘You’ll find them hard to please,’ observed Michael dubiously.

Mr. Weston frowned a little, but his looks soon cleared and he smiled again when he read:

‘ “Miss Tamar Grobe.” A name I have written myself. Please, tell me about her.’

‘With the greatest willingness,’ answered Michael, ‘for I know her very well. She has a brown birth-mark, about the size of a sixpence, just a little above her navel.’

‘You particularise too much, Michael.’

‘She is dark; she has red, pouting lips; she is neither short nor tall. She has a cherub face and pleasant breasts, well suited to such a maiden. Her ankles are very small, and her gait free though yielding; and she refuses to leave her father for any one lower than an angel. Would you care to hear any more about her?’

‘As much as you may think proper to tell me,’ said Mr. Weston eagerly.

‘Tamar is indeed a lovely creature,’ continued Michael fervently. ‘She has an exquisite white skin, as sweet as a babe’s; her neck and arms and bosom are nearly always bare; she never pretends to be anything but what she is—a longing girl; but in her desires, until this evening, as one may expect, she has been unfortunate.’

‘How is that?’ said Mr. Weston; ‘but I think I know.’

‘You have guessed aright,’ replied Michael, ‘for Tamar looks too high. Indeed, she believes that, one adorable evening, an angel will wait for her under the village oak, and that, in his embrace, the evening will become an eternity. She often sighs as she passes the tree, and she sometimes looks in under the boughs, but, instead of the angel, she finds either Martin or John Mumby behaving in a very improper manner with one of the Kiddles.

‘Tamar’s father can hardly bear her in his sight. He feels that she grows every day more like her mother, whose sad death she caused; but neither can he bear the thought of her leaving him to go away and be married. And so Tamar wanders in the fields, and often peeps in under the oak tree, where a Kiddle and a Mumby are more likely than not to be embracing——’

‘Even when it rains?’ asked Mr. Weston.

‘When it rains, the young women visit Mrs. Vosper’s cottage. Mrs. Vosper’s Christian name is Jane, and her interest in life is concupiscence. She believes it to be God’s happiest work, and she sends Mr. Vosper into the back kitchen when anything improper is taking place in her front room.’

‘That’s kind,’ said Mr. Weston.

‘Sometimes, in passing down the lanes, for she likes evening walks, Miss Tamar Grobe peeps in through Mrs. Vosper’s window, the curtain of which is but an old and torn towel. What Tamar sees makes her sigh silently and wish the more longingly that her angel would come. He will indeed be fortunate if he gets her, for in all the world, with its green meadows, gentle hillsides, and flowing brooks, you will hardly find a maid as lovely as she.

‘The grassy downs know the tread of her little feet and feel the light pressure, and there’s no tree or bush that would not give all its flowers and leaves—yea, its very sap—to be a man for her sake, because her wishes are so burning. She even imagines it sweet to die in the arms of her lover, for she cannot bear the thought that her body, if it be triumphantly deflowered by his body, should continue its existence upon the earth. She often dreams of perishing utterly in a vast flame of love.’

‘I can almost believe,’ said Mr. Weston, ‘that Tamar Grobe is already inspired by our wine, for, from your description of her, I fancy that all her life is lived in noble intoxication. Surely her beauty is too lively and too free to be endured without the help of our good wine, though even if she has not already purchased, we have only to see her and she will buy.

‘But are you sure, Michael, that it is necessary, in such a simple village as Folly Down, to pry so deeply into all the tittle-tattle—the ape-like and the noble, the good and the evil—in order to sell a few dozen to any that will buy? This seat is as pleasant to rest upon as my chair in the board-room, and I should like your opinion, for we need not hurry.’

‘You must know, sir,’ replied Michael, ‘that it is proper—nay, even necessary—even in our firm, to make all the discoveries that possibly can be made about every one. We have to know, if we are to venture our goods, all the hidden desires and wishes of our prospective customers. We must discover all their passions and indulgences, all their likes and dislikes, all their sorrows and joys, in order to trade with them. We have to pry as deeply as we can into their past manners and customs, and discover also in what direction their future wishes may go. Nothing is more important for our sakes than that we should be prepared for any change of taste or fashion that may happen in the future, so that we may be ever ready to offer to mankind a wine that their pockets, together with their inclinations, and their melancholy as well as their happiness, may wish for.’

‘You describe our hopes and aspirations truly, Michael,’ said Mr. Weston, looking with pride at his companion, ‘for we are not a new firm, and although in one of our advertisements we have spoken of our wine as being new, that is merely said for the sake of young men who reside in universities, and who only approve of their own generation. But we have done more, Michael, than to please them. We have discovered, by means of a secret process of grafting, the kind of drink that can bring everlasting happiness to the poorest creature upon earth.

‘As you know very well, we have discovered that the pennies of the poor have as good a value, if there are enough of them, as the pounds of the rich, who are not, I fear, always as sure as they should be that our wine is the best. The rich and prosperous, alas! are so often filled with so many expensive wines that, when they come to ours, they pretend that it tastes a little sour.—You know my poetry, Michael?’ Michael blushed.

Mr. Weston smiled. ‘Do not be alarmed. I am no Wordsworth—I will not recite to you now, and, besides, I can never remember my best songs. I was but going to mention that, in my book, I have noted and taken into account all the vagaries of human nature from its first beginning, so that my book is really intended to assist us to trade. All the way through my book—but you know it, Michael’—(Michael blushed again)—‘I speak of a wine, some of which we carry with us now, that, though we do not advertise it as medicinal, yet, as you very well know, there is no trouble incident to the fretful and changing life of man that this particular wine will not cure for ever.

‘We have had customers,’ continued Mr. Weston, speaking in a lower tone, ‘who have sometimes invited themselves—and I, even I, have always attended them there—into our deepest and most dingy cellar, upon the walls of which are green mould and cobwebs, and upon the floors toads and vipers. To taste this wine of ours that has never seen daylight is the desire of some of the most noble of our customers.’

‘And those,’ said Michael, ‘who go down with you to taste that wine have no booked orders for what they buy. They pay ready cash, and owe us no more.’

‘Yes,’ said Mr. Weston, ‘we allow no credit for that wine.’