“What do you mean?” I asked in surprise.
“Oh, I was only thinking,” answered he, lighting a couple of candles and setting a large beaker before me. “There are all sorts of odd rumours about the 1st of September. Indeed I can’t do it, sir! Not to-day, sir!”
I took this to be one of those common tricks wherewith custodians, wardens, and the like work upon a stranger’s purse, so I placed a generous coin in his hand, and took him by the arm to make him come with me.
“No, that was not my intention, sir,” he said, trying to give it back to me. “I’ll tell you frankly what my meaning was—there’s nothing in the world would induce me to enter the Apostles’ cellar this night, for it’s the 1st of September.”
“Well, and what of that?”
“In God’s name, then, you may think what you please, but it isn’t as it should be there to-night, and that’s because it is the anniversary day of the Rose.”[3]
I laughed till the walls rang again. “Well, I have heard many a ghost-story in my life, but never one about a wine-ghost. Aren’t you ashamed to talk such nonsense, you with your white hair? But I have the permission of the Senate; I may drink in this cellar to-night, wherever I please, and as long as I please. Therefore, in the name of the Senate, I bid you follow me. Unlock the cellar of Bacchus.”
This had the desired effect; unwillingly, but not venturing to remonstrate, he took the candles and beckoned to me. First we traversed one roomy vault, then a smaller one, until we reached a long narrow passage. Our steps reverberated with a hollow sound, and our breath striking against the wall produced what seemed like distant whispering. At last we stood before a door, the keys rattled, with a moan it came yawning open, the light of the candles fell into the cellar, and opposite to me sat Friend Bacchus upon a mighty cask. Refreshing sight! They had not pictured him with delicate grace, those old Bremen artists, not daintily as a Grecian youth; they had not represented him old and drunk, with a disgusting belly, leering eyes, and protruding tongue, as the vulgarised myth profanely portrays him now and then. Outrageous anthropomorphism; blind folly of man! Because some of his priests, grown old in his worship, walk about thus; because their belly swells with satisfaction, their nose takes colour from the burning reflection of the dark-red flood, their eyes turn up in silent bliss—these things must needs be attributed to the god, while they but adorn his worshippers.
Otherwise did the men of Bremen. How blithely and cheerily does the old boy ride his cask! The round blooming face, the merry little wine-enraptured eyes looking down so knowingly, the broad smiling mouth that has tasted of many a bumper, the short powerful neck, the whole little figure teeming with health and good humour! Is one not tempted to expect that in a gay mood, wine-inspired, he will bend his little round knees, press his calves up close, and stem his heels against the old mother-cask, setting her off at a brisk canter, in which all the Roses, Apostles, and common casks will join with a wild “halloo” through the cellar?
“Lord of Heaven!” cried the custodian, clinging tightly to my arm; “don’t you see him roll his eyes and swing his legs?”