“The devil, you carry your jealousy too far,” he cried snappishly. “I can’t break off all of my old connections.”
“What is this I see?” said Dame Rose. “You are thirteen at table. Who is that over there in strange garments? Who brought him here?”
Heavens, how I started! They all looked at me with surprise, and did not seem at all pleased at my intrusion. But I took heart, and said: “Your humble servant, gentlemen. I am nothing further than a mortal, graduated to a Doctor of Philosophy.”
“But how dare you come here at this hour, mortal?” said Peter very solemnly, shooting lightnings out of his eyes at me.
“Your Excellency,” I replied, “there is good reason for that. I am an enamoured friend of noble drink, and by the kindness of your right worthy Senate I have received permission to pay my respects to the twelve Apostles and to Dame Rose.”
“And so you like to drink Rhine-wine?” said Bacchus. “Well, that is one good quality, and is the more to be praised at a time when mortals have grown more or less cold toward this golden fountain. I believe the race feels that it is no longer worthy of a noble drop, so they brew some slip-slop stuff of syrup and whisky, call it Chateau-Margaux, Sillery, St. Julien, and all sorts of pompous names, and when they drink it they get red rings about their mouth because the stuff is coloured, and headache the next day because they have had vile gin.”
“Ah, it was a different life we led,” continued John, “when our blood was young in the years ’19 and ’26. Nay, as late as ’50 there were high times within these noble vaults. Every evening, no matter whether the sun would shine in spring or whether it would rain and snow in winter, every evening these apartments were filled with happy guests. Here, where we are sitting now, sat in state and dignity the Senate of Bremen, splendid wigs upon their heads, weapons at their side, courage in their heart, and a bumper before each.”
“Yes, yes, children,” said old Rose; “it used to be quite different from now say fifty, or one hundred, or two hundred years ago. Then they brought their wives and daughters with them to the cellar, and the handsome Bremen lasses drank Rhine-wine, or of our neighbours’ from the Moselle, and were noted far and near for their blooming cheeks, their crimson lips, and for their lovely, sparkling eyes; now they drink miserable stuff, tea and the like, which grows far away where the Chinamen live, I am told, and which in my day women drank when they had a little cough or other trouble. Rhine-wine, genuine honest Rhine-wine, doesn’t agree with them nowadays; for the land’s sake you wouldn’t believe it! They put sweet Spanish wine with it to make it taste better; they say it’s too sour.”
The Apostles burst into a perfect roar of laughter, which I joined involuntarily, and Bacchus laughed so horribly that old Balthasar had to hold him.
“Ah, the good old times!” cried fat Bartholomew. “Our burghers used to drink two measures, and it seemed as if they had drunk water, so sober were they; but now one goblet throws them down. They are out of practice.”