LITMIR.BIZ

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have always professed the highest esteem, and even a sort of veneration for the Rhine’s noble wine; it sparkles like champagne, it warms one like Burgundy, it soothes the throat like Bordeaux, it fires the imagination like the juice of the Spanish grape, it makes us tender and kind like lacryma-christi; and last, but not least, it helps us to dream – it unfolds the extensive fields of fancy before our eyes.

      In 1846, towards the end of autumn, I had made up my mind to perform a pilgrimage to Johannisberg. Mounted on a wretched hack, I had arranged two tin flasks along his hollow ribs, and I made the journey by short stages.

      What a fine sight a vintage is! One of my flasks was always empty, the other always full; when I quitted one vineyard, there was the prospect of another before me. But it quite troubled me that I had not any one capable of appreciating it to share this enjoyment with me.

      Night was closing in one evening; the sun had just disappeared, but one or two stray rays were still lingering among the large vine-leaves. I heard the trot of a horse behind me. I turned a little to the left to allow him to pass me, and to my great surprise I recognised my friend Hippel, who as soon as he saw me uttered a shout of delight.

      You are well acquainted with Hippel, his fleshy nose, his mouth especially adapted to the sense of taste, and his rotund stomach. He looked like old Silenus in the pursuit of Bacchus. We shook hands heartily.

      The aim of Hippel’s journey was the same as mine; in his quality of first-rate connoisseur he wanted to confirm his opinion as to the peculiarities of certain growths about which he still entertained some doubts.

      So we continued our route together. Hippel was extremely gay; he traced out our route among the Rhingau vineyards. We halted occasionally to devote our attention to our flasks, and to listen to the silence which reigned around us.

      The night was far advanced when we reached a little inn perched on the side of a hill. We dismounted. Hippel peeped through a small window nearly level with the ground. A lamp was burning on a table, and by it sat an old woman fast asleep.

      ‘Hallo!’ cried my comrade; ‘open the door, mother.’

      The old woman started, got up and came to the window, and pressed her shrunken face against the panes. You would have taken it for one of those old Flemish portraits in which ochre and bistre predominate.

      As soon as the old sybil could distinguish us she made a grimace intended for a smile, and opened the door for us.

      ‘Come in, gentlemen – come in,’ cried she with a tremulous voice; ‘I will go and wake my son; sit down – sit down.’

      ‘A feed of corn for our horses and a good supper for ourselves,’ cried Hippel.

      ‘Directly, directly,’ said the old woman assiduously.

      She hobbled out of the room, and we could hear her creeping up stairs as steep as a Jacob’s ladder.

      We remained for a few minutes in a low smoky room. Hippel hurried to the kitchen, and returned to tell me that he had ascertained there were certain sides of bacon by the chimney.

      ‘We shall have some supper,’ said he, patting his stomach; ‘yes, we shall get some supper.’

      The flooring creaked over our heads, and almost immediately a powerful fellow with nothing but his trousers on, his chest bare, and his hair in disorder, opened the door, took a step or two forward, and then disappeared without saying a word to us.

      The old woman lighted the fire, and the butter began to frizzle in the frying-pan.

      Supper was brought in; a ham put on the table flanked by two bottles, one of red wine, the other of white.

      ‘Which do you prefer?’ asked the hostess.

      ‘We must try them both first,’ replied Hippel, holding his glass to the old woman, who filled it with red.

      She then filled mine. We tasted it; it was a strong rough wine. I cannot describe the peculiar flavour it possessed – a mixture of vervain and cypress leaves! I drank a few drops, and my soul became profoundly sad. But Hippel, on the contrary, smacked his lips with an air of satisfaction.

      ‘Good! very good! Where do you get it from, mother?’ said he.

      ‘From the hillside close by,’ replied the old woman, with a curious smile.

      ‘A very good hillside,’ returned Hippel, pouring himself out another glass.

      It seemed to me like drinking blood.

      ‘What are you making such faces for, Ludwig?’ said he. ‘Is there anything the matter with you?’

      ‘No,’ I answered, ‘but I don’t like such red wine as this.’

      ‘There is no accounting for tastes,’ observed Hippel, finishing the bottle and knocking on the table.

      ‘Another bottle of the same,’ cried he, ‘and mind, no mixing, lovely hostess – I am a judge! Morbleu! this wine puts life into me, it is so generous.’

      Hippel threw himself back in his chair; his face seemed to undergo a complete transformation. I emptied the bottle of white wine at a draught, and then my heart felt gay again. My friend’s preference for red wine seemed to me ridiculous but excusable.

      We continued drinking, I white and he red wine, till one o’clock in the morning.

      One in the morning! It is the hour when Fancy best loves to exercise her influence. The caprices of imagination take that opportunity of displaying their transparent dresses embroidered in crystal and blue, like the wings of the beetle and the dragon-fly.

      One o’clock! That is the moment when the music of the spheres tickles the sleeper’s ears, and breathes the harmony of the invisible world into his soul. Then the mouse trots about, and the owl flaps her wings, and passes noiselessly over our heads.

      ‘One o’clock,’ said I to my companion; ‘we must go to bed if we are to set off early tomorrow morning.’

      Hippel rose and staggered about.

      The old woman showed us into a double-bedded room, and wished us goodnight.

      We undressed ourselves; I remained up the last to put the candle out. I was hardly in bed before Hippel was fast asleep; his respiration was like the blowing of a storm. I could not close my eyes, as thousands of strange faces hovered round me. The gnomes, imps, and witches of Walpurgis night executed their cabalistic dances on the ceiling all night. Strange effect of white wine!

      I got up, lighted my lamp, and, impelled by curiosity, I went up to Hippel’s bed. His face was red, his mouth half-open, I could see the blood pulsating in his temples, and his lips moved as if he wanted to speak. I stood for some time motionless by his side; I tried to see into the depths of his soul, but sleep is an impenetrable mystery; like death, it keeps its secrets.

      Sometimes Hippel’s face wore an expression of terror, then of sadness, then again of melancholy; occasionally his features contracted; he looked as if he was going to cry.

      His jolly face, which was made for laughter, wore a strange expression when under the influence of pain.

      What might be passing in those depths? I saw a wave now and then mount to the surface, but whence came those frequent shocks? All at once the sleeper rose, his eyelids opened, and I could see nothing but the whites of his eyes; every muscle in his face was trembling, his mouth seemed to try to utter a scream. Then he fell back, and I heard a sob.

      ‘Hippel! Hippel!’ cried I, and I emptied a jug of water on his head.

      This awoke him.

      ‘Ah!’ cried he, ‘God be thanked, it was but a dream. My dear Ludwig, I thank you for awakening me.’

      ‘So much the better, and now tell me what you were dreaming about.’

      ‘Yes, tomorrow; let me sleep now. I am so sleepy.’

      ‘Hippel, you are ungrateful;

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