Speaker 1: Port in a Storm by George mac donald. Papa, said,
my sister Effie. One evening, as we all sat about
the drawing room fire one after another. As nothing followed,
we turned our eyes upon her. There she sat, still, silent,
embroidering the corner of a cambric handkerchief, apparently unaware that
she had spoken. It was a very cold night in
the beginning of winter. My father had come home early,
and we had dined early that we might have a
long evening together, for it was my father's and mother's
wedding day, and we had always kept it as the
homeliest of holidays. My father was seated in an easy
chair by the chimney corner, with a jug of burgundy
near him, and my mother sat by his side, now
and then, taking a sip out of his glass. Effie
was now nearly nineteen, The rest of us were younger.
What she was thinking about we did not know then,
though we could all guess now. Suddenly she looked up, and,
seeing all eyes fixed upon her, became either aware or suspense,
and blushed rosy red. You spoke to me, Effie, What
was it, my dear Oh, yes, Papa, I wanted to
ask you whether you wouldn't tell us to night the
story about how you well, my love, about how you
I am listening, my dear, I mean about mamma and you, yes, yes,
about how I got your mamma for a mother to you. Yes,
I paid a dozen of port for her. We all
and each exclaimed Papa and my mother laughed. Tell us
all about it was the general cry, Well I will,
answered my father. I must begin at the beginning, though,
and filling his glass with burgundy. He began. As far
back as I can remember, I lived with my father
in an old manor house in the country. It did
not belong to my father, but to an elder brother
of his, who at that time was captain of a
seventy four. He loved the sea more than his life,
and as yet apparently had loved his ship better than
any woman. At least, he was not married. My mother
had been dead for some years, and my father was
now in very delicate health. He had never been strong,
and since my mother's death, I believe, though I was
too young to notice it, he had pined away. I
am not going to tell you anything about him just now,
because it does not belong to my story. When I
was about five years old, as nearly as I can judge,
the doctors advised him to leave England. The house was
put into the hands of an agent to let, at
least so I suppose, and he took me with him
to Maderra, where he died. I was brought home by
his servant, and by my uncle's directions, sent to a
boarding school, from there to Eton, and from there to Oxford.
Before I had finished my studies. My uncle had been
an admiral for some time. The year before I left
Oxford he married Lady Georgiana Thornbury, a widow lady with
one daughter. Thereupon he bade farewell to the sea, though
I dare say he did not like the parting, and
retired with his bride to the house where he was born,
the same house I told you I was born in,
which had been in the family for many generations, and
which your cousin now lives in. It was late in
the autumn when they arrived at Culverwood. They were no
sooner settled than my uncle wrote to me inviting me
to spend Christmas Tide with them at the old place.
And here you may see that my story has arrived
at its beginning. It was with strange feelings that I
entered the house. It looked so old fashioned and stately
and grand two eyes which had been accustomed to all
the modern commonplaces. Yet the shadowy recollections which hung about
it gave an air of homeliness to the place, which,
along with the grandeur, occasioned a sense of rare delight.
For what can be better than to feel that you
are in stately company and at the same time perfectly
at home in it? I am grateful to this day
for the lesson I had from the sense of which
I have spoken, that of mingled awe and tenderness. In
the aspect of the old hall. As I entered it
for the first time after fifteen years, having left it
a mere child, I was cordially received by my old
uncle and my new aunt. But the moment Kate Thornbury entered,
I lost my heart, and have never found it again.
To this day I get on wonderfully well without it,
though for I have got the loan of a far
better one till I find my own, which therefore I
hope I never shall. My father glanced at my mother
as he said this, and she returned his look in
a way which I can now interpret as a quiet,
satisfied confidence. But the tears came in Ethie's eyes. She
had trouble before long, poor girl. But it is not
her story I have to tell. My father went on.
Your mother was prettier then than she is now, but
not so beautiful. Beautiful enough though, to make me think
there never had been, or could again be, anything so beautiful.
She meant me kindly, and I met her awkwardly. You
made me feel that I had no business there, said
my mother, speaking for the first time in the course
of the story. See there, girls, said my father. You
are always so confident in first impressions and instinctive judgment.
I was awkward because, as I said, I fell in
love with your mother the moment I saw her, and
she thought I regarded her as an intruder into the
old family precincts. I will not follow the story of
the days. I was very happy, except when I felt
too keenly how unworthy I was of Kate Thornbury. Not
that she meant to make me feel it, for she
was never other than kind, but she was such that
I could not help feeling it. I gathered courage, however,
and before three days were over, I began to tell
her all my slowly reviving memories of the place, with
my childish adventures associated with this in that room or
out house or spot in the grounds. For the longer
I was in the place, the more my old associations
with it revived, till I was quite astonished to find
how much of my history in connection with Culverwood had
been thoroughly imprinted on my memory. She never showed, at
least that she was weary of my stories, which, however
interesting to me, must have been tiresome to any one
who did not sympathize with what I felt toward my
old nest. From room to room we rambled, talking or silent,
and nothing could have given me a better chance, I believe,
with a heart like your mother's, I think it was
not long before she began to like me at least,
and liking had every opportunity of growing into something stronghunger,
if only she too, did not come to the conclusion
that I was unworthy of her. My uncle received me
like the jolly old tar that he was, welcomed me
to the old ship, hoped we should make many a
voyage together, and that I would take the run of
the craft all but in one thing, you see, my boy,
he said, I married above my station, and I don't
want my wife's friends to say that I laid alongside
of her to get hold of her daughter's fortune. No, no,
my boy, your old uncle has too much salt water
in him to do a dog's trick like that. So
you take care of yourself. That's all. She might turn
the head of a wiser man than ever came out
of our family. I did not tell my uncle that
his advice was already too late for that, though it
was not an hour since I had first seen her.
My head was so far turned already that the only
way to get it right again was to go on
turning it in the same direction, though no doubt there
was a danger of overhauling the screw. The old gentleman
never referred to the matter again, nor took any notice
of our increasing intimacy, so that I sometimes doubt even
now if he could have been in earnest and the
very simple warning he gave me. Fortunately, Lady Georgiana liked me,
at least I thought she did, and that gave me courage.
That's all nonsense, my dear said my mother. Mamma was
nearly as fond of you as I was, but you
never wanted courage. I knew better than to show my cowardice,
I dare say, returned my father. But he continued. Things
grew worse and worse, till I was certain I should
kill myself or go straight out of my mind if
your mother would not have me. So it went on
for a few days, and Christmas was at hand. The
Admiral had invited several old friends to come and spend
the Christmas week with him. Now you must remember that
although you look on me as an old fashioned fogy,
Oh Papa, we all interrupted, but he went on. Yet,
my old uncle was an older fashioned fogy, and his
friends were much the same as himself. Now I am
fond of a glass of port, though I dare not
take it, and must content myself with burgundy. Uncle Bob
would have called burgundy pigwash. He could not do without
his port, though he was a moderate enough man, as
customs were fancy. Then his dismay when on questioning his butler,
an old coxwain of his own, and after going down
to inspect in person, he found that there was scarcely
more than a dozen of port in the wine cellar.
He turned white with dismay until he had brought the
blood back to his countenance by swearing he was something
awful to behold. In the dim light of the tallow candle.
Old Jacob held in his tattooed fist. I will not
repeat the words he used, Fortunately they are out of
fashion amongst gentlemen, although ladies, I understand, are beginning to
revive the custom, now old and always ugly. Jacob reminded
his honor that he would not have more put down
till he had got a proper cellar built for the
one there was he had said was not fit to
put anything but dead men in. Thereupon, after abusing Jacob
for not reminding him of the necessities of the coming season,
he turned to me and began, certainly not to swear
at his own father, but to expostulate sideways with the
absent shade for not having provided a decent cellar before
his departure from this world of dinners and wine, hinting
that it was somewhat selfish and very inconsiderate of the
welfare of those who were to come after him. Having
a little exhausted his indignation, he came up and wrote
the most peremptory order to his wine merchant in Liverpool
to let him have thirty dozen of port before Christmas Day,
even if he had to send it by post. Chaise,
I took the letter to the post myself, for the
old man would trust nobody but me, and indeed would
have preferred taking it himself. But in winter he was
always lame from the effects of a bruise he had
received from a falling spar in the Battle of Abu Kir.
That night, I remember well, I lay in bed, wondering
whether I might venture to say a word, or even
to give a hint to your mother that there was
a word that pine to be said, if it might
all At once I heard a whine of the wind
in the old chimney. How well I knew that wine
for my kind aunt had taken the trouble to find
out from me what room I had occupied as a boy,
and by the third night I spent there, she had
got it ready for me. I jumped out of bed
and found that the snow was falling fast and thick.
I jumped into bed again and began wondering what my
uncle would do if the port did not arrive. And
then I thought that if the snow went on falling
as it did, and if the wind rose any higher,
it might turn out that the roads through the hilly
part of Yorkshire in which Culverwood lay might very well
be blocked up. The north wind doth blow, and we
shall have snow. And what will my uncle do, then,
poor thing? He'll run for his port, but he will
run short and have too much water to drink. Poor thing.
With the influences of the chamber of my childhood crowding
upon me, I kept repeating the travestied rhyme to myself
till I fell asleep. Now, boys and girls, if I
were writing a novel, I should like to make you,
somehow or other put together the fats that I was
in the room. I have mentioned that I had been
in the cellar with my uncle for the first time
that evening, that I had seen my uncle's distress and
heard his reflections upon his father. I may add that
I was not myself even then so indifferent to the
merits of a good glass of port as to be
unable to enter into my uncle's dismay and that of
his guests at last, if they should find that the
snow storm had actually closed up the sweet approaches of
the expected port. If I was personally indifferent to the matter,
I feared is to be attributed to your mother and
not to myself. Nonsense, interposed my mother once more. I
never knew such a man for making little of himself
and much of other people. You never drink a glass
too much port in your life. That's why I'm so
fond of it, my dear returned my father. I declare
you make me quite discontented with my pig wash here
That night I had a dream. The next day the
visitors began to arrive before the evening. After they had
all come, there were five of them, three tars and
two land crabs, as they called each other when they
got jolly, which, by the way, they would not have
done long without me. My uncle's anxiety visibly increased. Each
guest as he came down to breakfast, received each morning
a more constrained greeting. I beg your pardon, ladies. I
forgot to mention that my aunt had lady visitors, of course,
but the fact is it is only the port drinking
visitors in whom my story is interested always accepted your mother.
These ladies, my admirballe uncle greeted with something even approaching
to servility. I understood him well enough. He instinctively sought
to make a party to protect him when the awful
secret of his cellar should be found out. But for
two preliminary days or so, his resources would serve, for
he had plenty of excellent claret and madeira, stuff I
don't know much about, and both Jacob and himself condescended
to maneuver a little. The wine did not arrive, but
the morning of Christmas eve did. I was sitting in
my room trying to write a song for Kate. That's
your mother, my DearS, I know, Papa, said Effie, as
if she were very knowing to know that. When my
uncle came into the room looking like Sintram with death
in the other one after him. That's the nonsense you
read to me the other day, isn't it, Effie? Not nonsense?
Dear Papa remonstrated Effie, and I loved her for saying it,
for surely that is not nonsense. I didn't mean it,
said my father, and turning to my mother, added it
must be your fault, my dear, that my children are
so serious that they always take a joke for Ernest. However,
it was no joke with my uncle. If he didn't
look like Syntram, he looked like the other one. The
roads are frozen, I'm mean snowed up, he said. There's
just one bottle of port left. And what Captain Calker
will say? I dare say. I know, but I'd rather
not damn this weather. God forgive me. That's not right.
But it is trying, ain't it? My boy? What will
you give me for a dozen of port? Uncle? Was
all my answer? Give you. I'll give you culverwood. You
rogue done, I cried, that is, stammered my uncle, that is,
and he reddened like the funnel of one of his
hated steamers. That is, you know, always provided you know,
it wouldn't be fair to lady Georgiana, now, would it.
I put it to yourself if she took the trouble.
You know you understand me, my boy, that's of course, uncle,
I said, Ah, I see, you're a gentleman like your father.
Not to trip a man when he stumbles, said my uncle.
For such was the dear old man's sense of honor
that he was actually uncomfortable about the hasty promise he
had made without first specifying the exception. The exception, you know,
has Culverwood at the present hour, and right welcome he is,
of course, Uncle, I said, between gentlemen, you know still
I want my joke out too. What will you give
me for a dozen of port to tide you over
Christmas day? Give you, my boy, I'll give you. But
here he checked himself as one that had been burned already. Bah,
he said, turning his back and going towards the door.
What's the use of joking about serious affairs like this?
And so he left the room and I let him go,
for I had heard that the road from Liverpool was impassable,
the wind and snow having continued every day since that
night of which I told you meantime, I had never
been able to summon the courage to say one word
to your mother. I beg her pardon, I mean miss Thornbury.
Christmas day arrived, my uncle was awful to behold. His
friends were evidently anxious about him. They thought he was ill.
There was such a hesitation about him, like a shark
with a bait, and such a flurry like a wail.
In his last agonies, he had a horrible secret which
he dared not tell, and which yet would come out
of its grave at the appointed hour. Down in the kitchen,
the roast, beef and turkey were meeting their desserts up
in the storeroom. For Lady Georgiana was not above housekeeping
any more than her daughter. The ladies of the house
were doing their part, and I was oscillating between my
uncle and his niece, making myself amazingly useful, now to
one and now to the other. The turkey and the
beef were on the table. Nay, they had been well
eaten before I felt that my moment was come. Outside,
the wind was howling and driving the snow with soft
pats against the window panes. Eager eyed, I watched General Fortescue,
who despised cherry or madeira even during dinner, and would
no more touch champagne than he would us sucree, but
drank port after fish or with cheese indiscriminately. With eager eyes,
I watched how the last bottle dwindled out its fading
life in the clear decanter. Glass after glass was supplied
to General Fortescue by the fearless Coxswain, who, if he
might have had his choice, would rather have boarded a
Frenchman than waited for what was to follow. My uncle
scarcely ate at all, and the only thing that stopped
his face from growing longer with the removal of every
dish was that nothing but death could have made it
longer than it already was. It was my interest to
let matters go as far as they might, up to
a certain point, beyond which it was not my interest
to let them go if I could help it. At
the same time, I was curious to know how my
uncle would announce confess the terrible fact that, in his
house on Christmas Day, having invited his oldest friends to
share with him the festivities of the season, there was
not one bottle more of port to be had. I
waited till the last moment, till I fancied the Admiral
was opening his mouth like a fish in despair to
make his confession. He had not even dared to make
a confidant of his wife in such an awful dilemma.
Then I pretended to have dropped my table napkin behind
my chair, and rising to seek it, stole round behind
my uncle and whispered in his ear, what will you
give me for a dozen of port? Now? Uncle, bah,
he said, I'm at the gratings. Don't torture me. I
am in earnest. Uncle. He looked round at me with
a sudden flash of bewildered hope in his eye. In
the last agony he was capable of believing in a miracle.
But he made me no reply. He only stared, will
you give me Kate? I want Kate, I whispered, I will,
my boy, That is, if she'll have you. That is
I mean to say, if you produce the true tawny.
Of course, Uncle, honor bright as port in a storm,
I answered, trembling in my shoes and everything else I
had on, for I was not more than three parts
confident in the result. The gentleman beside Kate, happening at
the moment to be occupied each with the lady on
his other side, I went behind her and whispered to
her as I had whispered to my uncle, though not
exactly in the same terms. Perhaps I had got a
little courage from the champagne I had drunk. Perhaps the
presence of the company gave me a kind of mesmeric strength.
Perhaps the excitement of the whole venture kept me up.
Perhaps Kate herself gave me courage, like a goddess of old.
In some way I did not understand at all events,
I said to her, Kate, we had got so far.
Even then, my uncle hasn't another bottle of port in
his cellar. Consider what a state general fortescue will be
in soon. He'll be tipsy for want of it. Will
you come and help me to find a bottle or two?
She rose at once, with a white rose blush so delicate.
I don't believe any one saw it but myself, But
the shadow of a stray ringlet could not fall on
her cheek without my seeing it. When we got into
the hall, the wind was roaring loud, and the few
lights were flickering and waving gustily with alternate light and
shade across the old portraits, which I had known so
well as a child, For I used to think what
each would say first, if he or she came down
out of the frame and spoke to me. I stopped,
and taking Kate's hand, I said, I daren't let you
come farther, Kate, before I tell you another thing. My
uncle has promised if I find him a dozen of port.
You must have seen what a state the poor man
is in to let me say something to you. I
suppose he meant your mamma, but I prefer saying it
to you if you will let me, Will you come
and help me to find the port? She said nothing,
but took up a candle that was on a table
in the hall and stood waiting. I ventured to look
at her. Her face was now celestial rosy red, and
I could not doubt that she had understood me. She
looked so beautiful that I stood staring at her without moving.
What the servants could have been about that not one
of them crossed the hall, I can't think. At last,
Kate laughed and said, well I started, and I dare
say took my turn at blushing. At least I did
not know what to say. I had forgotten all about
the guests inside. Where's the port? Said Kate. I caught
hold of her hand again and kissed it. You needn't
be quite so minute in your account, my dear, said
my mother, smiling. I will be more careful in future,
my love returned my father. What do you want me
to do? Said Kate only to hold the candle for me,
I answered, restored to my seven senses at last, and
taking it from her, I led the way, and she
followed till we had passed through the kitchen and reached
the cellar stairs. These were steep and awkward, and she
let me help her down. Now, Edward said my mother. Yes, yes,
my love, I understand, returned my father. Up to this
time your mother had asked no questions. But when we
stood in a vast low cellar, which we he had
made several turns to reach, and I gave her the
candle and took up a great crowbar, which lay on
the floor. She said, at last, Edward, are you going
to bury me alive? Or what are you going to do?
I'm going to dig you out, I said, For I
was nearly beside myself with joy as I struck the
crowbar like a battering ram into the wall. You can
fancy John, that I didn't work. The worse that Kate
was holding the candle for me. Very soon, though with
great effort, I had dislodged a brick, and the next
blow I gave into the hole sent back a dull echo.
I was right. I worked now like a madman. And
in a very few minutes more I had dislodged the
whole of the brick thick wall, which filled up an
archway of stone and curtained an ancient door, in the
lock of which the key now showed itself. It had
been well greased, and I turned it without much difficulty.
I took the candle from Kate and led her into
a spacious region of sawdust, cobweb and wine fungus. There
Kate I cried in delight, but said, Kate, will the
wine be good? General Fordisque will answer you that I
returned exultantly. Now come and hold the light again while
I find the port bin. I soon found not one,
but several well filled port bins, which to choose I
could not tell. I must chance that Kate carried a
bottle in the candle, and I carried two bottles. Very carefully.
We put them down in the kitchen, with orders they
should not be touched. We had soon carried the dozen
to the hall table by the dining room door, when
at length, with Jacob chuckling and rubbing his hands behind us,
we entered the dining room Kate and I, for Kate
would not part with her share in the joyful business,
loaded with a level bottle in each hand, which we
carefully erected on the sideboard. I presume from the stair
of the company that we presented a rather remarkable appearance,
Kate in her white muslin and I in my best clothes,
covered with brick dust and cobwebs and lime. But we
could not be half so amusing to them as they
were to us. There they sat, with the dessert before them,
but no wine decanter's forthcoming. How long they had sat thus,
I have no idea. If you think your mamma has
you may ask her. Captain Calker and General Fortescue looked
positively white about the gills. My uncle, clinging to the
last hope, despairingly, had sat still and said nothing, And
the guests could not understand the awful delay. Even Lady
Georgiana had begun to fear a mutiny in the kitchen
or something equally awful. But to see the flash that
passed across my uncle's face when he saw us appear
with pordid arms, he immediately began to pretend that nothing
had been the matter. What the deuce has kept you, ned,
my boy? He said, fair he be. He went on,
I beg your pardon, Jacob, you can go on decanting.
It was very careless of you to forget it. Meantime,
hebe bring that bottle to General Jupiter. There he's got
a corkscrew in the tail of his robe. Or I'm mistaken.
Out came General Fortescue's corkscrew. I was trembling once more
with anxiety. The cork gave the genuine PLoP. The bottle
was lowered, glug, glug, glug came from its beneficent throat,
and out flowed something tawny as a lion's mane. The
General lifted it lazily to his lips, saluting. His nose
was on the way fifteen by jeove, He cried, well, Admiral,
this was worth waiting for. Take care how you decant that, Jacob,
on peril of your life? My uncle was triumphant. He
winked hard at me not to tell Kate, and I retired.
She to change her dress, I to get mine well
brushed and my hands washed. By the time I returned
to the dining room, no one had any questions to
ask for Kate. The ladies had gone to the drawing
room before she was ready, and I believe she had
some difficulty in keeping my uncle's counsel, but she did need.
I say, that was the happiest Christmas I ever spent.
But how did you find the cellar? Papa asked, Effie,
where are your brains? Effy, don't you remember I told
you that I had a dream. Yes, but you don't
mean to say that the existence of that wine cellar
was revealed to you in a dream. But I do. Indeed,
I had seen the wine cellar built up just before
we left for Madera. It was my father's plan for
securing the wine when the house was let, and very
well it turned out. For the wine and me too.
I had forgotten all about it. Everything had conspired to
bring it to my memory, but had just failed of success.
I had fallen asleep under all the influences I told
you of, influences from the region of my childhood. They
operated still when I was asleep, and all other distracting
influences being removed at length, roused in my sleeping brain.
The memory of what I had seen. In the morning.
I remembered not my dream only, but the event of
which my dream was a reproduction still I was under
considerable doubt about the place, and in this I followed
the dream only as near as I could judge. The
Admiral kept his word and interposed no difficulties between Kate
and me. Not that, to tell the truth, I was
ever very anxious about that roc ahead. But it was
very possible that his fastidious honor or pride might have
occasioned a considerable interference with our happiness for a time.
As it turned out, he could not leave me Culverwood,
and I regretted the fact as little as he did himself.
His gratitude to me was, however, excessive, assuming occasionally ludicrous
outbursts of thankfulness. I do not believe he could been
more grateful if I had saved his ship and its
whole crew, for his hospitality was at stake. Kind old
man here ended my father's story with a light sigh,
a gaze into the bright coals, a kiss of my
mother's hand which he held in his, and another glass
of Burgundy and of port in a storm by George
mac Donald