Capital Wine by Hugh Conway

A long-lost short story from a forgotten 19th-century British writer who counted Emily Dickinson among his fans.

“Capital wine, John,” I said, holding the glass between the lamp and my eyes, and admiring the rich, ruby tint.

“Capital, isn’t it?” replied John, cuddling his glass in the palm of his hand in order to warm the wine and fully bring out its bouquet and flavour.

We had just finished the sort of dinner I consider perfection for two persons. A drop of clear soup, a sole and a brace of woodcocks. That is, to my mind, as nice a dinner as can be devised, and one which, having eaten, you have no occasion to reproach yourself with high feeding or gluttony. Others may devour huge cuts from sirloin, leg or saddle, but I am always contented with a humble menu like the above.

“Thirty-four, of course,” I said, after tasting the port again.

John nodded and continued nursing his glass.

“Where did you buy it, John?” I inquired.

“Didn’t buy it,” replied John. “You can’t buy such wine as that now.”

“A gift from a grateful client, I presume,” I said, re-filling my glass.

“Not a bit of it, clients ain’t so generous, nowadays. If we can get our costs we are content.”

“Well, how did you get it?”

“Stole it,” replied John, shortly.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I stole that wine as much as ever a thief stole a watch. I planned, plotted, and at last succeeded in effecting the theft. You would have done the same, would you not?”

“I don’t know. It depends upon the risk of conviction and imprisonment. But, tell me all about it.”

John placed all the bottles fairly between us, and began: —

“You know my old uncle, William Slagg — at any rate you have heard of him. Well, he made a good bit of money drysalting, and, what is more, made it when he was a youngish man. He must have been well brought up, or mixed with the right sort of people, for he developed a wonderful taste for wine, and, instead of doing what lots of people do now, more shame to them — send out to their grocer’s for half-a-dozen as they want it — used to buy a pipe or a butt at a time and lay it down. He reaped the reward of his sensible conduct, for when he retired from drysalting, he found himself with a cellar not only amply stocked, but without a drop of bad wine in it. So he settled down to live comfortably on his investments, and to drink his wine in peace.

“Poor old boy! It was beautiful to see him and amusing to hear him with the decanters in front of him. He knew the history of each wine he gave you, and nearly all had a tender reminiscence for him. He would sip a drop of sherry, and look across at me, and say: ‘I call this more than wine, John. It is a poem; something to enjoy and think over.’ Then he would turn to the port. ‘I bought that pipe, John, when I made a wonderful hit in tallow;’ or ‘that claret, John, I laid down when log-wood went up to such a price,’ and so on.

“The old man was by no means a wine-bibber, but he would take his four or five glasses after dinner and enjoy them. He suffered a little from gout before he died, but not more than many elderly gentlemen with rubicund faces. He lived a good many years enjoying the fruit of his labours and the juice in his cellars, and at last slipped away quietly and peacefully. His last words were to me: —

“‘Give them the ’47 and the green seal sherry at the funeral, John. There’s more body, more solemnity in those wines than some of the others.’

“And then old William Slagg went off, and I have no doubt is now the best judge of nectar in the upper regions.

“He left me his executor, and, I am happy to say, the reversion of a considerable sum when his widow dies.

“But it was not without a feeling of disappointment I found all the contents of his house, including the cellar of wines, were hers absolutely.

“It seemed absurd for a splendid lot of wines like that to belong to a woman who would be utterly unable to appreciate them, and whose ideas of wine were bounded, after the manner of womankind, by sweet champagne on one side and family port on the other. I had never expected to be left so much money, but had always cherished the hope that Uncle Slagg, who had greatly approved of the way in which I had discussed his liquor, would have left me those wines.

“However, I thought very likely the widow would prefer a good sum of money to the full bins, so I intended to offer to buy them after a decent interval.

“My Aunt Slagg has very different ideas to those of her late and lamented husband. I remember her, however, as a sensible woman, and having a good eye to the main chance. She had been a capital wife to William Slagg, but, about a twelvemonth before his death, she had attended some revival meetings — a lovefeast, or something of that sort — and been converted. I can’t tell, of course, but I feel sure that nothing can be more annoying to an ordinary man that to find the wife of his bosom — who has jogged along with him very comfortably in a give-and-take style for many years — suddenly turn round and lecture him upon his amiable little weaknesses.

“I am convinced the shock of her conversion hastened poor old William’s death. He had been so accustomed to look upon drinking good wine as the duty of a Christian, that when his wife made a new departure, and became a rabid teetotaller, the thing was too much for him, and he died trying to solve the problem. She would quote Sir Wilfred Lawson, Dr. Richardson, and other authorities, all dinner time, and, when the decanters were placed upon the table, walk away with a look of chastened sorrow upon her face. Nothing, of course, could wean Uncle Slagg from his wine-pots, as she called his little weakness, but I know after tirades, the liquor had lost some of its flavour for him, and did not taste the same as in the old days before her awakening, when she would fill his glass, and even press him to take an extra one for the sake of his health. I wonder he did not alter his will, and, no doubt, he would, had he known to what lengths her fanaticism would lead her.

“I managed, by skilful tactics, to keep on pretty good terms with the old lady. I took the temperance tracts with which she bristled, and led her to understand that, if I could not make up my mind to take the pledge at once, it was a good deal out of consideration for her husband’s feelings, and I might do some day. She looked upon me as a weak vessel, but had great hopes that I might eventually be strong enough to hold the gift of grace, as she rather curiously termed it. After William Stagg’s death, I had, in my position as executor, a lot of business to transact with her, and for some weeks saw her nearly every day. I thought the time was coming when I might broach the subject of the cellar to her, and, as I was walking to the house one afternoon, determined to sound her upon it, I rang and knocked for some minutes, but could get no answer to my summons. They are all upstairs, I thought, and can’t hear me. Then I remembered that the day before, after going through a lot of papers of my uncle’s, I had locked the drawers and put the keys in my pocket. His latch-key was amongst them, and I took the liberty of opening the door with it.

“As I entered the house, I smelt a very peculiar smell proceeding from the kitchen. It was the odour of wine and very strong. They must have broken a bottle carrying it up, I thought. Perhaps, after all, the old lady is not so strict a teetotaller when alone. And I laughed at the idea, little dreaming whence the smell came. I could find no one in any of the sitting rooms, and, as I heard persons moving in the basement, proceeded there. My Aunt, hearing my steps on the stairs, ran to the kitchen door to see who it was. I noticed she appeared vexed as she met me.

“‘I am particularly engaged this afternoon, John, and can’t speak to you now,’ she said.

“As she spoke, I noticed the smell of the wine was almost overpowering, and I wondered what she was doing.

“She had some old gown on, and that covered with a rough, white apron, apparently soaked with some coloured fluid. She was dusty, dirty, untidy, and heated, and I noticed blood flowing from a cut on her hand. What extraordinary household exploit could she be engaged in?

“When a lady tells you decidedly she can’t stop to talk to you, and when she appears up to her eyes in cleaning the house or something of that sort, the next thing to do is to make yourself scarce; so I apologised for my intrusion and promised to call again tomorrow.

“‘But what a strong smell of wine, aunt?’ I said. ‘Don’t you notice it?’

“‘My servants have just broken a bottle or two,’ she replied, looking rather embarrassed. ‘Goodbye, John, shut the door after you.’

“‘Goodbye,’ I said, and retraced my steps.

“As I went up those dark kitchen stairs, a sudden thought struck me. And yet it seemed so wild and absurd that I laughed at the idea. But, before I had reached the top, it had taken full possession of me, and I felt cold and pale with dread. I could not bear the uncertainty, and determined to ascertain, at any risk, if my suspicions were correct. Instead, therefore, of shutting the door from the outside, I shut it with a good bang from the inside and waited, scarcely breathing, at the top of the stairs. After a minute’s listening, my ears caught a crash of glass, and then a rich gurgle of fluid, that sent a thrill of horror through my heart. Another crash, another gurgle, and then another and another, and even that strange scent of wine stronger and stronger. It must be as I thought, so I crept like a cat down the stairs once more, and gently opened the kitchen door. No one was there, but I heard another crash and my aunt’s voice exclaim, in a tone of exalted fervour: —

“‘Glory — Alleluia — another bait taken from Satan’s trap!’

“I passed across the kitchen and looked through the door of the scullery, and there I saw my aunt and one of her red-cheeked servant wenches busily engaged in knocking the necks off the cobwebbed bottles and — oh, desecration! — pouring their priceless contents amid potato pairings, soapsuds, and beastliness of that sort down the sink to gladden the hearts of the rats in the main sewer.

“For a few moments, I was so taken aback I could not speak or move. It seemed like a ghostly dream. Yet it was real, and I could see an exalted look in my aunt’s face, and as I heard her exclaim with each cruel decapitation, ‘another bait snatched from Satan!’ I knew the poor woman was earnest in her conviction, and I imagined she was doing right. As I looked at this strange scene, thinking what course to take, an exclamation behind me made me turn, and I saw in the kitchen the other red-cheeked servant girl, bearing on her muscular arm a bottle-basket holding a dozen of wine she had evidently brought up from the cellar for the purpose of immolation. O, William Slagg, you must have turned in your grave! If I had ever believed in ghosts, this work would have banished by belief, for if anything could have brought a ghost back to earth, the sacrifice going on would have brought yours back. That basket contained the very particular, the joy of your heart, the wine that only came forth on the most important occasions, the very opening of which was a religious ceremony, and fervent prayers went up over each bottle that the cork may have withstood the ravages of years and the wine be still sound! And now —

“Even if the servant had not discovered me, I should have interfered then, so I stepped boldly forwards into the scullery and confronted the heartless executioners. The servant, looking sheepish and ashamed, put down the bottle, the neck of which was just approaching the edge of the stone sink. My Aunt, with the consciousness of rectitude, met my gaze firmly.

“‘Thank heaven I returned,’ I said. ‘What does this mean?’

“‘Mean, John! Only that I am doing my duty.’

“‘Doing your duty in pouring the finest cellar of wine in London down a common sink!’

“‘You know my views, John. I say, touch not, taste not and handle not.’

“She has been touching and handling with a vengeance, I thought, but I kept my temper and said:–

“‘But if you won’t drink it, why not sell it and give the proceeds to the poor, if you like?’

“‘No, John. I have considered the subject fully. My duty is to pour it down there. If I sell it — if I give it away — someone will drink, and every drop of wine that passes down a man’s throat helps to float him to perdition.’

“Her imagery was strange, but her mind was made up, so, after a pause, I said: —

“‘Come upstairs and talk with me. Tell your servants to stop for a bit.’

“She followed me, saying, ‘it’s no good talking, John; my mind is made up.’

“I cast about for a way to move her, and at last decided on a bold course.

“We seated ourselves in the dining-room, near that polished mahogany board in which poor old Uncle Slagg loved to see the crystal decanters mirrored.

“Then I commenced gravely —

“‘My dear Aunt, you will understand that from motives of prudence I could not speak before your servants as I can now. Of course, I do not dispute your right to do what you like with your own, but I am sure you cannot be aware of the penalties you are incurring in this wholesale destruction of fermented liquors.’

“‘How do you mean?’ she said, startled.

“‘I mean,’ I replied, in the most solemn accents, ‘that you are defrauding the excise and are liable to heavy fine and, I believe, imprisonment.’

“‘But the wine is my own,’ she argued.

“‘Precisely; so is this sovereign mine, but were I to clip, debase or destroy it, I lay myself open to legal proceedings and punishment. Wine has paid duty and is protected in the same way as this sovereign.’

“‘How unjust,’ she said.

“‘It may be so, but it is the law. Moreover, the informer gets a good share of the fine, so see how you place yourself in your servants’ power and what temptation you expose them to.’

“‘But I will go to prison and glory in my martyrdom,’ she said, with an angelic look.

“‘Excuse me, my dear Aunt, but I cannot afford to go to prison, and, as I am the executor and responsible for everything, I should share your fate. It may seem selfish, but I must guard against this. I shall, therefore, ask you to give me the key of the cellar; allow me to seal up the door, and I promise you, at the expiration of a twelvemonth, when I give you legal possession of everything here and take your discharge, I will return the key, and you must then please yourself.’

“Now, I well know how frightened women are at the idea of coming into collision with the law, so although the penalties I threatened her with were improbable and absurd, they set her thinking, and I awaited her answer hopefully. I added, though, as a make-weight: —

“‘How terribly vexed poor uncle would have been to see you today.’

“‘I believe, John, that in the place my poor husband now is, he fully realises the errors of his life, and could he look down’ — or up I thought — ‘he would be pleased to see my actions.’

“I thought of the poor fellow as I last saw him at the table and smiled at the idea, but was too wise to contradict her. After a pause, she said: —

“‘Well, John, you have been very kind and attentive, and I should not like you to get into trouble, so I will do as you wish. But, mind, at the end of twelve months nothing shall stop me throwing all the wine away.’

“I saw the basket of the ‘very particular’ safely restored to its snug bin; I locked the door, affixed my seal to it, and carried the key away; rejoicing that I had arrived in time to save the wine.

“But my task was not half over. I knew my Aunt so well, and felt sure she would carry out her threat at the expiration of the time named, so I wove a plot to obtain absolute possession of the wine, without putting her in a madhouse, or even forfeiting her goodwill or any chance legacy.

“I said not another word about the cellar, but, when the summer came, persuaded her to go away to the seaside for a short time. With all her magnificent conduct as to wasting alcoholic treasures, she was rather near, and said she could not afford it. She would like to go for a month or two, but found the expenses of her present house too great. I suggested letting it furnished for the time to a respectable tenant. She fell in with this suggestion, and when, through the house-agent, my friend Tom Sinclair offered to take the house at a handsome sum per week, and brought her unexceptional references, the matter was settled. Tom said he had his own servants, so she sent hers away on board wages. On the evening of the day she left, I met Tom by appointment at the house. His servants were all a myth, and there was no one to interfere with us. We broke the seal and opened the door, and found in the cellar, which had been excavated and enlarged by my old uncle’s directions, at least five hundred bottles of wine, sleeping in beautifully-arranged bins, peacefully and happily, little dreaming how narrowly they had escaped total destruction.

“I determined to act with great caution. We had plenty of time before us, and I felt, to escape detection, the cellar must be left as we found it. I made an exact plan of it, marking the contents of the bins, and the number of bottles in each, and also noting the appearance as well I could. And then, Tom, commissioned by me, went round to auctioneers and wine merchants buying as cheaply as he could all the refuse he could find. Sour claret, fetid sherry, and fusty port formed the staple of his purchases. He was a perfect godsend to the lucky tradesmen he patronised, and if they ever imagined he was going to drink his purchases, all who sold him wine were equally guilty of manslaughter. We had it packed and sent to Tom’s warehouse, and in two or three journeys hauled it to my Aunt’s and stowed it in the basement. The house was in a quiet neighbourhood, and stood in a garden, so we ran little risk of detection. And then our work began. We were a month at it off and on, and I assure you the labour was so hard that only the thought of the rich reward enabled me to go through with it. We trusted no one, but did everything ourselves. We took the bins regularly, emptied them of their contents, unpacked a sufficient quantity of our dreadful purchases to replace them, and, having done that, filled the empty cases with the real Simon Pure*, labelled each with the particulars, and nailed them down. In about a month our work was complete, and the five hundred and odd dozens of the old man’s cherished wine lay ready packed for removal, whilst, through our carefulness, the cellar presented an appearance very much the same as it did before we commenced our meritorious task. The risk of detection was rendered less, from my Uncle having followed the old-fashioned plan of filling bins with sawdust. This, which was old and dirty, we carefully replaced, and, re-locking and re-sealing the door, after packing the last case, executed a dance of triumph at the success of our plot so far, and fully trusted to our cleverness in completely deceiving the old lady. In the dusk of the evening we sent two large wagons to the house, and by twelve o’clock that night the rescued treasures were safe in Tom’s warehouse under lock and key. Of course, our operations had left the basement of my Aunt’s house in a terrible litter, so we devoted another week to putting all that straight. This being done to our satisfaction, Tom wrote to Mrs. Slagg, and enclosed a cheque for two months’ rent, saying that his plans being changed he intended to leave the house at once. The old lady, who had grown tired of the seaside, came back, and, although much disgusted at the dusty state she found the house in, and vowing nothing should induce her to let it again, never shows the slightest suspicion of what had transpired during her absence.

“Now that I was happy as to the wines, I waited with great curiosity to see whether, at the expiration of the time of probation, she would carry out her intentions. I found she was as firmly resolved as ever, and as I wished to see the end of the affair, after handing her the key, with a feigned protest, I told her I had almost persuaded myself with her ideas she could not do otherwise, and offered to give her any assistance I could in the good work. Almost incredulous, she accepted my aid, and a good work it was to pour the filthy contents of those bottles down the kitchen sink. Faugh! it nearly made us all sick; but I know my assistance on that occasion secures me a good legacy, as she altered her will in my favour the next day.

“The cream of the joke was that, as the servant girl brought up a basket full of the noxious compounds and reported that this was the very last, my Aunt hesitated for a few minutes, and, as perhaps some tender recollections of her late husband presented themselves, said to me: —

“‘John, if you would like to take this last dozen, for your poor uncle’s sake, you can. I ought to do away with all, I know, but one dozen is very little from the large quantity I have sacrificed. So take it, if you wish.’

“I trembled at the idea, and answered as one who overcomes a severe temptation: —

“‘My dear Aunt, don’t let any inclination of mine lead you from what you consider your duty. No doubt, I shall be better without it, so let it follow the rest.’

“She gave me a grateful smile, and the last dozen of William Slagg’s supposed wine gurgled down the sink, and my aunt cleaned herself from the stains of the sacrifice, and went to a prayer meeting radiant and happy. She, no doubt, expects her reward hereafter, and doubtless she will receive it for if ever a good act was done in this world, she did one when she poured away that five hundred dozen of horrible stuff called wine.”

John, having finished his tale, took a bright little key from his pocket, and rose.

“I suppose your friend Sinclair claimed some of the spoil?” I asked.

“Oh, yes, the wretch! Wanted a hundred and fifty dozen, but I managed to compound for about half that quantity. So my cellar of wine was cheap after all, and I can well spare that other bottle I am now going to fetch.”

*From the phrase ‘the real Simon Pure’, the name of a character in the play A Bold Stroke for a Wife (1717), by Susannah Centlivre (1669–1723), who is impersonated by another character in some scenes.

Hugh Conway is the pen name of Frederick John Fargus. Fargus was born in Bristol in 1847, the son of an auctioneer. Although he originally intended to enter his father’s business he had a brief dalliance with the sea, almost joining the navy as a trainee officer, before agreeing to return to Bristol where he worked as an accountancy clerk until his father’s death in 1868, whereupon he took over the family auction house.

During his time as a clerk he had written the lyrics to a number of songs using the name Hugh Conway, and encouraged by the Bristol publisher James William Arrowsmith, he turned his hand to stories and novels. His first novella, a thriller entitled Called Back, was a huge success, selling 350,000 copies and enlisting fans including Emily Dickinson.

In 1885, following a bout of ill health, Fargus went to the French Riviera where he caught typhoid fever and died at the age of only 37. Several of his books and stories were published posthumously.

Capital Wine is the title story of a short collection recently published in the Very Short Classics series. Other books in the series include Souvenirs of France by Rudyard Kipling, Childless by Ignát Hermann and The Four Devils by Herman Bang.