Punch: Punch (101.1891)

148

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [September 26, 1891.

SOME CIRCULAR NOTES.

Chapter VI.

Recovery— Waiter— Vicomte— Chateau—Reception—Night—Mom-
ing— Workers—Headstones — Memories—Stones—Explanations
—Breakfast—Off—Back again.

Dattbixet, quite recovered from his fatigue, sings 11 Blass the
Prince of Wailes" enthusiastically, and at intervals ejaculates
queer, uncouth words in the Russian tongue. Breakfast with

" Karascho ! " exclaims Daubinet.

Russian tongue. He asks the waiter for " mmnoschhah karosh
caviar." To which the waiter adroitly replies, "parfaitement
fll'sieu," and disappears. Returning ten minutes afterwards, the
wily attendant makes no further allusion to the supposed errand
that has taken him out of the room.

Then Daubinet, remembering that we are lit-
erally "here to-day and gone to-morrow," says
we must visit his friend the Vicomte, I cannot
catch the Vicomte's name ; I manage to do so for
half an hour at a time, and then it escapes me.
As we are in this champagney country, I write
it down as M. le Vicomte de Champagniac. We
are to dine and sleep there. A Night in a French
Chateau. " But this is another story."

On our arrival at the Chateau de Quelque chose
we are right royally and heartily received. De-
lightful evening. Vive la Compagnie! Mag-
nificent view from my bedroom. In the clear
moonlight I can see right away for miles and
miles over the Champagne valleys. At 6"30 we are
in the break, and within an hour or so are "All
among the barley," as the song used to say, which
I now apply to "All amongst the Vineyards."
Peasants at work everywhere : picking and sort-
ing. How they must dislike grapes ! Of course
they are all teetotallers, and no more touch a
drop of champagne than a grocer eats his own
currants, or a confectioner his own sweetmeats. I
suppose the butcher lives exclusively on hsh, and
his friend, the neighbouring fishmonger, is en-
tirely dependent on the butcher for his sustenance,
except when game is in, and then both deal with
the gamester or poulterer. There are some traders

in necessaries who can make a fair deal all round. The only excep-
tion to this rule, for which, from personal observation, I can vouch,
is the tobacconist, who is always smoking his own cigars.

Wonderful this extensive plain of vineyards! and what stunted
little stumps with leaves round them are all these vines ! Not in it
with our own graceful hops. No hedges or ditches to separate one
owner's property from another's. To each little or big patch of land
there is a white headstone with initials on it, as if somebody had
hurriedly and unostentatiously been buried on the spot where he fell,
killed in the Battle of the Vineyards, by a grape-shot. At first,
seeing so many of these white headstones with initials on each one, I
conclude that it is some peculiar French way of marking distances
or laying out plots, and I find my conclusion is utterly erroneous.

"These white stones," M. Vesquiee explains, "mark the
boundaries of different properties." Odd ! The plain is cut up into
little patches, and champagne-growers, like knowing birds, have
popped down on " here a bit and there a bit and everywhere a bit"
from time to time, so that one headstone records the fact that " here
lies the property of J. M.," and within a few feet is another head-
stone " sacred to the memory of P. and G.," or P. without the Q.;
then removed but a step or two is a stone with a single "A." on it,
and a short distance from the road is " H. "—poor letter "H"
apparently dropped for ever. Here lie "M.," and " M. and C,"
and several other heroes whose names recall many a glorious cham-
pagne. And so on, and so on; the initials recurring again quite
unexpectedly, the plots of ground held by the same proprietor
being far apart. But, as it suddenly occurs to me, if these cham-
pagne-growers are all in the same plains for twenty miles or more
round about, all in much the same position, and all the grapes
apparently the same, why isn't it all the same wine ?

"Karascho! " exclaims Dattben'ET, who, under the hot rays of
the early morning sun, is walking in his shirt-sleeves, his coat over
his arm, his hat in one hand, and a big sunshade in the other, '' I
will tell you." Then he commences, and except for now and then
breaking off into Russian expletives, and interspersing his discourse
with selections from British national melodies, his explanation is
lucid, and the reasons evident. Soil and sun account for everything;
the soil being varied, and the sun shifty. " Pou ni my ? comprenez-
vons ?" he asks.

I do perfectly, at the moment; but subsequently trying to explain
the phenomena scientifically, I find that I have not quite pene-
trated the mystery an fond. We visit the Wine-press, which
[Happy Thought!) would be an appropriate title for a journal
devoted entirely to the wine-growing and wine-vending interests.

" And now," says M. le Vicomte, " we must return to breakfast,
or the sun will be too strong for us."

So back we go to our eleven o'clock dejeuner in a beautifully cool
room, of which repast the sweetest little cray-fish, fresh from the
river, are by no means the worst part of the entertainment. Then
coffee, cigars, and lounge. Yes, there are some things better
managed in France than chez nous ; and the division of the day
between labour and refreshment is, in my humble opinion, one of
them. In the contriving of dainty dishes out of the simplest mate-
rials, the French seem to hold that everything is good for food in
this best of all possible worlds, if it be only treated on a wise system
of variation, permutation, and combination. We discuss these
subjects of the higher education until arrives the inevitable
hour of departure. Let us not linger on the doorstep. Into the