ODD PAPERS

Southland Times, Issue 20664, 20 April 1929, Page 13

ODD PAPERS

SAI’IAS, VINA LIQL'ES

(By

L.W.G.)

"The wine is great,” I thought. We were sitting with our backs to the flat, prosaic landscape; our faces were to the harbour mouth, and our eyes were scanning the low mound of Otatara. Except for us the wharf was deserted. Said Mac, “It happened in Spain. I should not. be telling you this,’ he confessed, “if I were perfectly' sober. When sober, I am naturally taciturn. Now—l admit it freely—l am somewhat under the mellowing influence of the sublime grape, ami thus—l freely admit it —I am disposed to be communicative.”

He gazed reflectively at the blunt bows of the Kotare. A seabird was crying shrilly over the mud flats, which spread a broad bistre, with here and there a wan flash, denoting scattered pools, upon which the sunbeams danced.

I wondered vaguely how many pools there were —how many pools, that is, between the wharf and Sandy Point; 1 had no interest in those further back. "How many pools?” 1 thought vaguely, “and how many pounds would I have, had I a pound for each pool ?” I was thinking dimly, not decisively. "Three and three make six,” I mused, “Three times six and we have eighteen. Say that the eighteen are pence, and we have the price of a lunch at . Double the amount and there is lunch for both. Hi Presto!” I rattled sevenpence—four coppers and a threepenny bit. It was at this juncture that Mac dispersed my vague cloud of thought.

"I should not. be telling you this ” "Pray, don’t reiterate unnecessarily,” I broke in, “I know precisely - —” Here 1 whistled* softly. "That wine is great,” I said. “It is,” agreed Mac, and sang: “A grey mist on the sea’s face And a grey dawn breaking.”

“I have found,” he continued, after he had sung, “that there is no need for me to study philosophy. Philosophus nascitur non fit. A philosopher is born, not. made. I have my code of conduct, being born a philosopher; and, being a born philosopher, I rarely adhere to it. There is really but. one course of action whereby one may fully justify one’s nature, and that is to live in the manner most suited to one's tastes, and temperament. This may be done by all. I will explain later. Following this principle I have always had an extreme admiration for tramps. A tramp has the courage to live up to his convictions. He is convinced he should not. work —he docs not work. Consequently he has the victory over the lesser man, who works because, he is afraid not to. A negligible percentage like work. This trend of thought brings us to a realization of true, values. We now--have the tramp, and his more imaginative concomitant, the, criminal, duly honoured. They must be classed with the men who dare to do and dare not to do.

Going further we perceive that the society woman is the greatest moral coward in existence. Her life is largely exhausted in the effort to do what is "done” and to refrain from doing what is not "done” by the most futile section of foolish humanity. She is therefore mentally and morally an insipid automaton. “I do not work,” concluded Mac, "because I do not want to work, and I have the courage to follow my desires.” He sighed happily and opened a black bag. “Women in society, and men who work can never be happy,” he went on, "I am neither a woman in society nor am I a man who works, therefore I should be. happy, anil I am. Q.E.D.” No sound could be heard now but a faint gurgling. Another minute passed and Mac sang—- " Come bring me a bumper and fill it up fair, E’er the flowers are all fallen, the trees are all bare, Nor imagine that thirty still leaves a long run, If you live to a hundred, a third of it's done.”

“That,” said Mac, "is not arithmetic, but it is poetry, also it is the wisdom of Po Chu —1. The Chinese were a race of philosophers. They never degraded themselves with the activities of business until afternoon, and were it not that business was essential, they would not have degraded themselves with it then.” <! You are wrong there,” I contradicted. "The Chinese were a race of Politicians. This is evident from the fact, that they regarded the stomach as the seat of intelligence. A politician and his stomach ” “God forbid!” interrupted Mac. "The stomach of a politician is invariably of great magnitude. The Chinese were therefore neither philosophers nor politicians. They were a race of liars.”

"Perhaps humorists,” I suggested. Conversation lagged for the space of a seaman’s oath repeated ten times, then, said Mac, in the tones of one who has seen all and suffered all, "I could be happy perennially, had we but perpetual summer, poetry, and no stomachs.” "Mac,” I said, “you forget music.” “Music is poetry.” “Women.” “Lyrics,” said he. “Pure lyrics,” stressing the "pure.” "Ah!” said I triumphantly. “But what of wine ?”

“Without a stomach,” said Mac decidedly, “it. would be sufficient to breath the divine odour. This gives the added advantage of cheapness; also there would be no nausea which occasionally follows excessive indulgence. After all, wine is drunk more for fts effect than its taste, even though it. is not often admitted.”

“Speaking of women,” I said, as Mac peered through the empty bottle at his surroundings. “You sec through a glass darkly. I knew a woman once.” “That reminds me,” said he, “I was going to tell you something. I should not be telling you this, were I perfectly sober. When I am sober

“You are perfectly penniless," I cut. in. "Ah,” he signed. “It. happened in Spain. Spain always reminds me of the mystical, and the mystical of Francis Thompson. Dear old Francis. How I love his “A Corymbus for Autumn.” He drew a tattered volume from his pocket and read — Hearken my chant, ’tis As a Bacchantes, A grape-spurt, a vine-splash, a tossed tress, flown vaunt ’tis. Suffer my singing, Gipsy of Seasons, ere thou go winging; Ere Winter throws His slaking snows In thy feasting—flagon’s impurpurate glows 1 The sopped sun —toper as ever drank hard— Stares foolish, hazed, Rubicund, dazed, Totly with thine October tankard. Tanned maiden! with cheeks like- apple russet, And breast a brown agaric faint-flushing at tip. And a mouth too red for the moon to. buss it But. her cheek unvow its vestalship; Thy piist's cnclip

Her steel —clear circuit ilhiminous, Until it crust Rubiginous With the glorious gules of a glowing rust. We were silent a long time. Mac never read a poem without reflecting in silence upon its beauties. And so re reclined upon the wharf—a deep, wonderful grey this wharf, and away from us the bistre had turned to gold in the noonday sun, old

gold; the banks in the distance were a soft emerald, while above the sky spread a dome azure flecked with a feathery silver. The ship loomed a silent phantom through the wine haze. The atmosphere was redolent of the presence of innumerable fancies. “I am going to tell you” stuttered Mac, as his eyes closed, and he breathed deeply. In the stillness I thought, “The wine is great.’’