Two old friends were chatting comfortably at a dining room table spread for dinner. They were indeed “old friends”, for the age difference between one and the other was almost a century.
It was a curious kind of banquet, for instead of musicians and instruments to create a happy mood, there reigned a meditative silence, interrupted only by the pop and crackle of the large logs burning in the fireplace.
What were the two friends talking about? The well-satisfied host – the younger one at the table – was cordially bidding his guest farewell. But he was not rushing things along; he seemed rather reluctant to let his friend go.
“Well, well, my good Burgundy, your company has been delicious! A pity there’s only half a bottle left…” exclaimed Mr. Allen, the man of the house.
Yes, his “guest” was none other than a fine wine, whose date of production exceeded one hundred years. However, the cork was crumbling, and it could not be used to stop up the bottle again. But since the liquid was far too precious to discard, he decided to look for another bottle into which the remaining Burgundy could be transferred.
With this intent, he got up from the table and headed downstairs to the wine cellar to select a bottle that could suitably receive such a special guest. His eyes scanned the racks, filled with bottles of all sizes and kinds. Coming to the finest vintages, he said to himself:
“A Saint-Honoré… no, no that’s much too valuable to pour out. A Sauternes… I mustn’t discriminate it for its youth; someday, down the road, it will afford me great pleasure.”
As Mr. Allen continued search, his mind kept wandering back to his old friend:
“Oh, if everyone could have a taste of that Burgundy! It is a true star among wines! It is like a ruby-red sunset!”
Suddenly, his eye landed on a low nook in a dark corner of the cellar. There he spied a small bottle of Beaujolais, well advanced in years. It was almost empty, and, besides, the little wine that was left had gone sour.
“This one will do very nicely!” he exclaimed.
Grasping the dusty bottle firmly by the neck, he started trudging back upstairs.
Along the way up to the dining room, the bottle of Beaujolais did not imagine the honourable destiny reserved for it, but instead, foresaw the worst-case scenario. “Oh, no! I’ve been discovered! I’m grimy, and of course I’m as sour as a pickle! My end is nigh: the rubbish bin! If only he hadn’t noticed me… if only the wine cellar had been darker… if only the little bit of wine I have left were sweeter…”
Saddened by these thoughts, it nervously awaited the arrival of the rumbling cart that would haul away the litter, and it tried to calculate how many minutes it had left before its demise.
However, Mr. Allen carried the bottle into the dining room. Treating it with the care that he would give a precious piece of Murano crystal, he wiped away the dust that had gathered during its time in the cellar, emptied it of its vinegar, carefully cleaned the rough glass, scraping off some crusts of dirt. He straightened the cork that crowned its neck, and finally he rubbed it dry as if it were a jewel.
Holding it close to the light of a candle, he poured his old friend into it: the great Côte-de-Beaune, the noble Burgundy!
Astonished, the little bottle thought: “Me? A simple bottle meant to hold Beaujolais! Why me?” Dazed at the precious crimson liquid that had replaced its vinegar, and captivated by the cultured aroma acquired over many years, the bottle could hardly believe that it had been raised to the dignity of containing a liquid as precious as a Burgundy! Just moments ago, it had thought its days were over, but now – oh wonder! – it had been dignified for no merits of its own.
Why had Mr. Allen chosen it? What quality had made it deserving of such great favour? Why had it been selected in preference to countless other bottles? Because, despite being a dirty and humble vessel, it had one thing to offer: that it was docile and practically empty – in short, ready to fulfil the higher plans of its owner. It had been chosen precisely because of its nothingness and its availability!
But the story does not end here. Mr. Allen was so pleased to find suitable accommodation for his friend that, before retiring for a good night’s sleep, he stored the “Beaujolais-Burgundy” in the wardrobe in his room. Little did he realize, however, that he had carelessly left the wine-cellar door open!
That night, Renard le Coquin – the village cat – found an open crack in a window of the house and slipped into the cellar in the hope of making a tantalizing discovery. Finding nothing on the lower levels, he leapt onto a chair and, then, with a burst of agility, bounded in the darkness onto one of the upper shelves, for the fanciest treats are usually stowed away on high.
He landed with his four paws on a delicate rack that creaked and groaned and swayed. He balanced niftily on the wobbly beam of wood but it finally gave way and fell through, as all the bottles on it rolled, toppled to the ground and shattered… Alas, the fist collapse produced another, and yet another! Cats really must have nine lives!
Seeing that his foray had ended in a pile of broken glass and a pool of wine, he silently darted away into the night, awaiting a future attempt when the cellar would be restocked.
The next day, as Mr. Allen passed by, he realized that he had left the door ajar. When he went to close it, he was met with an awful surprise; the cellar was in ruins!
“It was that sneak of a cat! No other creature could have made such a perfect mess!” he muttered to himself.
Then a consoling thought broke in on the gloom: his highly prized Beaujolais bottle, the joy of the previous evening, was safe and sound, since it had spent the night in his wardrobe. He took it down from the shelf and turned it in his hands, and gently told it the news: it was the sole survivor! Taking a sip of that heavenly Burgundy, he exclaimed:
“My old friend was saved, and that is enough!”
Well then, dear reader, if you ever feel within yourself any of the shortcomings that the Beaujolais bottle felt, do not lose heart! Always be ready to accept the invitation that Our Lady continually extends to us to empty ourselves of all that is bad in us, of our faults and defects, so that She can fill our souls with something infinitely superior to the best of wines: divine grace.
Whoever thus becomes a friend of God has nothing to fear from the assaults of the world and the devil, for he will be well guarded, not in a wooden wardrobe, but in the Immaculate Heart of Mary. ◊
