"Why Martin?" I asked. "There has never been a Martin in the family,
and the only Martins I can recall are Martin Luther and Martin
Tupper. But why commemorate them?"
"We aren't proposing to commemorate them. We are not thinking of
them. We are thinking of Martin on its merits. There's a nice
clean, sharp quality about it. It's not too unusual, and just
unusual enough--plain and not too plain. It has distinction without
frills. That's the case for Martin."
"But if you want a name with that sort of flavour," said I, "why not
Crispin?"
"Crispin, by Jove! That's an idea. Why, Sylvia, why didn't you
think of Crispin? Of course, it's Crispin. It fits him like a
glove. Here, pass Crispin over to me. What clarity! What
austerity! What a flavour of the antique world! Henry the Fifth
before Agincourt, and all the rest of it. It's like a beautiful
frosty morning--sunshine and a nip in the air, a clean wind and a
clear sky."
But when at the next conference the subject was resumed, Crispin had
passed under a cloud. It was a little too chill--a little too much
of autumn about it. And it called attention to itself. Now
Philip--that had the smack of high summer. It was round and full and
came trippingly from the tongue. And as for its traditions, these
were abundant, Philip of Macedon and Philip Sidney.
"And Philip the Second," I said.
"Well, we must take the good with the bad. And after all the name's
the thing."
"Have you thought of Christopher?"
"Yes, for one whole evening Christopher went like a gale of wind. I
forget why we dropped it. Why did we drop it, Sylvia? There must
have been some reason, but I can't for the life of me think what it
was or what it could be. Christopher.... Yes, I think we shall have
to reconsider Christopher, Sylvia."
That evening there was a ring on the telephone. "It's all right,"
said the voice. "We've had a brainwave. We've decided on
Antony--A-n-t-o-n-y--no 'h' of course."
"You mean the sinner, not the saint. I don't like Mark Antony.
Can't forgive him that affair of Cicero's head."
"Well, they all used to do things like that in those days."
"But why allude to the fellow?"
"We are not alluding to him."
"You can't help alluding to him. It's the greatest one-man name in
the world. Why not go for simplicity? There's John. Glorious name,
John--fits anybody--splendid traditions, John Milton, John Dryden,
John Bright, John Bunyan, John Donne----"
"Then you don't like Antony."
"I don't say that. I said I didn't like Mark Antony."
When the jury met again, however, Antony, like Philip and
Christopher, was out of the running, and Martin had reappeared.
There was such a quietude about Martin, you know. It was calm, it
was self-controlled, it was full of peace, and yet it wasn't dull.
There couldn't possibly be anything wrong with a fellow named Martin.
"Well," said I, "Martin Luther kicked up a tolerable dust in the
world, and Martin Tupper was as dull as an oyster. Now Stephen----"
"Yes, Stephen is a fine name. We've thought a lot about Stephen. It
has just the right note of romance without being romantic. I think
we turned it down because we thought it was rather 'defeatist' in
spirit. There was Stephen who was stoned--wasn't he?--and King
Stephen who lost his crown--didn't he?--and Uncle Stephen who was
drowned, and things like that. We don't want to start the boy with a
'defeatist' name. But Stephen is beautiful, I think we shall have to
think about Stephen again, Sylvia."
And they did. "We've settled on Stephen," was the eleventh-hour
bulletin from headquarters.
I was a little late when I reached the church, and the christening
group was already around the font with the clergyman in attendance.
The service proceeded at once, and reached the point at which the
clergyman demanded the name of "this child."
"Michael," came the astonishing reply.
I looked up and caught a mischievous glint in the maternal eye.
"Well, you see," she said afterwards, "we were quite exhausted with
the search, and fell on Michael in desperation. And he was born on
St. Michael's Day. And there was Michael Angelo, you know. Anyhow,
it's done now, and can't be undone. But I do hope Michael----"
"Mike," I said.
"No, no, it's to be Michael--I do hope Michael will like it."
* * * * * *
"How's Michael?" I asked a few days later when the father visited me.
"The baby is going on splendidly," he said.
"'The baby,'" I said. "Why not Michael?"
"Oh, something's got to be done. We can never leave the poor child
with that name tied to him. We think of calling him Martin."
"Or Stephen," I said.