A CHRISTMAS CALL
The Christmas holidays were drawing near and Barfleur was making due
preparations for the celebration of that event. He was a stickler for
the proper observance of those things which have national significance
and national or international feeling behind them. Whatever joy he
might get out of such things, much or little, I am convinced that he
was much more concerned lest some one should fail of an appropriate
share of happiness than he was about anything else. I liked that in
Barfleur. It touched me greatly, and made me feel at times as though I
should like to pat him on the head.
During all my youth in Indiana and elsewhere I had been fed on that
delightful picture, “Christmas in England,” concocted first, I believe
(for American consumption, anyhow), by Washington Irving, and from
him rehashed for magazines and newspaper purposes until it had come
to be romance _ad nauseum_. The boar’s head carried in by the butler
of Squire Bracebridge, the ancient peacock pie with the gorgeous tail
feathers arranged at one end of the platter and the crested head at
the other, the yule log, the mistletoe berries, and the Christmas
choristers singing outside of windows and doors of echoing halls, had
vaguely stood their ground and as such had rooted themselves in my
mind as something connected with ancestral England. I did not exactly
anticipate anything of this kind as being a part of present-day
England, or of Barfleur’s simple country residence, but, nevertheless,
I was in England, and he was making Christmas preparations of one kind
or another, and my mind had a perfect right to ramble a little. I think
most of all I anticipated another kind of toy from that to which we are
accustomed in America.
So many things go to make up that very amiable feast of Christmas when
it is successful that I can hardly think now of all that contributed
to this one. There was Sir Scorp, of whom by now I had grown very
fond, and who was coming here to spend the holidays. There was Gerard
Barfleur, a cousin of Barfleur’s, a jolly, roystering theatrical
manager, who was unquestionably--after Barfleur--one of the most
pleasing figures I met in England, a whimsical, comic-ballad-singing,
character-loving soul, who was as great a favorite with women and
children as one would want to find. He knew all sorts of ladies,
apparently, of high and low degree, rich and poor, beautiful and
otherwise, and seemed kindly disposed toward them all. I could write a
splendid human-interest sketch of Gerard Barfleur alone. There was Mr.
T. McT., a pale, thoughtful person, artistic and poetic to his finger
tips, curator of one of the famous museums, a lover of Mr. Housman’s
“A Shropshire Lad,” a lover of ancient glass and silver, whose hair
hung in a sweet mop over his high, pale forehead, and whose limpid dark
eyes shone with a kindly, artistic light. Then there was Barfleur’s
aunt and her daughter, mother and sister respectively of the highly
joyous Gerard Barfleur, and wife and daughter of a famous litterateur.
Then, to cap it all, were the total of Barfleur’s very interesting
household,--housekeeper, governess, maid, cook, gardener, and--last,
but not least, the four charming, I might almost say adorable, children.
There, too, was Barfleur, a host in himself. For weeks beforehand he
kept saying on occasion as we wandered about London together, “No, we
can’t go there,” or, “You mustn’t accept that, because we have reserved
that Saturday and Sunday for Christmas at my place,” and so nothing was
done which might interfere. Being in his hands I finally consulted him
completely as to Christmas presents, and found that I was to be limited
to very small gifts, mere tokens of good-will, I being his guest. I
did manage to get him a supply of his favorite cigarettes, however,
unknown to himself,--the ones his clever secretary told me he much
preferred,--and had them sent out to the house with some favorite books
for the remaining members of the household.
But the man was in such high spirits over the whole program he had
laid out for me--winter and spring,--the thought of Paris and the
Riviera,--that he was quite beside himself. More than once he said
to me, beaming through his monocle, “We shall have a delightful time
on the continent soon. I’m looking forward to it, and to your first
impressions.” Every evening he wanted to take my hastily scribbled
notes and read them, and after doing so was anxious to have me do
them all just that way, that is, day by day as I experienced them. I
found that quite impossible, however. Once he wanted to know if I had
any special preference in wines or cordials and I knew very well why
he asked. Another time he overheard me make the statement that I had
always longed to eat rich, odorous Limburger cheese from Germany.
“Done!” he exclaimed. “We shall have it for Christmas.”
“But, Papa,” piped up Berenice maliciously, “we don’t all have to have
it at the same time, do we?”
“No, my dear,” replied Barfleur solemnly, with that amazingly
patronizing and parental air which always convulsed me, a sort of gay
deviltry always lurking behind it.
“Only Mr. Dreiser need have it. He is German and likes it.”
I assumed as German a look as I might,--profound, Limburgery.
“And I believe you like Mr. Jones’s sausage,” he observed on another
occasion, referring to an American commodity, which he had heard me say
in New York that I liked. “We shall have some of those.”
“Are American sausage like English sausage?” inquired young Charles
Gerald interestedly.
“Now Heaven only knows,” I replied. “I have never eaten English
sausages. Ask your father.”
Barfleur merely smiled. “I think not,” he replied.
“Christmas is certainly looking up,” I said to him badgeringly. “If I
come out of here alive,--in condition for Paris and the Riviera,--I
shall be grateful.”
He beamed on me reprovingly.
Well, finally, to make a long story short, the day came, or, at
least, the day before. We were all assembled for a joyous Christmas
Eve--T. McT., Sir Scorp, Gerard Barfleur, the dearest aunt and the
charming cousin, extremely intelligent and artistic women both, the
four children, Barfleur’s very clever and appealing secretary, and
myself. There was a delightful dinner spread at seven-thirty, when
we all assembled to discuss the prospects of the morrow. It was on
the program, as I discovered, that I should arise, and accompany
Barfleur, his aunt, his cousin, and the children to a nearby abbey
church, a lovely affair, I was told, on the bank of the Thames hard
by the old English town called Bridgely, while Gerard Barfleur, who
positively refused to have anything to do with religion of any kind,
quality or description, was to go and reconnoiter a certain neighboring
household (of which more anon), and to take young James Herbert (he
of the “bawth”) for a fine and long-anticipated ride on his motor
cycle. Lord Scorp and T. McT. were to remain behind to discuss art,
perhaps, or literature, being late risers. If there was to be any Santa
Claus, which the children doubted, owing to Barfleur’s rather grave
asseveration to the contrary (there having been a number of reasons why
a severely righteous Santa might see fit to remain away), he was not to
make his appearance until rather late in the afternoon. Meanwhile we
had all adjourned to the general living-room, where a heavy coal fire
blazed on the hearth (for once), and candles were lighted in profusion.
The children sang songs of the north, accompanied by their governess. I
can see their quaint faces now, gathered about the piano. Lord Scorp,
McT. and myself indulged in various artistic discussions and badinage;
Mrs. Barfleur, the aunt, told me the brilliant story of her husband’s
life,--a great naturalistic philosopher and novelist,--and finally
after coffee, sherry, nuts and much music and songs,--some comic ones
by Gerard Barfleur,--we retired for the night.
It is necessary, to prepare the reader properly for the morrow, to
go back a few days or weeks, possibly, and tell of a sentimental
encounter that befell me one day as I was going for a walk in that
green world which encompassed Bridgely Level. It was a most delightful
spectacle. Along the yellowish road before me, with its border of green
grass and green though leafless trees, there was approaching a most
interesting figure of a woman, a chic, dashing bit of femininity,--at
once (the presumption, owing to various accompanying details was
mine) wife, mother, chatelaine,--as charming a bit of womanhood and
English family sweetness as I had yet seen in England. English women,
by and large, let me state here, are not smart, at least those that I
encountered; but here was one dressed after the French fashion in trig,
close-fitting blue, outlining her form perfectly, a little ermine cap
of snowy whiteness set jauntily over her ear, her smooth black hair
parted demurely over her forehead, a white muff warming her hands, and
white spats emphasizing the trim leather of her foot gear. Her eyes
were dark brown, her cheeks rosy, her gait smart and tense. I could
scarcely believe she was English, the mother of the three-year-old in
white and red wool, a little girl, who was sitting astride a white
donkey, which, in turn, was led by a trim maid or nurse or governess
in somber brown,--but it was quite plain that she was. There was such
a wise, sober look about all this smartness, such a taut, buttressed
conservatism, that I was enchanted. It was such a delightful picture
to encounter of a clear December morning that, in the fashion of the
English, I exclaimed, “My word! This is something like!”
I went back to the house that afternoon determined to make inquiries.
Perhaps she was a neighbor,--a friend of the family!
Of all the individuals who have an appropriate and superior taste for
the smart efforts of the fair sex, commend me to Barfleur. His interest
and enthusiasm neither flags nor fails. Being a widower of discretion
he knows exactly what is smart for a woman as well as a man, and all
you have to do to make him prick up his ears attentively is to mention
trig beauty as existing in some form, somewhere,--not too distant for
his adventuring.
“What’s this?” I can see his eye lighting. “Beauty? A lovely woman?
When? Where?”
This day, finding Wilkins in the garden trimming some bushes, I had
said, “Wilkins, do you know any family hereabouts that keeps a white
donkey?”
Wilkins paused and scratched his ear reflectively. “No, sir! I cawn’t
say has I do, sir. I might harsk, sir, down in the village, hif you’re
very hanxious to know.”
Be it known by all men that I feed Wilkins amply for all services
performed,--hence his interest.
“Never mind for the present, Wilkins,” I replied. “I may want to know.
If so, I’ll ask you.”
I knew he would inquire anyhow.
That night at dinner, the family being all present, Barfleur in his
chair at the head of the table, the wine at his right, I said mildly--
“I saw the most beautiful woman to-day I have yet seen in England.”
Barfleur was just in the act of elevating a glass of champagne to his
lips, but he paused to fix me with an inquiring eye.
“Where?” he questioned solemnly. “Were you in the city?”
“Not at all. I rarely, if ever, see them in the city. It was very near
here. A most beautiful woman,--very French,--trim figure, small feet, a
gay air. She had a lovely three-year-old child with her riding a white
donkey.”
“A white donkey? Trim, very French, you say? This is most interesting!
I don’t recall any one about here who keeps a white donkey. Berenice,”
he turned to his young daughter. “Do you recall any one hereabout who
keeps a white donkey?”
Berenice, a wizard of the future, merely smiled wisely.
“I do not, Papa.”
“This is very curious, very curious indeed,” continued Barfleur,
returning to me. “For the life of me, I cannot think of any one who
keeps a white donkey. Who can she be? Walking very near here, you say?
I shall have a look into this. She may be the holiday guest of some
family. But the donkey and child and maid--Young, you say? Percy, you
don’t remember whether any one hereabout owns a white donkey,--any one
with a maid and a three-year-old child?”
Percy smiled broadly. “No, I don’t,” he said. Barfleur shook his head
in mock perturbation. “It’s very strange,” he said. “I don’t like the
thought of there being any really striking women hereabout of whom I
know nothing.” He drank his wine.
There was no more of this then, but I knew that in all probability the
subject would come up again. Barfleur inquired, and Wilkins inquired,
and as was natural, the lady was located. She turned out to be the wife
of a tennis, golf, and aeroplane expert or champion, a man who held
records for fast automobiling and the like, and who was independently
settled in the matter of means. Mrs. Barton Churchill was her name as
I recall. It also turned out most unfortunately that Barfleur did not
know her, and could not place any one who did.
“This is all very trying,” he said when he discovered this much. “Here
you are, a celebrated American author, admiring a very attractive woman
whom you meet on the public highway; and here am I, a resident of the
neighborhood in which she is living, and I do not even know her. If I
did, it would all be very simple. I could take you over, she would be
immensely flattered at the nice things you have said about her. She
would be grateful to me for bringing you. Presto,--we should be fast
friends.”
“Exactly,” I replied sourly. “You and she would be fast friends. After
I am gone in a few days all will be lovely. I shall not be here to
protect my interests. It is always the way. I am the cat’s paw, the
bait, the trap. I won’t stand for it. I saw her first, and she is mine.”
“My dear fellow,” he exclaimed banteringly, “how you go on! I don’t
understand you at all. This is England. The lady is married. A little
neighborly friendship. Hmm.”
“Yes, yes,” I replied. “I know all about the neighborly friendship. You
get me an introduction to the lady and I shall speak for myself.”
“As for that matter,” he added thoughtfully, “it would not be
inappropriate under the circumstances for me to introduce myself in
your behalf. She would be pleased, I’m sure. You are a writer, you
admire her. Why shouldn’t she be pleased?”
“Curses!” I exclaimed. “Always in the way. Always stepping in just when
I fancy I have found something for myself.”
But nothing was done until Gerard Barfleur arrived a day or two before
Christmas. That worthy had traveled all over England with various
theatrical companies. Being the son of an eminent literary man he had
been received in all circles, and knew comfortable and interesting
people in every walk of life apparently, everywhere. Barfleur, who, at
times, I think, resented his social sufficiency, was nevertheless prone
to call on him on occasion for advice. On this occasion, since Gerard
knew this neighborhood almost as well as his cousin, he consulted him
as to our lady of the donkey.
“Mrs. Churchill? Mrs. Barton Churchill?” I can still see his interested
look. “Why, it seems to me that I do know some one of that name. If I
am not mistaken I know her husband’s brother, Harris Churchill, up in
Liverpool. He’s connected with a bank up there. We’ve motored all over
England together, pretty nearly. I’ll stop in Christmas morning and see
if it isn’t the same family. The description you give suits the lady I
know almost exactly.”
[Illustration: Barfleur]
I was all agog. The picture she had presented was so smart. Barfleur
was interested though perhaps disappointed, too, that Gerard knew
her when he didn’t.
“This is most fortunate,” he said to me solemnly. “Now if it should
turn out that he does know her, we can call there Christmas day after
dinner. Or perhaps he will take you.”
This came a little regretfully, I think, for Gerard Barfleur accounted
himself an equal master with his cousin in the matter of the ladies,
and was not to be easily set aside. So Christmas eve it was decided
that Gerard should, on the morrow, reconnoiter the Churchill country
house early, and report progress, while we went to church. Fancy
Barfleur and me marching to church Christmas morning with the children!
Christmas in England! The day broke clear and bright, and there we all
were. It was not cold, and as is usual, there was little if any wind. I
remember looking out of my window down into the valley toward Bridgely,
and admiring the green rime upon the trees, the clustered chimneys of
a group of farmers’ and working-men’s cottages, the low sagging roofs
of red tile or thatch, and the small window panes that always somehow
suggest a homey simplicity that I can scarcely resist. The English
milkmaid of fiction, the simple cottages, the ordered hierarchy of
farmers are, willy nilly, fixtures in my mind. I cannot get them out.
First then, came a breakfast in our best bibs and tuckers, for were
we not to depart immediately afterwards to hear an English Christmas
service? Imagine Barfleur--the pride of Piccadilly,--marching
solemnly off at the head of his family to an old, gray abbey church.
As the French say, “I smile.” We all sat around and had our heavy
English breakfast,--tea, and, to my comfort and delight, “Mr. Jones’s
sausages.” Barfleur had secured a string of them from somewhere.
“Think of it,” commented Berenice sardonically. “‘Mr. Jones’s
sausages’ for breakfast. Aren’t they comic! Do you like them?”
“I most assuredly do.”
“And do you eat them every day in A-máy-reeka?” queried Charles Gerard
with a touch of latent jesting in his voice.
“When I can afford them, yes.”
“They’re quite small, aren’t they?” commented five-year-old James
Herbert.
“Precisely,” I replied, unabashed by this fire of inquiry. “That’s
their charm.”
The church that we visited was one of those semi-ancient abbey affairs,
done in good English Gothic, with a touch of Tudor here and there,
and was located outside the village of Bridgely Level two or three
miles from Barfleur’s home. I recall with simple pleasure the smug,
self-righteous, Sunday-go-to-meeting air with which we all set forth,
crossing homey fields via diagonal paths, passing through stiles
and along streams and country roads, by demure little cottages that
left one breathless with delight. I wish truly that England could be
put under glass and retained as a perfect specimen of unconscious,
rural poetry--the south of England. The pots and pans outside the
kitchen doorways! The simple stoop, ornamented with clambering vines!
The reddish-green sagging roofs with their clustered cylindrical
chimneypots! When we came to the top of a hill we could see the church
in the valley below, nestling beside one bank of the Thames which wound
here and there in delightful S’s. A square tower, as I recall, rose
quaintly out of a surrounding square of trees, grass, grave-stones and
box-hedge.
There was much ado in this semi-ancient place as we came up, for
Christmas day, of all days, naturally drew forth a history-loving
English audience. Choir boys were scurrying here and there, some
ladies of solemn demeanor, who looked as if they might be assisting at
the service in some way or another, were dawdling about, and I even
saw the rector in full canonicals hastening up a gravel path toward a
side door, as though matters needed to be expedited considerably. The
interior was dark, heavy-beamed, and by no means richly ornamented
with stained glass, but redolent of by-gone generations at that. The
walls were studded with those customary slabs and memorial carvings
with which the English love to ornament their church interiors. A
fair-sized, and yet for so large an edifice, meager audience was
present, an evidence it seemed to me, of the validity of the protest
against state support for the Established Church. There was a great
storm of protest in England at this time against the further state
support of an institution that was not answering the religious needs
of the people, and there had been some discussion of the matter at
Barfleur’s house. As was natural, the artistically inclined were
in favor of anything which would sustain, unimpaired, whether they
had religious value or not, all the old cathedrals, abbeys, and
neighborhood churches, solely because of their poetic appearance.
On the other hand an immense class, derisively spoken of as “chapel
people,” were heartily in favor of the ruder disposition of the matter.
Barfleur in his best Piccadilly clothing was for their maintenance.
To be frank, as charming as was this semi-ancient atmosphere, and
possibly suited to the current English neighborhood mood (I could not
say as to that), it did not appeal to me as strongly on this occasion
as did many a similar service in American churches of the same size.
The vestments were pleasing as high church vestments go; the choir,
made of boys and men from the surrounding countryside no doubt, was
not absolutely villainous but it could have been much better. To tell
the truth, it seemed to me that I was witnessing the last and rather
threadbare evidences of an older and much more prosperous order of
things. Beautiful in its way? Yes. Quaint? Yes. But smacking more of
poverty and an ordered system continued past its day than anything
else. I felt a little sorry for the old church and the thin rector and
the goodly citizens, albeit a little provincial, who clung so fatuously
to a time-worn form. They have their place, no doubt, and it makes that
sweet, old lavender atmosphere which seems to hover over so much that
one encounters in England. Nevertheless life does move on, and we must
say good-bye to many a once delightful thing. Why not set these old
churches aside as museums or art galleries, or for any other public
use, as they do with many of them in Italy, and let the matter go at
that? It is not necessary that a service be kept up in them day by
day and year by year. Services on special or state occasions would be
sufficient. Let by-gones be by-gones, and let the people tax themselves
for things they really do want, skating-rinks, perhaps, and moving
pictures. They seemed to flourish even in these elderly and more sedate
neighborhoods.
Outside in the graveyard, after the services were over and we were
idling about a few moments, I found a number of touches of that valiant
simplicity in ability which is such a splendid characteristic of the
English. Although there were many graves here of the nobility and
gentry, dating from as far back as the sixteenth century, there was no
least indication so far as I could see, of ostentation, but everywhere
simple headstones recording names only, and not virtues,--sometimes,
perhaps, a stately verse or a stoic line. I noticed with a kind of
English-speaking pride the narrow new-made grave of Sir Robert Hart,
the late great English financial administrator of China, who, recently
deceased, had been brought over sea to this simple churchyard, to lie
here with other members of his family in what I assumed to be the
neighborhood of his youth and nativity. It is rather fine, I think,
when a nation’s sons go forth over the world to render honorable
service, each after his capacity, and then come back in death to an
ancient and beloved soil. The very obscurity of this little grave with
its two-feet, six-inch headstone and flowerless mound spoke more to me
of the dignity and ability that is in true greatness of soul than a
soaring shaft might otherwise do.
On the way home I remember we discussed Christian Science and its
metaphysical merit in a world where all creeds and all doctrines blow,
apparently, so aimlessly about. Like all sojourners in this fitful
fever of existence Mrs. Barfleur and her daughter and her son, the
cheerful Gerard were not without their troubles; so much so that,
intelligent woman that she was, and quite aware of the subtleties and
uncertainties of religious dogma, she was eager to find something upon
which she could lean,--spiritually speaking,--the strong arm, let us
say, of an All Mighty, no less, who would perchance heal her of her
griefs and ills. I take it, as I look at life, that only the very able
intellectually, or the very rock-ribbed and dull materially can front
the storms and disasters that beset us, or the ultimate dark which
only the gifted, the imaginative, see, without quakes and fears. So
often have I noticed this to be true, that those who stand up brave
and strong in their youth turn a nervous and anguished eye upon this
troubled seeming in later years. They have no longer any heart for a
battle that is only rhyme and no reason, and, whether they can conceive
why or not, they must have a god. I, for one, would be the last person
in the world to deny that everywhere I find boundless evidence of
an intelligence or intelligences far superior to my own. I, for one,
am inclined to agree with the poet that “if my barque sink, ’tis to
another sea.” In fact I have always innately presumed the existence of
a force or forces that, possibly ordered in some noble way, maintain
a mathematical, chemical, and mechanical parity and order in visible
things. I have always felt, in spite of all my carpings, that somehow
in a large way there is a rude justice done under the sun, and that a
balance for, I will not say right, but for happiness is maintained.
The world has long since gathered to itself a vast basket of names
such as Right, Justice, Mercy, and Truth. My thinking has nothing to
do with these. I do not believe that we can conceive what the ultimate
significance of anything is, therefore why label it? I have seen good
come to the seemingly evil and evil come to the seemingly good. But if
a religion will do anybody any good, for Heaven’s sake, let him have
it! To me it is a case of individual, sometimes of race weakness. A
stronger mind could not attempt to define what may not be defined, nor
to lean upon what, to infinite mind must be utterly insubstantial and
thin air. Obviously there is a vast sea of force. Is it good? Is it
evil? Give that to the philosophers to fight over, and to the fearful
and timid give a religion. “A mighty fortress is our God,” sang Luther.
He may be, I do not know.
But to return to Mrs. Barfleur and her daughter and Barfleur’s children
and Barfleur ambling across the sunny English landscape this Christmas
morning. It was a fine thing to see the green patina of the trees,
and richer green grass growing lush and thick all winter long, and
to see the roofs of little towns like Bridgely Level,--for we were
walking on high ground,--and the silvery windings of the Thames in
the valley below, whence we had just come. I think I established
the metaphysical basis of life quite ably,--for myself,--and urged
Mrs. Barfleur to take up Christian Science. I assailed the wisdom of
maintaining by state funds the Established Church largely, I think, to
irritate Barfleur, and protested that the chapel people had a great
deal of wisdom on their side. As we drew near Bridgely Level and
Barfleur’s country place it occurred to me that Gerard Barfleur had
gone to find out if he really knew the lady of the donkey, and I was
all anxiety to find out. Barfleur himself was perking up considerably,
and it was agreed that first we would have an early afternoon feast,
all the Christmas dainties of the day, and then, if Gerard really knew
the lady, we were to visit her and then return to the house, where, I
now learned, there was to be a Santa Claus. He was to arrive via the
courtesy of Gerard Barfleur who was to impersonate him, and on that
account, Barfleur announced, we might have to cut any impending visit
to our lady short in order not to disappoint the children, but visit we
would. Knowing Gerard Barfleur to be a good actor and intensely fond of
children,--Barfleur’s especially,--I anticipated some pleasure here.
But I will be honest, the great event of the day was our lady of the
donkey, her white furs, and whether she was really as striking as I
had imagined. I was afraid Gerard would return to report that either,
(A)--he did not know her, or (B)--that she was not so fascinating as
I thought. In either case my anticipated pleasure would come to the
ground with a crash. We entered, shall I say, with beating hearts.
Gerard had returned. With Sir Scorp and T. McT. he was now toasting his
English legs in front of the fire, and discoursing upon some vanity of
the day. At sight of the children he began his customary badinage but I
would have none of it. Barfleur fixed him with a monitory eye. “Well,”
he said, putting the burden of the inquiry on me. “Our friend here has
been quite restless during the services this morning. What did you find
out?”
“Yes,” chimed in Mrs. Barfleur who had been informed as to this
romantic encounter, “for goodness’ sake tell us. We are all dying to
know.”
“Yes, tell them,” sarcastically interpolated Lord Scorp. “There will be
no peace, believe me, until you do.”
“To be sure, to be sure,” cheerfully exclaimed Gerard, straightening
up from jouncing James Herbert. “I know her well. Her sister and her
husband are here with her. That little baby is hers, of course. They
live just over the hill here. I admire your taste. She is one of the
smartest women I know. I told her that you were stopping here and she
wants you to come over and see the Christmas tree lighted. We are all
invited after dinner.”
“Very good,” observed Barfleur, rubbing his hands. “Now that is
settled.”
“Isn’t she charming,” observed Mrs. G. A. Barfleur, “to be so politely
disposed?”
Thereafter the dinner could not come too soon, and by two-thirty we
were ready to depart, having consumed Heaven knows how many kinds of
wines and meats, English plum-pudding, and--especially for me--real
German Limburger. It was a splendid dinner.
Shall I stop to describe it? I cannot say, outside of the interesting
English company, that it was any better or any worse than many another
Christmas feast in which I have participated. Imagine the English
dining-room, the English maid, the housekeeper in watchful attendance
on the children, the maid, like a bit of Dresden china, on guard over
the service, Barfleur, monocle in eye, sitting solemnly in state
at the head of the board, Lord Scorp, T. McT., Gerard Barfleur, his
mother, her daughter, myself, the children all chattering and gobbling.
The high-sounding English voices, the balanced English phrases, the
quaint English scene through the windows,--it all comes back, a bit of
sweet color. Was I happy? Very. Did I enjoy myself? Quite. But as to
this other matter.
It was a splendid afternoon. On the way over, Barfleur and myself,
the others refusing contemptuously to have anything to do with this
sentimental affair, had the full story of our lady of the donkey and
her sister and the two brothers that they married.
We turned eventually into one of those charming lawns enclosed by a
high, concealing English fence, and up a graveled automobile path to a
snow-white Georgian door. We were admitted to a hall that at once bore
out the testimony as to the athletic prowess of the husbands twain.
There were guns, knives, golf-sticks, tennis rackets, automobile togs
and swords. I think there were deer and fox heads in the bargain. By
a ruddy, sportsmanlike man of perhaps thirty-eight, and all of six
feet tall, who now appeared, we were invited to enter, make ourselves
at home, drink what we would, whiskey, sherry, ale--a suitable list.
We declined the drink, putting up fur coats and sticks and were
immediately asked into the billiard room where the Christmas tree and
other festivities were holding,--or about to be. Here, at last there
were my lady of the donkey and the child and the maid and my lady’s
sister and alas, my lady’s husband, full six feet tall and vigorous
and, of all tragic things, fingering a forty-caliber, sixteen-shot
magazine pistol which his beloved brother of sporting proclivities had
given him as a Christmas present! I eyed it as one might a special
dispensation of Providence.
But our lady of the donkey? A very charming woman she proved,
intelligent, smiling, very chic, quite aware of all the nice things
that had been said about her, very clever in making light of it for
propriety’s sake, unwilling to have anything made of it for the present
for her husband’s sake. But that Anglicized French air! And that
romantic smile!
We talked--of what do people talk on such occasions? Gerard was full of
the gayest references to the fact that Barfleur had such interesting
neighbors as the Churchills and did not know it, and that they had once
motored to Blackpool together. I shall not forget either how artfully
Barfleur conveyed to Mrs. Barton Churchill, our lady of the donkey,
that I had been intensely taken with her looks while at the same time
presenting himself in the best possible light. Barfleur is always at
his best on such occasions, Chesterfieldian, and with an air that says,
“A mere protegee of mine. Do not forget the managerial skill that is
making this interesting encounter possible.” But Mrs. Churchill, as
I could see, was not utterly unmindful of the fact that I was the
one that had been heralded to her as a writer, and that I had made
the great fuss and said all the nice things about her after a single
encounter on a country road which had brought about this afternoon
visit. She was gracious, and ordered the Christmas tree lighted and
had the young heir’s most interesting toys spread out on the billiard
table. I remember picking up a linen story book, labeled Loughlin
Bros., New York.
“From America,” I said, quite unwisely I think.
“Oh, yes, you Americans,” she replied, eyeing me archly. “Everything
comes from America these days, even our toys. But it’s rather
ungracious to make us admit it, don’t you think?”
I picked up a train of cars, and, to my astonishment, found it stamped
with the name of a Connecticut firm. I hesitated to say more, for I
knew that I was on dangerous ground, but after that I looked at every
book or box of blocks and the like, to find that my suspicions were
well founded. England gets many of its Christmas toys from America.
Nothing came of this episode except a pleasant introduction for
Barfleur, who had all the future before him. I was leaving for
Manchester after the new year, and for Paris a week or two later. It
was all in vain as I foresaw, that I was invited to call again, or
that she hoped to see something of me among her friends in London. I
think I said as much to Barfleur with many unkind remarks about the
type of mind that manages to secure all merely by a process of waiting.
Meantime he walked bravely forward, his overcoat snugly buttoned, his
cane executing an idle circle, his monocle on straight, his nose in the
air. I could have made away with him for much less.
The last of this very gallant day came in the home of Barfleur himself.
As we neared the house we decided to hurry forward and to say that
Gerard had remained at the Churchill’s for dinner, while he made a wide
detour, ending up, I think, in some chamber in the coach house. I did
not see him again until much later in the evening, but meantime the
children, the relatives, the friends and the family servants were all
gathered in the nursery on the second floor. There was much palaver
and badinage concerning the fact that Santa Claus had really had such
bad reports that he had found it much against his will to come here,
early at least. There were some rather encouraging things that had been
reported to him later, however, and he had, so some one had heard,
changed his mind. Whether there would be little or much for such a
collection of ne’er-do-wells was open to question. However if we were
all very quiet for a while we should see. I can see Barfleur now in
his gala attire, stalking nobly about, and the four little Barfleurs
surveying rather incredulously but expectantly the maid, the nurse, the
governess, and their father. I wondered what had become of my small
mementos and whether my special cigarettes for Barfleur were in safety
in Santa Claus’s pack. It was small stock, I fear me much, that these
well-behaved little English children took in this make-believe, but
presently there was a loud hammering at the nursery door, and without
a “By your leave,” the same was opened and a vigorous, woolly-headed
Santa Claus put his rosy face into the chamber.
“Is there any one living here by the name of Percy Franklin Barfleur,
or Berenice Barfleur, or James Herbert Barfleur?” I shall not repeat
all the names he called in a high falsetto voice, “I’ve been a long way
to-day and I’ve had a great deal to do, and I haven’t had the least
assistance from anybody. They’re so busy having a good time themselves.”
I never saw a redder nose, or more shaggy eye-browed eyes, or a gayer
twinkle in them. And the pack that he carried was simply enormous. It
could barely be squeezed through the door. As he made his way to the
center of the room he looked quizzically about, groaning and squeaking
in his funny voice, and wanting to know if the man in the monocle were
really Barfleur, and whether the fat lady in the corner were really a
nurse, or merely an interloper, and if the four children that had been
reported to him as present were surely there. Having satisfied himself
on various counts, and evoked a great deal of innocent laughter, to say
nothing of awe as to his next probable comment, he finally untied the
enormous bag and began to consult the labels.
“Here’s a package marked ‘Charles Gerard Barfleur.’ It’s rather large.
It’s been very heavy to carry all this distance. Can anybody tell me
whether he’s been a reasonably good child? It’s very hard to go to all
this trouble, if children aren’t really deserving.” Then, as he came
forward, he added, “He has a very impish look in his eye, but I suppose
I ought to let him have it.” And so the gift was handed over.
One by one the presents came forth, commented on in this fashion, only
the comments varied with the age and the personality of the recipient.
There was no lack of humor or intimacy of application, for this Santa
Claus apparently knew whereof he spoke.
“Is there a writer in the room by the name of Theodore Dreiser?” he
remarked at one time sardonically. “I’ve heard of him faintly and he
isn’t a very good writer, but I suppose he’s entitled to a slight
remembrance. I hope you reform, Mr. Dreiser,” he remarked very wisely,
as he drew near me. “It’s very plain to me that a little improvement
could be effected.”
I acknowledged the wisdom of the comment.
When my cigarettes were handed to Barfleur, Santa Claus tapped them
sapiently. “More wretched cigarettes!” he remarked in his high
falsetto. “I know them well! If it isn’t one vice that has to be
pampered, it’s another. I would have brought him pâté de foies gras or
wine, if I didn’t think this was less harmful. He’s very fond of prawns
too, but they’re very expensive at this time of the year. A little
economy wouldn’t hurt him.” Dora, the maid, and Mrs. A., the nurse,
and Miss C., the governess, came in for really brilliant compliments.
Lord Scorp was told that an old English castle or a Rembrandt would be
most suitable, but that Santa was all out at present, and if he would
just be a little more cheerful in the future he might manage to get
him one. T. McT. was given books, as very fitting, and in a trice the
place was literally littered with wonders. There were immense baskets
and boxes of candied fruit from Holland; toys, books and fruit from
Barfleur’s mother in Rome; more toys and useful presents from ladies in
London and the north of England and France and the Isle of Wight,--a
goodly company of mementos. It’s something to be an attractive widower!
I never saw children more handsomely or bountifully provided for--a
new saddle, bridle and whip for Berenice’s riding pony, curious
puzzles, German mechanical toys from Berlin, and certain ornamental
articles of dress seemed, by the astonishing bursts of excitement they
provoked, exceedingly welcome. Santa now drew off his whiskers and cap
to reveal himself as Gerard Barfleur, and we all literally got down
on the floor to play with the children. You can imagine, with each
particular present to examine, how much there was to do. Tea-time came
and went unnoticed, a stated occasion in England. Supper, a meal not
offered except on Christmas, was spread about eight o’clock. About
nine an automobile took Lord Scorp and T. McT. away, and after that
we all returned to the nursery until about ten-thirty when even by
the most liberal interpretation of holiday license it was bedtime. We
soberer elders (I hope no one sets up a loud guffaw) adjourned to the
drawing-room for nuts and wine, and finally, as the beloved Pepys was
accustomed to remark, “So to bed.”
But what with the abbey church, the discourse on Christian Science, our
lady of the donkey, a very full stomach and a phantasmagoria of toys
spinning before my eyes, I went to bed thinking of,--well now, what do
you suppose I went to bed thinking of?