with a singular inefficiency of pronunciation, and sometimes putting
one word for another. "None have understood it--not even those who
experience the like. It is a chillness--a want of earnestness--a
feeling as if what should be my heart were a thing of vapor--a haunting
perception of unreality! Thus seeming to possess all that other men
have--all that other men aim at--I have really possessed nothing,
neither joy nor griefs. All things, all persons--as was truly said to
me at this table long and long ago--have been like shadows flickering
on the wall. It was so with my wife and children--with those who seemed
my friends: it is so with yourselves, whom I see now before me. Neither
have I myself any real existence, but am a shadow like the rest."
"And how is it with your views of a future life?" inquired the
speculative clergyman.
"Worse than with you," said the old man, in a hollow and feeble tone;
"for I cannot conceive it earnestly enough to feel either hope or fear.
Mine--mine is the wretchedness! This cold heart--this unreal life! Ah!
it grows colder still."
It so chanced that at this juncture the decayed ligaments of the
skeleton gave way, and the dry bones fell together in a heap, thus
causing the dusty wreath of cypress to drop upon the table. The
attention of the company being thus diverted for a single instant from
Gervayse Hastings, they perceived, on turning again towards him, that
the old man had undergone a change. His shadow had ceased to flicker on
the wall.
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE
A Christmas Eve in Exile
It is Christmas Eve in a large city of Bavaria. Along the streets,
white with snow, in the confusion of the fog, among the rattle of
carriages and the ringing of bells, the crowd hurries joyously towards
the open-air roast-meat shops, the holiday stalls and booths. Brushing
with a light rustling sound the shops decorated with ribbons and
flowers, branches of green holly and whole spruce trees covered with
pendants move along in the arms of passers-by, rising above all the
heads, like a shadow of the Thuringian Forests, a touch of nature in
the artificial life of winter. Night is falling. Over there, behind
the gardens of the "Résidence," one sees still a glow of the setting
sun, deep red through the fog; and throughout the city there is such
gayety, so many festive preparations, that every light that flames up
at a window seems to hang on a Christmas tree. But this is no ordinary
Christmas. We are in the year of Grace 1870; and the birth of Christ
is but a pretext the more to drink to the illustrious Van der Than,
and to celebrate the triumph of Bavarian arms. Noël! Noël! Even the
Jews in the lower city join in the merriment. There is old Augustus
Cahn, turning the corner at "The Blue Grape" on the run. Never have
his ferret-eyes sparkled as to-night. Never has his brush-like queue
wriggled so merrily. On his sleeve, worn threadbare by the cords of his
wallet, hangs a tidy little basket, full to the brim, covered with a
yellow napkin, with the neck of a bottle and a sprig of holly peeping
out.
What the deuce is the old usurer going to do with all that? Is he, too,
going to celebrate Christmas? Will he gather together his friends,
his family, to drink to the German Fatherland? But no. Every one
knows well that old Cahn has no Fatherland. _His_ Fatherland is his
strong-box. He has neither family nor friends; nothing but creditors.
His sons, his associates too, left three months ago with the army. Down
there behind the gun-carriages of the home guard they ply their trade,
selling brandy, buying watches, and at night, after a battle, going
out to rifle the pockets of the dead and to empty the knapsacks that
have fallen in the trenches by the way. Father Cahn, too old to follow
his children, has remained in Bavaria, and there he does a magnificent
business with the French prisoners. Always prowling about the barracks,
it is he who buys watches, medals, money-orders. One sees him gliding
through the hospitals and among the ambulances. He approaches the
bedside of the wounded and asks them very softly in his hideous
gibberish:--
"Haf you anydings to zell?"
Look! At this very moment, when you see him trotting so briskly with
his basket under his arm, it is because the Military Hospital closes
at five o'clock; and there are two Frenchmen waiting up there in that
big black building, with its narrow-barred windows, where Christmas to
illumine its coming has only the pale lights which guard the bedside of
the dying....
These two Frenchmen are Salvette and Bernadou. They are infantrymen,
two Provençals of the same village, enrolled in the same battalion, and
wounded by the same shell. Only, Salvette is the stronger; and already
he begins to get up, to make some steps from his bed to the window.
Bernadou, for his part, will not recover. Between the wan curtains of
his hospital cot his face looks thinner, more languid, day by day; and
when he speaks of his country, of the return, it is with the sad smile
of the invalid, in which there is more of resignation than of hope.
Nevertheless, to-day he is a little animated, thinking of the beautiful
Christmas festival, which in our Provençal country seems like a great
bonfire lighted in the midst of winter, recalling the midnight mass,
the church decorated, glowing with light, the dark village streets
filled with people, then the long watch about the table, the three
traditional torches, the "_aioli_,"[2] the snails, and the pretty
ceremony of the Yule log, which the grandfather carries about the
house, and anoints with steaming wine.
[2] A mayonnaise sauce richly flavored with garlic.
"Ah! my poor Salvette, what a sad Christmas we are going to have this
year!... If we only had enough to buy a white roll and a bottle of
claret!... How happy I would be if, once more, before taps sound for
me, I could drink with you over the Yule log!"
The sick man's eyes brighten as he speaks of the wine and the white
bread. But how is it to be done? They have nothing left--poor
fellows!--no money, no watch. To be sure, Salvette still keeps in the
lining of his jacket a money-order for forty francs. But that is for
the day when they shall be free; for the first halt that they make in
a French inn. That money is sacred. No way to touch that. But poor
Bernadou is so ill! Who knows if he will ever be able to take up the
journey home? And since here is a beautiful Christmas which they can
still celebrate together, were it not best to profit by it?
So, without a word to his countryman, Salvette rips open his tunic,
takes out the order, and when old Cahn has come, as every morning,
to make his round in the halls, after long arguments and whispered
discussions he slips into the old Jew's hand this square of paper,
yellowed and stiff, smelling of powder, and stained with blood. From
that moment Salvette maintains an air of mystery. He rubs his hands and
laughs to himself as he looks at Bernadou. And now, as day falls, he is
there on watch, his forehead pressed against the narrow panes until he
sees, in the dusk of the deserted courtyard, old Augustus Cahn, all out
of breath, a little basket on his arm.
This solemn midnight, which sounds from all the bells of the city,
falls mournfully in this white camp of suffering. The hospital ward
is silent, lighted only by the night lamps hung from the ceiling.
Great wandering shadows float over the beds and the bare walls, with
an incessant vibration which seems the oppressed breathing of all
the sufferers stretched out there. At moments dreams talk aloud,
nightmares groan, while from the street rises a vague murmur, steps and
voices, confused in the cold, resonant air as if under the porch of a
cathedral. One feels the devout hastening, the mystery of a religious
festival, intruding upon the hour of sleep and throwing upon the
darkened city the dim light of lanterns and the glow of church windows.
"Art thou asleep, Bernadou?"....
Very gently, on the little table near his friend's bed, Salvette has
placed a bottle of Lunel wine and a round loaf--a comely Christmas
loaf, in which the sprig of holly is planted upright. The sick man
opens eyes darkly rimmed with fever. In the uncertain light of the
night lamps and under the white reflection of the great roofs where the
moon shines dazzling upon the snow, this improvised Christmas seems to
him a phantasy.
"Come, comrade, wake up!... It shall not be said that two Provençals
let Christmas Eve pass without toasting it in a cup of claret."... And
Salvette raises him with a mother's tenderness. He fills the glasses,
cuts the bread; and they drink, and talk of Provence. Little by little
Bernadou rouses, becomes tender.... The wine, the recalling of old
days.... With the childish spirit which comes again to the sick in
their weakness, he asks Salvette to sing a Christmas carol of Provence.
His comrade asks nothing better.
"Come! Which one do you want? 'The Host'? 'The Three Kings'? or 'Saint
Joseph Said to Me'?"
"No. I love better 'The Shepherds.' The one we always sang at home."
"'The Shepherds' let it be." In a low voice, his head between the
curtains, Salvette begins to hum. But suddenly, as he sings the last
couplet, where the shepherds, coming to see Jesus in his stable, have
laid their offerings of fresh eggs and cheese in the manger, and are
dismissed in kindly fashion:--
"Joseph leur dit: Allons I soyez bien sages,
Tournez-vous-en et faites bon voyage.
Bergers,
Prenez votre congé, ..."
poor Bernadou slips and falls heavily upon his pillow. His comrade,
thinking he sleeps, calls him, shakes him. But the sick man remains
motionless; and the little sprig of holly across the stiff coverlet
seems already the green palm that is laid on the pillow of the dead.
Salvette understands. Then, all in tears, and a little intoxicated with
the feast and with so great a sorrow, he takes up again in full voice,
in the silence of the ward, the joyous refrain of Provence:--
"Shepherds,
Take your leave!"
ALPHONSE DAUDET
The Rehearsal of the Mummers' Play
Then fell the great first rehearsal of the Christmas play, and Dennis
Masterman found that he had been wise to take time by the forelock in
this matter. The mummers assembled in the parish room, and the vicar
and his sister, with Nathan Baskerville's assistance, strove to lead
them through the drama.
"It's not going to be quite like the version that a kind friend has
sent me, and from which your parts are written," explained Dennis.
"I've arranged for an introduction in the shape of a prologue. I shall
do this myself, and appear before the curtain and speak a speech to
explain what it is all about. This answers Mr. Waite here, who is
going to be the Turkish Knight. He didn't want to begin the piece. Now
I shall have broken the ice, and then he will be discovered as the
curtain rises."
Mr. Timothy Waite on this occasion, however, began proceedings, as the
vicar's prologue was not yet written. He proved letter-perfect, but
exceedingly nervous.
"Open your doors and let me in,
I hope your favours I shall win.
Whether I rise or whether I fall,
I'll do my best to please you all!"
Mr. Waite spoke jerkily, and his voice proved a little out of control,
but everybody congratulated him.
"How he rolls his eyes to be sure," said Vivian Baskerville. "A very
daps of a Turk, for sartain."
"You ought to stride about more, Waite," suggested Ned Baskerville, who
had cheered up of recent days, and was now standing beside Cora and
other girls destined to assist the play. "The great thing is to stride
about and look alive--isn't it, Mr. Masterman?"
"We'll talk afterwards," answered Dennis. "We mustn't interfere with
the action. You have got your speech off very well, Waite, but you said
it much too fast. We must be slow and distinct so that not a word is
missed."
Timothy, who enjoyed the praise of his friends, liked this censure less.
"As for speaking fast," he said, "the man would speak fast. Because he
expects St. George will be on his tail in a minute. He says, 'I know
he'll pierce my skin.' In fact, he's pretty well sweating with terror
from the first moment he comes on the stage, I should reckon."
But Mr. Masterman was unprepared for any such subtle rendering of the
Turkish Knight, and he only hoped that the more ancient play-actors
would not come armed with equally obstinate opinions.
"We'll talk about it afterwards," he said. "Now you go off to
the right, Waite, and Father Christmas comes on at the left. Mr.
Baskerville--Father Christmas, please."
Nathan put his part into his pocket, marched on to the imaginary stage
and bowed. Everybody cheered.
"You needn't bow," explained Dennis; but the innkeeper differed from
him.
"I'm afraid I must, your reverence. When I appear before them, the
people will give me a lot of applause in their usual kindly fashion.
Why, even these here--just t'other actors do, you see--so you may be
sure that the countryside will. Therefore I had better practise the bow
at rehearsal, if you've no great argument against it."
"All right, push on," said Dennis.
"We must really be quicker," declared Miss Masterman. "Half an hour has
gone, and we've hardly started."
"Off I go, then; and I want you chaps--especially you, Vivian, and
you, Jack Head, and you, Tom Gollop--to watch me acting. Acting ban't
the same as ordinary talking. If I was just talking, I should say all
quiet, without flinging my arms about, and walking round, and stopping,
and then away again. But in acting you do all these things, and instead
of merely saying your speeches, as we would just man to man, over my
bar or in the street, you have to bawl 'em out so that every soul in
the audience catches 'em."
Having thus explained his theory of histrionics, Mr. Baskerville
started, and with immense and original emphasis, and sudden actions and
gestures, introduced himself.
"Here come I, the dear old Father Christmas.
Welcome or welcome not,
I hope old Father Christmas
Will never be forgot.
A room--make room here, gallant boys.
And give us room to rhyme...."
Nathan broke off to explain his reading of the part.
"When I say 'make room' I fly all round the stage, as if I was pushing
the people back to give me room."
He finished his speech, and panted and mopped his head.
"That's acting, and what d'you think of it?" he asked.
They all applauded vigorously excepting Mr. Gollop, who now prepared to
take his part.
Nathan then left the stage and the vicar called him back.
"You don't go off," he explained. "You stop to welcome the King of
Egypt."
"Beg pardon," answered the innkeeper. "But of course, so it is. I'll
take my stand here."
"You bow to the King of Egypt when he comes on," declared Gollop. "He
humbly bows to me, don't he, reverend Masterman?"
"Yes," said Dennis, "he bows, of course. You'll have a train carried by
two boys, Gollop; but the boys aren't here to-night, as they're both
down with measles--Mrs. Bassett's youngsters."
"I'll bow to you if you bow to me, Tom," said Mr. Baskerville. "That's
only right."
"Kings don't bow to common people," declared the parish clerk.
"Me and my pretended darter--that's Miss Cora Lintern, who's the
Princess--ban't going to bow, I should hope."
"You ought to, then," declared Jack Head. "No reason because you'm King
of Egypt why you should think yourself better than other folk. Make him
bow, Nathan. Don't you bow to him if he don't bow to you."
"Kings do bow," declared Dennis. "You must bow to Father Christmas,
Gollop."
"He must bow first, then," argued the parish clerk.
"Damn the man! turn him out and let somebody else do it!" cried Head.
"Let neither of 'em bow," suggested Mrs. Hacker suddenly. "With all
this here bowing and scraping, us shan't be done afore midnight; and I
don't come in the play till the end of all things as 'tis."
"You'd better decide, your reverence," suggested Vivian. "Your word's
law. I say let 'em bow simultaneous--how would that serve?"
"Excellent!" declared Dennis. "You'll bow together, please. Now, Mr.
Gollop."
Thomas marched on with amazing gait, designed to be regal.
"They'll all laugh if you do it like that, Tom," complained Mr. Voysey.
"Beggar the man! And why for shouldn't they laugh?" asked Jack Head.
"Thomas don't want to make 'em cry, do he? Ban't we all to be as funny
as ever we can, reverend Masterman?"
"Yes," said Dennis. "In reason--in reason, Jack. But acting is one
thing, and playing the fool is another."
"Oh, Lord! I thought they was the same," declared Vivian Baskerville.
"Because if I've got to act the giant----"
"Order! order!" cried the clergyman. "We _must_ get on. Don't be
annoyed, Mr. Baskerville, I quite see your point; but it will all come
right at rehearsal."
"You'll have to tell me how to act then," said Vivian. "How the
mischief can a man pretend to be what he isn't? A giant----"
"You're as near being a live giant as you can be," declared Nathan.
"You've only got to be yourself and you'll be all right."
"No," argued Jack Head. "If the man's himself, he's not funny, and
nobody will laugh. I say----"
"You can show us what you mean when you come to your own part, Jack,"
said Dennis desperately. "Do get on, Gollop."
"Bow then," said Mr. Gollop to Nathan.
"I'll bow when you do, and not a minute sooner," answered the innkeeper
firmly.
The matter of the bow was arranged, and Mr. Gollop, in the familiar
voice with which he had led the psalms for a quarter of a century,
began his part.
"Here I, the King of Egypt, boldly do appear,
St. Garge! St. Garge! walk in, my only son and heir;
Walk in, St. Garge, my son, and boldly act thy part,
That all the people here may see thy wondrous art!"
"Well done, Tom!" said Mr. Masterman, "that's splendid; but you mustn't
sing it."
"I ban't singing it," answered the clerk. "I know what to do."
"All right. Now, St. George, St. George, where are you?"
"Along with the girls, as usual," snapped Mr. Gollop.
As a matter of fact Ned Baskerville was engaged in deep conversation
with Princess Sabra and the Turkish Knight. He left them and hurried
forward.
"Give tongue, Ned!" cried his father.
"You walk down to the footlights, and the King of Egypt will be on one
side of you and Father Christmas on the other," explained the vicar.
"And you needn't look round for the females, 'cause they don't appear
till later on," added Jack Head.
A great laugh followed this jest, whereon Miss Masterman begged her
brother to try and keep order.
"If they are not going to be serious, we had better give it up, and
waste no more time," she said.
"Don't take it like that, miss, I beg of you," urged Nathan. "All's
prospering very well. We shall shape down. Go on, Ned."
Ned looked at his part, then put it behind his back, and then brought
it out again.
"This is too bad, Baskerville," complained Dennis. "You told me
yesterday that you knew every word."
"So I did yesterday, I'll swear to it. I said it out in the kitchen
after supper to mother--didn't I, father?"
"You did," assented Vivian; "but that's no use if you've forgot it now."
"'Tis stage fright," explained Nathan. "You'll get over it."
"Think you'm talking to a maiden," advised Jack Head.
"Do get on!" cried Dennis. Then he prompted the faulty mummer.
"Here come I, St. George----"
Ned struck an attitude and started.
"Here come I, St. George; from Britain did I spring;
I'll fight the Russian Bear, my wonders to begin.
I'll pierce him through, he shall not fly;
I'll cut him--cut him--cut him----"
"How does it go?"
"'I'll cut him down,'" prompted Dennis.
"Right!"
"I'll cut him down, or else I'll die."
"Good! Now, come on, Bear!" said Nathan.
"You and Jack Head will have to practise the fight," explained the
vicar; "and at this point, or earlier, the ladies will march in to
music and take their places, because, of course, 'fair Sabra' has to
see St. George conquer his foes."
"That'll suit Ned exactly!" laughed Nathan.
Then he marshalled Cora and several other young women, including May
and Polly Baskerville from Cadworthy, and Cora's sister Phyllis.
"There will be a daïs lifted up at the back, you know--that's a raised
platform. But for the present you must pretend these chairs are the
throne. You sit by 'fair Sabra,' Thomas, and then the trumpets sound
and the Bear comes on."
"Who'll play the brass music?" asked Head, "because I've got a very
clever friend at Sheepstor----"
"Leave all that to me. The music is arranged. Now, come on!"
"Shall you come on and play it like a four-footed thing, or get up on
your hind-legs, Jack?" asked St. George.
"I be going to come in growling and yowling on all fours," declared Mr.
Head grimly. "Then I be going to do a sort of a comic bear dance; then
I be going to have a bit of fun eating a plum pudding; then I thought
that me and Mr. Nathan might have a bit of comic work; and then I
should get up on my hind-legs and go for St. George."
"You can't do all that," declared Dennis. "Not that I want to interfere
with you, or anybody, Head; but if each one is going to work out his
part and put such a lot into it, we shall never get done."
"The thing is to make 'em laugh, reverend Masterman," answered Jack
with firmness. "If I just come on and just say my speech, and fight and
die, there's nought in it; but if----"
"Go on, then--go on. We'll talk afterwards."
"Right. Now you try not to laugh, souls, and I wager I'll make you
giggle like a lot of zanies," promised Jack.
Then he licked his hands, went down upon them, and scrambled along upon
all fours.
"Good for you, Jack! Well done! You'm funnier than anything that's gone
afore!" cried Joe Voysey.
"So you be, for certain," added Mrs. Hacker.
"For all the world like my bob-tailed sheep-dog," declared Mr. Waite.
"Now I be going to sit up on my hams and scratch myself," explained Mr.
Head; "then off I go again and have a sniff at Father Christmas. Then
you ought to give me a plum pudding, Mr. Baskerville, and I balance it
'pon my nose."
"Well thought on!" declared Nathan. "So I will. 'Twill make the folk
die of laughing to see you."
"Come on to the battle," said Dennis.
"Must be a sort of wraslin' fight," continued Head, "because the Bear's
got nought but his paws. Then, I thought when I'd throwed St. George a
fair back heel, he'd get up and draw his shining sword and stab me in
the guts. Then I'd roar and roar, till the place fairly echoed round,
and then I'd die in frightful agony."
"You ban't the whole play, Jack," said Mr. Gollop with much discontent.
"You forget yourself, surely. You can't have the King of Egypt and
these here other high characters all standing on the stage doing nought
while you'm going through these here vagaries."
But Mr. Head stuck to his text.
"We'm here to make 'em laugh," he repeated with bulldog determination.
"And I'll do it if mortal man can do it. Then, when I've took the
doctor's stuff, up I gets again and goes on funnier than ever."
"I wouldn't miss it for money, Jack," declared Vivian Baskerville.
"Such a clever chap as you be, and none of us ever knowed it. You ought
to go for Tom Fool to the riders. I lay you'd make tons more money than
ever you will to Trowlesworthy Warren."
"By the way, who is to be the Doctor?" asked Ned Baskerville. "'Twasn't
settled, Mr. Masterman."
Dennis collapsed blankly.
"By Jove! No more it was," he admitted, "and I've forgotten all about
it. The Doctor's very important, too. We must have him before the next
rehearsal. For the present you can read it out of the book, Mark."
Mark Baskerville was prompting, and now, after St. George and the Bear
had made a pretence of wrestling, and the Bear had perished with much
noise and to the accompaniment of loud laughter, Mark read the Doctor's
somewhat arrogant pretensions.
"All sorts of diseases--
Whatever you pleases:
The phthisic, the palsy, the gout,
If the Devil's in, I blow him out.
* * * * *
"I carry a bottle of alicampane,
Here, Russian Bear, take a little of my flip-flap,
Pour it down thy tip-tap;
Rise up and fight again!"
"Well said, Mark! 'Twas splendidly given. Why for shouldn't Mark be
Doctor?" asked Nathan.
"An excellent idea," declared Dennis. "I'm sure now, if the fair Queen
Sabra will only put in a word----"
Mark's engagement was known. The people clapped their hands heartily
and Cora blushed.
"I wish he would," said Cora.
"Your wish ought to be his law," declared Ned. "I'm sure if 'twas
me----"
But Mark shook his head.
"I couldn't do it," he answered. "I would if I could; but when the time
came, and the people, and the excitement of it all, I should break
down, I'm sure I should."
"It's past ten o'clock," murmured Miss Masterman to her brother.
The rehearsal proceeded: Jack Head, as the Bear, was restored to life
and slain again with much detail. Then Ned proceeded--
"I fought the Russian Bear
And brought him to the slaughter;
By that I won fair Sabra,
The King of Egypt's daughter.
Where is the man that now will me defy?
I'll cut his giblets full of holes and make his buttons fly."