There was a slight sprinkling of snow this morning, yet the garden looks
exceedingly black. Save for a scarce discernible white line here and
there, everything in it seems stiff, and hard, and black as iron;
crumpled iron leaves against an iron floor. Black is the livery, not
alone of sorrow, but of dismay, so that the garden does very well just
now to wear it. There are moments in the individual life, moments, so it
appears, even in an entire nation’s life, when the ordinary scheme of
things seems to dissolve and change; when all the familiar landmarks for
the time being melt away, and disappear under our eyes.
Standing here, staring blankly out of the window, I feel myself for the
moment a sort of embodiment of all the other, vacant-eyed starers out of
windows, up and down over the face of the country this Christmas
morning. How many of them there must be! How many must be staring down
at the dull ground, and telling themselves they will never care to walk
in, or to look at their gardens again. It may not be an actual garden,
but at least it will be a figurative one; some special plot of
happiness; some quarter-acre of habitual enjoyment. I hope, indeed I
feel sure, that in the great majority of cases they will sooner or later
enjoy it again. Father Time is at bottom a kindly creature, kindlier
than when in trouble we are inclined to believe him to be. For the
moment however the idea seems unrealisable, and would scarcely be
welcome if it were realised.
For hardly-pressed humanity there is, I believe, only one really
satisfactory way of dealing with misfortune, which is--to refuse to
believe in it! That is, I find, the method that our excellent Cuttle in
the garden has adopted with regard to most of the recent events in South
Africa. Anything exceptionally disagreeable, especially anything that
has to do with the surrender of Englishmen, no matter under what
circumstances, he simply declines to believe in. It is not that he is
ignorant. He reads his paper diligently; he knows everything that is in
it, but he refuses to accept more of the contents than he considers
proper. When, a few weeks ago, the first of our Natal mishaps occurred,
and the number of English prisoners captured was posted up in the
village hall, Cuttle informed me the next morning that he had seen it,
but that there wasn’t a word of truth in it! I demurred, but he stuck to
his guns steadily. It was the same last Monday, when I saw him for the
first time after our two most recent misfortunes, that of the Modder and
the Tugela.
“This is bad news, Cuttle,” I said, as we met outside the greenhouse.
“Well ma’am, they do try to make it out to be baddish, but I wouldn’t
believe it, if I was you.”
“But it is in all the papers, Cuttle.”
“Very likely it is ma’am, but what of that? I don’t hold with none of
those papers. They must be a-stuffing themselves out with something.”
“But I’m afraid the generals admit it themselves.”
“Excuse me ma’am, but that’s just where you’re making a great mistake.
We don’t know nothing about what the generals admit. All we know is that
the papers _say_ they admit it, which is a very different story. Mark my
words, you’ll find that it’ll turn out to be some of their muddlings.
Just you mark my words for it, that’s how it is.”
I said meekly “I hope so, Cuttle,” and walked away, for really I had not
the heart to try and shake his incredulity. Not that I imagine I could
have done so had I tried. That good, homespun garment of British pride
in which he had wrapped himself was proof against any assaults that I
could have brought to bear upon it. I wish with all my heart that he
would lend us each a piece of it. We want it badly. Pray heaven and all
its saints that we may none of us ever need it much worse than we do
this Christmas-day, 1899!
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