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.”
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