THE Christmas holidays were drawing near and Barfleur was making due preparations for the celebration of that event. He was a stickler1 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 delightful2 picture, “Christmas in England,” concocted3 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 Squire4 Bracebridge, the ancient peacock pie with the gorgeous tail feathers arranged at one end of the platter and the crested5 head at the other, the yule log, the mistletoe berries, and the Christmas choristers singing outside of windows and doors of echoing halls, had vaguely6 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,149 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 ramble7 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 amiable8 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 theatrical9 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, apparently10, of high and low degree, rich and poor, beautiful and otherwise, and seemed kindly11 disposed toward them all. I could write a splendid human-interest sketch12 of Gerard Barfleur alone. There was Mr. T. McT., a pale, thoughtful person, artistic13 and poetic14 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 limpid15 dark eyes shone with a kindly, artistic light. Then there was Barfleur’s aunt and her daughter, mother and sister respectively of the highly joyous16 Gerard Barfleur, and wife and daughter of a famous litterateur. Then, to cap it all, were the total of Barfleur’s very interesting household,—housekeeper17, 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 wandered150 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 interfere18. 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, mere19 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 scribbled20 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 maliciously21, “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 parental22 air which always convulsed me, a sort of gay deviltry always lurking23 behind it.
151
“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 prospects24 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 positively25 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 motor152 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 severely26 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 adjourned27 to the general living-room, where a heavy coal fire blazed on the hearth28 (for once), and candles were lighted in profusion29. The children sang songs of the north, accompanied by their governess. I can see their quaint30 faces now, gathered about the piano. Lord Scorp, McT. and myself indulged in various artistic discussions and badinage31; 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 retired32 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 sentimental33 encounter that befell me one day as I was going for a walk in that green world which encompassed34 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 chic35, dashing bit of femininity,—at once (the presumption36, 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 perfectly37, a little153 ermine cap of snowy whiteness set jauntily38 over her ear, her smooth black hair parted demurely40 over her forehead, a white muff warming her hands, and white spats41 emphasizing the trim leather of her foot gear. Her eyes were dark brown, her cheeks rosy42, 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 somber43 brown,—but it was quite plain that she was. There was such a wise, sober look about all this smartness, such a taut44, buttressed45 conservatism, that I was enchanted46. 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 determined47 to make inquiries48. 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 widower49 of discretion50 he knows exactly what is smart for a woman as well as a man, and all you have to do to make him prick51 up his ears attentively52 is to mention trig beauty as existing in some form, somewhere,—not too distant for his adventuring.
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,154 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 champagne55 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 whether155 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 celebrated56 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.156 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 worthy57 had traveled all over England with various theatrical companies. Being the son of an eminent58 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 prone59 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.”
I was all agog60. The picture she had presented was so smart. Barfleur was interested though perhaps disappointed,157 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 decided61 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 rime62 upon the trees, the clustered chimneys of a group of farmers’ and working-men’s cottages, the low sagging63 roofs of red tile or thatch64, and the small window panes65 that always somehow suggest a homey simplicity66 that I can scarcely resist. The English milkmaid of fiction, the simple cottages, the ordered hierarchy67 of farmers are, willy nilly, fixtures68 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 sardonically69.158 “‘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?” queried70 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.
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 forth72, crossing homey fields via diagonal paths, passing through stiles and along streams and country roads, by demure39 little cottages that left one breathless with delight. I wish truly that England could be put under glass and retained as a perfect specimen73 of unconscious, rural poetry—the south of England. The pots and pans outside the kitchen doorways74! The simple stoop, ornamented76 with clambering vines! The reddish-green sagging roofs with their clustered cylindrical77 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 quaintly78 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. Choir79 boys159 were scurrying80 here and there, some ladies of solemn demeanor81, who looked as if they might be assisting at the service in some way or another, were dawdling82 about, and I even saw the rector in full canonicals hastening up a gravel83 path toward a side door, as though matters needed to be expedited considerably84. 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 slabs85 and memorial carvings86 with which the English love to ornament75 their church interiors. A fair-sized, and yet for so large an edifice87, meager88 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 artistically89 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, solely90 because of their poetic appearance. On the other hand an immense class, derisively91 spoken of as “chapel93 people,” were heartily94 in favor of the ruder disposition95 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 not160 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 smacking96 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, albeit97 a little provincial98, who clung so fatuously99 to a time-worn form. They have their place, no doubt, and it makes that sweet, old lavender atmosphere which seems to hover100 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 sedate101 neighborhoods.
Outside in the graveyard102, after the services were over and we were idling about a few moments, I found a number of touches of that valiant103 simplicity in ability which is such a splendid characteristic of the English. Although there were many graves here of the nobility and gentry104, dating from as far back as the sixteenth century, there was no least indication so far as I could see, of ostentation105, but everywhere simple headstones recording106 names only, and not virtues,—sometimes, perhaps, a stately verse or a stoic107 line. I noticed with a kind of English-speaking pride the narrow new-made grave of161 Sir Robert Hart, the late great English financial administrator108 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 mound109 spoke92 more to me of the dignity and ability that is in true greatness of soul than a soaring shaft110 might otherwise do.
On the way home I remember we discussed Christian111 Science and its metaphysical merit in a world where all creeds112 and all doctrines113 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 subtleties114 and uncertainties115 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 Mighty116, 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 beset117 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 anguished118 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 everywhere162 I find boundless119 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 innately120 presumed the existence of a force or forces that, possibly ordered in some noble way, maintain a mathematical, chemical, and mechanical parity121 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 utterly122 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 fortress123 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 ambling124 across the sunny English landscape this Christmas morning. It was a fine thing to see the green patina125 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 windings126 of the Thames in the valley below, whence we had163 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 assailed127 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 perking128 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 impending129 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 discoursing130 upon some vanity of the day. At sight of the children he began his customary badinage but I would have none of it. Barfleur fixed131 him with164 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,” sarcastically132 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 watchful133 attendance on the children, the maid, like a bit of Dresden china, on guard over the service, Barfleur, monocle in165 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 chattering134 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, concealing135 English fence, and up a graveled automobile136 path to a snow-white Georgian door. We were admitted to a hall that at once bore out the testimony137 as to the athletic138 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 alas139, my lady’s husband, full six feet tall and vigorous and, of all tragic140 things, fingering a forty-caliber, sixteen-shot magazine pistol which his beloved brother of sporting proclivities141 had given him as a Christmas present! I eyed it as one might a special dispensation of Providence142.
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, unwilling143 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 heralded144 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 linen145 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,167 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 snugly146 buttoned, his cane147 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 gallant148 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 detour149, ending up, I think, in some chamber150 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 palaver151 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.168 However if we were all very quiet for a while we should see. I can see Barfleur now in his gala attire152, 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 mementos153 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, groaning154 and squeaking155 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 evoked156 a great deal of innocent laughter, to say nothing of awe157 as to his next probable comment, he finally untied158 the enormous bag and began to consult the labels.
“Here’s a package marked ‘Charles Gerard Barfleur.’169 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 varied159 with the age and the personality of the recipient160. There was no lack of humor or intimacy161 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 sapiently162. “More wretched cigarettes!” he remarked in his high falsetto. “I know them well! If it isn’t one vice54 that has to be pampered163, 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 prawns164 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 place170 was literally165 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 Isle166 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, bridle167 and whip for Berenice’s riding pony168, curious puzzles, German mechanical toys from Berlin, and certain ornamental169 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 interpretation170 of holiday license171 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 discourse172 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?
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1
stickler
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| n.坚持细节之人 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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concocted
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| v.将（尤指通常不相配合的）成分混合成某物( concoct的过去式和过去分词 )；调制；编造；捏造 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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crested
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| adj.有顶饰的，有纹章的，有冠毛的v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的过去式和过去分词 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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12
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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13
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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14
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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limpid
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| adj.清澈的，透明的 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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17
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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scribbled
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| v.潦草的书写( scribble的过去式和过去分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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21
maliciously
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| adv.有敌意地 | |
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parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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23
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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adjourned
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| （使）休会， （使）休庭( adjourn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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30
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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badinage
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| n.开玩笑，打趣 | |
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32
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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encompassed
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| v.围绕( encompass的过去式和过去分词 )；包围；包含；包括 | |
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35
chic
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| n./adj.别致(的)，时髦(的)，讲究的 | |
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presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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jauntily
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| adv.心满意足地；洋洋得意地；高兴地；活泼地 | |
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demure
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| adj.严肃的；端庄的 | |
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40
demurely
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| adv.装成端庄地，认真地 | |
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41
spats
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| n.口角( spat的名词复数 )；小争吵；鞋罩；鞋套v.spit的过去式和过去分词( spat的第三人称单数 )；口角；小争吵；鞋罩 | |
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42
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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43
somber
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| adj.昏暗的，阴天的，阴森的，忧郁的 | |
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44
taut
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| adj.拉紧的，绷紧的，紧张的 | |
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45
buttressed
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| v.用扶壁支撑，加固( buttress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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46
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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47
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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48
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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49
widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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50
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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51
prick
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| v.刺伤，刺痛，刺孔；n.刺伤，刺痛 | |
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52
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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53
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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54
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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55
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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56
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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57
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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58
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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59
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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60
agog
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| adj.兴奋的，有强烈兴趣的； adv.渴望地 | |
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61
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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62
rime
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| n.白霜；v.使蒙霜 | |
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63
sagging
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| 下垂[沉，陷]，松垂，垂度 | |
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64
thatch
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| vt.用茅草覆盖…的顶部；n.茅草(屋) | |
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65
panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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66
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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67
hierarchy
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| n.等级制度；统治集团，领导层 | |
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68
fixtures
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| （房屋等的）固定装置( fixture的名词复数 )； 如（浴盆、抽水马桶）； 固定在某位置的人或物； （定期定点举行的）体育活动 | |
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69
sardonically
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| adv.讽刺地，冷嘲地 | |
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70
queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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71
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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72
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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73
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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74
doorways
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| n.门口，门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
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75
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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77
cylindrical
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| adj.圆筒形的 | |
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quaintly
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| adv.古怪离奇地 | |
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79
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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80
scurrying
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| v.急匆匆地走( scurry的现在分词 ) | |
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81
demeanor
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| n.行为；风度 | |
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82
dawdling
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| adj.闲逛的，懒散的v.混（时间）( dawdle的现在分词 ) | |
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83
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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84
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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85
slabs
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| n.厚板，平板，厚片( slab的名词复数 )；厚胶片 | |
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86
carvings
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| n.雕刻( carving的名词复数 )；雕刻术；雕刻品；雕刻物 | |
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87
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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88
meager
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| adj.缺乏的，不足的，瘦的 | |
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89
artistically
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| adv.艺术性地 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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91
derisively
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| adv. 嘲笑地，嘲弄地 | |
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92
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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93
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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smacking
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| 活泼的，发出响声的，精力充沛的 | |
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97
albeit
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| conj.即使；纵使；虽然 | |
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98
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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fatuously
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| adv.愚昧地，昏庸地，蠢地 | |
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100
hover
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| vi.翱翔，盘旋；徘徊；彷徨，犹豫 | |
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101
sedate
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| adj.沉着的，镇静的，安静的 | |
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102
graveyard
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| n.坟场 | |
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103
valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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104
gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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105
ostentation
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| n.夸耀，卖弄 | |
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106
recording
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| n.录音，记录 | |
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107
stoic
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| n.坚忍克己之人，禁欲主义者 | |
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108
administrator
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| n.经营管理者，行政官员 | |
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109
mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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111
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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112
creeds
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| （尤指宗教）信条，教条( creed的名词复数 ) | |
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113
doctrines
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| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
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114
subtleties
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| 细微( subtlety的名词复数 )； 精细； 巧妙； 细微的差别等 | |
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115
uncertainties
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| 无把握( uncertainty的名词复数 )； 不确定； 变化不定； 无把握、不确定的事物 | |
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116
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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117
beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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118
anguished
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| adj.极其痛苦的v.使极度痛苦(anguish的过去式) | |
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119
boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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120
innately
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| adv.天赋地；内在地，固有地 | |
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121
parity
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| n.平价，等价，比价，对等 | |
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122
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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123
fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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124
ambling
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| v.（马）缓行( amble的现在分词 )；从容地走，漫步 | |
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125
patina
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| n.铜器上的绿锈，年久而产生的光泽 | |
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126
windings
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| （道路、河流等）蜿蜒的，弯曲的( winding的名词复数 )； 缠绕( wind的现在分词 )； 卷绕； 转动（把手） | |
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127
assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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perking
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| （使）活跃( perk的现在分词 )； （使）增值； 使更有趣 | |
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129
impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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130
discoursing
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| 演说（discourse的现在分词形式） | |
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131
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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sarcastically
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| adv.挖苦地，讽刺地 | |
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133
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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134
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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136
automobile
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| n.汽车，机动车 | |
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137
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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138
athletic
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| adj.擅长运动的，强健的；活跃的，体格健壮的 | |
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139
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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140
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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proclivities
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| n.倾向，癖性( proclivity的名词复数 ) | |
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142
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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144
heralded
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| v.预示( herald的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布（好或重要） | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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snugly
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| adv.紧贴地；贴身地；暖和舒适地；安适地 | |
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147
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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148
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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detour
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| n.绕行的路，迂回路；v.迂回，绕道 | |
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150
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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151
palaver
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| adj.壮丽堂皇的；n.废话，空话 | |
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152
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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153
mementos
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| 纪念品，令人回忆的东西( memento的名词复数 ) | |
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154
groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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155
squeaking
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| v.短促地尖叫( squeak的现在分词 )；吱吱叫；告密；充当告密者 | |
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156
evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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157
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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158
untied
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| 松开，解开( untie的过去式和过去分词 )； 解除，使自由； 解决 | |
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159
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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160
recipient
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| a.接受的,感受性强的 n.接受者,感受者,容器 | |
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161
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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162
sapiently
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163
pampered
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| adj.饮食过量的，饮食奢侈的v.纵容，宠，娇养( pamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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164
prawns
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| n.对虾，明虾( prawn的名词复数 ) | |
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165
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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166
isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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167
bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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168
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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169
ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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170
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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171
license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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172
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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