A Christmas Garland

By

A.C.  BNSN

Chapter XLII.—­Christmas

More and more, as the tranquil years went by, Percy found himself able to draw a quiet satisfaction from the regularity, the even sureness, with which, in every year, one season succeeded to another.  In boyhood he had felt always a little sad at the approach of autumn.  The yellowing leaves of the lime trees, the creeper that flushed to so deep a crimson against the old grey walls, the chrysanthemums that shed so prodigally their petals on the smooth green lawn—­all these things, beautiful and wonderful though they were, were somehow a little melancholy also, as being signs of the year’s decay.  Once, when he was fourteen or fifteen years old, he had overheard a friend of the family say to his father “How the days are drawing in!”—­a remark which set him thinking deeply, with an almost morbid abandonment to gloom, for quite a long time.  He had not then grasped the truth that in exactly the proportion in which the days draw in they will, in the fullness of time, draw out.  This was a lesson that he mastered in later years.  And, though the waning of summer never failed to touch him with the sense of an almost personal loss, yet it seemed to him a right thing, a wise ordination, that there should be these recurring changes.  Those men and women of whom the poet tells us that they lived in “a land where it was always afternoon”—­could they, Percy often wondered, have felt quite that thankfulness which on a fine afternoon is felt by us dwellers in ordinary climes?  Ah, no!  Surely it is because we are made acquainted with the grey sadness of twilight, the solemn majesty of the night-time, the faint chill of the dawn, that we set so high a value on the more meridional hours.  If there were no autumn, no winter, then spring and summer would lose, not all indeed, yet an appreciable part of their sweet savour for us.  Thus, as his mind matured, Percy came to be very glad of the gradual changes of the year.  He found in them a rhythm, as he once described it in his diary; and this he liked very much indeed.  He was aware that in his own character, with its tendency to waywardness, to caprice, to disorder, there was an almost grievous lack of this rhythmic quality.  In the sure and seemly progression of the months, was there not for him a desirable exemplar, a needed corrective?  He was so liable to moods in which he rebelled against the performance of some quite simple duty, some appointed task—­moods in which he said to himself “H-ng it!  I will not do this,” or “Oh, b-th-r!  I shall not do that!” But it was clear that Nature herself never spoke thus.  Even as a passenger in a frail barque on the troublous ocean will keep his eyes directed towards some upstanding rock on the far horizon, finding thus inwardly for himself, or hoping to find, a more stable equilibrium, a deeper tranquillity, than is his, so did Percy daily devote a certain portion of his time to quiet communion with the almanac.

There were times when he was sorely tempted to regret a little that some of the feasts of the Church were “moveable.”  True, they moved only within strictly prescribed limits, and in accordance with certain unalterable, wholly justifiable rules.  Yet, in the very fact that they did move, there seemed—­to use an expressive slang phrase of the day—­“something not quite nice.”  It was therefore the fixed feasts that pleased Percy best, and on Christmas Day, especially, he experienced a temperate glow which would have perhaps surprised those who knew him only slightly.

By reason of the athletic exercises of his earlier years, Percy had retained in middle life a certain lightness and firmness of tread; and this on Christmas morning, between his rooms and the Cathedral, was always so peculiarly elastic that he might almost have seemed to be rather running than walking.  The ancient fane, with its soarings of grey columns to the dimness of its embowed roof, the delicate traceries of the organ screen, the swelling notes of the organ, the mellow shafts of light filtered through the stained-glass windows whose hues were as those of emeralds and rubies and amethysts, the stainless purity of the surplices of clergy and choir, the sober richness of Sunday bonnets in the transept, the faint yet heavy fragrance exhaled from the hot-water pipes—­all these familiar things, appealing, as he sometimes felt, almost too strongly to that sensuous side of his nature which made him so susceptible to the paintings of Mr. Leader, of Sir Luke Fildes, were on Christmas morning more than usually affecting by reason of that note of quiet joyousness, of peace and good will, that pervaded the lessons of the day, the collect, the hymns, the sermon.

It was this spiritual aspect of Christmas that Percy felt to be hardly sufficiently regarded, or at least dwelt on, nowadays, and he sometimes wondered whether the modern Christmas had not been in some degree inspired and informed by Charles Dickens.  He had for that writer a very sincere admiration, though he was inclined to think that his true excellence lay not so much in faithful portrayal of the life of his times, or in gift of sustained narration, or in those scenes of pathos which have moved so many hearts in so many quiet homes, as in the power of inventing highly fantastic figures, such as Mr. Micawber or Mr. Pickwick.  This view Percy knew to be somewhat heretical, and, constitutionally averse from the danger of being suspected of “talking for effect,” he kept it to himself; but, had anyone challenged him to give his opinion, it was thus that he would have expressed himself.  In regard to Christmas, he could not help wishing that Charles Dickens had laid more stress on its spiritual element.  It was right that the feast should be an occasion for good cheer, for the savoury meats, the steaming bowl, the blazing log, the traditional games.  But was not the modern world, with its almost avowed bias towards materialism, too little apt to think of Christmas as also a time for meditation, for taking stock, as it were, of the things of the soul?  Percy had heard that in London nowadays there was a class of people who sate down to their Christmas dinners in public hotels.  He did not condemn this practice.  He never condemned a thing, but wondered, rather, whether it were right, and could not help feeling that somehow it was not.  In the course of his rare visits to London he had more than once been inside of one of the large new hotels that had sprung up—­these “great caravanseries,” as he described them in a letter to an old school-fellow who had been engaged for many years in Chinese mission work.  And it seemed to him that the true spirit of Christmas could hardly be acclimatised in such places, but found its proper resting-place in quiet, detached homes, where were gathered together only those connected with one another by ties of kinship, or of long and tested friendship.

He sometimes blamed himself for having tended more and more, as the quiet, peaceful, tranquil years went by, to absent himself from even those small domestic gatherings.  And yet, might it not be that his instinct for solitude at this season was a right instinct, at least for him, and that to run counter to it would be in some degree unacceptable to the Power that fashioned us?  Thus he allowed himself to go, as it were, his own way.  After morning service, he sate down to his Christmas fare alone, and then, when the simple meal was over, would sit and think in his accustomed chair, falling perhaps into one of those quiet dozes from which, because they seemed to be so natural a result, so seemly a consummation, of his thoughts, he did not regularly abstain.  Later, he sallied forth, with a sense of refreshment, for a brisk walk among the fens, the sedges, the hedgerows, the reed-fringed pools, the pollard willows that would in due course be putting forth their tender shoots of palest green.  And then, once more in his rooms, with the curtains drawn and the candles lit, he would turn to his book-shelves and choose from among them some old book that he knew and loved, or maybe some quite new book by that writer whose works were most dear to him because in them he seemed always to know so precisely what the author would say next, and because he found in their fine-spun repetitions a singular repose, a sense of security, an earnest of calm and continuity, as though he were reading over again one of those wise copy-books that he had so loved in boyhood, or were listening to the sounds made on a piano by some modest, very conscientious young girl with a pale red pig-tail, practising her scales, very gently, hour after hour, next door.