A Christmas Garland

That Shakespeare hated Christmas—­hated it with a venom utterly alien to the gentle heart in him—­I take to be a proposition that establishes itself automatically.  If there is one thing lucid-obvious in the Plays and Sonnets, it is Shakespeare’s unconquerable loathing of Christmas.  The Professors deny it, however, or deny that it is proven.  With these gentlemen I will deal faithfully.  I will meet them on their own parched ground, making them fertilise it by shedding there the last drop of the water that flows through their veins.

If you find, in the works of a poet whose instinct is to write about everything under the sun, one obvious theme untouched, or touched hardly at all, then it is at least presumable that there was some good reason for that abstinence.  Such a poet was Shakespeare.  It was one of the divine frailties of his genius that he must be ever flying off at a tangent from his main theme to unpack his heart in words about some frivolous-small irrelevance that had come into his head.  If it could be shown that he never mentioned Christmas, we should have proof presumptive that he consciously avoided doing so.  But if the fact is that he did mention it now and again, but in grudging fashion, without one spark of illumination—­he, the arch-illuminator of all things—­then we have proof positive that he detested it.

I see Dryasdust thumbing his Concordance.  Let my memory save him the trouble.  I will reel him off the one passage in which Shakespeare spoke of Christmas in words that rise to the level of mediocrity.

  Some say that ever ’gainst that season comes
  Wherein our Saviour’s birth is celebrated,
  The bird of dawning singeth all night long: 
  And then, they say, no spirit dare stir abroad;
  The nights are wholesome; then no planets strike,
  No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm,
  So hallowed and so gracious is the time.

So says Marcellus at Elsinore.  This is the best our Shakespeare can vamp up for the birthday of the Man with whom he of all men had the most in common.  And Dryasdust, eternally unable to distinguish chalk from cheese, throws up his hands in admiration of the marvellous poetry.  If Dryasdust had written it, it would more than pass muster.  But as coming from Shakespeare, how feeble-cold—­aye, and sulky-sinister!  The greatest praiser the world will ever know!—­and all he can find in his heart to sing of Christmas is a stringing-together of old women’s superstitions!  Again and again he has painted Winter for us as it never has been painted since—­never by Goethe even, though Goethe in more than one of the Winter-Lieder touched the hem of his garment.  There was every external reason why he should sing, as only he could have sung, of Christmas.  The Queen set great store by it.  She and her courtiers celebrated it year by year with lusty-pious unction.  And thus the ineradicable snob in Shakespeare had the most potent of all inducements to honour the feast with the full power that was in him.  But he did not, because he would not.  What is the key to the enigma?

For many years I hunted it vainly.  The second time that I met Carlyle I tried to enlist his sympathy and aid.  He sat pensive for a while and then said that it seemed to him “a goose-quest.”  I replied, “You have always a phrase for everything, Tom, but always the wrong one.”  He covered his face, and presently, peering at me through his gnarled fingers, said “Mon, ye’re recht.”  I discussed the problem with Renan, with Emerson, with Disraeli, also with Cetewayo—­poor Cetewayo, best and bravest of men, but intellectually a Professor, like the rest of them.  It was borne in on me that if I were to win to the heart of the mystery I must win alone.

The solution, when suddenly it dawned on me, was so simple-stark that I was ashamed of the ingenious-clever ways I had been following. (I learned then—­and perhaps it is the one lesson worth the learning of any man—­that truth may be approached only through the logic of the heart.  For the heart is eye and ear, and all excellent understanding abides there.) On Christmas Day, assuredly, Anne Hathaway was born.

In what year she was born I do not know nor care.  I take it she was not less than thirty-eight when she married Shakespeare.  This, however, is sheer conjecture, and in no way important-apt to our inquiry.  It is not the year, but the day of the year, that matters.  All we need bear in mind is that on Christmas Day that woman was born into the world.

If there be any doubting Thomas among my readers, let him not be afraid to utter himself.  I am (with the possible exception of Shakespeare) the gentlest man that ever breathed, and I do but bid him study the Plays in the light I have given him.  The first thing that will strike him is that Shakespeare’s thoughts turned constantly to the birthdays of all his Fitton-heroines, as a lover’s thoughts always do turn to the moment at which the loved one first saw the light.  “There was a star danced, and under that” was born Beatrice.  Juliet was born “on Lammas Eve.”  Marina tells us she derived her name from the chance of her having been “born at sea.”  And so on, throughout the whole gamut of women in whom Mary Fitton was bodied forth to us.  But mark how carefully Shakespeare says never a word about the birthdays of the various shrews and sluts in whom, again and again, he gave us his wife.  When and were was born Queen Constance, the scold?  And Bianca?  And Doll Tearsheet, and “Greasy Jane” in the song, and all the rest of them?  It is of the last importance that we should know.  Yet never a hint is vouchsafed us in the text.  It is clear that Shakespeare cannot bring himself to write about Anne Hathaway’s birthday—­will not stain his imagination by thinking of it.  That is entirely human-natural.  But why should he loathe Christmas Day itself with precisely the same loathing?  There is but one answer—­and that inevitable-final.  The two days were one.

Some soul-secrets are so terrible that the most hardened realist of us may well shrink from laying them bare.  Such a soul-secret was this of Shakespeare’s.  Think of it!  The gentlest spirit that ever breathed, raging and fuming endlessly in impotent-bitter spleen against the prettiest of festivals!  Here is a spectacle so tragic-piteous that, try as we will, we shall not put it from us.  And it is well that we should not, for in our plenary compassion we shall but learn to love the man the more.