A Christmas Garland

By

JHN GLSW*RTHY

The dawn of Christmas Day found London laid out in a shroud of snow.  Like a body wasted by diseases that had triumphed over it at last, London lay stark and still now, beneath a sky that was as the closed leaden shell of a coffin.  It was what is called an old-fashioned Christmas.

Nothing seemed to be moving except the Thames, whose embanked waters flowed on sullenly in their eternal act of escape to the sea.  All along the wan stretch of Cheyne Walk the thin trees stood exanimate, with not a breath of wind to stir the snow that pied their soot-blackened branches.  Here and there on the muffled ground lay a sparrow that had been frozen in the night, its little claws sticking up heavenward.  But here and there also those tinier adventurers of the London air, smuts, floated vaguely and came to rest on the snow—­signs that in the seeming death of civilisation some housemaids at least survived, and some fires had been lit.

One of these fires, crackling in the grate of one of those dining-rooms which look fondly out on the river and tolerantly across to Battersea, was being watched by the critical eye of an aged canary.  The cage in which this bird sat was hung in the middle of the bow-window.  It contained three perches, and also a pendent hoop.  The tray that was its floor had just been cleaned and sanded.  In the embrasure to the right was a fresh supply of hemp-seed; in the embrasure to the left the bath-tub had just been refilled with clear water.  Stuck between the bars was a large sprig of groundsel.  Yet, though all was thus in order, the bird did not eat nor drink, nor did he bathe.  With his back to Battersea, and his head sunk deep between his little sloping shoulders, he watched the fire.  The windows had for a while been opened, as usual, to air the room for him; and the fire had not yet mitigated the chill.  It was not his custom to bathe at so inclement an hour; and his appetite for food and drink, less keen than it had once been, required to be whetted by example—­he never broke his fast before his master and mistress broke theirs.  Time had been when, for sheer joy in life, he fluttered from perch to perch, though there were none to watch him, and even sang roulades, though there were none to hear.  He would not do these things nowadays save at the fond instigation of Mr. and Mrs. Adrian Berridge.  The housemaid who ministered to his cage, the parlourmaid who laid the Berridges’ breakfast table, sometimes tried to incite him to perform for their own pleasure.  But the sense of caste, strong in his protuberant little bosom, steeled him against these advances.

While the breakfast-table was being laid, he heard a faint tap against the window-pane.  Turning round, he perceived on the sill a creature like to himself, but very different—­a creature who, despite the pretensions of a red waistcoat in the worst possible taste, belonged evidently to the ranks of the outcast and the disinherited.  In previous winters the sill had been strewn every morning with bread-crumbs.  This winter, no bread-crumbs had been vouchsafed; and the canary, though he did not exactly understand why this was so, was glad that so it was.  He had felt that his poor relations took advantage of the Berridges’ kindness.  Two or three of them, as pensioners, might not have been amiss.  But they came in swarms, and they gobbled their food in a disgusting fashion, not trifling coquettishly with it as birds should.  The reason for this, the canary knew, was that they were hungry; and of that he was sorry.  He hated to think how much destitution there was in the world; and he could not help thinking about it when samples of it were thrust under his notice.  That was the principal reason why he was glad that the window-sill was strewn no more and seldom visited.

He would much rather not have seen this solitary applicant.  The two eyes fixed on his made him feel very uncomfortable.  And yet, for fear of seeming to be outfaced, he did not like to look away.

The subdued clangour of the gong, sounded for breakfast, gave him an excuse for turning suddenly round and watching the door of the room.

A few moments later there came to him a faint odour of Harris tweed, followed immediately by the short, somewhat stout figure of his master—­a man whose mild, fresh, pink, round face seemed to find salvation, as it were, at the last moment, in a neatly-pointed auburn beard.

Adrian Berridge paused on the threshold, as was his wont, with closed eyes and dilated nostrils, enjoying the aroma of complex freshness which the dining-room had at this hour.  Pathetically a creature of habit, he liked to savour the various scents, sweet or acrid, that went to symbolise for him the time and the place.  Here were the immediate scents of dry toast, of China tea of napery fresh from the wash, together with that vague, super-subtle scent which boiled eggs give out through their unbroken shells.  And as a permanent base to these there was the scent of much-polished Chippendale, and of bees’-waxed parquet, and of Persian rugs.  To-day, moreover, crowning the composition, there was the delicate pungency of the holly that topped the Queen Anne mirror and the Mantegna prints.

Coming forward into the room, Mr. Berridge greeted the canary.  “Well, Amber, old fellow,” he said, “a happy Christmas to you!” Affectionately he pushed the tip of a plump white finger between the bars.  “Tweet!” he added.

“Tweet!” answered the bird, hopping to and fro along his perch.

“Quite an old-fashioned Christmas, Amber!” said Mr. Berridge, turning to scan the weather.  At sight of the robin, a little spasm of pain contracted his face.  A shine of tears came to his prominent pale eyes, and he turned quickly away.  Just at that moment, heralded by a slight fragrance of old lace and of that peculiar, almost unseizable odour that uncut turquoises have, Mrs. Berridge appeared.

“What is the matter, Adrian?” she asked quickly.  She glanced sideways into the Queen Anne mirror, her hand fluttering, like a pale moth, to her hair, which she always wore braided in a fashion she had derived from Pollaiuolo’s St. Ursula.

“Nothing, Jacynth—­nothing,” he answered with a lightness that carried no conviction; and he made behind his back a gesture to frighten away the robin.

“Amber isn’t unwell, is he?” She came quickly to the cage.  Amber executed for her a roulade of great sweetness.  His voice had not perhaps the fullness for which it had been noted in earlier years; but the art with which he managed it was as exquisite as ever.  It was clear to his audience that the veteran artist was hale and hearty.

But Jacynth, relieved on one point, had a misgiving on another.  “This groundsel doesn’t look very fresh, does it?” she murmured, withdrawing the sprig from the bars.  She rang the bell, and when the servant came in answer to it said, “Oh Jenny, will you please bring up another piece of groundsel for Master Amber?  I don’t think this one is quite fresh.”

This formal way of naming the canary to the servants always jarred on her principles and on those of her husband.  They tried to regard their servants as essentially equals of themselves, and lately had given Jenny strict orders to leave off calling them “Sir” and “Ma’am,” and to call them simply “Adrian” and “Jacynth.”  But Jenny, after one or two efforts that ended in faint giggles, had reverted to the crude old nomenclature—­as much to the relief as to the mortification of the Berridges.  They did, it is true, discuss the possibility of redressing the balance by calling the parlourmaid “Miss.”  But, when it came to the point, their lips refused this office.  And conversely their lips persisted in the social prefix to the bird’s name.

Somehow that anomaly seemed to them symbolic of their lives.  Both of them yearned so wistfully to live always in accordance to the nature of things.  And this, they felt, ought surely to be the line of least resistance.  In the immense difficulties it presented, and in their constant failures to surmount these difficulties, they often wondered whether the nature of things might not be, after all, something other than what they thought it.  Again and again it seemed to be in as direct conflict with duty as with inclination; so that they were driven to wonder also whether what they conceived to be duty were not also a mirage—­a marsh-light leading them on to disaster.

The fresh groundsel was brought in while Jacynth was pouring out the tea.  She rose and took it to the cage; and it was then that she too saw the robin, still fluttering on the sill.  With a quick instinct she knew that Adrian had seen it—­knew what had brought that look to his face.  She went and, bending over him, laid a hand on his shoulder.  The disturbance of her touch caused the tweed to give out a tremendous volume of scent, making her feel a little dizzy.

“Adrian,” she faltered, “mightn’t we for once—­it is Christmas Day—­mightn’t we, just to-day, sprinkle some bread-crumbs?”

He rose from the table, and leaned against the mantelpiece, looking down at the fire.  She watched him tensely.  At length, “Oh Jacynth,” he groaned, “don’t—­don’t tempt me.”

“But surely, dear, surely—­”

“Jacynth, don’t you remember that long talk we had last winter, after the annual meeting of the Feathered Friends’ League, and how we agreed that those sporadic doles could do no real good—­must even degrade the birds who received them—­and that we had no right to meddle in what ought to be done by collective action of the State?”

“Yes, and—­oh my dear, I do still agree, with all my heart.  But if the State will do nothing—­nothing—­”

“It won’t, it daren’t, go on doing nothing, unless we encourage it to do so.  Don’t you see, Jacynth, it is just because so many people take it on themselves to feed a few birds here and there that the State feels it can afford to shirk the responsibility?”

“All that is fearfully true.  But just now—­Adrian, the look in that robin’s eyes—­”

Berridge covered his own eyes, as though to blot out from his mind the memory of that look.  But Jacynth was not silenced.  She felt herself dragged on by her sense of duty to savour, and to make her husband savour, the full bitterness that the situation could yield for them both.  “Adrian,” she said, “a fearful thought came to me.  Suppose—­suppose it had been Amber!”

Even before he shuddered at the thought, he raised his finger to his lips, glancing round at the cage.  It was clear that Amber had not overheard Jacynth’s remark, for he threw back his head and uttered one of his blithest trills.  Adrian, thus relieved, was free to shudder at the thought just suggested.

“Sometimes,” murmured Jacynth, “I wonder if we, holding the views we hold, are justified in keeping Amber.”

“Ah, dear, we took him in our individualistic days.  We cannot repudiate him now.  It wouldn’t be fair.  Besides, you see, he isn’t here on a basis of mere charity.  He’s not a parasite, but an artist.  He gives us of his art.”

“Yes, dear, I know.  But you remember our doubts about the position of artists in the community—­whether the State ought to sanction them at all.”

“True.  But we cannot visit those doubts on our old friend yonder, can we, dear?  At the same time, I admit that when—­when—­Jacynth, if ever anything happens to Amber, we shall perhaps not be justified in keeping another bird.”

“Don’t, please don’t talk of such things.”  She moved to the window.  Snow, a delicate white powder, was falling on the coverlet of snow.

Outside, on the sill, the importunate robin lay supine, his little heart beating no more behind the shabby finery of his breast, but his glazing eyes half-open as though even in death he were still questioning.  Above him and all around him brooded the genius of infinity, dispassionate, inscrutable, grey.

Jacynth turned and mutely beckoned her husband to the window.

They stood there, these two, gazing silently down.

Presently Jacynth said:  “Adrian, are you sure that we, you and I, for all our theories, and all our efforts, aren’t futile?”

“No, dear.  Sometimes I am not sure.  But—­there’s a certain comfort in not being sure.  To die for what one knows to be true, as many saints have done—­that is well.  But to live, as many of us do nowadays, in service of what may, for aught we know, be only a half-truth or not true at all—­this seems to me nobler still.”

“Because it takes more out of us?”

“Because it takes more out of us.”

Standing between the live bird and the dead, they gazed across the river, over the snow-covered wharves, over the dim, slender chimneys from which no smoke came, into the grey-black veil of the distance.  And it seemed to them that the genius of infinity did not know—­perhaps did not even care—­whether they were futile or not, nor how much and to what purpose, if to any purpose, they must go on striving.