Part 14 (1/2)

”I suppose the children enjoy it,” I said.

”Enjoy what?” he asked.

”Why, Christmas,” I explained.

”I don't believe they do,” he snapped; ”n.o.body enjoys it. We excite them for three weeks beforehand, telling them what a good time they are going to have, over-feed them for two or three days, take them to something they do not want to see, but which we do, and then bully them for a fortnight to get them back into their normal condition. I was always taken to the Crystal Palace and Madame Tussaud's when I was a child, I remember. How I did hate that Crystal Palace! Aunt used to superintend.

It was always a bitterly cold day, and we always got into the wrong train, and travelled half the day before we got there. We never had any dinner. It never occurs to a woman that anybody can want their meals while away from home. She seems to think that nature is in suspense from the time you leave the house till the time you get back to it. A bun and a gla.s.s of milk was her idea of lunch for a school-boy. Half her time was taken up in losing us, and the other half in slapping us when she had found us. The only thing we really enjoyed was the row with the cabman coming home.”

I rose to go.

”Then you won't join that symposium?” said B-----. ”It would be an easy enough thing to knock off--'Why Christmas should be abolished.'”

”It sounds simple,” I answered. ”But how do you propose to abolish it?” The lady editor of an ”advanced” American magazine once set the discussion--”Should s.e.x be abolished?” and eleven ladies and gentlemen seriously argued the question.

”Leave it to die of inanition,” said B-----; ”the first step is to arouse public opinion. Convince the public that it should be abolished.”

”But why should it be abolished?” I asked.

”Great Scott! man,” he exclaimed; ”don't you want it abolished?”

”I'm not sure that I do,” I replied.

”Not sure,” he retorted; ”you call yourself a journalist, and admit there is a subject under Heaven of which you are not sure!”

”It has come over me of late years,” I replied. ”It used not to be my failing, as you know.”

He glanced round to make sure we were out of earshot, then sunk his voice to a whisper.

”Between ourselves,” he said, ”I'm not so sure of everything myself as I used to be. Why is it?”

”Perhaps we are getting older,” I suggested.

He said--”I started golf last year, and the first time I took the club in my hand I sent the ball a furlong. 'It seems an easy game,' I said to the man who was teaching me. 'Yes, most people find it easy at the beginning,' he replied dryly. He was an old golfer himself; I thought he was jealous. I stuck well to the game, and for about three weeks I was immensely pleased with myself. Then, gradually, I began to find out the difficulties. I feel I shall never make a good player. Have you ever gone through that experience?”

”Yes,” I replied; ”I suppose that is the explanation. The game seems so easy at the beginning.”

I left him to his lunch, and strolled westward, musing on the time when I should have answered that question of his about Christmas, or any other question, off-hand. That good youth time when I knew everything, when life presented no problems, dangled no doubts before me!

In those days, wishful to give the world the benefit of my wisdom, and seeking for a candle-stick wherefrom my brilliancy might be visible and helpful unto men, I arrived before a dingy portal in Chequers Street, St. Luke's, behind which a conclave of young men, together with a few old enough to have known better, met every Friday evening for the purpose of discussing and arranging the affairs of the universe.

”Speaking members” were charged ten-and-sixpence per annum, which must have worked out at an extremely moderate rate per word; and ”gentlemen whose subscriptions were more than three months in arrear,” became, by Rule seven, powerless for good or evil. We called ourselves ”The Stormy Petrels,” and, under the sympathetic shadow of those wings, I laboured two seasons towards the reformation of the human race; until, indeed, our treasurer, an earnest young man, and a tireless foe of all that was conventional, departed for the East, leaving behind him a balance sheet, showing that the club owed forty-two pounds fifteen and fourpence, and that the subscriptions for the current year, amounting to a little over thirty-eight pounds, had been ”carried forward,” but as to where, the report afforded no indication. Whereupon our landlord, a man utterly without ideals, seized our furniture, offering to sell it back to us for fifteen pounds. We pointed out to him that this was an extravagant price, and tendered him five.

The negotiations terminated with ungentlemanly language on his part, and ”The Stormy Petrels” scattered, never to be foregathered together again above the troubled waters of humanity. Now-a-days, listening to the feeble plans of modern reformers, I cannot help but smile, remembering what was done in Chequers Street, St. Luke's, in an age when Mrs. Grundy still gave the law to literature, while yet the British matron was the guide to British art. I am informed that there is abroad the question of abolis.h.i.+ng the House of Lords! Why, ”The Stormy Petrels” abolished the aristocracy and the Crown in one evening, and then only adjourned for the purpose of appointing a committee to draw up and have ready a Republican Const.i.tution by the following Friday evening. They talk of Empire lounges! We closed the doors of every music-hall in London eighteen years ago by twenty-nine votes to seventeen. They had a patient hearing, and were ably defended; but we found that the tendency of such amus.e.m.e.nts was anti-progressive, and against the best interests of an intellectually advancing democracy. I met the mover of the condemnatory resolution at the old ”Pav” the following evening, and we continued the discussion over a bottle of Ba.s.s. He strengthened his argument by persuading me to sit out the whole of the three songs sung by the ”Lion Comique”; but I subsequently retorted successfully, by bringing under his notice the dancing of a lady in blue tights and flaxen hair. I forget her name but never shall I cease to remember her exquisite charm and beauty. Ah, me! how charming and how beautiful ”artistes” were in those golden days! Whence have they vanished? Ladies in blue tights and flaxen hair dance before my eyes to-day, but move me not, unless it be towards boredom. Where be the tripping witches of twenty years ago, whom to see once was to dream of for a week, to touch whose white hand would have been joy, to kiss whose red lips would have been to foretaste Heaven. I heard only the other day that the son of an old friend of mine had secretly married a lady from the front row of the ballet, and involuntarily I exclaimed, ”Poor devil!” There was a time when my first thought would have been, ”Lucky beggar! is he worthy of her?” For then the ladies of the ballet were angels. How could one gaze at them--from the s.h.i.+lling pit--and doubt it? They danced to keep a widowed mother in comfort, or to send a younger brother to school. Then they were glorious creatures a young man did well to wors.h.i.+p; but now-a-days--

It is an old jest. The eyes of youth see through rose-tinted gla.s.ses.

The eyes of age are dim behind smoke-clouded spectacles. My flaxen friend, you are not the angel I dreamed you, nor the exceptional sinner some would paint you; but under your feathers, just a woman--a bundle of follies and failings, tied up with some sweetness and strength. You keep a brougham I am sure you cannot afford on your thirty s.h.i.+llings a week.

There are ladies I know, in Mayfair, who have paid an extravagant price for theirs. You paint and you dye, I am told: it is even hinted you pad.

Don't we all of us deck ourselves out in virtues that are not our own?