Merry Christmas, my dear young friend, said, father Time, as he
laid his hand gently upon my shoulder. You are entirely wrong. Then I
looked up over my shoulder from the table at which I was sitting, and
I saw him. But I had known or felt, for at least the
last half hour that he was standing somewhere near me. You have had I
do not doubt, good reader, more than once, that strange, uncanny
feeling that there is some one unseen standing beside you in a darkened room,
let us say, with a dying fire, when the night has grown late,
and the October wind sounds low outside, and when through the thin curtain
that we call reality, the unseen world starts for a moment clear upon our
dreaming sense. You have had it. Yes, I know you have,
never mind telling me about it. Stop. I don't want to hear about
that strange presentiment you had the night your aunt Eliza Broker leg Don't let's bother
with your experience. I want to tell mine. You are quite mistaken,
my dear young friend repeated father time. Quite wrong, young friend, I
said, my mind, as one's mind is apt to in such a case,
running to an unimportant detail, why do you call me young? Oh,
your pardon, he answered gently. He had a gentle way with him,
had Father Time. The fault is in my failing eyes. I took
you at first sight for something under a hundred. Under a hundred, I
expostulated, Well, I should think so, your pardon, again, said
Time. The fault is in my failing memory. I forgot you seldom pass
that nowadays? Do you? Your life is very short of late? I
heard him breathe a wistful, hollow sigh, very ancient and dim, he
seemed, as he stood beside me. But I did not turn to look
upon him. I had no need to. I knew his form in the
inner and clearer sight of things, as well as every human being knows by
innate instinct, the unseen face and form of Father Time. I could hear
him murmuring, beside me, short short, Your life is short, till
the sound of it seemed to mingle with the measured ticking of a clock somewhere
in the silent house. Then I remembered what he had said. How do
you know that I am wrong? I asked, And how can you tell
what I was thinking? You said it out loud, answered Father Time.
But it wouldn't have mattered anyway. You said that Christmas was all played out
and done with. Yes, I admitted, that's what I said. And
what makes you think that? He questioned, stooping so it seemed to me
still further over my shoulder, Why, I answered, The trouble is this.
I've been sitting here for hours, sitting till goodness only knows how far
into the night, trying to think out something to write for a Christmas story.
And it won't go. It can't be done, not in these awful
days. A Christmas story. Yes, you see, father time, I
explained, glad with the foolish little vanity of my trade to be able to
tell him something that I thought enlightening. All the Christmas stuff, stories and
jokes and pictures is all done, you know in October. I thought it
would have surprised him, But I was mistaken. Dear me, he said,
not till October. What a rush? How well? I remember in
ancient Egypt, as I think you call it, seeing them getting out their
Christmas things, all cut in hieroglyphics, always two or three years ahead.
Two or three years, I exclaimed, Pooh said time, that was nothing.
Why am Babylon. They used to get their Christmas jokes ready or baked
in clay, a whole solar eclipse ahead of Christmas, they said, I
think that the public preferred them so Egypt, I said, Babylon. But
surely, Father Time, there was no Christmas in those days, I thought,
my dear boy, he interrupted, gravely, don't you know that there
has always been Christmas? I was silent. Father Time had moved across the
room and stood beside the fireplace, leaning on the mantelpiece. The little wreaths
of smoke from the fading fire seemed to mingle with his shadowy outline. Well,
he said, presently, what is it that is wrong with Christmas?
Why? I answered, All the romance, the joy, the beauty of
it has gone crushed and killed by the greed of commerce and the horrors of
war. I am not as you thought I was a hundred years old.
But I can conjure up, as anyone can, a picture of Christmas in
the good old days of a hundred years ago, the quaint, old fashioned
houses standing deep among the evergreens, with the light twinkling from the windows on
the snow, the warmth and comfort within the great fire, roaring on a
hearth, the merry guests grouped about its blaze, and the little children with
their eyes dancing in the Christmas firelight, waiting for Father Christmas in his fine
mummery of red and white and cotton wool, to hand the presents from the
Yule tide tree. I can see it, I added, as if it
were yesterday. It was, but yesterday, said Father Tyme, and his
voice seemed to soften with the memory of bygone years. I remember it well,
ah, I continued, that was Christmas. Indeed, give me back
such days as those with the old good cheer, the old stage coaches,
and the gabled ends, and the warm red wine, the snap dragon and
the Christmas tree. And I'll believe again in Christmas. Yes in Father Christmas
himself, believe in him, said Time quietly. You may well do that.
He happens to be standing outside in the street at this moment. Outside,
I exclaimed, Why don't he come in? He's afraid to, said
Father Time. He's frightened, and he daren't come in unless you ask him.
May I call him in? I signified assent, and Father Time went
to the window for a moment and beckoned into the darkened street. Then I
heard footsteps, clumsy and hesitant they seemed, upon the stairs, And in
a moment a figure stood framed in the doorway, the figure of Father Christmas.
He stood shuffling his feet, a timid, apologetic look upon his face.
How changed he was. I had known in my mind's eye from childhood
up the face and form of Father Christmas, as well as that of old
time himself. Everybody knows or once knew him, a jolly little rounded man,
with a great muffler round about him, a packet of toys upon his
back, and with such merry twinkling eyes and rosy cheeks as are only given
by the touch of the driving snow and the rude fun of the north wind.
Why there was once a time, not yet so long ago, when
the very sound of his sleigh bells sent the blood running warm to the heart.
But now how changed. All draggled with the mud and rain, he
stood as if no house had sheltered him. These three years passed. His
old red jersey was tattered in a dozen places, his muffler frayed and raveled.
The bundle of toys that he dragged with him in a net seemed wet
and worn till the cardboard boxes gaped asunder. There were boxes among them.
I vow that he must have been carrying these three past years. But most
of all I noted the change that had come over the face of Father Christmas.
The old brave look of cheery confidence was gone. The smile that had
beamed responsive to the laughing eyes of countless children around unnumbered Christmas trees was there
no more. And in the place of it there showed a look of a
timid apology of apprehensiveness, as of one who has asked in vain the warmth
and shelter of a human home. Such a look as the harsh cruelty of
this world has stamped upon the faces of its outcasts. So stood Father Christmas,
shuffling upon the threshold, fumbling his poor tattered hat in his hand.
Shall I come in, he said, his eyes appealingly on Father, time,
Come said time. He turned to speak to me. Your room is
dark. Turn up the lights. He's used to light, bright light,
and plenty of it. The dark has frightened him these three years past.
I turned up the lights, and the bright glare revealed all the more cruelly
the tattered figured before us. Father Christmas advanced a timid step across the floor.
Then he paused, as if in sudden fear, is this floor mined?
He said no, No, said Time soothingly. And to me,
he added, in a murmured whisper, he's afraid he was blown up in
a mine in no man's land between the trenches at Christmas time in nineteen fourteen.
It broke his nerve. May I put my toys on that machine gun,
asked Father Christmas timidly. It will help to keep them dry. It
is not a machine gun, said Time gently. See it is only a
pile of books upon the sofa. And to me, he whispered, they
turned a machine gun on him in the streets of Warsaw. He thinks he
sees them everywhere. Since then, it's all right, Father Christmas, I
said, speaking as cheerily as I could, while I rose and stirred the
fire into a blaze. There are no machine guns here, and there are
no mines. This is but the house of a poor writer, ah,
said Father Christmas, lowering his tattered hat still further and attempting something of a
humble bow. A writer, are you, Hans Andersen? Perhaps not quite
I answered, But a great writer, I do not doubt, said the
old man, with a humble courtesy, that he had learned it well,
may be centuries ago in the Yule tide season of his northern home. The
world owes much to its great books. I carry some of the greatest with
me always. I have them here, he began, fumbling among the limp
and tattered packages that he carried. Look the house that Jack built, a
marvelous deep thing, sir. And this the babes in the wood? Will
you take it so, sir? A poor present, but a present still
not so long ago. I gave them in thousands every Christmas time. None
seemed to want them now, he looked appealingly towards Father time, as the
weak may look toward the strong for help and guidance. None want them now,
he repeated, and I could see the tears start in his eyes.
Why is it so? Has the world forgotten its sympathy with the lost children
wandering in the wood? All the world, I heard time murmur with a
sigh, is wandering in the wood. But out loud he spoke to Father
Christmas in cheery admonition. Tut Tut, good Christmas, he said, you
must cheer up here, sit in this chair and the biggest one so beside
the fire. Let us stir it to a blaze more wood, Oh,
that's better. And listen, good old friend, to the wind outside,
almost a Christmas wind? Is it not merry and boisterous enough for all the
evil times it stirs among? Old Christmas seated himself beside the fire, his
hands outstretched toward the flames. Something of his old time cheeriness seemed to flicker
across his features as he warmed himself at the blaze. That's better, he
murmured. I was cold, sir, cold, chilled to the bone of
old. I never felt it so, no matter what the wind, the
world seemed warm about me. Why is it not so? Now? You
see, said Time, speaking low in a whisper for my ear alone,
how sunk and broken he is? Will you not help? Gladly? I
answered? If I can, all can, said father Time, every one
of us. Meantime a Christmas had turned towards me, a questioning eye in
which, however, there seemed to revive some little gleam of merriment. Have
you, perhaps, he asked, half timidly, Schnapps, Schnapps? I
repeated, Ay, schnapps, A glass of it to drink. Your health
might warm my heart again, I think, ah, I said something to
drink his one failing whispered time. If it is one, forgive it him.
He was used to it for centuries. Give it him if you have
it. I keep a little in the house, I said, reluctantly.
Perhaps in case of illness. Tut tut, said Father Time, as something
as near as could be to a smile passed over his shadowy face. In
case of illness, they used to say that in ancient Babylon. Here,
let me pour it out for him. Drink, Father Christmas, drink.
Marvelous it was to see the old man smack his lips as he drank his
glass of liqueur neat after the fashion of old Norway. Marvelous too, to
see the way in which, with the warmth of the fire and the generous
glow of the spirits, his face changed and brightened, till the old time
cheerfulness beamed again upon it. He looked about him, as it were,
with a new and growing interest. A pleasant room, he said, And
what better, sir, than the wind without and a brave fire within.
Then his eye fell upon the mantelpiece, where lay among the litter of books
and pipes, a little toy horse, ah, said Father Christmas. Almost
gaily children in the house one, I answered, the sweetest boy in all
the world. I'll be bound he is, said Father Christmas. And he
broke now into a merry laugh. That did one's heart good to hear.
They all are, Lord, bless me the number that I have seen,
and each and every one, and quite right too, the sweetest child in
all the world. And how old do you say? Two and a half,
all but two months except a week, the very sweetest age of I'll
bet you say now what they all do. And the old man broke again
into such a jolly chuckling of laughter that his snow white locks shook upon his
head. But stop a bit, he added, This horse is broken.
Tut tut, a hind leg nearly off. This won't do. He had
the toy in his lap in a moment, mending it. It was wonderful
to see, for all his age, how deft his fingers were. Time,
he said, and it was amusing to note that his voice had assumed
almost an authoritative tone. Reach me that piece of string, that's right here.
Hold your finger cross the knot there now, then a bit of beeswax?
What no beeswax? Tut tut? How ill supplied your houses are to
day? How can you mend toys, sir? Without beeswax? Still it
will stand up now. I tried to murmur my best thanks. But Father
Christmas weigh my gratitude aside nonsense, he said, that's nothing. That's my
life. Perhaps the little boy would like a book too. I have them
here in the packet, here, sir, Jack and the beanstalk. Most
profound thing. I read it to myself often. Still, how damp it
is? Pray, sir? Will you let me dry my books before your
fire? Only too willingly? I said, how wet and torn they are.
Father Christmas had risen from his chair and was fumbling among his tattered packages,
taking from them his children's books, all limp and draggled from the rain
and wind, all wet and torn, he murmured, and his voice sank
again into sadness. I have carried them these three years past. Look,
these were for little children in Belgium and in Serbia. Can I get them
to them? Think you? Time gently shook his head. But presently,
perhaps, said Father Christmas if I dry and mend them. Look, some
of them were inscribed already. This one, see you, was written with
father's love. Why has it never come to him? Is it rain?
Or tears upon the page? He stood bowed over his little books, his
hands trembling as he turned the pages. Then he looked up, the old
fear upon his face. Again. That sound, he said, listen,
is it guns? I hear them? Oh, no, no, I
said, it is nothing, only a car passing in the street below.
Listen, he said, hear that again. Voices crying No, no,
I answered, not voices, only the night wind among the trees. My
children's voices, he exclaimed. I hear them everywhere. They come to me
in every wind. I see them as I wander in the night and storm,
my children torn and dying in the trenches, beaten into the ground.
I hear them crying from the hospitals, each one to me, still as
I knew him once a little child. Time time, he cried, reaching
out his arms in appeal, give me back my children. They do not
die in vain. Time murmured gently, But Christmas only moaned in answer,
give me back my children. Then he sank down upon his pile of books
and toys, his head buried in his arms. You see, said Time,
his heart is breaking, and will you not help him if you can?
Only? Too gladly, I replied, But what is there to do?
This, said Father Time. Listen. He stood before me, grave
and solemn, a shadowy figure, but half seen, though he was close
beside me. The firelight had died down, and through the curtained windows there
came already the first dim brightening of dawn. The world that once you knew,
said Father Time, seems broken and destroyed about you. You must not
let them know, the children, the cruelty and the horror and the hate
that racks the world to day. Keep it from them. Some day he
will know. Here Time pointed to the prostrate form of Father Christmas, that
his children that once were have not died in vain, that from their sacrifice
shall come a nobler, better world for all to live, in a world
where countless happy children shall hold bright their memory forever. But for the children
of to day, save and spare them all you can from the evil,
hate and horror of the war. Later they will know and understand, not
yet give them back their merry Christmas and its kind thoughts and its Christmas charity,
till later on there shall be with it again peace upon earth, good
will, ill towards men. His voice ceased, it seemed to vanish,
as it were in the sighing of the wind. I looked up Father time,
and Christmas had vanished from the room. The fire was low, and
the day was breaking visibly outside. Let us begin, I murmured, I
will mend this broken horse, and of merry Christmas. By Stephen Lecock