Speaker 1: Mister Bluff's experiences of holidays. I hate holidays, said bachelor
Bluff to me with some little irritation on a Christmas
a few years ago. Then he paused an instant, after
which he resumed, I don't mean to say that I
hate to see people enjoying themselves, but I hate holidays nevertheless,
because to me they are always the saddest and dreariest
days of the year. I shudder at the name of holiday.
I dread the approach of one, and thank Heaven when
it is over. I passed through on a holiday, the
most horrible sensations, the bitterest feelings, the most oppressive, melancholy.
In fact, I am not myself at holiday times, very strange.
I ventured to interpose a plague on it, said he
almost with violence. I'm not in human. I don't wish
anybody harm. I am glad people can enjoy themselves, but
I hate holidays all the same. You see, this is
the reason I am a bachelor. I am without kin.
I am in a place that did not know me
at birth, and so when holidays come around, there is
no place anywhere for me. I have friends, of course,
I don't think I've been a very sulky, shut in,
reticent fellow. And there is many a board that has
a place for me, but not at Christmas time. At Christmas,
the dinner is a family gathering, and I've no family.
There is such a gathering of kindred on this occasion,
such a reunion of family folk, that there is no
place for a friend, even if the friend be liked. Christmas,
with all its kindness and charity and good will, is
after all deuced selfish. Each little set gathers within its
own circle, and people like me, with no particular circle,
are left in the lurch. So you see, on the
day of all the days in the year, that my
heart pines for good cheer, I am without an invitation.
Oh it's because I pine for good cheer, said the bachelor,
sharply interrupting my attempt to speak that I hate holidays.
If I were an infernally selfish fellow, I wouldn't hate holidays.
I'd go off and have some fun all to myself
somewhere or somehow. But you see, I hate to be
in the dark when all the rest of the world
is in light. I hate holidays because I ought to
be merry and happy on holidays, and can't. Don't tell me,
he cried, stopping the word that was on my lips.
I tell you, I hate holidays. The shops look merry,
do they, with their bright toys and their green branches.
The pam to mime is crowded with merry hearts, is it?
The circus and the show are brimful of fun and laughter,
are they? Well? They all make me miserable. I haven't
any pretty faced girls or bright eyed boys to take
to the circus or the show. And all the nice
girls and fine boys of my acquaintance have their uncles
or their granddads or their cousins to take them to
those places. So if I go, I must go alone.
But I don't go. I can't bear the chill of
seeing everybody happy and knowing myself so lonely and desolate.
Confound it, sir, I've too much heart to be happy
under such circumstances. I'm too humane, sir. And the result
is I hate holidays. It's miserable to be out, And
yet I can't stay at home for I get thinking
of Christmas past. I can't read the shadow of my
heart makes it impossible. I can't walk, for I see
nothing but pictures through the bright windows and happy groups
of pleasure seekers. The fact is I've nothing to do
but to hate holidays. But will you not dine with me?
Of course I had to plead engagement with my own
family circle, and I couldn't quite invite mister Bluff home
that day, when cousin Charles and his wife, and sister
Susan and her daughter, and three of my wife's kin
had come in from the country, all to make a
merry Christmas with us. I felt sorry, but it was
quite impossible. So I wished mister Bluff I'm Maryry Christmas,
and hurried homeward through the cold and nipping air. I
did not meet Bachelor Bluff again until a week after
Christmas of the next year, when I learned some strange
particulars of what occurred to him after our parting on
the occasion just described, I will let bachelor Bluff tell
his adventure for himself. I went to church, said he,
and was as sad there as everywhere else. Of course,
the evergreens were pretty and the music fine, but all
around me were happy groups of people who could scarcely
keep down Merry Christmas long enough to do reverence to
Sacred Christmas, and nobody was alone but me. Every happy
patter Familias in his pew tantalized me, and the whole
atmosphere of the play seemed so much better suited to
every one else than me, that I came away hating
holidays worse than ever. Then I went to the play
and sat down in a box all alone by myself.
Everybody seemed on the best of terms with every everybody else,
and jokes and banter passed from one to another with
the most good natured freedom. Everybody but me was in
a little group of friends. I was the only person
in the whole theater that was alone. And then there
was such a clapping of hands and roars of laughter
and shouts of delight at all the fun going on
upon the stage, all of which was rendered doubly enjoyable
by everybody having somebody with whom to share and interchange
the pleasure, that my loneliness got simply unbearable, and I
hated holidays infinitely worse than ever. By five o'clock, the
holidays seemed so intolerable that I said I'd go and
get a dinner, the best dinner the town could provide
a sumptuous dinner for one, A dinner with many courses,
with wines of the finest brands, with bright lights, with
a cheerful fire, with every condition of comfort. And I'd
see if I couldn't for once extract a little pleasure
out of a holiday. The handsome dining room at the
club looked bright, but it was empty. Who dines at
this club on Christmas but lonely bachelor's. There was a
flutter of surprise when I ordered a dinner, and the
few attendants were, no doubt glad of something to break
the monotony of the hours. My dinner was well served.
The spacious room looked lonely, but the white snowy cloths,
the rich window hangings, the warm tints of the walls,
the sparkle of the fire in the steel grate gave
the room an air of elegance and cheerfulness. And then
the table at which I dined was close to the window,
and through the partly drawn curtains were visible centers of
lonely cold streets with bright lights from many a window.
It is true, but there was a storm, and snow
began whirling through the street. I let my imagination paint
the streets as cold and dreary as it would, just
to extract a little pleasure by way of contrast from
the brilliant room of which I was apparently sole master.
I dined well and recalled in fancy, old, youthful Christmases,
and pledged mentally many an old friend, and my melancholy
was mellowing into a low, sad undertone, when just as
I was raising a glass of wine to my lips,
I was startled by a picture at the window pane.
It was a pale, wild, haggard face in a great
cloud of black hair, pressed against the glass. As I looked,
it vanished with a strange thrill at my heart, which
my lips mocked with a derisive sneer. I finished the
wine and set down the glass. It was, of course,
only a beggar girl that had crept up to the
window and stole a glance at the bride scene within.
But still the pale face troubled me a little and
threw a fresh shadow on my heart. I filled my
glass once more with wine and was again about to
drink when the face reappeared at the window. It was
so white, so thin, with eyes so large, wild and
hungry looking, and the black, unkempt hair into which the
snow had drifted formed so strange and wearied a frame
to the picture that I was fairly startled. Replacing untasted
the liquor on the table, I rose and went close
to the pane. The face had vanished, and I could
see no object within many feet of the window. The
storm had increased, and the snow was driving in wild
gusts through the streets, which were empty, save here and
there a hurrying wayfarer. The whole scene was cold, wild
and desolate, and I could not repress a keen thrill
of sympathy for the child, whoever it was, whose only
Christmas was to watch in cold and storm, the rich
banquet ungratefully enjoyed by the lonely bachelor. I resumed my
place at the table, but the dinner was finished and
the wine had no further relish. I was haunted by
the vision at the window, and began, with an unreasonable
irritation at the interruption, to repeat with fresh warmth my
detestation of holidays. One couldn't even dine alone on a
holiday with any sort of comfort, I declared, on holidays
one was tormented by too much pleasure on one side
and too much misery on the other. And then I said,
hunting for justification of my dislike of the day, how
many other people are like me, made miserable by seeing
the fullness of enjoyment others possess. Oh yes, I know, sarcastically,
replied the bachelor to a comment of mine. Of course,
all magnanimous, generous and noble souled people delight in seeing
other people made happy, and are quite content to accept
this vicarious felicity. But I, you see, and this dear
little girl, dear little girl, Oh, I forgot, said bachelor, bluff,
blushing a little in spite of a desperate effort not
to do so. I didn't tell you well, it was
so absurd. I kept thinking thinking of the pale, haggard,
lonely little girl on the cold and desolate sight of
the window pane, and the over fed, discontented, lonely old
bachelor on the splendid side of the window pane. And
I didn't get much happier thinking about it. I can
assure you I drank glass after glass of the wine,
not that I enjoyed its flavor any more, but mechanically,
as it were, and with a sort of hope thereby
to drown unpleasant reminders, I tried to attribute to my
annoyance in the matter to holidays, and so it denounced
them more vehemently than ever. I rose once in a
while and went to the window, but could see no
one to whom the pale face could have belonged. At last,
in no very amiable mood, I got up, put on
my wrappers, and went out, And the first thing I
did was to run against a small figure crouching in
the doorway. A face looked up quickly at the rough encounter,
and I saw the pale features of the window pane.
I was very irritated and angry, and spoke harshly, and
then all at once, I am sure, I don't know
how it happened, but it flashed upon me that I,
of all all men, had no right to utter a
harsh word to when oppressed with so wretched a Christmas
as this poor creature was. I couldn't say another word,
but began feeling in my pocket for some money, and
then I asked a question or two. And then I
don't quite know how it came about. Isn't it very warm, here,
exclaimed a bachelor Bluff, rising and walking about and wiping
the perspiration from his brow. Well, you see, he resumed nervously.
It was very absurd, But I did believe the girl's story,
the old story, you know, of privation and suffering, and
just thought I'd go home with a brat and see
what she said was all true. And then I remembered
that all the shops were closed and not a purchase
could be made. I went back and persuaded the steward
to put up for me a hamper of provisions, which
the half wild little youngster helped me carry through the snow,
dancing with delight all the way. And isn't this enough?
Not a bit, mister Bluff, I must have the whole story,
I declare, said bachelor Bluff. There's no whole story to tell.
A widow with children in great need, that was what
I found. And they had a feast that night, and
a little money to buy them a load of wood
and a garment or two the next day. And they
were all so bright and so merry, and so thankful
and so good that when I got home that night,
I was mightily amazed that instead of going to bed
sour at holidays. I was in a state of great
contentment in regard to holidays. In fact, I was really merry.
I whistled, I sang, I do believe I cut a caper.
The poor wretches I had left had been so merry
over their unlooked for Christmas banquet that their spirits infected mine.
And then I got thinking again. Of course, holidays had
been miserable to me. I said, what right had a
well to do, lonely old bachelor hovering wistfully in the
vicinity of happy circles, when all about there were so
many people as lonely as he, and yet oppressed with want.
Good gracious, I exclaimed to think of a man complaining
of loneliness, with thousands of wretches yearning for his help
and comfort, with endless opportunities for work in company, with
hundreds of pleasant and delightful things to do. Just to
think of it, it put me in a great fury
at myself. To think of it. I tried pretty hard
to escape from myself, and began inventing excuses and all
that sort of thing. But I rigidly forced myself to
look squarely at my own conduct. And then I reconciled
my confidence by declaring that if ever after that day
I hated a holiday again, might my holidays end at once? End?
Forever did I go and see my proteges again? What
a question? Why? Well, no matter. If the widow is
comfortable now, it is because she has found a way
to earn without difficulty enough for her few wants. That's
no fault of mine. I would have done more for her,
but she wouldn't let me. But just let me tell
you about New Year's The New Year's Day that followed
the Christmas I've been describing. It was lucky for me
there was another holiday, only a week off. Bless you.
I had so much to do that day. I was
completely bewildered, and the hours weren't half long enough. I
did make a few social calls, but then I heard
them over, and then hastened to my little girl, whose
face had already caught a touch of color, and she
looking quite handsome in her new frock and Hurribans took
me to other poor folk. And well that's about the
whole story. So as to the next Christmas, well, I
didn't dine alone. As you may guess, it was up
three stairs, that's true, and there was none of that
elegance that marked the dinner of the year before. But
it was merry and happy and depright. It was a generous, honest,
hearty Christmas dinner that it was, although I do wish
the widow hadn't talked so much about the mysterious way
turkey had been left at her door the night before.
And Molly, that's the little girl, and I had a
rousing appetite. We went to church early. Then, we had
been down to the Five Points to carry the poor
outcasts there something for their Christmas dinner. In fact, we
had done wonders of work, and Molly was in high spirits,
and so the Christmas dinner was a great success. Dear me, sir, No,
just as you say, holidays are not in the least
wearisome any more plague on it. When a man tells
me now that he hates holidays, I find myself getting
very wroth. I pin him by the buttonhole at once
and tell him my experience. The fact is, if I
were a dinner on a holiday and anybody should ask
me for a sentiment, I should say, God bless all holidays,
and of mister Bluff's Experience of Holidays by Oliver Bell
Bun's