Speaker 1: 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