Speaker 1: Noel Debussue variations on a Mendelssohn theme by Randolph Bartlett.
It was Christmas Eve, a fact which David Pearson realized,
less from any feelings of his own in the matter
than from observing that the Union League Club was just
a little duller, if possible, than usual, his cronies were
scattered among dozens of festive affairs, invitations to which he
had persistently declined, preferring the boredom of a few days
in comparative loneliness to the boredom of noise and gaiety
in which he took no interest. He was distinctly and
uncompromisingly an old bachelor, and if he had had any
sense of the fitness of things, he would have been
sitting in a dimly lighted room beside an open fire,
watching wreaths of tobacco smoke formed tender pictures of days
gone by. But he disregarded all the best traditions, and
his apartment was a blaze of light. While he studied
the financial pages of the Post, his attention was distracted
by the sound of boys voices singing in the street,
and idly curious, he raised his windows slightly to listen
god ready long gentle manallyading line. The singing was particularly bad,
but it interested Pearson because he used to sing that
carol himself years ago, and he experienced a little thrill
to think that there were some of the pleasures of
his childhood days that people had not been able to
improve upon. When did I last sing that? He mused,
it must have been the Christmas just before I went
to college. He smiled broadly at the recollection that his
principal ambition then was to force his voice down low
enough to sing bass, and he began to hum a
counterpoint to the treble that floated up from the street.
Little Julia Connor used to sing the soprano quite prettily.
He remembered, poor Julia the last time I saw her.
Her voice had grown shrill and hard from constantly telling
four children not to do things. She was a lovely
slip of a girl in those days. That was when
all a girl needed was to be pretty and modest,
and everything was brought to her. P What a noisy
crowd it was at that party. After the singing was over,
Julia slipped away into a quiet corner by herself. We
were too boisterous for her. I remember feeling sorry for her.
She seemed so neglected. So I went over and sat
beside her, and we talked about the high school days
that were just and did the others romped away into
another part of the big house and forgot all about us.
Then I began to notice how pretty she was, and
what white tapering hand she had. She didn't object when
I took one of her hands in mine and squeezed
it a little, and she didn't object either, And I
put my arm around her shoulder, but just pretended not
to notice. And then I kissed her. She couldn't help
noticing that, Oh, David, it wasn't It isn't right, she said,
But she said it very softly, and there was no
indignation in her voice. So I kissed her again, and
a little bit harder. Then she drew away and hung
her head a little. She was a very pretty girl, Julia.
I love you, I declared, manfully, for I wanted more kisses,
and so I think did she. I drew her closer
again and repeated it and was rewarded. And I love
you too, David, she said. Too Soon the others came
looking for us, but before the evening was over, we
found a few minutes more. Together. We won't tell anybody
just yet, she said, and I agreed promptly. And within
a week she quarreled with me because I danced three
times in one evening with another girl who is a
much better dancer. You have broken my heart, she said, sadly.
I will never trust another man as long as I live.
And now, pretty little Julia has four children and a hard,
shrill voice. While she before shelf of fine idle see
on round, the boys in the street started another song
and David Pearson recalled another Christmas. It was just a
few months before his graduation, and he was home for
the holidays. A big church fair had been arranged for
Christmas Eve, and the moving spirit was Esther Wallace. I
wonder how the rector ever would have managed without Esther
Pierson cogitated. In fact, people used to say that if
Esther Wallace didn't pay a little more attention to our
own affairs and a little less to those of the church.
The first thing she knew she would be an old maid.
She must have been thirty then, And the way she
pounced upon me and made me help her with the decorations,
because she said it would keep me out of mischief
for a few days. It was a good deal of
fun at that and there was nothing churchy about estherther,
so I didn't mind. We became very well acquainted, and
when the evening of the fair arrived and it was
a big success, she kept telling me it would never
have been half so good without my help. You've been
a dear boy to give up your holiday like this,
she said. I felt that for once I was appreciated,
and kept following her around all evening, ready to do
anything she wanted. Of course, she had to stay until
last to attend to everything, and of course I had
to stay to see if there was anything I could do.
And then I went into the little side room with
her to help her with her coat. Those were the
days of the huge sleeves, and as I tucked hers
into her coat, I put my arms around her and
gave her a vigorous hug. My, but you're strong, she said.
Do you go in for athletics at college? It was
a rather dampening matter of course, way to take it,
but I ignored the remark and kissed her resolutely. Oh David,
mustn't it isn't right, she said, why not, I demanded. Well,
for one thing, I'm years and years older than you.
I swore it made no difference, and kissed her several
times more. You are so strong, she murmured, and made
a showing of resistance. But it was the footsteps of
the janitor as he went around turning out the lights
that ended the matter. For just then. I walked home
with her, putting my arm around her waist whenever we
came to a dark stretch of street. In the porch
of her house, I started it again, and again my
strength was too much for her. I love you, esther,
I said at last, as it seemed the only thing
to do, And I love you too, David. She responded,
but you must think of your career and what your
father would say. I'm much too old for you. I
didn't want to think what father would say, and declared
it made no difference that I was a man and
had a right to my own life. She sighed and
said I would forget all about her when I went
back to college, and I denied it with a few
dozen more kisses for emphasis. Heavens, what a relief it
was to me a few months later to get a
note from her saying it was all a mistake and
that she was going to marry as the rector, And
so I wrote, you have broken my heart. I will
never trust another woman as long as I live. It
came upon agree, is hmm, that's funny. I suppose that
song really has more to do with my being here
tonight than any other one thing. What a row. Father
and I were having that Christmas. I wanted to get
out of his business and have him furnish me with
capital for a venture of my own, and he refused,
So I said I would quit anyhow, go to South
Africa and make my own way. We had quite a
crowd at the house for the holidays, and it naturally
percolated everywhere that things were in a general mess in
the family. Then after dinner Christmas Eve, they all began
singing carols in the music room. One by one they
all dropped out and left the singing to Clara Forster.
Mother had been sounding the praises of Clara until I
was tired of her very name, and so I sulked
off into the den. A little later, Clara came in
humming and pretended to be looking for something. She fiddled
around a while and then, standing behind my chair, deliberately
parodied the lines, and man at war with man hears
not the love song that they bring, only she sang
it the love song that I bring. It was neatly
done that I knew those old hymns pretty well and
recognized the change. But the point was that I was
worn out with the round and welcomed anything that might
prove a congenial diversion. You have a beautiful voice, I said,
by way of starting conversation. Thank you kindly, sir, she said,
she warbled, and sat down on the arm of my
big chair. You don't seem very christmasy, she remarked, and
proceeded to impart a little cheerfulness to the atmosphere of
the den. Mother caught sight of us and kept the
remainder of the crowd steered in other directions. It was
not long until I began to feel that life was
not such a gloomy veil of tears after all, And
so it came about, quite logically that I pulled her
down upon my lap and kissed her. Oh, David, you mustn't.
It isn't right, she protested, but not violently. Why not, Well,
you see, we're not that is, you're not. Oh, yes,
I am, I declared, for she was a very nice girl,
and it seemed the thing to do to reassure her,
especially as the terms were pleasingly vague. You are what
what you meant? So we fenced back and forth, but
she cornered me. So if it had to be, I
might as well make a good job of it, I decided.
I drew her very close, kissed her thoroughly, and said,
I love you, Clara, and I love you too, David.
She whispered and snuggled in my arms. You won't go
to South Africa, will you, she pleaded A little later,
I wouldn't like it in South Africa, And of course
I promised and went straight to my father and agreed
to his plans without reservation. Then, because Clara's family moved
to Chicago, and I insisted upon not marrying until I
had made a place for myself in the world independently
of my sinecure in father's business, and would not go
to Chicago, she broke off the engagement with a note
which read, you have broken my heart. I will never
trust another man as long as I live. It was
fully six months before she married into the beef trust
o little town of Birthingham House. Now we see thee line.
There seems to be no limit to the number of
ways a man can make an idiot of himself. But
Christmas time apparently collects them in one group and defies
you to escape them all. My luck has not failed
me yet, though, and I suppose I am immune now.
But I tremble to think of the things that might
have happened. There was may Bell Graham, for example. That
was a narrow escape. It was the missile toad did it? Probably?
I am no more averse to contributing my share to
the fun on these occasions than most men. But I
think I would have hesitated a long time before making
any advances toward the giddy Maybell in any other circumstances.
I never saw a girl so plain and yet so
brazen about it. A girl with an appearance like hers
should be becomingly modest. Then people will be sorry for her,
and eventually someone will marry her out of pity. So
Christmas was a field day for her. She used to
get herself invited to the most exclusive places, and I
could never see why, for everyone always treated her as
if she had come in by the tradesman's entrance when
no one was watching the door. It must have been
at the thatcher's. It happened. They were cousins of hers,
and the way that girl was ignored, the others would
be captured from time to time, as they quite inadvertently
found themselves or were found beneath the sprig of little
white devil berries. But Maybel could stand there by the hour,
and she was as safe as if she had been
in an empty house. You couldn't help feeling sorry for her,
at least I couldn't, so I made a special effort
to be nice to her, and then, waiting til no
one was looking, on the principle that charity should not
be made a public matter, I caught her waiting patiently
under the bow and did the only fair thing. Did
she appreciate it? Did she take it at its face
value and let it go at that? She did not.
She hung on with both arms, and the next thing
we knew we were discovered and her ardor was misinterpreted.
You would naturally not expect a girl to be in
that position unless she had received encouragement. So I had
to protect myself and for the remainder. Of the two
days that the party lasted, I had to make good.
I endured it as well as I could, not being
especially interested in any of the other attractions anyhow, and
comforted myself with the thought that in a day or
two I would be back in town and could escape
escape Maybell, what a chance. She telephoned twice a day.
She wrote notes to me, complaiinning of my neglect, saying
that all her folks were talking about it. She invited
me to dinners and things until I exhausted all my
excuses and had to run in duplicate. Finally, she wrote
and asked, in so many words if she had been
misled by my actions at the Christmas party. I replied
that she apparently had, and then she wrote, you have
broken my heart. I will never trust another man as
long as I live, and I guess she never did.
For the last I heard, she was still a spinster
of the orangel, saying glory to a you won King.
David Pearson drew a deep breath of relief. He always
did when he thought of that escape, but on this
occasion it reminded him of another adventure that had an
element of peril, of another sort and had its inception
under the missiletoe. I wonder when someone will tabulate the
various kinds of kisses and list opposite each the occasions
when it shall be permitted. When a man kisses a
woman under the missiletoe, he doesn't mean anything by it,
and the woman has no business to take advantage of
the situation to ensnare him. I could never understand why
Alice Harrison did it. There were plenty of men anxious
to make love to her and tell her how badly
her husband was treating her. Possibly it was because I
was not in the crowd and she wanted to complete
the collection. I don't know that I am any more
squeamish than most men, but somehow I never have overcome
the old fashioned idea that a married woman is the
property of another man, and theft is not in my line. Still,
when I kissed Alice that Christmas Eve, the way she
took it and responded undermined whatever stability in the matter
that I possessed, Lord, the cleverness of that woman having
started the train of thought or emotion or whatever it is.
She turned away with a little laugh and pretended that
it was an isolated incident to be immediately forgotten. She
played me like an experienced anger until I was mad
about her, and almost forcibly dragged her into a dark
corner of the conservatory, and there I returned her gift
of the early evening with all the accumulated interest. Oh, David,
you mustn't it isn't right, the hypocrite gasped. Why not,
I demanded hoarsely. Is I believe the proper description of
my tone of voice? I'm a married woman, she explained.
Of course, MY proper answer was that she should have
thought of that sooner. But instead I made the usual
remarks about her brute of a husband. I presume that
to the lover of a married woman, her husband is
always a brute. As a matter of fact, my recollection
of Harrison is that he was a very decent fellow,
and probably never did anything that Alice had not provoked
him into. After indicating that such a husband did not
deserve such a woman as she, I made my declaration.
I love you, Alice, and I love you too, David,
she whispered. And then but we must hurry back or
we shall be missed. We were able to see each
other only occasionally, and for mere fleeting moments, until one
day she telephoned saying that she would be alone that
evening and I might call. But there happened to be
a rather nasty murder trial going on at the time,
and after reading some of the evidence, so I decided
not to. She was very angry at first, and then
very tearful. I don't believe you love me at all,
she said plaintively. The time seemed ripe, so I said
perhaps there had been a mistake, and the woman had
the effrontery to say, you've broken my heart. I will
never trust another man as long as I live. No, well, no, well, no, no.
Those were the days when Christmas meant a pandemonium, a
lot of fussing about presence, and a great deal of
indigestibly rich food. David Pearson's recollections continued, and when I
think how I used to miss them after I really
began to have serious interest in life, I am surprised
at myself. Lonely nurse is the self pity of a
man no resources of his own. So it was quite natural,
before I had developed my attitude of independence toward existence,
that I should feel lonely, and especially around Christmas time.
It was the psychological moment for the arrival of Helena Birch.
I wonder if that woman ever was married. She was
rather vague in her allusions to her experience in that direction,
But it didn't and doesn't matter. She was not encumbered
at that time. At least, it was just after my
first generally known success in the market. Where was it
I met her must have been at one of those
informal and somewhat questionable parties of blakes. There was a
good deal of that sort of thing going on at
that time, I suppose there is. Yet she was quite
a frequent member of the gatherings at various bachelor apartments.
One evening she asked me what I was going to
do Christmas, and I told her I supposed I should
be deserted as usual, so shall I. She said, Let's
have a little dinner and a mutual sympathy evening at
my apartment. It sounded interesting, and I accepted. I never
did know just what to make of Helena at first.
She had a bohemian way with her, and yet everything
was entirely proper. There was an invisible and yet clearly
defined line beyond which you would not think of trespassing.
At least I wouldn't. I always was a duffer at
that kind of business. The evening was a great success.
That dinner was perfectly thought out in the appointments exquisite.
She was a connoisseur in wines and had mastered the
art of removing all the grossness from the act of eating. Then,
while I smoked, she played for me and sang in
a careless sort of way that a man likes to
be sung to, as much as to say, I know
I have no voice, but you're a friend, and it
doesn't matter so much, because you know I'm trying to
entertain you as well as I can. So eventually I
became quite mellowed. And when she was tired singing and
came over and sat beside me on the davenport, I
naturally drew her over to me and kissed her. I
love you, Helena, I said, And I love you too, David,
she answered. But even at the time, it came to
me with a sort of chilling effect that there was
no conviction in her voice. Perhaps it was an echo
of my own absence of ardor but to me recalling
other Christmases, her tone sounded hard and cold, and there
was little warmth in her embrace. However, it passed for
what it was worth. I saw her several times after that,
and usually at her apartment. Then one evening she said, David,
I think I would like to have a nicer place
than this, but I can't quite afford it. I've been
looking at an apartment over on Riverside Drive. It is
just what I want, and I could entertain you so
much better there. I couldn't ask for any better entertainment,
I protested, but she enlarged on the advantages of the
more expensive place, and it would only cost ten thousand
a year, and ten thousand, she have heard, was nothing
to me, but her income was so limited, and so on,
And then I was very thankful that I had been
a model of discretion. I said I would think it over,
but I never went back. She telephoned several times and
tried to make engagements for dinner, but I always managed
to evade. Finally, one day she said, in a tearful voice, David,
aren't you coming to see me any more? I think
I had better not, I told her, and then I
wondered if she would say it. She did, you have
broken my heart. I will never trust another man as
long as I live. But I had heard it done
so much better that it made no impression. When we
crive was all on Mary ill at Holy Glory. How
different was that Christmas dinner with Margaret Swain. I wonder
why I didn't marry her. Perhaps it was because I
had no encouragement and had grown too old to care
to engage in a long stern chase. John Walton accomplished it,
but it took him more than a year of hard work.
She had been a widow about five years when she
took pity on me and invited me to what she
called a solitary feast of the forsaken at her house.
I think that was the most homelike place I ever visited.
There was no tinsel and show about it, just a
plain home of a wholesome woman. We talked about old
friends and old times, even about her dead husband, without
the least sign of sentiment. I began to feel that
I was leading an extremely lonely life and losing touch
with everything except business. Later, in her little drawing room,
we ran out of topics of conversation, and she employed
the phonograph for diversion. We listened in silence to half
a dozen records. Margaret, I said, finally, what would you
say if I were to make Christmas love to you?
She laughed, happily, do so by all means if you
think you ought to, she said, But always remember that
Christmas love, like Christmas presents, is not durable. Your levity,
I said, has broken my heart. I will never trust
a woman again as long as I live. David, she said, solemnly,
have you ever trusted one? And I was forced to
admit that I had not. God. A very gentleman le
hay knew then they're beginning all over again. David Pearson
leaned out of the window and bargained with the waifs
to end the concert in consideration of a piece of gold,
which was forthwith paid. Whereupon the old bachelor returned comfortably
to his study of the financial pages of the post.
But beside a fireplace in a distant home, a middle
aged woman who had once been slim and fair, was
singing snatchet of song as she and her husband decorated
a fir tree and wrote the names of four children
on many parcels. And she did not think of David
Pearson all evening, and in a quiet rectory, another woman
was making a list of poor families that must not
be forgotten in the morning, and she did not think
of David Pearson all evening. And in another home, the
wife of a millionaire was sewing busily on a silken
trifle that was to be her own gift to her husband,
and she did not think of David Pearson all evening.
And in a mission in the slums, an unusually unprepossessing
woman was being wept upon by a group of grateful mothers,
and she did not think of David Pearson all evening.
And in a far distant city, a woman was telling
her husband how happy she was that they had left
an old life behind them, and she did not think
of David Pearson all evening. And in a handsome apartment,
a mature but still beautiful woman was entertaining one of
the merriest of gatherings, and she did not think of
David Pearson all evening. And in one of the most
homelike homes of all, a pleasant faced woman was enjoying
the spectacle of a large house party of young folk
engaged in the pastimes of Yule, and she did not
think of David Pearson all evening, yet he had remembered
all of them. End of Noel Debussy variations on a
Mendelssohn theme by Randolph Spartlett