Ted brightened up.
“Well, I can tell you that because I took particular notice of her. She looked just fine. Her dress was of gray, flimsy stuff, with shiny trimming and those upside-down sleeves, and she had one of those fluffy, chuffy what-do-you-call-em’s at the back of her neck.”
“What did Fan wear?” demanded Theodosia.
“Fan looked great. She had on one of those boleros of ostrich feathers, and it was tremendously fetching.”
“A bolero of ostrich feathers!” I exclaimed. “Why, Teddy-boy, there never was such a thing heard of! At least – of course – well, Fan has very original ideas. But a bolero of ostrich feathers!”
“Well,” said Ted, miserably, “I don’t know what it was if it wasn’t a bolero. She had it round her neck.”
“O-o-h, a boa!” exclaimed Polly, light breaking in at last. “Ted, you’ll be the death of me yet. What did Kitty wear?”
“She had a floppy sort of hat, and one of those muslin shoulder shawls – only it looked kind of thin for muslin.”
“He means a chiffon fichu,” said Theodosia, pityingly. “Kitty told me she was going to get one. And what had –”
“Excuse me,” said Ted, hastily. “There’s a man going down the street whom I positively must see.”
When Ted had gone we three looked at each other and softly, sadly sighed.
“Can we squeeze in here?” said a young man, as he and a young lady climbed into a crowded car on Hollis street the other evening.
“Well, you can if you want to, mister,” said the man from the country, “but I’m thinking it would look a trifle better if you reserved that mark of affection until you reached the girl’s home.”112
[Presents and Secrets]
Saturday, 7 December 1901
THE OLD WOMAN IN THE SKY IS SHAKING HER FEATHER beds while I write, and the feathers are flying down over the world.113 There’s a Christmassy look about them. This is only the first week in December, but the air is charged with Christmas already. When you see a group of girls in solemn conclave over fancy work you may know by that token that they are exuding and imbibing new ideas about Christmas presents.
At our house an air of mystery reigns. It is considered very bad form to ask any one what she is making, and a discreet blindness is the best way of avoiding pitfalls. When I enter a room unexpectedly and see Polly or Theodosia hustling something guiltily out of sight my feelings don’t dream of being hurt as they would at any other time. I just smile knowingly and begin to talk about the weather.
Then the shop windows are overflowing with Christmas. It is delightful – Polly says “scrumptious” – to stroll along the streets and gloat over all the pretty things that are going to gladden lucky people’s hearts later on. The variety is bewildering, and the only trouble is where to choose. No sooner do you find something you think is just what you’re looking for than you catch sight of something still nicer, and so on until you are ready to declare that the only way is to walk into a shop with your eyes shut and buy the first thing you happen to pick up.
The designs in calendars seem lovelier this year than ever before – some of them are things of beauty and joys forever.114 The prettiest one that I have seen this year is the “Sweet Lavender” one – a drop calendar of lavender-tinted cards with a dainty girlish face smiling forth from each.
To be sure, Ted, in his usual reckless way, scoffs at these calendars. He says they are of no real use at all, and he has warned Polly and Theodosia and me that if we each give him a calendar this Christmas – as we did last year, unfortunately, not having consulted each other beforehand – we are to select big advertising calendars with good, honest figures, that you can see across the room without having to hunt them out amid a maze of flowers and pictures and things.
Ted is so deplorably practical.
There are books, dainty volumes in dainty bindings, books that you can put on your shelves lovingly and read and cherish, and re-read until they become as old friends to you, blent with memories of all fair Christmastides.
Books are among the nicest Christmas presents possible. But exercise due gumption in selecting them. Don’t give Thomas a Kempis115 or “Daily Comforts” to the society bud, or the Visits of Elizabeth116 to your devotional aunty. Don’t give a girly-boarding-school story to your football brother, or Omar Khayyam117 to your cook, or How to Be Happy though Married118 to a henpecked husband. These are the misfits that turn Christmas cheer sour.
Speaking of books. Some day I am going to promulgate a Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Books.119 It is sadly needed. Not long ago I lent a book to a friend of mine. It was a favorite book. When it came back, and I beheld its mutilated condition I could have cried had not fiery indignation scorched up my fount of tears. It had seventeen dog-ears and a big blister on the cover. The binding was loose, and on every page were marks that suggested a baby with sticky fingers. My poor, dear book!
But, at least, it did come back. Some books never do. They vanish mysteriously, and though at times we hear a vague rumor of their wanderings, they never return to us. Their empty spaces yawn upon our shelves, but the places thereof know them no more forever.
Oh, folks, why will you do such things? Why can’t you realize that it is every whit as dishonest to keep or lend a borrowed book as it would be to keep or lend your neighbors’ kettle, if you had borrowed it? People who wouldn’t “steal a pin”120 for the world seem to have absolutely no conscience as regards books.
If I were asked what is the hardest worked word in the language I should, without hesitation, answer “perfectly.” If something doesn’t soon occur to give it a rest the poor word will have nervous prostration.121
I was at a wedding the other day where it was on everybody’s tongue. The bride was perfectly sweet, the church looked perfectly lovely, the groom was perfectly splendid, the flowers were perfectly superb, the bridesmaids’ hats perfectly fascinating, and the dress of the bride’s mother perfectly gorgeous.
I felt perfectly bewildered.
I’m glad I’m not famous. So is Polly. We came to this conclusion the other night when we were reading a newspaper article upon “What Noted Women Eat.”
“Imagine how horrid it would be,” remarked Polly reflectively, “to pick up a paper and see blazoned in headlines across it, ‘Cynthia Crunches Cookies,’ or ‘Polly Prefers Peanuts.’ Fancy having all your little pet foibles of diet exploited for the curiosity of the public.”
Yes, there are compensations for the unknown!
Polly is making for Jack’s Christmas present one of those pretty double photo frames, devoted to “My Summer Girl” and “My Winter Girl.” It is of heavy cardboard, hand-painted and tied together by silk cords. The summer divinity is enshrined in daisies and forget-me-nots, and the winter goddess smiles from holly berries and leaves with a sprig of mistletoe among them.
Polly has wisely taken no chances. She has put her own photo in both places – one taken in June-time attire of lace and muslin, and one in the smartest of hats and furs.
[Preachments on Christmastide]
Saturday, 14 December 1901
(1) “I must give Jennie something this Christmas because she gave me a present last year.”
(2) “Oh, I have to give Lou a present, too, because I want to give Dot something, and Lou would be offended if she were left out.”
(3) “I am not going to give Winnie anything this year because I simply can’t afford a present that would be equal to the other things she will receive.”
(4) “I shall make one of those big bunches of crepe paper oranges for Kitty. It’s so much nicer to give something of your own handiwork, you know.”
(5) “I’ll be glad when Christmas is over. I have been working myself blind making presents or going a weary round of shopping every afternoon until I’m really worn out.”
Now, all these foregoing remarks, heard by myself at different times during the last two weeks are to serve as pegs upon which I mean to hang several little preachm
ents for the benefit of humanity in general and Echo readers in particular.
In number one the “for value received” spirit crops up – one of the most unlovely manifestations of gift-giving. Jennie must be remembered, not because she is a dear and valued friend, or because, perchance, she is a lonely soul to whom a gift might bring a cheering realization of the real meaning of Christmas, but simply and solely because she gave you a present last year and so put you under what you consider an obligation to return it. Now, this way of looking at the matter is opposed to the very essence of Christmastide.
No gift should be given from a sense of obligation – and a false sense at that. If Jennie knew the motive of your gift do you think she would care to receive it? I am very sure she would not. “The gift without the giver is bare,”122 and if it be tainted with the stain of commercialism it is worse than bare – it is an insult to the recipient. There is nothing on earth so abominable as a “duty” gift.
Then, number two indicates a still baser motive. Lou must have a gift, and one equally as nice as Dot’s, or she will be offended. Well, my Christmas giver, ask yourself this question. Is Lou’s friendship, if dependent on the giving or not giving of a gift, worth retaining? Is it even a real friendship at all? I would not consider it so. The friend who is worth having is not going to be alienated from you because you do not give her a Christmas box. Don’t desecrate your friendship and the spirit of Christmas by giving somebody something just because you fear she will be annoyed if you don’t. Let all the Lous get offended if they will be so foolish, but don’t let yourself cater to this one of the little foxes who are doing their utmost to gnaw the very heart out of a beautiful and better-deserving old custom.
Number three reeks with positive snobbishness. You are not going to give Winnie anything because you have a selfish, unworthy fear that your inexpensive little gift will seem trifling and poor to her compared to those which her wealthier friends will give her.
Leaving out the wrong to yourself which springs from all such motives, you are doing a wrong to your friend. You imply that all she cares for is the intrinsic value of her gifts – that the love and real friendship that may have prompted them count for nothing at all. Certainly, you are not very complimentary. And if your implied estimate of her be false and if she honestly value her gifts for the givers’ sakes then you are going to deprive her of a very real joy and pleasure when you refuse to give her any token of your affection for her. She will have a perfect right to feel grieved and hurt at your omission. Oh, don’t let snobbishness, that vilest of all small vices, creep into your heart now of all times. There are good and excellent reasons for not giving a gift at some times, but number three is not among them.
Number four has a comical aspect to me.
I am not decrying the idea that a gift which you make yourself, putting into it dainty handiwork and that individuality which is lacking so often in a purchased gift, makes the very nicest Christmas present possible. It is true. What I am laughing at is the perversion of this idea that obtains in some people’s minds. There is no sense in supposing that a bunch of crepe paper oranges which are neither useful nor ornamental and like no oranges that ever grew on any tree, is better than a “boughten” thing can be simply because you “made it yourself” and – in a whisper – “it didn’t cost you much.” Kitty has my sympathy. Were I she I would make a bonfire of the oranges and so get minutes of fun out of them anyway.
To my mind, my “fifthly” is the most serious of all, and indicates the plague spot which, if not checked, sooner or later will destroy all real happiness and pleasure in the Christmas season. There is something wrong when people are glad that Christmas is over. When Christmas becomes a burden and strain on health, purse or nerves it is time to call a halt.
The woman who overtasks herself in making Christmas presents has lost sight of the fundamental truth of Christmas. It ought to be a season of peace and good-will. But there can be no peace about it when your nerves are all on end through bending for hours over needlework or poring over the problem of how to make one dollar do the work of two at the bargain counter. And as for the good-will there will be none of it either. More likely you will be out of temper with everybody and everything. Take things easier, dear fellow creatures. Make or buy only such Christmas gifts as you can afford in time and money and give them with all sincerity of motive to the friends you are fortunate enough to have and to value.
I believe that in the foregoing paragraphs I have narrowly escaped being serious. To redeem my reputation for frivolity, I must tell you about some of the new shoes. They are so dainty this year, rivalling Cinderella’s famous slippers. Black velvet has become fashionable and the results are charming. Black velvet slippers are not only becoming, but comfortable – a combination not always found. Polly has a new pair – Polly’s feet are “one of her weak points, don’t you know” – which are very plain, having only a small silver buckle to relieve their sombre richness. On Polly’s toes they look as the slippers of a French beauty of the Louis reigns might have looked.123
Theodosia has a lovely pair for dancing of white brocade, embroidered with gold thread, with a sparkling buckle on the toe. They’re so pretty I don’t see how she can ever have the heart to spoil them by dancing in them.
I have come to the conclusion –
That when anyone says that she “thinks it is her duty to tell you,” you may prepare for something disagreeable.
That to confer a favor ungracefully is a good way to make its recipient your mortal foe.
That while it may be hard to keep your illusions it is harder to lose them.
That photographs and epitaphs are not to be trusted.
That if everybody at all times and upon every occasion told the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,124 life wouldn’t be worth living.
That it doesn’t pay to be always cheerful moralists to the contrary notwithstanding.
That most folks hate to be surprised.
That a flattering mirror is a promoter of amiability.
That gossip is an aid to digestion.
That tact is the spice of life.125
And, finally, that it is of no use coming to conclusions because when you think you have arrived at one you find out it isn’t the right one after all.
[Illusions of Christmas]
Monday, 23 December 1901
I BELIEVE WE ARE GOING TO HAVE A WHITE CHRISTMAS after all. I’m so glad. I hate a “green” Christmas. You know, when a Christmas is a dirty-grayey-browney affair, looking as if it had been left over about a hundred years ago, and had been in soak ever since it is called a green Christmas. Don’t ask me why! As Lord Dundreary says, “There are thome thingth no fellow can underthtand.”126
We don’t get a white Christmas oftener than once in a blue moon, so it is something to be duly thankful for. It is the only real, guaranteed Christmas. Any other kind is a fraud and imitation. Always ask your dealer for a white Christmas and insist on having it.
Lots of snow, making the world look like a magnified Christmas card, crisp, exhilarating air and jingles of sleigh bells everywhere – that’s as it should be. No “green” Christmas for me, an it please ye.127
I hear that Santa Claus is coming around on an automobile this year. The 20th century is certainly going to do away with all the little romance that is yet left us. There was a subtle charm about a benevolent, itinerant old saint roaming at large on Christmas eve with a sleigh and bells and reindeer. When we were very, very small, and deluded and happy, how we used to sit up in the bed and listen for the pawing of those reindeer’s feet on the roof – wondering dreamily at the same time how they managed to get up there at all, or hang on when they did, so steep was the sloping roof of the old house. But then, of course, they were fairy reindeer, and fairy reindeer can do anything. When we heard the snow slip from the eaves we knew they had dislodged it, and at any louder creak than usual we knew it was Santa Claus coming down the chimney, and hoped that the f
ire would be quite out so that the good old soul wouldn’t burn himself or get singed. In the morning we used to go out and look for the prints of the reindeer’s feet in the snow. We never found them, alas! Once we thought we did, but a scoffing older brother, who was nine and a cynic, said they were only sheep tracks. I suppose they were.
But now Santa Claus comes on the automobile!!!!
My belief in Santa Claus was the first illusion to be stripped away from me. The process has been going on ever since, and is always painful, but not nearly as much so as it was that first time. We get hardened to it in time; as the Irishman said, you can get used to anything, even to being hanged.128 But who of us ever forgets the cruel agony we feel when we first behold a beloved illusion lying stone-dead before our eyes – murdered, most likely, by some brutal creature a year or so older than ourselves. All the philosophy in the world can’t cure that sting.
And how we hate the people who destroy our illusions. This is illogical, of course. We ought to be grateful to them – oh, very! But human nature is always illogical. I have forgiven – and forgotten – a great many people, but I shall never forgive the girl who told me that there was no such person as Santa Claus – that it was just my father and mother who put the things in my stockings.129
I was six years old and she was eight. I thought she was grown up. I had admired and liked her before that – she was my pet idol among the “big girls.” After that I hated her. I was afraid of her, too. She represented to me a person to be avoided, because of the power she might possess of inflicting more pain. The next thing she would tell me might be that there were no fairies.
Perhaps she wondered why I so suddenly gave over worshipping at her shrine. If ever the time arrives when I feel that I can really forgive that girl I shall know that I have attained to a high level of Christian virtue.
A Name for Herself Page 14
