Christmas Past
1. Puddings and Promises
I think it has been remarked before, by men and writers much greater than I, that Christmastime is a part of the year that engenders reflection, and remembrance, more than any other time of the year. I have made my way through nearly two score Christmases, myself – though I can think of six or seven, which have stood out, to me, clearly, like stars in a night sky, or red holly in the white snow, a natural part of my history, but more meaningful, for they taught me things I otherwise might not have seen or understood about the people who surrounded me, and things about myself, as well.
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As it is my custom to begin at the beginning, I shall discuss a Christmas that took place early in my history – indeed, I believe I was only seven years old, perhaps younger, at the time of which I speak. At that tender age, though, I was already quite accustomed, and looked forward with much vigor and energy, to wintertime at the Rookery.
It is curious to me to observe that, in those early days at the Rookery, there were actually two kinds of ways we celebrated that most holy of holidays. My young mother, I remember, shone quite beautifully at Christmas, and was, in my eyes, the embodiment of the Christmas star herself. She was very gay, always singing Christmas songs, always tripping out in her furs and lace to buy gifts for everyone she knew, which was quite a lot of people. Or she would be invited to go sleighing or skating (though she was a widow, she was still young and pretty), or to go singing for others, or to parties, from which she would come back very late in the evening, and wake me up to tell me (and Peggotty) of all the fun. Often, she would decided to have a little party for the people of Blunderstone herself, and she would give a list of dishes to Peggotty to prepare for the occasion, who received her orders very solemnly, as if she were cooking for a princess; and my mother would buy me a fine new suit of clothes for the party (and if my mother were a princess, as I fancied, then in my finery I surely was her accompanying prince).
If my mother presided over the parlor and dining room, and made our holiday splendid and fine – well, Peggotty presided over the kitchen, and worked to make Christmas cheerful and jolly, like a good holiday spirit. She often wore a sprig of holly in her cap, which I remember cearly now, though her round red face did enough honor to that plant as any of nature's berries would. I loved to follow my good nurse into the kitchen in the days leading up to festivities, under pretense of assisting her, but really in hopes I might be offered a spoon or plate which I could clean by questionable methods. Peggotty seemed to know all her recipes without writing them down or looking them up, and she spoke a great deal of dashes and pinches (which to my infant mind seemed a little fierce); she managed large and fearsome racks of meat with great dexterity, usually informing me that her brother Dan'l was uncommon fond of pork, or repeating Ham's praises of her fig pudding, in which I agreed most heartily.
I will admit, however, that between parties, new suits of clothes, and plum puddings, in my youth I rather lost sight of the agreed-upon significance of Christmas – even though we three went to church every Sunday, most diligently. In fact, I think I quite astonished Peggotty on the Christmas of which I write now, when, a little peevish from being denied the batter spoon for the third time, I answered to Peggotty's inquiry of "Mas'r Davy, why don't you tell me what Christmas is all about?" - when, I say, I answered, "Pudding," in a dogged tone, and with my eye still on the tempting spoon.
The look on her face made me seriously suspect that was quite the incorrect answer, and that, for my impudence, I was at great peril of never receiving pudding, or any other sweetmeat, ever again. I therefore remained very diffident, until her look subsided, and she returned to stirring the bowl.
"Well, Mas'r Davy," she began, at length, "for little boys of not quite seven years old, p'raps pudding is quite a splendid part of Christmas." I said "no," because her tone made me uneasy and a little guilty.
"I'm glad to hear that, then, Davy. How about you let your cross old Peggotty tell you a story then, eh?"
I said I would like it very much, if she wouldn't be angry with me. She laughed. "No, sir! But you listen very well. Once, a long time ago, in the east, where there are deserts and camels and such, a little baby boy was born under a star."
I said that would be very nice, and she nodded. "Yes, Davy. And that baby boy and you had a few things in common. For instance, his Pa was in Heaven, too, in a way – though he still had his good mama to care for him on earth, and her kind husband. Indeed, he was very much loved by everyone as knew him, though he WAS poor, and born in a stable. Perhaps he even had a fondness for pudding," she added, mischievously. "He was our lord and savior, Davy, and he grew up to be very kind and good, and to teach us to be so, too. Even when things was hardest for him, and his friends were false, he kept on trying to be good, and we ought to try, too. Christmas is for remembering his birthday, and all he did for us, and taught us."
I was very silent, and more guilty than ever – but as always, Peggotty's plain words had touched and guided me, and in imagining the little baby and boy our lord had been, I thought, perhaps, he was not so different from me, and I could try to be a little like him. Noticing my silence, Peggotty smiled, her real, warm smile, and give me a spoon. "That's a good boy, Davy. I think you understand why we must always remember Christmas now, eh?"
"Yes, Peggotty," said I. "And…I shall never forget what you told me."
I said that, then, to ease my mind's guilt, and to be worthy of my spoon of pudding batter. But I never did forget her words, and tried to stay true to what she told me of our little king's example – even when times were hardest, and my friends were found false.