I shot a present into the air;
It fell to earth, I know not where!
WHY, there are innumerable ways of insulting the giver of a present. Listen, for instance, to this acknowledgment, from Zeroine: “All my life,” she wrote, “I have given away pink azaleas to my friends; and this is the first time I ever received one.” How’s that for egoism? Compared to her noble, extravagant and advertised generosity didn’t my one gift loom pretty small?
Rather clever she is, that Zeroine, a positive genius, sometimes—you know them—at making one wish one hadn’t tried to be nice to her. As the bride of one of my confreres I met her first in Paris. To celebrate her marriage I racked my brains for something charming enough with which to greet a new friend. Something not costly, you know, yet perfect and unique. Well, the loveliest things of that sort I had found, were the marvelous ribbon roses made by the Comtesse de Laumont for the benefit of the widows of officers. Every one is a work of art—a beautiful and faithful portrait of some particular rose from her own garden on the Marne.
To her house on the Avenue Malakoff I went (her only son, last of his line, had just been killed at the front, but her work must go on), and three exquisite William Allen Richardsons I picked out from all the rest. Late that night, too impatient to wait, through the narrow, shuttered, unlighted Paris streets I walked—no taxicabs in those war days—over the river to deliver my initiatory tribute at Zeroine’s hotel. And with it I left a letter telling her the roses’ pathetic story.
This is what Zeroine replied:
“Yes, I know the De Laumont roses. They’re lovely. I saw the wife of the Ambassador wearing one last week, and got the address. I have been intending to buy some of them; but you have kindly saved me the trouble.”
BUT for the most extraordinary misunderstanding of all that gifts should mean, I think I must, after all, award the prize to Mrs. Hilking. The Christmas tree that day at Mrs. Hilking’s was heavily hung with presents—piled deep on the floor they were. Mrs. Hilking was happy—oh, she was awfully happy! Didn’t she have good reason to be happy? “Why,” gurgled Mrs. Hilking, so proudly, “baby has received so many, many Christmas presents that I didn’t have to give him a single one myself!” Selah!
DO you begin to see, now, what Sadie meant by style in kindness? Style is what a smart hat has, isn’t it? It’s what an expensive motor car has—or a beautiful dancer. It’s the perfect technique of any artist—a successful clergyman, or a good novelist, or a clever burglar such as Mr. Raffles. In short, style is a combination of good taste and imagination. Then what is style in giving? To give what you’d like yourself may be kindness. But the Educated Heart isn’t quite satisfied even with the Golden Rule. It amends, or, rather, translates it thus: “Whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, were ye such as they, do ye even so to them.”
But perhaps you don’t know what your friend wants. Ah, but the Educated Heart makes it its business to know, to remember, or to find out. “A man’s heart,” you know, “deviseth his way.”