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SANTA CLAUS
in a department store
Christopher Hassall (1912-1964)
I have always liked this poem. There is something poignant about an aging, two-bit Shakespearian actor playing Santa Claus in a department store and being genuinely "glad of the engagement" because it is "nice to feel one has given satisfaction." No one would write such a poem today. Today, Santa would be bitter and we would be told more than we need to know about his failures. But Hassall lived in a different time. Dare I say a better one?
Hassall was not a great poet. But he was a good one. He was better known in England during his time as the lyricst for Matinee Idol Ivor Novello. If you look him up on the web, you will find none of his poems and little about him or his life, except that he was the father of Imogen Hassall, a B-movie actress who was known as the "The Countess of Cleavage." Poignant.
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Santa Claus
Wolsey, or possibly my John of Gaunt,
Was the best thing I did. Come over here,
Behind the Christmas crib. (I'm not supposed
To let the children see me having tea.)
To tell the truth I'm glad of this engagement.
Dozens applied, but all they said was Thank you,
We'll stick to Mr. Borthwick.
It's nice to feel one has given satisfaction.
Time was I had it all at my finger-tips,
Could plant a whisper in the back of the pit,
Or hold them breathless with the authority
Of absolute repose - a skill despised,
Not seen, in your day. It amounts to this:
Technique's no more than the bare bones. There are some
Unwittingly instill the faith that Man
Is greater than he knows. This I fell short of.
You never met my wife. You are too young.
She often came with me on tour. One night
At Nottingham, got back from the show, and there
She was. I knew at once what made her do it.
She had resented me for years. No, not
Myself, but what she knew was in me, my
Belief in - Sir, forgive me if I say
My 'art', for I had shown, you'll understand,
Some promise. To use her word, she felt herself
'Usurped', and by degrees, unconsciously,
She managed somehow to diminish me,
Parch all my vital streams. A look would do it.
I was a kind of shrunken river-bed
Littered with tins, old tyres, and bicycle frames.
Well, that was years ago, and by then too late
To start afresh. Yet all the while I loved her.
Explain that if you can . . . By all means, madam,
Those clocks are very popular this year.
I'll call the man in charge. No, there's no risk
Of damage. They pack the cuckoo separately.
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