I’ll say this for Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha: He was an enthusiast. Steam Power, engineering, plumbing, Scotland, Christmas trees… Queen Victoria's husband could get excited about everything, and more.
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| Prince Albert |
Wait, Christmas trees?
Yes – Christmas trees. Even if he wasn’t the first person in these isles to bring a fir tree inside and decorate it with lights, he most certainly popularised the tradition here – his homeland, Germany, had already embraced it.
Long before Christianity arrived on these shores, evergreen
trees and plants were held sacred in winter. Some people developed beliefs that
evergreen branches of fir, spruce or pine over their doors could keep away
witches and ghosts, for example. Martin Luther, the German reformer, features
in one particular legend – wandering through a snowy wood, he is said to have
been struck by the beauty of the starlight twinkling through frosted evergreen
branches of the fir trees. He decided to recreate the experience at home by
bringing a tree inside and decorating it with candles.
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| Martin Luther |
I have a particular affinity with fir trees, and I too am an
enthusiast by nature, and hail from Germany. My parents owned a house atop a very steep
slope. The grassy piece of land wasn’t much use for anything, but my ever-enterprising
father took a trip to the local tree nursery and returned with 200 noble fir
saplings, no bigger than a small pot plant each. Planting them all was
back-breaking work. I was young – it is one of my earliest memories. I recall asking
– when can we play hide-and-seek in these?’
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| Barbara (8) in the forest-heavy area of Germany where she grew up |
‘Probably when you’re about fifteen,’ he answered, mopping
sweat from his brow. I pouted. Being fifteen seemed an eternity away.
By the time the trees grew into hide and seek, I had grown
out of it. Every winter, however, teenage me became more adept with a saw.
Neighbours and friends came first – then the street and the next. One by one
they chose their Christmas tree. I tied a label to it and, when the time came,
dropped to my knees and worked my upper arms. I carried Christmas trees hither
and thither and pocketed my modest share of the cash – it wasn’t the worst of seasonal
jobs.
And every Christmas, my father, who had grown up surrounded
by dense woodland on three sides, brought our own Christmas tree into the house
– never earlier than Christmas Eve, NEVER. It was decorated with baubles, straw
stars and lametta (sort of spaghetti made from foil, and a particular favourite
of my dad’s) before fixing on the candles – yes, my father could never quite
make friends with fairy lights.
My favourite moment of every year of my childhood was the
moment when the little bell rang, inviting us children into the room. The first
time we saw the Christmas tree, aglow with flickering candlelight, and presents
in neat piles by each seat.
When I was researching my Victorian novel, Punch, I really
wanted to capture some of the excitement of this new custom. My Highland-raised
orphan Phineas has never seen a Christmas tree before – Christmas was not much celebrated
so far north. Hogmanay, the Scottish New Year, was a much bigger occasion. My hero
is travelling with Professor Merriweather Moffat’s Circus. Here is the moment
he and his gruff fellow Highlander Mr Robertson are first confronted with a
Christmas tree:
Punch, Barbara's Victorian adventure, features a Victorian Christmas
Through the windows, I spot flickering candles in fir
trees, brought inside after the fashion of the late Prince Albert. It looks so
very odd to me. I am doubly surprised when I open the door to a snow-clad
Professor Moffat one night before Christmas and he has brought just such a
tree. A real, green, living tree.
‘Phineas, would you be so kind as to fetch Mr Robertson,
please? I would appreciate a helping hand.’
Even Mr Robertson groans and puffs, but the tree soon
stands upright in the good front room, wedged into a bucket of wet sawdust and
sand to keep it fresh.
‘What is it?’ Mr Robertson’s forehead is so furrowed, I
can’t help laughing.
‘It’s a Christmas tree. Watch, gentlemen!’
‘Christmas tree,’ mutters Mr Robertson, shaking his head.
Merriweather Moffat reveals a small paper parcel and
carefully unfolds it: inside is a strange collection of metal clips. ‘Like this!’
he announces as if he had invented the custom himself. ‘Clip it on, Phineas, so
the round part faces upward.’
Ah, I see how it is meant to work. I fix my first clip
on.
‘Very good – now, distribute them evenly, that’s right.
Do you see, Mr Robertson? Alice, don’t you love it?’
Mrs Moffat stands in the corner of the room, clutching a
pack of wax candles. ‘I do love it, dear. Who would not?’
‘Then place the candles in! No time like the present!
Professor Moffat’s cheeks glow with excitement.
The street lamps outside are lit by the time we finish.
Mr Moffat strikes a match and lights the first candle.
I am not sure what I expected. But maybe not the pleasant
scent of a woodland, right in our home. The light of thirty candles, dancing
and reflecting in the windowpane, casting ever-changing shadows against the
wall, the furniture, and our faces, too.
‘Extinguish the candles now,’ Mr Moffat says suddenly,
for all of us have sunk into an awed silence. ‘We must save on the wax. We will
light it on Christmas Eve. They say the Queen knows how to make merry at Christmas,
and after a year like ours, so shall we!’ He reaches into his coat and brandishes
a book.
‘What’s that?’ Mr Robertson asks again. He is wary of
books.
‘It’s a story. A ghost story called A Christmas Carol, by
Mr Charles Dickens. And those of us who can read, shall read it to the others
at night. And on Christmas, we will go to church, and we shall have a goose!
Isn’t that right dear?’
I receive my first ever Christmas present. When my
parents were alive, I might get a small present at Hogmanay, but never at
Christmas. All these new ways. They are not the Highland ways.
But I find that I bear them very cheerfully.
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Barbara Henderson
