Chapter 12

The little curé is very pleased to have his midnight mass this year on Christmas eve. Last year it was suppressed. There was such angry feeling and hostility to the clergy that the authorities were afraid there might be scenes and noisy protestations in the churches; perhaps in some quarters of the big cities, but certainly not in the country where people hold very much to the midnight mass. It is also one of the services that most people attend. It is always a pretty sight in the country, particularly if there happens to be snow on the ground. Every one that can walk comes. One sees the little bands arriving across the fields and along the canal--five or six together, with a lantern. Entire families turn out--the old grandfathers hobbling along on their sticks, the women carrying their babies, who are generally very good--quite taken up with the lights and music, or else asleep. We always sing Adam's "Noël." In almost every church in France, I think, they sing it. Even in the big Paris churches like the Madeleine and St. Eustache, where they have orchestras and trained choirs, they always sing the "Noël" at some period of the service.

MAREUIL, le 24 Mai.

To-day was the Première Communion at La Ferté, and I had promised the Abbé Devigne to go. I couldn't have the auto, as Francis was at a meeting of a Syndicat Agricole in quite another direction. So I took the train (about seven minutes), and I really believe I had the whole train to myself. No one travels in France, on Sunday, in the middle of the day. It is quite a long walk from the station to the church (the service was at Notre Dame, the church on the hill), with rather a steep climb at the end. The little town looked quite deserted--a few women standing at their doors and in all directions white figures of all ages were galloping up the hill. The bells were ringing and we were a little late. The big doors of the church were wide open, the organ playing, and a good many people standing about. The altar was bright with flowers and candles, and "oriflammes" of blue and pink gauze, worked with gold and silver lilies, were stretched across the church between the pillars. One or two banners with the head of the Virgin and flowers painted in bright colours were also hanging from the columns. Two or three priests, with handsome vestments--white embroidered in gold--were officiating, and the choir boys wore their red petticoats--soutanes trimmed with lace and red shoes and caps. The Suisse (beadle), with his cocked hat, silver embroidered coat and big cane, was hovering about, keeping order.

Just inside the chancel sat the "communiants"--fifty boys and girls. The girls--all in white from top to toe--white dresses, shoes, and gloves, and long white veils coming to the edge of the dress, and either a white cap (which looks very pretty and quaint on the little heads--rather like some of the old Dutch pictures) or a wreath of white flowers. With them sat about half a dozen smaller girls--also in white, with wreaths of white roses. They were too small to make their first communion, but they were to hold the cordons of the banner when the procession passed down the church. The boys were all in black, short jackets, white waistcoats, and white ribbon bows on their sleeves.

The church was very full--mostly women, a few men at the bottom. It was a pretty sight when the procession moved around the church. First came the "sacristain" in his black skirt and white soutane, then the banner held by two of the big girls; the group of little ones--some of them quite tiny and so pretty with the wreaths of white roses on their black hair--holding the cords and looking most pleased with their part of the function. Just behind them came the good old religieuse Soeur St. Antoine, hovering over her little flock and keeping them all in their places; then all the communiants, the smallest girls first, the boys behind, all carrying lighted tapers and singing a hymn to the accompaniment of the organ.

They went first to the font, stopped there, and one of the girls read a sort of prayer renewing their baptismal vows. Then they started again, in the same order, to the Chapelle de la Vierge, always singing their hymn, and knelt at the rails. Then the hymn stopped, and they recited, all together, a prayer to the Virgin. The little childish voices sounded quite distinctly in the old church--one heard every word. The congregation was much interested.

There wasn't a sound. I don't know if it was any sort of religious feeling--some dim recollection of their early days, or merely the love of a show of any kind that is inherent in all the Latin race, but they seemed much impressed. While the collection was being made there was music--very good local talent--two violin soli played by a young fellow, from one of the small neighbouring châteaux, whom we all knew well, and the "Panus Angelicus" of César Franck, very well sung by the wife of the druggist. The curé of La Ferté, a very clever, cultivated man, with a charming voice and manner, made a very pretty, short address, quite suited to childish ears and understanding, with a few remarks at the end to the parents, telling them it was their fault if their children grew up hostile or indifferent to religion; that it was a perfectly false idea that to be patriotic and good citizens meant the abandonment of all religious principles.

We waited until the end of the service (Francis and his friends arrived in time to hear the curé's address), and watched the procession disappear down the steep path and gradually break up as each child was carried off by a host of friends and relations to its home. The curé was very pleased, said he had had a "belle fête"--people had sent flowers and ribbons and helped as much as they could to decorate the church. I asked him if he thought it made a lasting impression on the children. He thought it did on the girls, but the boys certainly not. Until their first communion he held them a little, could interest them in books and games after school hours, but after that great step in their lives they felt themselves men, and were impatient of any control.

VI

CHRISTMAS IN THE VALOIS

It had been a cold December, quite recalling Christmas holidays at home--when we used to think Christmas without snow wasn't a real Christmas, and half the pleasure of getting the greens to dress the church was gone, if the children hadn't to walk up to their ankles in untrodden snow across the fields to get the long, trailing branches of ivy and bunches of pine. We were _just_ warm enough in the big château. There were two calorifères, and roaring wood fires (trees) in the chimneys; but even I must allow that the great stone staircase and long corridors were cold: and I couldn't protest when nearly all the members of the household--of all ages--wrapped themselves in woolen shawls and even fur capes at night when the procession mounted the big staircase. I had wanted for a long time to make a Christmas Tree in our lonely little village of St. Quentin, near Louvry, our farm, but I didn't get much support from my French friends and relations. W. was decidedly against it. The people wouldn't understand--had never seen such a thing; it was entirely a foreign importation, and just beginning to be understood in the upper classes of society. One of my friends, Madame Casimir-Périer,[4] who has a beautiful château at Pont-sur-Seine (of historic renown--"La Grande Mademoiselle" danced there--"A Pont j'ai fait venir les violons", she says in her memoirs), also disapproved. She gives away a great deal herself, and looks after all her village, but not in that way. She said I had much better spend the money it would cost, on good, sensible, warm clothes, blankets, "bons de pain," etc.; there was no use in giving them ideas of pleasure and refinement they had never had--and couldn't appreciate. Of course it was all perfectly logical and sensible, but I did so want to be unreasonable, and for once give these poor, wretched little children something that would be a delight to them for the whole year--one poor little ray of sunshine in their gray, dull lives.

[4] Madame Casimir-Périer, widow of the well-known liberal statesman, and mother of the ex-President of the Republic.

We had many discussions in the big drawing-room after dinner, when W. was smoking in the arm-chair and disposed to look at things less sternly than in bright daylight. However, he finally agreed to leave me a free hand, and I told him we should give a warm garment to every child, and to the very old men and women. I knew I should get plenty of help, as the Sisters and Pauline promised me dolls and "dragées." I am sorry he couldn't be here; the presence of the Ambassador would give more éclat to the fête, and I think in his heart he was rather curious as to what we could do, but he was obliged to go back to London for Christmas. His leave was up, and beside, he had various country and shooting engagements where he would certainly enjoy himself and see interesting people. I shall stay over Christmas and start for London about the 29th, so as to be ready to go to Knowsley[5] by the 30th, where we always spend the New Year's Day.

[5] The Earl of Derby's fine palace near Liverpool.

We started off one morning after breakfast to interview the school-mistress and the Mayor--a most important personage. If you had ever seen St. Quentin you would hardly believe it could possess such an exalted functionary. The village consists of about twelve little, low gray houses, stretching up a steep hill, with a very rough road toward the woods of Borny behind. There are forty inhabitants, a church, and a school-house; but it _is_ a "commune," and not the smallest in France (there is another still smaller somewhere in the South, toward the Alpes Maritimes). I always go and make a visit to the Mayor, who is a very small farmer and keeps the drinking shop[6] of the village. We shake hands and I sit a few minutes in a wooden chair in the one room (I don't take a drink, which is so much gained), and we talk about the wants and general behaviour of the population. The first time I went I was on horseback, so we dismounted and had our little talk. When we got up to go he hurriedly brought out a bench for me to mount from, and was quite bewildered when he saw W. lift me to the saddle from the ground.

[6] Cabaret.

The church is a pretty, old gray building--standing very high, with the little graveyard on one side, and a grass terrace in front, from which one has the most lovely view down the valley, and over the green slopes to the woods--Borny and Villers-Cotterets on one side, Chézy the other. It is very worn and dilapidated inside, and is never open except on the day of St. Quentin,[7] when the curé of La Ferté-Milon comes over and has a service. The school-house is a nice modern little house, built by W. some years ago. It looks as if it had dropped down by mistake into this very old world little hamlet.

[7] In August, I think.

It is a short walk, little more than two kilomètres from the gates of the big park, and the day was enchanting--cold and bright; too bright, indeed, for the low, gray clouds of the last days had been promising snow and I wanted it so much for my tree! We were quite a party--Henrietta, Anne, Pauline, Alice and Francis, Bonny the fox-terrier, and a very large and heavy four-wheeled cart, which the children insisted upon taking and which naturally had to be drawn up all the hills by the grown-ups, as it was much too heavy for the little ones. Bonny enjoyed himself madly, making frantic excursions to the woods in search of rabbits, absolutely unheeding call or whistle, and finally emerging dirty and scratched, stopping at all the rabbit holes he met on the way back, and burrowing deep into them until nothing was left but a stumpy little white tail wagging furiously.

We went first to the Mayor, as we were obliged to ask his permission to give our party at the school. Nothing in France can be done without official sanction. I wanted, too, to speak to him about a church service, which I was very anxious to have before the Tree was lighted. I didn't want the children's only idea of Christmas to be cakes and toys; and that was rather difficult to arrange, as the situation is so strained between the clergy and the laïques, particularly the curé and the school-master. I knew I should have no trouble with the school-mistress (the school is so small it is mixed girls and boys from four to twelve--and there is a woman teacher; she is the wife of one of our keepers, and a nice woman)--but I didn't know how the Mayor would feel on the subject. However, he was most amiable; would do anything I wanted. I said I held very much to having the church open and that I would like as many people to come as it would hold. Would he tell all the people in the neighbourhood? I would write to the principal farmers, and I was sure we could make a most interesting fête. He was rather flattered at being consulted; said he would come up with us and open the church. It was absolutely neglected and there was nothing in the way of benches, carpets, etc. I told him I must go first to the school, but I would meet him at the church in half an hour.

The children were already up the hill, tugging the big cart filled with pine cones. The school-mistress was much pleased at the idea of the Christmas Tree; she had never seen one except in pictures, and never thought she would really have one in her school. We settled the day, and she promised to come and help arrange the church. Then we went into the school-room, and it was funny to hear the answer--a roar--of "Oui, Madame Waddington," when I asked her if the children were "good"; so we told them if they continued very good there would be a surprise for them. There are only thirty scholars--rather poor and miserable looking; some of them come from so far, trudge along the high-road in a little band, in all weathers, insufficiently clad--one big boy to-day had on a linen summer jacket. I asked the teacher if he had a tricot underneath. "Mais non, Madame, où l'aurait-il trouvé?" He had a miserable little shirt underneath which may once have been flannel, but which was worn threadbare.

We chose our day and then adjourned to the church, where the Mayor and a nice, red-cheeked, wrinkled old woman[8] who keeps the ornaments, such as they are, of the church were waiting for us. It was certainly bare and neglected, the old church, bits of plaster dropping off walls and ceilings, and the altar and one or two little statues still in good condition; but we saw we could arrange it pretty well with greens, the few flowers, chrysanthemums, Christmas roses, etc., that were still in the green-house, a new red carpet for the altar steps, and of course vases, tall candlesticks, etc. There was one handsome bit of old lace on a white nappe for the altar, and a good dress for the Virgin. We could have the school benches, and the Mayor would lend chairs for the "quality." On the whole we were satisfied, and told W. triumphantly at dinner that the Mayor, so far from making any objection, was pleased as Punch; he had never seen a Christmas Tree either.

[8] La Mère Rogov.

The next day the list of the children was sent according to age and sex--also the old people; and we were very busy settling what we must do in the way of toys. The principal thing was to go to Paris and get all we wanted--toys, "bêtises", and shiny things for the Tree, etc. Henrietta and I undertook that, and we went off the same day that W. left for London. It was bitterly cold--the ground frozen hard--and we had a long drive, eighteen kilomètres through Villers-Cotterets forest--but no snow, only a beautiful white frost--all the trees and bushes covered with rime. It was like driving through a fairy forest. When we had occasional gleams of sunlight every leaf sparkled, and the red berries of the holly stood out beautifully from all the white. The fine old ruins of La Ferté looked splendid rising out of a mass of glistening underwood and long grass. We are very proud of our old château-fort, which has withstood well the work of time. It was begun (and never finished) by Louis d'Orléans in 1303, and was never inhabited. Now there is nothing left but the façade and great round towers, but quite enough to show what it might have been. There is also a bas-relief, perfectly well preserved, over the big door, of the Coronation of the Virgin, the kneeling figure quite distinct. On the other side is a great grass place (village green) where the fêtes of La Ferté take place, and where all the town dances the days of the "Assemblée." From the bottom of the terrace, at the foot of the low wall, one has a magnificent view over the town and the great forest of Villers-Cotterets stretching away in front, a long blue line on the horizon. In the main street of La Ferté there is a statue of Racine, who was born there. It is in white marble, in the classic draperies of the time, and is also in very good preservation. The baptismal register of Jean Racine is in the archives of La Ferté.

The road all the way to Villers-Cotterets was most animated. It was market-day, and we met every description of vehicle, from the high, old-fashioned tilbury of the well-to-do farmer, to the peasant's cart--sometimes an old woman driving, well wrapped up, her turban on her head, but a knit shawl wound around it, carrying a lot of cheeses to market; sometimes a man with a cow tied behind his cart, and a calf inside. We also crossed Menier's équipage de chasse, horses and dogs being exercised. We talked a few minutes to Hubert, the piqueur, who was in a very bad humor. They had not hunted for some days, and dogs and horses were unruly. The horses were a fine lot, almost all white or light gray. We go sometimes to the meets, and the effect is very good, as the men all wear scarlet coats and the contrast is striking.

We had an exhausting day in Paris, but managed to get pretty nearly everything. The little children were easily disposed of--dolls, drums, wooden horses, etc.; but the bigger boys and girls, who have outgrown toys, are more difficult to suit. However, with knives, paint-boxes, lotos (geographical and historical), for the boys; and handkerchief and work-boxes, morocco bags, etc., we did finally get our fifty objects. There are always extra children cropping up. Shopping was not very easy, as the streets and boulevards were crowded and slippery. We had a fairly good cab, but the time seemed endless. The big bazaars--Hôtel de Ville, rue d'Amsterdam, etc.--were the most amusing; really, one could get anything from a five-sou doll to a ménagère (the little cooking-stove all the peasant women use in their cottages). There were armies of extras--white-aproned youths, who did their best for us. We explained to one of the superintendents what we wanted, and he gave us a very intelligent boy, who followed us about with an enormous basket, into which everything was put. When we finally became almost distracted with the confusion and the crowd and our list, we asked the boy what he had liked when he was eleven years old at school; and he assured us all boys liked knives and guns.

When we had finished with the boys we had the decorations for the Tree to get, and then to the Bon Marché for yards of flannel, calico, bas de laine, tricots, etc. We had given W. rendezvous at five at Henrietta's. He was going to cross at night. We found him there having his tea. He had seen lots of people; been to the Élysée and had a long interview with the President (Grévy); then to the Quai d'Orsay to get his last instructions from the Minister; and he had still people coming to see him. When we left (our train was before his) he was closeted with one of his friends, a candidate for the Institute, very keen about his vote which W. had promised him, and going over for about the twentieth time the list of the members to see what his chances were. However, I suppose all candidates are exactly alike, and W. says he is sure he was a nuisance to all his friends when he presented himself at the Institute. One or two people were waiting in the dining-room to speak to him, and his servant was distracted over his valise, which wasn't begun then. I promised him I would write him a faithful account of our fête once we had decided our day. We took the five-o'clock train down, and a nice cold drive we had going home. The roads were rather slippery, and the forest black and weird. The trees which had been so beautiful in the morning covered with rime, seemed a massive black wall hemming us in. It is certainly a lonely bit of country, once we had left the lights of Villers-Cotterets behind us, crossed the last railway, and were fairly started in the forest. We didn't meet anything--neither cart, carriage, bûcheron, nor pedestrian of any kind.

Henrietta was rather nervous, and she breathed a sigh of relief when we got out on the plains and trotted down the long hill that leads to La Ferté. The château lights looked very warm and home-like as we drove in. We gave a detailed account of all we had bought, and as we had brought our lists with us we went to work at once, settling what each child should have. I found a note from the Abbé Maréchal, the curé of Laferté-Milon, whom I wanted to consult about our service. He is a very clever, moderate man, a great friend of ours, and I was sure he would help us and arrange a service of some kind for the children. Of course I was rather vague about a Catholic service; a Protestant one I could have arranged myself, with some Christmas carols and a short liturgy, but I had no idea what Christmas meant to Catholic minds. We had asked him to come to breakfast, and we would go over to the village afterward, see the church and what could be done. He was quite pleased at the idea of doing anything for his poor little parish, and he is so fond of children and young people that he was quite as much interested as we were. He knew the church, having held a service there three or four times. We walked over, talking over the ceremony and what we could do. He said he would give a benediction, bring over the Enfant Jésus, and make a small address to the children. The music was rather difficult to arrange, but we finally agreed that we would send a big omnibus to bring over the harmonium from La Ferté, one or two Sisters, two choir children, and three or four of the older girls of the school who could sing, and he would see that they learned two or three canticles.

We agreed to do everything in the way of decoration. He made only one condition: that the people should come to the service. I could answer for all our household and for some of the neighbours--almost all, in fact--as I was sure the novelty of the Christmas Tree would attract them, and they wouldn't mind the church service thrown in.

We went of course to see the Mayor, as the curé was obliged to notify him that he wished to open the church, and also to choose the day. We took Thursday, which is the French holiday; that left us just two days to make our preparations. We told Madame Isidore (the school-mistress) we would come on Wednesday for the church, bringing flowers, candles, etc., and Thursday morning to dress the Tree. The service was fixed for three o'clock--the Tree afterward in the school-room. We found our big ballots[9] from the bazaars and other shops, when we got home, and all the evening we wrote tickets and names (some of them so high-sounding--Ismérie, Aline, Léocadie, etc.), and filled little red and yellow bags, which were very troublesome to make, with "dragées."

[9] Big packages.