Chapter 13

Wednesday we made a fine expedition to the woods--the whole party, the donkey-cart, and one of the keepers to choose the Tree--a most important performance, as we wanted the real pyramid "sapin," tapering off to a fine point at the top. Labbey (keeper) told us his young son and the coachman's son had been all the morning in the woods getting enormous branches of pine, holly, and ivy, which we would find at the church. We came across various old women making up their bundles of fagots and dead wood (they are always allowed to come once a week to pick up the dead wood, under the keeper's surveillance). They were principally from Louvry and St. Quentin, and were staggering along, carrying quite heavy bundles on their poor old bent backs. However, they were very smiling to-day, and I think the burden was lightened by the thought of the morrow. We found a fine tree, which was installed with some difficulty in the donkey-cart; Francis and Alice taking turns driving, perched on the trunk of the tree, and Labbey walking behind, supporting the top branches.

We found the boys at the church, having already begun their decorations--enormous, high pine branches ranged all along the wall, and trails of ivy on the windows. The maids had arrived in the carriage, bringing the new red carpet, vases, candelabras and tall candlesticks, also two splendid wax candles painted and decorated, which Gertrude Schuyler had brought us from Italy; all the flowers the gardener would give them, principally chrysanthemums and Christmas roses. It seems he wasn't at all well disposed; couldn't imagine why "ces dames" wanted to despoil the green-houses "pour ce petit trou de St. Quentin."

We all worked hard for about an hour, and the little church looked quite transformed. The red carpet covered all the worn, dirty places on the altar steps, and the pine branches were so high and so thick that the walls almost disappeared. When the old woman (gardienne) appeared she was speechless with delight! As soon as we had finished there, we adjourned to the school-house, and to our joy snow was falling--quite heavy flakes. Madame Isidore turned all the children into a small room, and we proceeded to set up our Tree. It was a great deal too tall, and if we hadn't been there they would certainly have chopped it off at the top, quite spoiling our beautiful point; but as we insisted, they cut away from the bottom, and it really was the regular pyramid one always wants for a Christmas Tree. We put it in a big green case (which we had obtained with great difficulty from the gardener; it was quite empty, standing in the orangerie, but he was convinced we would never bring it back), moss all around it, and it made a great effect. The "garde de Borny" arrived while we were working, and said he would certainly come to the church in his "tenue de garde"; our two keepers would also be there.

Thursday morning we went early (ten o'clock) to St. Quentin and spent over two hours decorating the Tree, ticketing and arranging all the little garments. Every child in the neighbourhood was hanging around the school-house when we arrived, the entrance being strictly forbidden until after the service, when the Tree would be lighted. I expressed great surprise at seeing the children at the school on a holiday, and there were broad grins as they answered, "Madame Waddington nous a dit de venir." It had snowed all night, and the clouds were low and gray, and looked as if they were still full of snow. The going was extremely difficult; not that the snow was very deep, but there was enough to make the roads very slippery. We had the horses "ferrés à glace," and even the donkey had nails on his shoes. The country looked beautiful--the poor little village quite picturesque, snow on all the dark roofs, and the church standing out splendidly from its carpet of snow--the tall pines not quite covered, and always the curtain of forest shutting in the valley.

We left the maids to breakfast with the keeper, and promised to be back at three o'clock punctually. Our coachman, Hubert, generally objects strongly to taking out his horses in bad weather on rough country roads and making three or four trips backward and forward; but to-day he was quite serene. He comes from that part of the neighbourhood and is related to half the village. Our progress was slow, as we stopped a good deal. It was a pretty sight as we got near St. Quentin: the church, brightly lighted, stood out well on the top of the hill against a background of tall trees, the branches just tipped with snow. The bell was ringing, the big doors wide open, sending out a glow of warmth and colour, and the carpet of white untrodden country snow was quite intact, except a little pathway made by the feet of the men who had brought up the harmonium. The red carpet and bright chrysanthemums made a fine effect of colour, and the little "niche" (it could hardly be called a chapel) of the Virgin was quite charming, all dressed with greens and white flowers, our tall Italian candles making a grand show.

The La Ferté contingent had arrived. They had much difficulty in getting the omnibus up to the church, as it was heavy with the harmonium on top; however, everybody got out and walked up the hill, and all went off well. The Abbé was robing, with his two choir children, in the minute sacristy, and the two good Sisters were standing at the gate with all their little flock--about ten girls, I should think. There were people in every direction, of all sizes and ages--some women carrying a baby in their arms and pushing one or two others in a cart, some wretched old people so bent and wrinkled one couldn't imagine how they could crawl from one room to another. A miserable old man bent double, really, leaning on a child and walking with two canes, was pointed out to me as the "père Colin," who makes the "margottins" (bundles of little dry sticks used for making the fires) for the château. However, they were all streaming up the slippery hillside, quite unmindful of cold or fatigue. We walked up, too, and I went first to the school-house to see if our provisions had come. Food was also a vexed question, as tea and buns, which would seem natural to us, were unknown in these parts. After many consultations with the women about us--lessiveuses (washerwomen), keepers' wives, etc.--we decided upon hot wine and brioches. The Mayor undertook to supply the wine and the glasses, and we ordered the brioches from the Hôtel du Sauvage at La Ferté; the son of the house is a very good pâtissier. It is a funny, old-fashioned little hotel, not very clean, but has an excellent cuisine, also a wonderful sign board--a bright red naked savage, with feathers in his hair and a club in his hand--rather like the primitive pictures of North American Indians in our school-books.

Everything was there, and the children just forming the procession to walk to the church. Some of the farmers' wives were also waiting for us at the school-house, so I only had a moment to go into the big class-room to see if the Tree looked all right. It was quite ready, and we agreed that the two big boys with the keeper should begin to light it as soon as the service was over. Madame Isidore (the school-mistress) was rather unhappy about the quantity of people. There were many more than thirty children, but Henrietta and Pauline had made up a bundle of extras, and I was sure there would be enough. She told us people had been on the way since nine in the morning--women and children arriving cold and wet and draggled, but determined to see everything. She showed me one woman from Chézy, the next village (some distance off, as our part of the country is very scantily populated; it is all great farms and forests; one can go miles without seeing a trace of habitation). She had arrived quite early with two children, a boy and a girl of seven and eight, and a small baby in her arms; and when Madame Isidore remonstrated, saying the fête was for her school only, not for the entire country-side, the woman answered that Madame always smiled and spoke so nicely to her when she passed on horseback that she was sure she would want her to come. The French peasants love to be spoken to, always answer civilly, and are interested in the horses, or the donkey, or the children--anything that passes.

We couldn't loiter, as the bell was tolling, the children already at the church, and some one rushed down to say that "M. le Curé attendait ces dames pour commencer son office." There was quite a crowd on the little "place," everybody waiting for us to come in. We let the children troop in first, sitting on benches on one side. In front of the altar there were rows of chairs for the "quality." The Sisters and their girls sat close up to the harmonium, and on a table near, covered with a pretty white linen cloth trimmed with fine old lace (part of the church property), was the Enfant Jésus in his cradle. This was to be a great surprise to me. When it was decided that the Sisters should come to the fête with some of the bigger girls, and bring the Enfant Jésus, they thought there must be a new dress for the "babe," so every child subscribed a sou, and the dress was made by the couturière of La Ferté. It _was_ a surprise, for the Enfant Jésus was attired in a pink satin garment with the high puffed fashionable sleeves we were all wearing! However, I concealed my feelings, the good Sisters were so naïvely pleased. I could only hope the children would think the sleeves were wings.

As soon as the party from the château was seated, every one crowded in, and there were not seats enough, nor room enough in the little church; so the big doors remained open (it was fairly warm with the lights and the people), and there were nearly as many people outside as in. The three keepers (Garde de Borny and our two) looked very imposing. They are all big men, and their belts and gun-barrels bright and shining. They stood at the doors to keep order. The Mayor, too, was there, in a black coat and white cravat, but he came up to the top of the church and sat in the same row with me. He didn't have on his tricoloured scarf, so I suppose he doesn't possess one.

It was a pretty, simple service. When the curé and his two choir children in their short, white surplices and red petticoats came up the aisle, the choir sang the fine old hymn "Adeste Fideles," the congregation all joining in. We sang, too, the English words ("Oh, come, all ye Faithful"); we didn't know the Latin ones, but hoped nobody would notice. There were one or two prayers and a pretty, short address, talking of the wonderful Christmas night so many years ago, when the bright star guided the shepherds through the cold winter night to the stable where the heavenly babe was born. The children listened most attentively, and as all the boys in the village begin life as shepherds and cow-boys, they were wildly interested. Then there was a benediction, and at the end all the children in procession passed before the Enfant Jésus and kissed his foot. It was pretty to see the little ones standing up on tip-toe to get to the little foot, and the mothers holding up their babes. While this was going on, the choir sang the Noël Breton of Holmès, "Deux anges sont venus ce soir m'apporter de bien belles choses." There was some little delay in getting the children into procession again to go down to the school-house. They had been supernaturally good, but were so impatient to see the Tree that it was difficult to hold them. Henrietta and Pauline hurried on to light the Tree. I waited for the Abbé. He was much pleased with the attendance, and spoke so nicely to all the people.

We found the children all assembled in the small room at the school-house, and as soon as we could get through the crowd we let them come in. The Tree was quite beautiful, all white candles--quantities--shiny ornaments and small toys, dolls, trumpets, drums, and the yellow and red bags of "dragées" hanging on the branches. It went straight up to the ceiling, and quite on top was a big gold star, the manufacture of which had been a source of great tribulation at the château. We forgot to get one in Paris, and sent in hot haste on Wednesday to La Ferté for pasteboard and gold paper; but, alas! none of us could draw, and we had no model. I made one or two attempts, with anything but a satisfactory result: all the points were of different lengths and there was nothing but points (more like an octopus than anything else). However, Pauline finally produced a very good one (it really looked like a star), and of course the covering it with gold paper was easy. The crèche made a great effect, standing at the bottom of the Tree with a tall candle on each side. All the big toys and clothes were put on a table behind, where we all sat. Then the door was opened; there was a rush at first, but the school-mistress kept strict order. The little ones came first, their eyes round and fixed on the beautiful Tree; then the bigger children, and immediately behind them the "oldest inhabitants"--such a collection of old, bent, wrinkled, crippled creatures--then as many as could get in. There wasn't a sound at first, except some very small babies crowing and choking--then a sort of hum of pleasure.

We had two or three recitations in parts from the older scholars; some songs, and at the end the "compliment," the usual thing--"Madame et chère Bienfaitrice," said by a small thing about five years old, speaking very fast and low, trying to look at me, but turning her head always toward the Tree and being shaken back into her place by Madame Isidore. Then we began the distribution--the clothes first, so as not to despoil the Tree too soon. The children naturally didn't take the slightest interest in warm petticoats or tricots, but their mothers did.

We had the little ones first, Francis giving to the girls and Alice to the boys. Henrietta called the names; Pauline gave the toys to our two, and Madame Isidore called up each child. The faces of the children, when they saw dolls, trumpets, etc., being taken off the Tree and handed to each of them, was a thing to remember. The little girls with their dolls were too sweet, hugging them tight in their little fat arms. One or two of the boys began to blow softly on the trumpets and beat the drums, and were instantly hushed up by the parents; but we said they might make as much noise as they pleased for a few moments, and a fine "vacarme" (row) it was--the heavy boots of the boys contributing well as they moved about after their trains, marbles, etc.

However, the candles were burning low (they only just last an hour) and we thought it was time for cakes and wine. We asked the children if they were pleased, also if each child had garment, toy, and "dragées," and to hold them up. There was a great scamper to the mothers to get the clothes, and then all the arms went up with their precious load.

The school-children passed first into the outer room, where the keepers' wives and our maids were presiding over two great bowls of hot wine (with a great deal of water, naturally) and a large tray filled with brioches. When each child had had a drink and a cake they went out, to make room for the outsiders and old people. Henrietta and Pauline distributed the "extras"; I think there were about twenty in all, counting the babies in arms--also, of course, the girls from La Ferté who had come over with the Sisters to sing. I talked to some of the old people. There was one poor old woman--looked a hundred--still gazing spellbound at the Tree with the candles dying out, and most of the ornaments taken off. As I came up to her she said: "Je suis bien vieille, mais je n'aurais jamais cru voir quelque chose de si beau! Il me semble que le ciel est ouvert"--poor old thing! I am so glad I wasn't sensible, and decided to give them something pretty to look at and think about. There was wine and cakes for all, and then came the closing ceremony.

We (the quality) adjourned to the sitting-room of the school-mistress (where there were red arm-chairs and a piano), who produced a bottle of better wine, and then we "trinquéd" (touched glasses) with the Mayor, who thanked us in the name of the commune for the beautiful fête we had made for them. I answered briefly that I was quite happy to see them so happy, and then we all made a rush for wraps and carriages.

The Abbé came back to the château to dine, but he couldn't get away until he had seen his Sisters and harmonium packed safely into the big omnibus and started for La Ferté. It looked so pretty all the way home. It was quite dark, and the various groups were struggling down the hill and along the road, their lanterns making a bright spot on the snow; the little childish voices talking, laughing, and little bands running backward and forward, some disappearing at a turn of the road, the lantern getting dimmer, and finally vanishing behind the trees. We went very slowly, as the roads were dreadfully slippery, and had a running escort all the way to the Mill of Bourneville, with an accompaniment of drums and trumpets. The melancholy plains of the Valois were transformed tonight. In every direction we saw little twinkling lights, as the various bands separated and struck off across the fields to some lonely farm or mill. It is a lonely, desolate country--all great stretches of fields and plains, with a far-away blue line of forests. We often drive for miles without meeting a vehicle of any kind, and there are such distances between the little hamlets and isolated farms that one is almost uncomfortable in the absolute solitude. In winter no one is working in the fields and one never hears a sound; a dog's bark is welcome--it means life and movement somewhere.

It is quite the country of the "haute culture," which Cherbuliez wrote about in his famous novel, "La Ferme du Choquart." The farms are often most picturesque--have been "abbayes" and monasteries. The massive round towers, great gate-ways, and arched windows still remain; occasionally, too, parts of a solid wall. There is a fine old ruin--the "Commanderie," near Montigny, one of our poor little villages. It belonged to the Knights Templars, and is most interesting. The chapel walls are still intact, and the beautiful roof and high, narrow windows. It is now, alas! a "poulailler" (chicken-house), and turkeys and chickens are perched on the rafters and great beams that still support the roof. The dwelling-house, too, is most interesting with its thick gray walls, high narrow windows, and steep winding staircase. I was always told there were "donjons" in the cellars, but I never had the courage to go down the dark, damp, slippery staircase.

We were quite glad to get back to our big drawing-room with the fire and the tea-table; for of course the drawback to our entertainment was the stuffiness (not to say bad smell) of the little room. When all the children and grown people got inmost of them with damp clothes and shoes-the odour was something awful. Of course no window could be opened on account of the candles, and the atmosphere was terrible. At the end, when it was complicated with wine and cake and all the little ones' faces smeared with chocolate and "dragées," I really don't know how we stood it.

We had a very cheerful dinner. We complimented the Abbé upon his sermon, which was really very pretty and poetical. He said the children's faces quite inspired him, and beyond, over their heads, through the open door he got a glimpse of the tall pines with their frosted heads, and could almost fancy he saw the beautiful star.

We were all much pleased with our first "Christmas in the Valois."

VII

A RACINE CELEBRATION

MAREUIL-SUR-OURCQ, April 20th, 1899.

I could scarcely believe I was in our quiet little town of La Ferté-Milon to-day. Such a transformation--flags flying, draperies at all the windows, garlands of greens and flowers across the streets, and a fine triumphal arch--all greens and flowers arranged about the centre of the Grande Rue. Many people standing about, looking on, and making suggestions; altogether, an air de fête which is most unusual in these sleepy little streets where nothing ever passes, except at four o'clock, when the three schools come out, and clatter down the street. The École Maternelle comes first, the good Mère Cécile bringing up the rear of the procession, holding the smallest children, babies three and four years old, by the hand, three or four more clinging to her skirts, and guiding them across the perilous passage of the bridge over the canal. It is a pretty view from the bridge. The canal (really the river Ourcq, canalisée), which has preserved its current and hasn't the dead, sluggish look of most canals, runs alongside of the Mail, a large green place with grass, big trees, a broad walk down the centre, and benches under the trees. It is a sort of promenade for the inhabitants and also serves as a village green, where all the fairs, shows and markets are held. The opposite bank is bordered by quaint old houses, with round towers and gardens, full of bright flowers, running down to the water's edge. There is one curious old colombier which has been there for centuries; near the bridge there is a lavoir, where there are always women washing. They are all there to-day, but much distracted, wildly interested in all that is going on--and the unwonted stir in the streets; chattering hard, and giving their opinions as to the decoration of the arch, which is evidently a source of great pride to the town.

On a bright sunny day, when the red roofs and flowers are reflected in the water, and it is not too cold, their work doesn't seem very hard; but on a winter afternoon, when they have to break the ice sometimes, and a biting wind is blowing down the canal, it is pitiable to see the poor things thinly clad, shivering and damp; their hands and arms red and chapped with cold. On the other side of the bridge, the canal wanders peacefully along through endless green meadows, bordered with poplars, to Marolles, a little village where there is the first écluse on the way to Paris.

We had been talking vaguely all winter of doing something at La Ferté-Milon to fêter the bicentenaire of Racine. They were making preparations at Paris, also at Port Royal, and it seemed hard to do nothing in his native place. His statue in the Grande Rue is one of the glories of La Ferté.

Jean Racine was born in La Ferté in 1639. He lost both father and mother young, and was brought up by his grandparents. He was sent first to school at Beauvais, later, while still quite a youth, to Port Royal. His stay there influenced considerably his character and his writings; and though he separated himself entirely from the "Solitaires" during the years of his brilliant career as poet and courtier, there remained always in his heart a latent tenderness for the quiet green valley of the Chevreuse, where he had passed all his years of adolescence, listening to the good Fathers, and imbibing their doctrines of the necessity of divine grace to complete the character. His masters were horrified and distressed when his talent developed into plays, which brought him into contact with actors and actresses, and made him an habitué of a frivolous Court.

There is a pretty letter from one of his aunts, a religieuse de Port Royal, begging him to keep away from "des fréquentations abominables," and to return to a Christian life.