IN WHICH WE BECOME EMISSARIES OF LE BON DIEU
Now the coming of M. le Curé was in this wise.
We were making up _paquets_ in the Clothes-room, we were grimy,
dishevelled and hot, we were in no mood for visitors, we were pining
for tea, and yet Madame insinuated her head round the door and
announced, "M. le Curé de N." She would have announced the Czar of
Russia, or President Wilson, or General Joffre, or the dustman in
exactly the same emotionless tones, and with as little consideration
for our feelings.
"You go."
"No. You."
The tug of war ended, as such tugs generally do, in our going together,
smoothing hair that flew on end, flinging overalls into a corner
and praying hastily that the Curé might be an unobservant man. He
was. There was only one vision in the world for him; the air, the
atmosphere, life itself were but mirrors reflecting it; but conceding
that it was a large one, we found some excuse for his egoism. Large?
Massive. He was some inches over six feet in height and his soutane
described a wide arc in advance. His hands were thick and cushiony, you
felt yours sink into their pneumatic fastnesses as you greeted him; he
had a huge head, very little hair, a long heavy jowl, small eyes, and
he breathed fatly, thickly. His voice was slightly smothered. Many
years ago he had retired from his ministry, living at N. because he
owned property there, but the war, which called all priests of military
age and fitness to the colours, drew him from his life of ease and put
the two villages, N. and R., under his spiritual charge. His gestures
were large and commanding, he exuded benevolence--the benevolence of a
despot. There would be no divided authority in the Curé's kingdom. It
was not a matter for surprise to hear that he was not on speaking terms
with his mayor, it would have been a matter for surprise if, had he
been Pope, he had ever relinquished his temporal power.
He wasted little time on the usual preliminaries, plunging directly
into his subject. At N. and R. there were refugees, _pauvres victimes
de la guerre dans la grande misère_, sleeping on straw _comme des
bêtes_, cold, half-clothed, in need of every necessary. He had heard
of us, of our generosity (he called us "mes bonnes dames," with just a
hint of condescension in his manner), he wished us to visit his people.
Wished? He commanded. He implied, by an art I had not thought him
capable of, that we were yearning to visit them, that our days would be
storm-tossed, our nights sleepless unless we brought them relief. From
mendicant, he transformed himself into benefactor, bestowing on us an
opportunity which--it is due to our reputation to suggest--we craved.
It was well that our inclination jumped with his desire, for he was
quite capable of picking us up, one under each arm, and marching off
with us to N., had we refused. But how refuse in face of such splendid
faith in our goodwill, and under a shower of compliments that set us
blushing to the tips of our toes? We punctuated the flood or shower
with murmurs of, "C'est un plaisir," or, "On ne demande pas mieux." We
felt like lumbering elephants as we tried to turn aside his flattery,
but he merely waved a benediction and swept on. We would go to N. next
Wednesday; he, Monsieur, would meet us, and conduct us personally over
the village. He would tell us who were the good Catholics--not that he
wished to deprive the careless or sinful of our help; still, it would
be as well for us to know. We read "preferential treatment" on this
sign-post, and carefully reserved our opinion. When the visits were
over, we would go to his house and eat an _œuf à la coque_ with him,
and some _confitures_. His modest establishment ... a gesture indicated
an ascetic régime, the bare necessities of life, but if we would
accept?...
"With pleasure, if Monsieur was sure it would not inconvenience him."
"Mes bonnes dames," he replied grandly, "rien ne me dérange dans le
service du bon Dieu."[7]
[7] Nothing inconveniences me when it is in the service of God.
Of course it rained on Wednesday--rained quietly, hopelessly,
despairingly, but persistently. Nevertheless we set out, chiefly--so
great was Monsieur's faith in us--because it did not seem possible
to remain at home. We put on the oilskins which, with the uniform,
we had been led to understand would save our lives in France, but
the sou'westers we did not wear. There are limits. And when later
on we saw a worker clad in both, we did not know which to admire
most, the courage which enabled her to wear them, or the utter lack
of imagination which prevented her from realising their devastating
effect.
So we left the sou'westers on the pegs from which they were never
taken, and arrived at N. in black shiny oilskins that stood out stiffly
like boards from our figures, and were almost as comfortable to wear.
We were splashed with mud, and we dripped audibly on the Curé's
beautiful parquet floor.
We wished to begin at once? _Bon. Allons._ He, the Curé, had prepared
a list, the name of every refugee was inscribed on it. Oh, yes, he
understood _parfaitement_, that to make _paquets_ we must know the age
and sex of every individual. All was prepared. We would see how perfect
the arrangements were.
No doubt from his point of view they were perfect, but from ours
chaotic. We climbed the village street, he like a frigate in full sail,
his wide cloak gathered about him, leading the way, we like two rather
disreputable punts towing along behind. You know what happened at the
first house--that illuminating episode of the _seau hygiénique_? Worse,
oh, much worse was to befall us later! He discussed the possibilities
of family crockery with a bluntness that was conducive to apoplexy, he
left nothing to the imagination; perhaps he thought the Britishers had
no imagination.
In fact, his methods were sheerly cyclonic. Never had we visited in
such a whirl. Carried along in his wake, we were tossed like small
boats upon a wind-tormented sea; we had no time to make notes, we had
no time to ask questions, and when we had finished we had scarcely one
clear idea in our minds as to the state, social position, profession,
income, or need of those we had visited. Not a personal note (we who
made copious personal notes), not a detail (we who had a passion
for detail), only a blurred memory of general misery, or rooms
behind cow-houses and stables, through the filthy, manure-soddened
straw of which we had to pick our way, or rooms without glass in the
window-frames, of dark, noisome holes where human beings herded, of
sacks of straw laid on the floor, of rags for bedding, of human misery
in its acutest, most wretched form. The Curé talked of evil landlords
who exploited these unfortunate people, "Mais Dieu les punira," he
added unctuously. We wondered if the prophecy brought consolation to
the refugees. And above all the welter of swiftly-changing impressions,
I can see even now, in a dark room lighted only by or through the
chimney-shaft, a room filled with smoke that choked and blinded us,
a small child, perhaps eighteen, perhaps twenty-four months old, who
doubled her fists into her eyes and laid her head on her grandmother's
shoulder, refusing to look up.
"She has been like that since the bombardment," her mother explained.
When the priest raised the little head the child wailed, a long, thin,
almost inhuman wail; when her grandmother put her down she lay on the
floor, her eyes crushed against her fists.
"She will not look at the light, nor open her eyes."
"How long has she been like this, Madame?"
"Since we left home. The village was shelled; it frightened her."
"We will ask our _infirmière_ to look after her," we promised, knowing
that the nurse in question had successfully treated a boy in Sermaize
who had been unable to open his eyes since the bombardment of the town.
And some weeks later we heard that the baby was better.
Into every house the Curé made his way, much as Justice Shallow might
have done. In every house he reeled off a set piece about the good
English who had come to succour France in her distress, about our
devotion, our courage, our wealth, our generosity. He asked every woman
what she needed. "Trois couvertures? Bon. Mettons trois. Un seau? Bon,
mettons un seau. Sheets? Put down two pairs."
We put down everything except what we most desired to know, the names
and ages of the half-clothed children--that he gave us no opportunity
of doing, was there not always the list?--we saw the Society being
steered rapidly towards bankruptcy, but, mesmerised by his twinkling
eyes, we promised all he required. Then he, who had been sitting on the
only chair, would rise up, and having told the pleased but bewildered
lady of the house that we were emissaries of Le bon Dieu, would stalk
out, leaving us to wonder, as we followed him, whether Madame ever
asked why the good God chose such strange-looking messengers. The
oilskins were possessed of no celestial grace--I subsequently gave mine
to a refugee.
Luncheon! The good Curé stopped dead in his tracks. The _œuf à la
coque_ was calling. Back we trailed, still dripping, still muddy, even
more earthly and less celestial than before, back to the house that had
such a delicious old garden, and where fat rabbits grew daily fatter
in their cages. The table was spread in a panelled room hung with
exquisite old potteries. Seated solemnly, the Curé trying to conceal
himself behind a vast napkin, the end of which he tucked under his
collar, to us entered the _bonne_ carrying six boiled eggs in a bowl.
Being sufficiently hungry, we each ate two; they were more or less
liquid, so Monsieur tilted up the egg-shell and drank his down with
gulping noises, while we laboured unsatisfyingly with a spoon. Then
came the _bonne_ with a dish of grilled rabbit (it was delicious); we
ate rabbit. Then came a large dish of beans; we ate beans. We were
sending out wireless messages by this, but no relief ship appeared on
the horizon. The priest groaned over the smallness of our appetites,
and shovelling large masses of beans into his mouth, explained that
it is sinful to drink too much because the effects are demoralising,
depraving, bringing ruin on others, but one may eat as much or more
than one wants or likes, as a superfluity of food does no harm. A
little physical discomfort, perhaps, but that passes. Injury to the
spirit? None.
Then he commented on the strides Roman Catholicism was making in
England, the most influential people were being converted--we thought
he must be apologising to himself for his country's alliance with a
people of heretical creed, but later on I realised that this idea is
very prevalent among the priests of the district. An old man at Behonne
congratulated me on the same good tendency. It had not occurred to
him that I was of another faith, so there was an awkward moment when
I--as in honour bound--admitted the error, but he glided over it with
characteristic politeness, and our interview ended as amicably as it
began.
At N. we volunteered the information that I was Irish, which shed balm
on the Curé's perturbed soul. Though not of the right way of thinking,
one of us came of a nation that was. That, at least, was something, and
a compliment to the evangelising Irish saints of mediæval times--had
not one of them settled in the district, teaching the people and
bringing the Gospel-light into paths shadowed by infidelity?--steered
us round what might have been an awkward corner.
The beans finished, there came a cheese of the country, rich and creamy
and good. We ate cheese, but we no longer looked at each other. The
cheese finished, in came a massive cherry tart; we ate tart, then we
drank coffee, and then Monsieur, rising from the table, opened the
door, stood in the hall and said ---- No. I think I had better not tell
you what he said, nor where he waved us to. If ever you go to N. and
have a meal with him you will find out for yourself. During lunch one
of us admired his really very beautiful plates. "You shall have one,"
he said, and taking two from the wall, offered us our choice. Of course
we refused, and the relief we read in his eye as he hung them up again
in no way diminished our appreciation of his action.
Then we paid more visits, and yet more, and more, and finally, the rain
having cleared, we walked home again in a balmy evening down the wide
road under the communal fruit trees, where the woods which clothed the
hill-side were to look like wonderful tapestry later on, when autumn
had woven her mantle of russet and red, and dull dark crimson, and
sober green, and browns of rich, light-haunted shades and flung it over
the trees. Walked home soberly, as befitted those who had dined with a
gourmand; walked home expectantly, for was not the list, the careful,
exhaustive, all-comprehensive list of the Curé to follow on the morrow?
It was and it did, and with it came the following letter which we
perused with infinite delight. How, oh, how could he say that the miry,
inarticulate bipeds who trotted dog-like at his heels did their work
_avec élicatesse_? How, oh, how aver that we did it under his "modest"
guidance?
Yet he said it. Read and believe.
"Mesdames, et excellentes dames,
"J'ai l'honneur de vous offrir l'hommage de mes sentiments les plus
reconnaissantes et les plus devoués pour tout le bien que vous faites
autour de vous avec tant de délicatesse et de générosité. Je prie Dieu
de vous benir, vous et tous les membres de vos chères families, de
donner la victoire aux vaillantes armées de l'Angleterre, de Russie,
et de France et n'y avons nous pas le droit car vous et nous nous
representons bien la civilisation, l'honneur et la vraie religion. Je
vous envoie ci-joint la liste (bien mal faite) des pauvres émigrés
que vous avez visités sous ma modeste direction. Il en est qui manque
de linge et pour les vieux qui out besoin de vêtements on pourra leur
donner l'étoffe, ils se changeraient de la confection ce qui je crois
serait meilleur.
"Veuillez me croire votre tout devoué."
The list was by no means all comprehensive, it was not careful, it was
indeed _bien mal faite_, and it exhausted nothing but our patience. Our
own demented notes were the best we had to work upon, and so it befell
that one day some soldiers drove a vast wagon to our door and in it
we piled, not the neat _paquets_ of our dreams, but blankets, sheets,
men's clothes, women's clothes, children's clothes, _seaux_ and other
needful things and sent them off to N., where they were dumped in a
room, and where an hour or two later, under conditions that would have
appalled the stoutest, we fitted garments on some three hundred people,
while M. le Curé smiled wide approval and presented every _émigré_
child in the village with a cap, a bonnet or a hat filched from our
scanty store.
And then because the sun was shining and several batteries of
_soixante-quinze_ were _en repos_ in the village, we went off to
inspect them. The guns were well hidden from questing Taubes under
orchard trees, the men were washing at the fountain, or eating a
savoury stew round the camp kitchen, or flirting desperately with the
women. They showed us how to load and how to train a gun, and then the
priest, whom they evidently liked, for he had a kindly "Hé, mon brave,
ça va bien?" or an affectionate fat-finger-tap on the shoulder for
them all, bore us off to visit an artillery officer who had been doing
wonderful things with a _crapouillot_. We found him in a beautiful
garden in which, on a small patch of grass, squatted the _crapouillot_,
a torpedo fired from a frame fixed in the ground. Alluding to some
special bomb under discussion, the lieutenant said, "It isn't much, but
this--oh, this has killed a lot of Boches."
He helped to perfect it, so he knew. We left him gazing affectionately
at it, a fine specimen of French manhood, tall and slender, but
strongly made, with clear humorous eyes, and breeding in every line of
him.
I often wonder whether he and his _crapouillot_ are still killing "lots
of Boches," and whether he ever exclaims as did a woman who saw them
breaking over the frontier in 1914, "What a people! They are like ants:
the more of them you kill, the more there are."
We would have liked to linger in the sunny flower-encrusted garden, but
R. awaited us. There with consummate skill we evaded M. le Curé, and
did our visiting under no guidance but our own. A quaint little village
is R., deep enbosomed in swelling uplands, with woods all about it,
but, like N., stricken by neglect and poverty. The inhabitants of both
seemed rough and somewhat degraded, a much lower type than the majority
of our refugees, but perhaps they were only poor and discouraged. The
war has set so many strange seals upon us, we may no longer judge by
the old standards, no longer draw conclusions with the light, careless
assumption of infallibility of old.