We had a beautiful day yesterday and a nice service in our little
church. Our "pain bénit" was a thing of beauty and quite distracted the
school children. It was a most imposing edifice--two large, round
brioches, four smaller ones on top, they went up in a pyramid. The four
small ones go to the notabilities of the village--the curé, two of the
principal farmers and the miller; the whole thing very well arranged,
with red and white flowers and lighted tapers. It was carried by two
"enfants de choeur," preceded by the beadle with his cocked hat and
staff and followed by two small girls with lighted tapers. The "enfants
de choeur" were not in their festal attire of red soutanes and red
shoes--only in plain black. Since the inventories ordered by the
government in all the churches, most of the people have taken away their
gifts in the way of vestments, soutanes, vases, etc., and the red
soutanes, shoes and caps, with a handsome white satin embroidered
vestment that C. gave the church when she was married, are carefully
folded and put away in a safe place out of the church until better times
should come.
After luncheon we went over to Soissons in the auto--the most enchanting
drive through the forest of Villers-Cotterets--the poplar trees a line
of gold and all the others taking the most lovely colours of red and
brown. Soissons is a fine old cathedral town with broad squares, planted
with stiff trees like all the provincial towns in France; many large
old-fashioned hotels, entre cour et jardin, and a number of convents and
abbeys, now turned into schools, barracks, government offices of all
kinds, but the fine proportions and beautiful lines are always there.
The city has seen many changes since its first notoriety as the capital
of the France of Clovis, and one feels how much has happened in the
quiet deserted streets of the old town, where almost every corner is
picturesque. The fine ruins of St. Jean des Vignes faced us as we drove
along the broad boulevard. A façade and two beautiful towers with a
cloister is all that remains of a fine old abbey begun in 1076. It is
now an arsenal. One can not always get in, but the porter made no
difficulty for us, and we wandered about in the court-yard and cloister.
The towers looked beautifully grey and soft against the bright blue sky,
and the view over Soissons, with all its churches and old houses, was
charming. It seems that Thomas à Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury, lived
at the Abbey when he was exiled from England and had taken refuge in
France.
We wanted to go to the service in the Cathedral, but thought we would go
first to the pâtissier (an excellent one, well known in all the
neighbourhood) famous for a very good bonbon made of coffee and called
"Tors de Soissons." The little place was full--every schoolboy in
Soissons was there eating cakes and bonbons. There was a notice up in
the shop, "Lipton Tea," and we immediately asked for some. The woman
made a place for us, with difficulty, on a corner of a table and gave us
very good English tea, toast and cakes. I complimented the patronne on
her tea and she said so many automobiles with foreigners--English
principally--passed through Soissons in the summer--all asking for
tea--that she thought she must try to get some. One of the ladies told
her where to get Lipton Tea and how much to pay for it. She has found it
a very good speculation.
We walked to the Cathedral through a grand old Square planted with fine
trees, that had once been a part of the garden of the Évêché. As it was
getting dark, we could not see the outside very well. A gigantic mass of
towers and little steeples loomed up through the twilight, but the
inside was very striking--crowded with people, lights, banners, flowers
everywhere--five or six priests were officiating and the Bishop in full
dress, with his gold mitre on his head, was seated on his red velvet
throne under the big crucifix. The congregation (there were a good many
men) was following the service very devoutly, but there were a great
many people walking about and stopping at the different chapels which
rather takes away from the devotional aspect. Unfortunately the sermon
had only just begun, so we didn't hear any music. The organ is very
fine and they have a very good choir. Neither did we hear the famous
chimes, which we regretted very much. Some of the bells have a beautiful
sound--one in particular, that used to be at St. Jean de Vignes, has a
wonderful deep note. One hears it quite distinctly above all the others.
All the bells have names. This one used to be called "Simon," after a
Bishop Simon le Gras, who blessed it in 1643. When the voice got faint
and cracked with age, it was "refondue" (recast) and called Julie
Pauline.
It was quite dark and cold when we started back. We had to light our big
lantern almost as soon as we left Soissons. For some little time after
we got out of the town we met people walking and driving--all with
holiday garbs and faces--but once we plunged in the long forest alleys
we were absolutely cut off from the outside world. It is a curious
sensation I have never got accustomed to, those long, dark, lonely
forest roads. The leaves were still so thick on the trees that we could
hardly see the last glow of a beautiful orange sunset. The only sign of
life was a charbonnier's hut in a clearing quite close to the road. They
had a dull light; just enough to let us see dusky figures moving about.
This morning our church looked quite different--no more banners,
embroideries or bright flowers, all draped in black and a bier covered
with a black pall in the middle of the aisle--the curé in a black satin
vestment; all the congregation in black. I went out before the end of
the service. All the black draperies and the black kneeling figures and
the funeral psalms were so inexpressibly sad and dreary. I was glad to
get out into the sunshine and to the top of the hill, where the cemetery
gates stood wide open and the sun was streaming down on all the green
graves with their fresh flowers and plants. Soon we heard the sound of
the chaunt, and the procession wound slowly up the steep, straggling
village street. A banner and cross carried by the boys and girls--then
the curé, with his "ostensoir," followed by his "enfants de choeur"
carrying books and tapers, then the congregation. There were a great
many people already in the cemetery. The little procession halted at the
foot of the cross in the middle. There were several prayers and psalms,
and then the curé made the tour of the cemetery, sprinkling all the
graves with holy water and saying a short prayer at each. The procession
broke up into groups, all kneeling at the different graves praying for
their dead. There were not many men; a few old ones. They were not
kneeling, but stood reverently, with bowed heads, when the curé passed.
It was a pretty sight--the kneeling figures, the flower-covered graves,
the little procession winding in and out among the tombstones, the white
soutanes of the boys shining in the sun and not a sound except the
droning of the chaunts. As it was fête--one of the great religious fêtes
of the year--there was no work going on--no labourers in the fields, no
carts on the road--nothing but the great stillness of the plains.
We had our curé at dinner. We were quite sure no one else would ask him
and it seemed a shame to leave him in his empty "presbytère" on a fête
day. I think his evenings with us are the only bright spots in his life
just now. The situation of the priests is really wretched and their
future most uncertain. This government has taken away the very small
stipend they allowed them. Our curé got his house and nine hundred
francs a year--not quite two hundred dollars. In many cases they have
refused to let the priests live in their "presbytères" unless they pay
rent. The churches are still open. They can have their services if they
like, but those who have no fortune (which is the case with most of
them) are entirely dependent upon the voluntary contribution of their
parishioners.
Our little curé has no longer his servant--the traditional, plain,
middle-aged bonne of the priest (they are not allowed to have a woman
servant under fifty). He lives quite alone in his cold, empty house and
has a meal of some kind brought into him from the railway café. What is
hardest for him is never to have an extra franc to give to his poor. He
is profoundly discouraged, but does his duty simply and cheerfully;
looks after the sick, nurses them when there is a long illness or an
accident, teaches the women how to keep their houses clean and how to
cook good plain food. He is a farmer's son and extraordinarily
practical. He came to us one day to ask if we had a spare washing tub we
could give him. He was going to show a woman who sewed and embroidered
beautifully and who was very poor and unpractical, how to do her
washing. I think the people have a sort of respect for him, but they
don't come to church. Everybody appeals to him. We couldn't do anything
one day with a big kite some one had given the children. No one could in
the house, neither gardener, chauffeur, nor footmen, so we sent for him,
and it was funny to see him shortening the tail of the kite and racing
over the lawn in his black soutane. However, he made it work.
He was rather embarrassed this evening, as he had refused something I
had asked him to do and was afraid I wouldn't understand. We were
passing along the canal the other day when the "éclusier" came out of
his house and asked me if I would come and look at his child who was
frightfully ill--his wife in despair. Without thinking of my little ones
at home, I went into the house, where I found, in a dirty, smelly room,
a slatternly woman holding in her arms a child, about two years old,
who, I thought, was dead--such a ghastly colour--eyes turned up;
however, the poor little thing moaned and moved and the woman was shaken
with sobs--the father and two older children standing there, not knowing
what to do. They told me the doctor had come in the early morning and
said there was nothing to do. I asked if they had not sent for the curé.
"No, they hadn't thought of it." I said I would tell him as I passed the
presbytère on my way home. He wasn't there, but I left word that the
child was dying--could he go?
The child died about an hour after I had left the house. I sent a black
skirt to the woman and was then obliged to go to Paris for two or three
days. When I came back I asked my gardener, who is from this part of the
country and knows everybody, if the child's funeral had been quite
right. He told me it was awful--there was no service--the curé would not
bury him as he had never been baptized. The body had been put into a
plain wooden box and carried to the cemetery by the father and a friend.
I was very much upset, but, of course, the thing was over and there was
nothing to be done. However, when we talked it over, I understood quite
well. To begin with, all priests are forbidden to read the burial
service over any one who has not been baptized, therefore he had no
choice. And this man was not only an unbeliever, but a mocker of all
religion. When his last child was born he had friends over, from some of
the neighbouring villages, who were Freemasons (they are a very bad lot
in France); they had a great feast and baptized the child in red wine. I
rather regretted the black frock I sent the mother, but she looked so
utterly wretched and perhaps she could not help herself.
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.