CHRISTMAS AT THE DWÓR
MR. TECZYNSKI arrived the day before Christmas; business had detained
him until then. Jan was delighted to see his father again, from whom he
had never been separated so long. Three weeks seemed a very long time to
him. He had had such a glorious time at grandfather's, though, with the
new cousins and the uncles and the aunts, he had quite forgotten
everybody and everything, except when bedtime came. Then he missed his
father greatly, for there was no one to tell him his customary stories,
and Papa Teczynski was a famous story-teller.
There was no one at home to receive Mr. Teczynski, except little Jan;
the entire family had gone to the village to attend service. But then,
Jan's father did not mind that; he was glad to be alone with his little
son for a while; they had so many things to tell each other, and the
time passed too rapidly. They did not even notice that the hour was
getting late and that the electric lamps were lighted, nor did they hear
the return of the others from their devotions. There is no festival in
the land of Poland which is observed with as much rigor and ceremony as
that of the Christmas season. Almost the entire day is spent in fasting
and prayer, after which comes the evening meal.
Scarcely were the family returned, and the greetings over between them
and the new arrival, than dinner was announced. With great ceremony,
they formed in line, the father and mother leading the way, and in this
most formal manner the family procession passed through the high folding
doors opening from the library into the immense dining-hall. There were
few occasions during the year when the younger children were allowed
the privilege of sitting at the dinner table with their parents; and
these occasions were most awe-inspiring to them. But upon this Christmas
Eve there was an atmosphere of reserve and restraint in the attitude of
the elders which had its quieting effect upon the younger ones, as they
brought up the rear of the line and seated themselves about the great
table. At a glance, one could readily see that something was different
from the ordinary course of events. The air was heavy with the scene of
fresh hay, which lay in a thick padding under the table cloth, and in
various parts of the large room. Straw was upon the sideboard, straw
upon the window-sills, and some was even sprinkled lightly about the
highly polished floor, as though dropped carelessly.
The usually gorgeously decorated dining-table was now quite devoid of
all ornamentation; not even a bouquet of flowers brightened the centre
of the board. Christmas, for Polish families, means fasting and prayer,
and not feasting; it is looked upon as a day apart for the observance of
religious rites, and to keep before their minds the memory of their
Christ and his life of self-denial and goodness.
There was no gayety in the conversation about the table during the meal;
all was as solemn and reserved as though some great sorrow had descended
upon the family. In almost absolute silence the various courses were
brought in and partaken of. Meat was prohibited during this day, but, as
if to make up for this deficiency, there were many courses of soups and
fish, so that the bill-of-fare was exceedingly lengthy and somewhat
tedious.
Not content with serving one kind of soup, there were as many as three
upon this occasion, and it was no uncommon thing to serve several more,
in very pretentious homes where the head of the house did not consider
it unseemly to waste of his plenty. There was a delicious soup made from
almonds, then one called barszcz, which was made of fish, and a third
made from the juice of beets, which had been allowed to ferment, giving
the soup a very sour taste; and, while neither you nor I may care for
this sort of broth, yet the Polacks are very fond of it, and have
honored it by making it the national soup of the country.
The soup course finished, fish is served. There is tench and pike and
carp, besides herring and several kinds of smaller fish, mostly from the
great ponds just at the back of the manor-house. It might seem a bit
monotonous to eat such quantities of fish at one meal, but each was
served with a different kind of gravy or sauce, which quite changed the
taste of the dish. Besides, there were vegetables which accompanied
them, each differing from the other with each course: mushrooms, and
lettuce and cabbages. Plebeian as it may sound to the ears of American
children, who are brought up in such a luxuriant manner, the cabbage is
a great factor in Polish menus; not being confined to the tables of the
poor alone, either.
Salads are now served, with crisp lettuce or water-cress, and a most
delicious dish known as "kutia," which is made from oats and honey with
poppy seeds added, to give it zest. This is the national dish of the
Lithuanians, who have annexed their province to that of Poland.
At last we have arrived at the dessert; but, as puddings and pies are
unknown upon the Continent, dessert, or "sweets," as the Polacks call
it, consists of fruit, both uncooked and conserved, and a variety of
small cakes, or pirogi which are filled with almond paste, or,
sometimes, cheese or other toothsome combinations such as poppy seeds,
of which the Polacks are very fond.
The meal is finished; the hour draws near that marks the close of day.
And now, as a last addition to the feast, the oplatki are broken, each
with the other, just as we are accustomed to call out in the wee, small
hours of the night, "Merry Christmas," and in this manner do the Polacks
wish each other all the compliments of the season.
Mrs. Ostrowska arose from the table first; the children knew full well
where she was going, and they eagerly hastened for their heavy wraps and
fur caps. Then the little procession filed down the road to the bottom
of the hill, merrily singing carols and Christmas hymns, passing from
house to house breaking the wafers with the peasants and wishing them
all sorts of good things for the coming year. This custom brings master
and mistress closer to the tenants, and forms between them a bond of
brotherhood.
Mrs. Ostrowska stroked one young girl gently under the chin, as she
said:
"This will be your last Christmas under the home-roof, Emilia?"
"I hope so," the girl replied blushingly, as she curtsied and kissed the
finger-tips of her patroness. "Francois and I are to be married at the
Easter time."
"And then the young sister Helena will find her young man?"
"I hope so," the young girl reiterated.
"We shall be on the lookout for some fine fellow for her," Mrs.
Ostrowska said lightly. "There are some very fine young men over to the
village at the east of the estate; we must see what we can do," and she
moved on, the troop of children at her heels.
Their round of the village over, the whole party returned to the dwór,
where they found a servant carrying away the straw which had adorned the
dining-hall.
The man stopped as he encountered the mistress of the house, and bowed
his head, as if in apology.
"Our cow was taken ill last night, Madame," he explained guiltily. "We
thought, perhaps, this might bring her back to health again. We need her
milk for the babies. May I?" and he questioned his mistress' face
hopefully.
"Take it and welcome," the latter replied kindly, "and may you realize
your hopes." Well she knew the superstitions of the peasants in regard
to the straw from the Christmas table, which was now supposed to be
holy. They had been taught from childhood, and for centuries back from
one generation to another had the story been handed down, that this
straw possessed remarkable virtues and would not only cure illness in
cattle but ward off evil spirits from their homes. It is a harmless
delusion, and Mrs. Ostrowska did not interfere in any way with the
beliefs of her people. She had even known them to tie the sacred straw
about the trunks of the fruit trees, when scale would attack them, and
if it chanced that they bore well the following year, they attributed it
entirely to the efficacy of the straw.
The younger children were now sent off to bed, while the older ones,
with their parents, awaited the hour of Pasterka, or midnight mass.
Service over, in the dim light of early morning, the occupants of the
manor made their way slowly homewards on foot. They passed groups of
peasant girls, shawls over their heads, loitering on their way to their
homes.
"For what are they waiting, mother?" Marya asked, as she noticed that
the girls were evidently lingering for an object.
"They are waiting to accost the first young man they meet," the mother
replied, "in order to learn his name."
"But what for?" asked Marya a second time.
"That is a peasant custom," the mother answered. "Whatever name is given
her, she believes that that will be the name of the man she is destined
to marry with. As the girls do not meet with many strangers outside of
their own village, it is quite a certainty that they will eventually
happen to wed with the one accosted."
"I should like to learn who my future husband will be," the girl said,
somewhat in an undertone, scarce daring to voice her wish.
"Marya!" the mother reproved. "What ideas! There is no harm in a peasant
girl stopping a stranger on the road upon Christmas Eve; but for you to
do so would be unpardonable."
"But I'm a child, mother, too," she persisted, "just as they are
children. I don't see any harm in it. It's all in fun, anyway. Please
let me," she pleaded, "just this once."
"No, Marya," the mother replied, in a tone of finality. "But you may
draw near so as to listen to the girls as they address this young man
who approaches around the turn," and the two moved closer toward the
knot of village maidens, tittering and giggling among themselves, as
they slowly wended their way along the road, half-lingering so that the
eligible might overtake them, as if by accident.
"Good evening, sir," the eldest of them said, half timidly, almost
afraid of her own boldness, for peasant maidens are modest, "and may I
know your name?"
The young man stopped; he swept his fur cap from his head with a lordly
air, and replied:
"With pleasure, mademoiselle. Thaddeus."
The village girls tittered; the young man replaced his cap upon his
thick hair, and passed on. The "fun" was over until the next "victim"
should appear for the next young lady. Every one understands this
Christmas Eve custom, and no one would think, even for one instant, of
violating its freedom by forcing attention upon the unescorted young
girls.
"It wasn't a bit pretty name at all," Marya said. "I'm glad _I_ didn't
ask him. I should not like to have _my_ husband's name Thaddeus."
"Don't say that, Marya," the mother reproved gently, "for you know that
one of Poland's grandest men was named Thaddeus; Kosciuszco, I mean."
"Yes, mother, I know," the young girl answered; nevertheless she knew it
was not a name she would choose for her own particular swain were she
able to make her choice. However, she wisely said nothing, but walked
briskly along by her mother's side, believing that, perhaps, her mother
had been quite right in the matter.
There was very little sleep, if any, for the family the remainder of the
night, or rather, morning. No sooner were they arrived at their home
and in their beds, than they were awakened by the shouts of the younger
children, who pranced about the house in their night-robes in a most
injudicious manner. There was music somewhere; some one was singing the
kolendy, or Christmas carol. At length the music was discovered to issue
from beneath one of the windows in the rear of the house. Pressing their
faces against the cold panes, the children saw below them a most
wonderful sight. A group of men were singing as they accompanied
themselves upon various instruments. Some of them were clad in long,
flowing robes, with hair descending upon their shoulders, who
represented characters in the Bible, at the time of Christ's life;
others wore the aspect of birds, all decked out with gay plumage, and
yet another man, the one who wore a golden crown upon his white hair,
waved aloft a long wand, upon the very top of which rested a golden
star which sparkled in the dim light of the frosty morning.
[Illustration: "THE LITTLE ONES THREW QUANTITIES OF SMALL COINS"]
As soon as he saw the children at the windows he held out his hands,
into which the little ones threw quantities of small coins begged from
their elders. With profound thanks the procession moved on, still
singing their kolendy, while the children crept back to their beds, but
not to sleep. The Gwiazda, or "Star," had been too much excitement for
their little heads, and for full an hour they talked in muffled voices
about the wonderful Star of Bethlehem and the queer antics of the men in
the cocks' feathers.
Christmas Day dawned; the fasting and penance were finished;
merry-making could begin. But, unlike the little American cousin, the
Polish cousin does not celebrate Christmas Day with a tree and gifts and
romping. It is for him strictly a religious day; there is no
gift-giving, these being reserved for his birthdays, which are made
occasions for great festivity. And this custom prevails throughout
nearly, if not all, the countries in Europe; the birthday is more
thought of and celebrated with great gayety than any other holiday in
the year.
The day wore on quietly. The older folks sat in the library about the
roaring fire and chatted or read, while the younger ones spent their
time out of doors, snowballing, sledding and skating.
After luncheon little Jan said:
"Grandfather, you never told me your secret yet, and Christmas Day is
almost over."
"What secret?" asked the grandfather, somewhat astonished.
"We know," rang out a small chorus from the older ones.
"Don't you remember what you told me the day I came? You said I should
see something wonderful; you told me the name, but I don't remember, it
was such a big one."
"Oh, yes," Mr. Ostrowski replied slowly, as he stroked his chin and a
merry twinkle came into his eye. "The Jaselki. I had quite forgotten."
"Then we shall not have it," Jan said disappointedly.
"Oh, yes, you shall," his grandfather replied. "It will come just the
same. I have already arranged for it. But I wonder what keeps them?" And
he pulled out his watch and looked at it.
"The snow is very deep, and the roads bad," Mrs. Ostrowska said, as she
looked out of the window toward the avenue of linden trees. "There is no
one in sight yet."
"Maybe they won't come," Jan said doubtingly.
"They always do," his grandfather replied. "They haven't missed a single
year. But it is only three o'clock; there is plenty of time."
"Will it come by the road?" Jan asked.
"Yes; that is the only way it can come," his grandfather said.
"Then I shall watch," the child said. "When I see them I shall call
you."
Jan seated himself at the library window so that he might be able to
look far down the wide road leading to the entrance of the park. There
was silence for a long time. Then he suddenly called out:
"What will they look like, grandfather?"
"They will come in a covered wagon," Mr. Ostrowski answered.
Silence again. After some little time, Jan called out excitedly:
"I see them; they have just come through the brama."
Such a jumping and scampering as there was then in the great house!
There was no holding the children back from running out to the front
porch to meet the arrivals. It was indeed a peculiar-looking crowd that
made its appearance. A huge wagon, mounted on runners, most gorgeously
decorated with tinsel of gold and silver, and covered with strings upon
strings of tiny bells, was making its way slowly up the driveway. Had it
been a little American child who had seen it, he would at once have
remarked that it was a circus-wagon. The sleigh bells jingled merrily;
and, as the wagon pulled up at the entrance of the manor, the driver
smiled pleasantly at the children's welcome. He knew Peter and Marya
well, for he had come every year to their home upon Christmas Day to
present his plays. He nodded to them and wished them a happy
Christmastide; he bowed respectfully to the other children, with whom he
was unacquainted, for he considered all children as his own peculiar
property.
Before the wondering eyes of the excited children, the driver and his
assistants set up the show. They watched them, with wide-opened eyes,
light the numberless small candles about the stage arch; the gold and
silver tinsel now sparkled out like a miniature fairy-land. The old
horse would look around every little while, as though trained to do so,
to see that everything was being done in an approved manner. This set
the strings of bells to vibrating, so that their melody rang out over
the snow, attracting the attention of the peasants in the village
beyond, who promptly gathered to witness the exhibition.
Jaselki means a manger; and because these travelling showmen give scenes
from the life of Christ they are called jaselki, or manger-men. For over
an hour the children, not to mention the grown folks, were fascinated by
the miracle-play. Then, the entertainment over, the men were ushered
into the servants' quarters, where they received warm food and drink,
after which they packed up their wagon and departed for Cracow, where
they were to give more representations during the evening upon the
rynek, or public square.
It is only at Christmas that these plays are given; during other seasons
of the year these showmen present other sorts of entertainments, so that
from one year's end to the other, they travel about in their gorgeously
decorated wagons, sometimes on wheels, sometimes on runners, living in
the open air, the life of nomads. Christmas Day is over. Night descends
and quiet reigns at the dwór. The great house is early wrapped in
slumber, and thus ends the holiday season.