HEUREUX NOËL
Christmas weather, sunlight, moonlight and snow; our grove a white
stencil; our _baraques_ with their red shutters by day and their lighted
windows by night, like painted Christmas cards; our defaced and ruined
villages new-clothed with beauty,—such was our Christmas week. But
the snow, so beautiful to the eye, accentuated the bitter cold of our
ill-lodged and under-nourished neighbours, and the moon pointed out to
hostile aeroplanes desired points of attack. It was on account of the
dangerous moonlight that the Bishop of Amiens forbade midnight masses in
the churches. We, and our villagers, were the more disappointed because
even during the German occupation these masses had been sung. We heard
of loaded Christmas trees, and of parties where cakes and chocolate
were served by German officers. “Not for all the world, you understand,”
Colombe, our informant, explained, “just for themselves.” Yet all the
world had had some share in the German Christmas, and we felt eager to
make up a little for the added hardships caused since that time by German
cruelty, for all the ruined homesteads which are but the outward sign of
families scattered, missing and dead.
Yet at first, so prevalent was the feeling of sadness, we thought it
might not be desirable to have a fête. Did the villagers want one? Had
the Christmas tree too many German associations? We made inquiry of M.
le Sous-Préfet, and of the Commandant of the Third Army. From the latter
came the following reply:
27.11.17. Guiscard
Dear Miss ——,
I am glad to tell you that you got a stupid gossiping about the
Christmas tree.
There is nothing at all in this country against the charming
practice to delight the children with a spruce of which some
toys are hanging all round among as many candles as possible.
Therefore you are free to be nice for the poor people once more
and God bless you for your splendid charity.
With my kindest regards for you, for your chief, and your
sisters,
Yours respectfully,
——
So it came about that in each of the villages there was a spruce, with
toys and candles and goodies, and carols and Christmas cheer. In Canizy,
thanks to good fortune and to M. l’Aumônier, the fête was especially
pretty. I had not yet met the chaplain or planned my Christmas, when, on
a late December afternoon, I happened to pass the little chapel, on my
way to Visit a group of families lodged within the grounds of the old
Château. Several times before I had been inside, once for a mass on All
Saints’ Day, and more than once to look at the faded painting behind the
altar, and at the quaintly quilted banners of the saints along the wall.
These, strange to say, had been left in place by the German invaders;
save for a soiled altar cloth and two or three broken windows, the
church, indeed, appeared as if it might still be in constant use.
[Illustration: —_Il n’est pas venu?... Il est mobilisé!_
— ... _Et il a pas eu de permission._
[He has not come? He has been mobilised....
And he has not had any leave.]]
To-day, in spite of the early gathering dusk, and the long walk home, an
impulse beckoned me in,—a very definite impulse, however, for I had in
mind to decipher a moulded coat of arms upon the walls, and to search the
sacristy. In other village churches, alas! dismantled, were to be found
carved chests of drawers, black letter Bibles, brasses, and glorious
books of chants. Perhaps my little chapel might contain treasures also.
Past Our Lady of Lourdes and St. Anthony of Padua, past the Sacred Heart,
and that humble saint of gardens, St. Fiacre, to whom had nevertheless
been given the place of honour on the Virgin’s right, and up through the
chancel I went. The door of the sacristy creaked at my sacrilege.
The alcove on which it opened was hung with cobwebs. The floor was
littered; drawers gaping awry disclosed a medley of candle ends, tinsel
flowers, vases and books. But on shelves across the end, my eye caught
glowing colours of vestments, green and gold and purple, lying in the
same folds, apparently, in which M. le Curé had left them when he went
forth into captivity three years ago. In a corner cabinet were sundry
images, broken for the most part, and among them that of a wax doll,
broken-armed and blackened with age, but encased in a bell of glass.
In an opposite corner, behind a scaffolding, I found another treasure;
a tiny thatched hut upon a standard, evidently designed to be borne in
processions. Ivy, turned crisp and brown, entwined its four pillars, and
chestnut leaves, silvered with dust, made an appliqué upon the thatch.
The God of Gardens, the Festival of the First Fruits, perhaps,—had I not
come here upon a Roman survival in old Picardy? But, suddenly, I saw with
other eyes; here were the cross and the Christ-child; I had stumbled on
the Christmas _crèche_.
Time pressed; I noted again the faded blazons which flanked the saints on
either wall—a closed crown, a shield embossed with seven _fleurs-de-lis_,
and upheld by two leopards—shut the outer door, and took my way to the
Château. One can see that the Château of Canizy is ancient, by its two
stone turrets and its Gothic arch. At least, it is so ancient that no one
in the village remembers the family whose royal escutcheon adorns its
chapel walls. It is but lately a ruin, however, at the wanton hands of
the Germans. In a stable in the farmyard, I found the family I had come
to visit, formerly domestics of the estate.
The old, bent grandmother, vacant-eyed and silent, sat in a corner
nearest the fire. The mother, whom I never saw without her black cap,
shook hands and dusted off a chair. The daughter, lovely as a beam of
sunshine in that dark interior, offered me wine.
“But no,” I protested, “it is late,” and having paid for the knitting of
a pair of stockings, which was my errand, I continued, “Tell me, please.
I have just come from the sacristy. There is a little house there.”
“The _crèche_!”
“There is also a doll.”
“Yes, the little Jesus!”
“Have you then all you need for the _crèche_, and would you like a mass
for Noël?”
At that even the grandmother’s eyes lighted.
“A mass! We have not had one for three years!”
Who, then, would clean the church, who trim the _crèche_, who tell me
what to get for it? The answers came as rapidly as the questions. Elmire
had always had charge of the _crèche_; she would return with me at once
to see what was lacking.
Together we made our way back and inventoried (1) the _crèche_ itself;
(2) a white lace-bordered square, (3) the little Jesus, and (4) some
tinsel, or angel’s hair.
“There is lacking,” Elmire thought quickly, “a Saint Joseph, a Blessed
Virgin, six tapers, cotton wool, and perhaps a star.”
Twice on my homeward journey I was stopped by Elmire’s younger brother,
running after me with breathless messages: “Elmire says, would you please
get a shepherd,” and, “Elmire asks for three little sheep.”
Where one was to get these was as much a mystery as the priest for the
mass. But I promised that all should be done.
The figures for the _crèche_ were actually found in Amiens. To them was
added a new little Jesus in a cradle; and the whole was brought by hand
to Elmire. The delight of the entire family in unwrapping the various
bundles was equalled only by my own in watching them. Afterwards, in the
stable, the _crèche_ was trimmed. Artificial flowers, blue and pink and
tinsel, bloomed under Elmire’s deft fingers; the pillars were fluted with
coloured paper, the roof plaited with holly leaves. A lamp was necessary
in the dark place, and its light fell on the eager faces of the family,
grouped about that fairy hut. “In a stable,” I thought as I looked at
them, “in a stable, the Christ is born again.”
[Illustration: —_Si on voit pas l’Noël, on verra peut-être un Zeppelin._
[Well, if we don’t see Santa Claus, we may see a Zeppelin, anyhow!]]
But it was M. l’Aumônier who voiced my thought at mass on Christmas Day.
He had made a children’s service of this, centred about the _crèche_.
After the _cantiques_, led by the soldier-boy, after the triumphal
_Adeste, Fideles_, the children knelt in a circle about the cradle of the
Christ.
“My children,” began the chaplain, “this year, you yourselves live in
huts, in barns, and in stables; so in a stable lives the little Jesus, as
you see. You know what it is to be cold, beneath the snow upon the roof;
so does the little Jesus. You have been hungry; so is he.
“My children, it behooves you, therefore, to make for the little Jesus
a cradle in your hearts; cleanse them, each of you, and ask the little
Jesus in.
“What next should you do, my children? Should you not pray first of all
for yourselves, that you may be kept from sin? Next, forget not to pray
for the soldiers of _la Patrie_, who only a few miles away, guard you
from your enemies. Next, think on your fathers, your older brothers and
sisters, who are with the Germans in captivity. Beseech mercy for them,
my children, that the good God may return them to your homes. Next, be
especially thoughtful of your mothers and obedient to them, who stand to
you in the place of both your parents. And last, but also of importance,
my children, remember in your prayers your benefactresses, these ladies
who have given you this year the Christmas _crèche_.”
[Illustration: —_Et si i gèle cette nuit?_ ...
—_Ben mon vieux on pourra s’asseoir._
[And if it freezes to-night?
Why, old chap, we can sit down.]]
M. l’Aumônier said more, but I could not hear it. I was aware that he
himself set the children an example by praying for us, heretics though
we were. It was only when we came out into the open sunlight, and walked
up the street to Mme. Lefèvre’s to strip the tree, that laughter became
possible, and that one could see the accustomed smile in his eyes. Yet
even at the fête, we could not escape from thanks. The presents, selected
to be sure with care, but so inadequate compared with the needs, were
hardly distributed when a hush fell on the packed room. A boy stepped
forward, and began to read from a piece of paper in his hand. A girl
followed. Their elders listened with the greatest satisfaction, nodding
their heads and smiling at our amazement. And this is what they said,—a
measure not of what we did, but of the spirit of stricken Canizy:
Le cœur des dames Américaines s’est emu, à la pensée des
misères qu’avait entraînées derrière soi, la terrible guerre,
et vous êtes venues parmi nous les mains pleines de bienfaits
et vos cœurs débordant de dévouement.
Il nous est bien doux de vous dire merci, en cette circonstance
créée encore par votre charité. Notre merci passera, permettez
nous Mesdames et chères Bienfaitrices, par la crèche du petit
enfant Jésus!
Puisse-t-il vous rendre en consolation, ce que vous lui donnez
en bienfaits! Au début de l’année nouvelle, nos vœux sont pour
vous et pour ceux qui vous sont chers! Que Dieu comble de
gloire, et de prospérité votre noble Amérique! Qu’il féconde sa
générosité inlassable, que Dieu vous accorde une bonne santé,
nos chères Bienfaitrices, et qu’il vous dise toute l’affection
de cette commune, profondément reconnaissante.