Not until "the day of the Kings," the Feast of the Epiphany, is the
creche completed. Then are added to the group the figures of the three
Kings--the Magi, as we call them in English: along with their gallant
train of servitors, and the hump-backed camels on which they have ridden
westward to Bethlehem guided by the Star. The Provencal children believe
that they come at sunset, in pomp and splendour, riding in from the
outer country, and on through the street of the village, and in through
the church door, to do homage before the manger in the transept where
the Christ-Child lies. And the children believe that it may be seen,
this noble procession, if only they may have the good fortune to hit
upon the road along which the royal progress to their village is to be
made. But Mistral has told about all this far better than I can tell
about it, and I shall quote here, by his permission, a page or two from
the "Memoirs" which he is writing, slowly and lovingly, in the
between-whiles of the making of his songs:
"To-morrow's the festival of the Kings. This evening they arrive. If
you want to see them, little ones, go quickly to meet them--and take
presents for them, and for their pages, and for the poor camels who
have come so far!"
That was what, in my time, the mothers used to say on the eve of
Epiphany--and, _zou!_ all the children of the village would be off
together to meet "les Rois Mages," who were coming with their pages
and their camels and the whole of their glittering royal suite to
adore the Christ-Child in our church in Maillane! All of us
together, little chaps with curly hair, pretty little girls, our
sabots clacking, off we would go along the Arles road, our hearts
thrilling with joy, our eyes full of visions. In our hands we would
carry, as we had been bidden, our presents: fougasso for the Kings,
figs for the pages, sweet hay for the tired camels who had come so
far.
On we would go through the cold of dying day, the sun, over beyond
the Rhone, dipping toward the Cevennes; leafless trees, red in low
sun-rays; black lines of cypress; in the fields an old woman with a
fagot on her head; beside the road an old man scratching under the
hedge for snails.
"Where are you going, little ones?"
"We are going to meet the Kings!" And on we would run proudly along
the white road, while the shrewd north wind blew sharp behind us,
until our old church tower would drop away and be hidden behind the
trees. We could see far, far down the wide straight road, but it
would be bare! In the cold of the winter evening all would be dumb.
Then we would meet a shepherd, wrapped in his long brown cloak and
leaning on his staff, a silhouette against the western sky.
"Where are you going, little ones?"
"We are going to meet the Kings! Can you tell us if they are far
off?"
"Ah, the Kings. Certainly. They are over there behind the cypresses.
They are coming. You will see them soon."
On we would run to meet the Kings so near, with our fougasso and our
figs and our hay for the hungry camels. The day would be waning
rapidly, the sun dropping down into a great cloud-bank above the
mountains, the wind nipping us more shrewdly as it grew still more
chill. Our hearts also would be chilling. Even the bravest of us
would be doubting a little this adventure upon which we were bound.
[Illustration: THE PASSING OF THE KINGS]
Then, of a sudden, a flood of radiant glory would be about us, and
from the dark cloud above the mountains would burst forth a
splendour of glowing crimson and of royal purple and of glittering
gold!
"Les Rois Mages! Les Rois Mages!" we would cry. "They are coming!
They are here at last!"
But it would be only the last rich dazzle of the sunset. Presently
it would vanish. The owls would be hooting. The chill night would be
settling down upon us, out there in the bleak country, sorrowful,
alone. Fear would take hold of us. To keep up our courage a little,
we would nibble at the figs which we had hoped to give to the pages,
at the fougasso which we had hoped to present to the Kings. As for
the hay for the hungry camels, we would throw it away. Shivering in
the wintry dusk, we would return sadly to our homes.
And when we reached our homes again our mothers would ask: "Well,
did you see them, the Kings?"
"No; they passed by on the other side of the Rhone, behind the
mountains."
"But what road did you take?"
"The road to Arles."
"Ah, my poor child! The Kings don't come that way. They come from
the East. You should have gone out to meet them on the road to
Saint-Remy. And what a sight you have missed! Oh, how beautiful it
was when they came marching into Maillane--the drums, the trumpets,
the pages, the camels! _Mon Dieu_, what a commotion! What a sight it
was! And now they are in the church, making their homage before the
manger in which the little Christ-Child lies. But never mind; after
supper you shall see them all."
Then we would sup quickly, and so be off to the church, crowded with
all Maillane. Barely would we be entered there when the organ would
begin, at first softly and then bursting forth formidably, all our
people singing with it, with the superb noel:
In the early morning
I met a train
Of three great Kings who were going on a journey!
High up before the altar, directly above the manger in which the
Christ-Child was lying, would be the glittering _bello estello_;
and making their homage before the manger would be the Kings whom it
had guided thither from the East: old white-bearded King Melchior
with his gift of incense; gallant young King Gaspard with his gift
of treasure; black King Balthazar the Moor with his gift of myrrh.
How reverently we would gaze on them, and how we would admire the
brave pages who carried the trains of their long mantles, and the
hump-backed camels whose heads towered high above Saint Mary and
Saint Joseph and the ox and the ass.
Yes, there they were at last--the Kings!
Many and many a time in the after years have I gone a-walking on the
Arles road at nightfall on the Eve of the Kings. It is the same--but not
the same. The sun, over beyond the Rhone, is dipping toward the
Cevennes; the leafless trees are red in the low sun-rays; across the
fields stretch the black lines of cypress; even the old man, as long
ago, is scratching in the hedge by the roadside for snails. And when
darkness comes quickly, with the sun's setting, the owls hoot as of
old.
But in the radiant glory of the sunset I no longer see the dazzle and
the splendour of the Kings!
"Which way went they, the Kings?"
"Behind the mountains!"