THE FIRST PEACE CHRISTMAS
"Peace on earth: good-will towards men!" For five years the motto of
Christmas had seemed a mockery to us. Our city was the goal of the
German armies. They reached it sometimes with their aeroplanes, and
before the end of the war they reached it with their cannon. Scarcely
fifty miles away from us--within hearing distance when the bombardment
was violent--fathers and sons, brothers and sweethearts were fighting
through the weary years in constant danger of death. Each Christmas
brought more vacant places to mourn. Of course we celebrated Christmas
all through the war. There was little heart in it for grown-ups. But we
had the children to think of. The war must not be allowed to rob them of
childhood Christmas memories.
In 1918, we were looking forward to a Christmas that would be Christmas.
All around us the Christmas spirit was accumulating. The war was over:
we had won. Ever since Armistice Night we had been saying to
ourselves--"And now for Christmas!" We might have to wait for a revival
of the second part of the Christ Child's message. But at least the
first part was once more a reality.
Three days before Christmas I sent a telegram. I took my brother's
enigmatic military address and put two words in front of it, Commanding
Officer. I begged the gentleman to have a heart and send me my brother
for Christmas Day. I told him that I had not seen my family for five
years, that four little children born abroad wanted their uncle, and
that we would welcome the C. O., too, if Christmas in Paris tempted him.
On the morning of December 24 brother appeared, and before lunch many
others I had invited "to stay over Christmas" turned up or telephoned
that they would be with us. I had to plan hastily how the studios in the
Rue Campagne-Première could be turned into dormitories for a colonel of
infantry, a major of the General Staff, captains of aviation and
engineers and the Spa Armistice Commission, lieutenants and sergeants
and privates of all branches. Last year few of the invitations to men in
the field were accepted. This year all came--some all the way from the
Rhine. Bless my soul, we'd tuck them in somewhere. And on Christmas Eve
we were going to have open house for the A. E. F., welfare workers,
peace delegates and specialists, and fellow-craftsmen of our own.
As each house guest arrived, I gave him a job. His "But can't I do
anything to help?" was scarcely finished before he was commissioned to
blankets, armycots, candles, nuts, fruits, bon-bons, drinks, or
sandwiches. "Just that one thing. I rely on _you_ for that," I would
say. None failed me, and the evening came with everything arranged as if
by magic. I have never found it hard to entertain, and the more the
merrier: but when you have American men to deal with, it is the easiest
thing in the world to have a party--in Paris or anywhere else.
Of course I went shopping myself. Herbert and I would not miss that day
before Christmas last minute rush for anything. And even if I risk
seeming to talk against the sane and humane "shop early for Christmas"
propaganda, I am going to say that the fun and joy of Christmas shopping
is doing it on the twenty-fourth. Avoid the crowds? I don't want to! I
want to get right in the midst of them. I want to shove my way up to
counters. I want to buy things that catch my eye and that I never
thought of buying and wouldn't buy on any other day in the year than
December 24th. I want to spend more money than I can afford. I want to
experience that sweet panicky feeling that I really haven't enough
things and to worry over whether my purchases can be divided fairly
among my quartette. I want to go home after dark, revelling in the flare
of lamps on hawkers' carts lighting up mistletoe, holly wreaths and
Christmas trees, stopping here and there to buy another pound of candy
or box of dates or foolish bauble for the tree. I want to shove bundle
after bundle into the arms of my protesting husband and remind him that
Christmas comes but once a year until he becomes profane. And, once
home, on what other winter evening than December 24th, would you find
pleasure in dumping the whole lot on your bed, adding the jumble of toys
and books already purchased or sent by friends, and calmly making the
children's piles with puckered brow and all other thoughts banished,
despite aching back and legs, impatient husband, cross servants and a
dozen dinner guests waiting in the drawing-room?
Paris is the ideal city for afternoon-before-Christmas shopping. Much of
the Christmas trading is on the streets. It gets dark early enough to
enjoy the effect of the lights for a couple of hours before you have to
go home. You have crowds to your heart's content. And Paris is the
department-store city _par excellence_. Scrooge would not have needed a
ghost in Paris. If you have no Christmas spirit, go to the Bazar de la
Rue de Rennes, the Bon Marché, the Trois-Quartiers, the Printemps, the
Galeries Lafayette, Dufayel, the Louvre, the Belle Jardinière and the
Bazar de l'Hôtel de Ville. Do not miss any of these, especially the
first and the last. At the Bazar de la Rue de Rennes the Christmas toys
are on counters according to price. Woolworth only tells you what you
can get for five or ten cents. The range of prices on the Rue de Rennes
is adjusted to all pocketbooks. At the Hôtel de Ville you do not have
to wait for a saleswoman at the outside _rayons_. You hold up the
article you want and catch the cashier's eye. He pokes out to you a box
on the end of a pole such as they used to use in churches before we
became honest enough to be trusted with a plate. You put your money in.
If there is change, he thrusts it back immediately.
On the Grands Boulevards and in our own Montparnasse Quarter, the
Christmas crowds were like those of the happy days before we entered
into the valley of the shadow. As we did our rounds, falling back into
peace habits and the old frame of mind, I realized how hollow was our
celebration of the war Christmases, how we pretended and made the effort
for our children's sakes. The nightmare was finished! Really, I suppose,
we had less money than ever to spend and everything was dear. But
everybody was buying in a lavish way that was natural after the
repression of years. Bargaining--a practise in street buying before the
war--would have been bad taste. We paid cheerfully what was asked.
I was hurrying home along the Rue de Rennes with one of my soldier
guests. Herbert and my brother had left us on the Boulevards to get ham
and tongue at Appenrodt's and peanuts and sweet potatoes at Hédiard's. A
vender, recognizing the American uniform, accosted my companion with a
grin, as she held out an armful of mimosa blossoms.
"Fresh from Nice this morning, _mon capitaine_--only fifty francs for
all this!"
"Come, Keith," I cried, "she wants to rob you!"
The woman understood the intent if not the words. Barring our way, she
reached over to her cart and added another bunch, observing, "It's
Christmas and I give our allies good measure." Keith took it all,
saying, "Don't stop me; I haven't spent any money for months--and Mother
always made such a wonderful Christmas. I've got to spend money--a lot
of money." He patted his pocket. "Two months' pay here that I haven't
touched yet!"
Christine arranged the mimosa in tall brass shell cases from
Château-Thierry. "See my flowers!" she exclaimed. "This is better than
war!"
The Consul-General (always a Christmas Eve guest in our home); the
colonel commanding the hospital in the Rue de Chevreuse; a New York
editor and his wife; a _confrère_ of the French press and his wife; a
Peace Delegate; and the head of a New York publishing firm, who looked
in to see if we were really working; sat down with us to dinner,
squeezed in with our A. E. F. guests. When the last flicker of
plum-pudding sauce died down, we set to work for the Christmas Eve
preparations. There was no question of rank or age! Each one fell to the
task at hand. Dishes, glasses, bottles, doilies disappeared into the
kitchen. The table was set for the big party, piles of plates with
knives and forks on each corner, sandwiches and rolls, a cold boiled
ham, a tongue _écarlate_ as tongues come in Paris, turkeys roasted by
our baker, olives, salted almonds, army graham crackers, candy, a tall
glass jar of golden honey worth its weight in gold, and the fruit cake
with sprigs of holly that comes across the Atlantic every Christmas from
a dear American friend. People could help themselves. How and when--I
never worry about that. My only care is to have enough for all comers.
We sent out no invitations. The news simply passed by word of mouth that
friends and friends' friends were welcome on Christmas Eve. In a corner
of the drawing-room the engineers of the party made the Christmas tree
stand up. The trimmings were on the floor. Whoever wanted to could
decorate. With the trenches of five years between us and Germany,
Christmas tree trimmings were pitiful if judged by ante-bellum
standards. I wonder what my children are going to think when they see
this Christmas a full-grown tree with the wealth of balls and stars and
tinsel Americans have to use. In Paris we had so few baubles and pieced
out with colored string and cotton and flags and ribbon. But the effect
was not bad with the brains of half a hundred trimmers contributing to
work out ideas on a tree that did not come up to my chin.
We started the victrola--"Minuit, Chrétien," "It Came upon a Midnight
Clear," "Adeste Fideles," and--whisper it softly--"Heilige Nacht." Then
our guests began to come until salons and hall and dining-room
overflowed into bed-rooms. Never again can I hope to have under my roof
a party like that, representing many of the nations that had fought
together on the soil of France, but with homesick Americans, Christmas
hungry, predominating. The first to arrive were patients from the
American Hospital in the Rue de Chevreuse who had been unable to forget
the nightmare of war when the armistice came.
Crutches and the music, the tree and my children, an American home--the
first reaction was not merriment. I felt instinctively that something
had to be done. "Heilige Nacht" brought a hush. Someone turned off the
phonograph. Bill took in the situation. Everyone in America who reads
knows Bill. He backed up into a corner by the bookcase, took off his
glasses, and began to make a speech.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I am an unregenerate soul. There is not a
respectable bone in my body. I am going to sing you a little ditty, the
national anthem of California." Here Bill winked his eyes and opened his
mouth wide to sing:
"Hallelujah! I'm a bum!"
"The writer of the song is an I. W. W.," he interrupted himself, "and at
the end of the first line from upstairs is heard the voice of his wife
demanding (here Bill changed to high falsetto),
"Oh, why don't you work
As other men do?"
Then the I. W. W. answers gently,
"Why the H---- should I work
When there is no work to do?"
I told you I was an unregenerate soul. I see that I'm not alone, there
are others here like myself. I want a volunteer to sing my part with me
and volunteeresses, equally unregenerate, for the pointed question of
the I. W. W.'s wife.
"The gentleman there with the eagles on his shoulders--I have for you a
fellow feeling, you are disreputable like me. Come! And the little girl
in the pink dress that only looks innocent. Come you here. And others of
like character join us as quickly as you can push your way through the
admiring audience."
The surgeon from New York, who is as military as any regular army man,
was a good sport. So was the editor's wife. As he reached both hands to
the recruits, Bill did a simple dance step, the contagious step of the
Virginia Reel when other couples are doing the figures. Soon the chorus
was a line that reached the hall. At this moment there were shouts of
laughter at the front door. A parade of alternating khaki and nurse's
blue invaded the salon. Each had a flag or horn. The chorus and parade
joined forces, with Bill as leader, and soon
"Hallelujah! I'm a bum!"
was being sung in every room of the apartment at the same time. Crutches
were no deterrent to joining the serpentine march from room to room. The
chorus grew and the dining-room was deserted. Strong arms picked up
babies in nighties and we were all in the parade.
I did not know half of my guests and never will. Some of them are sure
to read this and will remember that night in Paris when C. O.'s and
journalists tired of the grind, nurses weary of watching, wounded and
homesick who had not expected to laugh that Christmas Eve, and soldiers
fresh from chilly camps and remote and dirty villages caught the spirit
of Christmas. When people forget their cares and woes, they always
behave like children. The national anthem of California made my party,
where Christmas carols had proved too tear impelling. After "Hallelujah!
I'm a bum!" wore itself out, nobody needed to be introduced to anybody
else and everything disappeared from the dining-room table.
While the party was still raging, Herbert and I slipped for a moment out
on the balcony. Merrymakers with lighted lanterns passed along the
Boulevard du Montparnasse, singing and shouting. Before us lay Paris,
not the Paris dark and fearful to which we had become accustomed when we
stood there after the warning of the sirens and listened for the _tir
de barrage_ to tell us whether the time had come to take the children
downstairs, but Paris alight and alive, Paris enjoying the reward of
having kept faith with France and with the civilized world.
1919