Pévy is a poor little village, clinging to the last slopes of a line of
heights that runs parallel to the road from Rheims to Paris. Its houses
are huddled together, and seem to be grouped at the foot of the ridges
for protection from the north wind. The few alleys which intersect the
village climb steeply up the side of the hill. We were obliged to tramp
about in the sticky mud of the main road waiting for our orders.
Passing the church, it occurred to me to go and look inside. Since
the war had begun we had hardly had any opportunity of going into the
village churches we had passed. Some of them were closed because the
parish priests had left for the army, or because the village had been
abandoned to the enemy. Others had served as marks for the artillery,
and now stood in the middle of the villages, ruins loftier and more
pitiable than the rest.
The church of Pévy seemed to be clinging to the side of the hill, and
was approached by a narrow stairway of greyish stone, climbing up
between moss-grown walls. I first passed through the modest little
churchyard, with its humble tombs half hidden in the grass, and read
some of the simple inscriptions:
"Here lies ... Here lies ... Pray for him...."
The narrow pathway leading to the porch was almost hidden in the turf,
and as I walked up it my boots brushed the drops from the grass. The
damp seemed to be getting into my bones, for it was still drizzling--a
fine persistent drizzle. Behind me the village was in mist; the roofs
and the maze of chimney tops were hardly distinguishable.
Passing through a low, dark porch, I opened the heavy door studded
with iron nails, and entered the church, and at once experienced a
feeling of relaxation, of comfort and repose. How touching the little
sanctuary of Pévy seemed to me in its humble simplicity!
Imagine a kind of hall with bare walls, the vault supported by two rows
of thick pillars. The narrow Gothic windows hardly allowed the grey
light to enter. There were no horrible cheap modern stained windows,
but a multitude of small white rectangular leaded panes. All this was
simple and worn; but to me it seemed to breathe a noble and touching
poetry. And what charmed me above all was that the pale light did not
reveal walls covered with the horrible colour-wash we are accustomed to
see in most of our village churches.
This church was an old one, a very old one. Its style was not very well
defined, for it had no doubt been built, damaged, destroyed, rebuilt
and repaired by many different generations. But those who preserved
it to the present day had avoided the lamentable plastering which
disfigures so many others. The walls were built with fine large stones,
on which time had left its melancholy impress. There was no grotesque
painting on them to mar their quiet beauty, and the dim light that
filtered through at that early hour gave them a vague soft glow.
No pictures or ornaments disfigured the walls. The "Stations of the
Cross" were the only adornment, and they were so simple and childish in
their execution that they were no doubt the work of some rustic artist.
And even this added a touching note to a harmonious whole.