Part 11

The city has seen many changes since its first notoriety as the capital of the France of Clovis, and one feels how much has happened in the quiet deserted streets of the old town, where almost every corner is picturesque. The fine ruins of St. Jean des Vignes faced us as we drove along the broad boulevard. A façade and two beautiful towers with a cloister is all that remains of a fine old abbey begun in 1076. It is now an arsenal. One can not always get in, but the porter made no difficulty for us, and we wandered about in the court-yard and cloister. The towers looked beautifully grey and soft against the bright blue sky, and the view over Soissons, with all its churches and old houses, was charming. It seems that Thomas à Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury, lived at the Abbey when he was exiled from England and had taken refuge in France.

We wanted to go to the service in the Cathedral, but thought we would go first to the pâtissier (an excellent one, well known in all the neighbourhood) famous for a very good bonbon made of coffee and called "Tors de Soissons." The little place was full--every schoolboy in Soissons was there eating cakes and bonbons. There was a notice up in the shop, "Lipton Tea," and we immediately asked for some. The woman made a place for us, with difficulty, on a corner of a table and gave us very good English tea, toast and cakes. I complimented the patronne on her tea and she said so many automobiles with foreigners--English principally--passed through Soissons in the summer--all asking for tea--that she thought she must try to get some. One of the ladies told her where to get Lipton Tea and how much to pay for it. She has found it a very good speculation.

We walked to the Cathedral through a grand old Square planted with fine trees, that had once been a part of the garden of the Évêché. As it was getting dark, we could not see the outside very well. A gigantic mass of towers and little steeples loomed up through the twilight, but the inside was very striking--crowded with people, lights, banners, flowers everywhere--five or six priests were officiating and the Bishop in full dress, with his gold mitre on his head, was seated on his red velvet throne under the big crucifix. The congregation (there were a good many men) was following the service very devoutly, but there were a great many people walking about and stopping at the different chapels which rather takes away from the devotional aspect. Unfortunately the sermon had only just begun, so we didn't hear any music. The organ is very fine and they have a very good choir. Neither did we hear the famous chimes, which we regretted very much. Some of the bells have a beautiful sound--one in particular, that used to be at St. Jean de Vignes, has a wonderful deep note. One hears it quite distinctly above all the others. All the bells have names. This one used to be called "Simon," after a Bishop Simon le Gras, who blessed it in 1643. When the voice got faint and cracked with age, it was "refondue" (recast) and called Julie Pauline.

It was quite dark and cold when we started back. We had to light our big lantern almost as soon as we left Soissons. For some little time after we got out of the town we met people walking and driving--all with holiday garbs and faces--but once we plunged in the long forest alleys we were absolutely cut off from the outside world. It is a curious sensation I have never got accustomed to, those long, dark, lonely forest roads. The leaves were still so thick on the trees that we could hardly see the last glow of a beautiful orange sunset. The only sign of life was a charbonnier's hut in a clearing quite close to the road. They had a dull light; just enough to let us see dusky figures moving about.

This morning our church looked quite different--no more banners, embroideries or bright flowers, all draped in black and a bier covered with a black pall in the middle of the aisle--the curé in a black satin vestment; all the congregation in black. I went out before the end of the service. All the black draperies and the black kneeling figures and the funeral psalms were so inexpressibly sad and dreary. I was glad to get out into the sunshine and to the top of the hill, where the cemetery gates stood wide open and the sun was streaming down on all the green graves with their fresh flowers and plants. Soon we heard the sound of the chaunt, and the procession wound slowly up the steep, straggling village street. A banner and cross carried by the boys and girls--then the curé, with his "ostensoir," followed by his "enfants de choeur" carrying books and tapers, then the congregation. There were a great many people already in the cemetery. The little procession halted at the foot of the cross in the middle. There were several prayers and psalms, and then the curé made the tour of the cemetery, sprinkling all the graves with holy water and saying a short prayer at each. The procession broke up into groups, all kneeling at the different graves praying for their dead. There were not many men; a few old ones. They were not kneeling, but stood reverently, with bowed heads, when the curé passed. It was a pretty sight--the kneeling figures, the flower-covered graves, the little procession winding in and out among the tombstones, the white soutanes of the boys shining in the sun and not a sound except the droning of the chaunts. As it was fête--one of the great religious fêtes of the year--there was no work going on--no labourers in the fields, no carts on the road--nothing but the great stillness of the plains.

We had our curé at dinner. We were quite sure no one else would ask him and it seemed a shame to leave him in his empty "presbytère" on a fête day. I think his evenings with us are the only bright spots in his life just now. The situation of the priests is really wretched and their future most uncertain. This government has taken away the very small stipend they allowed them. Our curé got his house and nine hundred francs a year--not quite two hundred dollars. In many cases they have refused to let the priests live in their "presbytères" unless they pay rent. The churches are still open. They can have their services if they like, but those who have no fortune (which is the case with most of them) are entirely dependent upon the voluntary contribution of their parishioners.

Our little curé has no longer his servant--the traditional, plain, middle-aged bonne of the priest (they are not allowed to have a woman servant under fifty). He lives quite alone in his cold, empty house and has a meal of some kind brought into him from the railway café. What is hardest for him is never to have an extra franc to give to his poor. He is profoundly discouraged, but does his duty simply and cheerfully; looks after the sick, nurses them when there is a long illness or an accident, teaches the women how to keep their houses clean and how to cook good plain food. He is a farmer's son and extraordinarily practical. He came to us one day to ask if we had a spare washing tub we could give him. He was going to show a woman who sewed and embroidered beautifully and who was very poor and unpractical, how to do her washing. I think the people have a sort of respect for him, but they don't come to church. Everybody appeals to him. We couldn't do anything one day with a big kite some one had given the children. No one could in the house, neither gardener, chauffeur, nor footmen, so we sent for him, and it was funny to see him shortening the tail of the kite and racing over the lawn in his black soutane. However, he made it work.

He was rather embarrassed this evening, as he had refused something I had asked him to do and was afraid I wouldn't understand. We were passing along the canal the other day when the "éclusier" came out of his house and asked me if I would come and look at his child who was frightfully ill--his wife in despair. Without thinking of my little ones at home, I went into the house, where I found, in a dirty, smelly room, a slatternly woman holding in her arms a child, about two years old, who, I thought, was dead--such a ghastly colour--eyes turned up; however, the poor little thing moaned and moved and the woman was shaken with sobs--the father and two older children standing there, not knowing what to do. They told me the doctor had come in the early morning and said there was nothing to do. I asked if they had not sent for the curé. "No, they hadn't thought of it." I said I would tell him as I passed the presbytère on my way home. He wasn't there, but I left word that the child was dying--could he go?

The child died about an hour after I had left the house. I sent a black skirt to the woman and was then obliged to go to Paris for two or three days. When I came back I asked my gardener, who is from this part of the country and knows everybody, if the child's funeral had been quite right. He told me it was awful--there was no service--the curé would not bury him as he had never been baptized. The body had been put into a plain wooden box and carried to the cemetery by the father and a friend.

I was very much upset, but, of course, the thing was over and there was nothing to be done. However, when we talked it over, I understood quite well. To begin with, all priests are forbidden to read the burial service over any one who has not been baptized, therefore he had no choice. And this man was not only an unbeliever, but a mocker of all religion. When his last child was born he had friends over, from some of the neighbouring villages, who were Freemasons (they are a very bad lot in France); they had a great feast and baptized the child in red wine. I rather regretted the black frock I sent the mother, but she looked so utterly wretched and perhaps she could not help herself.

The little curé is very pleased to have his midnight mass this year on Christmas eve. Last year it was suppressed. There was such angry feeling and hostility to the clergy that the authorities were afraid there might be scenes and noisy protestations in the churches; perhaps in some quarters of the big cities, but certainly not in the country where people hold very much to the midnight mass. It is also one of the services that most people attend. It is always a pretty sight in the country, particularly if there happens to be snow on the ground. Every one that can walk comes. One sees the little bands arriving across the fields and along the canal--five or six together, with a lantern. Entire families turn out--the old grandfathers hobbling along on their sticks, the women carrying their babies, who are generally very good--quite taken up with the lights and music, or else asleep. We always sing Adam's "Noël." In almost every church in France, I think, they sing it. Even in the big Paris churches like the Madeleine and St. Eustache, where they have orchestras and trained choirs, they always sing the "Noël" at some period of the service.

MAREUIL, le 24 Mai.

To-day was the Première Communion at La Ferté, and I had promised the Abbé Devigne to go. I couldn't have the auto, as Francis was at a meeting of a Syndicat Agricole in quite another direction. So I took the train (about seven minutes), and I really believe I had the whole train to myself. No one travels in France, on Sunday, in the middle of the day. It is quite a long walk from the station to the church (the service was at Notre Dame, the church on the hill), with rather a steep climb at the end. The little town looked quite deserted--a few women standing at their doors and in all directions white figures of all ages were galloping up the hill. The bells were ringing and we were a little late. The big doors of the church were wide open, the organ playing, and a good many people standing about. The altar was bright with flowers and candles, and "oriflammes" of blue and pink gauze, worked with gold and silver lilies, were stretched across the church between the pillars. One or two banners with the head of the Virgin and flowers painted in bright colours were also hanging from the columns. Two or three priests, with handsome vestments--white embroidered in gold--were officiating, and the choir boys wore their red petticoats--soutanes trimmed with lace and red shoes and caps. The Suisse (beadle), with his cocked hat, silver embroidered coat and big cane, was hovering about, keeping order.

Just inside the chancel sat the "communiants"--fifty boys and girls. The girls--all in white from top to toe--white dresses, shoes, and gloves, and long white veils coming to the edge of the dress, and either a white cap (which looks very pretty and quaint on the little heads--rather like some of the old Dutch pictures) or a wreath of white flowers. With them sat about half a dozen smaller girls--also in white, with wreaths of white roses. They were too small to make their first communion, but they were to hold the cordons of the banner when the procession passed down the church. The boys were all in black, short jackets, white waistcoats, and white ribbon bows on their sleeves.

The church was very full--mostly women, a few men at the bottom. It was a pretty sight when the procession moved around the church. First came the "sacristain" in his black skirt and white soutane, then the banner held by two of the big girls; the group of little ones--some of them quite tiny and so pretty with the wreaths of white roses on their black hair--holding the cords and looking most pleased with their part of the function. Just behind them came the good old religieuse Soeur St. Antoine, hovering over her little flock and keeping them all in their places; then all the communiants, the smallest girls first, the boys behind, all carrying lighted tapers and singing a hymn to the accompaniment of the organ.

They went first to the font, stopped there, and one of the girls read a sort of prayer renewing their baptismal vows. Then they started again, in the same order, to the Chapelle de la Vierge, always singing their hymn, and knelt at the rails. Then the hymn stopped, and they recited, all together, a prayer to the Virgin. The little childish voices sounded quite distinctly in the old church--one heard every word. The congregation was much interested.

There wasn't a sound. I don't know if it was any sort of religious feeling--some dim recollection of their early days, or merely the love of a show of any kind that is inherent in all the Latin race, but they seemed much impressed. While the collection was being made there was music--very good local talent--two violin soli played by a young fellow, from one of the small neighbouring châteaux, whom we all knew well, and the "Panus Angelicus" of César Franck, very well sung by the wife of the druggist. The curé of La Ferté, a very clever, cultivated man, with a charming voice and manner, made a very pretty, short address, quite suited to childish ears and understanding, with a few remarks at the end to the parents, telling them it was their fault if their children grew up hostile or indifferent to religion; that it was a perfectly false idea that to be patriotic and good citizens meant the abandonment of all religious principles.

We waited until the end of the service (Francis and his friends arrived in time to hear the curé's address), and watched the procession disappear down the steep path and gradually break up as each child was carried off by a host of friends and relations to its home. The curé was very pleased, said he had had a "belle fête"--people had sent flowers and ribbons and helped as much as they could to decorate the church. I asked him if he thought it made a lasting impression on the children. He thought it did on the girls, but the boys certainly not. Until their first communion he held them a little, could interest them in books and games after school hours, but after that great step in their lives they felt themselves men, and were impatient of any control.

CHRISTMAS IN THE VALOIS

It had been a cold December, quite recalling Christmas holidays at home--when we used to think Christmas without snow wasn't a real Christmas, and half the pleasure of getting the greens to dress the church was gone, if the children hadn't to walk up to their ankles in untrodden snow across the fields to get the long, trailing branches of ivy and bunches of pine. We were just warm enough in the big château. There were two calorifères, and roaring wood fires (trees) in the chimneys; but even I must allow that the great stone staircase and long corridors were cold: and I couldn't protest when nearly all the members of the household--of all ages--wrapped themselves in woolen shawls and even fur capes at night when the procession mounted the big staircase. I had wanted for a long time to make a Christmas Tree in our lonely little village of St. Quentin, near Louvry, our farm, but I didn't get much support from my French friends and relations. W. was decidedly against it. The people wouldn't understand--had never seen such a thing; it was entirely a foreign importation, and just beginning to be understood in the upper classes of society. One of my friends, Madame Casimir-Périer, who has a beautiful château at Pont-sur-Seine (of historic renown--"La Grande Mademoiselle" danced there--"A Pont j'ai fait venir les violons", she says in her memoirs), also disapproved. She gives away a great deal herself, and looks after all her village, but not in that way. She said I had much better spend the money it would cost, on good, sensible, warm clothes, blankets, "bons de pain," etc.; there was no use in giving them ideas of pleasure and refinement they had never had--and couldn't appreciate. Of course it was all perfectly logical and sensible, but I did so want to be unreasonable, and for once give these poor, wretched little children something that would be a delight to them for the whole year--one poor little ray of sunshine in their gray, dull lives.

Madame Casimir-Périer, widow of the well-known liberal statesman, and mother of the ex-President of the Republic.

We had many discussions in the big drawing-room after dinner, when W. was smoking in the arm-chair and disposed to look at things less sternly than in bright daylight. However, he finally agreed to leave me a free hand, and I told him we should give a warm garment to every child, and to the very old men and women. I knew I should get plenty of help, as the Sisters and Pauline promised me dolls and "dragées." I am sorry he couldn't be here; the presence of the Ambassador would give more éclat to the fête, and I think in his heart he was rather curious as to what we could do, but he was obliged to go back to London for Christmas. His leave was up, and beside, he had various country and shooting engagements where he would certainly enjoy himself and see interesting people. I shall stay over Christmas and start for London about the 29th, so as to be ready to go to Knowsley by the 30th, where we always spend the New Year's Day.

The Earl of Derby's fine palace near Liverpool.

We started off one morning after breakfast to interview the school-mistress and the Mayor--a most important personage. If you had ever seen St. Quentin you would hardly believe it could possess such an exalted functionary. The village consists of about twelve little, low gray houses, stretching up a steep hill, with a very rough road toward the woods of Borny behind. There are forty inhabitants, a church, and a school-house; but it is a "commune," and not the smallest in France (there is another still smaller somewhere in the South, toward the Alpes Maritimes). I always go and make a visit to the Mayor, who is a very small farmer and keeps the drinking shop of the village. We shake hands and I sit a few minutes in a wooden chair in the one room (I don't take a drink, which is so much gained), and we talk about the wants and general behaviour of the population. The first time I went I was on horseback, so we dismounted and had our little talk. When we got up to go he hurriedly brought out a bench for me to mount from, and was quite bewildered when he saw W. lift me to the saddle from the ground.

Cabaret.

The church is a pretty, old gray building--standing very high, with the little graveyard on one side, and a grass terrace in front, from which one has the most lovely view down the valley, and over the green slopes to the woods--Borny and Villers-Cotterets on one side, Chézy the other. It is very worn and dilapidated inside, and is never open except on the day of St. Quentin, when the curé of La Ferté-Milon comes over and has a service. The school-house is a nice modern little house, built by W. some years ago. It looks as if it had dropped down by mistake into this very old world little hamlet.

In August, I think.

It is a short walk, little more than two kilomètres from the gates of the big park, and the day was enchanting--cold and bright; too bright, indeed, for the low, gray clouds of the last days had been promising snow and I wanted it so much for my tree! We were quite a party--Henrietta, Anne, Pauline, Alice and Francis, Bonny the fox-terrier, and a very large and heavy four-wheeled cart, which the children insisted upon taking and which naturally had to be drawn up all the hills by the grown-ups, as it was much too heavy for the little ones. Bonny enjoyed himself madly, making frantic excursions to the woods in search of rabbits, absolutely unheeding call or whistle, and finally emerging dirty and scratched, stopping at all the rabbit holes he met on the way back, and burrowing deep into them until nothing was left but a stumpy little white tail wagging furiously.