A Very French Christmas Page 11

  II

  Now, one evening of a very rainy day, as he was going along, sad and bent, carrying the copper globes and knives wrapped up in his old carpet and looking for a barn where he might go supperless to sleep, he overtook on the road a monk and greeted him respectfully, and as they kept on they began to talk.

  “Comrade,” said the monk, “how is it that you are dressed in all green? Is it because you are going to play the part of a fool in some mystery?”

  “Oh, no, Father,” answered Barnabé, “such as you see me I am called Barnabé, and I am a juggler by trade. It would be the best trade in the world if only one had something to eat every day.”

  “Friend Barnabé,” went on the monk, “take care what you say. The most beautiful thing in the world is to be a monk, for he celebrates the praises of God, the Virgin, and the saints, and religious life is a perpetual song to the Lord.”

  Barnabé answered: “Father, I confess that I have spoken like an ignorant man. My trade cannot be compared to yours, and although there is merit in dancing with a little coin balanced on a stick at the end of your nose, that merit is much less than yours. I should like to do as you do, Father, and sing the office every day, especially the office of the most Holy Virgin to whom I have vowed a particular devotion. I would willingly give up the art in which I am known from Soissons to Beauvais, in more than six hundred cities and villages, if I could be a monk.”

  The juggler’s simplicity touched the monk, and as he was not wanting in shrewdness, he recognized in Barnabé one of those men of good will of whom the Lord has said, “Peace be to them on the earth,” and so he responded, “Friend Barnabé, come with me, and I will have you accepted in the convent of which I am Prior. He who led Mary to Egypt has led me to you so that I might guide your feet into the way of salvation.”

  And thus Barnabé became a monk. In his convent the brothers devoted themselves more than in any other to the worship of the Holy Virgin, each using for her glory all the knowledge and skill which had been given him by God. The Prior as his part wrote books which treated according to scholastic rules the virtues of the Mother of God, and Brother Maurice copied with a masterly hand on parchment these treatises, which Brother Alexander illuminated with fine miniatures. There was the Queen of Heaven on Solomon’s throne, at the feet of which watched four lions, while around her glorified head fluttered seven doves typifying the seven gifts of the Spirit—Fear, Godliness, Knowledge, Strength, Counsel, Understanding, and Wisdom. For her companions she had six virgins with golden hair—Humility, Prudence, Modesty, Respect, Virginity, and Obedience. At her feet two little figures, naked and beautifully white, were standing in an attitude of supplication. These represented souls who were imploring, and certainly not in vain, her all-powerful intercession for their salvation. Brother Alexander would then paint on another page Eve and Mary together, showing at the same time sin and redemption, the woman humiliated and the virgin exalted. In this book were also to be seen the Well of Living Water, the Fountain, the Lily, the Moon, the Sun, and the enclosed Garden of Solomon’s Song, the Gate of Heaven, the City of God, and many pictures of the Virgin.

  Brother Marbode was seemingly one of the most loving children of Mary. He spent all his time cutting stone images, so that his beard, eyebrows, and hair were always white with dust, and his eyes perpetually swollen and running with tears, but he was full of strength and joy in spite of his great age, and it was plain to see that the Queen of Paradise was graciously guarding the last days of her child. Marbode sculptured her sitting on a throne, with a nimbus, and he was always careful that the folds of her robe should cover the feet of her of whom the prophet said, “A garden enclosed is my sister, my spouse.” And then sometimes he would represent her as a graceful child, and she seemed to be saying, “O Lord, Thou are my Lord.” Dixi de ventre matris meae: Deus meus es tu. (Psalm XXI, 11).

  In the convent there were also poets, and they would compose in Latin prose and verse hymns in honor of the Blessed Virgin Mary, and there was even one monk from Picardy who used to put the miracle of Our Lady into the language of the common people and in rhyme.

  III

  When he saw such a rivalry of praises and so great a harvest of tributes, Barnabé was always lamenting his ignorance and stupidity. “Alas!” he would sigh as he walked alone in the little shadeless garden of the convent, “I am very unhappy that I cannot, like my brothers, worthily praise the holy Mother of God to whom I have vowed the tenderness of my heart. Alas! Alas! I am a rough man and without skill, and I have for your service, Madame Virgin, neither learned sermons nor treatises divided according to rules, nor fine paintings nor beautifully cut statues, nor verses counted out into feet and marching by measure. I would have nothing, alas!” And then he would groan and give himself up to sadness. One day while the brothers were talking during their recreation he heard one of them tell of a monk who could do nothing but recite the Ave Maria. This monk was despised for his ignorance, but when he died there came out of his mouth five roses in honor of the five letters of the name of Maria, and his holiness was thus manifested. As he heard this story, Barnabé once more wondered at the Virgin’s goodness, but he was not consoled by the example of the blessed dead monk, for his heart was full of zeal and he longed to exalt the glory of his Lady who is in the heavens.

  But he sought in vain for a means of doing this, and he grew day by day more grieved till one morning he awoke full of joy, and running to the chapel, remained there for more than an hour, going back again after dinner. From that time he would go every day to this chapel at an hour when it was empty and he spent there a great part of the time that the other monks consecrated to artistic and ordinary labors. He was no more sad and he no longer groaned.

  So singular a change excited the curiosity of the monks, and they began to gossip as to the frequent retreats of Brother Barnabé. The Prior, whose duty it is to pass over nothing in the conduct of his monks without scrutiny, resolved to observe Barnabé in his solitary devotions, and one day when the brother was shut up as usual in the chapel came my Lord Prior, with two of the oldest brethren, to spy out through the cracks of the door what was going on inside.

  Then they saw Barnabé before the altar of the Virgin on his head, his feet in the air, and tossing up and catching again six copper balls and twelve knives. He was playing, in the honor of the holy Mother of God, the tricks which had formerly won him so much praise, but not understanding that this simple man was thus offering up his one talent and his only knowledge to the service of the Holy Virgin, the two old monks cried out at the sacrilege. The Prior knew that Barnabé was incapable of any such thing, but he judged that the poor man had fallen from melancholy into insanity, and they were all three about to drag him by force from the chapel, when they saw the Holy Virgin come down the steps of the altar and gently wipe off with the fold of her beautiful blue robe the drops of sweat which stood thick on the forehead of the juggler.

  Then the Prior knelt down with his face on the marble pavement and recited these words: “Blessed are the simple-hearted, for they shall see God.”

  “Amen!” answered the reverend monks, kissing the floor.

  1892

  NOËL

  Irène Némirovsky

  As the title of the film and list of actors scroll down the screen, we first see appear, initially as a background, then as detailed photographs, all the most conventional and unsophisticated images that accompany the idea of the Christmas holidays.

  First, heavy, blinding snow that falls slowly from above. Then it turns to rain, forming a light wintery mist over the streets of Paris.

  Garlands of holly and mistletoe turn to dead leaves and are carried away by the flowing water.

  A large log disintegrating into sparks cuts to the image of radiators.

  A panorama of snow, an idyllic scene, turns into a small street in Montmartre, and the songs of children gradually become nasal, unpleasant.

  Everywhere, shop signs are shining brightly. Christmas
Eve. Dinner parties, etc. The songs become clearer; we recognize words like:

  Childhood

  Innocence ...

  Dawn of the world ...

  Dawn of love

  The most wonderful days ...

  Accompanied by the shrill music of an organ grinder.

  The music stops, the vague images disappear and the movie begins.

  In a large, dark drawing room, two men are carrying a Christmas tree, still undecorated; its branches drag along the floor. They wipe the sweat from their brows. A valet enters holding a coin.

  “Here’s your tip.”

  The men frown: “That’s it? Well, really now ...”

  The servant shrugs his shoulders. “Our boss is a real cheapskate ...”

  The men leave, grumbling. On the white walls in front of the door to the pantry, a hand is writing: The stairs are high, and the tips are low ... while a man whistles contemptuously as he goes down the steps. The servant looks at the tree, indifferently gives it a kick to prop it up and leaves the room.

  In the hall, two well-dressed children, followed by a nanny, run out of their room.

  “Is that the Christmas tree? Is it pretty?” they ask, excited.

  “Very pretty, Mademoiselle Christiane, the Christ Child has just brought it,” says the valet, forcing, with difficulty, his sour face into an affectionate grimace.

  “Christiane, Jeannot, come along,” the nanny says, sharply, “What are you doing?”

  We catch a glimpse of the large, bare tree in the dark drawing room. Outside the window, the winter rain is falling, mixed with snow, lit up by a streetlight. Then rumbling from the street. Images of Paris on Christmas Eve. Stacks of pine trees tied together on the quayside. Brightly lit signs on the department stores, the shopfronts of Potin, Potel and Chabot weighed down with turkeys and oysters. Pyramids of bottles of champagne, Chez Nicolas. The rush of cars and buses; shops selling candy, florists, feverish salesgirls rushing about.

  “Two kilos of candied chestnuts ... a basket of orchids,” etc.

  The hustle and bustle of conversations, a record spinning around. Then the street. Dazed little children dragged along by their exhausted parents, some affectionate and happy, others irritable, weary. A serious-looking father with a goatee, holding a skinny little rascal by the ear says with indignation:

  “I buy him a car that costs nearly twenty francs. And now little Sir wants a garage to put it in ... Greed and ingratitude are two terrible vices, my boy ... And at your age ...” His voice trails off amid the noise of the crowd.

  Other children leap with curiosity around the wrapped packages their parents have under their arms. We hear their joyful chirping:

  “Mama, what is Santa Claus going to bring me? Tell me!”

  “Santa Claus isn’t real, you know,” one little girl says to another, “it’s like the stork; it’s really Papa ...”

  Lovers hold each other tight and kiss as they walk by.

  Then we see, always very quickly, very rapidly, department store shelves full of toys, Christmas trees, decorated, sparkling, swaying, going round and round. The noise finally dies down. The salespeople hurry, pulling down the iron shutters over the storefronts. The rumbling of Paris grows fainter, distant, ends in silence. In a children’s bedroom in front of a small low table, Christiane and Jeannot are coloring Christmas trees. They are humming: “Three angels came tonight to bring me such wonderful things ... ,” a tune that has gradually been adapted from Chevalier’s words, spoken through a record player in the next room. There, Marie-Laure and Claudine, their two older sisters, aged twenty-two and twenty, are getting dressed to go to a ball. Their dresses and fine lingerie are laid out on the bed, amid the chaos of a young woman’s bedroom. Marie-Laure is putting on makeup in front of the mirror. Claudine, still wearing her peignoir, is standing at the window, watching the rain, thinking.

  “Claudine!” calls Marie-Laure, “Claudine! Hey! I’m talking to you! Why are you making that face?”

  Claudine shudders. “What?”

  “You’ve had your head in the clouds for some time now ... Trouble with your love life? Your Ramon? ... Really, don’t make such a fuss ... Men—they come, they go... No importance whatsoever ... Are you ever going to get dressed? It’s nearly nine o’clock ...”

  We see the children again, half asleep in their chairs. The young women slip on their dress shoes, help each other put on their pearls.

  The nanny knocks at a door; we hear shrill voices. Monsieur and Madame are getting dressed, and arguing. He is bald, short and ugly. He is in a bad mood and grumbles:

  “You slave away just to make ungrateful people rich ... that’s my fate ... What a stupid custom to go out to celebrate Christmas Eve, poisoning yourself and eating disgusting things at a restaurant instead of staying peacefully at home!”

  Madame: she is wearing makeup, worried about her clothes, old and fat.

  “If you’d listened to me, we would have gone to the Midi!”

  Monsieur breaks a nail putting on one of his cuff-links and impatiently stamps his foot on the floor.

  Madame: “Oh, no, please, go and let off steam somewhere else ... It’s not my fault that it’s Christmas, really!”

  Monsieur: “It’s the same with this Christmas tree, and the children’s tea party ... It’s going to cost a fortune ... The children don’t need all that to enjoy themselves ... We’re giving them a taste for unbridled luxury!”

  Madame (bitterly): “It’s not because I enjoy it, you know, but we have to return invitations to people who have invited us, it’s only polite ... And besides, if you’d rather people know you’re about to go bankrupt!”

  Monsieur (horrified): “Shh, shh ...”

  They finally hear the nanny discreetly knocking at the door.

  “Who’s there? Come in ...”

  The Nanny: “It’s nine o’clock. The children are falling asleep.”

  “Well, then put them to bed.”

  “But ... they want to hang their stockings in front of the fireplace ... They’ve been waiting since seven o’clock.”

  Madame: “Oh, my God, yes. I’d forgotten, bring them in.”

  Christiane and Jeannot enter, in their pajamas, holding their stockings.

  The children kiss their parents, put their stockings over the fireplace and kneel down.

  “Dear Jesus, please bring me a real donkey, a train set with tracks and a little brother ’cause there’s too many girls in this house.”

  Meanwhile, his father, who is having a bit of trouble putting on his boots because of his fat stomach, interrupts him:

  “All right, all right, that’s enough, dear Jesus is not very rich this year, my boy.”

  Madame, who had been moved at first, has lost interest. “Yes, tighter,” she says to her maid who is lacing up her corset, “tighter, it’s fine.”

  “But Madame, there’s no way.”

  “Yes, there is.”

  Then, annoyed, looking at herself in the mirror: “My God, this dress makes me look so fat.”

  The frame fades. Far-off music plays: “Three angels came tonight ...”

  A fireplace full of toys—miniature trumpets and toy dolls—appears in the darkness; they transform into real trumpets and live dolls in a nightclub.

  Dancing, jazz, drunkards, dust, etc.

  Meanwhile, Marie-Laure and Claudine and their parents are in the car, their father and mother in the back, the two young women wearing bright dresses, ball gowns decorated with ermine, sit in the front. Monsieur and Madame continue to argue.

  Monsieur: “What a way to behave ... Young women these days don’t even deign to invite their parents to the parties they give! ... Very nice, very appropriate, you have to admit.”

  Marie-Laure (annoyed): “But, Papa, I told you that Nadine’s mother and aunt will be there; I should think that’s enough!”

  Monsieur (without listening to her): “Really, this habit of letting young women come home by themselves, at God knows at
what time, accompanied by such scoundrels!”

  Madame: “Well, then you can go and pick them up yourself!”

  Marie-Laure: “Actually, Édouard Saulnier, from the Saulnier Sugar Factory family is going to bring us home.”

  Father (attentive): “Oh?”

  Marie-Laure (mockingly): “Well, well — that seems to reassure you.”

  Father: “He’s obviously a suitable young man.”

  Marie-Laure: “And rich!”

  Father: “You know what I think about that, my dears ... For a marriage to be truly happy, like your parents’ marriage for example, you must be united, understand each other, get along well, be in love, in short ... like the perfect union we have been giving you as an example since you were children. Now, considering that business is going from bad to worse, if you both were to marry well ...”

  Madame: “My God, you really can’t wait to get rid of them ... they’re still children ...”

  Father (balking): “Are you afraid of becoming a grandmother, eh, is that it?”

  The car stops.

  Madame, forcing herself to sound strict as the chauffeur opens the car door: “I forbid you to come home later than two o’clock. Do you hear me, girls?”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  In the entrance hall, Marie-Laure pokes her sister: “Listen, pull yourself together, you look upset.”

  Claudine (anxious): “Really?”

  Marie-Laure: “But what ... what’s wrong?”

  Claudine (annoyed): “Nothing, my God, nothing... I was tired but I’m all right now, I’m all right ...”

  Her final words are lost in the general commotion. Laughter, music. A debutante ball. Only very young men and women, everyone very merry. In a little room off to one side, two serene old women—they look like sheep in profile—the lady of the house and her sister, are knitting. Music in the distance. One of the old ladies sighs:

  “Ah, how happy the young are ... It’s a pleasure to listen to them! Do you remember, Louise?” (She sighs.)