A Very French Christmas Page 4

  Of what subtle substance is the Fatherland then made, that it too can travel, emigrating with us in agreement with our vagrant fantasies or our forced exiles? However far our destiny may take us, it seems as if always a little of it kept company with us, exhaling its fragrance wherever we pitch our tent. Something familiar in the face of a stranger passing, a scrap of song caught in a gust of wind, the shadow of a tree, the fugitive emanation of a perfume—less yet, a detail, a meaningless trifle, a nothing—and something within us sounds a mysterious call; a sudden combination works upon our most intimate essence—eliminates all that is contrasting, groups all that frames into the loved picture of the distant Fatherland. The Breton soul lends itself more readily than any other to this mysterious work ...

  And as the puffs of wind charged with big rain drops swirled faster about him, and the spread of gray clouds lengthened above him, there slowly rose around the conscript of Leon, on sentry duty before Casbah, stone houses of Brittany. A noise of bells ringing which, in a moment of calm, mounted from the Lower Town, from the French quarter, sounded through all his being, deeply. He remembered that it was Christmas Eve, the night made holy by the birth of a God.

  And childish things came back again, in memory; things so sweet that they made him want to cry. Oh, the house of his father, the blaze of furze on the hearth, and the “flip”—that punch of Arvos, so joyously drunk—and the golden chestnuts whose shells popped! It was as if he saw a veritable vision. The kitchen clock strikes eleven from the top of its wooden case; bustle stirs all the farm; everyone is soon indoors—all except the cattle who, this one night (they say) talk among themselves, in man’s language, of the child newborn in the Galilean stable. It is a black night, in spite of the stars; one feels his way across the muddy roads, for the tradition of snow-white Christmases is dead; the seasons have changed their habits, like us men. In the cemetery there is a stirring among the tombs of the ancestors; the church doors, wide open, make luminous bays whence escapes the veiled melody of the chant of women. And in the chorus of voices the loved voice dominates—that which the Leonard of Casbah recognizes among all the rest: yours, O Glaudinaïk of Mezoubrân, who doubtless think not of Africa as you chant those Latin verses ...

  His dream took on an intensity of actual life: he was playing himself into it with an infinitely delicious sadness when they came to relieve him of his post.

  He had an hour before him, before evening roll call. How willingly he would have run to the cathedral, had it not been so far! He had to content himself with pursuing his meditative stroll through the alleyways swarming with Arabs. Dusk had abruptly fallen; the sky seemed an immense frozen bowl, pricked with glittering points; the caravan of clouds had disappeared.

  Suddenly, as he came to a high and mournful facade, there sounded in his ears a faint, dragging music, a sort of monotonous murmur of prayer or lamentation. A narrow porch yawned in the shadow; he entered in.

  III

  A vast hall, dimly lighted; thick carpets spread upon the floor deadened all footfalls.

  About pillars, toward the back, green flags hung from staffs, like the standards which deck the walls of chapels in Brittany on pardon day.

  Vague crouching forms, draped in clothes of white, gray or blue, lay in a silent immobility. From time to time, however, a name escaped from their lips. This ran like a shiver of wind on a calm sea. One made out only one word, always the same:

  “Allah! Allah!”

  Then, and then only, did the veteran of San Thégonnek realize that he was in an Arab sanctuary, in a mosque, and that these folk on their knees were worshipping ...

  His brother, the priest, interrupted his story at this point:

  “You should have gone out, Yvik; you should have gone out that very moment.”

  “Why, no!” he continued. “I stayed. I will even add, to be frank, that I didn’t have one thought of beating it!”

  Quite the reverse. An irresistible desire seized him, him, the Christian, to join his prayer to that of these miscreants. He knelt behind their close ranks, and in the house of Mohammed he began, in the midst of all these Muslim orations, to recite his Catholic Pater Noster—in Breton.

  The voice of the mufti, at the end of the nave, recited the slow melody of the Koran. Naively, without thinking of evil, he let himself go, his eyes half closed, and listened to the buzzing of the shrill voice; a bit quavery, yet with sweet modulations. And it brought back to him, try though he did to check the sacrilege of the comparison—yes, it brought back to him the old curate of his parish, and the low mass said in the Breton church, and the faint responses of the choir boy on the steps of the main altar.

  Was it not, then, truly, at some Christmas Mass that he assisted? Wasn’t he on the point of discovering somewhere, in one of the dim corners of the mosque, that simple cradle at which his sisters had lately been working, as the day of days drew near? He almost imagined he saw it there, near the mufti’s pulpit: the roof of green boughs with flakes of cotton wool make-believe snow, the waxen Jesus on a bed of clean straw, the grave-faced Saint Joseph, the darling Virgin, and the welcoming nozzles of the animals. Nothing troubled the illusion; they even seemed to fortify it, all those forms prostrate before him, showing just their backs. The white backs gave you the impression of hooded nuns, while those in darker dress might readily be taken for the old women of the Saint-Thégonnek country, wrapped in the long cloaks that they use for mourning, and in cold seasons.

  Who knows if she wasn’t there; in the midst of this exotic world—his Glaudinaïk of Mezoubrân? He could have sworn that she was going to rise in another minute, when Mass was over, and pass out with him, slender and exquisite, blushing faintly under her lace coif, the coif of the maids of Quimerch with spread wings. Now they would follow the muddy roads, bestriding the puddles with the hearty laughter where love sounds; and then they would sit down together in the farmhouse kitchen, for the Christmas Eve supper, an exquisite wake it would be, this feast in honor of the Jesus: greeted, as He came into the world, by shepherdfolk ...

  But Glaudinaïk did not arise; it was Arabs who crossed the threshold before him, contemplating him with keen eyes that looked daggers. Outside, it was the same immense sky like a frozen bowl; but, instead of there being white squalls as before, there blew the biting norther, cutting the face. And he felt that it was far away, the warmth that rides on the wind-wings of Brittany, even in heart of winter.

  He climbed again toward the barracks, toward the quarters where his messmates were chaffing one another: his head empty and hollow-seeming—sick of soul.

  “Come!” he said, in closing. “To speak like my brother the abbot, perhaps it wasn’t any too orthodox, but I shall remember all my life that midnight mass!” Then, turning toward his young wife seated on the bed bench, at the edge of the hearth, near the servants:

  “In any case, Glaudinaïk, I never thought of you —even in the Khroumire country, where one sees Death’s face—with more fervor!”

  The soldier was silent. In the great hush you heard only the ticktock of the clock, and the song of the agonizing yule log.

  1897

  THE WOODEN SHOES Of LITTLE WOLFE

  François Coppée

  Once upon a time—so long ago that the world has forgotten the date—in a city of the North of Europe—the name of which is so hard to pronounce that no one remembers it—there was a little boy, just seven years old, whose name was Wolff. He was an orphan and lived with his aunt, a hard-hearted, avaricious old woman, who never kissed him but once a year, on New Year’s Day; and who sighed with regret every time she gave him a bowlful of soup.

  The poor little boy was so sweet-tempered that he loved the old woman in spite of her bad treatment, but he could not look without trembling at the wart, decorated with four gray hairs, which grew on the end of her nose.

  As Wolff’s aunt was known to have a house of her own and a woolen stocking full of gold, she did not dare to send her nephew to the school for the poor. But she
wrangled so that the schoolmaster of the rich boys’ school was forced to lower his price and admit little Wolff among his pupils. The bad schoolmaster was vexed to have a boy so meanly clad and who paid so little, and he punished little Wolff severely without cause, ridiculed him, and even incited against him his comrades, who were the sons of rich citizens. They made the orphan their drudge and mocked at him so much that the little boy was as miserable as the stones in the street, and hid himself away in corners to cry when the Christmas season came.

  On the eve of the great day the schoolmaster was to take all his pupils to the Midnight Mass, and then to conduct them home again to their parents’ houses.

  Now, as the winter was very severe, and a quantity of snow had fallen within the past few days, the boys came to the place of meeting warmly wrapped up, with fur-lined caps drawn down over their ears, padded jackets, gloves and knitted mittens, and good strong shoes with thick soles. Only little Wolff presented himself shivering in his thin everyday clothes, and wearing on his feet socks and wooden shoes.

  His naughty comrades tried to annoy him in every possible way, but the orphan was so busy warming his hands by blowing on them, and was suffering so much from chilblains, that he paid no heed to the taunts of the others. Then the band of boys, marching two by two, started for the parish church.

  It was comfortable inside the church, which was brilliant with lighted tapers. And the pupils, made lively by the gentle warmth, the sound of the organ, and the singing of the choir, began to chatter in low tones. They boasted of the midnight treats awaiting them at home. The son of the mayor had seen, before leaving the house, a monstrous goose larded with truffles so that it looked like a black-spotted leopard. Another boy told of the fir tree waiting for him, on the branches of which hung oranges, sugarplums, and punchinellos. Then they talked about what the Christ Child would bring them, or what he would leave in their shoes which they would certainly be careful to place before the fire when they went to bed. And the eyes of the little rogues, lively as a crowd of mice, sparkled with delight as they thought of the many gifts they would find on waking: the pink bags of burned almonds, the bonbons, lead soldiers standing in rows, menageries, and magnificent jumping jacks, dressed in purple and gold.

  Little Wolff, alas, knew well that his miserly old aunt would send him to bed without any supper; but as he had been good and industrious all the year, he trusted that the Christ Child would not forget him, so he meant that night to set his wooden shoes on the hearth.

  The Midnight Mass was ended. The worshipers hurried away, anxious to enjoy the treats awaiting them in their homes. The band of pupils, two by two, following the schoolmaster, passed out of the church.

  Now, under the porch, seated on a stone bench, in the shadow of an arched niche, was a child asleep—a little child dressed in a white garment and with bare feet exposed to the cold. He was not a beggar, for his dress was clean and new; beside him upon the ground, tied in a cloth, were the tools of a carpenter’s apprentice.

  Under the light of the stars, his face, with its closed eyes, shone with an expression of divine sweetness, and his soft, curling blond hair seemed to form an aureole of light about his forehead. But his tender feet, blue with the cold on this cruel night of December, were pitiful to see!

  The pupils so warmly clad and shod passed with indifference before the unknown child. Some, the sons of the greatest men in the city, cast looks of scorn on the barefooted one. But little Wolff, coming last out of the church, stopped, deeply moved before the beautiful, sleeping child.

  “Alas!” said the orphan to himself, “how dreadful! This poor little one goes without stockings in weather so cold! And, what is worse, he has no shoe to leave beside him while he sleeps, so that the Christ Child may place something in it to comfort him in all his misery”

  And carried away by his tender heart, little Wolff drew off the wooden shoe from his right foot, placed it before the sleeping child, and as best as he was able, now hopping, now limping, and wetting his sock in the snow, he returned to his aunt.

  “You good-for-nothing!” cried the old woman, full of rage as she saw that one of his shoes was gone. “What have you done with your shoe, little beggar?”

  Little Wolff did not know how to lie, and, though shivering with terror as he saw the gray hairs on the end of her nose stand upright, he tried, stammering, to tell his adventure.

  But the old miser burst into frightful laughter. “Ah! the sweet young master takes off his shoe for a beggar! Ah! Master spoils a pair of shoes for a barefoot! This is something new, indeed! Ah! Well, since things are so, I will place the shoe that is left in the fireplace, and tonight the Christ Child will put in a rod to whip you when you wake. And tomorrow you shall have nothing to eat but water and dry bread, and we shall see if the next time you will give away your shoe to the first vagabond that comes along.”

  And saying this the wicked woman gave him a box on each ear, and made him climb to his wretched room in the loft. There the heartbroken little one lay down in the darkness, and, drenching his pillow with tears, fell asleep.

  But in the morning, when the old woman, awakened by the cold and shaken by her cough, descended to the kitchen—oh! Wonder of wonders!

  She saw the great fireplace filled with bright toys, magnificent boxes of sugarplums, riches of all sorts, and in front of all this treasure, the wooden shoe which her nephew had given to the vagabond, standing beside the other shoe which she herself had placed there the night before, intending to put in it a handful of switches.

  And as little Wolff, who had come running at the cries of his aunt, stood in speechless delight before all the splendid Christmas gifts, there came great shouts of laughter from the street.

  The old woman and the little boy went out to learn what it was all about, and saw the gossips gathered around the public fountain. What could have happened? Oh, a most amusing and extraordinary thing! The children of all the rich men of the city, whose parents wished to surprise them with the most beautiful gifts, had found nothing but switches in their shoes!

  Then the old woman and little Wolff remembered with alarm all the riches that were in their own fireplace, but just then they saw the pastor of the parish church arriving with his face full of perplexity.

  Above the bench near the church door, in the very spot where the night before a child, dressed in white, with bare feet exposed to the great cold, had rested his sleeping head, the pastor had seen a golden circle wrought into the old stones. Then all the people knew that the beautiful, sleeping child, beside whom had lain the carpenter’s tools, was the Christ Child himself, and that he had rewarded the faith and charity of little Wolff.

  1889

  CHRISTMAS EVE

  Guy de Maupassant

  “A Christmas Eve supper! No, never again,” said Henri Templier, in a furious tone, as if someone had suggested his participation in some crime. The others laughed and said: “Why do you fly into a rage?”

  “Because a Christmas Eve supper played me the dirtiest trick in the world, and ever since I have felt an insurmountable horror for that night of imbecile gaiety.”

  “Tell us about it!”

  “You want to know what it was? Very well, then; just listen:

  “You remember how cold it was two years ago at Christmas; cold enough to kill people in the streets. The Seine was covered with ice; the pavements froze one’s feet through the soles of one’s boots, and the whole world seemed to be about to come to an end.

  “I had a big piece to work on, and so I refused every invitation to supper, as I preferred to spend the night at my writing table. I dined alone and then began to work. But about ten o’clock I grew restless at the thought of the gay and busy life all over Paris, at the noise in the streets which reached me in spite of everything, at the sound of my neighbors’ preparations for supper, which I heard through the walls. I hardly knew any longer what I was doing; I wrote nonsense, and at last came to the conclusion that I had better give up all hope of prod
ucing any good work that night.

  “I walked up and down my room; I sat down and got up again. I was certainly under the mysterious influence of the merriment outside, and I resigned myself to it. I rang for my servant and said to her:

  “‘Angela, go and get a good supper for two; some oysters, a cold partridge, some crayfish, ham, and some cakes. Put out two bottles of champagne, lay the cloth, and go to bed.’

  “She obeyed in some surprise, and when all was ready I put on my greatcoat and went out. A great question was to be solved: Whom was I going to bring in to supper? My female friends had all been invited elsewhere, and if I had wished to invite one, I ought to have seen about it beforehand, so, thinking that I would do a good action, I said to myself:

  “‘Paris is full of poor and pretty girls who will have nothing on their table tonight, and who are on the lookout for some generous fellow. I will act the part of Providence to one of them this evening; and I will find one if I have to go into every pleasure resort and have to question them and hunt till I find one to my choice.’ And I started off on my search.

  “I certainly found many poor girls who were on the lookout for some adventure, but they were ugly enough to give any man a fit of indigestion, or thin enough to freeze on the spot if they had stood still. You all know that I have a weakness for stout women; the more embonpoint they have, the better I like them, and a female colossus would drive me out of my senses with delight.

  “Suddenly, opposite the Théâtre des Variétés, I saw a profile to my liking. A good head and a full figure. I was charmed, and said ‘By Jove! What a fine girl!’