The Christmas Kalends of Provence | Page 3

Thomas A. Janvier
brings to light flints and potshards which
tell of varied human occupancy in very far back times. And the
antiquaries still farther are agreed that precisely as these material relics
(only a little hidden beneath the present surface of the soil) tell of
diverse ancient dwellers here, so do the surviving fragments of creeds
and customs (only a little hidden beneath the surface of Provençal daily
life) tell in a more sublimate fashion of those same vanished races
which marched on into Eternity in the shadowy morning of Time.
For this is an old land, where many peoples have lived their spans out
and gone onward--yet have not passed utterly away. Far down in the
popular heart remnants of the beliefs and of the habits of those ancients
survive, entranced: yet not so numbed but that, on occasion, they may
be aroused into a life that still in part is real. Even now, when the

touch-stone is applied--when the thrilling of some nerve of memory or
of instinct brings the present into close association with the past--there
will flash into view still quick particles of seemingly long-dead creeds
or customs rooted in a deep antiquity: the faiths and usages which of
old were cherished by the Kelto-Ligurians, Phoenicians, Grecians,
Romans, Goths, Saracens, whose blood and whose beliefs are blended
in the Christian race which inhabits Provence to-day.
II
In the dominion of Vièlmur there is an inner empire. Nominally, the
Vidame is the reigning sovereign; but the power behind his throne is
Misè Fougueiroun. The term "Misè" is an old-fashioned Provençal title
of respect for women of the little bourgeoisie--tradesmen's and
shopkeepers' wives and the like--that has become obsolescent since the
Revolution and very generally has given place to the fine-ladyish
"Madamo." With a little stretching, it may be rendered by our English
old-fashioned title of "mistress"; and Misè Fougueiroun, who is the
Vidame's housekeeper, is mistress over his household in a truly
masterful way.
This personage is a little round woman, still plumply pleasing although
she is rising sixty, who is arrayed always with an exquisite neatness in
the dress--the sober black-and-white of the elder women, not the gay
colours worn by the young girls--of the Pays d'Arles; and--although
shortness and plumpness are at odds with majesty of deportment--she
has, at least, the peremptory manner of one long accustomed to
command. As is apt to be the way with little round women, her temper
is of a brittle cast and her hasty rulings sometimes smack of injustice;
but her nature (and this also is characteristic of her type) is so warmly
generous that her heart easily can be caught into kindness on the
rebound. The Vidame, who in spite of his antiquarian testiness is
something of a philosopher, takes advantage of her peculiarities to
compass such of his wishes as happen to run counter to her laws. His
Machiavellian policy is to draw her fire by a demand of an extravagant
nature; and then, when her lively refusal has set her a little in the wrong,
handsomely to ask of her as a favour what he really requires--a method

that never fails of success.
By my obviously sincere admiration of the Château and its
surroundings, and by a discreet word or two implying a more personal
admiration--a tribute which no woman of the Pays d'Arles ever is too
old to accept graciously--I was so fortunate as to win Misè
Fougueiroun's favour at the outset; a fact of which I was apprised on
the evening of my arrival--it was at dinner, and the housekeeper herself
had brought in a bottle of precious Châteauneuf-du-Pape--by the
cordiality with which she joined forces with the Vidame in reprobating
my belated coming to the Château. Actually, I was near a fortnight
behind the time named in my invitation: which had stated expressly
that Christmas began in Provence on the Feast of Saint Barbara, and
that I was expected not later than that day--December 4th.
"Monsieur should have been here," said the housekeeper with decision,
"when we planted the blessed Saint Barbara's grain. And now it is
grown a full span. Monsieur will not see Christmas at all!"
But my apologetic explanation that I never even had heard of Saint
Barbara's grain only made my case the more deplorable.
"Mai!" exclaimed Misè Fougueiroun, in the tone of one who faces
suddenly a real calamity. "Can it be that there are no Christians in
monsieur's America? Is it possible that down there they do not keep the
Christmas feast at all?"
To cover my confusion, the Vidame intervened with an explanation
which made America appear in a light less heathenish. "The planting of
Saint Barbara's grain," he said, "is a custom that I think is peculiar to
the South of France. In almost every household in Provence, and
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