IN “NO MAN’S LAND.”

Dominion, Volume 22, Issue 72, 18 December 1928, Page 3 (Supplement)

IN “NO MAN’S LAND.”

The Polish Christmas.

i— —■■— HERE is a country larger Mthan the British Isles, with a brilliant history and an ancient culture which somehow through the flight o£ grw'Tg ages, in spite of its situation eft in the very centre of the political and economic life of Europe, has been a sort of “No Man’s Land.” This is Poland. Ground under the heel of old Russia, it never lost its personality, and yet somehow seldom attracted the notice of the rest of the world. Since its.freedom and emancipation it had full scope to manifest its individuality, which is most potent—a Pole and his country are unlike anything or anybody else. Perhaps the only insight into the holy of holies of the Polish people was given to us by the late Ladislas. St. Reymont. Joseph Conrad became so Anglicised that his writings hardly bear the impress of his native country. Its national writers are seldom translated, its painters are practically unknown outside its borders, and yet Poland breeds genius and is the beloved home of art. Perhaps music has been the only medium to make us understand, if 1 ut slighly, the spirit of Poland. Paderewski. statesman and visionary, Chopin, as a small, delicate boy, lost in the grandeurs of the Palace of Prince Potocki, gave us moments of revelation. And yet there is nothing of the East ' in Poland: it is wholly Western in culture, aspect, climate, and religion. The Poles are Roman Catholics, and they have a Latin alphabet. In pre-war 1 days, in spite of the endeavours of Russia to stamp Poland, with a Russian i mark, one felt immediately the change i ■from East to West as soon, as the s frontier wasjiassed. i

The City of Dreams. It is a pretty country -with a climate not unlike our own. There may be little more snow and a little more sunshine, but it is just as wavering, modulated, unaggressive. Warsaw is a city of dreams, where the newest and most ancient cultures meet, clash, and merge into each other. With all the value given nowadays to personality, Warsaw should be a celebrity instead of the unknown capital of an unknown country, for she just teems with personality copies no one, and yet panders to the most exigent ideas of luxury and refinement. The Pole is as authentic as his beloved Warsaw, and his old characteristics have never been obliterated by the influence of neighbour, friend, or foe. Pride comes first, then a mediaeval courtesy and sense of honour; wonderful powers of endurance together with a mysticism, fatalism, and obstinacy make him a little akin to the Irish peasant. There is even a similarity to Ireland in the blurred outlines and sage-green mistiness of the land, the patient, plodding peasantry, the religion, the superstitions. As in Ireland, potatoes and pigs form the nucleus of the Polish peasant's material existence, while his soul is fed by his Church and a rich imagination peopled with witches and goblins and fortified by memories of past glories and undying hopes. All Poles are dreamers: perhaps that is why they have so successfully enclosed themselves within their own walls. But to the traveller and stranger country and people are full of charm and comfort. originality and newness—that perpetual quest of this generation. Christmas Eve. Poland is at its best at Christmastime, under a cloak of snow, or in the early spring. Christmas, too, is the Polish feast of feasts, just as Easter is the great festival of the Eastern Slavs. All the old customs and ancient ritual remain unchanged in this unchangeable land with a united religion. Even the heavens are usually kind in giving a silvery spotlessness and clearness of vision in harmony with the enactment of the old undying story . Christinas Eve is the great day—old and young hoping, fasting, waiting for the Bethlehem Star and its glad message. The expectant hush, the hard work of festal preparations,'and the lack of food give the broad-faced, placid, flaxen-haired Pole a look of spirituality—how deep it goes one cannot tell. As darkness falls, tongues are let loose, tables spread with tempting dishes, and hungry families sit down to a well-earned supper. The Star of Bethlehem seems to break into thousands of atoms, strewin ■ them over the towns and villages. These are the Polish waits, carrying large illuminated stars, going from house to house singing carols. Small boys vie with each other in the construction of these stars—some are crude, some elaborate, but all look beautiful from a distance. They also carry a shopka. a crib, usually homemade. quaint ami delightful. A ballad of the crib is spoken in words dating back to the Middle Ages, never printed, but handed down from one generation of small boys to another. After the hustle and hurry and noisiness of a London Christmas Eve it is indeed heart's ease to listen to the stillness of a Polish town, intensified by the shrill childish* voices and the patter of childish foot on the crisp snow.—“ Manchester Guardian.” “Maggie, how was it that I saw a young man talking with you in the kitchen last night'.'” asked the mistress of her cook. The girl pondered for a few moments and then answered, “Faith, an’ I can’t make it out mesilf; you must have looked through the keyhole.’’