ALL SAINTS DAY IN RHEIMS

New Zealand Herald, Volume XLIX, Issue 14972, 20 April 1912, Page 1 (Supplement)

ALL SAINTS DAY IN RHEIMS

i BY LOUISE EUGENIE PRIOKITT. : - I was walking along the Boulevard Lundy in Rheims one November day. It was one of those changeable days in which the autumn of the year abounds. The sun would shine brilliantly one minute and the next a cloud covering it . would turn all tjie scene to dun. At one moment the street would be bright and vivid as a water colour, the chestnut trees casting purple shadows across the road and dropping yellow-tinted leaves about their feet the. next minute all the delicate tones and sharp 'lights and .shadows would disappear, and the street would become suddenly as grey as a charcoal drawing; grey walk, grey houses, grey tree trunks, grey pavements, grey sky. It was at one of these dull moments that I emerged into the square and confronted the great iron gates of the Rheims Cemetery. Despite the clouded sky the square ' was full of colour. All the available space had been taken by market women. Under their white cotton ; umbrellas, and fringing the edges of the dull pavements with rich colour, were masses of chrysanthemums in . pink and yellow, orange, white and deep red. Other bowers were there also in lesser numbers. These were the signs and symbols of All Saints' Day, for once «a year it is the pleasant habit of the French people to decorate in unison the graves .of. their dead and until a ; few yeans ago;, when the! separation of the Church and State took place, the tender custom also prevailed of blessing the dead, which quaint ceremony was performed in the cemeteries immediately following a solemn service 'of mourning- held 1 in - the black-draped churches and cathedrals." I paused a minute to appreciate tho effect of the bright, multi-coloured flower market with its background of diverging streets. At the right rose the. tall-black gates of .the cemetery with its inscription over tlie top in weather-beaten gold letters, "Requiescat in pace." In the middle distance a fountain was playing, its continual ■ motion ; suggestive.. of joy and strength and youth. : At th© left was the grey arch of : Caesar that had stood there since before the birth of Christ. The people, compared - with its antiquity, seemed almost as perishable as the frail flowers they bought and sold, I entered the , cemetery and mingled with the* crowd. " Many a pensive walk had I taken along its alleys ranged like streets in a city with its tombs like little stone houses\ standing on either hand. "Each of the • narrow houses," said the hearse driver's son .in . Hans Anderson's story, "is like a closed t book with , the back uppermost, so that one can only read the tit and judge, the book contains and nothing^more.*' In the great cemetery of Per© la Chaise in Paris there are many books of this sort, the contents of which, all the .world knows something. Such awe-inspiring - titles they bear as ''Balzac," "Corot,'' " Chopin," "Rachel.!' One may well - stop and meditate beside them. But. the Rheims cemetery had no such well-known names among its" graves. These were just the simple " Remoises " who,- marching in serried • ranks each year to the cemetery, left no trace upon the world at large. wherewith to identify them, and whoso history might only be divined by tho tender-hearted and th© imaginative.

On ordinary , days one may walk almost alone througli. tho streets, whose stone tombs seem like the . silent houses in a deserted city. This effect is heightened when peering through the windows in the doors of. some you descry children's toys, lying neglected and .useless. Only occasionally will you pass a sombre little group of ; people,, or, perchance, see in the dim 1 perspective soma lonesome figure in black, wandering ; solitary. i" On All Saints' Day,- however, crowds of people pass in and out of the open gates, bearing flowers, arid- gradually-' they 1 transform „ the sadhued place'into what appears" like a'brilliant flower * garden. It reminds • ono of the miracle of winter changing to spring. It made me think of George Meredith's lines —•. ' " > . .

Behold in yon . stripped autumn, shivering grey Earth- knows no desolation,' She em ells regeneration \ ~ In the inoijt breath of decay, v • !

The grave of Mine. Veuve Pomery .who had been a great benefactress in Rheims, was literally so covered with blossoms that • the iron railing that , surrounded fit seemed but to be fencing a richly' bloom-ing\Uower-bed. " Mme. Pomery is dead,'* I thought, " but, thank, God, gratitude is living yet, and brightening the ' world. I read it in every flower." I passed the tomb of a young priest who was condemned to be shot during the Franco-Prussian war for concealing arms under Jus pulpit. By dint of great effort a pardon was secured ; for him, but the man who had been deputed to bring it arrived too late. The story goes that while he was so near that his horse's hoofs might bo heard upon the pavement, the priest was shot. On the tomb wrought in bronze lies a recumbent figure representing him justy"as he'fell, pierced by the bullets. Poor young man, his story was no figment of imagination such as the hearse-driver's son might have invented. His was a true story, and many a time as .1 looked at the handsome face as it lay upon > his arm .I^ have thrilled with • horror,for. this insensate bronze had the power to link me with history and all the tragedy of war, impressing me with ; its reality like a . knifo cut. On All Saints' Day I saw that tender hands had covered' the - figure as with a blanket of Sowers. ' , : v ,

If you never : seo v more than the titles on tho backs of books in a bookcase, there are some that hold your attention or curiosity, if you will, ' above 1 the others. There were such graves in the Rheims Cemetery in which I felt that unaccountable interest. I looked -to seo how these had fared." "Madeleine, la • bien ' aimeo," had she. been forgotten? And " Petit Paul. II n'avait que deux ans," had that little atone been remembered 1 ? I was glad to see fresh flowers nodding on these graves, although I believed ' the truth of what the old schoolmaster told "Little Nell," 'they sat together in the neglected village churchyard. And do you think," said he, "that an unvisited grave, a withered tree, a faded flower or two, are tokens of forgetfulness or cold neglect? Do you think there are no deeds far: away , from here in which those dead may be remembered? Nell, Nell, there may be people busy in the world at this instant "in' whose • good actions and good thoughts these very graves, neglected as they look to us, "are the chief instruments." : . ; •; ,V; -

Slowly and thoughtfully I continued my way to the part of the cemetery allotted to the English Colony. Now the members of the English Colony durig my. life in Rheims had stood to, me m the; light of brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles, so closoly does the tie of living together in a foreign land unite English-speaking people. No English friends of .-mine were lying here, but these were graves of ■ dead relatives of theirs, and of English people who had lived in Rheims before my day. The names of all were familiar to me, and I knew som© little ; fragment ; of the history of each. .. I wandered from grave to grave noticing _ that almost . all had received some brightening touch of flowers in recognition of the French custom. At length, however, I came to one quite neglected and apparently forgotten. The ivy that bad long, since been planted there had even crept with tiny green feet up to the very name engraved on the simple head-stone. I detached it to read againthe name ; that I knew well, Anna Margaret R— . Mv idea, of her ' had' a certain tangibility because of a portrait of her I . remembered in a Rheim-s' drawingroom where I had ; been fortunate enough to celebrate a number of good old English Christmases and passings of the old year. It was a fine ' stately room, and though built in France, - its interior » had : taken from its English residents a look of cheerful hospitality that was thoroughly John Bull in character. Even. now, , and I am 'many miles from it;' the thought of Christmas calls up the spacious room, the faces of the' English"friends, and not less clearly they the face in J he portrait of ijAnna Margaret Err—* She seemed so graciously to / smile upon: me : from the' canvas that- eh© seemed? '9 part of the

••••; .yy.-yj "/'V''!.; • warm hospitality of the room, and not leis to brightly welcome mo than the . living faces about me. .> /- The quaint, , old-fash-ioned cut of her dress showed that she belonged to a generation or two before mine. It was the colour of the 'young green leaves in springtime. Indeed, Anna Margaret — seemed to belong to the' springtime,; for hers was such a young and joyous face. Indeed, the note of joy was so striking that it impressed me the first time 1 1 saw the portrait. " Did she live the life she expected to—happy and vivid and satisfying? " I asked my host. " That is what we all expect in the beginning, isn't _ it?" he rejoined. "I remember the time when 1 was going to Spain too, and so were all my young companions." There was a wistful smile on his fine old face, and then he added : ' I can't answer your question. We've ; all grown fond of Anna Margaret, but she doesn't belong to us. She was the grandmother of the family -who lived in this house before we did. It seems odd to call . her grandmother, doesn't it " He waved his hand toward - the radiant face in the picture. "But. she was a grandmother, and died here in Rheims, and is laid away in the Rheims' cemetery. Her - people went to Australia. They sold al). their furniture, but they naturally wanted to keep the portrait. They didn't knew, however, how they would find things in Australia, for they were 'going in. the bush, so they asked us to keep the painting until they sent' for it. , That was almost five years ago. Time passes, and we almost feel as if wo owned Anna. Margaret. We call her Anna Margaret, but we mean no disrespect; it is only that wo are accustomed to think her young as we see her there. I can never realise that she was really , some years' my senior." • , ; V; It must have been a couple of years after this conversation that, returning from a six weeks' visit to Paris, I went to see my friends, and looking immediately, as it had become a habit of mine to do, toward the portrait as if , somehow her smile was • needed to complete- my welcome, I was amazed to see in its stead a vacant place oh the wall. -."Yes," said my host,'"answering "my: look of bewilderment. " They've sent at. last for . Anna Margaret." " But," X gasped, " how, will the room get along without her? " " The way the world gets along without' each of us in . time," fie responded, " but you are right, the ro'im ■ docs seem to feel her loss yet." ' As I recalled all.this, standing by Jblie grave in the cemetery, . I heard the tioll-. ing of the - Cathedral .. bells. . I : looked, : at my watch. " The: procession * must* be starting," I reflected, . and then an/ odd whim came into my head. I hurried/ back to the gates and out ;to the flower market. Selecting two' pots of ' pink : and ' white chrysanthemums, I made my way • back.. I placed t-hehi one on each • side of 'Anna Margaret's * grave,' so that their tbright blossoms seemed to caress ' lovingly the weather-beaten stone, and - then I .-waited by my _ adopted dead until, in .the far perspective of the alley in which I stood, I saw the procession . slowly ; conf.ing < toward me. hirst came the in their quaint cocked hats, long-tailed cqais, knee breeches, and buckled : slices,' r then the Cardinal, in his rich robes, fallowed by 'priests and choir boys. - The sun - came out as I watched, :) and lighted up the scene with ; dramatic effocft. It touched the flowers into richer beau'jy and sparkled on golden cross ■ and banners. It- transformed the earthly white Jof the priestly vestments into a heavenly purity. On the procession came, and in a" few : moments passed me, •. but I . had . caught the benign, smile like autumn sunshine on the face of, kind' old Cardinal Langenioux. From right to left he, turned, sprinkling holy, water like the " gentle rain; from heaven on the just and the? unjust," and murmuring as • he passed a • Latin , benediction, i Anna Margaret R—f was: a ■ Protestant, but the ; Catholic blessing "could, .do ..herno harm, ! I thought, and as for me; dignity, the beauty, -and: the tenderness* of the rite lingers , with rae ,: long years since the sun- has set upon that " Jourj de Toussaint." - . ,