a blessed eve, on which the celebrants make their way to the churches for the midnight service, in the dark and the cold, then return to the traditional supper, for which some countries follow a settled bill of fare: a stuffed goose or a roasted turkey, then a sweet of prunes steeped in wine, and the feast cake in the shape of a hearth log. The snows storm outside and frost blankets the roads, but their desolation is warmed by the lights of
the glittering shops, or by the sight of pine boughs hung with frozen drops of water. And within, the chestnuts crackle in the fire, the busy women come and go, everyone is in cheer and gladness, and in the air is the fragrance of the green fir.
No writer has told what Dickens told of the Christmas of the rich and the Christmas of the poor. The two parties meet, inevitably, in his kindly spirit, which breaks down barriers and unites the classes with its sweet ceremonies and its all-embracing joys. And what eloquence in his telling of this season of hospitality and merriment and openness of heart — when the passers-by call out to Scrooge, that fearsome usurer whom years of hardness had made old, once his alarm had quieted and he was overcome, and he cried out in his turn: 'A Merry Christmas!'
And then, how many houses whose members had scattered have gathered them again around the table they knew so long — and at every new meeting there cannot fail to appear heads of hair streaked with white, and faces and fingers over which wrinkles have crept; and perhaps tears choke them for the loss of one who was the flower of the company in years gone by. And yet the old house glows with the offspring of the enchanting ages.
And how sweet are the
little hours in which we recapture the mirage of youth's dreams — hours that carry the middle-aged back to the pleasure of their unclouded childhood. And it is the sweetest of pleasures to make others glad. And what a most happy moment, when we watch those dearest to us undoing the knots of string and ribbon from parcels of gifts that hold the utmost of what they crave and desire!
And when we speak of Father Noël, the humane writer
André Maurois declares that the part he would most love to play is this role, the role of the distributor of happiness. Should we think him a dull-witted fool, the man who always gives and receives nothing in exchange? No, and no again: true happiness lies in giving — in a smile drawn upon two ailing lips, in warding off wrong from a wretched, deprived man, in wiping a tear from
the eyes of a suffering weakling... These are the joys Father Noël breathes upon us. And some American families have gone so far in impersonating the Christmas man in his authentic dress — the red robe, the broad snow-white beard, and the long fur-topped boots — that there was even founded in New York a society by the name of 'Father Christmas Incorporated,' which supplies whoever desires a Father of the Feast, for ten dollars, in his complete costume — and for twenty dollars, if it is stipulated that he come down the chimney from the roof into the house!
In the Middle Ages, when a hope long awaited came true, cries of 'Noël! Noël!' would rise from the crowds — glad tidings of peace and of miracles, and what a surprise it was... 'And how often would I in my turn cry "Noël,"' says Maurois, 'if a friend who had wronged me and turned cold to me were to come in, returning to my house on December 25 to share food and drink with me.' For it was the custom of old that the hearthside gathered in everyone who knocked at the door, even strangers. Today, though 'progress' has dried up the dew of hospitality because of the high cost of living, still Christmas Eve remains a communal night of company and universal merriment.
War itself is sometimes compelled to submit to the peaceable spirit of Christmas: it is told of fighting men that they dared not fight on that wondrous night. And Maurois relates, from his own experience, that he passed one such night crossing the war front alongside the Maginot Line; and there he beheld a scene whose splendor