went almost beyond the real, where, through the spreading
snow, every plant and branch was transformed, turned into a beautiful ornament, lent by the phantom of the fog gathering its shadows over the field, as though a Shakespearean fairy had touched it to cast a mysterious mirage over the slopes, making them like the Virgin's Son in the manger; and on the paths, their steps hastened by the cold, he could see English and French soldiers exchanging joyful greetings, amid a miraculous stillness unbroken by a single shot of the guns — as though the god Mars, god of war, had been changed into a quiet prisoner.
What, one wonders, is the meaning of Christmas? What is its deep import? Why was the Child-God laid in a manger, between the cow and the she-ass? As Alain interprets it, saying: just as the new earth awaits an eager plowing and a virgin planting, so the Child bears the message of beginning in his new grace. Therefore prayers rise from the throats of the great, of the Magi, of those of majesty and pomp, humble before the Child-God, entreating him as one entreats hope itself... the worshipful prayer to the weakest of creatures, who has need of the cow, of the she-ass, of Hercules, of Caesar. So Christmas remains among the riddles folded within our souls — if it be not the loveliest of them.
And it is true. If we cast a glance over this world, brute force leaps at first sight to our eyes, until
no kind of tyrant is lacking to us, great or small, drawing his power from a retinue or from evil character, thinking that he imposes a law of iron. But what has been, and what has endured, as the strongest of the world's powers? It is this naked Child in his manger, this pauper in his stable — this divine Child who owns neither army nor riches, yet is the resting place of hope and of consolation, because the future is in his possession.
How many a child has the womb cast into a mean hut or a lowly place, where everything around bespeaks gloom and sorrow. But who knows whether this newborn carries, in the unseen of his unknown future, one of the hopes of the sons of men? For the beginning begins with every new being — as with youth, and love, and hope.
And this mother, bending over her newborn in the manger — on her lips indeed is a smile that kindles hope and expectation; the burdens all but crush her, yet she sees in him beauty and perfection. And even so, one glance toward him is enough for her to pour tenderness and affection upon her son, who is her God.
And after her example, and hers again, humanity, weary from its wounds, bends toward the future to come, its heart full of faith, repeating the words of Shelley: 'If winter has come down, can the coming of spring be long?' That is the depth of the meaning of this joyous evening — the meaning of these flocks that bring the streets alive at midnight in their glad clamor, the meaning of these country lanterns whose light blazes upon the snow and in the dark, hastening with their bearers toward the shining temple.
Christmas! When the darkness clears at the dawn-glow of a new hope.
After I read an article on the importance of a wife's appearing in attractive form when her husband comes home from work, I felt the pangs of conscience — for I am responsible for running the house, tidying the children, and doing the cooking, so that evening finds me worn out with work; but I resolved to improve matters.
That day I began preparing supper half an hour early, and spent the rest of the time at the dressing table. Hardly had I sensed my husband's arrival when I hurried to open the door and receive him. He greeted me at once, saying: "I smell something delicious."
I answered him coyly: "What is it, my dear?"
He replied instantly: "Roast chickens" — and embraced me with warmth and longing!