Speaker 1: The three Christmas Masses by Alphons Dodey. One two truffled turkeys, garygool, Yes,
Resverend Father, two magnificent turkeys stuffed with truffles. There's no
mistake where I helped to stuff them myself. The flesh
almost cracked as they roasted.
Speaker 2: It was so tight, So Holy Virgin, and I who
loved truffles, Hurry, give me my surplus, garrigoul And what
else besides the turkeys? What else did you see in
the kitchen?
Speaker 1: Oh? All sorts of good things? Since noon we've done
nothing but pluck pheasants, peewits, wood ends and heathcocks. Feathers
are scattered thick. Then from the pond they brought eels
and a golden carp and trout. And what size are
the trout?
Speaker 2: To garygoul?
Speaker 1: Oh as, because that, Reverend Father, enormous heavens, I seem
to see them. Have you put the wine in the flasks? Yes,
Reverend Father, I've put the wine in the flasks. But
what's a mouthful or two? As you go to midnight Mass,
you should see the dining hall in the chadow full
of decanters that sparkle with wine of every color. And
the silver dishes. Above all the ornamented ones, the flowers
and the candlesticks. I never saw anything to equal it.
Monsieur le Marquis has invited all the nobility of the neighborhood.
You will be at least forty at table, without counting
either the bailiff or the notary. Ah. It will make
you very happy to be there, Reverend father, why only
to smell the delicious turkeys. The odor of truffles pursues
me even yet, Come, come, Garrigoul. You must guard against
the sin of greediness, and especially on the night of
the Nativity, quickly enough, light the candles and sound the
first bell for Mass. Midnight is very near, and we
must not be late. This conversation has held on Christmas
night in the year of Grace, sixteen hundred and sixteen,
between the Reverend dom Balaque, formerly prior of Barnabetes, now
chaplain in the service of the Sies de Trinquilis, and
his clerk Garrigoul, or at least what he supposed was
his clerk garygu Because you will learn that the devil
had that night taken on the round face and wavering
traits of the young sacristan, the better to tempt the
reverend Father to commit the dreadful sin of gluttony. Now,
while the supposed garigou um Hm rung with all his
might the bells of the seignorial chapel, the Reverend Father
put on his chasuble in the little sacristy of the chateau,
and his mind, already becoming troubled by the gastronomic descriptions
he had heard, he repeated to himself, roasted turkeys, golden
carp trout as large as that outside. The night wind blew,
scattering the music of the bells, and one by one
lights began to appear in the shadows about the flanks
of Mont von tou, upon the summit of which rose
the ancient towers of trinkle Lage. These lights were carried
by the farmers on their way to attend midnight mass
at the chateau. They climbed the paths in groups of
five or six, the father leading lantern in hand, the
women enveloped in their big brown mantles, where their infants
nestled for shelter. In spite of the hour and the cold,
all these honest people marched cheerfully on sustained by the
thought that when they came out from the mass they
would find, as they did each year, tables spread for
them below in the kitchens now and again on the
rough ascent, the coach of some seigneur, preceded by torch
bearing porters, reflected in its glasses. The cold moonlight, or
maybe a mule, trotted along, shaking his bells, and in
the light of the lanterns covered with frost, the farmers
recognized their bailiff and saluted him as he passed. Good evening,
Good evening, Master Rana Don, good evening, Good evening, my children.
The night was clear, the stars were polished with cold,
the wind stung, and a fine sleet which glistened on
the clothes without wetting them, kept faithfully the tradition of
Christmases white with snow raised there aloft, the chateau appeared
like the goal of all things, with its enormous mass
of towers and gables, the belfry of its chapel mounting
into the blue black sky, and a crowd of small
lights that winked, went and came, twinkled at all the
windows and seamed on the somber background of the building.
Like sparks running through the cinders of burnt paper. Once
past the drawbridge and the postern, it was necessary in
order to gain the chapel to traverse the first courtyard,
full of coaches, of valleys, of sedan chairs, and bright
with the flare of torches and the fires of the kitchens.
There was the click of the turnspits, the crash of stewpans,
the noises of glass and silver preparing for the dinner.
From below, a warm vapor which melt of roasting meat,
and the strong herbs of curious sources. Whispered to the farmers,
to the chaplain, to the bailiff, to all the world,
What a revel we are going to have after Mass?
Two drillindin, drillindin. Midnight Mass is about to begin in
the chapel of the chateau, a miniature cathedral with arches
into crost and a wainscirt of oak mounting as high
as the walls. All the hangings have been arranged, all
the candles lit, and what a host of people and
what toilettes. First seated in the sculptured stall which surrounds
the choir, behold the seered tranquilage in a suit of
salmon colored taffeta, and next to him all the invited nobles.
Facing these on a prejur trimmed with velvet, is the
old Dowager Marqueses in her robe of fire colored brocade,
and the young Damda Trincolaga, surmounted by a huge head
dress of lace made in the latest fashion of the
French court. Further down, dressed in black with vast pointed
perukes and shaven faces, are the Bailiff Thomas Arnoton and
the notary Master Ambroy, two grave objects among the flowing
silks and figured damasks. Then come the fat major domos,
the pages, the grooms, the attendants, Dame Barber all her
keys suspended at her side on a ring of thin silver.
At the bottom of the hall, on the benches are
the servants, the yeomen with their families. And lastly, beyond,
all about the doors, as they open and shut discreetly,
are the scullions, who steal in between two sources to
get a little of the mass, carrying an odor of
the revelry into the church, all in its gay attire
and warm with so many burning candles. Is it a
glimpse of their little white caps that distracts the celebrant.
Speaker 2: Of the mass.
Speaker 1: Or it may be the clangor made by Garrigou's bells,
that pulsating sound which shakes the altar with an infernal vibration,
and seems to say all the time, hurry up, hurry up,
will soon be done, will soon be a table. The
fact is that each time it sounds that peal of
the devil, the chaplain forgets his mass and thinks of
nothing but the coming revel. He pictures to himself the
uproar of the kitchens, the furnace heated like a blacksmith's forge,
the vapor of opening trenches, and in that vapor two
magnificent turkeys, buttered tender, bursting with truffles. Or perhaps he
saw pass the files of little pages bearing dishes, enveloped
in tempting steam, and with them entered the grand saloon,
already prepared for the feast. Oh deliciousness. Behold the immense table,
all set and sparkling, the peacocks in their plumes, the
pheasants with their open wings of reddish brown, the ruby
colored flagons, the pyramids of fruit peeping from green branches,
and those marvelous fish of which Garrigu told Ah, well, yes,
Carrigu held aloft on a bed of fennel, the mother
of pearls, scales bright as when they came from the
water with a bouquet of odorous herbs in their monster
like nostrils. So distinct is the vision of these marvels
that it seems to Don Beauguire as if all the
wonderful dishes are served before him on the embroideries of
the altar cloth, and two or three times in place
of dominos vobiscum, he is surprised to find himself repeating
at the Benedicte, saving these slight mistakes. The holy man
does his office very conscientiously, without skipping a line, without
omitting a genuflection, And all goes well enough as far
as the end of the first Mass, because you know,
on Christmas night the same celebrant must repeat three consecutive masses.
One said the chaplain with a sigh of relief. Then,
without losing a minute, he made a sign to his clerk, oh,
the person he believed to be his clerk, and trallindin
drilyndin the second Mass begins, and with it begins also
the sin of dom Balaguere, Hurry, Harry, let's get done,
cries the thin bell of Garagou's bell, and this time
the unlucky priest, abandoning himself to the demon of gluttony,
rushes through the missile, devouring its pages with all the
avidity of an overcharged appetite. Frantically he bows, horises, makes
the signs of the cross, goes through the genuflections, abbreviates
all his gestures. The sooner to be finished. Scarcely does
he extend his arms to the gospel or strike his
breast where it is required. Between the clerk and him,
it is a race who shall jabber the faster. Verse
and response hurry each other, tumble over each other, the
words hardly pronounced because it takes too much time to
open the mouth, becoming comp frehensible, murmurs houraimustru bakopp, Like
hard working vintagers pressing grapes in a vat, both weighed
through the Latin of the mass, splashing it on all sides.
Dons come, says Baloghaire, Statuo responds garrigu, and all the
while the damnable chime sounds in their ears, like those
little bells put on the post horses to make them
gallop more swiftly. Believe me, under such conditions, a low
mass is vastly expedited. Two said the chaplain, all out
of breath. Then, without taking time to breathe red perspiring,
he tumbled down the stairs of the altar drelindin, relyndin.
The third mass begins only a step or so, and
then the dining hall. But alas the nearer the revel approaches,
the more the unfortunate Bloguaire is seized with the very
folly of impatience and greeding. His vision accentuates it the
golden carp. The roast turkeys are there. He may touch them,
he may oh, Holy Virgin. The dishes steam, the wines
send forth sweet odors, and shaking out its reckless song.
The bell cries to him, hurry up, hurry up. Still faster,
still faster. But how can he go any faster? He
scarcely moves his lips, He pronounces fully, not a single word.
He tries to cheat the Good God altogether of his mass,
and that is what brings his ruin. By temptation. Upon temptation,
he begins to jump one verse, then two, Then the
epistle is too long, he does not finish it, skims
the gospel, passes by the creed without even entering skips
the Pater salutes from afar the preface, and by bounds
and jumps precipitates him into eternal damnation, always following the
infamous scarigu vadi retro Satanas, who seconds him with marvelous skill,
tucks up his chargible, turns the leaves two by two,
disarranges the music desk, reverses the flagons, and unceasingly rings
the bell more and more vigorously, more and more quickly.
You should have seen what a figure all the assistants
cut obliged to follow, like mimics, a mass of which
they did not understand a word. Some rose when others kneeled,
or seated themselves when others stood, And all the actors
in this singular office mixed themselves on the benches in
numberless contrary attitudes. The Star of Christmas, on its journey
through the heavens yonder by the little manger, paled with
astonishment at the confusion. The Abbe is in a dreadful hurry.
I can't follow him at all, said the ancient dowager,
shaking her head dress with bewilderment. Master Arnoton, his great
steel spectacles on his nose, searched in his prayer book
where the deuce the words could be. But after all,
that gallant host, which itself was thinking only of the feast,
was far from being vexed, because the mass rode post.
And when balaguere with beaming countenance, turned towards the assembly,
crying with all his might, ite Mitaieste with single voice,
they returned Deogracius, so joyously, so fervently, that one might
have thought them all ready at table, responding to the
first toast of the night. Three five minutes later, the
crowd of seigneurs was seated in the grand dining hall,
the chaplain in the midst of them. The chateau illuminated
from top to bottom, echoed with songs, cries, laughter, uproar,
and the venerable Don balaguere planted his fork in the
wing of a wood hen, drowning the remorse of his
sin under flouds of wine of the Pope and the
sweet juices of the meat. So much did he eat
and drink that the poor holy man died in the
night of a terrible attack of sickness, without having even
time to repent. Then near morning he arrived in heaven,
with all the savor of the feasts still about him.
And I leave you to imagine how he was received.
Retire from my sight, evil Christian, said the sovereign judge,
Thy fault is dark enough to efface a whole life
of virtue. Na Thou hast robbed me of a mass
to night, thou shalt pay me back three hundred in
its place, And thou shalt not enter into paradise unless
thou shalt have celebrated in thy proper chapel these three
hundred Christmas masses, in the presence of all those who
have sinned by thy fault, and with thee This, then,
is the true legend of Don Valaguire, as they tell
it in the land of Olives. To day, the Chateau
of Trincolaga is no more, but the chapel still stands
erect on the summit of Mont Vanteut, in a grove
of green oaks. The wind beats its disjointed portal, the
grass creeps across its threshold. The birds have built in
the angles of the altar, and in the embrasures of
the high windows. Whence the colored panes have long ago vanished.
But it appears that every year at Christmas a supernatural
light runs about these ruins, and that in going to
mass or feast, the peasants see the chapel illuminated by
invisible candles which burn brightly even through the wind and snow.
You may laugh if you will, But a vine dresser
of the neighborhood named Gary Eager, without doubt, a descendant
of Garigul, has assured me that one Christmas night, finding
himself a little so soish, he became lost on the
mountain beside Trincolaga. And behold what he saw at eleven nothing.
All was silent, dark, lifeless. Suddenly, towards midnight a chime
sounded up above from a clock, an old, old chime
which seemed six leagues away. Pretty soon on the ascending road,
garig saw lights trembling in the uncertain shadows under the
porch of the chapel. Somebody walked, somebody whispered, good evening,
Master on it, on good evening, good evening, my children.
When the whole company was entered, my vine dresser, who
was exceedingly brave, approached stealthily, and peeping through the broken door,
saw a strange spectacle. All those who had passed him
were ranged about the choir in the ruined nave, as
if the ancient benches still existed, Beautiful dames in brocade
with crofts of lace, seigneurs be dizzened from top to toe,
peasants in flowered jacket like those of our grandfather's, everything
with an ancient air, faded, dusty, worn out. Now and
then the night birds, habitual dwellers in the chapel, awakened
by all these lights, winged about the candles, whose flames
mounted straight and vague, as if they burnt behind gauze.
And what amused Garig most was a certain personage with
great steel spectacles, who shook at each instant his high
black peruke, on which one of the birds had alighted
and entangled itself, silently beating its wings. At the farthest end.
Speaker 2: A little old.
Speaker 1: Man of boyish size on his knees in the midst
of the choir, pulled desperately at the chimeless and silent bell,
while the priest, attired in ancient gold, went and came
before the altar, reciting orisons of which one heard not
a single word. Surely that was dom Balaguire in the
act of saying his third Low Mass, end of the
three Christmas Masses by Alphons Daudet