Now the choir, accompanied by muted strings, began to sing softly:
O Little One sweet,
O Little One mild,
Thy Father’s purpose
Thou hast fulfilled.
Hearing the old Christmas lullaby most of the audience expected the next scene to be a tableau of the Nativity. But this Madge Russell was reserving for the end of the pageant. Instead the stage was now in darkness, except for one corner where a soft light shone, coming, it seemed, from the mouth of a cave.
The third verse of ‘O Little One sweet’ faded away, and there was a long silence. The curtains remained open. Then from the darkness and stillness a solo voice, clear and beautiful, was heard:
I sing of a Maiden
That is makèless;
King of all kinges
To her Son she ches.
He came all so still
Where His Mother was,
As dew in April
That falleth on the grass.
Joey sang alone until the end of the second verse; then, during the final sections, the choir and the strings, still muted, joined to weave a gentle background for her singing.
In the hush that followed the curtains were very slowly closed. With dramatic suddenness, the full choir burst into a resounding ‘Gloria in excelsis Deo’ specially composed by Mr Denny; and the curtains parted to reveal a brightly lit tableau of the angels appearing to the shepherds.
This led into the fourth section, beginning with the adoration of the shepherds and the coming of the three wise men from the East — their roles filled with all the majesty they could command by Grizel Cochrane, Vanna di Ricci and Paula von Rothenthals.
During the tableau of the Magi offering their gifts, Joey’s voice was heard once more. This was in Peter Cornelius’s song, ‘Three Kings from Persian lands afar’, where the soloist’s voice makes beautiful embroideries round a chorale, ‘Wie schön leuchtet der Morgenstern’, sustained in harmony by the choir.
It was at this point in the pageant that Miss Durrant and her team of backstage helpers were stretched to the full. For, after the three great kings came other kings and lords and ladies. Beggars too, and cripples. Peoples in the national dress of different lands — here Maria Marani looked particularly striking in the Tyrolean costume that had been a gift from her older sister, Gisela (soon to be Frau Gottfried Mensch, though in the not so distant past the much loved first Head Girl of the Chalet School). Soldiers, sailors and dancers followed. People from medieval times, and from the present day. To the audience it seemed as though the multitudes who have come to worship the new-born babe — from down the ages of history and across the nations of the world — were now arriving to kneel in reverence at the entrance to the cave, before disappearing into the darkness. But still the audience had not been shown the scene within the stable.
The last group to appear represented children of the modern world, and consisted of four Juniors — Thyra and Ingeborg Eriksen, wearing everyday Chalet School garb, the Robin and Amy Stevens in Brownie uniform. They tiptoed over to peer into the cave entrance, their faces intent and solemn.
The curtains closed again, and the instrumentalists began to play. At first the music was quiet, but it grew ever more joyful until, at last, as the curtains parted for the final scene, it swept the audience to their feet and into the singing of ‘Adeste Fideles’:
Oh, come, all ye faithful,
Joyful and triumphant
. . . Oh, come let us adore Him!
The carol rang out and filled the hall with glorious sound.
On the stage were angels, shepherds and kings, medieval and modern men, women and children, people from all nations — all gathered around the manger. The Madonna — Marie von Eschenau had surely never looked more beautiful — gazed with loving eyes into the crib, while Mary Burnett as St Joseph stood protectingly at her side.
During the fourth verse of the ‘Adeste’, the curtains came slowly together, and it seemed for a moment that this must be the finish. But since Mrs Russell and Mademoiselle now sat down again, naturally everyone else did the same. And they became aware that the violin, cello and piano were still playing very softly. The music flowed on, becoming even softer; the rhythm gradually assumed a gently rocking character; very quietly the flute began to play the melody of ‘Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht!’.
And now from the green-room came the choir in their white robes, their candles re-lighted a few moments earlier by Miss Wilson. Singing with almost heart-breaking sweetness, they went slowly up the middle aisle to the hall door. Still singing, they went out through the door and gradually further and further away.
In the hall everyone sat motionless. It seemed almost as though they had stopped breathing. As the singers continued moving into the far distance, the singing died slowly, slowly away, until at last it could be heard no more.
For a long time nobody in the audience moved. At last some, grateful for the covering darkness, began to search for their handkerchiefs. No one there was ever to forget this moment. Through the years to come the melody of ‘Stille Nacht’ would always carry them back to that Chalet School Christmas play. And, very many years later, Patricia was to be reminded of it, in a particularly poignant way . . .
* * *
During the Second World War, Patricia would go one Christmas Day to visit the children’s ward of a big London hospital. The bombing of London was at its height, and several of the children in the ward were air-raid casualties. The hospital staff had done their best to make Christmas happy. And in the afternoon a party of doctors and nurses, gaily dressed and carrying lanterns, came round the wards to sing carols. They invited the children to name their favourite carols and asked if any child would like to sing one as a solo.
A ten-year-old girl, a little Cockney who had lost her leg when a land-mine fell near her East End terraced home, called out:
‘Sister — Sister! I can’t sing for toffee myself, but Trudy, she can sing “Silent Night”. Sing it in German, too! And she does it lovely, Sister, really she does. Oh, Sister, please can she? We’d all like it, wouldn’t we?’
There was a chorus of agreement. And so Trudy (who, although only her paternal grandfather was Jewish, had been forced to flee from Nazi Germany to England, there to fall a victim in one of the German raids) was lifted up on her pillows and sang in a small clear voice:
Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht!
Alles schläft, einsam wacht
Nur das traute hoch-heilige Paar . . .
Patricia listened with bitter-sweet memories. It was due to the German bombing that many of these children must spend Christmas in hospital. Yet, in the midst of adult bitterness and anti-German feeling, what they asked for was a German carol, sung in the German language. Patricia felt tears come into her eyes. The memory of that long-ago Christmas at the Chalet School came back to her with stabbing vividness. She seemed to hear again, as if they were being spoken there beside her, Madge Russell’s words on that far-off day . . .
***
‘We are happy to have had you with us today . . . ‘ Madge’s pleasant low voice seemed to grow out of the silence that followed the play, rather than to break it. ‘Thank you for coming to see our play and for making this Christmas journey to Bethlehem with us. We all, in the Chalet School, would like to wish you a very happy Christmas. We hope that the message of Christmas — good-will and friendship and peace — will always remain with us.’
CHAPTER XXVII.
GOOD-BYE TO THE CHALET SCHOOL.
THAT night after supper a few of the girls, Patricia and Joey among them, were sitting in the common-room. Most of the Chaletians had gone to dance in the hall, taking the Grange House visitors with them. But Patricia had not felt inclined to join the dancing, and Joey had also preferred to remain quietly talking.
Suddenly Patricia jumped up. ‘Oh, Joey! I’ve just remembered those books Mrs Russell lent me. How awful of me not to have returned them! And now I shan’t be seeing her again.’<
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Madge Russell had gone to spend the evening at Le Petit Chalet and had said her farewells to the Grange House party at supper-time.
‘Have you got them here?’ Jo asked.
Patricia nodded. ‘Yes, upstairs in my room.’
‘Oh, well, in that case you’ve nothing to worry about. I thought you might have left them in Munich — or sent them in your trunk to London or something. Tell you what: let’s go up and get them now, then I can give them to my sister tomorrow.’
‘Yes, let’s. And anyway, I’ve got something to tell you.’ Patricia’s voice trailed off, and Joey, much intrigued, followed her out of the room.
They crossed the hall and ran side by side up the stairs. Patricia, with Pamela and Joan, had been put in the little three-bedded room near the Yellow dormitory. She opened the door and, after a moment’s search, found the switch to put on the light. Joey, with uncharacteristic patience, waited outside.
‘Do come in, Jo; it won’t take me a moment to find them, but you might as well sit down.’
Joey hesitated. ‘You see, we’re not supposed to go into other people’s dorms or cubicles,’ she said. ‘Still, I don’t really think your room would count. It’s more like being asked in by one of the staff.’
‘Have a heart, Joey! I’m not even three years older than you.’
‘Well, I only meant that as you’re not a Chalet School girl the rules can’t really apply to you.’ Joey shut the door carefully, then went and perched herself on the end of one of the beds.
Patricia made no reference to the mysterious ‘something’. She had been kneeling on the floor, searching through her overnight case. Now she scrambled up and handed two books to Joey.
‘There you are. Have you read either of them?’
‘Florence Nightingale, quite a long time ago; but not Bernadette. I’m longing to read that one, and Madge said I could borrow it after you; so I s’pose I can just keep it now. Actually, I’ve been wondering why on earth Madge should have — ’ Joey stopped short, looking rather pink.
‘You’re wondering why your sister gave me that particular book to read,’ Patricia said gently.
‘Patricia, I’m terribly sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.’
‘It’s all right; you’re not prying, I know that; and it might help to talk to you about it.’ Patricia dropped down on to another of the beds, facing Joey, and let her long legs swing to and fro. She frowned for a moment in concentration. ‘At first I couldn’t imagine myself what Mrs Russell’s idea had been.’
‘Well, it’s easy enough to see why she thought of Florence Nightingale, but St Bernadette’s story didn’t seem to have much to do with you.’
‘St Bernadette? Oh, but the book’s not about that Bernadette . . . Well, not exactly.’
‘I thought you said in your letter it was about Lourdes?’
‘Well, so it is.’ Patricia stopped for a moment. ‘Look, Jo, you’ll have to read the book for yourself. But the Bernadette of the title is a young French woman, present day more or less, christened after the saint. She’s a cripple, has been from birth, and her family — they’re frightfully poor — have the most awful time trying to save up money to send Bernadette to Lourdes. They’re very devout and they’re quite convinced she’ll be cured at the miraculous shrine.’
‘And is she?’ Jo asked eagerly.
Patricia did not answer the question directly. ‘The book’s written by a friend of Bernadette’s, a much better educated woman. She works for a local paper, and she offers to go with Bernadette to Lourdes; she’s curious to see what happens, and someone has to look after Bernadette on the journey.’ Patricia paused. ‘I don’t think it’ll spoil the book if I tell you more; it’s not like a novel. No, there isn’t a miracle: Bernadette isn’t cured — at least, her damaged hip-joint isn’t cured. But that’s rather the point of the book. The writer friend is so impressed by the difference in Bernadette herself — as a person, I mean — that she decides to give up her job on the paper and she goes back to Lourdes to find out more about everything; especially about other people who’ve been there hoping for miraculous cures.’
‘Does she believe in the miracles?’
‘Oh, no! She doesn’t even believe in God to begin with. But she sees and talks to the pilgrims and the people who work among the sick — she travels all over the place, not only in France — and she questions all sorts of people who’ve been to Lourdes. And she keeps coming back to the same thing: the way so many of them seemed to have gained something. A kind of new strength, I suppose you might call it. Oh, dear, I hope I’m not ruining the book for you — I’m telling it terribly badly.’
‘You mean that even though they weren’t cured, people didn’t mind about it so much?’ Jo asked, her dark eyes very thoughtful.
‘A bit like that, yes. Somehow they seemed better able to live with their difficulties. Oh, I can’t explain properly. You’ll have to find out for yourself. Why, what’s the matter?’ for Joey was now getting to her feet, though with every appearance of unwillingness.
‘Patricia, I’ve just seen the time. It’s Sunday evening, so there’ll be prayers soon, and then — ’
‘Please wait a sec, Joey. It’s nowhere near eight o’clock yet. And there’s something special I — ’
‘Great Caesar’s ghost! You were going to tell me something, weren’t you? How could I forget?’ Jo hurriedly sat down on the bed again. ‘Fire ahead. But you’ll have to be quick.’ She gazed intently at her friend, who seemed suddenly tongue-tied; then burst out, ‘Patricia, whatever have you been plotting? You look all — well, sparkly, somehow! Do tell!’
‘Look — it’s absolutely nothing definite,’ Patricia began slowly. ‘But, remember that day when Liesel cut her hand?’
‘Jolly well, I do. And you were such a brick . . . ’
‘That doesn’t matter,’ Patricia cut in firmly. ‘But it was after that morning that something struck me. I suddenly saw there actually was one person who might be able to talk Mother round. My godfather in Scotland.’
‘You mean the one who gave you the kilt you wore at the dance?’
‘That’s right. Fancy your remembering! Anyway, Uncle Hugo, that’s my godfather, is a rather unusual person. It’s far too long a story. He’s now a professor at Edinburgh University. And while we were in Salzburg, I wrote him a long letter. Telling him everything about . . . ’
‘About your wanting to be a doctor, you mean?’ Joey interrupted breathlessly.
‘Yes. And about Mother being so dead set against it. It was quite a letter, I can tell you — a real effort at the time!’
Joey, remembering that her friend was no letter-writer, could appreciate that. But now, to her astonishment, she saw that Patricia was looking rather amused. ‘You know, Joey,’ she went on, ‘it’s really funny. Because Uncle Hugo could be the most distinguished professor in all the universities of Europe. Mother still wouldn’t listen to a word he said. But it just happens that he’s also the son of a Marquis, and his sister’s married to some Roumanian royalty. That sort of thing really counts with my mother, you know. I think it’s a lot more remarkable that he’s had such a distinguished career, when there wasn’t any need for him ever to work at all. But Mother really is the most awful snob.’ For a moment there was a glimpse of the old Patricia behind the words.
‘So your godfather’s going to sail in and get everything arranged for you?’ Joey was almost bouncing on the bed in her excitement.
‘Steady on!’ Patricia said warningly. ‘You simply must remember that nothing — nothing at all, is definite yet. But I did get a letter from Uncle Hugo the day we were leaving Munich. He’s going to be in London in January, and he’s promised to come and talk very seriously to Mother. The medical school in Edinburgh is world-famous, and he says I could come and live with their family. I don’t think even Mother could say that was what she calls “unsuitable”, do you?’
‘So how soon will you be starting? Right away, or
; . . . ?’
‘Jo, for any sake, you’ll be on the floor in a minute! And, look here, things are not going to change quickly. If they ever do. Uncle Hugo’s quite clear I’ve got to fall in with Mother’s plans and go through with this London season business. But he thinks that, once my mother gets her way over that, then — next summer, perhaps — there’ll be a chance he can talk her round. And, you know, if I’ve got even a shred of hope, I shan’t mind so much going to all the stupid parties and dances.’
‘You never know, you might even enjoy some of them,’ Joey said with an air of worldly wisdom. ‘One thing, though, why on earth did you never think of roping in your godfather before?’
‘Well — I did think of it sometimes. Quite often, in fact. But, you know, until quite recently — till coming here, and that day with Liesel, and visiting the San — oh, and just being here and meeting you all — I never really felt sure, not absolutely certain sure, that I could do it. And, please, Joey! You mustn’t say a thing about this to anyone. Not anyone at all! It’s all far too uncertain. Promise!’
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