St Nicolas by Solange Hando

‘“Close your eyes and go to sleep. Otherwise St Nicolas will walk straight past the house but he won’t stop to leave a present, and don’t forget Père Fouettard, he’ll be there too.”

The dreaded ‘whip man’ was a dark hooded figure, a caricature of Emperor Charles Quint who laid siege to the city of Metz and returned on the Feast of St Nicolas, December 6th, to scare the naughty children. But fortunately we were good, most of the time.

Was it a dream? Was it real? Seconds later, there were footsteps under the window, the front door squeaked ever so gently, my heart thumped but I didn’t open my eyes. Everything was ready, carrot and oats for the donkey, a glass of mulled wine for St Nicolas and our shoes by the fire, polished and cleaned, ready to receive an orange or two and a tangy slice of gingerbread decorated with a bright image of the saint. Next morning, we woke before dawn, rushed barefoot into the kitchen, despite the cold, and unwrapped the prettiest doll or colouring books we had ever seen.

How did a Greek Orthodox bishop, revered in Asia Minor since the 4th-century, come to mean so much to the people of Lorraine?

Following the Arab conquest of Lydia, some 750 years after his death, well meaning merchants from Italy smuggled out his remains to Bari where a cunning knight from Lorraine got hold of a finger fragment, promptly taking it back to the sleepy village of Port on the river Meurthe. A church was built, tales of victorious battles and miracles spread across the land to the Rhine valley and beyond, and pilgrims came in their droves, followed by traders who set up the largest medieval fair in Europe.

Joan of Arc, René II Duke of Lorraine, French King St Louis and his Queen shared the Saint’s blessings with more humble folks: three young maids rescued from a shameful fate, innocent prisoners saved from death and above all, the three little children brought back to life when, in times of great famine, St Nicolas discovered them in a tub in the butcher’s yard, chopped up and salted. So the patron saint of Lorraine became protector of schoolchildren, prisoners and travellers, and young ladies looking for a husband. Kneeling on the ‘good stone’ in the basilica, or on the steps as bells chimed for morning Mass, they knew their wish would come true within a year.

Today Port has been renamed St Nicolas de Port, the kind bishop of Myre claims 65 parishes and the most popular name in Lorraine. Around December 6th, every village and town joins in the festivities.

Monsieur Georges, a retired woodcutter, has been acting St Nicolas for five years. “I’m a true Lorrain,” he says, “born in the hills, and it’s a great honour for me to be St Nicolas, I wouldn’t give my place to anyone else. I love putting a smile on everyone’s face but I’ve had some embarrassing moments. What do you do when a toddler climbs on your lap and pulls your beard or you nearly lose your mitre in a crowd? Well, you hand out some extra sweets.”

It’s a busy time for anyone who volunteers. Draped in full bishop’s attire, leaning on his pastoral crook, St Nicolas visits nursery schools, retirement homes, hospitals, department stores, collects myriad letters and drawings and parades through the streets in a carnival-like procession. The donkey has long been replaced by truck and trailer but, up on his luminous float bearing the Cross of Lorraine, the patron saint looks as benevolent as ever, waving to the crowds while children gaze up at his feet. There are bands and even majorettes, sweets by the bucketful, lots of cheering “Vive St Nicolas”, fireworks and parties, and bright-eyed toddlers transported into a fairytale. Nowadays Father Christmas brings your presents on December 25th, but no one in Lorraine could ever steal the limelight from St Nicolas.

In the foothills of the Vosges, the pretty town of Epinal knows it well. In 1796, Jean-Charles Pellerin set up his famous ‘Imagerie d’Epinal’ here, specialising in religious colour prints sold around the villages by travelling salesmen. Printing has evolved, though some is still done by hand - landscapes and modern art now flourishes alongside fairytales and legends, but visit the print works and it won’t be long before you meet our beloved saint. Wise and colourful, he comes in all sizes, with tub or donkey, children kneeling in prayer, presents by the fireplace, on cards or posters, nursery rhymes or local history books.

“It’s all part of our culture,” explains local historian, Monsieur Cuny, as he signs his latest book on St Nicolas. “In 1477 he granted us victory against the Burgundians and we remained independent for another 289 years. He has been our patron saint ever since. I still remember when he trundled down our road, ringing a bell, on the eve of December 6th, I quickly said my prayers but my brother always hid under the table. It’s more commercialised today, everyone is involved, town council, traders, Church, but that’s good, it keeps the tradition alive.”

As the Feast of St Nicolas draws near, the Moulin Gentilhomme in nearby Nomexy prepares for a busy time. Run by the same family since 1861, the mill produces different types of flour, including a gingerbread mix which finds its way in some of the St Nicolas figures gleaming in every bakery and Christmas market. It’s one of the last traditional mills in Lorraine and its recipe for gingerbread remains secret. “But you can add anything you like,” says Guillemette, “honey, orange juice, dried fruit, though the longer you mix your flour, the finer the gingerbread will be.”

We mixed, tasted and took home some flour to bake and celebrate in style. What would it be like with beer, I wondered, not just any beer, but a traditional beer from Lorraine? So we headed for the old brewery in St Nicolas de Port, now a museum full of copper vats, art nouveau stained glass and images of St Nicolas enjoying the frothy brew. In such good company, we filled our glasses down in the cellar and relaxed for a while before the final celebrations.

Nestling among fields and meadows, all weeping willows and pastel walls mirrored in the river, St Nicolas de Port is a quiet little place like any other, except for the majestic towers of the basilica rising 87 metres above the rooftops. From chapel to ‘Grande Eglise’, the building suffered the vagaries of war throughout the ages but thanks to funds bequeathed by an American lady born in Lorraine, it stands once again as a superb example of Gothic Flamboyant style. Step inside and see its lofty luminous aisles, its 16th-century stained glass, its fine ribbed ceiling and altarpiece, the statue of St Nicolas, the silver reliquary and the ‘Golden Arm’ blessing all who enter. Modern day visitors have included Madame Giscard d’Estaing and the late Queen Mother.

Twice a year, the village buzzes into life as the basilica prepares to honour its patron with almost medieval fervour. Whit Monday celebrates the safe landing of the relics in Bari, while on the nearest Saturday to December 6th, the anniversary of his death, huge crowds gather to pay tribute to their protector. The first procession was held in 1245, as a vote of thanks by the Lord of Réchicourt, miraculously freed during the crusades by St Nicolas.

We reached the church in good time on that cold winter evening but already the pews were packed, people of all ages and walks of life overflowing into the aisles, jostling on the steps, filling every nook and cranny. A wave of excitement passed through the air, the clergy entered in great regalia and as the lights went out, thousands of candles held by worshippers glowed like so many stars. The procession began in clouds of incense, chanting its way along the aisles, everyone joining as it passed. It can take over three hours for the congregation to make its way around the church but no one minds, not even the toddlers perched on their father’s shoulders or the teenagers who only come to church once a year. Statue and reliquary gleam high above the crowds, alongside the crusader’s shackles paraded by page boys and armoured knight. Meanwhile the people of Lorraine and their banner-led Brotherhoods proudly proclaim their loyalty before being anointed with miraculous oil.

“I live in the city,” said the lady at my side, “but I always come here for the procession. It’s not just the religion, it makes me feel good deep down, it reminds me I’m a maid of Lorraine and that’s important.”

I knew what she meant and, with the endless litany still ringing in my ears, I dreamed of those magic days when St Nicolas went from house to house, leaving gingerbread and presents for the children on a frosty December night.