The Martian, journal publié par les soldats américains de l'Hôpital de Mars-sur-Allier , item 21

• November 20, 2017 15:11:14 Thomas A. Lingner

  THE MARTIAN

  Hommes - 36-40

  Chevaux - 8

  Vol. 1. - No. 29.   SUNDAY, March 9, 1919.   Price: 30 centimes

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  MARDI-GRAS 1919
  

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  What has become of the light-hearted France of a few years ago? Where are the numerous fêtes and festivals with their gaiety and pleasure? Mardi-Gras, usually the last word in the joyous abandon of old and young, passed with scarcely a nod of recognition from the merrymakers of other years. Only the children and frivolous youths welcomed the day.

    In other years, before the war came to deprive France not only of much of her youth but also of her never aging spirit, Mardi-Gras was the day of days. Those of us who have seen the Mardi-Gras celebrations in New Orleans with their confetti, lights, streamers and rigolade, their masques and pantomime, have an idea of the merriment. The celebrations at Coney Island, though gay enough, never caught the elusive spirit of the fête. There is something in the northern climate that makes age at play ridiculous and youth constrained.

    Mardi-Gras is the Shrove Tuesday of England, the day of farewell to the lighthearted world of pleasure. On Wednesday, sackcloth was donned, figuratively at least, in all the Christian nations of the world. Hence the name of the French fête, Mardi-Gras or "Fat" Tuesday. It was always the day of unlimited feasting, - a trace of Epicurean philosophy in the Christian doctrine of self-sacrifice. 

    "Alas! the spirit of the day has gone! Oh yes, it will return," says the Frenchman, "après la guerre." Even now they celebrate in Paris and Nice, but the day is a sad thing of shreds and patches. Of course, it will return, otherwise the war will have taken from the people one of their choicest heritages, the ability to throw care to the winds and become young again.

    And so in Nevers, which at best is a provincial town, and where the fête was never as hilarious as in the great cities, there was this year no bal masqué, no gay street processions with torches and lanterns. The portly burghers did not add to their substantial circumferences with feather pillows, nor lengthen their noses with papier-mache cones, nor blow ridiculous tin horns. Many persons expected that after four and a half years of restraint, the holiday spirit would break all bounds. But the young men are still under arms, and in the few months since the end there has not been time to readjust the old and the new.

    But the children reveled, as they will everywhere. Mysterious false faces appeared from no less mysterious haunts, for apparently none were on sale. The stores supplied horns, and parents and American soldiers supplied sous. Then too a cargo of flowers arrived from the south. Here and there a costume could be seen and there were a few Chinese lanterns, and waving golden mimosa. Altogether the scene was gay, but not gay enough, for it resembled too much the juvenile American idea of celebrating Thanksgiving day. Then too it had to end early. The police would not hear of a midnight closing. Nine o'clock was the hour.

    "Next year," say the French, "there will be une grande fête!"

  
  

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