In A French Cathedral

By John Vincent Hoey

HIGH on the hill behind Noumea stands the greying stone cathedral of Notre Dame, its four clocks, two to each spire, serving as unofficial time pieces for the town below.

It was an afternoon during Lent when I first wandered into the cathedral, and the wind, howling through the spires out side, seemed to accentuate the mourning and loneliness of the purple-covered statues and tabernacle.

The simple, main altar was guarded by statues of kneeling angels, and lit by a solitary red lamp suspended from the rafters above. Behind and above it, a niche held the statue of St. Joseph holding a lily. A concealed light flung the figure into bold relief and for a brief instant its shadow hovered over the kneeling angels and then was lost in the surround ing gloom. For some unknown reason it was not covered in purple like the others.

This small altar was framed in carved wood set with candles and the walls at either side were painted with massed hollyhocks.

La Petite Fleur, uncovered also, stood alone against a blue background. Among the armful of stone roses there was one real one; a dark, shadowy red.

The flooring was concrete and cracked; the wooden ceiling warped and bulging in places; the walls water-stained.

But one felt that this building was not the cathedral, but merely a shell to hold the quiet reverence and the prayers of the people; that the white-haired, bespec tacled gentleman standing, head bowed, before the picture of Pilate washing his hands; and the aged lady in black, dip ping her fingers into the clam shell at the door, gave the atmosphere and not the lights and candles.

Outside the main entrance was a small box, Pour les Pauvres.

I slipped in a few francs, and, emerging from the precincts of the cathedral, felt the impact of the hot sun and the noise of Noumea. And the mood, the beauty and quiet of that French cathedral vanished.