_A Cathedral Pilgrimage.—Visit to a French Country House.—Madame
Blanc.—Cathedrals of Rheims, Chartres, Rouen, Beauvais,
Amiens.—English Hospitality.—Visit to Florence Nightingale._
IN the summer of 1902 my husband was badly out of health. It was decided
that we should try a trip to Europe in the hope that the complete change
of thought and scene would be beneficial to him. I had been on the point
of going abroad with the family in 1867, and again toward the end of the
century, when it was planned that I should bring my mother back from
Rome. This was the first time, however, that I was to cross the ocean
“in the flesh.” To me, Europe had always seemed a fairy-land of romance.
I was delighted at the mere thought of going there. My husband, on the
contrary, was quite indifferent about it. This was perhaps owing to his
state of health. The task of parting him from his business proved
extremely difficult. Like many conscientious persons, he felt that he
simply could not leave the matters to which no one else could, in his
opinion, properly attend. Fortunately, our daughter Caroline was going
with us. With her help we managed to get off, but the final wrench was
terrific! No sooner had the good ship _Zeeland_ sailed than a complete
change came over the spirit of his dreams. He enjoyed every moment of
our trip; indeed, we both did. “Darby and Joan on their travels” were
like two middle-aged but very happy children.
To our delight, Mr. and Mrs. Larz Anderson, the latter an old friend of
my daughter, proved to be among the passengers. We all sat at a table
together, Miss Susie Dalton making the sixth of a merry party. I suspect
that the Andersons ordered special cakes and ale, for the table had the
most delightfully decorative appearance. They certainly treated us to
champagne, which is well known to be a preventive of seasickness.
The only drawback to our joy in Antwerp was the constant striking of the
cathedral chimes. Every rose has its thorns and every cathedral has its
bells, but all do not keep up their music through the live-long night.
We consoled ourselves by the remembrance that Thackeray also suffered!
The old houses especially charmed us wherever we went. The quaint
Flemish dwellings with the rope and pulley at the top explained to us
why the French attics are called _greniers_ or granaries.
A visit to the house of Mrs. George R. Fearing at Fontainebleau gave us
a delightful glimpse of French country life. Even the name of the street
where she lived, “rue de l’Arbre Sec,” had a promise of romance. Here we
found “modern conveniences” and charming hospitality combined with the
setting and atmosphere of a French country house. This kind friend had
lived so long in France as to become thoroughly acclimated. Indeed, she
did not return to America until the sound of the cannon at her gates in
the battle of the Marne drove her from her beloved France.
The family came together at twelve o’clock, for an excellent luncheon,
followed by coffee in the garden. Here the lofty walls gave us a
delightful feeling of privacy, even though we were living in the midst
of a small town. The European use of the garden as an annex to the house
is so eminently reasonable that one can hardly understand why its
introduction has been so fiercely fought in our own country.
In our friend’s garden, as everywhere in France, the combination of
beauty with economy delighted us. Who but the French would think of
using spinach as a border to the flower-beds?
At three o’clock came the daily drive into the wonderful forest, with a
visit to some spot of interest. Our thoughtful hostess always provided a
_goûter_ of bread and chocolate, our funny old driver taking his at a
little distance apart. When we visited quaint Barbizon, we munched our
_goûter_ under the shadow of the monument to its great artists. On our
return we dined at seven, and so the pleasant day ended.
Among the villages on the borders of the forest, Moret, with its
ancient, turreted gates and factory of beautiful chinaware, is
especially charming. The dear old church, fast falling into decay, wrung
our hearts. “Darby” was a zealous Protestant, but he felt it right to
drop something in the “_tronc pour la restauration de l’église_.” Alas!
one does not like to think of the decay that must, during the present
war, have overtaken many of these beautiful old wayside churches.
As the lovely Palace of Fontainebleau was almost at our door we had
excellent opportunities of becoming acquainted with it. It is especially
satisfactory to the tourist, because the rooms still retain the old
artistic furniture. When wandering through them you seem to catch a
glimpse of the vanished past with its grandeur.
When the time came for us to leave Fontainebleau and start on our
pilgrimage, we felt very much like elderly Babes in the Wood, for
Caroline was to stay behind with Mrs. Fearing. She had fortified us,
however, with much advice. We were especially cautioned to observe her
instructions as to the proper amount of the _pourboire_, in order that
the hack-drivers might perceive us to be, not perhaps exactly natives,
but persons of knowledge who could not be easily imposed upon.
We each brought certain modest talents to our combined stock as a
company of adventure. Darby had the splendid quality of enthusiasm and
an intense love of the beautiful. He had also a power of orientation
most surprising to his partner. He always knew east from west; with
guide-book and map in hand, he could perform the most marvelous feats of
going about in strange places. Joan felt it to be an unnecessary fatigue
to bother your head about direction when you could take an omnibus
marked with the name of the place you wanted to visit. If there wasn’t
any omnibus you could hire a cab, and the driver always knew where to
go!
She contributed to the common stock a knowledge of French that enabled
her to understand the spoken word and to speak it herself—with some
pauses. Being of a hopeful disposition, she had a sublime confidence
that everything would go right, in spite of appearances. This proved to
be a good traveling companion, although it did give us some anxious
moments in the matter of catching trains. For your optimist is apt to
cut her time allowance short. Darby, who went abroad for nerves, felt
positive we never could catch that train, but we always did!
It was our great delight to go about on the top of an omnibus. Darby
would carry all his worldly goods with him, so that it was necessary for
Joan to sit always on his right or pocketbook side. His agony was great
when a suspicious-looking character sat down next to the pocketbook. We
did see a few ferocious-looking men who reminded us of the French
Revolution.
Darby’s indifference toward the Old World changed rapidly into a chronic
state of enthusiasm. We were indifferent to shops, and the season was
late for theater-going. Our great pleasure lay in looking up old houses
and monuments of the past, as well as in visiting the many museums,
picture-galleries, and churches which make Paris the most wonderful city
in the world.
A visit to Madame Henri Blanc (Thérèse de Solms Bentzon), well known for
her writings in the _Revue des Deux Mondes_, was among the pleasures of
my stay in Paris. Either I was a little early in arriving at her
apartment or my hostess was a trifle late. She soon came in, however,
and entertained me with afternoon tea, the adorable little French cakes,
and her own interesting conversation. After a little preliminary
maneuvering for position, we settled down into the French language,
Madame Blanc assuring me, with true Gallic politeness, that my French
was better than her English.
I was very glad to have an opportunity to hear her express her opinions
unhampered by a foreign language.
Madame Blanc had much to say on the subject of flirtations, of which she
greatly disapproved. It was evident to me that, using the word in a
graver sense than we do, she somewhat misjudged our American
flirtations. Yet how difficult it is to explain to a foreigner our
lenient view of what appears to her a dangerous pastime! She doubtless
thought of these as a careless trifling with affairs of the heart on the
part of married women. A Frenchwoman cannot fully understand the meaning
of the half-playful, usually quite harmless, flirtations of our young
girls, because their position and freedom of action are incomprehensible
to her. Yet, as Madame Blanc was the translator of American romances and
as she had paid especial attention to our life and manners, her opinions
deserve careful consideration.
When I saw her in 1902 Madame Blanc was of fair complexion, gray-haired,
and rather stout. She was dressed in black, with no pretensions to
coquetry. In fact, she was frankly a middle-aged Frenchwoman.
My husband had certain rooted prejudices in the dietary line which were
not easily overcome. Thus to rabbit he bitterly objected.
Caroline and I one day found him in the midst of an animated altercation
with the waiter. The latter had, he suspected, brought him the odious
_lapin_, which he wished instantly exchanged for something else. The
waiter vainly tried to point out that of the two “meats” he was entitled
only to one. He had not only chosen _lapin_, but, like Proserpine, he
had tasted of the fatal dish. The waiter doubtless considered the
complaint to be of the _lapin_ as _lapin_. That it was a perfectly good
rabbit he stoutly maintained. _It was an intense international moment!_
Caroline deftly straightened out the tangle and soothed the injured
feelings of the waiter.
We were so fortunate as to see Mounet-Sully in “œdipus.” The formalism
of the play, the archaic device of having the story related by the
chorus, caused Darby to sniff during the first part of the performance.
Darby was extremely fond of the theater, especially of Shakespeare’s
plays. When the climax of “œdipus” was reached in the last act, his
Puritan self-control gave way. In his enthusiasm he shouted, “Bravo!
bravo!” This sudden flaming forth of American admiration for the great
actor surprised the quiet French people—strangers to us—who had seats in
our box.
In Antwerp we had admired the cathedral, in spite of the somewhat hybrid
character of its architecture. Within, the stalls for the clergy and
choir—forests of lovely carved wood—were a perfect revelation to us. In
Paris the Cathedral of Notre Dame especially delighted us. Henceforth
our trip, while it had many interesting side features, became in truth a
cathedral pilgrimage. We became perfectly infatuated with the beauty and
the grandeur of these wonderful dreams in stone, the finest buildings in
the world erected since the days of the Parthenon.
The height of the French cathedrals is astounding. As we stood in the
matchless nave of Amiens and looked up one hundred and forty clear feet
to the vaulting far above our heads, we could hardly believe that it was
made of stone. How could such a weight be sustained?
We had such faith in its stability, however, that here and in other
cathedrals we walked about in a sort of vast attic between this stone
vaulting and the outer roof. The young French girl who guided us was as
nimble as a goat. She seemed to have no fear of falling in places where
I stepped with fear and trembling.
It was a slight shock to find that the famous spires of Chartres are not
alike, having been built at different periods, yet they are held to be
unsurpassed in France. The older one is much simpler than its younger
brother. We had been delighted with the stained glass of Notre Dame in
Paris, and we had enjoyed—with some reservations—that of the
Sainte-Chapelle. But the windows at Chartres were a revelation. They
were like gleaming jewels on an enormous scale, wonderful, wonderful to
behold. The deep-blue tones I especially remember. The windows in the
clearstory of the nave are very beautiful, the superior height of the
French cathedrals making these much larger and more beautiful than the
corresponding windows in the English minsters. In the latter the choir
is often fenced off from the nave by an ugly jube, or rood screen,
surmounted by an organ, instead of being left open, as in France. The
reason of this difference is that the French churches were built by the
people, in an almost literal sense, for they not only gave money, but in
some instances actually hauled the great blocks of stone in their pious
zeal. Hence the French people rightly felt that these splendid buildings
belonged to them.
At Chartres it makes one’s heart ache to see that the exquisite lacework
in stone of the choir screen is broken in a number of places, though
still most beautiful. The great triple porches, with their portals
fairly crowded with sculptured figures, delighted us. Even the layman
can see that the quaint, exaggerated elongation of the statues serves a
definite architectural purpose.
At Beauvais we visited the famous tapestry-works and saw the workmen
carrying on their craft. Each held a little mirror in his lap, showing
the right side of the texture, the wrong, on which he wrought, being
turned toward him. Their hands looked white and soft like a woman’s.
Beauvais has its heroine, who seems to be little known outside the
limits of the town. When Charles the Bold of Burgundy attacked the place
the inhabitants defended it successfully, the women helping. In the
market-place stands a statue of Jeanne Lainé, or Hachette, the heroine
of the fight. The banner which she captured with her own hands is still
preserved.
It seems fitting that the boldest and highest flight of Gothic
architecture should have been attempted in a place with such traditions.
Alas! The result proved that it is best not to be overbold. The
Cathedral of St. Pierre was and is a magnificent fragment, for it was
never finished. When the noble and beautiful spire fell, five years
after its completion, on Ascension Day, 1573, it was said that with it
fell the pointed style in France.
We reached the Cathedral of Beauvais in time to witness a procession in
honor of the Virgin’s Assumption. It was pleasant to see the townspeople
thus making active use of their “enormous, though ill-proportioned and
yet magnificent, church.”
We entered by the south transept, which is most beautiful and
impressive. Standing before it, one does not see that the nave is
wanting; one only admires a vast structure, richly carved. We found the
choir made beautifully light and bright by its three lofty stories of
stained glass. The building gives one no sense of repose, for in the
desire to realize the vast height the eye constantly follows the course
of the colossal piers as they rise up, up, up in the air. Alas! various
scaffoldings erected in the interior to strengthen weak parts give one a
feeling of insecurity.
From certain points of view, the Cathedral of Beauvais looks like a
stranded monster of the past. Its vast height is exaggerated by the lack
of a nave, making it appear high-shouldered and out of proportion. Yet
other views of it are so beautiful and so impressive that we felt well
repaid for our trip.
Before the year 1914 we thought of Rheims Cathedral as the most
beautiful of the great sister churches of France. Now we think of her as
of a loved one no longer living. We cannot speak her name without
sorrow, for the crown of martyrdom has been added to her other glories.
We were so anxious to see as much as possible of the cathedral that we
took rooms in the hotel opposite it. From our windows we looked directly
out at the wonderful façade. There was one terrible drawback, however,
to our proximity to the cathedral. We were awakened at about five in the
morning by a loud and persistent ringing of the bells of the great
church. The repetition of the same tone over and over again, several
hundred times, drove Darby almost to distraction. Later we learned that
it had been the custom to ring this tocsin at this time for four or five
hundred years! What a comment on the industry of the place, and indeed
of the French people generally!
We viewed the building from many points, noting the wonderful way in
which the beautiful features of the structure echo from one part to
another till they reach the highest pinnacle and vanish into the
heavens, as the great church itself has now vanished, all but a few
ruins. Perhaps it has again taken shape there. May we not hope to see
its image, etherealized, in the Celestial City?
As to the façade, in these stirring days of the twentieth century it is
splendid to think of it as the unsurpassed and unsurpassable triumph of
democracy! For it was owing to the popular ownership of these buildings
in France that the façade, or people’s end, became so wonderfully
developed. For the same reason the French cathedrals stand in the
streets of the town, always readily accessible to the people. Whereas
the great English churches are shut away in closes, indicating the more
aristocratic and exclusive rule of the clergy.
Darby irreverently observed that the English clergy in the cathedrals
seemed as snug as mice in a cheese!
We saw many beautiful doorways in France, both in cathedrals and in
smaller churches, but none can compare with those of Rheims. Their shape
is of very great and peculiar beauty. These vast arched portals curve
inward and downward almost like a cup.
I had some talk with the workmen engaged in making the restorations.
These are imperative, as without them the cathedrals would go to decay.
Rheims is built of a beautiful yellowish-brown material, but the stone
is too soft to wear well. The repairs were made in a spirit of
reverence. The method we found surprising. In reconstructing a pinnacle
they build it up into the form of a single block of stone, and then
carve it as a sculptor carves a statue out of a block of marble.
Late one August afternoon we stood before the lofty portals. I fancied
the great figures near their base—the rows of saints—grew more lifelike
in the twilight, as if preparing to step down from their niches. As
evening fell the army of figures carved in stone seemed to give the
cathedral a human look. They were almost alive in the twilight. What
tales of the centuries were they prepared to tell us, these dumb
witnesses of many a grand pageant and of the coronation of the kings of
France for more than six hundred years! Did they feel a glow of national
pride when the Maid of Orléans brought the recreant Charles VII hither
to be crowned and achieved her greatest triumph under that vast roof?
The summit of our pilgrimage of joy had now been reached; after this
there was a gentle descent to glories still great, but lesser than the
five supreme examples of Gothic art we had already seen. To be sure, the
Abbey Church of St. Ouen at Rouen is thought the most beautiful thing of
its kind in Europe. We should have been only too happy to enjoy it as it
stood, without criticism, save for one sad fault. The western facade—the
glory of our other cathedrals—is very disappointing, for it is modern,
and looks so! Indeed, it seems cheap and commonplace. It was built by
Viollet-le-Duc, who did not adhere to the original plans, _which still
exist!_
We admired greatly the façade of the Cathedral of Rouen, with its
wonderful decoration. Monet has made a series of lovely paintings of it.
We realized, however, that there was a distinct descent from the
earlier, nobler, and more reserved monuments of Gothic art. It lacks the
tremendous sincerity of these.
Ascending the towers of the various cathedrals we found a mystic and
sometimes an alarming task. If a guide went with us, well and good, but
often he trustingly left us to our own devices. Evidently we could not
run away with the tower. A sacristan, however pious, is, after all,
human, especially as to his legs. No matter how aspiring his soul, his
frame cannot endure an infinite number of ascensions in the company of
successive squads of tourists. So he often pressed a lighted taper into
the hands of Darby, receiving in return a franc or so. Round and round
the dark spiral staircase we wound our way, stepping always on the damp
stones worn by the feet of countless pilgrims of the centuries. We could
see but a short way before us. Suppose pickpockets or cutthroats were
lurking around the next turn of the winding stairway, what could we do?
Fortunately, we never met any one more alarming than tourists like
ourselves, who passed us without hostile demonstrations.
Our stay in France had been a period of enchantment. When we reached Le
Havre and embarked for England we began once more to touch the ground of
real life. When every one about you speaks your language there is an end
of the wonderful mystery that seems to encompass the traveler on foreign
soil.
Things in England were not like things in America, but both were prose,
whereas in France all had been poetry. The universal provisions against
rain of course amused us—the reversible seats on the tops of the
omnibuses, the rubber trousers which the policemen calmly folded up and
laid, when not in use, at the feet of the lions of Trafalgar.
The cathedrals were beautiful, but we missed the soaring height of their
French sisters. The English cathedrals are not true Gothic, like those
of northern France, neither do they possess the wonderful wealth and
variety of ornamentation of the latter.
At Plymouth we had the great pleasure of staying in an English country
house, our hosts being Colonel and Mrs. Dudley Mills. Here we found the
true British hospitality which is so delightful. The fact that some
one—either your host or his myrmidons—is constantly thinking of your
comfort is certainly pleasant. Cans of hot water, brought constantly to
your door, are not so convenient, in reality, as faucets, but they add a
personal and human touch, like the open-grate fires which some one must
constantly tend!
The Devonshire clotted cream we especially liked. Also, after our
continental experience, it was refreshing to see church floors actually
washed!
To have Devonshire designated in the newspapers as the “West” of England
seemed very funny. It had not occurred to us that the country was large
enough to have any “West”!
Nothing in England impressed me more than the sculptures from the
Parthenon in the British Museum. Not even the incongruity of their
surroundings, in a bare, stuffy room, can mar their wonderful beauty.
The grace of the recumbent figures in their marvelous drapery, the heads
of the horses of the setting sun, the pageant of the Panathenaic
procession, all the figures so stately, yet so graceful—truly the ruins
of Greece are more glorious than any sculpture the modern world can
show!
People said that it would be impossible for me to see Florence
Nightingale, then a confirmed invalid living in extreme retirement.
But I felt confident that for the sake of her old friends, my parents,
as well as for my own, she would receive her goddaughter if her health
permitted. It was more than fifty years since she had written, “I shall
hope to see my little Florence before long in this world,” and the time
was growing short.
She had said, too, she trusted a tie had been formed between us which
should continue in eternity: “If she is like you I shall know her again
there without her body on, perhaps the better for not having known her
here with it.”
With the extraordinary promptness characteristic of the London post, a
reply to my letter came from Miss Nightingale’s secretary, appointing a
time for me to call.
Our landlady tried to impress upon me the greatness of the privilege
thus granted. Like all her countrywomen, she greatly admired Florence
Nightingale, although, with the curious British reserve, the expression
of her admiration was to be mortuary only.
“When she dies I shall send her a funeral wreath!” quoth Miss X. She
also specified that the price was to be five dollars, if I remember
aright.
Miss Nightingale’s house at 10 South Street, Park Lane, was in Mayfair,
the aristocratic quarter of London. There was nothing especially
striking about the quiet and commodious dwelling, with its air of
dignified simplicity and retirement so well befitting the quiet tastes
of its noble-hearted mistress. Florence Nightingale’s dislike of
ostentation is well known. To serve her fellow-men and to relieve
suffering was the ruling passion of her life, but she always shunned
publicity, save as it might be necessary for the accomplishment of her
work.
Upon my arrival I was met by a young lady, Miss Cochrane, who was, I
presume, the secretary. She told me that Miss Nightingale had been
interested in my letter and would enjoy seeing me. But she warned me not
to stay long and to leave if my hostess seemed tired. Presently the
nurse called me, and we ascended some flights of stairs till we reached
a large pleasant room where I was ushered into the presence of Florence
Nightingale. She was reclining in bed, propped up by pillows. A soft
woolen shawl was around her shoulders. Her gray hair, still thick and
not so white as that of most persons of her age (eighty-two), was parted
in the middle and brushed smoothly down on each side beneath a plain
cap. Her features were strong, the nose slightly aquiline, the eyes
bright, apparently gray. She reminded me of Ralph Waldo Emerson in a
certain shrewd and kindly look which seemed to betoken a strong sense of
humor. Her complexion was good, her color also, with something of the
English ruddiness. Her voice was strong and full, an unusual thing in a
person of her age. A pad and pencil lay beside her, with which she made
some notes in the course of our talk.
“What a dear old lady!” I said to myself as I looked at her. I had been
warned that I must myself do the greater part of the talking, as it
would not do to fatigue my distinguished hostess. In her _Notes_ _on
Nursing_ she gives these vigorous and sensible hints for just such a
visit as I was making.
Do you who are about the sick or who visit the sick, try and
give them pleasure, remember to tell them what will do so. How
often in such visits _the sick person has to do the whole
conversation_.... A sick person does so enjoy hearing good
news—for instance, of a love and courtship while in progress, to
a good ending.
(How glad I am to think that I had the sense to tell her two of my sons
had taken wives unto themselves. “I am glad they are married,” said the
dear lady.)
A sick person also intensely enjoys hearing of any _material_
good, any positive or practical success of the right. He has so
much of books and fiction, of principles and precepts and
theories; do, instead of advising him with advice he has heard
at least fifty times before, tell him of one benevolent act
which has really succeeded practically—_it is like a day’s
health to him_.
Instead of repining at her enforced inactivity and grieving over her
sufferings, like the usual egotistical invalid, this glorious soul found
its health and strength in hearing of the good works of others! What
wonder that her presence was like a benediction! People said to me
afterward:
“Is she alone in her old age?”
“Whom has she with her?”
It was evident that she was shielded and tended with thoughtful care and
kindness. One could not associate the idea of loneliness with her,
although she had survived most of her contemporaries and near relatives.
Perhaps a glorious but invisible company made that quiet room so bright
and cheerful!
It need scarcely be said that I would have much preferred to have her
take the lead in conversation, but, since this could not well be, I
endeavored to tell her things she would like to hear. Miss Nightingale
was up to date and interested in the questions of the day. We talked of
many things and she was a most sympathetic listener. The questions she
asked showed what close attention she paid to the conversation. They
showed also her sound and practical common sense. She had, be it said,
that most important gift, a strong sense of humor. Thus she was
decidedly amused at my quixotic views with regard to the Elgin marbles
in the British Museum. Knowing her interest in Greece (which she visited
in her young days), I ventured to tell her my real thought—namely, that
these ought to be returned to the Acropolis.
“Why do not you suggest this to Parliament?” Miss Nightingale asked.
She wished to know if my husband and I had been long in England, and we
spoke of the various attractions of London.
When I descanted on the horrors of the Tower, with its great display of
weapons for men to kill one another with, she said she, too, thought it
horrible. I expressed the hope that when women had more to say there
would not be so much war. That in my opinion men were afraid to give us
more power, because, although they pretended to think us less clever,
they really thought us more so than themselves and were afraid we would
get the upper hand. Miss Nightingale asked whether I thought the men
considered themselves more clever, and, with a spice of roguishness,
inquired whether I would like to have the upper hand!
She had a way of making a little semi-humorous gesture with her hand,
drawing it back slightly and then bringing it forward again. The fact
that women already had the suffrage in four states of the Union
interested her, and she asked which those were. On hearing that women
voted for President in Colorado, Wyoming, Utah, and Idaho, she asked the
practical question:
“Have _you_ voted for President?”