RHEIMS.
The grandest of all the grand cathedrals in France has been so fully
described elsewhere, that I will not attempt to do justice to the
subject myself. During one of my numerous visits to Rheims, however, it
was my good fortune to enjoy a very rare experience. On the occasion of
President Faure’s funeral, the great _bourdon_ or bell, formerly only
tolled for the death of monarchs, was now heard for the second time
during the Third Republic. Standing under the shadow of that vast
minster the sound seemed to come from east and west, from above and
below, dwarfing the hum of the city to nothingness, as if echoing from
the remotest corners of France. It was no heroic figure now knelled by
the deepest-voiced bell in the country, but in the person of the Havre
tanner raised to the dignity of a ruler, was embodied a magnificent
idea, the sovereignty of the people and the overthrow of privilege.
Never as long as I live shall I forget the boom of that great bell, and
long the solemn sound lingered on my ears.
A few days later the interior of the vast Cathedral echoed with sound
almost as overwhelming in its force and solemnity. A grand mass was
given in honour of the dead President.
In front of the high altar stood a lofty catafalque, the rich purple
drapery blazing with gold. The nave was filled with dazzling uniforms
and embroidered vestments. In especially reserved seats sat the officers
of the Legion of Honour, among these in civilian dress figuring the
honoured citizen of Rheims who has ever retained English nationality,
Mr. Jonathan Holden.
What with beating drums, clashing cymbals, blaring trumpets and pealing
organ, the tremendous vault seemed hardly capacious enough for the
deafening combination of sound. As a relief came the funeral march of
Chopin, the more subdued strains seeming almost inaudible after the
tumult of the moment before. Never surely had plebeian requiem so
imperial!
The rich, artistic and archaeological treasures of Rheims are well
known. I will now describe one or two sights which do not come in the
way of the tourist.
One of these is the so-called “Maison de Retraite” or associated
home for people of small means. The handsome building, with its large
grounds, accommodating three hundred tenants, is neither a hotel nor a
boarding establishment, least of all an almshouse.
Under municipal patronage and support the “Maison de Retraite” offers
rooms, board, attendance, laundress and even a small plot of garden for
the annual sum of £16 to £24 per inmate, the second sum procuring
larger rooms and more liberal fare. Personal independence is absolutely
unhampered except by the fact that the lodge gate is closed at 10 p.m.
As most of the tenants of the home are elderly folks, such a rule is
no hardship. One great advantage of the system is the protection thus
afforded to single women and old people, and the immunity from
household cares. Meals are taken in common, but otherwise intercourse is
voluntary. The French temperament is so sociable, however, and chat
is such a necessity of existence, that we saw many groups on garden
benches, and also in the recreation and reading rooms. When the
number of small _rentiers_ is considered, i.e., men and women of
the middle-class living upon a minimum income, we can understand
the usefulness of this home. I learned that the establishment is
self-supporting, the initiatory expense having been borne by the town
and philanthropists.
We strolled about with one of the managing staff finding the inmates
very sociable; one elderly gentleman invited us to sit down in his bit
of garden, very proud, as he might well be, of all the flowers he had
contrived to crowd into so small a space. We were also welcomed into
some of the neat interiors, these varying in size according to the scale
of payment. The class profiting by this associated home was evidently
that of the small _bourgeoisie_.
Children there seemed to be none, one and all of the tenants being
elderly widows, widowers, bachelors or spinsters. There were, however,
a few married couples, who, if they preferred it, could cook their
own meals at home. For single, middle-class women here was a refuge
answering to the conventual boarding house of the upper classes.
Unmarried women in France are not nearly so numerous as in England,
and I must say they may well envy their English and American sisters
in spinsterhood. An unmarried French lady belonging to genteel society
cannot cross the street unaccompanied till she has passed her fortieth
year, nor till then may she open the pages of Victor Hugo or read a
newspaper. Even in this “Maison de Retraite” special provision was made
for the privacy of single ladies; whether they liked it or not they were
expected to eat in a separate dining room, and meet for social purposes
in a separate salon. As there is no limit to the emotional period and
the age of sentiment, perhaps these safeguards of propriety are not
wholly superfluous.
Of course the economy of such an arrangement is very great. Think of
a respectable fairly-educated young woman getting what good old John
Bunyan calls “harbour and good company,” in other words, all the other
necessaries of life, with society into the bargain, for £16 a year! The
attendance is of course somewhat rough and ready. We saw a stalwart,
rough-haired, rather masculine-looking female setting one of the
dinner-tables with a clatter that would drive the fastidious to
distraction. But the good soul had evidently her heart in her work, and
I dare aver that single-handed she got through as much as three English
housemaids with ourselves. Would such a scheme answer in England? I
doubt it. The Anglo-Saxon character is the reverse of sociable, and
class distinctions are so in-rooted in the English nature that it would
be very difficult to get ten English women together who considered
themselves belonging to precisely the same class.
Furthermore, are there with us many widows or spinsters of the same
class enjoying even such small independent means as the sums above
mentioned? In France, teachers, tradeswomen, female clerks and others,
by dint of rigid economy, usually insure for themselves a small income
before reaching old age. Fortunately habits of thrift are increasing
in England, and our women workers have a larger field and earn higher
wages. I had also the privilege of seeing the great wool-combing factory
of our countryman Mr. Jonathan Holden, for upwards of forty years a
citizen of Rheims. This town has been for centuries one of the foremost
seats of industry in France. Mr. Holden’s chimneys are kept going night
and day, Sundays excepted, with alternating shifts of workmen. All
the hands employed are of French nationality and--a fact speaking
volumes--no strike has ever disturbed the amicable relations of English
employer and French employed. The great drawback to an inspection of
these workshops is the din of the machinery and the odour of the
skins. But there is something that takes hold of the imagination in the
perfection to which machinery has been carried. As we gaze upon these
huge engines, only occasionally touched by a woman’s hand, we are
reminded of man, the pigmy guiding an elephant. We seem conscious,
moreover, of what almost approaches human intelligence, so much of the
work achieved appearing voluntary rather than automatic. The skins reach
Rheims direct from Australia and are here dressed, cleaned and prepared
for working up into cloth. If machinery is brought almost to the
perfection of manual dexterousness, human beings attain the precision of
machinery.
I saw a neatly dressed girl at work whose sole occupation it was to tie
up the wool, now white as snow and soft as silk, into small parcels. The
wool already weighed came down by a little trough, and as swiftly and
methodically as wheels set in motion, the girl’s fingers folded the
paper and tied the string. I should not like to guess how many of these
parcels she turned off in half a minute.