Eighty Years and More; Reminiscences 1815-1897
the distance are the snow-capped Pyrenees, producing a solemn beauty, a
profound solitude. We used to go every evening where we could see the
sun set and watch the changing shadows in the broad valley below.
Another great pleasure here was watching the gradual development of my
first grandchild, Elizabeth Cady Stanton, born at Paris, on the 3d of
May, 1882. She was a fine child; though only three months old her head
was covered with dark hair, and her large blue eyes looked out with
intense earnestness from beneath her well-shaped brow.
One night I had a terrible fright. I was the only person sleeping on
the ground floor of the château, and my room was at the extreme end of
the building, with the staircase on the other side. I had frequently
been cautioned not to leave my windows open, as someone might get in.
But, as I always slept with an open window, winter and summer, I thought
I would take the risk rather than endure a feeling of suffocation night
after night. The blinds were solid, and to close them was to exclude all
the air, so I left them open about a foot, braced by an iron hook. A
favorite resort for a pet donkey was under my window, where he had
uniformly slept in profound silence. But one glorious moonlight night,
probably to arouse me to enjoy with him the exquisite beauty of our
surroundings, he put his nose through this aperture and gave one of the
most prolonged, resounding brays I ever heard. Startled from a deep
sleep, I was so frightened that at first I could not move. My next
impulse was to rush out and arouse the family, but, seeing a dark head
in the window, I thought I would slam down the heavy sash and check the
intruder before starting. But just as I approached the window, another
agonizing bray announced the innocent character of my midnight visitor.
Stretching out of the window to frighten him away, a gentleman in the
room above me, for the same purpose, dashed down a pail of water, which
the donkey and I shared equally. He ran off at a double-quick pace,
while I made a hasty retreat.
On August 20, I returned to Toulouse and our quiet convent. The sisters
gave me a most affectionate welcome and I had many pleasant chats,
sitting in the gardens, with the priests and professors. Several times
my daughter and I attended High Mass in the cathedral, built in the
eleventh century. Being entirely new to us it was a most entertaining
spectacular performance. With our American ideas of religious devotion,
it seemed to us that the people, as well as the building, belonged to
the Dark Ages. About fifty priests, in mantles, gowns, and capes, some
black, some yellow,--with tinseled fringes and ornamentation,--with all
manner of gestures, genuflections, salutations, kneelings, and burning
of incense; with prayers, admonitions, and sacraments, filled the altar
with constant motion.
A tall man, dressed in red, wheeled in a large basket filled with bread,
which the priests, with cups of wine, passed up and down among those
kneeling at the altar. At least half a dozen times the places at the
altar were filled--chiefly with women. We counted the men,--only
seven,--and those were old and tremulous, with one foot in the grave.
The whole performance was hollow and mechanical. People walked in,
crossed themselves at the door with holy water, and, while kneeling and
saying their prayers, looked about examining the dress of each newcomer,
their lips moving throughout, satisfied in reeling off the allotted
number of prayers in a given time. The one redeeming feature in the
whole performance was the grand music. The deep-toned organ, whose
sounds reverberated through the lofty arches, was very impressive.
The convent consisted of three large buildings, each three stories high,
and a residence for the priests; also a chapel, where women, at their
devotions, might be seen at various hours from four o'clock in the
morning until evening. Inclosed within a high stone wall were beautiful
gardens with fountains and shrines, where images of departed saints, in
alcoves lighted with tapers were worshiped on certain days of the year.
Such were our environments, and our minds naturally often dwelt on the
nature and power of the religion that had built up and maintained for
centuries these peaceful resorts, where cultivated, scholarly men, and
women of fine sensibilities, could find rest from the struggles of the
outside world. The sisters, who managed this large establishment, seemed
happy in the midst of their severe and multifarious duties. Of the
undercurrent of their lives I could not judge, but on the surface all
seemed smooth and satisfactory. They evidently took great pleasure in
the society of each other. Every evening, from six to eight, they all
sat in the gardens in a circle together, sewing, knitting, and chatting,
with occasional merry bursts of laughter. Their existence is not, by
many degrees, as monotonous as that of most women in isolated
households--especially of the farmer's wife in her solitary home, miles
away from a village and a post office. They taught a school of fifty
orphan girls, who lived in the convent, and for whom they frequently had
entertainments. They also had a few boarders of the old aristocracy of
France, who hate the Republic and still cling to their belief in Popes
and Kings. For the purpose of perfecting herself in the language, my
daughter embraced every opportunity to talk with all she met, and thus
learned the secrets of their inner life. As Sister Rose spoke English, I
gleaned from her what knowledge I could as to their views of time and
eternity. I found their faith had not made much progress through the
terrible upheavals of the French Revolution. Although the Jesuits have
been driven out of France, and the pictures of Saints, the Virgin Mary,
and Christ, have been banished from the walls of their schools and
colleges, the sincere Catholics are more devoted to their religion
because of these very persecutions.
Theodore, his wife, and baby, and Mr. Blatch, a young Englishman, came
to visit us. The sisters and school children manifested great delight in
the baby, and the former equal pleasure in Mr. Blatch's marked attention
to my daughter, as babies and courtships were unusual tableaux in a
convent. As my daughter was studying for a university degree in
mathematics, I went with her to the Lycée, a dreary apartment in a
gloomy old building with bare walls, bare floors, dilapidated desks and
benches, and an old rusty stove. Yet mid such surroundings, the
professor always appeared in full dress, making a stately bow to his
class. I had heard so much of the universities of France that I had
pictured to myself grand buildings, like those of our universities; but,
instead, I found that the lectures were given in isolated rooms, here,
there, and anywhere--uniformly dreary inside and outside.
The first day we called on Professor Depesyrons. After making all our
arrangements for books and lectures, he suddenly turned to my daughter,
and, pointing to the flounces on her dress, her jaunty hat, and some
flowers in a buttonhole, he smiled, and said: "All this, and yet you
love mathematics?" As we entered the court, on our way to the Lycée and
inquired for the professor's lecture room, the students in little groups
watched us closely. The one who escorted us asked several questions, and
discovered, by our accent, that we were foreigners, a sufficient excuse
for the novelty of our proceeding. The professor received us most
graciously, and ordered the janitor to bring us chairs, table, paper,
and pencils.
Then we chatted pleasantly until the hour arrived for his lecture. As I
had but little interest in the subject, and as the problems were
pronounced in a foreign tongue, I took my afternoon nap. There was no
danger of affronting the professor by such indifference to his
eloquence, as he faced the blackboard, filling it with signs and figures
as rapidly as possible; then expunging them to refill again and again,
without a break in his explanations; talking as fast as his hand moved.
Harriot struggled several days to follow him, but found it impossible,
so we gave up the chase after cubes and squares, and she devoted herself
wholly to the study of the language. These were days, for me, of perfect
rest and peace. Everything moved as if by magic, no hurry and bustle,
never a cross or impatient word spoken. As only one or two of the
sisters spoke English, I could read under the trees uninterruptedly for
hours. Emerson, Ruskin, and Carlyle were my chosen companions.
We made several pleasant acquaintances among some Irish families who
were trying to live on their reduced incomes in Toulouse. One of these
gave us a farewell ball. As several companies of the French army were
stationed there, we met a large number of officers at the ball. I had
always supposed the French were graceful dancers. I was a quiet "looker
on in Vienna," so I had an opportunity of comparing the skill of the
different nationalities. All admitted that none glided about so easily
and gracefully as the Americans. They seemed to move without the least
effort, while the English, the French, and the Germans labored in their
dancing, bobbing up and down, jumping and jerking, out of breath and red
in the face in five minutes. One great pleasure we had in Toulouse was
the music of the military band in the public gardens, where, for half a
cent, we could have a chair and enjoy pure air and sweet music for two
hours.
We gave a farewell dinner at the Tivollier Hotel to some of our friends.
With speeches and toasts we had a merry time. Professor Joly was the
life of the occasion. He had been a teacher in France for forty years
and had just retired on a pension. I presented to him "The History of
Woman Suffrage," and he wrote a most complimentary review of it in one
of the leading French journals. Every holiday must have its end. Other
duties called me to England. So, after a hasty good-by to Jacournassy
and La Sagesse, to the Black Mountains and Toulouse, to Languedoc and
the South, we took train one day in October, just as the first leaves
began to fall, and, in fourteen hours, were at Paris. I had not seen the
beautiful French capital since 1840. My sojourn within its enchanting
walls was short,--too short,--and I woke one morning to find myself,
after an absence of forty-two years, again on the shores of England, and
before my eyes were fairly open, grim old London welcomed me back. But
the many happy hours spent in "merry England" during the winter of
1882-83 have not effaced from my memory the four months in Languedoc.
CHAPTER XXII.
REFORMS AND REFORMERS IN GREAT BRITAIN.
Reaching London in the fogs and mists of November, 1882, the first
person I met, after a separation of many years, was our revered and
beloved friend William Henry Channing. The tall, graceful form was
somewhat bent; the sweet, thoughtful face somewhat sadder; the crimes
and miseries of the world seemed heavy on his heart. With his refined,
nervous organization, the gloomy moral and physical atmosphere of London
was the last place on earth where that beautiful life should have ended.
I found him in earnest conversation with my daughter and the young
Englishman she was soon to marry, advising them not only as to the
importance of the step they were about to take, but as to the minor
points to be observed in the ceremony. At the appointed time a few
friends gathered in Portland Street Chapel, and as we approached the
altar our friend appeared in surplice and gown, his pale, spiritual face
more tender and beautiful than ever. This was the last marriage service
he ever performed, and it was as pathetic as original. His whole
appearance was so in harmony with the exquisite sentiments he uttered,