<h2><SPAN name="Page_337"></SPAN>CHAPTER XXI.</h2>
<h2>IN THE SOUTH OF FRANCE.</h2>
<br/>
<p>Having worked diligently through nearly two years
on the second volume of "The History of Woman Suffrage,"
I looked forward with pleasure to a rest, in the
Old World, beyond the reach and sound of my beloved
Susan and the woman suffrage movement. On May
27, 1892, I sailed with my daughter Harriot on the
<i>Château Léoville</i> for Bordeaux. The many friends who
came to see us off brought fruits and flowers, boxes of
candied ginger to ward off seasickness, letters of introduction,
and light literature for the voyage. We had
all the daily and weekly papers, secular and religious,
the new monthly magazines, and several novels. We
thought we would do an immense amount of reading,
but we did very little. Eating, sleeping, walking on
deck, and watching the ever-changing ocean are about
all that most people care to do. The sail down the
harbor that bright, warm evening was beautiful, and,
we lingered on deck in the moonlight until a late hour.</p>
<p>I slept but little, that night, as two cats kept running
in and out of my stateroom, and my berth was so narrow
that I could only lie in one position—as straight
as if already in my coffin. Under such circumstances
I spent the night, thinking over everything that was
painful in my whole life, and imagining all the different
calamities that might befall my family in my absence.
<SPAN name="Page_338"></SPAN>It was a night of severe introspection and
intense dissatisfaction.
I was glad when the morning dawned and
I could go on deck. During the day my couch was
widened one foot, and, at night, the cats relegated to
other quarters.</p>
<p>We had a smooth, pleasant, uneventful voyage, until
the last night, when, on nearing the French coast, the
weather became dark and stormy. The next morning
our good steamer pushed slowly and carefully up the
broad, muddy Gironde and landed us on the bustling
quays of Bordeaux, where my son Theodore stood
waiting to receive us. As we turned to say farewell to
our sturdy ship—gazing up at its black iron sides besprinkled
with salty foam—a feeling of deep thankfulness
took possession of us, for she had been faithful to
her trust, and had borne us safely from the New World
to the Old, over thousands of miles of treacherous sea.</p>
<p>We spent a day in driving about Bordeaux, enjoying
the mere fact of restoration to <i>terra firma</i> after
twelve days' imprisonment on the ocean. Maritime
cities are much the same all the world over. The forests
of masts, the heavily laden drays, the lounging sailors,
the rough 'longshoremen, and the dirty quays, are
no more characteristic of Bordeaux than New York,
London, and Liverpool. But Bordeaux was interesting
as the birthplace of Montesquieu and as the capital
of ancient Guienne and Gascony.</p>
<p>But I must not forget to mention an accident that
happened on landing at Bordeaux. We had innumerable
pieces of baggage, a baby carriage, rocking chair,
a box of "The History of Woman Suffrage" for foreign
libraries, besides the usual number of trunks and satchels,
and one hamper, in which were many things we
<SPAN name="Page_339"></SPAN>were undecided whether to take or leave. Into
this, a
loaded pistol had been carelessly thrown. The hamper
being handled with an emphatic jerk by some jovial
French sailor, the pistol exploded, shooting the bearer
through the shoulder. He fell bleeding on the quay.
The dynamite scare being just at its height, the general
consternation was indescribable. Every Frenchman,
with vehement gestures, was chattering to his utmost
capacity, but keeping at a respectful distance from the
hamper. No one knew what had caused the trouble;
but Theodore was bound to make an investigation.
He proceeded to untie the ropes and examine the contents,
and there he found the pistol, from which, pointing
upward, he fired two other bullets. "Alas!" said
Hattie, "I put that pistol there, never dreaming it was
loaded." The wounded man was taken to the hospital.
His injuries were very slight, but the incident cost us
two thousand francs and no end of annoyance. I was
thankful that by some chance the pistol had not gone
off in the hold of the vessel and set the ship on fire, and
possibly sacrificed three hundred lives through one
girl's carelessness. Verily we cannot be too careful in
the use of firearms.</p>
<p>Bordeaux is a queer old town, with its innumerable
soldiers and priests perambulating in all directions.
The priests, in long black gowns and large black hats,
have a solemn aspect; but the soldiers, walking lazily
along, or guarding buildings that seem in no danger
from any living thing, are useless and ridiculous. The
heavy carts and harness move the unaccustomed observer
to constant pity for the horses. Besides everything
that is necessary for locomotion, they have an
endless number of ornaments, rising two or three feet
<SPAN name="Page_340"></SPAN>above the horses' heads—horns, bells, feathers,
and tassels.
One of their carts would weigh as much as three
of ours, and all their carriages are equally heavy.</p>
<p>It was a bright, cool day on which we took the train
for Toulouse, and we enjoyed the delightful run through
the very heart of old Gascony and Languedoc. It was
evident that we were in the South, where the sun is
strong, for, although summer had scarcely begun, the
country already wore a brown hue. But the narrow
strips of growing grain, the acres of grape vines, looking
like young currant bushes, and the fig trees scattered
here and there, looked odd to the eye of a native
of New York.</p>
<p>We passed many historical spots during that afternoon
journey up the valley of the Garonne. At Portets
are the ruins of the Château of Langoiran, built before
America was discovered, and, a few miles farther on, we
came to the region of the famous wines of Sauterne and
Château-Yquem. Saint Macaire is a very ancient
Gallo-Roman town, where they show one churches,
walls, and houses built fifteen centuries ago. One of
the largest towns has a history typical of this part
of France, where wars of religion and conquest
were once the order of the day. It was taken and retaken
by the Goths, Huns, Burgundians, and Saracens,
nobody knows how many times, and belonged, successively,
to the kings of France, to the dukes of Aquitaine,
to the kings of England, and to the counts of Toulouse.
I sometimes wonder whether the inhabitants of our
American towns, whose growth and development have
been free and untrammeled as that of a favorite child,
appreciate the blessings that have been theirs. How
true the lines of Goethe: "America, thou art much hap<SPAN name="Page_341"></SPAN>pier
than our old continent; thou hast no castles in
ruins, no fortresses; no useless remembrances, no
vain enemies will interrupt the inward workings of
thy life!"</p>
<p>We passed through Moissac, with its celebrated
organ, a gift of Mazarin; through Castle Sarrazin,
founded by the Saracens in the eighth century; through
Montauban, that stronghold of the early Protestants,
which suffered martyrdom for its religious faith;
through Grisolles, built on a Roman highway, and, at
last, in the dusk of the evening, we reached "the Capital
of the South," that city of learning—curious, interesting
old Toulouse.</p>
<p>Laura Curtis Bullard, in her sketch of me in "Our
Famous Women," says: "In 1882, Mrs. Stanton went
to France, on a visit to her son Theodore, and spent
three months at the convent of La Sagesse, in the city
of Toulouse." This is quite true; but I have sometimes
tried to guess what her readers thought I was doing
for three months in a convent. Weary of the trials
and tribulations of this world, had I gone there to prepare
in solitude for the next? Had I taken the veil in
my old age? Or, like high-church Anglicans and
Roman Catholics, had I made this my retreat? Not
at all. My daughter wished to study French advantageously,
my son lived in the mountains hard by, and
the garden of La Sagesse, with its big trees, clean
gravel paths, and cool shade, was the most delightful
spot.</p>
<p>In this religious retreat I met, from time to time,
some of the most radical and liberal-minded residents
of the South. Toulouse is one of the most important
university centers of France, and bears with credit
<SPAN name="Page_342"></SPAN>the proud title of "the learned city." With two
distinguished
members of the faculty, the late Dr. Nicholas
Joly and Professor Moliner of the law school, I
often had most interesting discussions on all the great
questions of the hour. That three heretics—I should
say, six, for my daughter, son, and his wife often joined
the circle—could thus sit in perfect security, and debate,
in the most unorthodox fashion, in these holy
precincts, all the reforms, social, political, and religious,
which the United States and France need in order to be
in harmony with the spirit of the age, was a striking
proof of the progress the world has made in freedom
of speech. The time was when such acts would have
cost us our lives, even if we had been caught expressing
our heresies in the seclusion of our own homes. But
here, under the oaks of a Catholic convent, with the
gray-robed sisters all around us, we could point out the
fallacies of Romanism itself, without fear or trembling.
Glorious Nineteenth Century, what conquests are
thine!</p>
<p>I shall say nothing of the picturesque streets of
antique Toulouse; nothing of the priests, who swarm
like children in an English town; nothing of the beautifully
carved stone façades of the ancient mansions,
once inhabited by the nobility of Languedoc, but now
given up to trade and commerce; nothing of the lofty
brick cathedrals, whose exteriors remind one of London
and whose interiors transfer you to "the gorgeous
East"; nothing of the Capitol, with its gallery rich in
busts of the celebrated sons of the South; nothing of
the museum, the public garden, and the broad river
winding through all. I must leave all these interesting
features of Toulouse and hasten up into the Black
<SPAN name="Page_343"></SPAN>Mountains, a few miles away, where I saw the
country
life of modern Languedoc.</p>
<p>At Jacournassy, the country seat of Mme. Berry,
whose daughter my son Theodore married, I spent
a month full of surprises. How everything differed
from America, and even from the plain below! The
peasants, many of them at least, can neither speak
French nor understand it. Their language is a patois,
resembling both Spanish and Italian, and they cling
to it with astonishing pertinacity. Their agricultural
implements are not less quaint than their speech. The
plow is a long beam with a most primitive share in
the middle, a cow at one end, and a boy at the other.
The grain is cut with a sickle and threshed with a flail
on the barn floor, as in Scripture times. Manure is
scattered over the fields with the hands. There was a
certain pleasure in studying these old-time ways. I
caught glimpses of the anti-revolutionary epoch, when
the king ruled the state and the nobles held the lands.
Here again I saw, as never before, what vast strides the
world has made within one century.</p>
<p>But, indoors, one returns to modern times. The
table, beds, rooms of the château were much the same
as those of Toulouse and New York city. The cooking
is not like ours, however, unless Delmonico's skill
be supposed to have extended to all the homes in Manhattan
Island, which is, unfortunately, not the case.
What an admirable product of French genius is the art
of cooking! Of incalculable value have been the culinary
teachings of Vatel and his followers.</p>
<p>One of the sources of amusement, during my sojourn
at Jacournassy, was of a literary nature. My
son Theodore was then busy collecting the materials
<SPAN name="Page_344"></SPAN>for his book entitled "The Woman Question in
Europe,"
and every post brought in manuscripts and letters from
all parts of the continent, written in almost every
tongue known to Babel. So just what I came abroad
to avoid, I found on the very threshold where I came
to rest. We had good linguists at the château, and
every document finally came forth in English dress,
which, however, often needed much altering and polishing.
This was my part of the work. So, away off in
the heart of France, high up in the Black Mountains,
surrounded with French-speaking relatives and patois-speaking
peasants, I found myself once more putting
bad English into the best I could command, just as I
had so often done in America, when editor of <i>The Revolution</i>,
or when arranging manuscript for "The History
of Woman Suffrage." But it was labor in the cause of
my sex; it was aiding in the creation of "The Woman
Question in Europe," and so my pen did not grow
slack nor my hand weary.</p>
<p>The scenery in the Black Mountains is very grand,
and reminds one of the lofty ranges of mountains
around the Yosemite Valley in California. In 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.</p>
<p><SPAN name="Page_345"></SPAN>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.</p>
<p>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.
<SPAN name="Page_346"></SPAN>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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
<SPAN name="Page_347"></SPAN>images of departed saints, in alcoves lighted
with
tapers were worshiped on certain days of the year.</p>
<p>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
<SPAN name="Page_348"></SPAN>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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
<SPAN name="Page_349"></SPAN>graciously, and ordered the janitor to bring us
chairs,
table, paper, and pencils.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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
<SPAN name="Page_350"></SPAN>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
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