Part 19

I often asked the principals whether there were any special points they wished mentioned. One lady requested me to speak of mimicry, as she had a pupil much given to it. I willingly did so, quoting from Miss Edgeworth’s story of “The Mimic.” Unfortunately the girl for whom the admonition was especially intended was not feeling well. Either the other girls recognized the culprit or the weight of her own guilt overwhelmed her. I have a dim vision of a youthful figure reclining in an anteroom. I was never asked to speak in that school again!

If I had realized all the pitfalls lurking in the path of the speaker on manners, I should have embarked upon it with a less cheerful heart. But in all professions we learn by doing. To be “the Missionary of good manners” has been a pleasure. The principals have been kind and appreciative hostesses, and I have been truly glad to visit a great number of schools which afforded attractive homes as well as excellent educational advantages to the bright-faced, happy young girls of our country. It has been a privilege to see so much of the flower of young American womanhood.

Ruth McEnery Stewart has described in her inimitable way the treatment of the woman speaker in early days. Many of her experiences were also mine. She apparently preferred to stay with private families, and I certainly did. The cold isolation of a hotel in a small country town, the depressing furniture of the bedroom, the unappetizing menu and service of the dining-room, the chattering drummers in the distance, these were not at all to my taste.

As a guest in a private house one incurs additional fatigue, but this is more than compensated for by the pleasure of meeting and learning to know your fellow-men and women. Is there a little desire for incense in all this? It may be, but there is also a genuine liking for one’s kind. To get a peep into the lives and thoughts of others can hardly fail to be interesting. Your material comforts are also much better attended to in the nest of the average clubwoman than in the leading hotel of the small town. The former gives you the best she has; she does everything in her power to make you comfortable under her roof. The chief danger is that of killing you with kindness by putting you on exhibition through unduly long hours.

To be considered as a being apart is flattering, even though fatiguing. That you are like other women, capable of physical weariness, does not always occur to your kind entertainers. To find that you are to be the chief guest at a large luncheon given in your honor, just preceding your address, is disturbing. At such moments I sympathize with Mrs. Deland’s desire for the barbaric solitude of the hotel bedroom. Again, at the end of an hour, when you’ve done your best to entertain the audience, you would almost prefer not to shake hands with a couple of hundred persons.

Still, it is a pleasure to meet your audience and to hear them say the lecture interested them. You look as animated as you can and try to vary the expression of your voice when you say for the hundredth time, “I’m glad you liked it.” For you are genuinely glad—of that there is no doubt.

I learned ultimately to ask for a time of absolute quiet before speaking. This is more difficult to procure than the uninitiated suppose. It is a maxim with the average clubwoman that the “talent” must be on hand in very good season. Some clubs who are very secret about their affairs put you in a remote waiting-room which may or may not be warm. Others, remembering that you also are a clubwoman and likely to sympathize in their doings, give you a comfortable chair on the platform. As I am thoroughly in sympathy with the club idea and spirit, I like to hear the reports, provided they are not too long. At one enthusiastic club I sat during an hour or more while they thoroughly and conscientiously amended their constitution.

For these reasons the lecturer sometimes weakly desires to delay her coming. She has a subconscious feeling that the program proper cannot begin until she gets there, and that therefore she could take a later train. This proves to be impossible, because of the necessity of personally meeting and guiding the “talent” (who might have the wandering tendencies characteristic of genius) to the right hall. The escort, being herself a member of the club, cannot, without sin, lose any crumb of the afternoon’s performance.

To be obliged to await your turn, in a very cold hall, while another speaker gives an address with stereoscopic illustrations, is not enlivening to the spirits. In spite of the assurance that the first talk will be very brief, you have a dreadful foreknowledge that it will not be. You grow more and more depressed as he goes on and on, for you know full well that your audience will be already wearying before you begin. Those who have no sense of the passage of time should not be expected to divide the program with others. Thomas Nelson Page, when reading his own stories, is as genial and delightful as they are. We went to hear him speak on the literature of the South with the pleasantest anticipations. Richard Watson Gilder and Sister Maud were also to make addresses—or so we hoped. But as Mr. Page went on and on, these hopes faded away. In his amiable desire to do justice to all the writers of his section of the country, he forgot the limitations of time and space. A gentleman in my vicinity became actually savage in his impatience and was with difficulty restrained from violence by his wife. Mr. Page must have spoken for two hours—or so it seemed,—the other speakers’ time being reduced to a few minutes. When we met him next day and complimented him on his address, he naïvely replied, “I could have done better if I could have had more time!”

Mr. Page is by no means the only person whom I have heard offend in this way. Hence the warning-bell of women’s conventions is an excellent institution. The local talent must sometimes be reckoned with. I am very fond of music, but, in my opinion, it is a mistake to present a mixed program, consisting half of concert and half of lecture, to a club audience. Such an occasion is of a mongrel order. A single song may pleasantly preface the literary exercises, but this it is difficult to have.

In the midst of a series of earnest talks on schools as social centers, or on votes for women, to have your train of thought suddenly interrupted by operatic quavers from the local soprano, with accompanying flower presentation, is disturbing.

Marion Crawford was a delightful speaker. It once happened, when we were in Boston, that several of us were to speak on the same day.

“Five of the family are going to make the platform creak to-night!” exclaimed Crawford.

At a lecture course which I arranged in Plainfield he was the great attraction. The talk was given in a hall of pleasant size, not too large to permit a certain intimacy between speaker and audience. Crawford was at his best. Feeling, as a lecturer so quickly does, the interest and sympathy of his hearers, he was as genial and delightful as if he had been talking to half a dozen of us in a parlor. Among those that surrounded him after the address was an enthusiastic lady who declared him to be the equal of Thackeray. The dear fellow deprecated this praise, yet he clearly liked it, as who would not?

Another relative, who wanted him to speak at her house, for a reduced price, did not secure him.

She wished, after the fashion of women, to give her guests a real treat—ice-cream and flowers as well as an address from Crawford—cutting down his fee to pay for the rest of the entertainment. I regret to say that her point of view is quite common among clubwomen. The secretary will naïvely ask you to come for a low price because the ladies wish to give ice-cream to their guests. It does not seem to occur to them that in this case it is the lecturer who pays for the refreshments!

It is—or was, for we will hope the bad custom is dying away—common for clubs to exact, whenever they can, cut prices from their women speakers, on the plea of their small means—and then end up the year with some very expensive man whose fee is _not_ subject to curtailment.

After my mother reached the age of seventy her birthday was always celebrated by family and friends as a joyous occasion. The house was transformed into a veritable bower of flowers, the fitting expression of the beautiful affection by which she was surrounded.

A lady from the West was invited, with her son, to one of these receptions. She endeavored to impress upon him, beforehand, the importance of the occasion when “we shall see all the _élite_ of Boston.” The day was rainy, and in the confusion of many umbrellas, that of the Western couple was mislaid.

“Ah, mother, the _élite_ got the better of us that time!” said her son.

In 1893 we all greatly enjoyed the Chicago World’s Fair, in spite of the fact that I had my pocket picked and that my oldest son had a very serious time with his eyes, which were half-blinded by the glare. My mother was so deeply interested in it, and especially in the parliaments connected with it, that she forgot about her lame knee. When she returned home this took its revenge, depressing her usually buoyant spirits.

Sister Maud, remembering our mother’s perennial interest in women’s clubs, invented the “Papeterie” as a restorative.

Its object, as the name implies, was an exchange of paper-covered novels. The members took these home to read, giving a report at the following meeting. We occasionally had musical, artistic, and dramatic programs. Our most serious undertaking was the writing of a novel, to which each member contributed a chapter. It was full of dash and adventure, but remains buried in the archives of the club. Our great modesty forbade the seeking of a publisher. We had a great deal of delightful fun and nonsense at our meetings. Our mother, with her wit and gaiety, was the moving spirit of the little club. She seldom missed a meeting, but when she did we were like salt that has lost its savor. The merriment which came so easily in her presence, faded and died away!

Some extracts from my minutes as recording secretary are given below, to show as far as may be the spirit of our meetings. Their object was to amuse the company rather than to preserve a strictly veracious record of our doings.

We had no regular fees and dues in the Papeterie, save occasional fines of five cents for some offense, real or imaginary, and assessments for postage or for a new record-book. Hence jests about our treasurer were among our stock jokes. She was christened “butterfly,” owing to her supposed fondness for society.

The first meeting of the renowned Papeterie Club for the season of 1910 was held August 9th, at the house of our President, who occupied the chair, as usual. She has wielded the gavel, OUR gavel, with her accustomed dexterity and grace, rebuking frivolous members with august raps on the table.

The annual report of the Rec. Sec. was read. The Chair suggested in a voice of authority that the proper thing be done by this report, and all voted to do the proper thing. What this was no one mentioned.

The Treasurer’s report was a revelation in High Finance, as follows:

Oct. 19th, 1908. There were five cents—these five cents to be known hereafter as the Lost Chord.

In July, 1909, we began with this Lost Chord—which vanished, leaving in its place $5.61 in October of that year.

There were no expenses except $1.20 for postal cards. Apparently there were no receipts, but somehow the $5.61 has now become $7.36. The third degree was here mercilessly applied to our Butterfly Treasurer, also to the minutes, with the result that it was found $2.75 had been received for special fines. The Papeterie therefore voted NOT to burn the treasurer at the stake as a witch. We should have been under this sad necessity had not this increase in our Treasure been satisfactorily accounted for.

The election passed off with its accustomed serenity. The Club understands so well how to re-elect the old officers, we could really do this in our sleep. The old Board is unanimously murmured into the offices which they will never leave, no never, while life lasts. The only new feature of the election was that our Treasurer, Mrs. Lyman Josephs, nobly consented to act as Cor. Sec. _pro tem._ (in the absence of Mrs. Manson Smith), as well as our eternal and brilliant Treasurer. And yet she has been called a Butterfly.

FLORENCE H. HALL, _Rec. Sec._

In addition to the usual officers of a club, the Papeterie had a “troubadour” (our musical member), an “archiviste” in charge of the archives, and a “penologist.” Our penal code was in the custody of the latter. We had a great deal of fun over the code—but I do not remember the actual infliction of any punishment, except fines of five cents.

The meeting of September 27, 1910, was the last but one held before my mother’s death, in October. Mrs. William Hunter Birckhead, who succeeded me as recording secretary, gave us an interesting account of the “Passion Play” at Oberammergau, and my mother told us of Newport in the old days. It was so sadly deserted after the Revolution that only one lady possessed a diamond ring!

XXI

DARBY AND JOAN ON THEIR TRAVELS

_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.