Part 20

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?”

I was obliged to confess that I had not.

Miss Nightingale said that women in America have more authority than they do in England.

She was pleased to hear about the _Woman’s Journal_, giving news of women all over the world. She asked for the address of the paper and wrote it down on the tablet lying beside her.

It was a pleasure to tell this dear lady of the health and vigor of her old friend and contemporary, my mother—that Mrs. Howe read Greek every morning.

That the blind had arranged and successfully carried out a celebration of the centennial of their benefactor and the friend of her youth, Doctor Howe, appealed to her, and she expressed a desire to have a copy of the monograph describing the occasion.

Miss Nightingale’s sense of hospitality would not permit me to leave without partaking of some refreshment. As we sat chatting together, afternoon tea with the usual accompaniments—toast, etc.—was brought for my delectation, all with the immaculate neatness and daintiness so characteristic of the author of _Notes on Nursing_. Miss Nightingale herself took no tea, but a goblet with what appeared like lemonade was brought to her.

So I had the honor of taking tea with one of the world’s greatest heroines! One would never have guessed this from her bearing, however. It was characterized by perfect simplicity and an entire absence of self-assertion. In a word, she had the manners of a true English gentlewoman of high breeding.

She more than once expressed regret that we had so little time for England, owing to a prolonged stay in France. This evidently impressed her, as she recurred to it. She seemed really sorry that we were obliged to leave England so soon, and said we must come back again.

I was indeed reluctant to leave her serene and beautiful presence, but, remembering the caution of the secretary and feeling upon honor, as I had been left alone with my distinguished hostess, I arose in due season to take my leave. I shall not soon forget the sweetness and fullness of the voice in which the dear lady bade me farewell I seem to hear that “Good-by” still ringing in my ears and repeated more than once as a sort of benediction: “Good-by! Good-by!” Her voice was like my mother’s. No sign of age was in its full, rounded tones, wonderful in a woman more than eighty years old.

Thus a beautiful old age, serene and tranquil, fitly crowned her life of most beneficent activity.

“The Lady with the Lamp” who watched over the sick soldiers, flitting from room to room when all others slept, lived to see her work multiplied a thousandfold and spread all over the earth. What wonder that the evening of her days was serene and happy in the thought of so much suffering saved, so much blessing gained to the children of men!

XXII

“WANDER-YEARS”

_Michael Anagnos, His Romantic Yet Practical Career.—Death of My Husband.—Return to New York.—My Daughter’s Exhibitions.—High Bridge, a Quaint Old Jersey Town.—Leader Twelfth Assembly District of Manhattan.—Suffrage-worker at Newport, Rhode Island.—The Delights of Canvassing and Out-of-door Speaking._

ONE morning in the summer of 1906 I took up the newspaper and saw that my brother-in-law, Michael Anagnos, had died in Rumania, after a brief illness.

The news was sad indeed for us; we were attached to him not only for his own sake, but for that of our sister Julia and of our father as well. With his death the close connection which had existed between the Howe family and the Institution for the Blind during nearly three-quarters of a century came to an end. It was the beginning of a new era! The removal of the Institution to Watertown, which shortly followed, emphasized the loss.

South Boston had now become so closely built as to make this change desirable. But my heart felt a dreadful pang at the abandonment of the beloved old Institution, dear to us from a thousand associations—the house where I was born!

The early story of Michael Anagnos was a romantic one. There was the unkind stepmother of tradition and the devoted great-grandmother who brought him up. When, in hunting for birds’ eggs, his thumb was bitten by the serpent already in the nest, this valiant soul bound the wounded member tightly with her gold chain, then sucked the poison from it. If he indulged in some boyish mischief, she would shake her head and say, “Aha! I told the ‘Papa’ he did not duck your head under thoroughly when he baptized you!” (In the Greek Orthodox Church baptism is by immersion.)