My First Years as a Frenchwoman, 1876-1879

by Mary King Waddington

Another of my haunts was the Convent and Maison de Santé of the Soeurs Augustines du Saint Coeur de Marie in the rue de la Santé. It was curious to turn out of the broad, busy, populous avenue, crowded with trams, omnibuses, and camions, into the narrow, quiet street, which seemed all stone walls and big doors. There was another hospital and a prison in the street, which naturally gave it rather a gloomy aspect, but once inside the courtyard of the Convent there was a complete transformation. One found one's self in a large, square, open court with arcades and buildings all around—the chapel just opposite the entrance. On one side of the court were the rooms for the patients, on the other nice rooms and small apartments which were let to invalids or old ladies, and which opened on a garden, really a park of thirteen or fourteen acres. The doors were always open, and one had a lovely view of green fields and trees. The moment you put your foot inside the court, you felt the atmosphere of peace and cheerfulness, though it was a hospital. The nuns all looked happy and smiling—they always do, and I always wonder why. Life in a cloister seems to me so narrow and monotonous and unsatisfying unless one has been bred in a convent and knows nothing of life but what the teachers tell.

I have a friend who always fills me with astonishment—a very clever, cultivated woman, no longer very young, married to a charming man, accustomed to life in its largest sense. She was utterly wretched when her husband died, but after a time she took up her life again and seemed to find interest and pleasure in the things they had done together. Suddenly she announced her intention of becoming a nun—sold her house and lovely garden, where she had spent so many happy hours with her flowers and her birds, distributed her pretty things among her friends, and accepted all the small trials of strict convent life—no bath, nor mirror, coarse underlinen and sheets—no fire, no lights, no privacy, the regular irksome routine of a nun's life, and is perfectly happy—never misses the intellectual companionship and the refinement and daintiness of her former life,—likes the commonplace routine of the convent—the books they read to each other in "recreation," simple stories one would hardly give to a child of twelve or fourteen,—the fêtes on the "mother's" birthday, when the nuns make a cake and put a wreath of roses on the mother's head.

The Soeurs Augustines are very happy in their lives, but they see a great deal more of the outside world. They always have patients in the hospital, and people in the apartments, which are much in demand. The care and attendance is very good. The ladies are very comfortable and have as many visitors as they like in the afternoon at stated hours, and the rooms are very tempting with white walls and furniture, and scrupulously clean. The cuisine is very good, everything very daintily served. All day one saw black-robed figures moving quietly across the court, carrying all kinds of invalid paraphernalia—cushions, rugs, cups of bouillon—but there was never any noise—no sound of talking or laughing. When they spoke, the voices were low, like people accustomed to a sick-room. No men were allowed in the Convent, except the doctors of course, and visitors at stated hours.

I spent many days there one spring, as C. was there for some weeks for a slight operation. She had a charming room and dressing-room, with windows giving on a garden or rather farmyard, for the soeurs had their cows and chickens. Sometimes in the evening we would see one of the sisters, her black skirt tucked up and a blue apron over it, bringing the cows back to their stables. No man could have a room in the house. F. wanted very much to be with his wife at night, as he was a busy man and away all day, and I tried to get a room for him, but the mother superior, a delightful old lady, wouldn't hear of it. However, the night before-and the night after the operation, he was allowed to remain with her,—no extra bed was put in the room—he slept on the sofa.

Often when C. was sleeping or tired, I would take my book and establish myself in the garden. Paris might have been miles away, though only a few yards off there was a busy, crowded boulevard, but no noise seemed to penetrate the thick walls. Occasionally at the end of a quiet path I would see a black figure pacing backward and forward, with eyes fixed on a breviary. Once or twice a soeur jardinière with a big, flat straw hat over her coiffe and veil tending the flowers (there were not many) or weeding the lawn, sometimes convalescents or old ladies seated in armchairs under the trees, but there was never any sound of voices or of life. It was very reposeful (when one felt one could get away for a little while), but I think the absolute calm and monotony would pall upon one, and the "Call of the World"—the struggling, living, joyous world outside the walls—would be an irresistible temptation.

I walked about a good deal in my quarter in the morning, and made acquaintance with many funny little old squares and shops, merceries, flower and toy shops which had not yet been swallowed up by the enormous establishments like the Louvre, the Bon Marché, and the big bazaars. I don't know how they existed; there was never any one in the shops, and of course their choice was limited, but they were so grateful, their things were so much cheaper, and they were so anxious to get anything one wanted, that it was a pleasure to deal with them. Everything was much cheaper on that side—flowers, cakes, writing-paper, rents, servants' wages, stable equipment, horses' food. We bought some toys one year for one of our Christmas trees in the country from a poor old lame woman who had a tiny shop in one of the small streets running out of the rue du Bac. Her grandson, a boy of about twelve or fourteen, helped her in the shop, and they were so pleased and excited at having such a large order that they were quite bewildered. We did get what we wanted, but it took time and patience,—their stock was small and not varied. We had to choose piece by piece—horses, dolls, drums, etc.—and the writing down of the items and making up the additions was long and trying. I meant to go back after we left the Quai d'Orsay, but I never did, and I am afraid the poor old woman with her petit commerce shared the fate of all the others and could not hold out against the big shops.

One gets lazy about shopping. The first years we lived in the country we used to go ourselves to the big shops and bazaars in Paris for our Christmas shopping, but the heat and the crowd and the waiting were so tiring that we finally made arrangements with the woman who sold toys in the little town, La Ferté-Milon. She went to Paris and brought back specimens of all the new toys. We went into town one afternoon—all the toys were spread out on tables in her little parlour at the back of the shop (her little girl attending to the customers, who were consumed with curiosity as to why our carriage was waiting so long at the door) and we made our selection. She was a great help to us, as she knew all the children, their ages, and what they would like. She was very pleased to execute the commission—it made her of importance in the town, having the big boxes come down from Paris addressed to her, and she paid her journey and made a very good profit by charging two or three sous more on each article. We were quite willing to pay the few extra francs to be saved the fatigue of the long day's shopping in Paris. It also settled another difficult question—what to buy in a small country town. Once we had exhausted the butcher and the baker and the small groceries, there was not much to buy.

From the beginning of my life in the country, W. always wanted me to buy as much as possible in the town, and I was often puzzled. Now the shops in all the small country towns have improved. They have their things straight from Paris, with very good catalogues, so that one can order fairly well. The things are more expensive of course, but I think it is right to give what help one can to the people of the country. One cold winter at Bourneville, when we had our house full of people, there was a sudden call for blankets. I thought my "lingerie" was pretty well stocked, but one gentleman wanted four blankets on his bed, three over him and one under the sheet. A couple wanted the same, only one more, a blanket for a big armchair near the fire. I went in to La Ferté to see what I could find—no white blankets anywhere—some rather nice red ones—and plenty of the stiff (not at all warm) grey blankets they give to the soldiers. Those naturally were out of the question, but I took three or four red ones, which of course could not go in the guests' rooms, but were distributed on the beds of the family, their white ones going to the friends. After that experience I always had a reserve of blankets, but I was never asked for so many again. Living in the country, with people constantly staying in the house, gives one much insight into other people's way of living and what are the necessities of life for them. I thought our house was pretty well provided for. We were a large family party, and had all we wanted, but some of the demands were curious, varying of course with the nationalities.

The Chambers met in Paris at the end of November and took possession of their respective houses without the slightest disturbance of any kind. Up to the last moment some people were nervous and predicting all sorts of trouble and complications. We spent the Toussaint in the country with some friends, and their views of the future were so gloomy that it was almost contagious. One afternoon when we were all assembled in the drawing-room for tea, after a beautiful day's shooting, the conversation (generally retrospective) was so melancholy that I was rather impressed by it,—"The beginning of the end,—the culpable weakness of the Government and Moderate men, giving way entirely to the Radicals, an invitation to the Paris rabble to interfere with the sittings of the Chambers," and a variety of similar remarks.

It would have been funny if one hadn't felt that the speakers were really in earnest and anxious. However, nothing happened. The first few days there was a small, perfectly quiet, well-behaved crowd, also a very strong police force, at the Palais Bourbon, but I think more from curiosity and the novelty of seeing deputies again at the Palais Bourbon than from any other reason. If it were quiet outside, one couldn't say the same of the inside of the Chamber. The fight began hotly at once. Speeches and interpellations and attacks on the Government were the order of the day. The different members of the cabinet made statements explaining their policy, but apparently they had satisfied nobody on either side, and it was evident that the Chamber was not only dissatisfied but actively hostile.