There is something exceedingly curious, and, perhaps, under our present lamentable circumstances, somewhat alarming, in the young and vigorous after-growth of the Roman Catholic religion, which, by the aid of a very little inquiry, may be so easily traced throughout France. Were we keeping our own national church sacred, and guarded both by love and by law, as it has hitherto been from all assaults of the Pope and ... Mr. O’Connell, it could only be with pleasure that we should see France recovering from her long ague-fit of infidelity, — and, as far as she is concerned, we must in Christian charity rejoice, for she is unquestionably the better for it; but there is a regenerated activity among the Roman Catholic clergy, which, under existing circumstances, makes a Protestant feel rather nervous, — and I declare to you, I never pass within sight of that famous window of the Louvre, whence Charles Neuf, with his own royal and catholic hand, discharged a blunderbuss amongst the Huguenots, without thinking how well a window at Whitehall, already noted in history as a scene of horror, might serve King Daniel for the same purpose.
The great influence which the religion of Rome has of late regained over the minds of the French people has, I am told, been considerably increased by the priests having added to the strength derived from their command of pardons and indulgences, that which our Methodist preachers gain from the terrors of hell. They use the same language, too, respecting regeneration and grace; and, as one means of regaining the hold they had lost upon the human mind, they now anathematize all recreations, as if their congregations were so many aspirants to the sublime purifications of La Trappe, or so many groaning fanatics just made over to them from Lady Huntingdon’s Chapel. That there is, however, a pretty strong force to stem this fresh spring-tide of moon-struck superstition, is very certain. The doctrinaires, I am told, taken as a body, are not much addicted to this species of weakness. I remember, during the prevalence of that sweeping complaint called the influenza, hearing of a “good lady,” of the high evangelical clique, who said to some of the numerous pensioners who flocked to receive the crumbs of her table and the precepts of her lips, that she could make up some medicine that was very good for all POOR people that were seized with this complaint.
“What can be the difference, ma’am,” said the poor body who told me this, “between us and Madame C —— in this illness? Is not what is good for the poor, good for the rich too?”
The same pertinent question may, I think, be asked in Paris just now respecting the medicine called religion. It is administered in large doses to the poor, to which class a great number of the fair sex of all ranks happily seem to have joined themselves, intending, at least, to rank themselves as among the poor in spirit; nay, parish doctors are regularly paid by authority; yet, if the tale be true, the authorities themselves take little of it. “It is very good for poor people;” but, like the hot-baths which Anstie talks of,
“No creature e’er view’d
Any one of the government gentry stew’d.”
Whether the returning power of this pompous and aspiring faith will mount as it proceeds, and embrace within its grasp, as it was wont to do, all the great ones of the earth, is a question that it may require some years to answer; but one thing is at least certain, — that its ministers will try hard that it shall do so, whether they are likely to succeed or not; and, at the worst, they may console themselves by the reflection of Lafontaine: —
“Si de les gagner je n’emporte pas le prix,
J’aurais au moins l’honneur de l’avoir entrepris.”
One great one they have certainly already got, besides King Charles the Tenth, — even the immortal Daniel; and however little consequence you may be inclined to attach to this fact, it cannot be considered as wholly unimportant, since I have heard his religious principles and his influence in England alluded to in the pulpit here with a tone of hope and triumph which made me tremble.
I heartily wish that some of those who continue to vote in his traitorous majority because they are pledged to do so, could hear him and his power spoken of here. If they have English hearts, it must, I think, give them a pang.
LETTER XLII.
Old Maids. — Rarely to be found in France. — The reasons for this.
Several years ago, while passing a few weeks in Paris, I had a conversation with a Frenchman upon the subject of old maids, which, though so long past, I refer to now for the sake of the sequel, which has just reached me.
We were, I well remember, parading in the Gardens of the Luxembourg; and as we paced up and down its long alleys, the “miserable fate,” as he called it, of single women in England was discussed and deplored by my companion as being one of the most melancholy results of faulty national manners that could be mentioned.
“I know nothing,” said he with much energy, “that ever gave me more pain in society, than seeing, as I did in England, numbers of unhappy women who, however well-born, well-educated, or estimable, were without a position, without an état and without a name, excepting one that they would generally give half their remaining days to get rid of.”
“I think you somewhat exaggerate the evil,” I replied: “but even if it were as bad as you state it to be, I see not why single ladies should be better off here.”
“Here!” he exclaimed, in a tone of horror: “Do you really imagine that in France, where we pride ourselves on making the destiny of our women the happiest in the world, — do you really imagine that we suffer a set of unhappy, innocent, helpless girls to drop, as it were, out of society into the néant of celibacy, as you do? God keep us from such barbarity!”
“But how can you help it? It is impossible but that circumstances must arise to keep many of your men single; and if the numbers be equally balanced, it follows that there must be single women too.”
“It may seem so; but the fact is otherwise: we have no single women.”
“What, then, becomes of them?”
“I know not; but were any Frenchwoman to find herself so circumstanced, depend upon it she would drown herself.”
“I know one such, however,” said a lady who was with us: “Mademoiselle Isabelle B* * * is an old maid.”
“Est-il possible!” cried the gentleman, in a tone that made me laugh very heartily. “And how old is she, this unhappy Mademoiselle Isabelle?”
“I do not know exactly,” replied the lady; “but I think she must be considerably past thirty.”
“C’est une horreur!” he exclaimed again; adding, rather mysteriously, in a half-whisper, “Trust me, she will not bear it long!”
* * * * *
I had certainly forgotten Mademoiselle Isabelle and all about her, when I again met the lady who had named her as the one sole existing old maid of France. While conversing with her the other day on many things which had passed when we were last together, she asked me if I remembered this conversation. I assured her that I had forgotten no part of it.
“Well, then,” said she, “I must tell you what happened to me about three months after it took place. I was invited with my husband to pay a visit at the house of a friend in the country, — the same house where I had formerly seen the Mademoiselle Isabelle B* * * whom I had named to you. While playing écarté with our host in the evening, I recollected our conversation in the Gardens of the Luxembourg, and inquired for the lady who had been named in it.
“‘Is it possible that you have not heard what has happened to her?’ he replied.
“‘No, indeed; I have heard nothing. Is she married, then?’
“‘Married!... Alas, no! she has drowned herself!’”
Terrible as this dénouement was, it could not be heard with the solemn gravity it called for, after what had been said respecting her. Was ever coincidence more strange! My friend told me, that on her return to Paris she mentioned this catastrophe to the gentleman who had seemed to predict it; when the information was received by an exclamation quite in character,— “God be praised! then she is out of her misery!”
This incident, and the conversati
on which followed upon it, induced me to inquire in sober earnest what degree of truth there might really be in the statement made to us in this well-remembered conversation; and it certainly does appear, from all I can learn, that the meeting a single woman past thirty is a very rare occurrence in France. The arranging un mariage convenable is in fact as necessary and as ordinary a duty in parents towards a daughter, as the sending her to nurse or the sending her to school. The proposal for such an alliance proceeds quite as frequently from the friends of the lady as from those of the gentleman: and it is obvious that this must at once very greatly increase the chance of a suitable marriage for young women; for though we do occasionally send our daughters to India in the hope of obtaining this much-desired result, few English parents have as yet gone the length of proposing to anybody, or to anybody’s son, to take their daughter off their hands.
I have not the least doubt in the world that, were the custom otherwise — were a young lady’s claim to an establishment pointed out by her friends, instead of being left to be discovered or undiscovered as chance will have it, — I have no doubt in the world that in such a case many happy marriages might be the result: and where such an arrangement infringes on no feeling of propriety, but is adopted only in conformity to national custom, I can well believe that the fair lady herself may deem her having nothing to do with the business a privilege of infinite importance to her delicacy. But would our English girls like, for the satisfaction of escaping the chance of being an old maid, to give up the dear right of awaiting in maiden dignity till they are chosen — selected from out the entire world — and then of saying yes or no, as may please their fancy best?
If I do not greatly mistake the national character of Englishwomen, there are very few who could be found to exchange this privilege for the most perfect assurance that could be given of obtaining a marriage in any other way. As to which is best and which is wisest, or even which is likely to produce, ultimately and generally, the most happy ménage, I will not pretend to say; because I have heard so much plausible, and indeed, in some respects, substantial reasoning in favour of the mode pursued here, that I feel it may be considered as doubtful: but as to which is and must be most agreeable to the parties chiefly concerned at the time the connexion is formed, herein I own I think there can be no question whatever that English men and English women have the advantage.
With all the inclination in the world to believe that France abounds with loving, constant, faithful wives, and husbands too, I cannot but think that if they are so, it is in spite of the manner in which their marriages are made, and not in consequence of it. The strongest argument in favour of their manner of proceeding undoubtedly is, that a husband who receives a young wife as totally without impressions of any kind, (as a well-brought-up French girl certainly is,) has a better chance — or rather, has more power of making her heart entirely his own, than any man can have that falls in love with a beauty of twenty, who may already have heard as tender sighs as he can utter breathed in her ear by some one who may have had no power to marry her, but who might have had a heart to love her, and a tongue to win her as well as himself.
But against this how much is to be placed! However dearly a Frenchwoman may love her husband, he can never feel that it is a love which has selected him; and though it may sometimes happen that a pretty creature is applied for because of her prettiness, yet if the application be made and answered, and no question asked as to her will or wish in the affair, she can feel but little gratification even to her vanity — and certainly nothing whatever approaching to a feeling of tenderness at her heart.
The force of habit is ever so inveterate, that it is not likely either nation can be really a fair and impartial judge of the other in a matter so entirely regulated by it. Therefore, all that I, as English, will venture to say farther on the subject is, that I should be sorry on this point to see us adopt the fashion of our neighbour France.
I have reason to believe, however, that my friend of the Luxembourg Gardens exaggerated a good deal in his statement respecting the non-existence of single women in France. They do exist here, though certainly in less numbers than in England, — but it is not so easy to find them out. With us it is not unusual for single ladies to take what is called brevet rank; — that is, Miss Dorothy Tomkins becomes Mrs. Dorothy Tomkins — and sometimes tout bonnement Mrs. Tomkins, provided there be no collateral Mrs. Tomkins to interfere with her: but upon no occasion do I remember that any lady in this predicament called herself the widow Tomkins, or the widow anything else.
Here, however, I am assured that the case is different; and that, let the number of spinsters be great or small, no one but the near connexions and most intimate friends of the party know anything of the matter. Many a veuve respectable has never had a husband in her life; and I have heard it positively affirmed, that the secret is often so well kept, that the nieces and nephews of a family do not know their maiden aunts from their widowed ones.
This shows, at least, that matrimony is considered here as a more honourable state than that of celibacy; though it does not quite go the length of proving that all single women drown themselves.
But before I quit this subject, I must say a few words to you concerning the old maids of England. There are few things which chafe my spirit more than hearing single women spoken of with contempt because they are such, or seeing them treated with less consideration and attention than those who chance to be married. The cruelty and injustice of this must be obvious to every one upon a moment’s thought; but to me its absurdity is more obvious still.
It is, I believe, a notorious fact, that there is scarcely a woman to be found, of any rank under that of a princess of the blood royal, who, at the age of fifty, has not at some time or in some manner had the power of marrying if she chose it. That many who have had this power have been tyrannically or unfortunately prevented from using it, is certain; but there is nothing either ridiculous or contemptible in this.
Still less does a woman merit scorn if she has had the firmness and constancy of purpose to prefer a single life because she has considered it best and fittest for her: in fact, I know nothing more high-minded than the doing so. The sneering which follows female celibacy is so well known and so coarsely manifested, that it shows very considerable dignity of character to enable a woman to endure it, rather than act against her sense of what is right.
I by no means say this by way of running a-tilt against all the ladies in France who have submitted, bon gré, mal gré, to become wives at the command of their fathers, mothers, uncles, aunts, and guardians: they have done exactly what they ought, and I hope all their pretty little quiet-looking daughters will do the same; it is the custom of the country, and cannot discreetly be departed from. But being on the subject, I am led, while defending our own modes of proceeding in the important affair of marriage, to remark also on the result of them. In permitting a young woman to become acquainted with the man who proposes for her before she consents to pass her whole life with him, I certainly see some advantage; but in my estimation there is more still in the protection which our usage in these matters affords to those who, rather than marry a man who is not the object of their choice, prefer remaining single. I confess, too, that I consider the class of single women as an extremely important one. Their entire freedom from control gives them great power over their time and resources, much more than any other woman can possibly possess who is not a childless widow. That this power is often — very often — nobly used, none can deny who are really and thoroughly acquainted with English society; and if among the class there be some who love cards, and tattle, and dress, and slander, they should be treated with just the same measure of contempt as the married ladies who may also occasionally be found to love cards, and tattle, and dress, and slander, — but with no more.
It has been my chance, and I imagine that it has been the chance of most other people, to have found my dearest and most constant friends among single women. Of all the Helenas and Hermia
s that before marriage have sat “upon one cushion, warbling of one song,” even for years together, how few are there who are not severed by marriage! Kind feelings may be retained, and correspondence (lazily enough) kept up; but to whom is it that the anxious mother, watching beside the sick couch of her child, turns for sympathy and consolation? — certainly not to the occupied and perhaps distant wedded confidante of her youthful days, but to her maiden sister or her maiden friend. Nor is it only in sickness that such friends are among the first blessings of life: they violate no duty by giving their time and their talents to society; and many a day through every house in England has probably owed some of its most delightful hours to the presence of those whom no duty has called
“To suckle fools or chronicle small beer,”
and whose talents, therefore, are not only at their own disposal, but in all probability much more highly cultivated than any possessed by their married friends.
Thus, spite of him of the Luxembourg, I am most decidedly of opinion, that, in England at least, there is no reason whatever that an unmarried woman should consign herself to the fate of the unfortunate Mademoiselle Isabelle.
VOLUME II.
LETTER XLIII.
Peculiar Air of Frenchwomen. — Impossibility that an Englishwoman should not be known for such in Paris. — Small Shops. — Beautiful Flowers, and pretty arrangement of them. — Native Grace. — Disappearance of Rouge. — Grey Hair. — Every article dearer than in London. — All temptations to smuggling removed.
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 537