HE BLIND SISTERS OF SAINT PAUL Nihil ohstat J. WILHELM, S.T.D. Censor deputatus Imprimi potest * GULIELMUS Episcopm Arindelensis Vicarius Generalis Westmonasteriit die 16 Oct. 1906 Digitized by- the Internet Archive in 2007 with funding from IVIicrosoft Corporation- http://www.archive.org/details/blindsistersofsaOOIasirich Ji^aayny .^^Jr«^, 3^ie^nMy.5/^^^/^nfA^ i/'do.^^i^. ftQ/a^^.-S..H^.t THE BLIND SISTERS OF SAINT PAUL By MAURICE DE LA SIZERANNE Authorized Translation By L. M. LEGGATT »V * •• • . NEW YORK, CINCINNATI, CHICAGO BENZIGER BROTHERS Printers to the Holy Apostolic See 1907 TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE THOSE who are, even through the medium of a translation, about to follow Monsieur de la Sizeranne's scholarly and sympathetic pages would need no preface in the usual sense of the word, were it not for the special circumstances of the Author. Maurice de la Sizeranne, born in 1857, elder brother of Robert de la Sizeranne, known by his study of Ruskin (**La Religion de la Beauts"), became blind in 1866. In 1889 he founded the Valentin Haiiy Association for the welfare of the blind, of which he is Chief Secretary. He directs two papers, the ** Valentin Hauy" and the ** Louis Braille," and his principal work, **Les Aveugles par un Aveugle," was crowned by the French Academy. His earlier book, ** Impressions et Sou- venirs d'un Aveugle," is preceded by a preface from the pen of no less a personage than Frangois Copp6e, but I believe it is my privilege to be the first to introduce **The Blind Nuns of St Paul" to English readers, or indeed to many English Catho- lics. The latter will rejoice to hear that, as the community does not belong to a teaching Order, but ranks as a ** Congregation Hospitali^re, " it has received authorization. Should, however, any further development of ecclesiastical affairs in France dissolve the Community, the next scene of their labours would certainly be our own dear England. The present Superior, who according to the Constitutions is never chosen from among the blind, is an Irish lady. It only remains for me to beg 3863C0 THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL the indulgence of those who, being debarred from reading Monsieur de la Sizeranne's beautiful pages in the original, must fain be content with a more or less inadequate echo. Perhaps this will merge criticism in gratitude. Sutton, April, 1907. L. M. LEGGATT AUTHOR'S PREFACE THE hitherto practically unknown commu- nity of the Blind Nuns of St Paul deserves wider fame. It is sufficiently attractive to study the religious congregations of our time from a psychological and social point of view, since we can thus analyse and classify many needs of the present day, the spirit of self-sacrifice and those forms of physical or moral indigence diflFering so widely from those which a gift can relieve. But is not a still keener interest aroused when it is a ques- tion of nuns whose blindness places them under such special conditions? In this community all the sisters are not blind or threatened with blindness; there are many nuns with perfect eyesight; still the name of ** Blind Sisters of St Paul" was given to the Congregation to emphasize the fact that it was founded for the blind and is their true home. Be- fore penetrating into the convent, or describing the origin, the charitable aims or the future of the Congregation, it seems indispensable — though we must not overlook the problem of the blind girl's vocation, or the type of abnegation which leads a woman with eyesight to live in the midst of the blind — to speak, even at great length, of blindness in woman. It is necessary to analyse the impres- sions she receives from things and from'people, and to discuss what her place in a home can be. Can she be useful or active? Can she love and be loved? Finally, what is to be her physical or mental share of life? These questions, though preliminary, never- vij THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL theless demand wide development, given the fact of how little we realize the real physical and moral condition of the blind. In the first part of this book, therefore, I have endeavoured to portray the sen- sations of blind women, and how they feel, live and act; I have quoted as much as possible from their own words, to give a sincere test of their impres- sions. I have also quoted largely from writers who appear unconsciously to have recorded purely tac- tile and oral impressions; so as to show that the ** contact of the blind with nature" is not chimerical, since these perceptions and sensations which I claim for them have been felt and expressed by certain well-known and appreciated writers. It is, there- fore, quite intentionally that I have multiplied quo- tations in this book, in spite of the disadvantages of such a method. I would add that it is always a pleasure to come across pages of charming writing, and if these extracts induce the reader to finish the book, he cannot blame me. Such is this modest work, and in spite of its want of cohesion — not to mention other defects — it seemed to me that its subject might interest philanthropists and students of psy- chology. VUJ CONTENTS Translator's Preface v Author's Preface vij PART I The Psychology of Blind Women BOOK I Surroundings: Sensations and Impressions I Contact with Nature 3 II "Seeing" our Fellow-Creatures 27 III The "Voices" of the House 44 BOOK II Physical Activity I How to find one's Way without Eyesight 53 II Everyday Life 66 BOOK III The Blind Woman Herself I Appearances, Tastes, Disposition 73 n The Life of the Aflfections 83 Conclusion to Part I 90 PART II The Community of the Blind Sisters of St Paul BOOK I Their Origin I The Founders 106 II Preliminaries, Aim and Spirit of the Foundation 120 III The Constitutions; the Rule 129 THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL BOOK II The Convent I Material Occupations 145 II The Community Room, the Chapel 156 III The Classes 167 IV The Musical Section 179 V The Knitting Department 188 VI The Brush Department 191 VII The Printing of the "White Books" 200 BOOK III The Nuns I Religious Vocation 219 II Vocations among the Blind 248 III The Religious Life 253 IV Living with the Blind 278 CONCLUSION The Future of the Congregation 286 PART THE FIRST THE PSYCHOLOGY OF BLIND WOMEN • •••••• •• .*. • •• THE BLIND SISTERS OF SAINT PAUL PART THE FIRST BOOK 1. Suggestions, Sensations and Impressions HAS anyone ever wondered what passes in the heart and mind of a bhnd girl of twenty who enters a convent? It is unHkely, since it would seem that a young girl deprived of sight knows nothing of what makes the tangible charm of life, or even its moral worth, and she offers to others none of the charms of her age. She has nothing to lose, since she has nothing to give; her entry into religion is therefore an insignificant step. Instead of the convent gates closing on a rich flower of promise and enchantment, they shut in a frigid and mournful creature who cannot offer life or perfume to almighty God. Beauty she rarely possesses. The hope of marriage she must lay down, for who could love a blind woman? Li- berty? — the word is vain irony in her case — what can it matter whether she vegetate in the cloister or elsewhere? To one in darkness are not all places alike? This kind of reasoning is due to the r, preponderance of visual impressions over all others in daily life. Facts are so quickly and so easily acquired through the eyes that they absorb all our i attention ; we accustom ourselves to trust only to what we see, neglecting those impressions which are less attractive to the mind and also less con- venient in ordinary life, but which, nevertheless, 1 1 THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL although they are quite useful in practical ways, are penetrating and suggestive. We must not for- get that in many cases the eye only beholds the outward symbol of things in a rapid and superfi- cial survey. On the Resurrection morning, in the dew-drenched, spring-scented garden of Arimathea, Mary Magdalen was mournfully carrying a vase of perfumes to what she believed to be the grave of the Eternal Beloved. She saw a figure, looked again, but did not recognize Him. Her Lord had to speak and call her once more in that beloved voice, **Mary!" before she could fall at the feet of Jesus, and kiss them, touch them. Oh no ! sight is not everything. It behoves us, then, to define and analyse the impressions which a blind girl can re- ceive in her contact with things and individuals, that is to say, the impressions which she can re- ceive from nature in the first instance, and second- ly from her fellow creatures. CONTACT WITH NATURE Ct, I. Contact with Nature THE poetical, magnetic soul of a girl of twenty is not numbed because she is de- prived of eyesight. Sight is not indispensable for us to feel ourselves in contact and communion with creation. The phenomena of nature take in the whole being ; the great magnetism and enchantment of life penetrate to the soul through all its avenues ; the mysterious emanations of a spring morning, the teeming vigour of a radiant summer's evening, the melancholy of some afternoon in autumn, the mournful peace of calm days in winter do not only appeal to the eye.* The air, the vagrant breeze which we can smell and feel over our faces, has an acute savour and an intensity which vary according to the hour and the season; this difference is naturally more notice- able in fields and woods than in a walled-in street, and on a day typical of the time of year than in uncertain weather. The air is almost always satu- rated with scents ; those of May are not those of October. The damp earth of spring sowings does not give out the same smell when turned, as in autumn when mixed with dead leaves ; June and * "The night before, storm clouds, following each other from dawn till evening over the sea, had passed over the country, and like empty grain sacks had poured their contents over the dry earth. Quantities of leaves had fallen, especially from the higher branches; others still hung heavily to the twigs. The scent of wet woods rose towards the tranquil, milky sky. No wind stirred; no bird sang; the landscape seemed listening to the last drops, formed in the night, which fell at the foot of the trees with a metallic sound. On Challans hills, all over the distant Fromenti^re the creaking of a far-off plough and the cries of cattle drovers announced the beginning of autumn labour.— Ren^ Bazin, "La Terre qui meurt." 3 THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL September hay perfume the air quite differently from July harvests ; the evening threshings of Au- gust give out a warm, sweet smell of grain, and sug- gest a sense of abundance, peace and prosperity. Even in a town there are marked differences : in summer doors and windows are open, and the temperature being lower indoors than out, air flows from the house to the street, and, so to speak, carries with it the odours of humanity. The moving heat develops the aroma of clothes worn by people we meet, the streets in winter are quite different in an olfactory sense to what they are in summer. It is a mistake to think that the **sun is always the sun"; bright and stimulating spring sunshine does not have the same effect on the skin as the heavy perpendi- cular rays of July ; the still warm sun of October does not produce the same tangible sensation as the oblique and watery beams of December. In winter the atmosphere is opaque, metallic and heavy. In spring the general rise of sap affects all nature, the air reaches us laden with the heady scents of grass, young leaves, newly-turned earth; it is fresh, light, fluid; impregnated with the smell of new buds. ** Spring is everywhere," writes a blind woman in April; **the air is full of vague, in- definite scents, sap is oozing everywhere, peach trees are in bloom, little spring flowers gem the woods; despite the heavy layer of dry leaves that are crushed with a sound of rustling silk. And the birds! there are quantities here; from my window I can hear the crisp little trills of the chaffinch." Summer is quite different — except on certain exceptional mornings when there seems a kind of returning memory of spring but without much of its charm, the atmosphere is usually burning or CONTACT WITH NATURE heavy and dust-laden, and if, by accident, or in a mountainous district, the breeze is keener and fresher, it is generally scentless. It may carry some odour, but it will be that of full-blown flowers which spend their last treasures in their maturity. The promise and charm of sap are absent. **You can't think how lovely it feels," writes the same blind woman in June, **the drowsiness of summer makes one dream: hum of insects, penetrating scent of lime trees and sun-warmed roses, all is so different to spring, you can feel that Nature begins to be exhausted by her long blossoming time." Surroundings, no less than seasons, alter the at- mosphere. The sea breeze, damp, keen and salt, differs completely from the dry cutting blast from a glacier, or the more or less oozy and fishy ema- nations which we inhale near large pieces of fresh water. The wind of the meadows is not that of the cornfield. The south and north winds have each their definite characteristics: we cannot, by smell or touch, confuse the hot whirlwind of the equinox with the sleety snowstorms of midwinter. Let us recall the lines of Michelet and Lamartine; real nature lovers, they did not limit themselves to only describing what they saw: **The two semicircular bays of Royan and St Georges, with their fine sands, provide the most delightful walking for tender feet. One can go on endlessly without fatigue in the scent of the pine trees, which brighten the cliflFs with their fresh verdure. The beautiful promontories which sepa- rate the two beaches, and the inland moors send out their wholesome emanations from afar. The prevailing fragrance on the cliffs is almost medici- nal, the honey of the immortelles seems to blend THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL and concentrate with the sun and heat from the sand. On the moors grow keen-smelHng plants, which seem to revive the spirits and clear the brain. Wild thyme, clover, the voluptuous marjo- ram, sage prized of our forefathers for its great virtues, mint hot as pepper, and above all the tiny wild pink, give out all the spices of the East. Though it was October, the moor had all its mild scents, and they seemed to me at whiles more penetrating than ever. From the shore, as yet calm, a soft, warm air blew on my face, and no less gently did the trea- cherous sea caress my feet. I was not deceived, and I guessed what both wind and wave had in store for me. . . . We hear and guess the presence of the mighty sea before we catch a glimpse of it. First comes the distant, muffled, monotonous sound; gra- dually it dominates all others. Soon we discern the solemn rhythm, the deep, strong note, ever louder and more menacing — the oscillation of a clock is not more even, as it registers the hours. But here the pendulum does not swing with the monotony of mechanism. We feel the vibrating echo of life. And when the tide is high, and the immense flashing waves rise over each other, we can hear, through the stormy rushing of the waters, the sound of shells and thousands of living organisms which the sea brings with her. As the tide turns, the sand goes seething back with all the multitudes that had faith- fully followed the sea to return again into her bosom. **Many other voices has she! If she be ever so little roused, her wails and sighs contrast with the mournful silence of the shore. The earth seems to pause and listen to the threat of the sea, which yesterday was so smiling and so smooth. What will the sea say? I will not prophesy. I will not speak CONTACT WITH NATURE here of the awful concert she perhaps will give, of her duets with rocks, of the deep thunders she sends echoing through caverns, or of those alarming sounds which seem to cry, *Help! help!' No, let us think of her on her days of peace, when she is strong with- out violence."* **The sun had absorbed all moisture from the earth. The mountain tops swam in summer air. A soft melodious Mediterranean south wind, gentle precursor of the equinox, blew from the Rhone valley. The blue waves of the sea of Syria alter- nately whispered and crashed as they frothed over the feet of Lebanon. I knew that the wind really came from there; only a few hours before it had rustled among the cedars and moaned among the palm trees. I fancied I could still hear, even with- out the illusion of the ear, among its hot blasts the flapping of great sails, the pitching of ships on high waves, the boiling foam dripping from the prow like water hissing on hot iron when the prow rises out of the sea, the shrill whistling when a cape is doubled, the noise of ripples along the vessel's side, and the muffled, hollow strokes of the boat's keel, when the fisherman makes fast on the perilous coast of Sidon. **I sat down for a moment on the root of a chest- nut tree, my face towards my empty dwelling. The south wind had grown stronger as the sun rose higher in the heavens; it blew in dry, stormy gusts. Since the sun had begun to sink, the sky was like crystal. The wind drew from the woods, the rocks and even the grass, harmonies which seemed min- gled of sad and joyful notes, embraces and fare- wells, terror and bliss; it piled up whirling masses of dead leaves, and then let them fall and lie in ♦Michelet, "LaMer." 7 THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL glistening heaps on the ground. This wind had ca- resses in its breath, warmth, love, melancholy and those scents which dilate the lungs, ravish even the ears, and send through every pore the strength, the life, the youth of a pure element. It seemed to come at once from heaven, from earth, from the woods, from plants, from the windows of the distant house, from the fireside of infancy, from my sister's lips, my father's broad chest, my mother's yet warm heart, to greet me and kiss me on lip and cheek. It made the damp hair of my temples flutter under my hat-brim with thrills as delicious as had ever stirred my golden curls on my sixteen-year-old cheeks in these very woods! I drew it in as one presses one's lips to a fountain of clear water. I held out open hands with wide-spread fingers, like a beg- gar whom one calls to the hearth in winter to get, as they say here, *a whiff* of the fire.' I opened my vest and my shirt, to bare my chest, that it might reach my very blood." * The blind can receive all these impressions as well as those who see, and perhaps even feel them with greater intensity, since all their powers are concen- trated in their sensations, f The sense of touch is not confined to the hand, it exists in varying degrees all over the body; the * Lamartlne, "Harmonies Po^tlqueset Rellgieuses," 1849. t In Luclen Biart's "Paysage des Troplques" there are pages full of the profoundest impressions received by other senses than sight in those little- frequented countries. "It was just past midday, the hour of solemn aod mysterious silence in hot countries. Not a breath, not a movement, not the rustling of a leaf. * One breathes fire,' said the Indian who accompanied me, as he lay down naked on the ground to enjoy a siesta. Not a sound, not the hum of an insect, a mysterious funereal stillness beneath the rays of the sun which usually wakes everything to life. Nothing seemed able to move, fly or even crawl, under the burden of air so hot and heavy that it weighed down even the gauzy wings of the dragon-flies. And this scorching, stifling air was saturated with the stale nauseous smell of districts where yellow fever prevails, a charnel-house odour, which those who have once smelt it wish in vain to forget. The half-light, the silence, the heat, the mephltic smell of the marshy ground, seemed to make me the denizen of a dead world." CONTACT WITH NATURE skin of the forehead and of the whole face is ex- tremely sensitive: the eyes, even when entirely blind, are still to a certain extent the avenues of a certain amount of sensation. But it is of course the ear which records the richest and most varied im- pressions. Every one speaks of the great voices of nature, tempests in forests and at sea, mountain storms, torrents and waterfalls, but generally we do not notice or listen to a multitude of tiny sounds, charming poetic notes which nature gives us in profusion; rustlings, humming of insects in the grass, the chirp of crickets, bird notes, the flutter- ing of wings, the trickle of a streamlet, the puff of wind which only stirs a few leaves. Just as the wind animates the visible landscape we can see, so it puts movement and life into what I venture to call the auditive scene. Thus the trees become liv- ing to the ear, they give out special sounds varying with their foliage and with the strength of the breeze: it is in a sense the colouring of the ear.* As a rule we willingly admit that everything, mineral, vegetable or animal, can shew beauty of its own and harmony with the ** great Whole." We can enjoy and understand Michelet, Ruskin, Topffer and their fellows, when they describe the charm which the discerning eye discovers in a * " Stellus remained motionless, without an aspiration or a desire. At first he had only heard a monotonous diffused sound in every direction. Soon he distinguished the rustling of trees in each of their separate branches. Then he was aware of strange, supernatural noises like the song of fairies spinning or the breathing of celestial flutes. The murmur of the wind had a strange power. As he listened, Stellus felt new thoughts awakening in him, he seemed to know, to understand, and to see the forest living; he realized an ineffable soul in trees, in plants, in water, and the singing of the stars taught him celestial things. And yet he felt no surprise. These revelations seemed only old memories revived, and each fresh idea entered his mind like a returning exile. He listened tranquilly, and it seemed quite simple that these intuitions should be brought by the wind, like flowers from an orchard, blown along the night air." — Ephraim Mikhael, '* Po^mes en Prose." La Solitaire. 9 THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL lump of earth, a fragment of moss, a flying insect as it skims or creeps untrammelled; well, then, admitting how much we can grasp of the harmony of creation, would it not be strange that the sono- rity produced by all this should be as nothing to us? If a poor dead leaf lying on the ground can be clothed in lovely tints and warm shadows when the sun lights it up in a special way and a dreamer lose himself for an interminable time gazing at it, why should not the same leaf in an autumn wind produce a tiny yet lovely sound which can arrest the ** dreamer of the open ear"? But every one does not know how to listen, any more than every one knows how to discover in the very heart of an im- posing or majestic landscape, full picturesque de- tails and sharply defined outlines, the timid, delici- ous charm of a tuft of grass, a ray of sun filtering through the branches, or similar eff*ects. ** Usually," Daudet truly says, ** descriptive writers can only see, and they are contented to paint. Turgenieff possesses both smell and hearing. He is full of the odours of the country, sounds of water and clear atmosphere; he gives himself up, without posing for any particular school, to the orchestra of his sensations. This music does not reach every ear. Dwellers in towns, deafened from childhood by the roar of large cities, will never hear it, they will not recognize voices in the as- sumed quiet of the woods, where nature believes herself alone, and man, because silent, is forgotten. . . . Pillaut told me something absolutely new about his art. A musician of great talent, brought up in the country, his very refined Qar has retained and registered all the sounds in nature ; he hears as a landscape painter sees. To him each fluttering ot 10 CONTACT WITH NATURE wings has its own thrill; the rattle of autumn leaves, the babble of a pebbly brook, wind, rain, distant voices, rumbling trains, wheels creaking in the ruts of the road, all this atmosphere of country life is in his books." Daudet himself knows how to listen in silence. ** I pushed my boat among the reeds, and when the satiny grasses had ceased to rustle, I was well walled in, floating on the clear water of my little haven in the shade of an old willow tree. It made a study for me to write in, and my crossed oars served as a desk. I loved the smell of the river, the stirring of insects among the reeds, the murmur of long waving leaves, all the infinitely mysterious movement which the silence of man awakes in na- ture. How happy such stillness makes many of us! How it calms us! My island was more populous than Paris. I heard rummagings in the grass, birds pur- suing each other, the flapping of wet wings. No living thing was startled at my nearness, they took me for an old willow tree." * Let us leave the river and follow Taine to Fon- tainebleau. ** Sometimes a raven croaked, robins twittered in a clear note. In the stillness grass- hoppers chirped, and swarms of insects whirled in the heavy perfumed air. An acorn drops on the dead leaves, a beetle brushes a fallen twig with its wings. Gay little bird-notes and trills sound from the heights. A whole world lives under these skies and in this mossy ground; a turbulent baby popu- lation, whose infantile language does not reach the ear till it is half stifled by the deep sleeping breaths of the great Mother." f Then Edouard Rod takes us up into the moun- tains. ^*In the midst of the great empty solitude * "Trente Ans de Paris." t" lho™as Graindorge.' ' 11 THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL where nothing is heard but the sound of distant cattle bells, or the hum of insects amidst the slum- bering echoes which no human voice awakens, I lie underneath the firs, drunk with the smell of Alpine flowers, or I sit by the brooks where I have slaked my thirst, feeling an indescribable sense of well- being, as if a weight had been lifted from me and I could breathe more freely." And, last of all, Ren6 Bazin himself, little as he knows it, is a limner dear to the blind. They can see and assimilate much in his **Terre qui meurt." The following lines, among many others, seem written for them. **This Sunday afternoon in summer seemed steeped in a deeper peace than usual. The air was warm, the light hazy, the wind which had risen with the sea, and was driving the tide before it, did not bring with it, as it blew over the immense green plains, a single echo of life. Not the creaking of a plough, not the sound of a spadeful of earth, not the stroke of a hammer or an axe. Only church bells broke the stillness. They answered each other, the bells of Sallertaine, Perrier, St Gervais, Ghal- lans with its new, cathedral-like church, and Soul- lans, hidden in wooded hills. The peals of High Mass, the chimes of the Angelus, the three strokes of Vespers kept them busy. They rang out into the distance the same old words, understood for centu- ries, worship of God, forgetfulness of earth, for- giveness of sins, union in prayer, equality in face of the divine promises; and the words soared into the sky, mingling with a thrill, like garlands of happiness entwined from one steeple to another. There were few among the toilers of earth, the cattle drovers and the sowers who did not obey 12 CONTACT WITH NATURE them. Towards evening the bells ceased. Even the village topers had left their inns and returned in the golden light of the setting sun to their silent homesteads. Universal silence enveloped the land- scape. Never noisy even on working days, the dis- trict was quite quiet and peaceful for a few hours at the end of the week. It was a Sabbath rest which had a deep significance, a time when spiritual inte- rests were uppermost, and the group of families peacefully and reflectively counted their living and their dead." It would be easy to go on multiplying these im- pressions of the senses from the pages of great writers, who have communed with nature, but these are enough. They show that for those who can look close enough, the great enchantress has other means than sight of making herself known. Let us read the letters, despite their length, of a Swiss woman who lost her sight at ten years old. She lives in France, but comes back regularly to her native canton; and her letters give a good test of what a blind woman can experience at diff*erent seasons of the year and in diff'erent parts of the mountains. **Chamosson, September 18, 1895. **The mountain is an old friend of mine; I had not * seen 'it again for ten years, and it never seemed to speak to me so plainly. It was to Les Mayens that I went in search of rest and fresh air during the month of August. You go up by regular chamois paths, impeded by stones, roots, holes, hillocks and every possible obstacle. But with strong boots and a cheerful temper all goes well. Besides, the noise of the torrent rushing down the ravine, shade from the woods on the left hand, and on the right a won- 13 THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL derful scent which already shows you have left the plains, all keep you from realizing your fatigue and encourage you to climb higher. When you reach the first little upland, a fresher breeze meets you; confused sounds float down to you — cattle bells, hu- man voices, bird notes, which you imagine rather than hear distinctly — but these vague echoes seem to call you irresistibly, and you cut short your halt. You climb, you put on a fresh spurt, you pass one chalet after the other, here is your own at last! What a pleasure to have reached it! I had a very peaceful stay at Les Mayens, rather monotonous perhaps, but still no weeks of my life ever slipped by quicker. The mountain seemed so living; her thousand voices, distinct or confused, speak to you incessantly and keep you constantly interested. The air is so light that it seems easy even to get to hea- ven. Every morning, when the sun had drunk up the dew, I used to walk over the pasture lands, stopping when a sweeter scent or a more fascinating sound than usual reached me as I passed. My fa- vourite spot was the outskirts of the neighbouring forest; a great pine tree gave me a delicious shade, and its rugged, mossy roots made me a comfortable and convenient seat. They say that the view from thence is magnificent, and I never heard anywhere else such restful sounds. In the grass at my feet crickets and grasshoppers outrivalled each other in their monotonous chirpings, and accompanied the waxing or waning hum of the insects skimming in the air. Behind me in the woods I could hear a branch crack here and there, the furtive flight of a bird, or the distant strokes of a hatchet; at inter- vals the tinkle of cattle bells floated down to me from the heights in alternate waves of veiled or CONTACT WITH NATURE sonorous sound. On Sundays the sweet church bells would ring in the valley; sometimes the whistle of a train rushing along in the distance roused me with its shrill note, as if to remind me that my holiday would soon be over, and steam soon be whirling me back to rules and duties; but the train rapidly disappeared and the pine branches stretched again over my head. The scent of the sweet gum in the trees and the fragrance of the grass, that exquisite mingled aroma which is the real mountain perfume still floated in the air. When a breeze stirred the woods and sent a long echoing thrill through all the boughs, I involuntarily pictured myself on the shore at Nice, and fancied I could hear in the distance the ceaseless murmur of the sea — not that the roar of the waves resembles the rustling of branches, but both sounds have a certain vagueness and a mys- terious note of sadness which lulls and soothes you like a song. I don't know how the days passed; I wrote letters, and knitted a few stitches, and played with my small companion, a lively little girl with a a sweet voice, who was always exclaiming, *Oh, Auntie, how lovely it is at Les May ens!' She ran about picking flowers and putting them on my lap while she made them into nosegays. When I was her age I picked flowers too, and could see them opening in the fresh grass from as far off*. In my memory I can still see, at will, a certain meadow beside a half-ruined chalet; it was the best place for flowers. There were the wide blossoms of the great white marguerites which seemed to smile di- rectly they saw me coming, blue harebells, shining yellow buttercups and that very lovely pink heath which you can never pick in valleys. I too used to return carrying a brilliant, variegated sheaf. Then I 15 THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL could admire colours, now I listen to voices; I draw no comparison, but I enjoy voices as I did colours. If mountain places overflow with life and move- ment by day, night brings with it a solemn stillness. No sooner has the sun sunk behind the peaks than the hum of insects and the whirring of their wings is suddenly silent, as if a magic wand had hushed all this exuberant region into a death-like sleep. A strangely chilly atmosphere rises from the glacier and steals over the mountains — a wind, untainted with dust, which barely stirs the plants and the grass, penetrates you, and in a few minutes makes you forget the heat of summer. Soon the cattle Ijells cease one by one over the pasture lands; all sinks into calm and rest. Then suddenly the 'yodel- ling' of the shepherds, singular and never-to-be- forgotten sound, breaks out, and is answered from different points; it begins on a high long-sustained note, and ends in four shorter ones in a descending scale; the forests and rocks echo it in chorus and pro- long it with strange dissonances. The shepherds of to-day can answer each other without fear; they no longer hear, as did their forefathers, supernatural accents mingled with their cheerful 'yodellings.' Unlucky was the wight who answered those fan- tastic voices. Even this year I felt a thrill again at the oft-times-told tale which our old mountain story- tellers relate. I listen every night to the shepherds calling, and when at last silence reigns supreme over the mountain I gratefully enjoy the stillness and feel more intensely than ever the eye of God watching over us." ** September 30, 1895. **It was such a lovely day that I could not leave without tasting some freshly picked grapes, on the 16 CONTACT WITH NATURE spot where they grow; they are particularly good this year. I decided to go to the Coteau des Crates; I remembered it as one of my favourite spots. We cross the principal village street with its uneven houses, the walls sending into our faces blasts of the heat which the sun has been pouring onto them for the last ten hours. Sunday is a real day of rest in the village. . . . No carts, no sound of working implements; here and there a group of men and women in front of their doors, talking and discus- sing *tout a la douce,' leisurely, like people with plenty of time on their hands. But I am in a hurry to get out of this hot, stifling atmosphere. At length we leave the last houses behind us, a fresher, lighter air surrounds us, no obstacle checks the cool cur- rent of air coming down from the mountain, it reaches us as a reminder of the rarefied air at the summit. Our road leads us through meadows sha- ded, at intervals, by fruit-trees easily distinguishable by the various aromas of their branches; the smell of ripe fruit gradually replaces flower scents, the short grass where one's foot already crushes dead leaves only gives out a warm, indefinite odour; autumn is really here, all is mellowed and ripe. We reach the vines, the path narrows and begins to ascend; we leave the shade; sunshine fills the air. I do not seek to shelter my head; on the contrary it is pleasant to feel myself penetrated by life-giving heat which contains no impure emanations. We skirt a thorny hedge and reach our destination, the summit of the hillock. Our vine is at our feet, but I have no wish to go scrambling down its tiers; I leave that to some one more nimble, and prefer to sit by the footpath and once more enjoy the deli- cious language which nature speaks to those who are 17 2 THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL willing to listen to her. As a child I used to love to look down from this hillock: the vines stretched be- fore me in sinuous lines down to the plain; on one side I could see fields of waving corn, on the other the Rhone like a long white streak; on the left a chain of grey rocks, on the right roofs with their plumes of smoke. I have retained the picture, but then only my eyes were attentive, in my memory no sounds remain. How marvellous is Nature! If she hides from you her colours and smiling distances, she reveals to you and lavishes on you charms which you ignored, perhaps sweeter and dearer than what she used to show you. How varied is her language! . . . Each spot, in different seasons of the year, has its particular voice. What I hear here is not what I could hear on the mountain. The warm air round me stirs languidly, the leaves hardly move under its breath; the insects, attracted doubtless by the sweetness of the ripe grapes, seem to buzz more softly; the voices of pedestrians reach me clearly but faintly from below; all sounds seem muffled, the landscape is alive but very peaceful. Suddenly I am startled by a shot which breaks through the harmonious stillness — doubtless fired by a sports- man. At the sudden, sharp report, the rock wakes up with a thundrous echo; a second and a third shot follow, the echo redoubles and rumbles in fury, as if indignant at being roused out of repose. But the air becomes quiet once more, and sounds more in accordance with the peaceful surroundings strike on my ear. I hear the bells of St Pierre village, their quavering is unmistakable; for centuries they have rung for living and dead. How beautiful they sound to me from here, calling to Vespers! . . . The rock answers their half-gay, half-melancholy voice 18 CONTACT WITH NATURE by such a vague, subtle sound that it mingles with all the other noises of the vineyard. I wanted to tell you before I leave about my lovely walk of yesterday, but when I got back to Villeurbanne I felt as if I could no longer speak of it. The whistle of factories, the rolling of tramcars, the hoarse voices of hawkers, are such an unsuitable accom- paniment for recollections and memories of nature's voice." *• January 4, 1896. **Does nature speak to the blind in winter? Why not? Is not the very silence expressive? I have just been for a very short walk to pay a visit. A round- about way took us quite into the country. The air is calm, dry and cold, but the sun smiles on us, and it is a joy to feel the gentle warmth of its rays. It is a fine winter's day, one of those days that invites you to walk, and as you go you feel less and less tired. The hard snow crackles under our feet. How much I prefer such a carpet to the dust of summer! *A11 the country is white and evenly covered,' says my father, *only the trees stand out boldly.' He looks, and I listen. What peace, what absolute stillness everywhere ! All life seems to have ceased. But no; now and then out of this universal silence come sounds of living things. A woodpecker skims through the air, giving his metalHc note. In the distance crows are sending up hoarse and imperious cries of hun- ger. Here, close to the road, snow is falling from the branches of a tree, and a little further off a brook is running with its bright, clear music. If it were a solemn, poetical stream, it would be silent; no poet has ever yet consented to let a * brooklet' babble *in the death-Hke winter.' But this tiny rill takes little heed of these immemorial rules; it goes 19 2* THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL hurrying on with the greatest animation, as if to live and speak for all the voiceless objects on its banks. But gradually I lose its life-like voice in the distance, silence surrounds us again, and I can only catch the crackling of snow under my feet. * Nature in winter is the symbol of death'; this is a sad image, and is expected to steep one in sombre melancholy. But I do not feel this lugubrious impression. This sleep- ing landscape in its peaceful rest speaks calmly and solemnly to me. It is true there is something about it of the ineffable quiet of a graveyard; but even this impression is not saddening. The silent graves will have their awakening; the buried countryside awaits the spring." The blind can also have favourite spots; they prefer to be rather isolated, and protected from ** profane noises." I know, in the mountains of Dauphin6, a certain habitation which, though fa- mous for its view, makes me almost uncomfort- able. It overlooks a great market town, with fac- tories, forges and large schools, in fact, endless varieties of village noises which rise ceaselessly, and sound close by. So if those who can see retain t the illusion of solitude because of the immense panorama of mountains surrounding them, the ear of a blind person is incessantly filled with sounds which appear too near at hand for him to realize that he is in an isolated spot. In this respect hear- ing is most arbitrary ; in a town the person who can see feels as if he were in the country when he finds himself in a beautiful flower-bordered avenue of trees, whether it be in a public or a private garden — or at least so he says. For the blind this abstraction is very difficult, they cannot get away from the 20 CONTACT WITH NATURE busy rattle of traffic which, in Paris for instance, can be heard quite far into the Bois de Boulogne. Amongst trifling noises must be reckoned, first of all the noise of machinery, which mars auditive impressions in perhaps the same way that the sight of them spoils the view. In fact, there are many interesting parallels of this kind to be drawn. The farther a motor is, in its construction, from the scheme of nature, the less elegant and graceful in shape it becomes ; it is not, in a word, aesthetic. It is rare for an agricultural machine to be pleasing to the eye, and it is never so to the ear. It is admitted on all hands that sowing, reaping, cutting or thresh- ing machines are infinitely less picturesque in shape and action than the implements they replace or the gestures of the labourer who uses them. Well, their sounds are just as inferior. It is only at a consider- able distance that the whizzing of a threshing ma- chine or the click of a reaping machine are not absolutely horrible; whereas the sound of a scythe cutting through the grass, or the measured stroke of a flail falling on sheaves, although not beautiful in themselves, are quite in harmony with the gene- ral scheme of nature. The rumbling of carts, and the whistling of engines are unbearable, and unless they are in the distance, they spoil the auditive landscape far more than would the rolling of car- riage wheels, or the trotting of horses' hoofs in the road. For the blind person who wishes to receive impressions from nature, when out walking, nar row paths are better than wide. That is easily un derstood ; crossways suggest more than wide roads and footpaths are preferable to either. And, indeed a footpath is soft to the feet, and varies in its sur face more than would be believed; sand, grass 21 THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL moss, protruding roots, pebbles, dry leaves, crisp or smooth twigs — all of these things which can be easily recognized are infinitely more pleasant than the dusty asphalt of wide roads, which is as tiring in its want of elasticity, as it is insipidly monotonous. Then in the footpath we are near things, here and there a branch touches us, we crush the grass, birds rise at our approach, we smell the vegetation, leaves, flowers, grasses, each with its separate odour. **It was two o'clock on a September afternoon, the footpath skirting the meadows was bordered by upstanding grasses, like a natural handrail to guide and assist quick walking. Sometimes we are in bright, hot sunshine, sometimes in the shade of rows of poplars which cool the air, and bring sweet smells from the meadows. Coming back, the sun has set, but the wind is in the south, and the air quite warm. Farther and farther in the distance, we are accompanied and saluted on our way by the chirp of the cricket, like a little outrider shaking his bells in the night." Of course light is wanting to this description, and the great magic of sight. I have known what it was, and after many years I still feel a thrill at Taine's beautiful lines on **Les lies d'Or.* In- deed I do not intend in any sense to belittle the scope and importance of eyesight. I only wished to point out that the blind can have their share of * "In January, at Hy^res, I used to see the sun rise behind an island; light gradually filled the air. Suddenly, on the summit of a rock, a flame burst out ; the great crystal sky widened its vault over the immense expanse of sea, the countless little ripples and the deep, even blue of the water where it was crossed by a stream of gold. At evening the distant mountains were tinged with mauve, lilac and the yellow of the tea-rose. In summer the sun's illumina- tion fills sky and sea with such splendour that the senses and the imagina- tion rise into a glorious apotheosis ; each wave sparkles ; the water takes the jewelled tints of precious stones, turquoise, amethyst, sapphire and lapis- lazuli, as it undulates beneath the universal and immaculate purity of the sky." — " Philosophic de I'Art." 22 CONTACT WITH NATURE the pleasures of nature. This share is not usually understood by those who, although not blind, want merely to **look" and not to **see" ; then they only hear instead of listening, or, what matters far more, feeling. They do not saturate and intoxicate them- selves with aromas, fragrances and sonorities as does the attentive blind man who has not been numbed by the loss of vision. His impressions are wonderfully varied, harmonious and reminiscent. The seeing man who wishes to reflect or meditate deeply, closes his eyes, and by this means com- pletely shuts off the exterior world; it is in this separation and isolation that he imagines the blind to dwell. Edmond de Goncourt writes in his jour- nal: **Well, perhaps a year or two's blindness be- fore I die would not be such a bad thing ; it would be a separation, a divorce from nature ; in her bril- liant colouring she has been such a captivating mis- tress to me ! Perhaps it would be given to me to write a book, or rather a series of purely mental notes, all philosophical, and written in the shadowy world of thought." But why does the seeing man imagine that dark- ness would cut him off from everything? Because, accustomed as he is to live principally by sight, and to receive nine-tenths of his impressions through his eyes, when he closes them, he is far more struck by what is wanting than by what he has not forfeited. Furthermore, his mind is taken up with the subject that caused him to isolate himself, and, as a rule, he does not prolong this experiment suffi- ciently to accustom him to think of what he does not see, or to concentrate all his attention on the im- pressions he receives through his other senses.* * In the "Nouveaux Essais sur i' Bntendement humain" (II, ix), Leibnitz 23 THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL Finally, it is necessary to have what Topffer calls a sixth sense, one which has no organ. It gives us impressions, as charming as they are useless, for the practical and ethical guidance of life, which doubtless is the reason that all are not endowed with it. But what does this sixth sense feel or see ? It smells, it hears, it sees, it touches — in a word, it unites the functions of the five others, but in a world which they have never entered. I have spoken of foliage, lakes, the sky; well, in all these things this sense feels a charm which depends neither on green nor blue nor on brilliant light, a charm caused by these sights though not contained in them; they excite and provoke feelings which they could not originate. I can affirm that this charm exists, but how describe it? Seek to fix it, it evaporates; seek to detain it, it evades you ; approach it, it is gone! Sensation, pure and simple, is only the very humble handmaid of my sixth sense, furnishing it ceaselessly with matter for feelings and dreams, helping it to stray in the pleasantest manner in the world, in a lovely, limitless country, which is not the material earth seen by your eyes, and trodden by your feet.* Of course I do not pretend that all blind people respond to the influences of nature ; they as Well as those who can see need this sixth sense which was so wanting in Madame de Stael when she wrote to Fauriel who had admired Lake Leman, ** You still have countrified prejudices." When the Alps were praised, she exclaimed, **Oh! for the gutter of the Rue du Bac!'* Alas! every man has not the soul speaks of minor perceptions "which we do not notice In our present state. It is true that we could perceive and reflect on them, if their multiplicity did not confuse our thoughts, or If they were not obliterated by more Important sensations." * Topffer, "Reflexions et Menus propos d'un Pelntre genevols, ou Essal sur le Beau dans les Arts." 24 CONTACT WITH NATURE of an artist, all who have eyes do not see the poetic effects of light in wood and meadow. No, every one does not feel the necessity of localizing and sur- rounding the great emotions of his life, amid im- pressions of nature, and associating her with them all ; but there are certain temperaments that cannot dissociate anything from nature. Some of these exist amongst blind girls; they are not numbed, as I have said before, they are only rendered ** atten- tive by their loss." They also make part of the infi- nite impulse towards reverie, and poetry, that awakes, as we realize how fleeting life and all human impressions are, in the face of nature ; of nature the unchanging, though we return to her after so many changes in ourselves. Yes, the blind can feel their heart uplifted or depressed by overpowering feelings, in some spot which a sad or happy memory has consecrated, each time they return to it. No, they are not indif- ferent to where they live ; they can enjoy nature, and be penetrated by its charm, they can exclaim with Hugo:* O douleur! j'ai voulu, moi, dont Tame est troublee, Savoir si Turne encore conservait la liqueur, Et voir ce qu'avait fait cette heureuse vallee De tout ce que j'avais laisse 1^ de mon coeur! Que peu de temps suffit pour changer toutes choses, Nature au front serein, comme vous oubliez! Et comme vous brisez dans vos metamorphoses Les fils mystcrieux ou nos coeurs sont lies. *"Tristessed'01ympIo." I seek to know, my mind oppressed with grief, If perfume lingers yet within the urn, Or if the vale, lovely beyond belief, Will echo, as my mournful steps return. Briefly your wand can change the face of things. Calm Mother Nature ! vexed by no regret, spinning the thread that round our pathway clings, Catching our feet within its magic net I 25 THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL Dieu nous prete un moment les prcs et les fontaines, Les grands bois frissonants, les rocs profonds et sourds, Et les cieux azures, et les lacs et les plaines, Pour y mettre nos coeurs, nos reves, nos amours! God decks His world In beauty day by day; Thro' leafy wood the blue sky seems to smile; Lake, plain and cavern, take one voice to say, "Here may poor mortals rest and dream awhile." V. 26 SEEING" OUR FELLOW-CREATURES d. 11. ** Seeing" our Fellow-Creatures JF a blind girl gifted with an appreciative artis- tic nature be not isolated by her infirmity, and can, on the contrary, feel pleasure and delight in ail living surroundings and in the savour of the very air she breathes, she will certainly be keenly attracted to the society of other human beings. Besides, the unprejudiced view which looks upon the blind as insensible to the charms of nature is modi- fied with regard to their position towards their fellow- creatures. Still, the admiring surprise shown by many people at being recognized by their step, their voice or the pressure of their hand, proves in itself their ignorance of the real attitude of the blind towards those about them. They conclude that those without sight can only grasp purely moral and intellectual conceptions, so strong is the opinion that physical differences in people are only discernible to the eye. Consequently many imagine that a blind person, surrounded by his acquaintances, who are merely exchanging commonplaces, cannot recog- nize anyone who does not give his name or say something to give a clue to his intellectual identity. This is an error; most people have auditive, tactile or olfactory characteristics, which are perceptible on the slightest contact, and taken together or even separately, suflSce to make them recognized. Gogol writes:* **Dear friend, if you wish to render me the greatest service that I expect of a Christian, collect these little treasures (little daily events) for * Epilogue to "Lettres." 27 THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL me, wherever you find them. It would not give you much trouble to make notes like the following every evening in the form of a diary: * Heard such an opinion; talked to so-and-so; he is in such and such a position; his character is thisor that; he is good-look- ing and well-bred, or the contrary; he holds his hands so; he uses his handkerchief so; he takes snuff in this way, ... in a word, all that your eye per- ceives, from great events to the merest trifles." Nothing is mentioned here except what can be seen;no allusion is made to feeling, hearing ortouch; yet Gogol was a great observer. Are these last im- pressions so delicate that exceptional perceptions are necessary to receive them? Not in the least ; only, as I said before, the man who can see is so absorbed and satisfied by the impressions his eyesight records, that he simply ignores smell, hearing and touch. In analysing the atmosphere which any person exhales, we find it vary sui generis according to age, health, habits of hygiene, food and drink ; it is affected by intentional causes, such as the constant use of any one perfume, by accidental causes which have become habitual, such as smoking, and something may be known of the wearer's profession by the sort of clothes, mate- rials and gloves he affects. Every one can testify to this ; we only need to concentrate our attention, to discover that one old lady smells of ether, another of sandal-wood, pepper or some old-fashioned pow- der which preserves fur. Some fashionable young women use this or that scent, one man smokes Turkish tobacco, the smell of which is stronger than the scented soap he uses; another prefers a pipe, and a third, a cigar — spirits, wine, coffee, pastry, soaps, toilet washes, woollen stuffs, furs, 28 **SEEING" OUR FELLOW-CREATURES kid gloves (especially when heated by the sun or by the hot air of a drawing-room or a theatre) these all make their presence known. Then there are the objects we habitually handle, such as wood, iron, copper, oil paints, medicinal herbs ; thus the car- penter, the locksmith, the tailor, the shoe-maker, the painter, the printer and the chemist, do not diffuse the same odour. Clothes quickly absorb the atmosphere that they are most constantly worn in, the foul and exhausted air of offices, the steam of kitchens, the smells of a painter's studio, all im- pregnate woollen materials and cling to their wear- ers. Some people wear mackintosh, heavy black garments and countless other clothes. All these things make up a complete range of olfactory im- pressions, which, in the aggregate, are alternately agreeable, attractive, indifferent or unpleasant, but useful in differentiating and characterizing people, without the help of vision.* Sometimes it is suffi- cient to pass quickly from one atmosphere into a very different one, for the olfactory and tangible impressions of the former to cling to clothes. Who that has been ill in winter, and remained in bed or by the fireside for several days, has failed to notice the strong, sudden current of cold which the doctor or nurse brings from outside as they approach us? **She [his mother] came back from some morning errand to the town . . . bringing with her an odour of sun and summer from out of doors. . . . She bent over my bed to kiss me, and then I wanted no- * We have received the following in a letter from America: "I can tell you of a fact which is not generally known, and that is, that in deaf-mutes, the sense of smell is as much developed as it is in sporting dogs. Julia B can take a dozen gloves, and after smelling the hands and faces of several people present, she can return each glove to the hand it belongs to. Helen Keller recognizes the clothes of people about her, even when they have been washed. And another girl, Elizabeth R , if she stands by an open win- dow, can tell by the smell who is coming towards her." 29 THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL thing more — I stopped crying, and did not try to get up or go out."* But if we bring with us something of our late surroundings, the temperature we go into acts very perceptibly on our clothes. You have just arrived, you are out of breath, and breathe rather loudly, you blow your nose, you cough, often that is suf- ficient to reveal your name to an attentive ear, for there is individuality in these functions. There is much, perhaps, in our walk — grace, or awkward- ness, vulgarity or good manners, are fairly appar- ent in walking. The ring of a footstep, its cadence, the diflFerent rhythm of sex, age, physical type or even moral character, acquired habits, and the pre- occupation of the moment, all can be heard in the step. Firmness, indecision, carelessness, roughness, calm, gravity, indolence, activity, timidity, courage, affectation, vanity, natural simplicity, fatigue and vigour can all be discerned up to a certain point in the step. Notice, for instance, and listen to a servant^going downstairs to do a commission for you; he goes at quite a different pace when he is going out on his own business, particularly if it be in secret; in the former case he walks in his usual way, more or less fast, as the case may be, but you feel that he is at ease, ** taking his time"; in the latter case there will be something timid and embarrassed about him, you can tell that he is anxious to disappear quickly without attracting attention, and it is just this anxiety which arrests the attention of a keen ear. It is quite evident that in a curtained, carpeted room, or out of doors on gravel, grass or snow, footsteps become confused, characteristics are mini- mized and disappear. On the other hand, if you * Pierre Loti, **Le Roman d'un Enfant." 30 ''SEEING" OUR FELLOW-CREATURES walk in slippers, or change your usual footgear, it is possible to **make up" (**grimer") your step and bearing, as you could your physiognomy. Children's footsteps differ very much from those of adults, the cheerful, active, springy youth has not the same walk as the heavy middle-aged man, who feels his own importance, and wishes to im- press others; he moves complacently, self-conscious in his walk, as in his speech, while the step of quite an old man will be slow and dragging. Slim, elastic, graceful girls and young women have a kind of rhythm in their feet which the woman of forty, even if still distinguished and charming, loses as she sobers down — and the ear will not confuse the lat- ter's step with that of a vulgar, fat woman, devoid of all charm or distinction. The nature of the garment worn, be it a long or short dress, full or scanty, silk or wool, can also, by various forms of rustling or crackling, give a clue to the wearer's personality. Then there are objects usually worn, the extras, so to speak, of the costume: spurs and swords for soldiers, or rosaries and bunches of keys for nuns, while the starched caps and veils of the latter give out very percep- tible sounds according to the gesture which moves them. Some tricks of habit can be heard at once. I know a nun who when she has anything very important to say always lifts her cap a little with one hand. I had noticed and remembered this peculiarity long before I heard it remarked upon by a man who could see it. Some people play mechanically with their eyeglasses, watch chains, etc. It is needless to say that any movement made with a fan, a card case, or a newspaper, can be heard more distinctly 31 THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL than if the hand alone moved. Then there are cer- tain movements which cannot be made in silence, because of the friction they cause; if anyone turns sharply, waves an arm, moves leg or head, all this can be heard. In listening to a person talking you can tell if he be standing or sitting, upright or bend- ing forward, tall or short, because of the direction from which the sound comes; you can trace by this means many gestures of the head and body, and his various changes of positions. If anyone walks a few steps with you, giving you his arm or hand, you can easily imagine his general air and carriage; sometimes it is sufficient to walk next to anyone and brush his elbow, for though the elbow is very inferior to the hand as an agent of sensation, still it does convey a certain amount of contact. **I did not see her, but I heard her," writes a blind woman. **I knew that she was graceful, calm and sweet, as standing at the door she pressed my hand in farewell. And I shall always see that pic- ture of her in my heart." Here the blind woman could well say she **saw" a picture in her heart, since she possessed two fresh means of knowledge, the contact of the handclasp and the voice. **Upon the doctor's doorsteps one day Paul stood with a fluttering heart, and with his small right hand in his father's. The other hand was locked in that of Florence. How light the tiny pressure of the one! how loose and cold the other! ""^ * * AnatoHa held her hand out to me and said in her turn, 'Welcome!' Her gesture was free and frank, and the contact of her hand communicated a sen- sation of generous strength and practical kindness, * Dickens, "Dombey and Son." 32 ''SEEING" OUR FELLOW-CREATURES she seemed to pledge herself to me in a kind of bro- therly compact. Her ringless hand was neither too white nor too long, but vigorous in its purity of form, strong to lift and to support; supple yet firm, its smooth back diversified by the relief of joints and the network of veins, with valleys of softness in the warm concave palm, which was a wonder- ful centre of magnetism."^ Indeed, hands give very diverse tangible impres- sions. In how many varied ways it is possible to shake hands! From the complete full grasp of a sincere, frank, open person to the fawning, hesi- tating pressure of the cunning and crafty. Persons who are very affectionate, rather excitable, or rather nervous, shake hands with warmth and emotion; timid and embarrassed ones never know how they are going to offer you their hand; some barely give you two fingers. Certainly there is a complete compendium of the whole person with his or her physical and even moral characteristics in the structure of the hand, and also in its gestures, con- tractions, etc. Graphologists will not contradict this, since their curious deductions can only be ar- rived at by close correlation between the most hidden traits in a person's character, and the instinctive con- tractions and movements of his hand. Now if we admit that our disposition can betray itself in move- ments which we make mechanically with pen or pencil, it is natural and even unavoidable that one human hand in contact with another, should reveal something of the character and feelings of its owner. II me semblait dej^ dans mon oreille entendre De sa touchante voix Taccent tremblant et tendre, Et sentir, ^ defaut de mots cherches en vain, Tout son coeur me parler d*un serrement de main; *D* Annunzio, **Les Vierges aux Rochers." 33 THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL Gar lorsque Tamitie n'a plus d'autre langage, Le main aide le coeur et lui rend temoignage.* It would be easy to multiply quotations showing that the hand contact so perfectly understood by the blind, is perhaps even stronger than sight. Mi- reille and Vincent looked at one another, it is true, but they did not tremble or blush until their hands met. Gomme dans un seul sac les brins etaient roules, Sous la toile oCi leur main s*avance, etc.t FranQois Gopp6e, in some charming lines, shows us the father and mother of little Am6d6e Violette on the balcony. **It was cool on the high terrace. The sun had set. The great clouds now looked like mountains of gold, and a pleasant smell of grass rose up from the sur- rounding gardens. M. and Mme Violette did not join in the conversation. Perhaps they were not even attending to it; and when night had com- pletely fallen, they gently took hands in the dark and looked at the stars." j Gopp6e has this verse in his ** Chanson d'Exil": * "I felt as if I could already hear the touching accents of her gentle voice; failing the words that would not come, her whole heart spoke to me in the pressure of her hand. For, when friendship is at a loss for words, the hand aids the heart and is its witness." — Lamartine, " Jocelyn." t "The twigs were all heaped in the same sack, their hands crept under the canvas, and inadvertently (honi soit qui mal y pense) they met. They trembled and blushed, their souls were kindled by a hitherto unknown fire. Mireille was agitated and withdrew her hand. Vincent addressed her in his softest voice: 'What troubles you, Mireille? Has a bee stung you?' *I know not,' she answered low. And as they both bent over their basket- making they watched each other roguishly to see which would smile first. Their hearts beat fast, and the work went on apace. . . . The white hand and the brown kept meeting in the sack, whether by accident or design, and clasped each other. This little trick amused them very much." — Mistral's "Mireille," from the Provencal Dialect. + "Toute une Jeunesse," Gopp^e. 34 "SEEING" OUR FELLOW-CREATURES Triste exile! qu'il te souvienne Gombien Favenir etait beau Quand sa main tremblait dans la sienne Gomme un oiseau.* Further, does not hand-contact, like proximity, simultaneous movements and rhythm, constitute a great deal of the attraction which dancing always has had and will have? Dancing produces the greatest possible impression on blind people; it sets every nerve vibrating, and the very privation of sight enhances the excitement. A new sensation due to modern invention is the power of hearing people's voices long after they have ceased to be present, and being able to hear them speak, sing, laugh, even breathe as at the moment they were beside you. Will not the oral record which the phonograph is about to preserve in the interests of friendship (though it may some- times endanger them), will not this record produce an impression as vivid as any known hitherto? After many years of separation during which a great friend is often forgotten, after promises of life-long devotion, would it not be more agitating to hear his voice than to see his portrait? ** I should never have known him by his face; but his voice revealed what his face hid from me.^f The voice of a man is his whole personality. If the eyes are the ** mirror of the soul" the voice is the soul's echo and breath, the voice is the most infallible interpreter q{ the innermost feelings. J *"Sad exile, do not forget how fair the future seemed when her hand trembled like a bird in thine." f Dante's "Purgatorio," canto xxiii. X **The voice is a human sound, which nothing inanimate can imitate suc- cessfully. It carries authority and an individual claim, which is wanting to handwriting. It is not only air, but air modulated by us, impregnated with our vital heat, enveloped in the vapour of our own atmosphere; our identity gives it a certain configuration and special power of affecting other minds. Speech is but thought incarnate." --Joubert, "Pensees." 35 3* THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL To a human being the great charm of sound is that it is essentially expressive. It causes him to share the joys and, above all, the sorrows of his fellow- men. Grief finding vent in words generally moves us more profoundly than if expressed in face or gesture.* Those who are not blind are often expert in voice expression. Horace Mann says: ** Feelings of anger after punishment cannot be entirely con- cealed; the child's eye and especially the sound of his voice never fail to betray him. His manner is constrained; he cannot play with ease; his glance shifts as it meets that of the master, or else he fixes him with a defiant look. It is not unusual for him to be especially particular in performing his tasks, the better to hide his projects of revenge. But his most subtle organ, the voice, unfailingly betrays him. These indications will show the master that peace is not yet established in the little heart." It is not so much the tone of the voice, in a musi- cal sense, that we have to consider: kindness or harshness, bitterness or sweetness, stupidity, intel- ligence, an inclination to indecision or dreaminess betray themselves in the accent and vibration of the voice, in inflexions and in the shape of words, so to speak, and this, I repeat, independently of the tone which in itself may be insignificant, spiritless and weak, or of things said which may be ordinary and commonplace. '*I have just come back from Mme L's. . . . What a good soul! I think the whole world finds favour in her eyes. Directly she meets you, as soon as she opens her mouth, you recognize and know her for what she is: kindness, simple, unaft^ected kindness itself! Her voice is rather quavering and monotonous, her words a little slow; ***L'art au point de vue Sociologique"; "Probl^mes de I'Esthetique con- temporaine " ; G uyau . 36 '^SEEING*' OUR FELLOW-CREATURES but you forget all that directly, because of the sincere cordiality which rings in her speech. It is with the moral and intellectual quality of the voice, as with the graphological meaning of handwriting, which is shown by its shape and style, independently of the words it reproduces. When the phonograph is perfected, when it becomes the custom to repro- duce at different ages and under varying emotions, the voices of people whom we love or feel an inte- rest in, as their faces and attitudes can now be photographed, then we shall be able to fix, analyse, assemble, and compare those elements hitherto so essentially fugitive and, so to speak, dependent on an experiment which perforce had to be unique and unchallenged by verification. For, after all, how is it possible to compare, discuss and control by various tests that which as a rule has only been heard by one person who, again, has only recorded it in his memory and can only compare it with his own recollection? Those only who are obliged to depend principally on hearing would be aptest at observing and study- ing those moral and intellectual characteristics of the voice, so easy to catch, and so indiscreet in their revelations. Must not something of the delicate, in- timate charm of such observations, when only made by the few, of necessity disappear when they are the subject of classes in a ** laboratory of experi- mental psychology," and they become, in a sense, public property? I should be inclined to think so, but we must be prepared to lose in poetry what we gain in exact science. When, after long absence, you meet some one who has had a great physical shock or a heavy mental trial, you can see directly if he be bent, wrinkled or dim-eyed; and, sufficiently 37 THE BLIND SlStERS OE ST PAUL warned by the visible footprints of sorrow, that irreparable ruin which it rends the heart to see in those we love, you go no further. You do not no- tice if the voice has also altered, lost or diminished its clearness, lowered its pitch or become slightly tremulous; these changes in the voice are what wrinkles are to the face. The organ is modified according to the whole physiognomy. "^ It is rare for an acute ear to be much mistaken as to the real or alleged age of a speaker. Words like the following have been put into the mouth of the blind: **Now that my eyes are closed, you can grow old, for you will never change for me." Alas, they only speak so in books ; in real life they feel painfully the flight of time over those they love, and M. de Pontmartin was mistaken when he wrote the following lines: **I have always thought that the charming legend of Philemon and Baucis would be more convincing if Baucis and Philemon had been blind. In marriage, as understood by really exceptional natures and as our Holy Mother the Church presents it to us, blind- ness would be a great grace. . . . The reason why ordinary marriages are exposed to so many perils and tribulations, and often to ridicule, is that the soul only plays a secondary part in them, and is almost ignored. Love seems at the mercy of a caprice of the senses, a disfiguring illness, an unbecoming pregnancy, white hairs and wrinkles, want of taste in dress and age, especially age, which seams the skin, dims the complexion, swells the cheeks, makes the portrait a caricature, and beauty into a memory only — nothing of this exists for the blind * "She spoke in a voice that was the perfect musical expression of the forms which produced it." — D* Annunzio, "Les Vierges aux Rochers." 38 **SEEING'^ OUR FELLOW-CREATURES husband and wife. The clock of their church stopped at the hour when they entered it, to receive the nuptial blessing. They are as young to each other at sixty as at twenty-five." Of course some more or less delicate and expres- sive voices alter and age much earlier than others, but nearly always the features are in harmony with them.''*' It is generally noticed in women that brunettes have contralto, and blondes soprano, voices. Each individual, then, has a voice and a manner of speak- ing which is as individually his own as his face.f **It was between Lausanne and Geneva — I be- lieve that my mind was a complete blank — that the train stopped at a station, the door opened, a tra- veller got in, and came towards me. I did not catch the first words he spoke to me, but I awoke from my abstraction with a sudden start. That voice — where had I heard it before? But, after all, was he speaking to me? The new comer recalled himself to me; he had often visited our school in Lausanne, and he thought he recognized an old pupil in me. As he spoke, my memory returned; the unaffected voice, the crisp, incisive speech, the manly tone which age had mellowed, making it tremble ever so slightly without taking away from its sonority, that cordial voice, the most magnetic thing in the world, all this caused m© extreme pleasure. I recognized * Nul signe de fatigue ou d'une ame blessce, Ne trahissalt en lui la mort de la pens^e. t People often wonder if, apart from music, the blind can really enjoy the theatre, or if the privation of the "action on the stage" prevents them from following the play? The truth is that most blind people are very fond of going to the theatre. "Few," writes one, "enjoy an opera or a vaudeville more than I do ; all plays interest me except the pantomime." And, of course, with the ear alone, it is not at all difficult to follow a scene of several per- sonages, and, unless the cues are too confused or the actors ' voices too much alike, you quickly identify each as he or she returns to the stage. 39 THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL him; I could not be mistaken in pronouncing the name of M. R . It was he. He seemed sur- prised and pleased at my faithful memory. During the visits he used to pay to our establishment, he had not spoken more than once to me individually, but we were so fond of our sympathetic visitor that as soon as he came in, and we heard the first sylla- bles of his friendly greeting, a murmur of satisfac- tion ran through the room." Perhaps there are more voices than faces which resemble each other, perhaps a little more time and contact are necessary for the memory to record an auditive physiognomy than a visible one; this is pos- sible but not certain; then, as we know, the blind are not limited, in identifying anyone, to the charac- ter of the voice; they have other clues. The follow- ing extract from a blind woman's letter strikes me as very significant on this point: ** During the last few years that M. G has lived in this neighbourhood, there is one continuous concert of his praises; his visits are an honour, his intelligence is quoted, his wisdom appealed to and his piety proclaimed; he is a * perfect' man, never- theless I must confess that he does not please me, and his physiognomy is not sympathetic to me. . . . Each time I meet him, I listen, I analyse him, and the impression remains the same. I am convinced that some day events will justify my instincts, hitherto they have never misled me. Still I do not believe myself gifted with any special perspicacity, but I certainly think that in these matters we can see more clearly than those with eyesight, for what we observe speaks to us more unmistakably than what they look at. I do not often inquire what are the features or the expression of such or such a one — 40 **SEEING'* OUR FELLOW-CREATURES have I heard him speak? The image of him which my ear conveys cannot be influenced by the wit- ness of others' eyes. But to return to M. D ; I had not met him for thirteen months, he was an- nounced at M. P 's. I listened to his coming, his light, yet over-precise tread recalled Walter Scott's description of Olivier le Dain's entrance into the audience-chamber. M. D 's bows to me; I dread his shake of the hand, what is there so antipathetic about it? I can't tell, but I should know it amongst a thousand. He assures me that he is delighted to see me again; I don't believe it, and feel relieved when a seat is offered him at some distance from me. A conversation is started; he is the chief speaker, and I am able, without indiscretion, to take him to pieces at my leisure. His musical, rather feminine voice is gracefully modulated, and lends an insinua- ting charm to his easy flow of words. But in his soft tones I catch a secret, indefinite thrill, something which inexplicably repels me, and tells me unerr- ingly that his speech and heart are not at one. His laugh confirms this impression: it seems afraid of itself and rings false. We now enter on religious topics; oh, on this point M. G is most edifying! What beautiful sentences fall from his lips ! Still all this annoys me; I could almost get up and protest against all these holy things; the more I listen to his voice, the less truthful it sounds to me." But the critical sense is not always working; in some tones of the voice, as in some eyes, there is a fascination, a caressing charm. Many blind people are attracted by the sheer music of the organ, as those who can see are caught by the velvety beauty of a glance. They allow themselves to be ensnared, spellbound; they will not hear, or do not listen to 41 THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL intellectual and moral characteristics. **One day, when I was young," says an old blind spinster, "I heard a young man recite some quite insignificant comic pieces at a concert, I paid no attention to them, but I have never forgotten the sound of his voice. It penetrated my very heart; I felt an intense wish to know and speak to him; it was a kind of irresistible attraction, and I was obliged to exercise the full force of my will to prevent myself con- stantly thinking of his voice." The irresistible charm which certain voices have for certain people is not only recognized by the blind. We remember the verse of the Canticle of Ganticle6, **My soul melted when he spoke," and these words of Lacor- daire : ** At the sight of the human face, where begins the revelation of the invisible world, man becomes troubled. He would not shed a drop of his blood for the universe as a whole: he is ready to give it all for the creature of a day or an hour. A look de- cides him, and if speech be added, if that power which in nature is only a sound, a murmur, a me- lody, become a living voice which reveals the thoughts of the soul; then that love which was only an instinct in him is transfigured with the soul's image, and death itself is powerless in presence of a sentiment only dependent on moral beauty." Thus contact by vision is not indispensable for singling out, even physically, anyone individual, and becoming affected by his presence. We can feel attracted and charmed by what I have called the ** auditive physiognomy"; apart from any apprecia- tion of moral or intellectual qualities. This appre- ciation is on quite another plane, and can gradually increase. A young bhnd wife writes of her husband: 42 **SEEING'' OUR FELLOW-CREATURES ** I love in him the sound of his voice. Even when he is speaking of ordinary, commonplace subjects, I feel an infinite charm. As soon as I hear him my heart beats and I feel happy. Besides the freshness and youthful vigour which echo in his voice, it has exquisite inflexions in pronouncing certain words. He does not speak my name like the rest of the world; in his mouth it sounds sweet and delightfully musical to me — I love his large, firm hand; when it presses mine it conveys emotion, joy, inexpress- ible tenderness, enthusiasm and virile force; when he touches my arm to speak to me, I feel enveloped by a strong and tender protection. I love his steady, resolute step, I feel in it what mine lacks, I love to feel his silky hair under my fingers. I love to hear him breathe, as if his breath were a sweet perfume — oh, I love him altogether, I see him from afar with his ever-rapid step, the brisk movement with which he opens and shuts a door; I know his way of putting a key into a lock, and I love all that too. Are his pictures handsome? I know nothing of that. For me his whole soul is in his voice, his whole heart in the handclasp which ends all our dear talks." 43 THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL CL IIL The ** Voices" of the House ALL houses are not alike to the impression- able and observant Wind woman, any more than all faces can be. The family house, where successive generations have left stored-up memories, the beloved house where childhood and long years of life have been spent, where some great emotion of life has been felt, becomes even to a blind person a living thing, a being imbued with her own life and individuality. When she is far away, and recalls her home, it is naturally not a visual im- age that will remind her either of her home or of her experiences there; but we know that such im- ages are not the only ones that can be graven on the memory, and there are other impressions be- yond those received through the eyes, which are capable of moving the heart and recalling the past. Je parcourais du pas tout le champetre enclos, OCi, comme autant de fleurs, mes jours etaient eclos; J'ecoutais chanter Teau dans le bassins de marbre; Je touchais chaque mur, je parlais ^ chaque arbre, J'allais d'un tronc a Tautre et je les embrassais, Je leur pretais le sens des pleurs que je versais, Et je croyais sentir, tant notre ame a de force, Un cceur ami du mien palpiter sous Tecorce. * Besides a general type and topography which the blind woman can perfectly grasp and retain, many houses and apartments have sometimes a strongly defined aspect, or, so to speak, an olfactory, audi- * "I wandered slowly over the meadows where my days had passed as flowers blossom, I listened to the water singing in the marble basin, touched each wall, and spoke to every tree, going from trunk to trunk and kissing them. I tried to think they understood the reason of my tears, and I felt as if under their rugged bark a heart akin to mine was beating."— Lamartine, "Jocelyn." 44 THE ''VOICES" OF THE HQUSE tive, tactile physiognomy. This strikes people whose sense of observation is not limited to visual impres- sions.* **In the hall each step echoed on the tiles between the subterranean depths and the reverberating heights of the staircase. It was the real ancient at- mosphere and hereditary odour proper to old rural dwellings; smells of cooking, themustiness of cellars. Personal exhalations from bedrooms combined in un- equal proportions; the faint mixture of lavender and iris mixed imperceptibly with the emanations of mildewing stuffs; a strong air, a subtle perfume, im- pregnated with life and death as the chateau itself, filled as it has been in turn with cradles and coffins, "f Henri Lavedan also has remarked the type of old house in the provinces, *'with heavy portals, and lugubrious stone staircase, smelling of raisins, cellar and cat." It is certain that the fruit shelves and the cupboards of a good middle-class house in a small town, filled in autumn with jams, the traditional prunes, apples, preserved grapes, intended to supply winter desserts till after Palm Sunday, exhale through their cracks characteristic whiffs, making the hall and staircase smell quite differently from Parisian back premises, which are too small to keep large stores and are limited to the dessert of the day, with recollections of the day before and hints of the morrow: desserts at which fancy cakes and shop- made preserves eke out home-made dainties that would taste and smell stronger. *" Gradually I got to know the smallest details of the old dwelling, the feeling of the walls, the warping of the canvas of certain old pictures, the chips in cabinets, certain blocks of the flooring which bent under the foot, imperceptible nothings which I have never forgotten, and all the noises of life and the silences to which I was attentive." — Henri de Rdgnier, "Jours heureux." t Art, Roe, "L'Assaut de Loigny." 45 THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL Different again is the smell which hangs round the refectory of a college or community. The poor man's house has not the same atmosphere as that of the rich, and in each of these categories there are many degrees and shades. Almost every room has its special smell which comes from its draperies, stuffs, the wood of the furniture, etc., and is especi- ally due to its inhabitant and to his habits. He uses certain soaps, toilet washes, scents; hence, as I said before, we get a whole scale of odours from the rural basil and lavender, to the latest, subtlest blend of fashion, giving the note and special character of the habitation. **My aunts inhabited rooms on the second floor. My Aunt Marcelline's room was hung with a light, flowered chintz and had padded chairs to match. The chintz had a special smell which mingled with the remains of scent in the bottles on the toilet table. ... At the head of the bed a gold watch hung ticking on a nail. I put my ear close to it to listen. . . . The smell of scent grew stronger as the window was kept shut. ... A gold-coloured moth would sometimes come out of the old arm-chairs in the drawing-room; it flew on dusty, downy wings through the silence, in a vague odour of camphor and smoking lamp-wick. Each room had its special smell. I can well remember that of the stables be- low; it was composed of meat, game, wood, dress- stuffs, and in the midst an old carriage gave out a smell of damp leather, varnish and dusty cloth."* Then there is the * * voice " of the house, made up of the familiar sounds of its interior life. A sick woman wrote some months after her brother's death: **I think of blind people much more than I work for * Henri de Regnier, "Jours heureux." 46 THE **VOICES" OF THE HOUSE them, for in my confined life the functions of the ear become daily more important. Think how quiet a house is, inhabited only by two women, and what significance the sound of an opening or closing door, or the echo of a footstep, has in such a silence ; re- member that for eleven inactive years I could only keep in touch with my brother by listening to him in the distance when he was at home; he was too busy to give me more than a few minutes at a time, and still, after more than a year and a half I have sudden illusions; then it is that I think of the blind." The noises made by doors and windows often vary very much, as Gogol so aptly puts it: * ' I don't know why the doors creaked so — was it because the hinges were rusty? Or had the car- penter who made them concealed some secret me- chanism in his work? I don't know if this could be, but the strange thing was that each door had its special voice. The bedroom door was the lightest soprano; the dining-room, a rolling bass. As for that which closed the hall, it gave out a queer, plaintive, quavering sound; on listening very attentively, you could distinguish the words, * I am freezing. Mas- ter.'"* We have the special sonority of footsteps going hither and thither, the greater or lesser echo in cer- tain rooms, staircases and landings; then outside noises, which can be noticed in certain rooms at cer- tain hours and seasons: the bell, the church clock, timepieces in neighbouring houses, which in summer can be heard striking in their different tones through the open windows. Then the carpenter's plane, the anvil of the smith opposite, the muffled roar of the train, the bells of the diligence, which persistently * " Mespetits p^res," Russian familiar address of servants to masters, — Trans. 47 THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL passes at a fixed time and waits at the bottom of the street, its horses stamping under the afternoon flies. Then the shouts of the street boys of the neighbour- hood, who from generation to generation have played in front of this special door, in this tiny market- place, always with the same cries and doubtless at the same games. The children at play and the grown- up people who watch them have given place many times to others in turn, but the scene has not changed; the traveller who returns, be he blind or no, listener or onlooker, is carried back once more to his child- hood, when he envied the street boys at their games, probably because he was not allowed to play in such a public spot. You can hear the creaking of a pump, the plash of the street fountain; from the other side comes the noise of a poultry run, and the cries of swallows, who come and build their nests always under the same eaves of our old homestead and are more faithful than ourselves to the annual stay under the parental roof. Dear little swallows, don't think that you do not exist for the blind man! True, he cannot see you, but as you come and go, you call, you twitter, you make a soft, harmonious brushing with your wings; he hears and loves you! Then there is the great fir tree in the garden, with its ever-recurring wail in the autumn wind; in spring it always shelters the same birds, singing the same notes at the same hours. Breaths of sweetness from beds of mignonette, carnations and roses, are wafted on the night air into the rooms. In a word, the wandering air, the atmosphere of the old patriarchal house is unmis- takable; it enfolds you; your heart sinks or rises at its contact or even at its memory, suddenly re- called to you by some tangible, olfactory or audi- 48 THE ** VOICES" OF THE HOUSE tive sensation you have experienced there. **I was in bitter grief, but I involuntarily noticed the most insignificant trifles. The room was very dim and hot; it smelt of peppermint, eau-de-Cologne, ca- momile and Hoff*mann's drops. This odour made such an impression on me that when I happen to smell, or even remember it, my imagination carries me back directly to the dark, stifling room, and calls up all the details of that dreadful hour."* And d' Annunzio says: **He leaned his head on his mother's knees, growing calm under the ma- ternal touch. A sob still shook him from time to time. The far-off sorrows of his youth took vague shape and crossed his mind once more. He heard the twittering of swallows, the whir of the knife- grinder's wheel, voices shouting in the street, well- known noises of former afternoons, noises which made his very heart sick, f Places recall memories to the blind as well as to those who can see. When you come back to a house or a garden where you have received some great impression, where a * * piece of your life " has been spent, the memory of long-past events and feelings revive with joyful, or, alas ! more often with sor- rowful, intensity. Neither is it a matter of indiffer- ence to the blind, any more than to those with eye- sight, to pass their lives always in the same house, where memories can be accumulated and classified so that they can be recalled, instead of being scat- tered pell-mell amongst the fleeting impressions of a more or less nomadic life. A blind person in a town or a house is as much confused by the absence of familiar sounds as by hearing strange noises, or * Tolstoi, ' ' Souvenirs." t "Le Triomphe de la Mort." 49 4 THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL rather noises which were not to be heard where he was in the habit of living. One can accustom oneself to an ** atmosphere of sounds," which, in a sense, lives with us, and is, so to speak, the ** auditive horizon." The solitude of places is not purely objective; there is an important subjective side to this impression, for you feel all the more lonely and isolated when surrounding objects and sounds are unfamiliar to you, recalling none of your preoccupations and unassociated with none of your daily cares. After the lapse of several days the interest in life returns; you have lost some associations, you discover others; but during the first hours of days when the sound of the clock is new, footsteps are strange and recall no one, and the opening or shutting of doors is no clue to who is coming in or going out; then the sense of solitude is very vivid. And it is by no means the same thing whether you wake up to the old-fashioned chimes of a quiet Flemish town or to the whistles of a fac- tory district in Lyons. Here again progress has not always taken a poe- tic direction. Nothing was so pretty as to hear in a town, and especially in a village, each hour an- nounced by a bell, the Angelus, the Curfew, the call to school on week-days and to church on Sun- days — convents, private schools and even the large work-rooms, ** works" as they used to be called — regulated all their movements by the sound of a bell which assembled the workmen; and steam- boats announced their arrival by loudly ringing the bell in the stern. In the distance this was not un- pleasant; it was sometimes quite poetic. But we have moved with the times; ** works," which now call themselves manufactories, announce by a stri- 50 THE **VOICES" OF THE HOUSE dent and prolonged whistle, the hour of work; steamboats arrive with the bellowing of sirens, everywhere whistles replace bells. The Town Hall and all secular buildings which hope to supplant the Church, will perhaps wish to give some auditive signal for the principal divisions of the day; they cannot let off cannon like the Eiffel Tower; they will not, like the belfries of the Middle Ages, bor- row from religion her mode of calling to prayer, they doubtless consider it more appropriate to the modern lay spirit to borrow from factories the signal for work which the steamer uses, to mark the ** legal limit." So that probably in future, we shall grow quite accustomed to the strange formula, ** There goes the fifteen or seventeen o'clock whis- tle," (la xvme, la xviime heure a siffl6). . . ." Then it will no longer be possible, at the close of an ever-to-be-remembered day, to say with a sigh, **We must part, it is the peaceful hour of falling dew. Did you hear ? The evening Angelus has rung." Some may smile to read the foregoing, and may think such things very trivial, perhaps even very material. But others, I hope, will understand, be- cause they know how infinitely many are **les fils myst6rieux dont nos coeurs sont li6s." And they will realize that a blind woman also can be bound by them. Who does not carry in his mind's eye some corner of a house or garden, which he loves to people with dream-memories? Our heart loves to linger there, for it seems that there in the dis- tance, we have been, or could yet be, happy — there dreams, desires or regrets are born, and we love the spot the more. Our life and that of those we love, is spent perforce in material surroundings, amongst objects often insignificant in themselves, 51 4* THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL but which take a meaning from our contact. They retain this significance long after those who im- parted it are gone, and they become, in a sense, mementoes of Hfe. They exist to preserve to us certain pages in our Hves, which otherwise would be effaced; to remind our poor fickle hearts of those we loved — and whom we cannot always remember, and lastly to recall us ourselves to those who pro- mise always to remember us, but who perhaps would very quickly forget us without these tangible relics of our passage. Do not let us dwell on these aids to memory. It is in the natural order of things that the general type and class of a house and its furniture would change. But it ought to be by de- grees, and with much much respect and caution, without violent upheavals, and without attempting to ignore time, that indispensable agent in all har- monious and durable formations. Nothing is so sad as an old dwelling that has been roughly stripped of furniture; it is bitter to those who remain, unpro- fitable to those leaving, and even repugnant to casual observers. It is a hateful and anti-social custom, to separate in such a way what time and man had joined together. The family home is a living per- son; let us not mutilate it! Let those who forsake it, going far afield to found a new home, a branch of the old one they are leaving, because they must **grow and multiply," take some things away with them. Well and good, but let them be relics, not dislocated fragments. A great leafy tree has given us pleasant shelter and a resting-place after a tiring expedition; when we start again, if we pick some of its leaves and fruits, it is not to despoil a kind friend, it is that we may take away the slips and cuttings that will make it live again, or to tie a green sprig of memory to our traveUing knapsack. 52 FINDING ONE'S WAY BOOK 11. Physical Activity CE. I. How to find One's Way without Eyesight WE have not solved every problem by accumulating and testing impressions from contact with persons and things; it remains to be seen how the blind girl stands, as re- gards the material side of life, and what her own disposition and feelings are. Let us, first of all, ascertain how she finds her way about. Has it ever happened to you to enter your house at night without a light? Did you not find your way across the courtyard, through the hall, and up the stairs? In spite of the darkness you put your key in the lock, you reached your bedroom, where you found the matches on the mantelpiece. If you are fairly handy and methodical, I am sure that you did all this without too much feeling about, and you upset nothing. Now, this aptitude for getting about, and finding objects in the dark, in familiar places, which necessity suddenly reveals to you, is also the pre- rogative of the blind. The latter daily cultivate it instinctively, and in them it is highly developed. It would be a mistake to compa?e the power which blind people, under some conditions, possess, of guiding themselves and finding their way, to the faculty inherent in many animals of reaching their destination in complete darkness. For animals have instinct, the five senses are not enough to explain the phenomena observed * — it is supposed that they *See Fabre, "Souvenirs entomologiques," 1st series; and Capitaine G. Reynaud, "Les Lois de rOrlentation chez les Animaux/' "Revue des Deux Mondes." March 15, 1898. 53 THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL have a ** sense of locality." Man, on the con- trary, whether he have the use of his eyes or not, ^ has no other faculty for locality but sight, and in him the sense of locality results from asso- ciation and reason, not from instinct. It is not very difficult to retain in one's mind the plan of a room, a house, a garden or a town. Try to call up the mental picture of a room topographically described as follows : Fifteen feet by twelve, window on one of the smaller walls, door opposite window, mantel- piece in the middle of the long wall which faces you as you enter. The principal pieces of fur- niture are grouped thus: bed in the right-hand corner behind the door, large writing table between mantelpiece and window, bookcase opposite man- telpiece, to the left of bookcase, dressing table, to the right, chefFonier; two^or three arm-chairs to the right and left of fireplace; chairs in corners, occa- sional tables here and there, but principally near the fireplace. Well, although you have never seen the room, have you not a very clear idea of it? The topography of a house is more complicated ; still if the construction be fairly regular, it does not require a great efi'ort to understand and retain it, if there are a great many irregularities it may take time to study them. As to the garden, let us sup- pose it bounded on the south by the house first of all, and then by the fence of the poultry yard, on the north by a high wall, on the east by a wooden paling and 'a row of large trees, on the west by a low wall, and having a fountain nearly in the centre. Eight principal paths adorn and divide this garden; one to the south, one to the north, one to the east and one to the west; four others start from the four sides and lead 54 FINDING ONE'S WAY up to the fountain. It is quite simple to picture these long lines, the mind easily retains their posi- tion, and they serve as starting points for the de- tails to be noticed later, such as little alleys, arbours, clumps of fruit-trees, baskets of flowers, patches of vegetables, etc., etc., which themselves will stand for landmarks. The topography of a town impresses itself on the memory, by the same means. You go from simple to complex ideas; first the important roads, the river, if there be one, squares and the principal monument; then when these landmarks are well retained, you gradually group round them the detailed indications; little streets, irregularities, etc., which are pointed out to you by degrees. **But," we hear you object, **It is not enough to carry the topography of places in the mind, how can we get about a room, a house, a garden, a town, without eyesight? How can we know where we are, and not lose ourselves at every moment? In a room we can touch the furniture and walls, but walking about the house is more difiicult, we run the risk of falling downstairs. Then how can we manage in the garden, or in the street?" Well, remember what I have already said about the communications and connexions of the blind man with the external world; he hears, he smells, he touches (not only with the hand, but with the whole body, and particularly with the foot), he can utilize these diverse sensations in practical ways. Do not therefore let us imagine a blind girl afraid to make a movement unless her hands are stretched out before her,^ for ever fumbling and tapping either indoors or out, and afraid to venture into the gar- den. If she be in the least degree intelligent, with 55 THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL any instincts of movement, and activity, she feels about very little, and has other means of taking her bearings; she moves hither and thither and generally manages to touch the right objects in fa- miliar places, we may be sure. She turns every- thing to account; hearing, smell, the touch of foot or elbow, draws reasonable inferences from the impressions she receives, and utilizes them. We do not, I repeat, find our way about merely by tan- gible means, but also by auditive and olfactory clues. In a room the window looking on the street or garden is nearly always a landmark, when open or even shut it admits sounds from outside, such as wheel traffic or the song of birds. The fireplace is also a clue; if the fire is alight, it can be Heard crackling, or its warmth is apparent; then there is often a clock on the mantelpiece, whose ticking is also a guide. A vase of flowers, a wash-hand stand with its varied odours of soaps and toilet washes, even a bird cage, are landmarks which it is not necessary to touch in order to locate them. A car- pet in the middle of the room, a mat by the bed, a hearthrug are indications to the feet; then one's elbow brushes against a curtain, a portiere, or the angle of a piece of furniture in a familiar place; the knee encounters a heavy arm-chair, or an ordinary chair in a usual position, all these well- known indications are practical helps. I will give an example, and the reader must excuse the explanation being necessarily minute and compli- cated, but it has to be so, in order to answer a question which has been put hundreds of times. Supposing that a blind woman loses her bearings for a moment, as often happens, owing to the rapid noisy movements of several people? Well, she feels 56 FINDING ONE'S WAY with her foot the corner of the carpet in front of her; the parquet floor is at her left and also behind her; that guides her to a certain extent, but there are two corners to the carpet which both reach parquet flooring, one to the left, and one to the back of her, as the carpet stretches in front of her to the right. How is she to know which of the two corners she is standing on? The noise from the street which is heard on the left, and indicates the window, will decide; as the carpet stretches in front and to the right and the win- dow is on the left, the blind woman must neces- sarily be between the middle of the room and the window, for if she were on the other corner of the carpet, she would hear the window on her right; therefore she must face the fireplace a little to the right, and have her back to the chiffonier, the bookcase, etc. ; the door must be at the end of the room to her right. She takes a step to the left, so as to be within range of the fireplace, and she hears the clock ticking; a little further on she can smell the flowers in the vases; she is therefore perfectly sure of her position without having touched anything: no looker-on would even have noticed her moment of hesitation, without he happened to be very observant and accustomed to the blind. Indoors, the foot is a great guide, for it can im- mediately discover tiles, boards, parquets waxed or otherwise, a woollen rug or fibre mat, a strip of bamboo or cocoanut matting, oil-cloth, linoleum, etc, etc. There are several ways of ascertaining the approach to a staircase ; sometimes the first step is in stone and is in abrupt contrast with the carpet ; sometimes a very slight inequality may be easily felt, sometimes a strip of stair carpet begins or ends 57 THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL suddenly — sounds and special echoes in certain rooms and passages, smells and various noises are precious clues which are easily remembered. As a man with eyesight remembers visible surround- ings, so the blind man retains the memory of audi- tive environments; the former when he enters a room which has been enlarged, although not other- wise altered, will have the impression, even after a long absence, of greater size ; the latter by his hearing will realize the same thing as he walks or speaks in the room. In a very large, luxurious apartment, heavily carpeted, with curtains and portieres which muffle all sounds, the blind man is very much puzzled to discover his whereabouts, he cannot get about alone if he has not been able beforehand to exa- mine each piece of furniture carefully, or to pass in review an inventory of the contents. Further- more, for him to find his way about a room, he must be allowed to see the arrangement of it and to touch, however lightly, the principle pieces of furniture. Of course if he is always led from the door to the seat intended for him, without being taken round this room or the others which he passes through and asked to discover for himself the general arrangements he cannot tell where he is, and, unless the topography be very simple, he will not be able to grasp it. The blind man can neither find his way nor cir- culate easily and safely in either a very small room full of scattered furniture, or a large empty one where the foot only finds a wide, smooth surface, either of polished parquet flooring or of very flat even carpet. The landmarks wanting in the latter are numerous it is true in the former, but they are 58 FINDING ONE'S WAY confusing in getting about unless after long habit. The most convenient are medium-sized rooms, with furniture ranged along the walls rather than arranged in isolated groups — unless a room is very large and very full, an inventory can soon be made. And, of course, it is not necessary for getting about and finding the way to make a list of ornaments, trifles, pictures, wall-brackets, trinkets, etc. It is sufficient to see in a bedroom, the door, window, fireplace, bed, chest of drawers, wardrobe and table; in a drawing-room, beside the doors, win- dows, fireplace, piano, sofa, principal chairs, tables and consoles. The knowledge of minor objects will follow later, and their position be retained in the memory. The best way of starting on the first or general inventory is to go round the room, mak- ing the door, the fireplace, or the bed the starting place ; coming back to it each time we have ascer- tained the position of any object by means of its surroundings. On taking possession of a room, even for one night, this little tour of inspection must be made. In proportion, I should say the same of the garden or suite of rooms — it is better to devote five minutes to ascertaining the arrangement of our bed- room, and half an hour, or an hour if necessary, to learning the topography of the house where we are going to spend several days, so that we can after- wards come and go freely and find what we want alone, than to be perpetually obliged to ask favours of others, because we would not take a little trouble to get acquainted with the contents of the house. The short and preliminary inventory has also the effect of teaching the blind man, if he be at all accustomed to travelling, the class and consequently the tariff of the hotel he is stopping at ; the position and dimen- 59 THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL sions of the room, the comfort of the draperies and furniture, the arrangements, the cleanHness of toi- let requisites will all indicate within a few pence the price of the lodging. And we may add in pas- sing that the same thing applies to restaurants ; the way the table is laid, the thickness of the crockery and glass, the polish of the plate, the manners of the waiters, the tone of conversation and a certain something in the air, will enable the experienced blind man to say with practical certainty, **Our lunch will cost so much," before he has tasted his cutlet or boiled egg. Of course it is not enough to have spent a few minutes in a room, or a few hours in a house, to acquire that precision of movement which enables a fairly clever blind person to put his hand uner- ringly on the object required though he knows its position, or to stop mechanically without counting his footsteps outside a door or at the foot of a stair- case; to do this he would have to possess in his arms and legs that sense of the exact distance to be traversed which the pianist has in his fingers ; but at least he remembers that a certain thing will be found in a certain spot, and, with a little atten- tion and preliminary fumbling, he will find what he is seeking. Repetition of the same movements creates habit, which quickly brings ease and secu- rity. When a blind man has occupied the same house during several weeks, it becomes, barring special complications, a lasting memory ; when he returns, even after many months or even years of absence, he feels quite at home. At first he may feel some slight hesitation, owing to the difference between the dimensions of the familiar premises he has left and those to which he has returned after 60 FINDING ONE'S WAY partly forgetting them. If he takes possession of a large room after taking spending a long time in a small one, although he may not hesitate about the position of the smallest objects, he will feel for the first few hours or even days checked in his movements ; he will try to touch things which he cannot reach without changing the position of his whole body. When he has got out of the way of walking about in wide, long corridors and suddenly finds himself back in them again, even if memory has perfectly retained their topography down to the smallest details, at first he feels a certain awk- wardness and sense of strangeness, he fears he has passed the stopping point when it is still some dis- tance off, but this impression passes quickly and the old feeling of security returns. As we leave the house for the garden, our foot continues to discover a certain quantity of indica- tions. In the garden I have taken as an illustration one path will be laid with fresh gravel, another with fine sand, and another has not been relaid for some time and gives hardly any sound. The path leading from the house to the fountain shelves abruptly upwards, whereas the one under the north wall is almost concave, the ground there is often damp, and the last path is unmistakably wider than the others; a border of box runs along both sides of the paths to the east and west of the fountain. The foot can easily distinguish between a stiff, firm row of box and an edging of limp, almost creeping, plants; even if the fountain happens to stop, there is no fear of falling into the water round it, since the foot comes in contact with the sloping edge, and is stopped. The shade of a certain tree, the bright sunshine in a particularly exposed part of 61 THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL one of the paths, the smell of a special basket of flowers in a familiar spot, the effluvia and the noises of the chicken-run to the right of the house, are so many clues which enable the blind man to find his way about perfectly; he can come and go without the slightest hesitation. Besides, the arrangement of such a garden is easy to remember and the land- marks numerous; the sound of the fountain always indicates the centre, noises from the street the north, the east can be remembered by shade and clumps of trees, under the low west wall runs a flower-bed which the foot discovers at the edge of the path, while the three other paths lead straight to the wall. To the south is the house with all the odours and sounds of humanity, and the farm is always easily recognized by ear and nose. Suppose a blind woman finds herself unexpectedly at one or other of these points: how is she to know where she is? Is this not precisely the question which puzzles those who can see ? If she knows she is overlooked, or fears to be, or if she does not want to appear puzzled, she will pretend to be slowly walking about, she will follow the path she is in till it ends, that is to say until she finds another path or another corner of the garden; if it be a centre or surround- ing path she will retrace her steps and come back again. But, as she goes, she will walk in a gentle zigzag, so as to ascertain the width of the path and what its borders are composed of, paying the greatest attention the while. First, where is the sound of the fountain? Behind her — as she goes on, she finds shade and can therefore conclude that she is in the middle path, leading from the east side of the fountain. As there is no wind she cannot go by the sound of the branches — but it 62 FINDING ONE'S WAY might also be the northern path, which at this time in the day is also in shadow; she must risk a few more steps, the ground is soft and open, the blind woman feels no shelter; it must be the north path. . . A cart passes along the road. . . The ques- tion is settled with no more doubt; she follows the path to the end, expecting to reach the low western wall, and as her foot encounters the flower-bed she is quite reassured: she turns to the left, towards the farm-yard, which she reaches after passing the clump of rose trees which she knew would be there, on her left, and which finally convinced her that she was in the west path. As she grows more sure of her locality, her step becomes quicker and firmer. So we see that if a blind person is to walk un- hesitatingly about gardens, town or country, he must constantly encounter objects which may serve him as landmarks. Thus, a narrow path, of unequal surface, more or less well-rolled, with here and there an excrescence of gravel or a soft patch, and an occasional protruding root, is very helpful in walking alone. The obliging person who wishes to start a blind person on the right way never fails to lead him well into the middle of the road, however wide, and then to say, **You are quite in the mid- dle, there is nothing in your way, you can go for- ward quite safely, you have only to walk straight before you. . ." But to walk straight in the middle of a wide road, path, pavement or avenue is pre- cisely the great difficulty. Thus the blind man when left alone and free to proceed as he prefers, if ac- customed to guide himself, will immediately turn to one side, the side he knows best and which has the fewer obstacles, and especially the most land- 63 THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL marks — stepping-stones we might almost call them — he would even rather meet at times with ob- stacles which he can overcome and use as indica- tions; for instance, he will prefer the side of the road which is lined with houses to that which only consists of open gardens and fields, oflFering no clue by hearing, smell or touch. Supposing it possible — which it is not — to keep an absolutely straight course without eyesight or landmarks, or turning however slightly aside, to find himself in a wrong direction, or if after some hundred yards the blind man suddenly wishes to know exactly where abouts he is, and some check, interruption or false step has made him lose count of the time elapsed since he started, he will have to cross to one of the sides of the road and get in touch with his landmarks again. But unless he has thoroughly mastered all these landmarks, or they are very numerous, he will find them much more difficult to discover than when he passed them unexpectedly one by one. It is therefore easy to understand why large empty spaces of even ground are very unfavourable to finding one's way by hearing and touch. If the ground is covered with snow, this topo- graphic and auditive monotony is very confusing to the blind. Changing noises, rain, high wind, etc., prevent the usual sounds being heard, such as echoes and those particular noises which, as I have said elsewhere,* are valuable clues; very bewilder- ing also are loud carriage-traffic, galloping, cavalry bells and drums; their vibration fills the ear and prevents the blind from seeing, or feeling their way. It is only under such conditions that the hand ought to be used to find the whereabouts, by touch- * **Les Aveugles par un Aveugle," Paris, Hachette. 64 FINDING ONE'S WAY ing a tree, plantain, chestnut or privet, or a familiar wall covered with glyceria or ivy. The resonance of footsteps varies according to whether we walk on an open path or along a wall, and especially if trees form an arch over our heads. If a door of suflScient dimensions in a wall be suddenly opened, it is easy to hear very distinctly. Then there is the realiza- tion of so much space covered; if a blind man knows a certain door is to be found in a certain spot, at such and such a distance from where he started, he will not make a mistake: even if there be a slight inequality in front, or a projecting step, he will go in without hesitation. We see then that the blind can freely move about on familiar ground: rooms, houses, gardens. I do not assert that all can do so with ease, but I have shown how it is possible. It is not their blind- ness, but some other obstacle peculiar to themselves which prevents those who do not. 65 THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL et. II. Everyday Life THE following description is taken from the address on the Prize for Virtue, given by Edouard Pailleron, November 20, 1884. **She* took care of her helpless mother and her hemiphlegic stepfather at the same time, going constantly from one bed to the other. The mother is dead and only one patient remains, but L6onore nurses him with unremitting care. How handy she is ! Yet she herself is blind and in delicate health ! She idealizes her task, and invests it with a kind of dim poetry which is in herself. She covers the chimney-piece with flowers to cheer the sick man's eye, and the doctor often finds the patient's pillow strewn with rose-leaves!" Yes, the blind sick-nurse is a possibility and [a reality! She is not the ordinary, mercenary servant, produced by our unnatural social conditions, but the member which each self-suflScing family ought to possess. The elder sister, or unmarried aunt, who lives at home to play the gentle, loving part of benefactress to her relations, who takes care of * L^onore Papin, Ghateau-d'Orleron (Gharente-Inf^rieure) : "Blind from childhood. When her father died, and she was twenty years old, she was placed In a home. Her mother was left penniless, and re-married in 1848. During the war of 1870 L. Papin was sent back to her parents, and refused to leave them again, so that she might look after them in their old age and infirmity. Her mother, who had dropsy and liver complaint, has just died at the age of seventy-five. She continues to take devoted care of her stepfather, aged eighty-three. The old man is asthmatic, wheezy, half-deaf, semi-para- lysed, and subject to all sorts of inconvenient infirmities. Though blind, L^onore makes the most ideal sick-nurse. In spite of perpetual poverty and illness, the house is always astonishingly clean, and visitors are surprised at the polite and quiet welcome they receive. L^onore is often tired to death, but she never loses her balance or slackens in her thoughtfulness." 66 EVERYDAY LIFE young brothers, nephews and aged parents, and is the centre of peace, happiness and security in the whole family, sometimes happens to be a blind wo- man. If a calming potion has to be prepared, or a sick person rubbed or dressed, her misfortune is no obstacle, and the aflSicted one becomes a help instead of a burden. **For the last fortnight," writes a blind woman whose father had just died after a long illness, **he called me up several times in the night, although I go to bed very late. Not only would he never take anything without consulting me, but it was usually I who had to warm his drink, and give him his tabloids or ether capsules. I used to put them into his mouth!" I know a considerable number of unmarried blind women who from taste or necessity live alone. They look after their little households entirely themselves; and there exist many more mothers of families than would be credited, who, becoming blind between the years of twenty and forty, are skilful, active and enterprising; they do all the work of their houses, cook, attend to their young children, sweep, dust, wash, mend, and even sometimes make clothes. From kitchen to laundry, using all the clues furnished by hearing, smell and touch, and drawing more or less instinctively the right inferences, the blind woman goes about her business like any other;* she can light a lamp or candle, kindle the fire and keep it up, without eyesight. Nothing is easier than to strike a match; the prepared side of the box can be recognized in an instant. The smell of sul- * Because a very short-sighted person makes a slovenly cook, this is not necessarily the case with the blind. Indeed, in the former instance, the defective eyes are still depended upon, whereas in the latter case the blind woman uses her fingers as tests, and fingers discover many things which escape weak eyes. 67 5« THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL phur, the noise of the flame and the heat indicate ignition. The match is then placed to the wick of lamp or candle, which, stiff* when cold, grows limp and flexible directly it is alight; the blind person per- ceives this. A wood fire is not difficult to lay, light or keep up; with the tongs the pieces of charred wood can be felt and collected and the half-consumed embers dispersed; with the left hand the fresh log can be thrown on, or, if this is difficult, one end can be held in the hand while the other is guided by the tongs. A coal fire in a range or a stove can also be kept up without sight; it is true that it must be con- stantly touched, which necessitates frequent hand- washing, but it can be done. ** We can dress our hair almost as easily as women who can see," said a blind woman to me, **if any- one will take the pains to show us how to do it. To imitate a coiff*ure, it suffices us to pass the hand lightly over another person's head and carefully to follow her movements as she dresses her hair. Then we ex- periment on ourselves, and follow the explanation given. Touch is a perfect guide to regularity, but not to gracefulness; and often when our hair is per- fectly neat we are told it is badly dressed, because we do not know how to give the negligent grace so much praised on the heads of women who can see. We can curl, wave, or puff out our hair with little combs, raise the back knot with the finger, etc., and we can also dress another person's hair, but our tendency is always to produce a flat, straight eff*ect, rough, flowing hair being unpleasant to our touch." Blind women who have lost their sight late in life, and remember what good hair-dressing looked like, have better taste and more success. Objects generally considered very delicate, such 68 EVERYDAY LIFE as watches, can be handled without seeing them. To tell the time it suffices to take a watch between the four first fingers of the right hand, raising the glass by the introduction of the thumb nail between the dial and the frame of the glass; the thumb is then laid flat on the hands to ascertain their posi- tion. Very many actions appear at first impossible to to the blind, but are in reality quite feasible by fre- quent, progressive and leisurely practice. Naturally the great drawback in most cases is slowness; the blind person leaves the place where he has just been working surrounded by various objects that he fears to forget; whereas those who can see make sure with one glance that they are leaving nothing behind them; the blind man is obliged to see with his hands, an equally accurate but much more lengthy process. In some schools for the blind they make a point of training young girls to domestic work, such as peeling vegetables, choosing them in the kitchen garden by feeling their leaves, laying a table, wash- ing crockery, simple mending of clothes, sewing on buttons, washing, sorting and hanging out linen to dry, and recognizing its quality, texture, hem, etc., by certain signs perceptible to the touch. It is thought, and rightly, that a blind girl thus trained can be less of a burden to her family if she is to live definitely, or even temporarily, at home. But it is at the Blind School at Janesville (U.S.A.) that this domestic training has been carried to the greatest perfection. There they have a regular cookery and housework class. The pupils are accus- tomed, when quite children, to use cooking utensils as playthings, and then are gradually taught to light fires and to use the kitchen range, beginning with 69 THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL simple dishes and going on to more elaborate ones.* These require very careful judgement, for instance, separating the whites from the yolks of eggs, and weighing and measuring quantities. All the dishes prepared in the class are served in the refectory, where the skill of each pupil can be tested and appraised. The aim of the Janesville School is not, of course, to train cooks for domestic service. It is only intended that these blind girls should be able to be of use in their homes by practical everyday cookery; the school totally denies any attempt at turning out professional cooks, which, of course, would be absurd. Whether or no they have been trained in schools, whether their aptitudes be developed systematically or revealed by necessity or the wish to be of use, the fact remains that there are, in Europe and in America, blind women who have been able to take an active part in family life. In concluding these concrete examples, I venture to append the following description actually written by a blind American woman :f **I was eighteen years when I lost my sight, and my agony, when I realized my irreparable affliction, cannot be described. I was a poor girl with no spot on earth that I could call home; and in the bitter- ness of my heart I cried out, * All is lost!' But I will not dwell any longer on that part of my life when * Our completely blind girls have succeeded in turning out the following dishes alone, from the choice, weighing out and preparing of the ingredients, to the dishing up: milk toast, bread and milk, biscuits, cream crackers, dry and buttered toast, lemon cake, fruit cake, dry tea biscuits, cream shapes, roast beef, beefsteak, roast fowl, fried ham, hashed meat, rissoles, cauli- flower and potato salads, boiled, baked, fried and mashed potatoes, tomatoes, cabbages, carrots, turnips, cod-iish, apple, jelly, grape jam, preserved quinces, lemons, peaches, pineapples and tomatoes; pickles, jams, sauces, etc. — Extract from "The Boston Mentor." t Elizabeth Putnam, Extract from "The Boston Mentor." 70 EVERYDAY LIFE I feared to lose my reason. Two years later, at the instigation of friends, and wishing to find shelter for five years, I entered the Boston Institute. One evening as I went through the class-room I over- heard two of my companions deploring the dis- couragement which I had allowed to paralyse all my faculties. I went back into my room resolved to overcome myself. I had no talent for music, but I was very strong at figures. Setting myself reso- lutely to work, I soon discovered that behind the clouds the sun can still shine. After my five years of study I left the Institute, carrying with me the esteem and afiectionof my companions and teachers. I passed my first winter with my sister in Canada, and in the spring I paid a short visit to another sister in Boston. She fell ill and I nursed her for a year. There I made the acquaintance of a young carpenter, who married me two years later, in spite of the forebodings and opposition of his friends. I began immediately to keep house, only partially assisted by my husband. I soon learnt to cook any kind of meat or fish; if I had to roast, I used to test the heat of the roasting oven, and decide the length of time required by the size and quality of the meat. When I had to fry, I would thrust in the fork to see if the meat or fish were done, and in the case of beef-steak a touch of the finger was enough. At first I found pastries and creams very diflBcult, but by putting my hand in the oven I soon learnt when it was hot enough, and I used just lightly to brush my finger over the cream to see if it were ready. I failed many times, but my husband always urged me to *try again.' I took his advice, and at last grew quite a skilful cook. It cost me many tears, but * there is no victory without effort.' 71 THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL ** Three years later a little son came to brighten our home, and the gossip began again, *What will she do ? She certainly can't look after a child, ' etc. But baby flourished, and seemed as strong and happy as other children, despite paternal anxiety. My husband confessed to me that when he went away to his work in the morning for the whole day he felt worried and anxious. Six years later God sent us another boy; but this time all fear was over, and I could cut out and make all my children's clothes, cook and take care of the house, and I had the satisfaction of hearing people say that the blind woman's children were better turned out than any others in the school. My husband gave up carpen- tering and took a grocer's shop. It was in a very busy street, and people were constantly coming in for eatables. We then decided to sell cakes and pastry made by me. Not only excursionists stopped for a meal, but neighbours would buy things for their table, so that I had to take a help, though I still did the cooking myself. Our shop became a success, but after a few years my husband's weak health obliged him to give up work, and though he had committed the folly of marrying a poor blind girl, we had saved enough to retire on. Six years passed, and one morning when my husband was riding with my sons, he was thrown, and picked up dead. Happily I had still my children. I Hve with my eldest son, now a widower, and take care of his house." 72 APPEARANCE AND DISPOSITION BOOK III. The Blind Woman Herself CL I. Appearance, Tastes and Disposition ** TT KNOW of nothing more touching and ex- I pressi ve than those calm faces, " says de Vogu6, jL speaking of the blind. **With us, all the light of the human physiognomy is concentrated in the eyes, in them it is diffused over all the other fea- tures; each muscle expresses attention, but with something of infinite gentleness and purity. As you watch them, their faces convey the same impression of rest which you receive on entering a dark room after a long walk through the streets on a hot sum- mer's day."* A blind girl's face may be quite agree- able without even possessing beauty. Her manners and attitude may be quite easy, unconstrained and graceful. I say they **may be," but I do not mean in the least to assert that they always are: far from it; but this is supposed never to be possible. Is it not true that to most people the idea of a blind woman calls up a poor disfigured girl, groping along with outstretched hands, her head thrown back for fear of hitting it against something, never knowing where she is, unable to get from one place to another with- out some kindly arm to guide her, always passive (at any rate physically), and incapable of any initia- tive or effort in life? This, of course, is why a cele- brated contemporary preacher says of the blind that they are * * reduced to an exceptionally painful and humiliating position." The orator was thinking *Vogu^, "A Travers TExpositlon." 73 THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL of the blind beggar, determined to shew his afflic- tion under its most lamentable aspect; he had never seen what is quite common, an active and handy blind woman, moving about easily, helping her parents, sharing the household work, useful and agreeable in the home circle. Such women exist, and it is of them that I wish to speak here. Gesture and facial mobility, which are in so many people the silent but important accompaniment of speech, completely escape the blind; hence they themselves are excessively and almost painfully quiet. The blind face expresses and reveals less than that of an ordinary woman, it is often quite impassible. It is said that blind girls blush less than others, because blushing is attributed to the effect of being looked at; still, little blind girls often blush when they fancy themselves watched, or when they are moved by some person's voice or words. There may remain more to be discovered on this point, but the immobility of attitude is indisputable. Blind women have little inclination to make gestures from self-consciousness, they are more inclined to make sounds, such as affected coughs, either to keep themselves in countenance or to attract attention. Does paucity of gesture oblige blind women to talk with special precision and clearness? This would seem to be so, according to a curious theory of M. Fouill6e, who declares that certain savages, whose language is very primitive, express so much of their meaning by gesture that when they wish to talk at night they are obliged to light torches to make them- selves understood. I do not think, however, that blindness sensibly increases precision in speech; in- deed some people reproach the blind with using certain painfully inappropriate expressions, such as 74 APPEARANCE AND DISPOSIITION ** seeing" or ** looking," which verbs are constantly in the mouths of most blind people. It would, of course, be more exact to say touching, examining, testing, encountering, searching. But that would often be impossible without circumlocution; and the customary word is shorter and more convenient. The blind woman uses it without necessarily "pre- tending to be able to see," and without considering that some of her hearers may be pained. This class of persons consider that amongst French writers only Bossuet and Voltaire can be convicted of flagrant misapplication of terms. Fur- thermore, it has been very truly said that languages are very conservative, and our speech retains many words which no longer have their original meaning. We calculate in francs, while we still speak of sous, livres, 6cus and louis. If we take the trouble to go into the question, we can quote many daily expres- sions where the verb **to see" is very loosely used. What, for instance, is the meaning of **You will see how well that woman sings," or **How beauti- ful that symphony is, " * * See how good this wine is, " etc.? Or again, in repeating a remark, ** You can see how spiteful she was." The fact is that the verbs **to see" and **to look," unless we intend to speak pedantically, are employed as synonyms for tak- ing into consideration, ascertaining or understand- ing, and it is in this sense that they are used by the blind. It is quite certain that when a blind woman takes out her watch with the remark, **I am going to look at the time," or **I will just see the time," she Is aware that her eyes take no part in her action, but it is quicker than saying, **I am going to find out the time" or ** examine my watch"; she could say •* touch the time," which would, of course, be 75 THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL more exact, but it does not occur to her, so instinc- tive is the habit of using hearing and touch where others use sight. The medium of perception and the intermediary agent between the brain and the object have changed; but she uses habitual expres- sions, and says with the rest of the world, **I am going to see the time," **I am going to look over that sonata again," instead of **I am going to prac- tise it, and go over it again." **I shall go and see so-and-so." **It's a long time since I saw Mme X ." In all cases where the eye is only used as an agent of information, and not as a medium of esthetic impressions, if another sense conveys the required information, the desired end is accom- plished, and the knowledge acquired. It is but too true, as I have repeatedly remarked, that one range of impressions and esthetic plea- sures must remain a dead letter to the blind. Beauty of line, feature or colour is unknown to the human being who has never had eyesight, but it can, on the contrary, exist for the man who kept the use of his eyes late enough in life to enjoy plastic beauty and who retains, besides his vivid recol- lection, a sense of touch delicate enough to appre- ciate purity of form. The celebrated animal sculp- tor, Vidal, felt real pleasure in touching beautiful shapes, his fingers were exceedingly sensitive and no smallest details in relief or indentation escaped him. This delicacy and subtlety of touch is known to be also the privilege of sculptors who can see, but whose touch is refined by modelling. Ghiberti says, in speaking of an antique statue, ** Words cannot express her perfections. She has lines of suave beauty which the eye alone cannot grasp; the hand is required to appreciate them." And be- 76 APPEARANCE AND DISPOSITION yond this peculiar pleasure in sensation the brain receives the impression which the hand conveys ; failing eyesight, the brain reconstitutes and sees the ** ensemble" of line and shape, which the fingers can only trace in fragmentary succession. Touch is essentially analytic; sight alone is synthetic, and the synthetic apprehension of details discovered by the touch, the interior vision of an assemblage of lines and shapes which the hand could only ascer- tain by degrees, can only be produced, to my be- lief, in a brain which has once had the idea of a plastic whole conveyed to it by the eye. In this case, as in others, the finger is only an interme- diary instrument, the brain is the real seat of per- ception.* Writers who introduce blind characters generally describe them as feeling the faces of people they love so as to find out what they look like; this could only be true of a person who had once been able to see, and that for long enough to regret not knowing the shape of the face ; Vidal, the sculptor, used to say in his somewhat coarse studio jargon : **I can't see, I must feel." But those blind from birth or childhood, or who have kept their sight till the age of eight or ten, lose the wish to feel the faces of people they love after a few years of blind- ness. The real cry of the blind is always, ** Speak to me that I may see you." . . . This is what the blind love and wish for; in ordinary intercourse they are, so to speak, helpless in the presence of silence. As a rule blind girls are not much attracted by form, they have an excessive admiration for regu- larity. In arranging objects, they will aim at sym- *This question has been studied and exhausted by M. J. L. Soret, "Sur le r6le du sens du toucher dans la perception du Beau, particuli^rement chez les aveugles."— "Archives of Physical and Natural Science," Oct. 15, 1885. n THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL metry, harmony of dimension and order, or else their ideas of beauty will be based on what they have heard described as beautiful. A blind girl will exclaim, ** What a beautiful piece of lace!" because she knows it is considered so, and others which resemble it in design will be also described by her as beautiful. As for dress and the cut of clothes she prefers those which fit closely ; she does not care for anything flowing or frilled, as not being neat and symmetrical. She likes plenty of elaborate trimming, curled and crimped hair, and is rather given to an exaggerated style of dress. She will wear any amount of fringe, lace or fur, and, of course, all sense of line and colour escapes her. Texture of materials is of paramout importance; she Hkes velvets and satins, the rustle of silk delights her, a taste she shares with her seeing sisters; the shopmen atjthe Bon March6 when they are selling silk always expatiate on its rustling ca- pacity. Blind women are very anxious to **look like other people," and when they take great pains with their dress, it is principally that they may appear like other women. The idea that she is looked upon as a being apart is one of the most painful reflections to a blind woman, particularly while young. I have often been told of a young, clever blind girl, who, being very well off*, wished to *'do like the rest of the world." Her parents found her a husband, and she lives in a provincial town where she is to be seen sitting out of doors amongst her women friends, a pretty piece of fancy work in her hands, listening to the band; her child- ren and their nurse are close by, she feels ** like other people," and is quite happy. Social conditions are the most trying to blind women; we have seen that 78 APPEARANCE AND DISPOSITION they can enjoy nature, and be resourceful in means of getting about. But blindness is awkward in going to strange places and making a first appearance; hence the blind woman clings to her home life and is happiest indoors, where she can move about in comfort. She likes to be always busy, she crochets while talking to keep herself in countenance, and, as we have seen, does not make many gestures. Her preference for home life does not prevent her, how- ever, from enjoying a walk, when some one takes her out with whom she feels at ease. It often hap- pens, too, that she likes walking for walking's sake, and for the sense of well-being induced by activity. She appreciates sweet-scented flowers, which she will grow on her window-sill within reach of her hands, where she can touch them and follow the development of the plant and its new leaves; she knows when a flower is about to open, and when its perfume will fill the garden, the house or, in some cases, the single garret; she tends her plants, waters them, and takes them in when the weather turns cold. Blind women are also devoted to birds; they like their little twittering, and jealously value the privilege of feeding and attending to them. It is needless to say that cats and dogs, so dear to all lonely persons, are doubly so to the blind, who take the greatest pleasure in petting them, and be- ing caressed in return. Another companion in lone- liness and a great magician in the home, with a never-failing language for the blind, is the fire. **A fire has a moral fascination beyond its material qualities; it attracts human thoughts, fascinates man by its vitality, and plunges him into a world of dreams. Now sad, now gay, a fire lights up the vanished past and the ghosts which peopled it; it 79 THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL shows the future and then woos us to rest."* The ear catches the Hving animation of a fire ; the con- stant flame produces cheerful, crisp, crackHng sounds; the wood sparkles with little whistling, moaning noises; suddenly the embers are displaced and fall in with a crash. Our thoughts wander far afield, a crowd of memories waken in our mind. Yes, the blind woman enjoys more of the fire than its grateful warmth; if she have ever so little ima- gination and intelligence, she will have favourites, such as the wood fire, which can talk to her. Since I have adopted the plan of quoting so largely and hope by this means to render my book especially interesting, I will give some extracts from Christmas-holiday letters written by a blind Swiss girl. They show what home life is to her. **Chamosson, December, 1895. "I haven't much to tell you, most days are alike; but you know I can enjoy everything, and time passes so quickly that I shall wake up at the end of these holidays like after a beautiful dream which ends too soon. I always specially delight in these winter holidays; they take in the real home life. This is the time for long, intimate talks; in summer every one is in a hurry to get out of doors. A great deal of snow has fallen; all outside noises are mufiled; I go out very little but enjoy staying in- doors; the house is so cosy and the fireside so at- tractive. I feel so comfortable that I don't even quarrel with the winter weather, and we generally get some sun every day. It seems warmer here, now I know what the fogs of Lyons are. You ask how I fill up my time? Be content to know that I * Biart, "La Baie de Sant^cornapan." 80 APPEARANCE AND DISPOSITION am never idle, or without my long strip of pink work that I sew on every day. . . . Besides if I had nothing whatever to do, Agnes and Edmond would make it their business to occupy my *far niente'; I hear them run downstairs, and along the corri- dor, as they come to take possession of me. I have to dance and play hide-and-seek. Behold us whirl- ing round and round till we are giddy; the house is almost shaken, and they still cry, 'Again!' Grand- mamma laughs, grandpapa is often drawn into the game. Then we play at something else; we look at pictures and Tante H6l6ne has to show them. I am not joking; with heads bent over the magic book, which is always the same and always new, we are as absorbed a trio as we were lately riotous. My explanations, as you may imagine, take the form of questions: ***Well, what is on this page? Can you describe it?' Agnes hurries to begin, proud of her knowledge; Edmond echoes her, and I fill up the gaps in the story." Is not this picture charming? The young blind aunt, happy in making others so, and becoming her nephew's and niece's playmate! But we wonder if, as she kisses the little heads, she ever murmurs to herself, very, very low: **If I were their mother!" Perhaps, but she does not linger over this regret, for she is sensible above all things, as we shall see by what she writes, in another phase of her life, to a blind friend of twenty who has confided in her: "Really, my dear Caroline, you are a perfect fool (une grande sotte). The word is not polite, but it is intensely appropriate. Sitting moping, a nice occupation! I should like to be near you, not to pity you, but to give you a good shaking. How often 81 6 THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL have I asked you why you can only think of hap- piness as consisting in what you lack? There are thousands of things which I know are charming and delightful, but it doesn't occur to me to grieve be- cause I can't have them. Enjoy what you have and take an interest in little everyday amusements. You say you envy me my days which pass so quickly and peacefully. But do you know, you unruly member (difficile citadine), how monoto- nous winter is in the country? A little hypochon- driasis would soon make me feel as if these hurry- ing hours were endless. Now, would you like to know what my principal amusement was yester- day? Listening to the village children sleigh-riding down the sloping orchard. Such excitement ! Such headlong rushing and racing! Well, I enjoyed hear- ing them amusing themselves in the way I used to myself. I pictured myself a child again, sharing my brother's little sledge; my hands red, my hair fly- ing, triumphantly courageous, as I flew like an arrow over the dazzling snow. The little incident which pleased me would have saddened you. You would have remembered that your eyes used to be open to the light as the children's are now. . . . Oh, I don't mean to tell you that I have never looked upon my blindness as a great affliction. . . . Having once known the boon of eyesight, I can realize all I have lost; but I tell myself that if I had kept that blessing, perhaps many others even more precious would never have been mine." Alas! all blind girls are not so wise and philoso- phical, and many regret that they are not **like the rest of the world." They murmur sadly as they caress their nephews, ** If I were only their mother!" 82 THE LIFE OF THE AFFECTIONS d. II. The Life of the Affections I CANNOT recall what thinker it was who said, ** Sooner or later, the soul becomes all in all to us." The blind soon reach this stage; they grow to love the spiritual side of their friends when their affliction has of necessity removed them from a certain sphere of action and from irksome preoc- cupations, such as dress, purely social ties, and that light reading which often absorbs the best part of our time and attention and wastes a large amount of our lives. Friendship means a great deal to a blind woman; she is capable of becoming profoundly at- tached to a friend and is happy in her devotion. The exchange of ideas and sentiments between the two is a joy to both. Blind women, above all others, love intimate talks; they are slow in giving their affection, but they can become very deeply attached. If they are not indifferent to where they live, and can take an interest in surrounding objects, it may well be imagined that human beings mean a great deal more to them, and the life of the affections is almost the whole of their existence. A blind girl can feel herself powerfully attracted; why should we liesitate to say that she can love? Why should we fear to see the word love in these pages? Does not love come from God, with its special place and mission in the divine plan? Does not God bless\ human love, when man receives it with sanctifying respect and self-control, recognizing that it is but an episode in life and not the whole? But the mo- ment which teaches man what love is, implants in 83 6a v_ THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL him the desire of the Infinite. The yearning for the Infinite, which exists in every human soul and can only be satisfied by God, begins even in childhood. Youth is vitally and intensely influenced by it. The Infinite is sought in everything, and we are loth to recognize on all sides a little of the true and the beautiful with an admixture of evil; we long for each of our fellow-creatures to be complete with an un- mixed array of qualities. Marvellous is the phase of unity we pass through, when we believe it pos- sible to finally and unerringly love, hate, attract and repel. Then, under maturer experience and analysis, we adopt violently one-sided opinions and usually only settle down, as life declines, into im- partial judgement of men and things viewed as a whole. But this outlook is acquired by much self- training, and is no longer spontaneous and instinctive as were our early views. It is only after many heart-rending disappointments that we come to recognize almighty God as the only centre of Infi- nity and absolute truth. When we are young, it goes against us to divide our affections, we aspire to give ourselves to one only and for ever. ** Forever!" Solemn words which we say so gladly and lightly to a fellow-creature! We cannot bear the idea of ever so little of our affection and daily life being shared indiscriminately. We fancy that love and devotion must be undivided, and are worth nothing when they are not concen- trated on one alone. A wonderful dispensation of Providence it is which inspires such energy and vigour in our affections just at the moment when strength and confidence are essential in forming the basis of family life! The blind girl reaches this point as well as her happier sisters; then little is needed 84 THE LIFE OF THE AFFECTIONS to fan the flame of love; heart and head, imagina- tion and sentiment, all combine to set a halo round the beloved being, whom in many cases they hardly know. Stendhal has ingeniously defined and analysed what he calls this symbolical * * crystallization, " which he compares to the process undergone by **a twig of dead wood, kept in a grotto where the atmos- phere is laden with certain salts, until it becomes covered with sparkling crystals and looks like a diamond aigrette. Love is no more at its birth than the dead, black twig; imagination and lonely day- dreams transform it into a brilliant jewel, blazing with all the fires of heaven." This is quite possible; but whether the aigrette be of crystals or diamonds, its beauty is the same, and it is all the dearer to its possessor for the imagination and affection she has lavished on it. Perhaps the blind girl's twig is very small and black; but this matters little if the grotto where she keeps it be heavy with crystalline vapour, only waiting for a centre on which to concentrate. It is then that the affliction of blindness is bit- terest. The blind girl, thrilling with the magnetic aspirations of her age, longing for reciprocal love and supreme surrender, is bitterly grieved and wounded at realizing the barriers with which her affliction surrounds her; she exaggerates her posi- tion and the * impossible" obstacles which she, unlike her happier girl friends, must overcome. Her reason sternly tells her that love is forbidden, while her heart whispers, **Oh, if he knew how I could love, and how happy I could make him. I would give him my whole life and heart, my very self!" Still the poor blind girl fancies that her aff'ection is not quite worthless; she knows it to be disinterested, pro- found and lasting. She believes herself drawn to a 85 THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL union of souls, and knows that, spiritually, her love is unsurpassable, while the man often feels the dread- ful sacrifice he makes in taking a blind wife. She is only longing for abnegation. ** There is an epoch in the life of man which must be faced — ^paternity. I feel, as you do, that now we must live for others, we must shed tears, feel un- known anxieties, watchings, sorrows and equally unknown joys; you feel, as I do, that life cannot be spent alone. It is a bitter grief for a woman to re- main barren. Her whole heart and being are filled with an immense sterile ardour, a huge, useless energy. In spite of herself, her arms stretch out after the child they were meant to enfold, her breasts long and yearn after the frail creature that should have drawn its life from them, and her lips unconsciously murmur, *My child, my son!'"* With the longing to give ourself to the beloved, comes the desire to be loved, and, so to speak, enwrapped in reciprocal devotion. This feeling is all the more intense in those who are a little with- drawn from the stress and tumult of daily life. "To be blind and beloved," writes Victor Hugo, "is one of the most poignantly exquisite forms of happiness attainable on this earth, where all is in- complete. To have constantly by your side a wife, a daughter or a sister, a lovable being who is there because you both need her and are essential to her, to feel that you are indispensable to one who is a necessity to you, to be able to test the depth of her love by her constant presence — all this is the special joy of the blind man. He can say to himself, *She gives me all her time, which proves that she has given me all her love. I see her thoughts instead of her * Henry Perreyve, "Lettres." 86 THE LIFE OF THE AFFECTIONS face, her fidelity stands out in my dark world, the rustle of her dress is the brushing of angels' wings, I hear her come and go, in and out, I listen to her voice as she speaks and sings, and I remember that I am the goal to which her every action tends, I draw her with a power all my own, and all the stronger for my infirmity. I am in darkness, and by this very darkness I become the light towards which this angel gravitates. What happiness can equal this?' The highest joy in life is to know ourself be- loved, loved for ourself, better still, in spite of our- self; this is the special joy of the blind man. In his aflBiction, all care of him is a caress. He wants nothing more, love takes the place of light. And what a love! entirely made up of goodness. There is no such thing as blindness where we have faith. Soul falteringly seeks soul, and they meet. The soul we meet and test is that of a woman. Her hand supports us, her mouth brushes our forehead, it is her breathing that we hear close by! To owe all to her, from her devotion to her pity, never to be forsaken by the gentleness which is our strength, to lean on this unbending reed, to be able to touch and embrace our earthly providence, what God- given bliss! The heart, like a celestial flower, blooms mysteriously in the darkness. Such shadows are more precious than the light. The angel soul is always near; if she goes away it is only to return, she fades like a dream to reappear as a reality. Warmth comes with her. Peace, joy and happiness shine out of the gloom. Every trifling action and each one of her little services take enormous im- portance in the blank around us. The most heavenly tones of a woman's voice lull us, and are the medium of communication between us and a hidden world. S7 THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL It is a caress of the soul. We see nothing, but feel ourselves beloved. It is a twilight Paradise." Perhaps the wish to be loved is greater in men than in women, though they too feel it deeply. A blind woman who is an exquisite poet has expressed this with great charm : Je ne le vois pas, ton regard qui m'aime, Lorsque je le sens sur moi se poser. Qu'importe ! un regret serait un blaspheme. Je ne le vois pas, ton regard qui m'aime, Mais j'ai ton baiser. Mes yeux sont fermes, mais qu'importe I'ombre ! J'ai trop de rayons, et j'ai trop de jour Pour qu'il puisse faire en moi jamais sombre, Puisque j'ai I'amour!* Is the love of a blind girl often returned ? Some- times, certainly; but not often. There are young men of a refined and rather dreamy temperament, who could easily become attached to a blind girl with charm, cleverness and grace ; she would have a strange veiled fascination for them. But what hap- pens oftenest is that the girl's feeling quickly de- velops into love, while the man stops short at friend- ship. His sentiment will not be proof against a glance from pretty eyes, and some flattering tribute to his vanity; while his friends and relations will all preach cold, practical reason to him, exaggerating the drawbacks of a blind wife and possible mother, impressing on him her inability to look after servants, etc. It is a terrible blowforthe woman who is already married to become blind, still, up to a certain point, the consequences can be mitigated by intelligence and good management, if the husband makes allow- * ** I cannot see your loving glance when it falls on me. What matters it? A regret would be blasphemy, I have your kiss. My eyes are closed, what matters the darkness ? Too much light and sunshine are in my heart for me to griev« at shadows, for I have love." — Bertha Galeron, "Qu'importel" THE LIFE OF THE AFFECTIONS ances ; but to marry a blind woman is the greatest folly ! This is what the young man hears on all sides, and one cannot wonder at it. The romance of the blind girl almost always ends sadly; a short struggle, a brief hesitation, a few promises of faithful remem- brance, and the lover fades mournfully into the dis- tance. Time passes, he soon meets with other attrac- tions and quickly forgets ; nothing happens to cheer or rouse the blind girl, and she is left to her sweet but painful memories of the past. Blind women between sixteen and thirty can feel all the ardours of love ; sometimes their feelings run away with them beyond the bounds of prudence ; great tact and sympathy are necessary in such cases, the more so that the sentiment is generally sincere and disinterested. Reader, if you have reached a later stage of life and experience, do not smile ; give a glance, and go your way. Go on your way respect- fully, sympathetically, or at least compassionately ; you are in the presence of an immortal soul, willing to immolate herself at the feet of what she believes to be her ideal. If you feel it your duty to disabuse her, let it be tenderly done, for such illusions are not uprooted without the cruellest pangs. 89 THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL C IV. Conclusion I HOPE that my readers will not make the serious mistake of dismissing as trivial and commonplace those impressions which they may not have received themselves but which I claim for the blind. Is not nature richer as a source of emotions than man can be in observation and sensation? I have already observed that form and colour are fascinating enough to absorb our attention completely, and the man whose sight serves him does not always notice the impressions he receives through his other senses, whilst he is dazzled by what he can see. Blind women's perceptions are always on the alert; they eagerly seek impressions of ear, touch and smell, keeping them jealously in their memory, and always associating them with their feeling of the moment. We read the following in the correspondence of a blind person: **Do you remember our walk in the woods that afternoon in autumn? The sun was shining, and the wind was full of the smell of pines, heather and dead leaves. The path was narrow and rough, and some- times we had to walk very close together. I remem- ber how the branches flew in our faces and made us laugh, and the magpies, who were disturbed by our approach, flew over our heads, telling all the woods of our arrival. I remember how we sat on the mossy ground, reading and talking, grave and gay by turns. I remember the wind in the tall fir trees, and the chestnuts we picked up under the 90 CONCLUSION big chestnut tree near the little stream, where we stayed so long listening to its limpid ripple. Yester- day I went over the same ground again, and stopped at all the same spots, the same sun was shining, the same warm wind was laden with the same sounds and scents. I recalled most vividly our walk, already so far in the past, all things spoke to me of you. . . . But you were not there, so we cut short our walk and our stoppages, we did not prick our fingers, as you said we should, gathering horse chestnuts under the big tree by the clear little stream." The most poetic part of memory is the min- gling of mental emotion with impressions of the senses. Memory, like love, transforms all things, and the event most trifling in itself becomes pre- cious when it grows into a memory. But ever and anon of grief subdued There comes a token like a scorpion's sting, Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness imbued; And slight withal may be the things which bring Back on the heart the weight which it would fling Aside for ever, it may be a sound — A tone of music, summer's eve, or spring, A flower, the wind, the ocean, which shall wound, Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound. —Byron's **Childe Harold." **In the greatcrisesof life our minds cling closely to the places where we went through great joys or sorrows. Charles minutely examined the box bordersofthe little garden, the faded, falling leaves, the gnarled fruit-trees, the breaches in the walls; picturesque details which were to remain graven in his memory, eternally associated with these su- preme moments by the special mnemonics of pas- sion."* •Balzac, "Eugenie Grandet.' 91 THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL Ruskin says: **Let the eye but rest on a rough piece of branch of curious form during a con- versation with a friend — rest however uncon- sciously, and though the conversation be forgotten, though every circumstance connected with it be as utterly lost to the memory as though it had not been, yet the eye will, through the whole life after, take a certain pleasure in such boughs which it had not before, a pleasure so slight, a trace of feeling so delicate as to leave us utterly unconscious of its peculiar power, but undestroyable by any reason- ing, a part, thenceforward of our constitution."* These mnemonics of recollection apply to sounds often insignificant in themselves: **The most trifling episodes of this last evening seemed strangely im- portant; when the time for the farewell drew near everything was magnified and exaggerated as before the approach of death. In the resonant darkness the barking of a dog on a distant farm made them shiver with gloomy foreboding, "f No one could read Dostoievsky's ** Grime et Ghatiment" without being struck by the psycholo- gical importance of old Alena's tinkhng cracked bell, as Raskelnikoff rings it in the empty room after the murder. ** Instead of answering, Ras- kelnikoff* got up, passed into the hall and pulled the bell-rope. It gave out the same cracked, tink- ling sound! He rang a second and a third time, bending down his ear and recalling the past. His terrible sensations as he stood on the old woman's doorstep a few days ago, returned with increasing clearness and intensity; each peal of the bell sent a thrill of strange pleasure through him." * "Modern Painters," II, iv, 37. t Pierre Loti, "Ramuntcho." Chateaubriand was reminded of home and fatherland by a dog who barked at night in the country. 92 CONCLUSION So slight a thing as the feeble sound of a little cracked bell, perfectly insignificant and unnotice- able in itself, can strike awe into one who has heard it at a decisive, epoch-making moment of his existence. Ever after, that little sound, or any similar one, will rivet his attention and recall the terrible crisis. Such impressions are purely subjec- tive as are those we receive when we hear one par- ticular song or hymn: it may be ugly and inartistic, yet we cannot listen without remembering some one who at a given moment interested us, and has for ever associated himself with the song. The hymn will ever after recall the sweetest, most peaceful hour of our existence; the ballad, how- ever feeble, will always carry us back to a certain year of our childhood, and call up the loved one who sang it. **He grew young again in the midst of us, and would ask us for old, old airs and songs that we would sing to him in chorus: II etait un petit navire Qui n'avait ja-ja-jamais navigue. **Then his old face would light up as distant images filled his mind; he kept time with his white head and smiled to himself. What was he thinking of? Of his whole past life, bereavements, the dead ashes of passion, vanished griefs which the kind hand of time has hidden in the veil of oblivion; vague figures, visible only to his eyes, arose and moved before him."* In the same way any one special scent or fla- vour, though perfectly ordinary in itself, becomes full of meaning if it recalls a person or thing asso- ciated with one particular period. **If we admit * Edouard Rod, " Le Sens de la Vie." 93 THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL that sight is the sense of knowledge and hearing that of reason, we might call the sense of smell memory, since it reminds us more vividly than any other of special events and circumstances however remote."* Suppose that I am working alone by a wood fire, why, before long, do I feel myself irresistibly car- ried back to the days of my childhood? Because the log which is burning just now happens to give out a particular odour. It is not specially pleasant, but I remember smelling it long ago and far away, when we children used to nestle down on the floor, in the room where all the family assembled after meals, round my grandmother's chimney corner, and my heart aches at the memory of the vanished past. Another time memory will awaken at the smell of grass, flowers, new-mown hay, or at the taste of fruit, for flavour, even more than scent, evokes past associations. **As we passed the flowering bindweed my mo- ther said to me, * Smell those flowers and don't for- get that they smell of sweet honey.' This is my first recollection of smell; and by an association of me- mory and sensation, which each of us has felt but cannot explain, I never smell bindweed without seeing that spot in the Spanish mountains and the wayside path where I picked it for the first time."t Even when we have never very distinctly ex- perienced any of these impressions of hearing, smell or touch, we realize their mysterious power and we understand and love those who can express them in words. **As we were crossing the Rhine, I asked the ferryman in mid-stream to let the * Schopenhauer, **The World as Will Power," etc. t George Sand, "Histoire de ma Vie." 94 CONCLUSION ferry boat drift with the current. The old man raised his oars and the majestic river carried us along. I looked around me, I listened, I called up memory; suddenly I felt a vague sense of pain; I looked up at the sky, but even the heavens were not calm; the stars seemed to pierce the atmo- sphere, and the ether throbbed and palpitated. I leaned over the water; its dark, cold depths reflected trembling, scintillating stars; all around me seemed vibrating with life and I grew more and more troubled. I leaned my elbow on the side of the boat; the wind murmured at my ear, the muffled ripple of the water under the rudder irri- tated my nerves, the fresh exhalations from the water failed to calm me; a nightingale sang on the bank and its song seemed to pour some delicious poison through my veins."* Has it ever been noticed that some of our most celebrated poems are full of purely auditive impres- sions to which some memory is attached? **Dost thou recall that night when we floated silently over the waters? Nothing broke the stillness, but the rhythmic cadence of oars upon the lake's sonorous breast. . . . The moaning wind, the whispering reed, the subtle perfumes of the scented air, all that we hear, see and breathe, murmured, *They have loved. '"f Mystical writers, following the example of Holy Scripture, constantly use the metaphor of per- fumes in referring to persons and things: **The memory of Josias is like the composition of a sweet smell made by the art of a perfumer. "$ **Give ye a sweet odour as frankincense. "§ **Draw me, we •Tourguenl^flF, "Assia." tLamartine, "LeLac." JEcclusxlix. §EccIus xxxix. 95 THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL will run after the odour of thy ointments."* Per- fumes had a privileged place in the ancient liturgy. **The Lord said to Moses: Thou shalt make an altar to burn incense, of Setim-wood. . . . And Aaron shall burn sweet-smelling incense upon it in the morning. When he shall dress the lamp he shall burn it. And when he shall place them in the evening, he shall burn an everlasting incense be- fore the Lord throughout your generation. . . ."f We read in the Gospel, **.Mary therefore took a pound of ointment of right spikenard of great price and anointed the feet of Jesus, and wiped His feet with her hair, and the house was filled with the odour of the ointment. . . ."J And the Church, in our own beautiful Catholic liturgy, burns incense at the most solemn moments of her worship. This being so, why should we have to conquer a widely spread prejudice or sentiment in giving their due importance to the influences of smell and taste ? The reason must be that, smell and taste being merely used in practical life for purely material purposes, we grow to refer all our intellec- tual associations to sight. We confuse the uses of sensation with its nature, and the nature of sensation being in the fullest sense physical, we are apt to think of it as purely material, and incapable of being put to intellectual uses. But when we go a little deeper into the question, is it not apparent that the vulgarity or nobility of sensations do not reside in the sensa- tions themselves, but in the use to which we put them and the images they evoke? What is there so ethe- real in the function of seeing? Reading — in other words, perceiving coloured strokes — is not more intellectual than becoming aware of sounds, scents *Cant. i. fExod. xxx. JJohn xii. 96 CONCLUSION or flavours. And if the function be performed by a person of low tastes who delights in gross and sensual descriptions, I, for one, cannot place it any higher than hearing, smell or even taste, when employed by a man of more refined nature. The latter, assisted by his senses, remembers good and beautiful things; he recalls the moment, when, as he heard one par- ticular sound, inhaled some special odour or tasted such and such a thing, he was interested by some human being, or by an idea that has remained in his memory owing to the physical impression of the moment. ** Our imagination is based on the senses, and, to recall the past, physical contact is almost a neces- sity. To yield to this intuition without disputing the subtlety of the theory is the best way of reviving in our minds the spirit of past ages and understand- ing *the spirit' and not *the letter' only of what was but a dry, dull list of names."* Thus considered, the impressions which our senses convey are, in a way, but the symbols which the soul uses at will ; one man will only use his eyes for practical everyday life: he comes and goes, reads his newspaper, and only notices in people and things that which procures him some material gratification. Another will be specially impressed by beauty of line and colour, the play of light ; in a word, his aesthetic perceptions dominate all the rest. To some people the sound of the sea, the moaning of the wind in trees or through doors are only noises which become a nuisance if prolonged ; for others they contain a world of memories and poetical impressions, proper to these particular sounds. **I know," writes Gogol, **that many persons *Bourget, '* Sensations d'ltalle." 97 7 THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL cannot bear creaking doors; I like them very much. When I hear a door creak in St Petersburg, I am suddenly reminded of a little low room, full of country smells and lighted by an antique chandelier. Supper is laid on a table near the open window, through which can be seen the beauty of a lovely night in May. The song of the nightingale fills the house and garden, and penetrates to the dimly shining river in the distance ; the trees whisper softly. Dear God! What distant memories come back to me one by one!" Very vivid associations cling to the smell of a plant, the taste of a fruit or of some seldom tasted food. Is it not conventional prejudice to consider a person intellectual who carefully preserves an ob- ject, be it picture or drapery, and tells you : ** I admit it is ugly, but I like to have it near me be- cause it reminds me of my parents and my child- hood," and to brand as sensuous another who says : **I like to hear that sound, to smell that scent or to taste that flavour, not because they are pleasant or agreeable, but because they recall the past and the memory of people and events who filled a par- ticular period of my life." And when we gradually forget — not with the forgetfulness of the mind, which a sensation can disperse, but with that incur- able infidelity of the heart which time brings with it and the laws of nature impose — then we no longer seek the sound, the scent, the savour which had power to thrill us. What we loved was not the sen- sation — that remains intact — but the being whose ** leitmotiv," so to speak, it was, and who, alas ! is nothing to us now. A very commonplace sensation can recall a very subtle, delicate impression ; the smell of wet pitch and river mud immediately trans- 98 CONCLUSION ports me to a certain landing place in Switzerland, which was the starting point of a delicious boating excursion, full of unforgettable memories. When I put a little branch of fir before me on my writing- table, it is not only to enjoy the smell of resin warmed by the October sunshine, but because it re- minds me so vividly of a winter spent near the Mediterranean, and the multitude of impressions I received as I strolled through the pine forests of those sunny lands. It is incontestable that taste and smell can become the servants of vulgar and sensual instincts. The Book of Wisdom admirably describes those fools who say: Come then, and let us use the things that are present, and let us speedily use the creatures as in youth. Let us fill ourselves with costly wine and ointments, and let not the flower of the time pass by us. Let us crown ourselves with roses before they be withered, and let no meadow escape our riot.* But shew me the faculty which man has not sue- / ceeded in profaning or abusing. He seeks to enjoy, seize, possess and exhaust that which he was only intended to taste; it is then that he sins, his aspira- tions die, and he suflFers. What is true of the mate- rial, is also true of the spiritual world : reflection, observation, cautiousness in trusting to appearances, insight into our own and others' characters, are good and necessary things ; but when we become intoxi- cated by the heady though intellectual fumes of analysis, and insist on analysing, dissecting and sifting everything, where do we find ourselves ? To use as much as isnecessary of our faculties and impressions without seeking to enjoy them for their own sakes is to remain within the due bounds of duty and wisdom, but it also brings happiness and * Wisdom ii. 99 7« THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL helps us to retain the poetry of Hfe. When you walk along a path and are charmed and obsessed by a sweet perfume from one of its borders, allow the scent to blow towards you, but do not seek it, nor even Hnger too long to breathe it : above all, do not sacrifice the flower for its perfume; that is selfish, bad and illusory. Leave the flower to bloom and sweeten the way for the traveller who may come after you; if none follow, let it live for its own sake, for God, who made it so lovely and so fragrant. He knows each beauty of the flower He created that it might glorify Him silently. Reader, whether you have eyesight or are blind, memory, sweet memory, is all that you can depend on to preserve for you eternally the one precious hour of your life, or thedearpersonality who walked beside you on your way. Courage ! God will keep that memory for you, and some day a chance resem- blance will bring back the picture with added brightness. Have faith, for hope and memory are the best that life can ofi*er ; remembrance is better than possession, a short glimpse of the ideal is better than a life-long disillusionment, and even here wisdom is happiness. Now that I have tried to portray the blind woman's contact with nature, people and things, her disposition, her capacity for love and sorrow, in a word, her share of life, will anyone maintain that a mathematical division can be made of her ad- vantages and disadvantages? Can it be said that her chances of happiness are infinitesimal, and that it is no sacrifice for a blind girl to enter a convent, since all that she gives up, though really tangible sacri- fices to a girl with sight, are only dreams and illusions to the blind ? Now, in the first place, does 100 CONCLUSION : r ?^ •> t^- : :. the normal girl always find that certain happiness in the world which she expects, and from which the three vows of religion debar her ? This cannot be answered lightly, and I will return to the subject later. Further, is it nothing to give up our hopes before life's terrible lessons have taught us that they are nothing but illusions ?* I have already said that to enthusiastic, imagina- tive natures there is greater poetry and charm in seeing and hearing things from a distance than from close by. Distance minimizes and effaces hard, coarse details, and imagination has the marvellous power of adding to the evidence of the senses, while it weaves the real and the ideal into one. The same may be said of what are known as ** the joys of life," hence both the anticipation and the recol- lection of the supreme moment are always sweeter than the moment itself. The blind woman may pic- ture comfort, independence, home life and friend- ship, and may imagine in her youth that perfect happiness would consist in possessing such blessings. Everywhere and in everything our illusions are what we hold dearest, since, created by ourselves, they are absolutely conformed to our tastes and aspirations; the reality is sure to jar, wound or disappoint us in some direction. And to speak frankly, are we to gauge the depth of a sacrifice by the real enjoyment of the thing sacrificed? Does not virtue generally become easier, when we have dis- covered how very little real pleasure is to be got out of the forbidden action? Is not the most difficult thing of all to give up the fancied good, which we have clothed in all our own ideas and illusions ? * "The depth of tragedy does not lie In the greatness of the aim before us, but in the violence with which we pursue it." — VogCi^, "Le Roman Russe." 101 THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL In the spiritual combat of life the struggle lies more between thoughts than realities ; appearances are tempting, for when the^harm is done, if we persevere in it, it is more often from a weak will than from attraction to what so soon satiated us. Sacrifice as well as happiness is essentially subjective; God alone can judge of the relative value of either. It follows that it would be as cruel as unreasonable to say to anyone : '*In giving yourself, you think the gift has value, it has none ; you think you are oflFering up realities, they are phantoms." Would you have the questionable courage to open the eyes of a child who in his great love offers you a trifle or a flower, which he prizes because he knows of no greater gift? We read in the ** Imitation," **A prudent lover considereth not so much the gift as the love of the P the giver." It is evidently thus that God looks upon the gifts of His poor creatures. As the blind girl ^ crosses the convent threshold, she too may have something to leave behind, as she makes her burnt- offerings of sweet savour. It matters little whether \ it be reality or illusion ; sometimes in giving up our illusions, we sacrifice what we hold dearest on earth. 102 PART THE SECOND THE COMMUNITY OF THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL THEIR ORIGIN BOOK I. Their Origin and Founders IN studying the evolution of charitable organ- izations we find that even amongst the most important and flourishing there were few which did not begin in humility and uncertainty. In nearly every case the man who was the instrument of Providence in a work destined to become famous had, so to speak, to feel his way ; he had a certain aim in view, and circumstances (that is to say. Provi- dence) led him in another direction. Sometimes it is only late in the life of a Founder that he undertakes the work which posterity recognizes as his raison d'etre; he suddenly discovers that some detail, a mere accessory of the creative scheme, has been its chief success; it has developed and become the domi- nating idea, the mainspring of the whole. In the face of such facts let who will put his faith in hu- man calculations. The work of M^re Bergunion and the Abb6 Juge was not exempt from uncertainty and humility in its beginnings. The sketch of the lives of these two Founders of the Blind Nuns of St Paul will shew their early anxieties and hesitation.* * The community are preparing copious biographies of their founders and first nuns, which doubtless will eventually be published. The following is merely intended as a comprehensive sketch. 105 THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL Ct, I. The Founders ANNE* or Annette Bergunion was born in the Rue Trognon, parish of St Merry, Paris, her parents being small tradespeople. Her mother brought her up piously, and in the strictest ideas of order and economy. At sixteen she entered the novitiate of the Mere-de-Dieu nuns at Versailles, but a year later she returned home to nurse her invalid mother. She herself was delicate until towards the year 1850. Though very ardent and devout by nature, she was apt to be nervous and unsettled. She had always longed to enter religion. Though her parents, being opposed to her vocation, tried to find her a husband of their own choosing, Annette refused absolutely. M. and Mme Bergunion, in the hope of overcoming her opposition, took the strong measure of turning their daughter out of the house. This was in 1837, when Anne was thirty-three years of age ; her niece and a maid servant who was entirely devoted to her shared her exile. As she had to make a liveli- hood, she took the advice of her confessor, Pere Boulanger, and opened an outfitting work-room for young girls in the Impasse des Vignes. This work was transferred later to No 18 Rue des Postes, a house next door to the Jesuits and belonging to them. Anne, with implicit faith in Providence, went to church, and kneeling before the altar of the Blessed * Jeanne is the name in the baptismal register in the church, but she was known all her life as Anne, or Annette. 106 THE FOUNDERS Virgin, placed the undertaking under our Lady's protection, begging her to intercede for her suppliant and send her some work. The prayer was granted, and tradition says that the work-room, which finally employed as many as eighty young girls, never wanted for orders. Every evening the best-behaved of the girls were allowed to lay their work before the statue of our Lady, the patroness of the work- room. At last M. and Mme Bergunion were reconciled to the idea of Annette remaining single, and took her back. She settled at home again, still keeping on the work-room in the Rue des Postes. Her mother being still ill, Annette nursed her devotedly till her death in 1843, when she transferred her devotion to her father, who died two years after. Being now her own mistress and still desirous of be- coming a nun, Anne Bergunion entered the novitiate of the Sacr6-Gceur on the advice of Pere Varin, whom, it will be remembered, was the adviser and helper of Mme Barat ; but as a prudent director he induced Anne to keep her work-room open, in case she did not get on at the convent. This proved a wise precaution, for Anne, soon discovering that she had mistaken her vocation, left the Sacr6-Goeur and returned to the Rue des Postes. The years went on. Mile Bergunion busied her- self with works of charity, besides her work-room, where she employed neglected children. Still she could not find rest or peace of mind ; at forty-five years of age she was still undecided as to what her real life-work was to be. In 1840 she was begged to admit blind girls and deaf-mutes into the work-room where homeless waifs and strays were harboured, but she always refused on account of her health. 107 m THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL Several people approached her repeatedly on this subject, but without success. Atlast Pere Varininthe latter years of his life — hediedAprillS, 1850 — think- ing that perhaps these repeated demands were an indication of the will of Providence and that Mile Bergunion was at last about to see her way, and to put her devotion and courage to good use, urgently pressed her to admit blind work-girls. . In consequence towards 1851 she Emitted four rather troublesome and utterly untrained girls, and shortly after a fresh group of six, of whom three had been expelled from the Institute for the Blind. With such materials she had the courage to begin her work-room for blind girls, which was destined later to become the community. The very primitive premises consisted of an oratory and refectory on the ground floor with a little courtyard; and on the first floor the work-room itself. Mile Bergunion's room or office and the dormitory. Difficulties and censure were not wanting, but the recollection of P^re Varin's words, ** Courage and confidence," supported her. Her great treasure was a little book, preserved now in the convent as a relic; she had read it one day, and ever after it was her most cherished memory and an influence over her whole life: this was the life of Mile de Lamourous.* Many a time did she meditate on the naive conversation described by the biographer, and apply it to her work, '*The gentleman did not speak in a way calcu- lated to encourage us much; he said he did not know why, but houses like ours did not succeed as a rule. *"Vie de Mile de Lamourous, dite la Bonne M^re," by Abb^ Pouget, P^risse, 1843. 108 i THE FOUNDERS ** *Do you want to know the reason?' I answered. 'It is because people make their calculations in a human way before receiving girls. They want a convenient house, linen in the cupboard, corn in the granary, money in the drawers and everything comfortable. They do not trust entirely to our Lord's words. Seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness, and all these things shall be added unto you.' The gentleman took my answer in good part, and certainly our work, being purely spiritual, can neither be established nor maintained on human ideas or on calculations agreeable to na- ture. But it is for us, the directresses of the House of Mercy, to draw down on it that superfluity which God has promised to thrift and care. Let us value whatever Providence has deigned to send us. How- ever coarse or cheap these objects may be, they are the gifts of God. We must beware of self-deception, and not procure comforts for ourselves which, though nature does not find them too luxurious, are unsuited to poverty; such things would draw down on us the anger of God, and deprive the house of that superfluity on which it depends for existence. We are the first poor to live here, and we ought to add to the prosperity of the house by our order and economy. We must never try to possess what the poor cannot have. Let us always keep an even mind, free from extremes of anxiety or agitation." Tradition says that one day as Anne Bergunion v%^as reading aloud the life of Mile de Lamourous to a select audience of blind and other girls, she came to these words: ** People think that a great many things are necessary for founding a House of Mercy. What is really required? A house with four rooms, namely, chapel, dormitory, work-room and refec- ^ 109 S THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL tory. To start with, the refectory might be com- bined with the kitchen. What else is wanted? Enough bread for one day, work for one week, and six francs in money. That is quite enough. In my opinion that is all that is necessary to found as many Houses of Mercy as you wish; I speak of what I believe Almighty God wants of me — others may have other views and act differently. As regards myself personally, I believe that Almighty God wishes me to work in the way I have described." These words, the answer to long perplexity of heart and mind, moved Anne and roused her en- thusiasm. **Well then," she said, turning to her little audience, **if you are willing, we too will found a community." I wish I knew the date of this reading, which must have been a day of days in Anne Bergunion's life. I should have liked to perpetuate the memory which was so solemnly enshrined in her heart, for I have a predilection for such moments in the life of a foun- dress. They are times of hope and enthusiasm. Ob- stacles loom large, everything is lacking, but nothing can damp her courage and confidence! She has not yet begun to face those countless, unforeseen diffi- culties which will clog her steps and, like devouring microbes, use up her strength and wear out her will-power in trivial yet incessant struggles.* * One of the first mothers of the Assumption writes of a similar phase, that it was the beginning of great things. "The hand of God could be seen so plainly at work. It seemed the fountain from which our lives as Assumption nuns were to flow; we were vessels, filled that they might be poured out anew. We were penetrated, especially our mother, by the great graces which God bestowed on us In those early days. We were told that there Is a special blessing on foundations at their commencement, and we could feel It. We seemed to be In touch with the supernatural; we listened for the voice of God, and He seemed sensibly present In our midst. The real poverty In which we were living kept us completely detached from created things, and obe- dience, which M. Combalot made us unsparingly practise at every moment, annihilated our own wills, the obstacle which would have kept us from God." — "The Foundation of the Order of the Assumption." 110 THE FOUNDERS If we recollect that a few years before Mile Ber- gunion hardly dared introduce one or two blind girls into her work-room for fear of their becoming a burden, we can form some idea of the progress which love of the blind had made in her heart and mind. Indeed it was now no longer a question of housing a few blind girls or children for a com- paratively short time, but the project was to orga- nize religious life for the blind, an absolutely new departure. All religious orders, congregations and convents of all kinds retain in their communities any one member who loses her sight, and generally make her their special care, but her affliction classes her among the sick and the infirm, the exceptions; no one hitherto had conceived, or at any rate rea- lized, the project of founding a Congregation and a Rule for the blind. The little community of the Rue des Postes had no assured resources whatever, not even the next day's food, but Mile Bergunion trusted in Providence. The Abb6 de la Bouillerie and later Mgr Sibour visited the work-rooms dur- ing their transition stage, and were most encou- raging. In 1852_£Ostulant's dress was adopted, a fair number of women with eyesight presented themselves, and in January, 1853, the work-room being too small, the community was transported to 205 Rue de Vaugirard, in larger and more sui- table premises. On May 12, 1853, thirteen nuns, of whom seven were blind, received the habit, and Mile Anne Bergunion became Sister Saint Paul, the Apostle struck with blindness and miraculous- ly cured being chosen patron of this spiritual family of blind and normal women.* When once * Later on, towards 1876, it was thought necessary to reduce the number of blind. The ecclesiastical superiors, in view of the small help which the 111 THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL the community was formally established, the Jesuit fathers, in conformity with their rule, ceased to be its ordinary chaplains, and it was then that Provi- dence sent to the nuns the Abb6 Juge, who may also be quite legitimately considered as one of the founders. Son of a commissary,* Henri Juge was born at Angoul^me in 1810. He was put into a little school kept, it is said, by a quondam revolutionary. Being of a gentle, charming disposition, with an absolutely equable temper, he seldom penetrated below the surface of things. In turn he took up painting, archi- tecture and physics, and was an assistant for some time in a chemical laboratory. His father, though in easy circumstances, allowed him very little money, and at twenty Henri Juge was obliged to give paint- ing lessons. At twenty-four he married Mile Eliane de Bazaugour, who, being very pious, persuaded him to return to his religious duties, and he became intensely devout. They travelled a great deal, prin- cipally in Italy, where he loved to paint. But in 1848 he lost his wife and new-born daughter. After this terrible grief he returned to France, and a year later entered the Seminary at Versailles. Hethusfufilleda promise made long before to his wife; they had mutu- ally agreed that the survivor should consecrate him- self or herself to God. He was then thirty-nine years old. The catastrophe which threatened to ruin his life was destined to give it definite aim and true blind nuns could be to the community, would only authorize the admission of one blind postulant to every two others. * These details are taken partly from the pamphlet, "A Benefactor to the Blind," by Commander Barazar, partly from manuscript notes drawn up and preserved in the community, and partly from notes furnished by the Abb^ Juge's family. 112 THE FOUNDERS meaning, and to become the starting-point of a much higher and more fruitful existence. Ordained priest on June 6, 1852, the Abb6 Juge accompanied Mgr Bonamy to Rome, and then re- turned to Paris to seek an outlet for his zeal, not feeling drawn to parish work. It was then that the Abb6 Lambert, chaplain to the Institute for Deaf- mutes, introduced to his notice the little community of Sister St Paul. He was much interested, and im- mediately offered to become her honorary chaplain. At his suggestion the money which he would have received was employed in keeping up the chapel and maintaining one more blind nun. On November 20, 1853, he said Mass for the first time in the humble chapel of the convent in the Rue de Vaugirard, and every day he walked three miles to reach it. From this time he gave himself entirely to the nuns of St Paul; intelligence, activity, fortune, friends, know- ledge of the world — all he possessed was at the service of the community. He made an excellent spiritual and temporal guide, not only a chaplain, but a fa- ther, which he was always called. The Abb6 Juge's co-operation was a real blessing to the work. In order to thoroughly understand the feelings of the blind he made a point of doing as many things as possible in the dark, and in winter he dressed completely without a light. The Abb6 Juge and Anne Bergunion had both arrived at their true destination by widely differing and unexpected paths. He was then forty-two and Sister St Paul forty- eight, the latter having but eleven years longer to live. During these eleven years they were to work together definitely at an enterprise looked upon as very novel and rather rash, a community of blind nuns, 113 THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL Mgr de la Bouillerie and Mgr Sibour continued to interest themselves in the infant community. Pius IX encouraged it as early as 1853, and later for- mally approved it, saying that it ** supplied a want in the Church." Sister St Paul having been miracu- lously cured of a serious illness by the intercession of our Lady of Victories, she made her first vows in 1855 at the same time as four blind sisters. The convent in the Rue de Vaugirard had for some time been too small for its inhabitants, and the founders looked about for more spacious premises in the envi- rons of Paris. Trusting to the resources which Pro- vidence might send them in the future, and having a part of the Abb6 Juge's fortune at their disposal, they purchased the little estate of Bourg-la-Reine, whither the community was transferred in 1855. It was spacious and airy, but the community had no special endowment. Sister St Paul's meagre savings had long since been absorbed, the Abb6 Juge had not money enough to support the whole undertak- ing, and the work done by the blind brought in very little. The nuns who could see were employed in the work of the convent; the community were obliged to live on_almSa_and Bourg-la-Reine was too far from Paris for collecting or begging assis- tance. Hence a return to Paris was resolved upon. After much deliberation and discussion and many prayers, without ready money or tenants for Bourg- la-Reine, the founders bought a house and small park which had belonged to Chateaubriand, where he wrote a great part of the **M6moires d'Outre- Tombe, " and which he had sold to the archbishopric when he himself settled in the Rue du Bac. This property was 114 Rue d'Enfer, the street being al- ready full of convents and charitable institutions. 114 THE FOUNDERS They had to start building immediately. During the work Sister St Paul and the Abb6 Juge came to Paris every day to organize and make plans. Then the community was divided: one half settled in the Rue d'Enfer, and the other remained at Bourg-la- Reine until the alterations were complete. The Abb6 Juge said Mass at the two houses alternately. Fi- nally the entire community reassembled in the Rue d'Enfer on November 11, 1858, to sing the ** Mag- nificat" in thanksgiving. The congregation num- bered forty-two persons; resources were extremely limited and debts heavy, and the strictest, severest economy had to be observed. Mother St Paul, who had all her life been in straitened circumstances, kindly yet firmly impressed on her daughters the virtue of **holy poverty." She gave them the ex- ample herself, never wasting a moment of her time, an end of cotton or a scraping of lettuce. She was said to be often troubled by intense anxiety, but she kept that between herself and God, and did not waste her time in melancholy. She was perpetually busy; she had trained herself to leave the chapel for the parlour, and could break oflF her intercourse with almighty God at any moment to talk to a nun who had need of her advice. She constantly re- peated the watchword of P^re Varin and Madame Barat, **God alone!" She had the most firm and Hving faith in the universal providence and guidance of God, and with the greatest confidence referred the success of all her efforts to Him. Timid as she had been in early youth. Mother St Paul had now ac- quired the art of governing with great firmness and authority. She was tall, cheerful and wholesome in appearance, and had made herself much liked. In reality she was very humble, and blamed herself 115 8a THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL whenever anything went wrong in the community. * * I ought to go away, " she used to say, * * and then the work would grow and everything prosper." This wish, felt by so many founders, was soon realized, for Mother St Paul died on September 7, 1863,* aged fifty-nine, after only ten years of religious pro- fession. In fact, she only made her perpetual vows in 1860, although she had wished to become a nun ever since the year 1820. On August 27, a few days be- fore her death, she insisted on the election of a new Superior, and had the consolation of seeing the com- munity choose the one out of her daughters most fitted by her intelligence and necessary virtues for the post, although the latter was only twenty-six years old and had only been a nun for eighteen months, f But though the Mother Foundress was gone, the Abb6 Juge, always known as the Father Founder, remained; and for eighteen years he was to con- tinue devoting himself to the Blind Nuns of St Paul, whose interests gradually absorbed his entire life. In 1870, during the siege of Paris, he transformed the convent into a hospital, with himself as chap- lain, and the soldiers grew as fond of him as were the nuns and children. At the time of the Commune the house was several times in great danger, but he refused to yield to suggestions of taking down the cross from the door. **No," he would say, **it pro- tects the house." On May 18, 1871, he was arrested in spite of his vigorous protestations and imprisoned at Mazas, being finally transferred with hostages to La Roquette. Luckily, in the latter place he found himself with some ecclesiastics, gendarmes and police, who barricaded themselves and were re- * She was buried in the tomb of the community of Blind Nuns of St Paul at the Montparnasse cemetery, t Mile Marie Vaugeois, in religion Sister Mary of the Sacred Heart. 116 THE FOUNDERS leased on May 27, so that on Sunday, May 28, he was able to go back to St Paul's. The commanding officers who had been witnesses of the Abb6 Juge's devotion to the wounded soldiers wished to decorate him, but his answer was,** I am waiting for a greater reward." He worked unre- mittingly for another ten years, and in 1876 Pius IX sent him the official Brief of Approbation for his undertaking. On October 24, 1881, feast of St Raphael the second patron of the community, he had an attack of congestion of the brain. For twelve years after, the once vigorous and active man was semi-paralysed. He died on December 25, 1893,* after years of vegetation, and the cruel physical and moral sufferings to which his life condemned him. This concludes the all too summary sketch of the lives of the founders of the Blind Nuns of St Paul, and we shall shortly be able to study their great and holy work Many will doubtless reproach me with having been too brief in relating the lives of Mother St Paul and the Abb6 Juge; they may think that I did not appreciate the true work of the founders, be- cause their lives contained no extraordinary events. This reproach would be unjust; I am absolutely convinced that to do anything really great one must have a dominating personality and a strong and vigorous faith. Only such natures have the courage to found a community with the necessary authority to assemble, concentrate and govern their flock, however small it may be, since humanity only respects what surpasses it. But, after all, is it necessary to describe the whole of any life without * He also was buried in the community tomb. 117 THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL sparing our readers any details or a single one of those many dull, uniform, monotonous days, which the man who is living through them finds hard enough, and no more wishes to remember than the grains of sands on a hot, uncomfortable road? It has always been very bitter to me to see the care- fully detailed lives of so many very good, and even holy, people thrown aside. The conscientious author, in his enthusiasm for his hero, has collected and re- lated everything, thinking he can never say enough; the reader, on the other hand, always thinks there is too much, and wishes the line had been drawn at what was essential or characteristic. In reality we are only interested by those periods in the lives of others which we ourselves should have wished to live through. Still, you may say that, if important events are wanting, you have the psychological analysis or study. But is it not usually a difficult point to decide what special events or facts were of psychological importance? If we have not known intimately the man or woman about whom we are writing, we have to work more or less from frag- mentary notes, and to use subjective, quite as often as objective, impressions of memory. In fact, the acts and words of people we have known affect us according to the mood we ourselves are in when we are writing, and it is this mixture of our own and others' thoughts which memory preserves. If this be so, as we strive to reconstitute a whole existence from recollections and descriptions, we must often be liable to emphasize as essential and important what was merely relative and accidental in the character or the life we are endeavouring to ana- lyse. And, after all, apart from the tangible results, what do we know of the really psychological influ- 118 THE FOUNDERS ences in life? People say: **Such a period was the happiest or saddest of his life." How do we know that this was so? I quite agree that appearances may have been in favour of it, and doubtless con- temporaries and friends aflBrmed it, but what do we know of the man's innermost soul, as he lived through those happy years? Alas! perhaps while all the world was praising brilliant outward results, the poor wretch and his own conscience were play- ing out a grim tragedy which dominated all the rest. If it be idle, from a philosophical point of view, to put everything into words, is it not a little contrary to the spirit of religious humility to wish to hand down to posterity every action of some poor human being, with the most trifling episodes in his life, and each word and sigh that escaped him till the day of his death? David said long ago: **Our years shall be considered as a spider . . . For my days are va- nished like smoke."* Although three thousand years have passed since then, with all their progress, our insignificant lives are still as unstable. Let us not try to retain the vapour; let it blow where it will. It is enough honour to say of any man what was written of our Lord Himself: "He went about doing good." * Psalm cii. 119 THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL C IL Preliminaries — Aim and Spirit of the Foundation TO thoroughly understand the spirit in which Mile Bergunion undertook her work among blind girls, it is useful to explain, though the subject be tedious, the exact position of blind wo- men and girls in France, and Paris especially, be- tween 1840 and 1850. Of course we can only ap- proximately arrive at what public benevolence and private charity were doing for them, owing to the time which has elapsed since then, and the scarcity of statistics; but even Mile Bergunion herself had only vague impressions rather than exact informa- tion on the subject. Her limited education and poor health, added to all the daily cares of the work- room in the Rue des Postes, did not allow of her taking very careful statistics or making very minute inquiries; she was therefore guided principally by what came under her own notice or was told her by her companions. Between 1840 and 1850, that is to say during the time Mile Bergunion was pressed to receive blind workers, the situation of blind women in France was as nearly as possible the fol- lowing: out of 35,783,170 inhabitants, about 30,000 were blind, and of these 13,000 were females. Paris, having at that time a population of 1,224,164, con- tained at least 1,500 blind, of whom 650 were fe- males. There were few resources for so many people; the Quinze-Vingts Hospital, which any blind person could enter, had about 250 indoor patients, of whom 100 were women and girls, and 120 THEIR AIM AND SPIRIT it paid a few hundred of outdoor female patients over the age of twenty-one a pension of 100, 150 or 200 francs.* The Salp^tri^re contained about 300 blind females; in homes for incurables such as the one at Ivry, the Six- Vingts at Ghartres, and the Rue de Jarente at Lyons, there were a few blind female indoor patients, but it is difficult to give the exact figures. BUnd children living with their parents in Paris could claim five francs (4s. 2d.) a month from the local Charity Organization Office. For educa- tion there was the Valentin Hauy School f in the Rue St- Victor, reorganized in 1816 under the name of Royal Institute for the Youthful Blind, and in- stalled in 1843 in a specially constructed edifice, 56 Rue des Invalides, which sheltered thirty girls between the age of nine and twenty-one. J: After the year 1834 a dozen blind girls were added to the Deaf-mute Institute, founded at Lille by the Soeurs de la Sagesse. In the Refuge of St-Hilaire, a kind of home opened in Paris in 1846 by Dr Ra- tier in the Rue de TEcole Polytechnique, and after- wards transferred to 37 Rue de la Montagne-Ste- Genevieve, a few little blind girls were taught with the boys, from whom they were separated by a thin partition, as was the custom in the mixed schools of the period. Such was about the extent of the assistance given to the blind in those days; to help one thousand out of thirteen thousand blind women and girls is not a large proportion. From 1822 the Royal Institute, on the initiative of the director, Dr Pignier, began to teach religious music as a pro- *£4, £6 or £8. f **Les Aveugles par un Aveugle," Hachette, Paris. Jin the session of 1848 tlie General Council for the thirty-six depart- ments voted the sum of 49,825 francs as pensions for one hundred blind boys or girls from nine to twenty-one years of age. The departments of the Seine and the borough of Paris were responsible for 7,400 francs to be distributed amongst nine blind inmates. 121 THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL fession. It offered to prepare a few youths and girls for the career of organist, and by 1850 several in- mates had obtained situations. Those young girls who were not musically gifted, and who worked at knitting, netting, spinning, cork-slipper making and other very poorly paid trades, found themselves in a difficult position when the time arrived for leaving the institute. Those who had homes returned to them, but without always finding work; others knew not whither to turn, and, in spite of his robust optimism, Dr Ratier wrote that he could see no future for blind girls trained to manual labour. It was hard for them to be shut up in a hospital at the age of twenty, and sad to have to begin thus early a lifeo^f old age, helplessness and oblivion. Furthermore, a great many blind children lived in ignorance and misery, because there was no room for them in the Royal Institute. A few people who were interested in the blind realized the sad state of things; Mile Bergunion's work-room in the Rue des Postes happened to be just in the neighbourhood where the interests of the blind were much dis- cussed: it was near the Rue St- Victor, the Rue St- Jacques, the Rue de TEcole Polytechnique and the Rue de la Montagne-Ste-Genevieve; so that she was constantly brought into contact with the saddest cases. One day some one would tell her of a little girl old enough to make her first Communion, who had never heard of almighty God, and whose parents left her crouching in a corner of their garret or dragged her about the streets to attract pity. Another time she would hear of a poor blind woman left without food or fire in a filthy den, and sometimes they would bring her a grown-up girl, tall and handsome in spite of her affliction, house- 122 THEIR AIM AND SPIRIT less and homeless, reduced to begging under arch- ways. Anne Bergunion trembled at the thought of so much misery and danger. Towards 1842 an enter- prise was started under the name of **The Society for Protecting and Assisting Blind Workers, ' its'^ objects being to help those who had learnt a trade at the Royal Institute or elsewhere, and also to look after children old enough to go to school. This society was presided over by M. Portalis, first pre- sident of the Gour de Cassation, several parish priests and chaplains in Paris being on the council, together with Messieurs Dufau, director, and Gau- det, chief instructor, of the Royal Institute for the Youthful BHnd. The general secretary, M. Edouard Morel, professor at the Deaf-mute Insti- tute, in the Rue St-Jacques, was the soul of the work; M. P6licier, a young government official, presided over a work-room in connexion with the same enterprise at 53 Rue Notre-Dame-des- Ghamps; the latter was employing twelve work- men in 1844. The Society employed them in reseat- ing cane chairs and weaving coarse linen, allowing them a few pence profit by way of encouragement. The enterprise was intended to help girls as well as young men, but this was not an easy matter. The men's work-room under the immediate supervision of the Gouncil cost a great deal to support; the directors very rightly concluded that it would be better to find a place for the girls where they could board. Mile Bergunion seemed just the person to apply to; so she was begged to receive the adult pupils of the Society above mentioned, and was also asked by Dr Ratier to take in the five or six blind children who were all that was left of the St- Hilaire Refuge in 1850. These latter were relegated 123 THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL to the back of Mile Bergunion's work-room. There is no mention of this amalgamation in the manu- script records of Mile Bergunion, drawn up by the community of Blind Nuns of St Paul, but it took place, as the last pupils of M. Ratier* remember distinctly the final phase of the St-Hilaire Refuge, and their residence with Mile Bergunion, where they slept in a kind of small dormitory adjoining the work-room. Dr Ratier appears to have been Mile Bergunion's principal adviser at this time, which is doubtless the reason of the Foundress writing in the Constitutions that the community could take charge of little boys under nine and look after the blind in general. The want was greatly felt of an establishment whose very elastic rules should admit young girls past the age for admission to the Royal Institution — where there were very few vacancies — blind girls, women who could not get into the Quinze-Vingts, and quite young male and female children before their first Communion. As I have mentioned before. Mile Bergunion, in the beginning of her labours, happened to come across very troublesome girls, some of whom had been expelled from the Institute, and were there- fore the dregs of the bHnd population, and very unintelligent. She set the cleverest of her first four Wind workers to teach the Httle German girls be- longing to the work-room. The success of this attempt gave her a certain amount of confidence in the possibility of employing the blind. Later on, in describing her efforts, the Foundress wrote : '*From time to time we used to talk to the Wind of their position. Accustomed always to hear that they were * Many are still alive; one of them, M. Larchev6que, is an indoor patient at the Quinze-Vingts at the moment of writing (1901). 124 THEIR AIM AND SPIRIT a burden to others, and utterly useless, the poor creatures had sunk into a state of the profoundest distrust and discouragement. God inspired me with the idea of tryiAg to make then^ useful,_and fortu- nately I was able to teach them to help,me."They were employed in housework, cooking and attending to the dormitories. One of them cleaned Mile Ber- gunion's room, another, assisted by a child who could see, was made portress. It was already a great step to employ such defective material without too much discouragement or too little confidence. Still, confidence seems to have been very limited. As the Foundress had had very troublesome characters to deal with among her first recruits, she fancied that they would all be alike and that her mission was bound to be very arduous. She imagined in all sincerity that it is far harder to educate blind girls than others, and that all work among the blind demands complete abnegation and self-sacrifice. When she heard one day in a sermon, that Blessed Peter Glaver signed his vows with the words ** Peter Glaver, slave for life of negroes," she exclaimed enthusiastically, **And I will be the slave of the Blind!" in naive ignorance that slavery does not mean one special form of work, but anything which absorbs our whole heart and strength. Besides, it is difficult to lose habits of mind, acquired in any one profession or occupation which we have fol- lowed for some time. For instance, charitable per- sons accustomed to deal with the poor, when they begin to help the blind will only look upon them as paupers to be relieved, and will find it very difficult to believe that many of them — especially children — may be put in the way of earning their own living. Anne Bergunionherselfhad been accustomed 125 THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL from childhood to steady, elaborate work; her work-room was celebrated for fine needlework and supplied the best shops; she knew by hard ex- perience how little the expertest and quickest women make by their needle. Naturally she saw that blind girls either could not sew at all, or very clumsily ; knitting alone seemed possible to them, and doubtless no idea had yet dawned on her of more lucrative employments in which blind and other women could combine. It is therefore only natural that she should have looked upon blind adults as merely a heavy burden on the establish- ment. The Society for Helping and Assisting Blind Workers helped her by paying 250 francs (£10) for the board of each of her pupils, but the Society's own existence was then precarious, and it soon after came to an end. Mile Bergunion's idea of her community and its work was to offer a life-long home to blind young girls and adults who would work enough to keep themselves occupied ; the inmates who could see would practically support the blind and, if they could not make enough, would collect alms. This, alas! was all that could be said for the old spinsters and widows who lost their sight late in life or people under forty who were blind from some local affec- tion and too delicate for continuous hard work. A life-long home is almost always a necessity in such cases. But when it comes to the education and train- ing of blind children of either sex, it does harm to bring them up with the idea that they must inevitably enter a Refuge after school, for neither master nor pupils will make any efforts or work with energy and hope. The Founders of St Paul had very Httle, if any, hope in final results. They were too apt to 126 THEIR AIM AND SPIRIT confuse all classes of blind people, and could not believe, for instance, that intelligent children, with a gift for music, could profit by good technical in- struction, and in time make a living. Still, there were several former pupils of the Institute for the Youthful Blind engaged as organists in different towns in France. From the year 1858 a great num- ber of young girls were successfully trained there to teach music, and provided with situations in different religious communities, where they could gain a small but certain livelihood. The founders of St Paul did not keep abreast with what was being done in this way ; they taught music, but only with a view to chants, choruses and harmonium-playing in church, with an occasional piece performed on the piano during a benefactor's visit. Gradually they enlarged their outlook, as we shall see in studying each section of the convent. Mile Bergunion and the Abb6 Juge seemed to have acted on their per- sonal impulses rather than studied and profited by what had been done for the blind before their time. Doubtless there are drawbacks to rushing into action insufficiently prepared, or without a thorough knowledge of the ground to be covered ; Mother St Paul and the Abb6 Juge might have avoided many false starts and much waste of time by study- ing what had been already done for the blind. But, putting one drawback against another (since we can so rarely work without any), the best thing is to follow St Francis de Sales, who says, ** Simplicity is strength, because it acts without waiting to under- stand." And truly, whilst we are busy studying statistics, philosophizing on abstract and original causes ''of distress, and looking for organizations and universal cures, perhaps we are allowing those w THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL around us actually to die of cold, starvation and misery. The learned philanthropist sitting after his good dinner, in his warm, closely-shuttered study, compares his statistics, and seeks a solution for the general problem of starvation ; while some wretched man is shivering outside (for though we are always being told of sham beggars, we must not forget that real ones exist), or a miserable woman cowers in a cotton dress in the December wind. Would it not be simpler, even at the risk of being deceived, to go down into the street, and help some one, or do something, instead of seeking ^abstract and impos- sibly complete solutions ? Anne Bergunion and the Abb6 Juge were among those who acted thus, and who will blame them? 128 THE CONSTITUTIONS C III. The Constitutions— The Rule THE Rules and Constitutions of a Congre- gation are not drawn up in a day ; and the best have only been put into writing after being practised for some time. St Vincent de Paul, when he gave his rules to his mission priests, said to them, ** Gentlemen, my brothers, you have waited for them some time, and we have been slow in giving them to you, partly to imitate our Lord, who workd before He began to teach: *Coepit Jesus facere et docere.' He practised virtue for the first thirty years of His life, and only spent the last three in preaching and teaching. Therefore, in your Constitutions you will find nothing that you have not put into practice with great edification for several years past. If we gave you rules that had never yet been followed, they might be difficult, but as we are merely giving you what you have practised for so many years with fruit and consolation, you can find them useful and easy in the future. If we had given rules in the begin- ning, before the Company was in working order, you might have seen more of the human, and less of the Divine in them, a humanly designed and conceived plan, insteadof the work of Divine Providence ; but, my Brothers, I could not tell you how the rules or anything else in the Congregation were planned, for I never thought about it ; everything has come into practice little by little, and with no visible origin. It is one of St Augustine's maxims that when we can- not discover the cause of a good thing, we must refer it to God, who inspired its author. According to this, 129 9 THE BLIND SISTERS OF ST PAUL God must be the author of our rules, which were in- troduced spontaneously and in a way we cannot de- fine. . . . And if you ask me how the practices of the Congregation were introduced with the plan of our exercises and our work, I must answer that I have not the least idea. M. Portail here, who watched the beginnings of the little company, can tell yoy that we were not thinking of anything of the kind ; every- thing seemed to come of its own accord in due rota- tion. Our numbers increased, and each of us worked at his own improvement, and as our community grew, so good practices sprung up to enable us to live together and get through our work in harmony."* These words of the * *good Monsieur Vincent, " full of piety and practical common sense, apply equally to the position of Sister St Paul. It would have been imprudent to draw up Goiistitutions and a definite Rule, in the early days of a Congregation with such special and novel aims. Besides, if even the founders could have sought precedents and examples for the education, training, and work of the blind, in what had been done in France and elsewhere during the preceding fifty years, there was nothing to guide them in writing the Constitutions of a community half composed of Blind Nuns. The members of the Quinze-Vingts used to call each other Brother and Sister, as did those of St Mary's Confraternity for the Blind in Padua ;t but took no religious vows. In these Corporations, which were rather associations than communities, the aims were far more material than spiritual : the sanctification of souls was subor- dinated to the struggle for daily bread, and the difficulty of preventing individual members getting *Abelly, " Vie de St-Vincent-de-Paul." t See the pamphlet : ' ' Memorle storiche sui ciechi ed in particolare suUa fraglia e sull* Institute di Padova, 1882." Institut des Aveugles de Padoue. 130 THE CONSTITUTIONS more than their fair share.* Many prayers were said and oflSces recited and sung, but this was in ful- filment of handsome endowments for pious inten- tions, f * •' Whe- they had occasion to dip into the general purse, to seal mandates they had di awn up, or to consult documents in the archives, they went to the Treasury little cabinet containing the hospital's most precious possessions : Church relics, jewels and plate, money in cash, the lea^i^of the house, and the official seals of the Congregation. The room containing all this wealth was protected by a lock with three keys ; one was given to the Superior, one to a professed, and one to a lay-brother. This placed the key-holders above sus- picion, and the Chapter directed that when anyone went to the Treasury to take out 'money, seals, or letters,' a bell was to be rung summoning the Brothers to superintend operations." — L^onLe Grand, "LesQuinze-Vingts." t "The Quinze-Vingts were not true religious, they did not take vows of poverty or chastity, but they describe themselves as living together under rule, after giving themselves and the use of their possessions to the house ; it is easy to understand that their Congregation came to be looked upon as a quasi-monastic order ; for instance, benefactors would ask to be associated with the 'good deeds and prayers of the blind,' as they would have done in the case of a convent. Furthermore, their resemblance to a hospital caused them to be considered a monastic establishment, at a time when all ' Maisons- Dieu' were of a religious character. They were often called * Bglise et Hostel des XV-xx.' . . To repay royal benefits, the blind had recourse to prayer, the wealth of the poor. Every day, as soon as the bell rang for rising, they were bound by the statutes of Michel de Brache to say five 'Our Fathers' and 'Hail, Maries' for the King, Queen and Royal Family and the honour and prosperity of the Kingdom. To these individual prayers were added the solemn offices celebrated in church in presence of the whole community. Benedic- tions, Masses and processions, to implore the protection of God for the King, and peace for France. When a member of the royal family was ill, the Quinze- Vingts never failed to join the processions formed to beg his restoration to health. . . . We cannot better explain the motives which often inspired this generosity than by giving the exact words of Jean de Ferri^re to the Congre- gation in 1309 : ' Attendant et consid^rant les bonnes pri^res et oroisons de Deu aprez son dicez pour I'ame de lui, et especialement pour les ames de son p^re, de sa m^re, et de Marguerite, sa premiere fame, que le 300 povres de la meson des aveugles de Paris et leurs successeurs puent faere, font, et necessent de faere nuit et jour, et en son cuer pensant la grant povret^ d'iceux, le bon loz, la bonne renomm^e, et la fine probity d'iceux.* The wish to be associated with the prayers of the Quinze-Vingts is specified in several manuscripts of the time ; and we have met with the phrase (so familiar to benefactors of religious orders) in no less than seventeen papers : ' Pour estre acceuilliz ^s pri^res, biens fais, et oroisons d'icellui hostel.' This idea, joined to pity for the poor blind, is evidently the intention of all the donations which are not expressly left for other purposes. . . . The prayers asked by benefactors were not always Masses. Thus, Pierre Poir^ ordered a weekly recitation on Saturdays of the anthem 'Inviolata,' in honour of the Blessed Virgin. Nicholas Flamel, the celebrated scribe, imposed quite a complicated ceremony on the Quinze- Vingts. Every month thirteen blind men with priest, surpliced deacon and cross-bearer, were to walk in procession to St-Jacques-la-Boucherie. They assisted at a solemn service for the repose of Flamel's soul ; the priest then said a Low Mass, and the churchwardens of St-Jacques gave them each time 47 s. p. According to an agreement made In 1473 the factory of St-Jacques only paid the Quinze-Vingts 28 s.p. a month, and 3 s.p. a year. This clause 131 9