French Women and Home Life
In spite of the romancers and all the twaddle they talk in the interest of the psychological novel, there are no women capable of warmer and more generous friendships than…
From: 1901 C.E. To: 1901 C.E.
Location: France
Note: This article has been excerpted from a larger work in the public domain and shared here due to its historical value. It may contain outdated ideas and language that do not reflect TOTA’s opinions and beliefs.
From French Life in Town and Country by Hannah Lynch, 1901.
Women and Home Life
In spite of the romancers and all the twaddle they talk in the interest of the psychological novel, there are no women capable of warmer and more generous friendships than Frenchwomen, none capable of a deeper, discreeter, more abiding loyalty. They are astonishingly indulgent, too, which is part of their great sense, and even their intolerance, where it exists, they have the grace to clothe in the suavity of tact.
If they talk, as they too often do, a great deal of nonsense about the English, and cherish vast illusions about their own nation, this is only in the nature of things, seeing that there is no race in the world brought up in more astonishing ignorance of every other race, and more trained to cherish denser prejudices. At school they learn only French geography, French history, French grammar. The rest of Europe comprises mere congested districts round France; and while it takes several volumes to learn the history of France, the history of other peoples may be told in a few paragraphs.
Boys may fare differently, but in my time this is how French girls were taught. England, as the traditional enemy, must necessarily expect rough treatment at the hands of the French; and in a country where the Press is a blatant monument of misrepresentation, the women cannot be wiser than their country, led by such a disastrous influence. French prejudices against England are as substantial and impenetrable as the walls of Pekin; you may ride round them, marvel at them, but never hope to demolish them. But the French mind that manages to keep outside these walls becomes surprisingly enlarged, and then you need ask for no finer or more generous judgment.
It needs this finish of magnanimity to so sympathetic a character, rare though it be in France,—for magnanimity is the last quality we may allow the race in general,—to show us how delightful the French can become. For this you must look among the cultured workers of France, the thinkers, the teachers, and men of science. These alone—and they are not loved for it—can recognise and tell the truth about even the mediaeval enemy, perfidious Albion.
Frenchwomen of all classes live much more in their bedrooms than Englishwomen do. Of a morning they study, read, work there, give orders to their servants, write letters. These bedrooms are generally very pleasant places, with dressing-rooms off, and clothes closets, so that intimate friends of either sex may pass in and out without indiscretion or awkwardness. The bed itself is a handsome piece of furniture, with curtains to match the big bed-cover, which hides every atom of white, and sometimes, with the pillows in the middle and silk or satin-covered bolster at either end under this covering, it resembles those imposing mediaeval couches we see in the Cluny Museum.
On the other hand, the sexes in family life are more apart than in England. They meet at table, but their amusements, interests, and work are accepted as widely different. The relations of husband and wife are based upon a more intelligent understanding than elsewhere; and those of parent and child are the nearest approach to perfection with which I am acquainted, if only a higher moral training were added to the tenderness and incessant care, for the French wife and mother is undoubtedly the best of her kind; and if her mate is less worthy, at least he is a kinder, more considerate, and courteous mate than his Anglo-Saxon brother. His sins, when he is volatile and bad, run to the cabinet particulier or the foyer of fast theatres, while the other flies to perdition on the fumes of alcohol, and sins against home in public bars, upon race-courses, in the hostels of fugitive dalliance. The Frenchman will tell you that he is the better man of the two, for he brings a little sentiment into his infidelities, while the Anglo-Saxon, when he turns his back upon home and the domestic virtues, is brutal and gross.
I think there is something to be said for the erring Frenchman in his frailty. Lisette, while her reign lasts, is somebody for him whom he must study and consider, to whom he is bound to be kind, until he makes up his mind to leave her, or until she leaves him. But this is not a point I need dwell on. In the matter of virtue, the Britishers make themselves out to be such honest, invulnerable fellows, unlike the chattering, bragging sinners on the other side of the Channel, that it is only the state of the public streets of Great Britain at nightfall that fronts us with the universal charge against them of Pharisaism.
And so I come back to my contention, that since infidelity to the marriage vow does exist, the light-headed sons of France choose the more open way of sinning. Their view of the case, as expressed in their fiction, is frankly odious, and, on his own showing, there is something essentially unclean in the Frenchman's mind, though I have always found his conversation fastidiously correct and inoffensive, and it is sad to think of such a fine and splendid race of women playing the unsavoury role they are made to play by the dramatists and novelists of their land. The women, of course, must be greatly to blame for the misesteem expressed in their regard by their fashionable and popular writers. Too fearful of displeasing, and too sensitive to Gallic ridicule, they do not understand that it rests with them to claim and obtain the respect due to them. They applaud and admire the writers who most persistently degrade them under the flattering guise of a passionate interest and concern. They, who so wisely dominate at home, have seemingly little or no objection to play the animal on paper. Of course there is a cultured and distinguished class who detest the modern fiction and plays of their country, who protest against them at home and in the Press, who will tell you they read only foreign novels, to avoid being dragged through the mire of their own.
This brings me to the consideration of woman's role in France. The foreigner who only judges that role from the novels he reads, mostly pornographic, and from the drama, increasingly gross and immoral, will be all at sea as regards the part woman plays in French life. He will conceive her first playing the hypocrite up to the time of marriage, and then living without restraint ever afterwards. He will wonder what time is left her for domestic duties, and judge her social duties merely as convenient stages along the downward path. If he enjoys that sort of thing, she will amuse and interest him, but he will underestimate her position in reality. For no one plays a more important role in the ranks of humanity than the Frenchwoman.
She it is who rules the home, and in what an admirable way she rules it can never be sufficiently extolled. She it is who trains, fashions, guides man in every step of his career, from his boyhood into his first love-affair, and makes of him the courteous and indulgent creature he proves in matrimony. As mother, aunt, sister, wife, and daughter, the Frenchman relies on his womankind throughout his whole career.
She is, in the best and fullest sense of the word, his helpmeet; assists him in his business, enjoys his entire confidence, because he knows so well that she is the better part of the institution, bears more than half of his troubles. As a mother, she knows how to efface herself, and in acting to her sons as their best friend and confidant, keeps her sovereignty stable.
It is because she is such a sensible and dignified ruler, indulgent where indulgence is needful, that the men around her rarely feel the impulse to break from her sway. She moulds the politicians, takes the poets and novelists by the hand, holds the social sceptre with ease and charm, pulls the academical wire-strings, aids youth to success and triumph, names the fashion in literature,—and here she does less wisely and less well,—makes and mars reputations, is responsible for more of the commercial prosperity of the land than her mate, and brought, of her own thrift and labour, a bigger share to the millions that went to Germany than he. An England without her women could be conceived as still standing, so effaced is their role; but France may almost be said to exist by hers. If the women would only consent to go to the colonies, the French would, I am convinced, turn out capital colonists.
Lynch, Hannah. French Life in Town and Country. G.P. Putnam's Sons, 1901.
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