Daytrip to Tournai, Belgium

During a terribly rainy, cold week in Paris this April, I decided to take the train from the Gare de Nord in Paris, to Tournai, Belgium in search of tapestries. When I arrived, I learned that the immense Notre Dame Cathedral was under reconstruction, and most of it is inaccessible at present. The famous tapestries that illustrate the history of St. Eleutherius and Piat are either covered or hidden away (I couldn't quite ascertain which), but are not available for viewing. The treasury is closed and most of the building is shut down for repairs.

Tournai is really a very interesting city, and the people were very friendly and helpful. The lady at the cathedral was so kind that I completely forgot my disappointment over the closure of the major exhibits. Some saint--I don't know who--was discovered to be buried behind the altar,and they have been excavating underneath the cathedral to disinter the bones. The place is immense--and there is just no way to explain why I should have enjoyed myself in this place that is covered with scaffolding, dust, and has a huge hole in the middle of it--but I did!

Perhaps it is just that I had decided to enjoy myself or because I had been really well-fed at a lovely, small restaurant called L'Orchidee, where they served a delicious, well-prepared 3-course formule, with generous portions for under 12 euros, and a great glass of the vin ordinaire--house red--for 2.5 euros! Each table was decorated with live orchids, and the clientele represented a cross-section of well-heeled tourists and cheerful local regulars. The whole town shuts down for dinner from 12 - 2 p.m. each day, so the forced relaxation changed my entire disposition while I avoided a drenching rainstorm during lunch.

I guess my disappointment dissipated in the general relaxed, friendly atmosphere of the town. The cathedral is ancient, immense, and full of interesting history. A stop by the Office of Tourism on the way to the Cathedral and Tower provided lots of historical information, while the Tapestry museum with its collection of early tapestries and more modern ones, also offered a chance to observe working restorers patiently mending the fragile treasures in their upstairs workshops.

Sometimes traveling is just a matter of relaxing and enjoying whatever we find, and not feeling disappointed that our agenda must change with new information. Besides, Belgium in the rain was perfect--and long, leisurely dinners in the afternoon seem to make very agreeable hosts--and tourists.

France in the Middle Ages 987-1460: From Hugh Capet to Joan of Arc by Georges Duby; translated by Juliet Vale.(Oxford, UK: Blackwell Publishers Ltd.) 1991.

This volume by Georges Duby (1919-1996), distinguished professor emeritus of the Collège de France, was written about ten years before his death. It is an excellent resource and a good introduction to French medieval history for the serious student of French history. His argument is especially strong in connecting the evolving French political, economic, and intellectual movements to counter-developments in historic events and thought. It is part of a larger series on French history that was commissioned to celebrate the Millennium, and his section, despite its title, is a short introduction that introduces his real expertise in the eleventh through thirteenth centuries, with a short wrap-up of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. The choice of Joan of Arc to represent the single even of the fifteenth century is mean to connect to the next volume (written by Leroy Ladurie) and to demonstrate the continuing romantic influence of the symbolism of the Middle Ages—especially through adaptation of sacred symbols to modern and secular movements and national allegiance.

While he is primarily interested in social history, especially as it pertains to tracing the development of feudalism, he appeals to younger historians to write feminist history, gently offering questions and direction for further study. He is sensitive to the plight of women, as comments in his book, The Knight, The Priest, and The Lady, based on very popular public lectures he delivered in the 1980’s at the College de France had demonstrated. In later years, Duby limited the focus of his writing (he also continued to direct a center for medieval studies in Provence) to the narrative history he had pioneered with Leroy Ladurie and others, preferring to offer his own views and interpretations, based upon a long and successful career.

French scholarship applauds his writing--he was, after all, a member of the College de France. But some English-language peer reviews, while acknowledging his legendary historical reputation, criticized his decision to decline construction of a feminine narrative, citing a lack of documentary evidence for the tenth through thirteenth centuries in France, and admitting the lethargy of the French academy’s attention to feminist history. He noted that he felt unqualified to speak for these hypothetical women, as neither his training nor his gender qualified him to do so. I found his reluctance charming, and consistent with the polite manner of a gentleman of his generation. One female historian, no doubt aggrieved over the impossibility of finding substantive support in Duby’s scholarship for feminist history projects, wrote that she was “angry” that he had died before replying to her review of his work! Some English-speaking historians seem to have declared that every work must explore every issue from every possible viewpoint in order to meet peer approval standards, a demand that has led to a great deal of sameness and dreary redundancy in current academic work.

In this volume, Duby produced a brief summary of the study and conclusions he reached in a lifetime of careful research, presented with a soupcon of the distinctive and compelling narrative style of the Annales historical method, which he helped to pioneer. Duby’s style will not please modernists, who offer deliberately bland, disinterested voices that confer objective authority, while asking us, like the Wizard of Oz, to ignore the actual men and women behind their disembodied voices. By contrast, Duby's historical narrative voice is lively, engaging, intelligent, humble, and authoritative. I like his voice, so I enjoyed the book. Overall, the book is one which would stimulate discussion and cause serious students to want to inquire further, while providing excellent insights from an important French historian.

Occasionally, an historical work fuels popular imagination. Natalie Zemon Davis' 16th Century case of The Return of Martin Guerre gave a glimpse of history that inspired many young historians to further research, as well as an internationally successful film and at least one Hollywood spin-off of the plot of this stranger-than-fiction-tale from this distant time past.

In 1983, this eminent Princeton professor reexamined the memoires of two judges in this exceptional case, including their carefully notated examination of witnesses, published only a few years after the actual events. Their work represents a remarkable documentary of 16th century thought and attitudes of the parlements, public officials in the lower tiers of the nobility whose offices were generally purchased and could be inherited, generally with additional payment of fees, or conferred for service to the Crown.

The attitudes of the judges in the case of the false Martin Guerre caused one of them, Jean de Coras, to call the story "tragic," despite the fact that the people involved were of low estate. His interest in understanding the motivation, moral choices, and underlying character of the accused represents a remarkable bridging of class lines for the early modern era. Could these humble, uneducated people be so thoughtful and creative as to be capable of shaping and creating their own identities? Of forming a marriage based upon personal choice and natural affection? Of deceptively and steadfastly protecting their choices, until their concern for each other and their children forced them to change course? These questions fascinated Davis and the sixteenth century judges who later wrote detailed accounts of the case. They fascinate us today as we attempt to comprehend the minds of people in an age so far removed from our own.


The Guerre family was not by any means among the very poor of the early modern era--they had dowries, property, land-holding relatives, a thriving business in brick-making, as well as managing many other properties which they rented out to others. They were the upper echelon of common peasantry, not perhaps literate, but they were ambitious, hard-working, and intelligent. In Davis' book, their lack of reliance for their own moral certainty upon the teachings of the Catholic church and the strength of their marriage bond, among other evidence in the familial and regional records, leads the author to suppose they may have had some sympathetic Huguenot connection with the Jansenist judge in the case.


The real Martin Guerre--who left his wife and later returned--was hardened by his natural disposition and by his sojourn in Spain as guest of a strict monastic order and the Spanish Inquisition. His total lack of sympathy and or responsibility for having abandoned his wife and family accorded with orthodox Catholic teaching that marriage was indissoluble and remarriage unthinkable, even on grounds of desertion. In contrast, the imposter, Arnaud du Tilh, had been a loving husband to the deserted wife, Bertrande and king father to their children.

The human interest of the story is of course compelling. In addition, the book explores many themes and attitudes, including identity, gender roles, agency, community, marriage and family, development of law, the charivari, and literacy. It is little wonder that it was made into an excellent French film, as well as at least one Hollywood spin-off. It is a great tale.

But its most compelling aspect for me is the humanity of the judge Jean de Coras, his compassion for Bertrande and the imposter, Arnaud du Tilh, and his distaste for the real Martin Guerre. He makes the story come to life, and we see the defendants through his eyes. I'm always amazed by the immediacy of original sources; truth is so much more amazing than fiction. And this is a tale loaded with intrigue, lies, villains and unlikely heroes--and heroines. Above all, the book explores the attitudes of 16th Century people in the south of France. We witness their dignity, cruelty, ignorance, intelligence, pride, affection, and bravery. They seem profoundly like ourselves, inhabiting a world that is much more difficult and harsh than life in Europe and America today.

If we dismiss these people as less human than ourselves in any way, other than their lack of modern education, opportunity, and privilege, we will undoubtedly view contemporary victims of isolation, poverty, illiteracy, and violence with similar disdain.

Be sure to see the French-language film versionwith Gerard Depardieu in his glorious youth!

Plus que Jamais--a favorite perfume from Guerlain of Paris, a gift from my daughter and souvenir of our marvelous summer vacation together in Paris.

It means longer than never--forever--much longer, in fact, than the very old French history I study. The name describes much of who I am and why I love history.

History is like a perfume, in many ways, with hints and scents of long ago times and far away places. It lingers in the memory, tantalizing the senses and imagination, like the aroma of cedar in old trunks, the mustiness of old books, the oaken scent of library shelves and tables, or a faint spiciness of old cupboards.

As a child of the twentieth century, who lived (the French would use the verb demeurer--our now, alas, "archaic" word in English--dwelt) most of her childhood in the nineteenth century Romantic revival of the Medieval era, immersed in the art and literature of Howard Pyle, Alexander Dumas, Sir Walter Scott, and others, I developed a determined taste for pre-Raphaelite painting and Romantic poets.

Like Anne Shirley of Anne of Green Gables renown, I love the "scope for the imagination," which the study of history affords me. My friends love their literature studies, and probably share much more common ground with my old lights of the Victorian Romantic era, but I love history's cranky old modernists, its Annales factoids, with their tendency to produce woolly narrative histories in their dotage. They are my Victorian fantasy of the the tweedy old professor with suede elbow patches, smelling faintly of pipe tobacco, tea, and whisky, enveloped by book-lined library walls, ensconced in a worn leather armchair. I've loved this gentleman since my youth, although I have never actually met him! History has a lingering masculine quality about it that gender historians sometimes deplore, while I am drawn by it.

French History? Well, you'd have to attend Evergreen to understand. The best liberal arts program for my interests combines study of French history, culture, and language. But, knowledge is power--or if I'd had the privilege of Latin grammar school--scientia est potentia-- so it must be good for something. My history professor is young, knowledgeable and challenging, while the literature/art history/philosophy professor is a woman "of a certain age," like myself, with an approach that is uniquely her own, and rather European. Both these amazing women have their own structured approach to teaching and life, as well as being wonderful women who inspire their students and teach their beloved subjects with love and formidable intelligence.


Now I'm reading early modern history--lots of mud, plague, and Huguenots--looking for that twist of interest that will grab my imagination and take it in the direction of a good question. I loved writing about Catholic women's reaction to the dechristianization program of post-Revolutionary France. Next I enjoyed looking at the rise of the department store and its effect on women's lives, as well as the role of fashion as an indirect area of expression and influence that reflected women's broadening roles and attitudes in the modern era, providing an ambiguous, yet public, force in the marketplace long before Frenchwomen actually achieved the right to vote.

Ankle-deep merde of the early moderns, I can't hear much rustling silk or sharp wit among the common folk, although I believe France was once famous for its silks and the Lyon silk merchants became quite wealthy. (I remember that France was the ribbon capital of Europe--can't remember where they made them--Amiens, perhaps?)

An immense distance separated the wealthy courtiers of Louis XIV, or even the XIII, and the common cloth of French peasantry--their poverty, illiteracy, disease, and superstitions. In their own time, the wealthy barely thought of the poor as human beings, perhaps much like our own homeless, whose ragged, wretched appearance, and lack of direction may cause more fortunate members of society to view their lives as meaningless. At the same time, society's religious views deemed that charity toward the poor was a virtue, thus many acts of individual and institutional benevolence provided a some relief. Then, as now, its palliative effect was hopelessly inadequate to the enormity of the problem, and could never significantly alter the great gulf between rich and poor. Thus, we know very little about them.

It seems to me that most historians begin their discussion of early modern history by remarking that we cannot hope to think we could understand the people of earlier centuries and are mistaken if we think they are like us. So far, nearly every historian I have read has begun with a statement that reflects a sort of metanarrative that the people of a few hundred years ago are so different from us that we cannot expect them to be comprehensible to us. My question for all these authors is: If we cannot understand or expect these people to think and behave with comprehensible human feeling, thought, motives, and beliefs, then would not that assumption affect all our subsequent analysis of their history? To begin by saying we cannot understand people who are clearly of the same species as ourselves is to begin with a seriously flawed historical outlook.

Perhaps this perspective has its origins in the progressive view of history that supposes that mankind is becoming more civilized with the passage of time and thus far removed from its primitive origins. Obvious objections to such a view as a privileged and erroneous view of history begin with its clear implication of civilization as a primarily Western venture, with all other cultures relegated to some measure of primitive evolutionary substrata. Additionally, even in our own Western culture, it could be readily admitted that our great geniuses of history appear to have been much more productive and creative in shorter lifetimes, with far fewer tools to support their work, than our far more numerous modern minds, equipped with computers, long lives of leisure, and knowledge of the ages at our fingertips. Furthermore, one can scarcely judge the vileness of earlier criminal classes or the brutality of distant ages to be effectively worse than our own, simply by their closer proximity to everyday danger and violence. Our prisons, military, police, and institutions shield many of us from individual participation in executions, war, torture, and other unpleasant violent realities. Our distance from the processes of birth and death, and our greater privacy does not support the conclusion that we are more civilized. Cruelty, ignorance, vice, corruption, envy, malice, greed, lust for power, and murder continue to destroy humanity, along with the problems of war, plague, and poverty.

Of course, most historians, despite their underlying belief in the alien character of the non-modern mind, proceed to attempt to understand them. Perhaps most historians only dismiss the mass of humanity, not its geniuses and nobility and leaders, with whom they presumably share a common understanding, for they often speak quite confidently about the thoughts, habits, behavior, and motives of elite historical individuals. The device of claiming that earlier centuries did not understand the world in the same way as modern people is perhaps to excuse our lack of information about them, but it is primarily rooted in the natural distaste of the comfortable, rational, and well-fed for the desperately poor, struggling, superstitious, and starving mass of humanity. Foucault would say that unreason is always in retreat from reason, but I am sure that the reverse is also true. Orderly educated minds shrink from the mass of disordered humanity.

I would like to remind myself to begin any examination of history with the certainty that humanity is and has always been humankind. Thus, historical people must be seen as sentient beings, like ourselves, but with the problems and perspectives of their own time and circumstances. To do otherwise is to render any study of history an arcane pursuit of facts and events which we cannot hope to comprehend or relate to our knowledge of human nature. Particularly, in the early modern period it is necessary, from my own belief in the constancy of human nature, to embrace the humanity of the wretched creatures who comprise a world where often ninety percent of the people are hungry and only ten percent are adequately fed. It is a fundamental principle that would serve well for approaching both our past and our present time.