IN REAL AMERICA
It was in meeting again the hotel proprietor, when I went back to pay
him my debt, that I first realized what a summer in the land of promise
had done for me. He did not know me at all. Thinking it quite natural
he should not remember one among the thousands he saw yearly, I tried
to recall myself to his memory.
“You don’t mean to say,” he cried, “that you are the child who was here
a few months ago! Have you been ill?”
“No.”
“Then what have you done to yourself?”
I had not done anything to myself, but the work and the heat had robbed
me of all my colour, of half my hair, and of pounds of weight.
At the French home my fellow-inmates were mostly of the servant class.
They were very kind to me: they made my bed, swept my room, washed my
hair, did my little mending, and even brought me sweets. They expressed
the hope that I should meet some nice American who would offer me
marriage, yet they confessed that American people were singularly
devoid of sentiment.
Several months after I was on the staff of the newspaper, an American
scholar, who was writing a book on the Greek language, came to the
office to see if he could find some one to work with him, and the
proprietor recommended me. At his house I met his wife, who at once
took an interest in me. Since she spoke very little French and I no
more English, our progress was slow; but both of them were very kind
to me. The husband became my regular pupil, paying me for one hour’s
Greek lesson every day more than I was receiving from the newspaper
for all my time. So I decided to give up my position with the latter,
where there was really no chance for advancement, and devote myself to
teaching and studying.
It was necessary for me at this time to change quarters. I could not
keep on living in a place where I had no companionship; so my Greek
pupil put an advertisement in the newspaper for me, saying that I
was an educated young Greek girl, who would exchange French or Greek
lessons for a home.
From the replies to my advertisement he chose a school, and I went
to see the principal. She, too, had blue eyes, which had become the
symbol of kindness to me. She knew French, and we were able to speak
together. She wished me to coach a girl in Greek, to pass her entrance
examinations, and for this she was willing not only to give me my room
and board but my laundry. I at once moved to the school, and here ended
the first chapter of my American life.
* * * * *
I was now living in an American school, surrounded by Americans. I was
to see them live their American lives. One may imagine how interested I
was. The school had about a hundred day scholars, ranging from four to
twenty years of age; and twenty boarders, representing almost as many
States, and who--even to my untrained ears--spoke in almost as many
different ways.
As a teacher of Greek I failed utterly. My pupil read a Greek I
could not follow, even with the text-book in my hand. My beautiful,
musical mother-tongue was massacred in the mouth of that girl, and
she understood me not at all. A living, thrilling language, with a
literature to-day on a par with the best of Europe’s, and spoken by
over ten million people, had to be considered as dead, and pronounced
in a barbaric and ridiculous manner. The girl was very angry at me when
I told her she did not pronounce it correctly. She informed me that
the ancient Greeks pronounced Greek as she did, and that I, the lineal
descendent of this people whose language had been handed down without
a break from father to son, and who used the very words of Plato every
day, did not know how to pronounce it. With what delight I should have
boxed her ears, only I had to remember that I was no longer I, but a
teacher, exchanging lessons for my living.
After several lessons together she went to the principal and told her
that I was quite unfitted to teach her, and that she was only wasting
her time.
The principal and I had a conference. “I can’t teach her,” I admitted,
“unless I learn to pronounce my own language in the execrable way she
does.”
So far then as the school was concerned I had failed. I was a
Greek--but could not teach Greek! The thought of leaving the school
hurt me, because I had become very fond of the principal, who even used
to come to my room sometimes and kiss me good night.
She offered me an alternative. “Wouldn’t you like to teach the little
girls French, talk French with the boarders, take them to church and
out for their walks?”
I was delighted to accept this proposal. Not being permitted to speak
any English with the pupils materially impeded my own progress; but
there was a girl in the school who lived there without being a pupil,
and who, although she spoke French fluently, often talked English with
me, to give me practice. We became very good friends: she said I was to
be her daughter, and she would be my mother. To her I owe a great deal
of the pleasure I had during my first few years in America.
The principal of the school also took the greatest pains with my
English. It is true, she did not permit me to speak it with the girls,
but she herself spoke it constantly with me. I could have had no better
person to take as a pattern, for she had a lovely accent, the best to
be found among Anglo-Saxons anywhere. She chose the books I was to
read, and told me the phrases to use, as if I were her most expensive
pupil.
My general impression of America now was kindness. It was given to me
with the lavishness which is one of the chief characteristics of the
Americans. Yet because they were so different from the people I was
accustomed to, I could not understand them at all, and misunderstanding
them I could not exactly love them. In spite of their kindness they
had a certain crudity of manner, which constantly hurt me. Besides,
they seemed to me to live their lives in blazing lights. I missed
the twilights and starlights, the poetry and charm of our life at
home--just as I missed the spring in their calendar.
It will perhaps surprise Americans to hear that, in spite of the
excellent table at the school, I was almost starved before I could
learn to eat American food. It seemed to me painfully tasteless: the
beef and mutton were so tough, compared to the meat in Turkey, and all
the vegetables were cooked in water--while as for the potatoes I had
never seen such quantities in my life. We had them for breakfast, for
luncheon, and for dinner, in some form or other. Just before we sat
down to table the principal said grace, in which were the words, “Bless
that of which we are about to partake.” To my untrained ear “partake”
and “potatoes” sounded exactly alike, and I wrote home that the
Americans not only ate potatoes morning, noon, and night, but that they
even prayed to the Lord to keep them supplied with potatoes, instead of
daily bread.
My Greek pupil and his wife, and also my first American friend of the
Normal College found me pupils, so that I now earned considerable
money. My outside pupils, mostly married women, were very nice to
me; but I felt that they did not quite know how to take me. I had a
terribly direct way of speaking; and, being still under the impression
that as a nation they were my inferiors, my attitude must have
displayed something of that feeling.
I began to be asked out to luncheons and dinners--partly as a freak, I
am afraid--and at one of these dinners I became the victim of American
humour. Happening to mention that I was surprised at not seeing any
real Americans in New York, I was asked what I meant. I explained that
I meant pure-blooded Indians. Thereupon my host very soberly told me
that I could see them any day at five o’clock, on Broadway, at the
corner where now stands the beautiful Flatiron building. He cautioned
me to be there at five exactly.
The very first day I was free I went to the designated corner. I
arrived at half-past four, and waited there till almost six, without
seeing one Indian. Fearing that I had made a mistake in the corner,
I went into a shop and, in my broken English, made inquiries. Two or
three clerks gathered together and discussed the problem, and then one
of them, repressing a smile, said to me: “I am afraid some one has
played a joke on you. There are no Indians to be seen anywhere in New
York, except in shows.”
That evening at school I told the whole story at table, feeling highly
indignant, and believing that my hearers would share my indignation. To
my amazement every one burst out laughing, and declared it to be the
best joke they had heard for a long time. Some of the girls even said
they should write home and tell it, because it was so “terribly funny.”
Their attitude was a revelation to me. My host had deceived me, and
had wasted two hours of my time and my strength, by giving me a piece
of information that he knew to be false; yet every one thought it
delightfully humorous. The only excuse I could find for this conduct
was that they were a nation of half-breeds, and did not know any
better. Indeed, as time went on, American humour was to me the most
disagreeable part of Americans. It lacked finesse: it was not funny to
me--only undeveloped and childish. Daily I was told that I had no sense
of humour, and that, like an Englishman, I needed a surgical operation
to appreciate what was so highly appreciable.
Finally, I got very tired of being told I had no humour and could not
understand an American joke; so I determined to prove to them that I
not only understood their silly jokes but could play them myself, if I
chose. Now to me the essence of an American joke was a lie, told with a
sober face, and in an earnest voice. I played one on a girl boarder. To
my surprise, the girl, instead of laughing, began to cry and sob, and
almost went into hysterics. It made a great rumpus in the school, and
the principal sent for me.
“My dear, is what you said true?” she asked, with the greatest concern.
“No, not a word of it,” I replied.
“Then why did you say it to the poor girl?”
“To deceive her, and play an American joke on her.”
The principal stared at me an instant, and then burst into immoderate
laughter. She called the victim and the other older girls to her and
explained my joke, and they all went into peels of laughter. In spite
of its inauspicious beginning my American joke was a huge success;
and I could not understand why both the principal and my “mother”
united--after their amusement had subsided--in cautioning me to make no
more American jokes.
For one year I stayed at the school; then, having saved some money from
my private lessons, and having enough pupils assured me for the coming
year, I decided to leave the school and go into a private family, for
the sake of my English, and also in order to see American home life.
I still felt very ignorant about the American people: in their own
way they were so complex, and they could not be judged by European
standards.
Almost with stupefaction do I read the interviews reported by the
newspapers with distinguished and undistinguished foreigners, who,
after a few days’ sojourn in the United States, and a bird’s-eye
view of the country, give out their comprehensive and eulogistic
opinions. They fill me with amazement, and I wonder whether these other
foreigners are so much cleverer than I, or whether they are playing an
American joke on the American people.
The family with whom I went to live turned out to be a Danish husband
with a German wife. Their children, however, were born and brought
up in America, so that I did mingle with Americans of the first
generation. That year away from school enabled me to poke around
a lot, in all sorts of corners and by-corners of New York. I took
my luncheon daily in a different place, and spoke to all sorts of
people, and heard what they had to say. The papers I read faithfully,
and every free evening I would attend some public meeting, from a
spiritualistic séance to any sort of a lecture. I also spent one entire
night in the streets of New York. All the afternoon I slept. At seven
o’clock I dressed and went to dinner alone in one of the so-called
best restaurants of Broadway, and then to the play. The time between
half-past eleven and five in the morning I spent in walking in Broadway
and in Fifth, Sixth, and Seventh Avenues. I took the elevated train to
the Battery, then up to Harlem, and down again by another line. New
York at night is very different from New York in the daytime. It seemed
to me that even the types which inhabited it were different, and I saw
a great deal which was not pleasant to see; but no one bothered me,
either by word or look.
Before this year I used to think that to be absolutely free, to go and
come as I pleased, would be the acme of happiness; to have no one to
question my actions, to be responsible only to myself would be the
_koryphe_ of freedom. Yet this year, when I was free to go and
come as I pleased, and had no one to whom I had to give any account
of my actions, I found to be the most desolate of my life, and my
freedom weighed on me far more than ever restraint had at home. I came
to realize that though an individual I was part of a whole, and must
remain a part of that whole in order to enjoy life.
That year humanized me, so to speak, and made me understand the reason
for much that I used to laugh at before--such, for example, as the
spinster’s devotion to her rector, to settlement work, or even to a
parrot, a cat, or a dog. Whenever now I see a woman in a carriage with
a dog on her lap, I may join with those who laugh at her; but at the
same time I wonder if it may not be poverty and loneliness of life
which make that woman, rich in money, lavish the treasures of her heart
on a dumb creature.
At the end of the year I returned to the school, and willingly placed
myself again in harness. During this year I made the acquaintance of
John Fisk’s books, and discovered the error of my preconceived notions
about the American people and their origin. He taught me who the early
settlers really were, whence, and why they had come. I read of their
privations and struggles, and of their ultimate success. For the first
time I looked upon this continent as peopled by the white race, and the
shame I felt for my past ignorance was only mitigated by my desire to
atone for it. I mapped out a thorough course of reading, and all the
spare time of that year and the next was devoted to systematic study of
American history, literature and poetry.
And, as I read American history, it came over me how different the
beginning of this race was from the beginning of all the other
civilized nations of the world. Whereas the others all started by a
strong barbaric race descending upon a weaker people and seizing their
cattle and their lands by brute force, America alone started with the
great middle classes of all civilized races, who came to the new world,
not with brute force as their weapon, but with the desire to carry out
in a wild and virgin country the spiritual and social development they
craved. What a marvellous, unprecedented beginning! What a heritage for
their sons! I am afraid many of them do not appreciate the greatness
of that beginning, otherwise why should they try to go beyond those
early settlers and seek to establish their descent from William the
Conqueror, or some little sprig of nobility, and make themselves
ridiculous where they ought to be sublime?
By temperament I am afraid I am something of an extremist. My barely
tolerant attitude toward my new country changed into a wholly
reverential one. I desired to become an American myself, considering
it a great honour, as in the olden days people came from all over
the world to Greece, to become that country’s citizens. I started my
Americanism by adopting its brusqueness--it is an unfortunate fact
that one is as likely to imitate the faults of those one admires as
the virtues--but brusqueness which is so characteristic of America
is mitigated by its young blood and by its buoyancy, and we of the
old bloods can very little afford that trait. It must have made a
poor combination in me, and many people must have found it hard to
tolerate. The principal of the school told me, during my third year
with her, that I had so completely changed in manners as to be hardly
recognizable. When I first came to live with her, she said, I had had
exquisite and charming manners; now, I had become as brusque as any raw
western girl. She little understood that she was attacking my new garb
of Americanism.
The school year began in October and ended in May, leaving me four
months to my own devices. Two vacations I spent in a fashionable summer
resort, not far from New York, where I not only had pupils enough to
pay my expenses but ample time to read English and American books, and
also opportunity to study the attitude of rich Americans toward a girl
earning her own living--an attitude not very different from ours in the
Old World. One summer I spent in a working girl’s vacation home, where
all the girls were shop girls, and where I met the proletariat of the
New World on an equal footing. And once I spent the entire four months
visiting in the mountains of North Carolina, where I learned how much
more American money is needed for schools there than in Constantinople,
where it goes, not to civilize the Turks but to educate at the least
possible expense to themselves the children of well-to-do Bulgarians,
Greeks, and Armenians--especially the first. And the recent actions of
the Bulgarians have proved eloquently how little American education
helps them; for American civilization must be sought--it cannot be
imposed from without.
My third year at school, the head French teacher left it, and the
principal offered me her place; and so, four years after I landed in
the new world I was at the head of the French department of one of the
best private schools in New York City. I had many good friends, was
making considerable money outside the school, and was studying at the
University of New York. To all appearance I had succeeded; yet truth
compels me to confess that, so far as my inner self was concerned, I
was a total failure.
I had thought that if I were to join the great army of the world’s
workers, and lead my life as seemed to me worthy; if I were to cut
loose from the conventions and traditions which hampered my development
in the old world, happiness would come to me. Far from it! I realized
then that I was only one of the victims of that terrible disease,
Restlessness, which has taken hold of women the world over. We are
dissatisfied with the lines of development and action imposed by our
sex, and the causes of our dissatisfaction are so many that I shall
not even try to enumerate them. The terrible fact remains that in our
discontent we rush from this to that remedy, hoping vainly that each
new one will lead to peace. We have even come to believe that political
equality is the remedy for our disease. Very soon, let us hope, we
shall possess that nostrum, too. When we find ourselves politically
equal with men, and on a par with them in the arena of economics, we
may discover that these extraneous changes are not what we need. We
may then, by looking deep down into our own hearts see whether, as
women, we have really done the best we could by ourselves. We may
then find out the real cause for our discontent, and deliberately and
with our own hands draw the line of demarcation again between men and
women, and devote ourselves to developing that greater efficiency in
ourselves along our own lines, which is the only remedy for our present
restlessness.
I believe that only then shall we find contentment and a better
equality than the one for which to-day some of us are even committing
lawlessness.