[Picture: Public domain book cover]
THE POINT OF VIEW
BY
HENRY JAMES
* * * * *
London
MACMILLAN AND CO.
1886
* * * * *
_Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, _Edinburgh_.
* * * * *
I.
FROM MISS AURORA CHURCH, AT SEA, TO
MISS WHITESIDE, IN PARIS.
. . . MY dear child, the bromide of sodium (if that’s what you call it)
proved perfectly useless. I don’t mean that it did me no good, but that
I never had occasion to take the bottle out of my bag. It might have
done wonders for me if I had needed it; but I didn’t, simply because I
have been a wonder myself. Will you believe that I have spent the whole
voyage on deck, in the most animated conversation and exercise? Twelve
times round the deck make a mile, I believe; and by this measurement I
have been walking twenty miles a day. And down to every meal, if you
please, where I have displayed the appetite of a fish-wife. Of course
the weather has been lovely; so there’s no great merit. The wicked old
Atlantic has been as blue as the sapphire in my only ring (a rather good
one), and as smooth as the slippery floor of Madame Galopin’s
dining-room. We have been for the last three hours in sight of land, and
we are soon to enter the Bay of New York, which is said to be exquisitely
beautiful. But of course you recall it, though they say that everything
changes so fast over here. I find I don’t remember anything, for my
recollections of our voyage to Europe, so many years ago, are exceedingly
dim; I only have a painful impression that mamma shut me up for an hour
every day in the state-room, and made me learn by heart some religious
poem. I was only five years old, and I believe that as a child I was
extremely timid; on the other hand, mamma, as you know, was dreadfully
severe. She is severe to this day; only I have become indifferent; I
have been so pinched and pushed—morally speaking, _bien entendu_. It is
true, however, that there are children of five on the vessel today who
have been extremely conspicuous—ranging all over the ship, and always
under one’s feet. Of course they are little compatriots, which means
that they are little barbarians. I don’t mean that all our compatriots
are barbarous; they seem to improve, somehow, after their first
communion. I don’t know whether it’s that ceremony that improves them,
especially as so few of them go in for it; but the women are certainly
nicer than the little girls; I mean, of course, in proportion, you know.
You warned me not to generalise, and you see I have already begun, before
we have arrived. But I suppose there is no harm in it so long as it is
favourable. Isn’t it favourable when I say that I have had the most
lovely time? I have never had so much liberty in my life, and I have
been out alone, as you may say, every day of the voyage. If it is a
foretaste of what is to come, I shall take to that very kindly. When I
say that I have been out alone, I mean that we have always been two. But
we two were alone, so to speak, and it was not like always having mamma,
or Madame Galopin, or some lady in the _pension_, or the temporary cook.
Mamma has been very poorly; she is so very well on land, it’s a wonder to
see her at all taken down. She says, however, that it isn’t the being at
sea; it’s, on the contrary, approaching the land. She is not in a hurry
to arrive; she says that great disillusions await us. I didn’t know that
she had any illusions—she’s so stern, so philosophic. She is very
serious; she sits for hours in perfect silence, with her eyes fixed on
the horizon. I heard her say yesterday to an English gentleman—a very
odd Mr. Antrobus, the only person with whom she converses—that she was
afraid she shouldn’t like her native land, and that she shouldn’t like
not liking it. But this is a mistake—she will like that immensely (I
mean not liking it). If it should prove at all agreeable, mamma will be
furious, for that will go against her system. You know all about mamma’s
system; I have explained that so often. It goes against her system that
we should come back at all; that was _my_ system—I have had at last to
invent one! She consented to come only because she saw that, having no
_dot_, I should never marry in Europe; and I pretended to be immensely
pre-occupied with this idea, in order to make her start. In reality
_cela m’est parfaitement égal_. I am only afraid I shall like it too
much (I don’t mean marriage, of course, but one’s native land). Say what
you will, it’s a charming thing to go out alone, and I have given notice
to mamma that I mean to be always _en course_. When I tell her that, she
looks at me in the same silence; her eye dilates, and then she slowly
closes it. It’s as if the sea were affecting her a little, though it’s
so beautifully calm. I ask her if she will try my bromide, which is
there in my bag; but she motions me off, and I begin to walk again,
tapping my little boot-soles upon the smooth clean deck. This allusion
to my boot-soles, by the way, is not prompted by vanity; but it’s a fact
that at sea one’s feet and one’s shoes assume the most extraordinary
importance, so that we should take the precaution to have nice ones.
They are all you seem to see as the people walk about the deck; you get
to know them intimately, and to dislike some of them so much. I am
afraid you will think that I have already broken loose; and for aught I
know, I am writing as a _demoiselle bien-elevée_ should not write. I
don’t know whether it’s the American air; if it is, all I can say is that
the American air is very charming. It makes me impatient and restless,
and I sit scribbling here because I am so eager to arrive, and the time
passes better if I occupy myself. I am in the saloon, where we have our
meals, and opposite to me is a big round porthole, wide open, to let in
the smell of the land. Every now and then I rise a little and look
through it, to see whether we are arriving. I mean in the Bay, you know,
for we shall not come up to the city till dark. I don’t want to lose the
Bay; it appears that it’s so wonderful. I don’t exactly understand what
it contains, except some beautiful islands; but I suppose you will know
all about that. It is easy to see that these are the last hours, for all
the people about me are writing letters to put into the post as soon as
we come up to the dock. I believe they are dreadful at the custom-house,
and you will remember how many new things you persuaded mamma that (with
my pre-occupation of marriage) I should take to this country, where even
the prettiest girls are expected not to go unadorned. We ruined
ourselves in Paris (that is part of mamma’s solemnity); _mais au moins je
serai belle_! Moreover, I believe that mamma is prepared to say or to do
anything that may be necessary for escaping from their odious duties; as
she very justly remarks, she can’t afford to be ruined twice. I don’t
know how one approaches these terrible _douaniers_, but I mean to invent
something very charming. I mean to say, “_Voyons_, _Messieurs_, a young
girl like me, brought up in the strictest foreign traditions, kept always
in the background by a very superior mother—_la voilà_; you can see for
yourself!—what is it possible that she should attempt to smuggle in?
Nothing but a few simple relics of her convent!” I won’t tell them that
my convent was called the _Magasin du Bon Marché_. Mamma began to scold
me three days ago for insisting on so many trunks, and the truth is that,
between us, we have not fewer than seven. For relics, that’s a good
many! We are all writing very long letters—or at least we are writing a
great number. There is no news of the Bay as yet. Mr. Antrobus, mamma’s
friend, opposite to me, is beginning on his ninth. He is an Honourable,
and a Member of Parliament; he has written, during the voyage, about a
hundred letters, and he seems greatly alarmed at the number of stamps he
will have to buy when he arrives. He is full of information; but he has
not enough, for he asks as many questions as mamma when she goes to hire
apartments. He is going to “look into” various things; he speaks as if
they had a little hole for the purpose. He walks almost as much as I,
and he has very big shoes. He asks questions even of me, and I tell him
again and again that I know nothing about America. But it makes no
difference; he always begins again, and, indeed, it is not strange that
he should find my ignorance incredible. “Now, how would it be in one of
your South-Western States?”—that’s his favourite way of opening
conversation. Fancy me giving an account of the South-Western States! I
tell him he had better ask mamma—a little to tease that lady, who knows
no more about such places than I. Mr. Antrobus is very big and black; he
speaks with a sort of brogue; he has a wife and ten children; he is not
very romantic. But he has lots of letters to people _là-bas_ (I forget
that we are just arriving), and mamma, who takes an interest in him in
spite of his views (which are dreadfully advanced, and not at all like
mamma’s own), has promised to give him the _entrée_ to the best society.
I don’t know what she knows about the best society over here today, for
we have not kept up our connections at all, and no one will know (or, I
am afraid, care) anything about us. She has an idea that we shall be
immensely recognised; but really, except the poor little Rucks, who are
bankrupt, and, I am told, in no society at all, I don’t know on whom we
can count. _C’est égal_. Mamma has an idea that, whether or not we
appreciate America ourselves, we shall at least be universally
appreciated. It’s true that we have begun to be, a little; you would see
that by the way that Mr. Cockerel and Mr. Louis Leverett are always
inviting me to walk. Both of these gentlemen, who are Americans, have
asked leave to call upon me in New York, and I have said, _Mon Dieu_,
_oui_, if it’s the custom of the country. Of course I have not dared to
tell this to mamma, who flatters herself that we have brought with us in
our trunks a complete set of customs of our own, and that we shall only
have to shake them out a little and put them on when we arrive. If only
the two gentlemen I just spoke of don’t call at the same time, I don’t
think I shall be too much frightened. If they do, on the other hand, I
won’t answer for it. They have a particular aversion to each other, and
they are ready to fight about poor little me. I am only the pretext,
however; for, as Mr. Leverett says, it’s really the opposition of
temperaments. I hope they won’t cut each other’s throats, for I am not
crazy about either of them. They are very well for the deck of a ship,
but I shouldn’t care about them in a _salon_; they are not at all
distinguished. They think they are, but they are not; at least Mr. Louis
Leverett does; Mr. Cockerel doesn’t appear to care so much. They are
extremely different (with their opposed temperaments), and each very
amusing for a while; but I should get dreadfully tired of passing my life
with either. Neither has proposed that, as yet; but it is evidently what
they are coming to. It will be in a great measure to spite each other,
for I think that _au fond_ they don’t quite believe in me. If they
don’t, it’s the only point on which they agree. They hate each other
awfully; they take such different views. That is, Mr. Cockerel hates Mr.
Leverett—he calls him a sickly little ass; he says that his opinions are
half affectation, and the other half dyspepsia. Mr. Leverett speaks of
Mr. Cockerel as a “strident savage,” but he declares he finds him most
diverting. He says there is nothing in which we can’t find a certain
entertainment, if we only look at it in the right way, and that we have
no business with either hating or loving; we ought only to strive to
understand. To understand is to forgive, he says. That is very pretty,
but I don’t like the suppression of our affections, though I have no
desire to fix mine upon Mr. Leverett. He is very artistic, and talks
like an article in some review, he has lived a great deal in Paris, and
Mr. Cockerel says that is what has made him such an idiot. That is not
complimentary to you, dear Louisa, and still less to your brilliant
brother; for Mr. Cockerel explains that he means it (the bad effect of
Paris) chiefly of the men. In fact, he means the bad effect of Europe
altogether. This, however, is compromising to mamma; and I am afraid
there is no doubt that (from what I have told him) he thinks mamma also
an idiot. (I am not responsible, you know—I have always wanted to go
home.) If mamma knew him, which she doesn’t, for she always closes her
eyes when I pass on his arm, she would think him disgusting. Mr.
Leverett, however, tells me he is nothing to what we shall see yet. He
is from Philadelphia (Mr. Cockerel); he insists that we shall go and see
Philadelphia, but mamma says she saw it in 1855, and it was then
_affreux_. Mr. Cockerel says that mamma is evidently not familiar with
the march of improvement in this country; he speaks of 1855 as if it were
a hundred years ago. Mamma says she knows it goes only too fast—it goes
so fast that it has time to do nothing well; and then Mr. Cockerel, who,
to do him justice, is perfectly good-natured, remarks that she had better
wait till she has been ashore and seen the improvements. Mamma rejoins
that she sees them from here, the improvements, and that they give her a
sinking of the heart. (This little exchange of ideas is carried on
through me; they have never spoken to each other.) Mr. Cockerel, as I
say, is extremely good-natured, and he carries out what I have heard said
about the men in America being very considerate of the women. They
evidently listen to them a great deal; they don’t contradict them, but it
seems to me that this is rather negative. There is very little gallantry
in not contradicting one; and it strikes me that there are some things
the men don’t express. There are others on the ship whom I’ve noticed.
It’s as if they were all one’s brothers or one’s cousins. But I promised
you not to generalise, and perhaps there will be more expression when we
arrive. Mr. Cockerel returns to America, after a general tour, with a
renewed conviction that this is the only country. I left him on deck an
hour ago looking at the coast-line with an opera-glass, and saying it was
the prettiest thing he had seen in all his tour. When I remarked that
the coast seemed rather low, he said it would be all the easier to get
ashore; Mr. Leverett doesn’t seem in a hurry to get ashore; he is sitting
within sight of me in a corner of the saloon—writing letters, I suppose,
but looking, from the way he bites his pen and rolls his eyes about, as
if he were composing a sonnet and waiting for a rhyme. Perhaps the
sonnet is addressed to me; but I forget that he suppresses the
affections! The only person in whom mamma takes much interest is the
great French critic, M. Lejaune, whom we have the honour to carry with
us. We have read a few of his works, though mamma disapproves of his
tendencies and thinks him a dreadful materialist. We have read them for
the style; you know he is one of the new Academicians. He is a Frenchman
like any other, except that he is rather more quiet; and he has a gray
mustache and the ribbon of the Legion of Honour. He is the first French
writer of distinction who has been to America since De Tocqueville; the
French, in such matters, are not very enterprising. Also, he has the air
of wondering what he is doing _dans cette galère_. He has come with his
_beau-frère_, who is an engineer, and is looking after some mines, and he
talks with scarcely any one else, as he speaks no English, and appears to
take for granted that no one speaks French. Mamma would be delighted to
assure him of the contrary; she has never conversed with an Academician.
She always makes a little vague inclination, with a smile, when he passes
her, and he answers with a most respectful bow; but it goes no farther,
to mamma’s disappointment. He is always with the _beau-frère_, a rather
untidy, fat, bearded man, decorated, too, always smoking and looking at
the feet of the ladies, whom mamma (though she has very good feet) has
not the courage to _aborder_. I believe M. Lejaune is going to write a
book about America, and Mr. Leverett says it will be terrible. Mr.
Leverett has made his acquaintance, and says M. Lejaune will put him into
his book; he says the movement of the French intellect is superb. As a
general thing, he doesn’t care for Academicians, but he thinks M. Lejaune
is an exception, he is so living, so personal. I asked Mr. Cockerel what
he thought of M. Lejaune’s plan of writing a book, and he answered that
he didn’t see what it mattered to him that a Frenchman the more should
make a monkey of himself. I asked him why he hadn’t written a book about
Europe, and he said that, in the first place, Europe isn’t worth writing
about, and, in the second, if he said what he thought, people would think
it was a joke. He said they are very superstitious about Europe over
here; he wants people in America to behave as if Europe didn’t exist. I
told this to Mr. Leverett, and he answered that if Europe didn’t exist
America wouldn’t, for Europe keeps us alive by buying our corn. He said,
also, that the trouble with America in the future will be that she will
produce things in such enormous quantities that there won’t be enough
people in the rest of the world to buy them, and that we shall be left
with our productions—most of them very hideous—on our hands. I asked him
if he thought corn a hideous production, and he replied that there is
nothing more unbeautiful than too much food. I think that to feed the
world too well, however, that will be, after all, a _beau rôle_. Of
course I don’t understand these things, and I don’t believe Mr. Leverett
does; but Mr. Cockerel seems to know what he is talking about, and he
says that America is complete in herself. I don’t know exactly what he
means, but he speaks as if human affairs had somehow moved over to this
side of the world. It may be a very good place for them, and Heaven
knows I am extremely tired of Europe, which mamma has always insisted so
on my appreciating; but I don’t think I like the idea of our being so
completely cut off. Mr. Cockerel says it is not we that are cut off, but
Europe, and he seems to think that Europe has deserved it somehow. That
may be; our life over there was sometimes extremely tiresome, though
mamma says it is now that our real fatigues will begin. I like to abuse
those dreadful old countries myself, but I am not sure that I am pleased
when others do the same. We had some rather pretty moments there, after
all; and at Piacenza we certainly lived on four francs a day. Mamma is
already in a terrible state of mind about the expenses here; she is
frightened by what people on the ship (the few that she has spoken to)
have told her. There is one comfort, at any rate—we have spent so much
money in coming here that we shall have none left to get away. I am
scribbling along, as you see, to occupy me till we get news of the
islands. Here comes Mr. Cockerel to bring it. Yes, they are in sight;
he tells me that they are lovelier than ever, and that I must come right
up right away. I suppose you will think that I am already beginning to
use the language of the country. It is certain that at the end of a
month I shall speak nothing else. I have picked up every dialect,
wherever we have travelled; you have heard my Platt-Deutsch and my
Neapolitan. But, _voyons un peu_ the Bay! I have just called to Mr.
Leverett to remind him of the islands. “The islands—the islands? Ah, my
dear young lady, I have seen Capri, I have seen Ischia!” Well, so have
I, but that doesn’t prevent . . . (_A little later_.)—I have seen the
islands; they are rather queer.
II.
MRS. CHURCH, IN NEW YORK, TO MADAME GALOPIN,
AT GENEVA.
October 17, 1880.
IF I felt far away from you in the middle of that deplorable Atlantic,
_chère_ Madame, how do I feel now, in the heart of this extraordinary
city? We have arrived,—we have arrived, dear friend; but I don’t know
whether to tell you that I consider that an advantage. If we had been
given our choice of coming safely to land or going down to the bottom of
the sea, I should doubtless have chosen the former course; for I hold,
with your noble husband, and in opposition to the general tendency of
modern thought, that our lives are not our own to dispose of, but a
sacred trust from a higher power, by whom we shall be held responsible.
Nevertheless, if I had foreseen more vividly some of the impressions that
awaited me here, I am not sure that, for my daughter at least, I should
not have preferred on the spot to hand in our account. Should I not have
been less (rather than more) guilty in presuming to dispose of _her_
destiny, than of my own? There is a nice point for dear M. Galopin to
settle—one of those points which I have heard him discuss in the pulpit
with such elevation. We are safe, however, as I say; by which I mean
that we are physically safe. We have taken up the thread of our familiar
pension-life, but under strikingly different conditions. We have found a
refuge in a boarding-house which has been highly recommended to me, and
where the arrangements partake of that barbarous magnificence which in
this country is the only alternative from primitive rudeness. The terms,
per week, are as magnificent as all the rest. The landlady wears diamond
ear-rings; and the drawing-rooms are decorated with marble statues. I
should indeed be sorry to let you know how I have allowed myself to be
_rançonnée_; and I—should be still more sorry that it should come to the
ears of any of my good friends in Geneva, who know me less well than you
and might judge me more harshly. There is no wine given for dinner, and
I have vainly requested the person who conducts the establishment to
garnish her table more liberally. She says I may have all the wine I
want if I will order it at the merchant’s, and settle the matter with
him. But I have never, as you know, consented to regard our modest
allowance of _eau rougie_ as an extra; indeed, I remember that it is
largely to your excellent advice that I have owed my habit of being firm
on this point. There are, however, greater difficulties than the
question of what we shall drink for dinner, _chère_ Madame. Still, I
have never lost courage, and I shall not lose courage now. At the worst,
we can re-embark again, and seek repose and refreshment on the shores of
your beautiful lake. (There is absolutely no scenery here!) We shall
not, perhaps, in that case have achieved what we desired, but we shall at
least have made an honourable retreat. What we desire—I know it is just
this that puzzles you, dear friend; I don’t think you ever really
comprehended my motives in taking this formidable step, though you were
good enough, and your magnanimous husband was good enough, to press my
hand at parting in a way that seemed to say that you would still be with
me, even if I was wrong. To be very brief, I wished to put an end to the
reclamations of my daughter. Many Americans had assured her that she was
wasting her youth in those historic lands which it was her privilege to
see so intimately, and this unfortunate conviction had taken possession
of her. “Let me at least see for myself,” she used to say; “if I should
dislike it over there as much as you promise me, so much the better for
you. In that case we will come back and make a new arrangement at
Stuttgart.” The experiment is a terribly expensive one; but you know
that my devotion never has shrunk from an ordeal. There is another
point, moreover, which, from a mother to a mother, it would be
affectation not to touch upon. I remember the just satisfaction with
which you announced to me the betrothal of your charming Cécile. You
know with what earnest care my Aurora has been educated,—how thoroughly
she is acquainted with the principal results of modern research. We have
always studied together; we have always enjoyed together. It will
perhaps surprise you to hear that she makes these very advantages a
reproach to me,—represents them as an injury to herself. “In this
country,” she says, “the gentlemen have not those accomplishments; they
care nothing for the results of modern research; and it will not help a
young person to be sought in marriage that she can give an account of the
last German theory of Pessimism.” That is possible; and I have never
concealed from her that it was not for this country that I had educated
her. If she marries in the United States it is, of course, my intention
that my son-in-law shall accompany us to Europe. But, when she calls my
attention more and more to these facts, I feel that we are moving in a
different world. This is more and more the country of the many; the few
find less and less place for them; and the individual—well, the
individual has quite ceased to be recognised. He is recognised as a
voter, but he is not recognised as a gentleman—still less as a lady. My
daughter and I, of course, can only pretend to constitute a _few_! You
know that I have never for a moment remitted my pretensions as an
individual, though, among the agitations of pension-life, I have
sometimes needed all my energy to uphold them. “Oh, yes, I may be poor,”
I have had occasion to say, “I may be unprotected, I may be reserved, I
may occupy a small apartment in the _quatrième_, and be unable to scatter
unscrupulous bribes among the domestics; but at least I am a _person_,
with personal rights.” In this country the people have rights, but the
person has none. You would have perceived that if you had come with me
to make arrangements at this establishment. The very fine lady who
condescends to preside over it kept me waiting twenty minutes, and then
came sailing in without a word of apology. I had sat very silent, with
my eyes on the clock; Aurora amused herself with a false admiration of
the room,—a wonderful drawing-room, with magenta curtains, frescoed
walls, and photographs of the landlady’s friends—as if one cared anything
about her friends! When this exalted personage came in, she simply
remarked that she had just been trying on a dress—that it took so long to
get a skirt to hang. “It seems to take very long indeed!” I answered.
“But I hope the skirt is right at last. You might have sent for us to
come up and look at it!” She evidently didn’t understand, and when I
asked her to show us her rooms, she handed us over to a negro as
_dégingandé_ as herself. While we looked at them I heard her sit down to
the piano in the drawing-room; she began to sing an air from a comic
opera. I began to fear we had gone quite astray; I didn’t know in what
house we could be, and was only reassured by seeing a Bible in every
room. When we came down our musical hostess expressed no hope that the
rooms had pleased us, and seemed quite indifferent to our taking them.
She would not consent, moreover, to the least diminution, and was
inflexible, as I told you, on the subject of wine. When I pushed this
point, she was so good as to observe that she didn’t keep a _cabaret_.
One is not in the least considered; there is no respect for one’s
privacy, for one’s preferences, for one’s reserves. The familiarity is
without limits, and I have already made a dozen acquaintances, of whom I
know, and wish to know, nothing. Aurora tells me that she is the “belle
of the boarding-house.” It appears that this is a great distinction. It
brings me back to my poor child and her prospects. She takes a very
critical view of them herself: she tells me that I have given her a false
education, and that no one will marry her today. No American will marry
her, because she is too much of a foreigner, and no foreigner will marry
her because she is too much of an American. I remind her that scarcely a
day passes that a foreigner, usually of distinction, doesn’t select an
American bride, and she answers me that in these cases the young lady is
not married for her fine eyes. Not always, I reply; and then she
declares that she would marry no foreigner who should not be one of the
first of the first. You will say, doubtless, that she should content
herself with advantages that have not been deemed insufficient for
Cécile; but I will not repeat to you the remark she made when I once made
use of this argument. You will doubtless be surprised to hear that I
have ceased to argue; but it is time I should tell you that I have at
last agreed to let her act for herself. She is to live for three months
_à l’Américaine_, and I am to be a mere spectator. You will feel with me
that this is a cruel position for a _cœur de mère_. I count the days
till our three months are over, and I know that you will join with me in
my prayers. Aurora walks the streets alone. She goes out in the
tramway; a _voiture de place_ costs five francs for the least little
_course_. (I beseech you not to let it be known that I have sometimes
had the weakness . . .) My daughter is sometimes accompanied by a
gentleman—by a dozen gentlemen; she remains out for hours, and her
conduct excites no surprise in this establishment. I know but too well
the emotions it will excite in your quiet home. If you betray us,
_chère_ Madame, we are lost; and why, after all, should any one know of
these things in Geneva? Aurora pretends that she has been able to
persuade herself that she doesn’t care who knows them; but there is a
strange expression in her face, which proves that her conscience is not
at rest. I watch her, I let her go, but I sit with my hands clasped.
There is a peculiar custom in this country—I shouldn’t know how to
express it in Genevese—it is called “being attentive,” and young girls
are the object of the attention. It has not necessarily anything to do
with projects of marriage—though it is the privilege only of the
unmarried, and though, at the same time (fortunately, and this may
surprise you) it has no relation to other projects. It is simply an
invention by which young persons of the two sexes pass their time
together. How shall I muster courage to tell you that Aurora is now
engaged in this _délassement_, in company with several gentlemen? Though
it has no relation to marriage, it happily does not exclude it, and
marriages have been known to take place in consequence (or in spite) of
it. It is true that even in this country a young lady may marry but one
husband at a time, whereas she may receive at once the attentions of
several gentlemen, who are equally entitled “admirers.” My daughter,
then, has admirers to an indefinite number. You will think I am joking,
perhaps, when I tell you that I am unable to be exact—I who was formerly
_l’exactitude même_. Two of these gentlemen are, to a certain extent,
old friends, having been passengers on the steamer which carried us so
far from you. One of them, still young, is typical of the American
character, but a respectable person, and a lawyer in considerable
practice. Every one in this country follows a profession; but it must be
admitted that the professions are more highly remunerated than _chez
vous_. Mr. Cockerel, even while I write you, is in complete possession
of my daughter. He called for her an hour ago in a “boghey,”—a strange,
unsafe, rickety vehicle, mounted on enormous wheels, which holds two
persons very near together; and I watched her from the window take her
place at his side. Then he whirled her away, behind two little horses
with terribly thin legs; the whole equipage—and most of all her being in
it—was in the most questionable taste. But she will return, and she will
return very much as she went. It is the same when she goes down to Mr.
Louis Leverett, who has no vehicle, and who merely comes and sits with
her in the front _salon_. He has lived a great deal in Europe, and is
very fond of the arts, and though I am not sure I agree with him in his
views of the relation of art to life and life to art, and in his
interpretation of some of the great works that Aurora and I have studied
together, he seems to me a sufficiently serious and intelligent young
man. I do not regard him as intrinsically dangerous; but on the other
hand, he offers absolutely no guarantees. I have no means whatever of
ascertaining his pecuniary situation. There is a vagueness on these
points which is extremely embarrassing, and it never occurs to young men
to offer you a reference. In Geneva I should not be at a loss; I should
come to you, _chère_ Madame, with my little inquiry, and what you should
not be able to tell me would not be worth knowing. But no one in New
York can give me the smallest information about the _état de fortune_ of
Mr. Louis Leverett. It is true that he is a native of Boston, where most
of his friends reside; I cannot, however, go to the expense of a journey
to Boston simply to learn, perhaps, that Mr. Leverett (the young Louis)
has an income of five thousand francs. As I say, however, he does not
strike me as dangerous. When Aurora comes back to me, after having
passed an hour with the young Louis, she says that he has described to
her his emotions on visiting the home of Shelley, or discussed some of
the differences between the Boston Temperament and that of the Italians
of the Renaissance. You will not enter into these _rapprochements_, and
I can’t blame you. But you won’t betray me, _chère_ Madame?
III.
FROM MISS STURDY, AT NEWPORT, TO MRS. DRAPER,
IN FLORENCE.
September 30.