I’ve kept you posted as far as Tuesday week last, and though my letter
won’t have reached you yet I’ll begin another before my news accumulates
too much. I’m glad you show my letters round in the family, for I like
them all to know what I’m doing, and I can’t write to every one, even if
I do try to answer all reasonable expectations. There are a great many
unreasonable ones, as I suppose you know—not yours, dear mother, for I’m
bound to say that you never required of me more than was natural. You
see you’re reaping your reward: I write to you before I write to any one
else.
There’s one thing I hope—that you don’t show any of my letters to William
Platt. If he wants to see any of my letters he knows the right way to go
to work. I wouldn’t have him see one of these letters, written for
circulation in the family, for anything in the world. If he wants one
for himself he has got to write to me first. Let him write to me first
and then I’ll see about answering him. You can show him this if you
like; but if you show him anything more I’ll never write to you again.
I told you in my last about my farewell to England, my crossing the
Channel and my first impressions of Paris. I’ve thought a great deal
about that lovely England since I left it, and all the famous historic
scenes I visited; but I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s not a country
in which I should care to reside. The position of woman doesn’t seem to
me at all satisfactory, and that’s a point, you know, on which I feel
very strongly. It seems to me that in England they play a very faded-out
part, and those with whom I conversed had a kind of downtrodden tone, a
spiritless and even benighted air, as if they were used to being snubbed
and bullied _and as if they liked it_, which made me want to give them a
good shaking. There are a great many people—and a great many things
too—over here that I should like to get at for that purpose. I should
like to shake the starch out of some of them and the dust out of the
others. I know fifty girls in Bangor that come much more up to my notion
of the stand a truly noble woman should take than those young ladies in
England. But they had the sweetest way of speaking, as if it were a
second nature, and the men are _remarkably handsome_. (You can show
_that_ to William Platt if you like.)
I gave you my first impressions of Paris, which quite came up to my
expectations, much as I had heard and read about it. The objects of
interest are extremely numerous, and the climate remarkably cheerful and
sunny. I should say the position of woman here was considerably higher,
though by no means up to the American standard. The manners of the
people are in some respects extremely peculiar, and I feel at last that
I’m indeed in _foreign parts_. It is, however, a truly elegant city
(much more majestic than New York) and I’ve spent a great deal of time in
visiting the various monuments and palaces. I won’t give you an account
of all my wanderings, though I’ve been most indefatigable; for I’m
keeping, as I told you before, a most _exhaustive_ journal, which I’ll
allow you the _privilege_ of reading on my return to Bangor. I’m getting
on remarkably well, and I must say I’m sometimes surprised at my
universal good fortune. It only shows what a little Bangor energy and
gumption will accomplish wherever applied. I’ve discovered none of those
objections to a young lady travelling in Europe by herself of which we
heard so much before I left, and I don’t expect I ever shall, for I
certainly don’t mean to look for them. I know what I want and I always
go straight for it.
I’ve received a great deal of politeness—some of it really most pressing,
and have experienced no drawbacks whatever. I’ve made a great many
pleasant acquaintances in travelling round—both ladies and gentlemen—and
had a great many interesting and open-hearted, if quite informal, talks.
I’ve collected a great many remarkable facts—I guess we don’t know quite
_everything_ at Bangor—for which I refer you to my journal. I assure you
my journal’s going to be a splendid picture of an earnest young life. I
do just exactly as I do in Bangor, and I find I do perfectly right. At
any rate I don’t care if I don’t. I didn’t come to Europe to lead a
merely conventional society life: I could do that at Bangor. You know I
never _would_ do it at Bangor, so it isn’t likely I’m going to worship
false gods over here. So long as I accomplish what I desire and make my
money hold out I shall regard the thing as a success. Sometimes I feel
rather lonely, especially evenings; but I generally manage to interest
myself in something or in some one. I mostly read up, evenings, on the
objects of interest I’ve visited during the day, or put in time on my
journal. Sometimes I go to the theatre or else play the piano in the
public parlour. The public parlour at the hotel isn’t much; but the
piano’s better than that fearful old thing at the Sebago House.
Sometimes I go downstairs and talk to the lady who keeps the books—a real
French lady, who’s remarkably polite. She’s very handsome, though in the
peculiar French way, and always wears a black dress of the most beautiful
fit. She speaks a little English; she tells me she had to learn it in
order to converse with the Americans who come in such numbers to this
hotel. She has given me lots of points on the position of woman in
France, and seems to think that on the whole there’s hope. But she has
told me at the same time some things I shouldn’t like to write to you—I’m
hesitating even about putting them into my journal—especially if my
letters are to be handed round in the family. I assure you they appear
to talk about things here that we never think of mentioning at Bangor,
even to ourselves or to our very closest; and it has struck me that
people are closer—to each other—down in Maine than seems mostly to be
expected here. This bright-minded lady appears at any rate to think she
can tell me everything because I’ve told her I’m travelling for general
culture. Well, I _do_ want to know so much that it seems sometimes as if
I wanted to know most everything; and yet I guess there are some things
that don’t count for improvement. But as a general thing everything’s
intensely interesting; I don’t mean only everything this charming woman
tells me, but everything I see and hear for myself. I guess I’ll come
out where I want.
I meet a great many Americans who, as a general thing, I must say, are
not so polite to me as the people over here. The people over
here—especially the gentlemen—are much more what I should call almost
oppressively attentive. I don’t know whether Americans are more truly
sincere; I haven’t yet made up my mind about that. The only drawback I
experience is when Americans sometimes express surprise that I should be
travelling round alone; so you see it doesn’t come from Europeans. I
always have my answer ready: “For general culture, to acquire the
languages and to see Europe for myself”; and that generally seems to calm
them. Dear mother, my money holds out very well, and it is real
interesting.
II
FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME
_September_ 16.
Since I last wrote to you I’ve left that nice hotel and come to live in a
French family—which, however, is nice too. This place is a kind of
boarding-house that’s at the same time a kind of school; only it’s not
like an American boarding-house, nor like an American school either.
There are four or five people here that have come to learn the
language—not to take lessons, but to have an opportunity for
conversation. I was very glad to come to such a place, for I had begun
to realise that I wasn’t pressing onward quite as I had dreamed with the
French. Wasn’t I going to feel ashamed to have spent two months in Paris
and not to have acquired more insight into the language? I had always
heard so much of French conversation, and I found I wasn’t having much
more opportunity to practise it than if I had remained at Bangor. In
fact I used to hear a great deal more at Bangor from those
French-Canadians who came down to cut the ice than I saw I should ever
hear at that nice hotel where was no struggle—_some_ fond struggle being
my real atmosphere. The lady who kept the books seemed to want so much
to talk to me in English (for the sake of practice, too, I suppose)—she
kind of yearned to struggle too: we don’t yearn _only_ down in Maine—that
I couldn’t bear to show her I didn’t like it. The chambermaid was Irish
and all the waiters German, so I never heard a word of French spoken. I
suppose you might hear a great deal in the shops; but as I don’t buy
anything—I prefer to spend my money for purposes of culture—I don’t have
that advantage.
I’ve been thinking some of taking a teacher, but am well acquainted with
the grammar already, and over here in Europe teachers don’t seem to think
it’s _really_ in their interest to let you press forward. The more you
strike out and realise your power the less they’ve got to teach you. I
was a good deal troubled anyhow, for I felt as if I didn’t want to go
away without having at least got a general idea of French conversation.
The theatre gives you a good deal of insight, and as I told you in my
last I go a good deal to the brightest places of amusement. I find no
difficulty whatever in going to such places alone, and am always treated
with the politeness which, as I’ve mentioned—for I want you to feel happy
about that—I encounter everywhere from the best people. I see plenty of
other ladies alone (mostly French) and they generally seem to be enjoying
themselves as much as I. Only on the stage every one talks so fast that
I can scarcely make out what they say; and, besides, there are a great
many vulgar expressions which it’s unnecessary to learn. But it was this
experience nevertheless that put me on the track. The very next day
after I wrote to you last I went to the Palais Royal, which is one of the
principal theatres in Paris. It’s very small but very celebrated, and in
my guide-book it’s marked with _two stars_, which is a sign of importance
attached only to _first-class_ objects of interest. But after I had been
there half an hour I found I couldn’t understand a single word of the
play, they gabbled it off so fast and made use of such peculiar
expressions. I felt a good deal disappointed and checked—I saw I wasn’t
going to come out where I had dreamed. But while I was thinking it
over—thinking what I _would_ do—I heard two gentlemen talking behind me.
It was between the acts, and I couldn’t help listening to what they said.
They were talking English, but I guess they were Americans.
“Well,” said one of them, “it all depends on what you’re after. I’m
after French; that’s what I’m after.”
“Well,” said the other, “I’m after Art.”
“Well,” said the first, “I’m after Art too; but I’m after French most.”
Then, dear mother, I’m sorry to say the second one swore a little. He
said “Oh damn French!”
“No, I won’t damn French,” said his friend. “I’ll acquire it—that’s what
I’ll do with it. I’ll go right into a family.”
“What family’ll you go into?”
“Into some nice French family. That’s the only way to do—to go to some
place where you can talk. If you’re after Art you want to stick to the
galleries; you want to go right through the Louvre, room by room; you
want to take a room a day, or something of that sort. But if you want to
acquire French the thing is to look out for some family that has got—and
they mostly have—more of it than they’ve use for themselves. How _can_
they have use for so much as they seem to _have_ to have? They’ve got to
work it off. Well, they work it off on _you_. There are lots of them
that take you to board and teach you. My second cousin—that young lady I
told you about—she got in with a crowd like that, and they posted her
right up in three months. They just took her right in and let her have
it—the full force. That’s what they do to you; they set you right down
and they talk _at_ you. You’ve got to understand them or perish—so you
strike out in self-defence; you can’t help yourself. That family my
cousin was with has moved away somewhere, or I should try and get in with
them. They were real live people, that family; after she left my cousin
corresponded with them in French. You’ve got to do _that_ too, to make
much real head. But I mean to find some other crowd, if it takes a lot
of trouble!”
I listened to all this with great interest, and when he spoke about his
cousin I was on the point of turning around to ask him the address of the
family she was with; but the next moment he said they had moved away, so
I sat still. The other gentleman, however, didn’t seem to be affected in
the same way as I was.
“Well,” he said, “you may follow up that if you like; I mean to follow up
the pictures. I don’t believe there’s ever going to be any considerable
demand in the United States for French; but I can promise you that in
about ten years there’ll be a big demand for Art! And it won’t be
temporary either.”
That remark may be very true, but I don’t care anything about the demand;
I want to know French for its own sake. “Art for art,” they say; but I
say French for French. I don’t want to think I’ve been all this while
without having gained an insight. . . . The very next day, I asked the
lady who kept the books at the hotel whether she knew of any family that
could take me to board and give me the benefit of their conversation.
She instantly threw up her hands with little shrill cries—in their
wonderful French way, you know—and told me that her dearest friend kept a
regular place of that kind. If she had known I was looking out for such
a place she would have told me before; she hadn’t spoken of it herself
because she didn’t wish to injure the hotel by working me off on another
house. She told me this was a charming family who had often received
American ladies—and others, including three Tahitans—who wished to follow
up the language, and she was sure I’d fall in love with them. So she
gave me their address and offered to go with me to introduce me. But I
was in such a hurry that I went off by myself and soon found them all
right. They were sitting there as if they kind of expected me, and
wouldn’t scarcely let me come round again for my baggage. They seemed to
have right there on hand, as those gentlemen of the theatre said, plenty
of what I was after, and I now feel there’ll be no trouble about _that_.
I came here to stay about three days ago, and by this time I’ve quite
worked in. The price of board struck me as rather high, but I must
remember what a chance to press onward it includes. I’ve a very pretty
little room—without any carpet, but with seven mirrors, two clocks and
five curtains. I was rather disappointed, however, after I arrived, to
find that there are several other Americans here—all also bent on
pressing onward. At least there are three American and two English
pensioners, as they call them, as well as a German gentleman—and there
seems nothing backward about _him_. I shouldn’t wonder if we’d make a
regular class, with “moving up” and moving down; anyhow I guess I won’t
be at the foot, but I’ve not yet time to judge. I try to talk with
Madame de Maisonrouge all I can—she’s the lady of the house, and the
_real_ family consists only of herself and her two daughters. They’re
bright enough to give points to our own brightest, and I guess we’ll
become quite intimate. I’ll write you more about everything in my next.
Tell William Platt I don’t care a speck _what_ he does.
III
FROM MISS VIOLET RAY IN PARIS TO MISS AGNES RICH IN NEW YORK
_September_ 21.
We had hardly got here when father received a telegram saying he would
have to come right back to New York. It was for something about his
business—I don’t know exactly what; you know I never understand those
things and never want to. We had just got settled at the hotel, in some
charming rooms, and mother and I, as you may imagine, were greatly
annoyed. Father’s extremely fussy, as you know, and his first idea, as
soon as he found he should have to go back, was that we should go back
with him. He declared he’d never leave us in Paris alone and that we
must return and come out again. I don’t know what he thought would
happen to us; I suppose he thought we should be too extravagant. It’s
father’s theory that we’re always running-up bills, whereas a little
observation would show him that we wear the same old _rags_ FOR MONTHS.
But father has no observation; he has nothing but blind theories. Mother
and I, however, have fortunately a great deal of _practice_, and we
succeeded in making him understand that we wouldn’t budge from Paris and
that we’d rather be chopped into small pieces than cross that squalid sea
again. So at last he decided to go back alone and to leave us here for
three months. Only, to show you how fussy he is, he refused to let us
stay at the hotel and insisted that we should go into a _family_. I
don’t know what put such an idea into his head unless it was some
advertisement that he saw in one of the American papers that are
published here. Don’t think you can escape from them anywhere.
There are families here who receive American and English people to live
with them under the pretence of teaching them French. You may imagine
what people they are—I mean the families themselves. But the Americans
who choose this peculiar manner of seeing Paris must be actually just as
bad. Mother and I were horrified—we declared that _main force_ shouldn’t
remove us from the hotel. But father has a way of arriving at his ends
which is more effective than violence. He worries and goes on; he
“nags,” as we used to say at school; and when mother and I are quite worn
to the bone his triumph is assured. Mother’s more quickly ground down
than I, and she ends by siding with father; so that at last when they
combine their forces against poor little me I’ve naturally to succumb.
You should have heard the way father went on about this “family” plan; he
talked to every one he saw about it; he used to go round to the banker’s
and talk to the people there—the people in the post-office; he used to
try and exchange ideas about it with the waiters at the hotel. He said
it would be more safe, more respectable, more economical; that I should
pick up more French; that mother would learn how a French household’s
conducted; that he should feel more easy, and that we ourselves should
enjoy it when we came to see. All this meant nothing, but that made no
difference. It’s positively cruel his harping on our pinching and saving
when every one knows that business in America has completely recovered,
that the prostration’s all over and that _immense fortunes_ are being
made. We’ve been depriving ourselves of the commonest necessities for
the last five years, and I supposed we came abroad to reap the benefits
of it.
As for my French it’s already much better than that of most of our
helpless compatriots, who are all unblushingly destitute of the very
rudiments. (I assure you I’m often surprised at my own fluency, and when
I get a little more practice in the circumflex accents and the genders
and the idioms I shall quite hold my own.) To make a long story short,
however, father carried his point as usual; mother basely deserted me at
the last moment, and after holding out alone for three days I told them
to do with me what they would. Father lost three steamers in succession
by remaining in Paris to argue with me. You know he’s like the
schoolmaster in Goldsmith’s _Deserted Village_—“e’en though vanquished”
he always argues still. He and mother went to look at some seventeen
families—they had got the addresses somewhere—while I retired to my sofa
and would have nothing to do with it. At last they made arrangements and
I was transported, as in chains, to the establishment from which I now
write you. I address you from the bosom of a Parisian ménage—from the
depths of a second-rate boarding-house.
Father only left Paris after he had seen us what he calls comfortably
settled here and had informed Madame de Maisonrouge—the mistress of the
establishment, the head of the “family”—that he wished my French
pronunciation especially attended to. The pronunciation, as it happens,
is just what I’m most at home in; if he had said my genders or my
subjunctives or my idioms there would have been some sense. But poor
father has no native tact, and this deficiency has become flagrant since
we’ve been in Europe. He’ll be absent, however, for three months, and
mother and I shall breathe more freely; the situation will be less tense.
I must confess that we breathe more freely than I expected in this place,
where we’ve been about a week. I was sure before we came that it would
prove to be an establishment of the _lowest description_; but I must say
that in this respect I’m agreeably disappointed. The French spirit is
able to throw a sort of grace even over a swindle of this general order.
Of course it’s very disagreeable to live with strangers, but as, after
all, if I weren’t staying with Madame de Maisonrouge I shouldn’t be
_vautrée_ in the Faubourg Saint-Germain, I don’t know that from the point
of view of exclusiveness I’m much the loser.
Our rooms are very prettily arranged and the table’s remarkably good.
Mamma thinks the whole thing—the place and the people, the manners and
customs—very amusing; but mamma can be put off with any imposture. As
for me, you know, all that I ask is to be let alone and not to have
people’s society _forced upon me_. I’ve never wanted for society of my
own choosing, and, so long as I retain possession of my faculties, I
don’t suppose I ever shall. As I said, however, the place seems to
scramble along, and I succeed in doing as I please, which, you know, is
my most cherished pursuit. Madame de Maisonrouge has a great deal of
tact—much more than poor floundering father. She’s what they call here a
_grande belle femme_, which means that she’s high-shouldered and
short-necked and literally hideous, but with a certain quantity of false
type. She has a good many clothes, some rather bad; but a very good
manner—only one, and worked to death, but intended to be of the best.
Though she’s a very good imitation of a _femme du monde_ I never see her
behind the dinner-table in the evening, never see her smile and bow and
duck as the people come in, really glaring all the while at the dishes
and the servants, without thinking of a _dame de comptoir_ blooming in a
corner of a shop or a restaurant. I’m sure that in spite of her _beau
nom_ she was once a paid book-keeper. I’m also sure that in spite of her
smiles and the pretty things she says to every one, she hates us all and
would like to murder us. She is a hard clever Frenchwoman who would like
to amuse herself and enjoy her Paris, and she must be furious at having
to pass her time grinning at specimens of the stupid races who mumble
broken French at her. Some day she’ll poison the soup or the _vin
rouge_, but I hope that won’t be until after mother and I shall have left
her. She has two daughters who, except that one’s decidedly pretty, are
meagre imitations of herself.
The “family,” for the rest, consists altogether of our beloved
compatriots and of still more beloved Englanders. There’s an Englander
with his sister, and they seem rather decent. He’s remarkably handsome,
but excessively affected and patronising, especially to us Americans; and
I hope to have a chance of biting his head off before long. The sister’s
very pretty and apparently very nice, but in costume Britannia incarnate.
There’s a very pleasant little Frenchman—when they’re nice they’re
charming—and a German doctor, a big blond man who looks like a great
white bull; and two Americans besides mother and me. One of them’s a
young man from Boston—an esthetic young man who talks about its being “a
real Corot day,” and a young woman—a girl, a female, I don’t know what to
call her—from Vermont or Minnesota or some such place. This young
woman’s the most extraordinary specimen of self-complacent provinciality
that I’ve ever encountered; she’s really too horrible and too
humiliating. I’ve been three times to Clémentine about your underskirt,
etc.
IV
FROM LOUIS LEVERETT IN PARIS TO HARVARD TREMONT IN BOSTON
_September_ 25.