roused Uncle Philip from his newspaper and his rocking-chair, and
mistaking it for a howl of pain, he started up and exclaimed, "Hallo!"
Mr. Ravigote turned round in amazement, and Uncle Philip continued,
"Hey, what's the matter? Has anything hurt you? I thought I heard a
howl."
"Dear uncle," said little Anne, "Mr. Ravigote is not howling; he is only
saying August in French."
Uncle Philip bit his lip and resumed his paper. Mr. Ravigote proceeded,
"September?" and his pupil repeated in a breath, as if she was afraid to
stop an instant lest she should forget--
"Septembre, Octobre, Novembre, Décembre."
"Ah! very well; very well, indeed," exclaimed Mr. Ravigote; "you have
said these four words _comme il faut_;[38] but it must be confessed they
are not much difficult."
[Footnote 38: Properly].
He then proceeded with the remainder of her vocabulary lesson; but in
vain--not another word did she say that had the least affinity to the
right one. "Ah!" said he, "_je suis au desespoir_;[39] I much expected
of you this day, but you have overtumbled all my hopes. _Je suis
abimé._"[40]
[Footnote 39: I am in despair.]
[Footnote 40: "I am thrown in an abyss of grief," is perhaps nearest the
meaning of this very French expression.]
"_Oui, Monsieur_, said little Anne.
"You are one _mauvais sujet_,"[41] pursued the teacher, beginning to
lose his patience; "punishment is all that you merit. _Mais allons,
essayons encore._"[42]
[Footnote 41: Bad person--bad child.]
[Footnote 42: But come, let us try again.]
Just at that moment the string of little Anne's beads (at which she had
been pulling during the whole lesson) broke suddenly in two, and the
beads began to shower down, a few into her lap, but most of them on the
floor.
"_Oh! quel dommage!_"[43] exclaimed Mr. Ravigote; "_Mais n'importe,
laissez-les_,[44] and continue your lesson."
[Footnote 43: Oh! what a pity!]
[Footnote 44: But no matter--let them alone.]
But poor Mr. Ravigote found it impossible to make the little girl pay
the slightest attention to him while her beads were scattered on the
floor; and his only alternative was to stoop down and help her to pick
them up. Uncle Philip raised his eyes from the paper, and said, "Never
mind the beads, my dear; finish the lesson, and I will buy you a new
coral necklace to-morrow, and a much prettier one than that."
Little Anne instantly rose from the floor, and whisking into her chair,
prepared to resume her lesson with alacrity.
"_Eh! bien_," said the teacher, "now we will start off again, and read
the inside of a book. Come, here is the fable of the fox and the grapes.
These are the fables that we read during the _ancien régime_; there are
none so good now."
Mr. Ravigote then proceeded to read with her, translating as he went on,
and making her repeat after him--"A fox of Normandy, (some say of
Gascony,) &c., &c. Now, my dear, you must try this day and make a copy
of the nasal sounds as you hear them from me. It is in these sounds that
you are always the very worst. The nasal sounds are the soul and the
life of French speaking."
The teacher bent over the book, and little Anne followed his
pronunciation more closely than she had ever done before: he exclaiming
at every sentence, "Very well--very well, indeed, my dear. To-day you
have the nasal sounds, _comme une ange_."[45]
[Footnote 45: Like an angel.]
But on turning round to pat her head, he perceived that _gentille
Annette_ was holding her nose between her thumb and finger, and that it
was in this way only she had managed to give him satisfaction with the
nasal sounds. He started back aghast, exclaiming--
"_Ah! quelle friponnerie! la petite coquine! Voici un grand acte de
fourberie et de méchanceté!_[46] So young and so depraved--ah! I fear, I
much fear, she will grow up a rogue-a cheat--perhaps a thief. _Je suis
glacé d'horreur! Je tremble! Je frissonne!_"[47]
[Footnote 46: Ah! what roguery--the little jade! What an instance of
imposture and wickedness!]
[Footnote 47: I am frozen with horror!--I tremble!--I shiver!]
"I'll tell you what," said Uncle Philip, laying down his newspaper, "you
need neither tremble nor frisson, nor get yourself into any horror about
it. The child's only a girl of five years old, and I've no notion that
the little tricks, that all children are apt to play at times, are
proofs of natural wickedness, or signs that they will grow up bad men
and women. But to cut the matter short, the girl is too little to learn
French. She is not old enough either to understand it, or to remember
it, and you see it's impossible for her to give her mind to it. So from
this time, I say, she shall learn no more French till she is grown up,
and desires it herself. (_Little Anne gave a skip half way to the
ceiling._) You shall be paid for her quarter all the same, and I'll pay
you myself on the spot. So you need never come again."
Mr. Ravigote was now from head to foot all one smile; and bowing with
his hands on his heart, he, at Uncle Philip's desire, mentioned the sum
due for a quarter's attempt at instruction. Uncle Philip immediately
took the money out of his pocket-book, saying, "There,--there is a
dollar over; but you may keep it yourself: I want no change. I suppose
my niece, Kitty Clavering, will not be pleased at my sending you off;
but she will have to get over it, for I'll see that child tormented no
longer."
Mr. Ravigote thought in his own mind, that the torment had been much
greater to him than to the child; but he was so full of gratitude, that
he magnanimously offered to take the blame on himself, and represent to
Mrs. Clavering that it was his own proposal to give up Mademoiselle
Annette, as her organ of French was not yet developed.
"No, no," said Uncle Philip, "I am always fair and above-board. I want
nobody to shift the blame from my shoulders to their own. Whatever I do,
I'll stand by manfully. I only hope that you'll never again attempt to
teach French to babies."
Mr. Ravigote took leave with many thanks, and on turning to bid his
adieu to the little girl, he found that she had already vanished from
the parlour, and was riding about the green on the back of old Neptune.
When Uncle Philip told Mrs. Clavering of his dismissal of Mr. Ravigote,
she was so deeply vexed, that she thought it most prudent to say
nothing, lest she should be induced to say too much.
A few days after this event, Madame Franchimeau sent an invitation,
written in French, for Mrs. Clavering, and "Monsieur Philippe" to pass
the evening at her house, and partake of a _petit souper_,[48] bringing
with them _le doux Sammi_, and _la belle Fanchette_.[49] This supper
was to celebrate the birthday of her niece, Mademoiselle Robertine, who
had just arrived from New York, and was to spend a few weeks at Corinth.
[Footnote 48: A little supper.]
[Footnote 49: The gentle Sammy and the lovely Fanchette.]
Uncle Philip had never yet been prevailed on to enter the French house,
as he called it; and on this occasion he stoutly declared off, saying
that he had no desire to see any more of their foolery, and that he
hated the thoughts of a French supper. "My friend, Tom Logbook," said
he, "who commands the packet Louis Quatorze, and understands French,
told me of a supper to which he was invited the first time he was at
Havre, and of the dishes he was expected to eat, and I shall take care
never to put myself in the way of such ridiculous trash. Why, he told me
there was wooden-leg soup, and bagpipes of mutton, and rabbits in
spectacles, and pullets in silk stockings, and potatoes in shirts.[50]
Answer me now, are such things fit for Christians to eat?"
[Footnote 50: _Soupe à la jambe de bois--musettes de mouton--lapins en
lorgnettes--poulardes en bas de soie--pommes de terre en chemise._ See
Ude, &c.]
For a long time Mrs. Clavering tried in vain to prevail on Uncle Philip
to accept of the invitation. At last Dick suggested a new persuasive.
"Mother," said he, "I have no doubt Uncle Philip would go to the French
supper, if you will let us all have a holiday from school for a week."
"That's a good thought, Dick," exclaimed the old gentleman. "Yes, I
think I would. Well, on these terms I will go, and eat trash. I suppose
I shall live through it. But remember now, this is the first and last
and only time I will ever enter a French house."
After tea, the party set out for Monsieur Franchimeau's, and were
ushered into the front parlour, which was fitted up in a manner that
exhibited a strange _mélange_ of slovenliness and pretension. There was
neither carpet nor matting, and the floor was by no means in the nicest
order; but there were three very large looking-glasses, the plates being
all more or less cracked, and the frames sadly tarnished. The chairs
were of two different sorts, and of very ungenteel appearance; but there
was a kind of Grecian sofa, or lounge, with a gilt frame much defaced,
and a red damask cover much soiled; and, in the centre of the room,
stood a _fauteuil_[51] covered with blue moreen, the hair poking out in
tufts through the slits. The windows were decorated with showy curtains
of coarse pink muslin and marvellously coarse white muslin; the drapery
suspended from two gilt arrows, one of which had lost its point, and the
other had parted with its feather. The hearth was filled with rubbish,
such as old pens, curl-papers, and bits of rag; but the mantel-piece was
adorned with vases of artificial flowers under glass bells, and two
elegant chocolate cups of French china.
[Footnote 51: Easy chair.]
The walls were hung with a dozen bad lithographic prints, tastefully
suspended by bows of gauze ribbon. Among these specimens of the worst
style of the modern French school, was a Cupid and Psyche, with a
background that was the most prominent part of the picture, every leaf
of every tree on the distant mountains being distinctly defined and
smoothly finished. The clouds seemed unwilling to stay behind the hills,
but had come so boldly forward and looked so like masses of stone, that
there was much apparent danger of their falling on the heads of the
lovers and crushing them to atoms. Psyche was an immensely tall, narrow
woman, of a certain age, and remarkably strong features; and Cupid was a
slender young man, of nineteen or twenty, about seven feet high, with
long tresses descending to his waist.
Another print represented a huge muscular woman, with large coarse
features distorted into the stare and grin of a maniac, an enormous lyre
in her hand, a cloud of hair flying in one direction, and a volume of
drapery exhibiting its streaky folds in another; while she is running to
the edge of a precipice, as if pursued by a mad bull, and plunging
forward with one foot in the air, and her arms extended above her head.
This was Sappho on the rock of Leucate. These two prints Mr. Franchimeau
(who professed connoisseurship, and always talked when pictures were the
subject--that is, French pictures) pointed out to his visiters as
magnificent emanations of the Fine Arts. "The coarse arts, rather,"
murmured Uncle Philip.
The guests were received with much suavity by the French ladies and the
_vieux_ papa; and Capt. Kentledge was introduced by Madame Franchimeau
to three little black-haired girls, with surprisingly yellow faces, who
were designated by the mother as "_mon aimable Lulu, ma mignonne Mimi,
and ma petite ange Gogo_."[52] Uncle Philip wondered what were the real
names of these children.
[Footnote 52: My lovely Lulu, my darling Mimi, and my little angel
Gogo.]
After this, Madame Franchimeau left the room for a moment, and returned,
leading in a very pretty young girl, whom she introduced as her _très
chère niece, Mademoiselle Robertine_,[53] orphan daughter of a brother
of her respectable Alphonse.
[Footnote 53: Her beloved niece, Miss Robertine.]
Robertine had a neat French figure, a handsome French face, and a
profusion of hair arranged precisely in the newest style of the wax
figures that decorate the windows of the most fashionable
_coiffeurs_.[54] She was dressed in a thin white muslin, with a short
black silk apron, embroidered at the corners with flowers in colours.
Mr. Franchimeau resigned to her his chair beside Uncle Philip, to whom
(while her aunt and the Ravigotes were chattering and shrugging to Mrs.
Clavering) she addressed herself with considerable fluency and in good
English. People who have known but little of the world, and of the best
tone of society, are apt, on being introduced to new acquaintances, to
talk to them at once of their profession, or in reference to it; and
Robertine questioned Uncle Philip about his ships and his voyages, and
took occasion to tell him that she had always admired the character of a
sailor, and still more that of a captain; that she thought the brown
tinge given by the sea air a great improvement to a fine manly
countenance; that fair-complexioned people were her utter aversion, and
that a gentleman was never in his best looks till he had attained the
age of forty, or, indeed, of forty-five.
[Footnote 54: Hair-dressers.]
"Then I am long past the age of good looks," said Uncle Philip, "for I
was sixty-two the sixth of last June."
"Is it possible!" exclaimed Robertine. "I had no idea that Captain
Kentledge could have been more than forty-three or forty-four at the
utmost. But gentlemen who have good health and amiable dispositions,
never seem to grow old. I have known some who were absolutely charming
even at seventy."
"Pshaw!" said Uncle Philip, half aside.
Robertine, who had been tutored by her aunt Franchimeau, ran on with a
tirade of compliments and innuendos, so glaring as to defeat their own
purpose. Sam, who sat opposite, and was a shrewd lad, saw in a moment
her design, and could not forbear at times casting significant looks
towards his uncle. The old captain perfectly comprehended the meaning of
those looks, and perceived that Mademoiselle Robertine was spreading
her net for him. Determining not to be caught, he received all her
smiles with a contracted brow; replied only in monosyllables; and, as
she proceeded, shut his teeth firmly together, closed his lips tightly,
pressed his clenched hands against the sides of his chair, and sat bolt
upright; resolved on answering her no more.
About nine o'clock, the door of the back parlour was thrown open by the
little mulatto girl, and Madame Franchimeau was seen seated at the head
of the supper-table. Mr. Franchimeau led in Mrs. Clavering; Mr. Ravigote
took Fanny; Madame Ravigote gave her hand to Sam, and Robertine, of
course, fell to the lot of Uncle Philip, who touched with a very ill
grace the fingers that she smilingly extended to him.
In the centre of the supper-table was a salad decorated with roses, and
surrounded by four candles. The chief dish contained _blanquettes_ of
veal; and the other viands were a _fricandeau_ of calves' ears; a
_purée_ of pigs' tails; a _ragout_ of sheep's feet, and another of
chickens' pinions interspersed with claws; there was a dish of turnips
with mustard, another of cabbage with cheese, a bread omelet, a plate of
poached eggs, a plate of sugar-plums, and a dish of hashed fish, which
Madame Franchimeau called a _farce_.
As soon as they were seated, Robertine took a rose from the salad, and
with a look of considerable sentiment, presented it to Uncle Philip, who
received it with a silent frown, and took an opportunity of dropping it
on the floor, when Sam slyly set his foot on it and crushed it flat. The
young lady then mixed a glass of _eau sucré_[55] for the old gentleman,
saying very sweet things all the time; but the beverage was as little to
his taste as the Hebe that prepared it.
[Footnote 55: Sugar and water.]
The French children were all at table, and the youngest girl looking
somewhat unwell, and leaving her food on her plate, caused Mrs.
Clavering to make a remark on her want of appetite.
"_N'importe_,"[56] said Madame Franchimeau; "she is not affamished; she
did eat very hearty at her tea; she had shesnoot for her tea."
[Footnote 56: No matter.]
"Chestnuts!" exclaimed Mrs. Clavering.
"Oh, yes; we have them at times. _N'importe_, my little Gogo; cease your
supper, you will have the better appetite for your breakfast. You shall
have an apple for your breakfast--a large, big apple. Monsieur Philippe,
permit me to help you to some of this fish; you will find it a most
excellent _farce_:[57] I have preserved it from corruption by a process
of vinegar and salt, and some charcoal. Madame Colavering, I will show
you that mode of restoring fish when it begins to putrefy: a great
chemist taught it to my assassined Alphonse."
[Footnote 57: Farce, in French cookery, signifies chopped meat, fish,
poultry, well seasoned and mixed with other ingredients.]
Uncle Philip pushed away his plate with unequivocal signs of disgust,
and moved back his chair, determined not to taste another mouthful while
he stayed in the house. Suspicious of everything, he even declined
Robertine's solicitations to take a glass of _liqueur_ which she poured
out for him, and which she assured him was genuine _parfait amour_.[58]
During supper, she had talked to him, in a low voice, of the great
superiority of the American nation when compared with the French; and
regretted the frivolity and _inconsequence_ of the French character; but
assured him that when French ladies had the honour of marrying American
gentlemen, they always lost that inconsequence, and acquired much depth
and force.
[Footnote 58: Perfect love.]
After supper, Mr. Franchimeau, who, notwithstanding his taciturnity and
_brusquerie_, was what Uncle Philip called a Jack of all trades, sat
down to an old out-of-tune piano, that stood in one of the recesses of
the back parlour, and played an insipid air of "Paul at the Tomb of
Virginia," singing with a hoarse stentorian voice half-a-dozen
namby-pamby stanzas, lengthening out or contracting some of the words,
and mispronouncing others to suit the measure and the rhyme. This song,
however, seemed to produce great effect on the French part of his
audience, who sighed, started, and exclaimed--"_Ah! quels sont touchans,
ces sentimens sublimes!_"[59]
[Footnote 59: Ah! how touching are these sublime sentiments!]
"_Ma chère amie_," continued Madame Franchimeau, pressing the hand of
Mrs. Clavering, "_permettez que je pleure un peu le triste destin de
l'innocence et de la vertu--infortuné Paul--malheureuse Virginie_;"[60]
and she really seemed to shed tears.
[Footnote 60: My dear friend, permit me to weep a little for the sad
fate of innocence and virtue--unfortunate Paul--hapless Virginia.]
Uncle Philip could no longer restrain himself, but he started from his
chair and paced the room in evident discomposure at the folly and
affectation that surrounded him; his contempt for all men that played on
pianos being much heightened by the absurd appearance of the huge
black-whiskered, shock-headed Monsieur Franchimeau, with his long
frock-coat hanging down all over the music-stool. Robertine declined
playing, alleging that she had none of her own music with her; and she
privately told Uncle Philip that she had lost all relish for French
songs, and that she was very desirous of learning some of the national
airs of America--for instance, the Tars of Columbia. But still Uncle
Philip's heart was iron-bound, and he deigned no other reply than, "I
don't believe they'll suit you."
A dance was then proposed by Madame Ravigote, and Robertine, "nothing
daunted," challenged Uncle Philip to lead off with her; but, completely
out of patience, he turned on his heel, and walked away without
vouchsafing an answer. Robertine then applied to Sam, but with no better
success, for as yet he had not learned that accomplishment, and she was
finally obliged to dance with old Mr. Ravigote, while Madame Franchimeau
took out her mother; Fanny danced with the lovely Lulu, and Mimi and
Gogo with each other; Mr. Franchimeau playing cotillions for them.
Uncle Philip thought in his own mind that the dancing was the best part
of the evening's entertainment, and old Madame Ravigote was certainly
the best of the dancers; though none of the family were deficient in a
talent which seems indigenous to the whole French nation.
The cotillions were succeeded by cream of tartar lemonade, and a plate
of sugar-plums enfolded in French mottoes, from which Robertine selected
the most amatory, and presented them to Uncle Philip, who regularly made
a point of giving them all back to her in silence, determined not to
retain a single one, lest she might suppose he acknowledged the
application.
The old gentleman was very tired of the visit, and glad enough when Mrs.
Clavering proposed departing. And all the way home his infatuated niece
talked to him in raptures of the elegance of French people, and the vast
difference between them and the Americans.
"There is, indeed, a difference," said Uncle Philip, too much fatigued
to argue the point that night.
Next morning, after they had adjourned to the cabin, Sam addressed the
old gentleman with, "Well, Uncle Philip, I wish you joy of the conquest
you made last evening of the pretty French girl, Miss Robertine."
"A conquest of _her_," replied Uncle Philip, indignantly; "the report of
my dollars has made the conquest. I am not yet old enough to be taken in
by such barefaced manoeuvring. No, no; I am not yet in my dotage; and
I heartily despise a young girl that is willing to sell herself to a man
old enough to be her father."
"I am glad you do," observed Sam; "I have often heard my mother say that
such matches never fail to turn out badly, and to make both husband and
wife miserable. We all think she talks very sensibly on this subject."
"No doubt," said Uncle Philip.
"I really wonder," pursued Sam, "that a Frenchwoman should venture to
make love to _you_."
"Love!" exclaimed Uncle Philip; "I tell you, there's no love in the
case. I am not such a fool as to believe that a pretty young girl could
fall in love with an old fellow like _me_. No, no; all she wants is,
that I should die as soon as possible and leave her a rich widow: but
she will find her mistake; she shall see that all her sweet looks and
sweet speeches will have no effect on me but to make me hate her. She
might as well attempt to soften marble by dropping honey on it."
"You'll be not only marble, but granite, also, won't you, Uncle Philip?"
said Sam.
"That I will, my boy," said the old gentleman; "and now let's talk of
something else."
After this, no persuasion could induce Uncle Philip to repeat his visit
to the Franchimeaus; and when any of that family came to Mrs.
Clavering's he always left the room in a few minutes, particularly if
they were accompanied by Robertine. In short, he now almost lived in his
cabin, laying strict injunctions on Mrs. Clavering not to bring thither
any of the French.
One morning, while he was busy there with Sam, Dick, and Neptune, the
boys, happening to look out, saw Robertine listlessly rambling on the
bank of the river, and entirely alone. There was every appearance of a
shower coming up. "I suppose," said Dick, "Miss Robertine intends going
to our house; and if she does not make haste, she will be caught in the
rain. There, now, she is looking up at the clouds. See, see--she is
coming this way as fast as she can."
"Confound her impudence!" said Uncle Philip; "is she going to ferret me
out of my cabin? Sam, shut that door."
"Shall I place the great chest against it?" said Sam.
"Pho--no," replied the old gentleman. "With all her assurance, she'll
scarcely venture to break in by force. I would not for a thousand
dollars that she should get a footing here."
Presently a knock was heard at the door.
"There she is," said Dick.
"Let us take no notice," said Sam.
"After all," said Uncle Philip, "she's a woman; and a woman must not be
exposed to the rain, when a man can give her a shelter. We must let her
in; nothing else can be done with her."
Upon this, Sam opened the door; and Robertine, with many apologies for
her intrusion, expressed her fear of being caught in the rain, and
begged permission to wait there till the shower was over.
"I was quite lost in a reverie," said she, "as I wandered on the shore
of the river. Retired walks are now best suited to my feelings. When the
heart has received a deep impression, nothing is more delicious than to
sigh in secret."
"Fudge!" muttered Uncle Philip between his teeth.
"Uncle Philip says fudge," whispered Dick to Sam.
"I'm glad of it," whispered Sam to Dick.