A Bundle of Letters


by Henry James



September 5th, 1879.

My dear mother—I have kept you posted as far as Tuesday week last, and, although my letter will not have reached you yet, I will begin another before my news accumulates too much.  I am glad you show my letters round in the family, for I like them all to know what I am doing, and I can’t write to every one, though I try to answer all reasonable expectations.  But there are a great many unreasonable ones, as I suppose you know—not yours, dear mother, for I am bound to say that you never required of me more than was natural.  You see you are reaping your reward: I write to you before I write to any one else.

There is 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 will see about answering him.  You can show him this if you like; but if you show him anything more, I will 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 have thought a great deal about that lovely England since I left it, and all the famous historic scenes I visited; but I have come to the conclusion that it is not a country in which I should care to reside.  The position of woman does not seem to me at all satisfactory, and that is 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 depressed and humiliated tone; a little dull, tame look, as if they were used to being snubbed and bullied, 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 perform that operation upon.  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 a most lovely way of speaking (in England), and the men are remarkably handsome.  (You can show this 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 is remarkably cheerful and sunny.  I should say the position of woman here was considerably higher, though by no means coming up to the American standard.  The manners of the people are in some respects extremely peculiar, and I feel at last that I am indeed in foreign parts.  It is, however, a truly elegant city (very superior to New York), and I have 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 have been most indefatigable; for I am keeping, as I told you before, a most exhaustive journal, which I will allow you the privilege of reading on my return to Bangor.  I am getting on remarkably well, and I must say I am sometimes surprised at my universal good fortune.  It only shows what a little energy and common-sense will accomplish.  I have discovered none of these 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 manage to get it.

I have received a great deal of politeness—some of it really most pressing, and I have experienced no drawbacks whatever.  I have made a great many pleasant acquaintances in travelling round (both ladies and gentlemen), and had a great many most interesting talks.  I have collected a great deal of information, for which I refer you to my journal.  I assure you my journal is going to be a splendid thing.  I do just exactly as I do in Bangor, and I find I do perfectly right; and at any rate, I don’t care if I don’t.  I didn’t come to Europe to lead a merely conventional life; I could do that at Bangor.  You know I never would do it at Bangor, so it isn’t likely I am going to make myself miserable 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 in the evening; but I generally manage to interest myself in something or in some one.  In the evening I usually read up about the objects of interest I have visited during the day, or I post up my journal.  Sometimes I go to the theatre; or else I play the piano in the public parlour.  The public parlour at the hotel isn’t much; but the piano is better than that fearful old thing at the Sebago House.  Sometimes I go downstairs and talk to the lady who keeps the books—a French lady, who is remarkably polite.  She is very pretty, and always wears a black dress, with 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 a great deal of information about the position of woman in France, and much of it is very encouraging.  But she has told me at the same time some things that I should not like to write to you (I am 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, or even of thinking about.  She seems to think she can tell me everything, because I told her I was travelling for general culture.  Well, I do want to know so much that it seems sometimes as if I wanted to know everything; and yet there are some things that I think I don’t want to know.  But, as a general thing, everything is intensely interesting; I don’t mean only everything that this French lady tells me, but everything I see and hear for myself.  I feel really as if I should gain all I desire.

I meet a great many Americans, who, as a general thing, I must say, are not as polite to me as the people over here.  The people over here—especially the gentlemen—are much more what I should call attentive.  I don’t know whether Americans are more 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 satisfy them.  Dear mother, my money holds out very well, and it is real interesting.



September 16th.

Since I last wrote to you I have left that hotel, and come to live in a French family.  It’s a kind of boarding-house combined with a kind of school; only it’s not like an American hoarding-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 was not making much progress with the French.  It seemed to me that I should 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 was having no 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 that came down to cut the ice, than I saw I should ever hear at that hotel.  The lady that kept the books seemed to want so much to talk to me in English (for the sake of practice, too, I suppose), that I couldn’t bear to let her know I didn’t like it.  The chambermaid was Irish, and all the waiters were German, so that I never heard a word of French spoken.  I suppose you might hear a great deal in the shops; only, as I don’t buy anything—I prefer to spend my money for purposes of culture—I don’t have that advantage.

I have been thinking some of taking a teacher, but I am well acquainted with the grammar already, and teachers always keep you bothering over the verbs.  I was a good deal troubled, 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 places of amusement.  I find no difficulty whatever in going to such places alone, and am always treated with the politeness which, as I told you before, I encounter everywhere.  I see plenty of other ladies alone (mostly French), and they generally seem to be enjoying themselves as much as I.  But at the theatre 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 is unnecessary to learn.  But it was the theatre, 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 is very small, but it is very celebrated, and in my guide-book it is 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 they made use of such peculiar expressions.  I felt a good deal disappointed and troubled—I was afraid I shouldn’t gain all I had come for.  But while I was thinking it over—thinking what I should 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 are after.  I’m 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 am 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 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 a family.  There are lots of French families here 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 booked her right up in three months.  They just took her right in and they talked to her.  That’s what they do to you; they set you right down and they talk at you.  You’ve got to understand them; 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 very smart people, that family; after she left, my cousin corresponded with them in French.  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 that 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 is 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.  I don’t want to think I have 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 several little shrill cries (in their 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 had not spoken of it herself, because she didn’t wish to injure the hotel by being the cause of my going away.  She told me this was a charming family, who had often received American ladies (and others as well) who wished to follow up the language, and she was sure I should be delighted 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 I had no trouble in finding these good people.  They were delighted to receive me, and I was very much pleased with what I saw of them.  They seemed to have plenty of conversation, and there will be no trouble about that.

I came here to stay about three days ago, and by this time I have seen a great deal of them.  The price of board struck me as rather high; but I must remember that a quantity of conversation is thrown in.  I have a very pretty little room—without any carpet, but with seven mirrors, two clocks, and five curtains.  I was rather disappointed after I arrived to find that there are several other Americans here for the same purpose as myself.  At least there are three Americans and two English people; and also a German gentleman.  I am afraid, therefore, our conversation will be rather mixed, but I have not yet time to judge.  I try to talk with Madame de Maisonrouge all I can (she is the lady of the house, and the real family consists only of herself and her two daughters).  They are all most elegant, interesting women, and I am sure we shall become intimate friends.  I will write you more about them in my next.  Tell William Platt I don’t care what he does.



September 21st.

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, 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 is 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 would 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 are 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 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 would rather be chopped into small pieces than cross that dreadful ocean again.  So, at last, he decided to go back alone, and to leave us here for three months.  But, 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.

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, and declared that main force should not remove us from the hotel.  But father has a way of arriving at his ends which is more efficient than violence.  He worries and fusses; he “nags,” as we used to say at school; and, when mother and I are quite worn out, his triumph is assured.  Mother is usually worn out more easily than I, and she ends by siding with father; so that, at last, when they combine their forces against poor little me, I have 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 perfect my French; that mother would learn how a French household is conducted; that he should feel more easy, and five hundred reasons more.  They were none of them good, but that made no difference.  It’s all humbug, his talking about economy, when every one knows that business in America has completely recovered, that the prostration is all over, and that immense fortunes are being made.  We have been economising for the last five years, and I supposed we came abroad to reap the benefits of it.

As for my French, it is quite as perfect as I want it to be.  (I assure you I am often surprised at my own fluency, and, when I get a little more practice in the genders and the idioms, I shall do very well in this respect.)  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 pleased!  Father lost three steamers in succession by remaining in Paris to argue with me.  You know he is like the schoolmaster in Goldsmith’s “Deserted Village”—“e’en though vanquished, he would argue 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 to the establishment from which I now write you.  I write 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 am most at home in; if he had said my genders or my idioms there would have been some sense.  But poor father has no tact, and this defect is especially marked since he has been in Europe.  He will be absent, however, for three months, and mother and I shall breathe more freely; the situation will be less intense.  I must confess that we breathe more freely than I expected, in this place, where we have been for 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 am agreeably disappointed.  The French are so clever that they know even how to manage a place of this kind.  Of course it is very disagreeable to live with strangers, but as, after all, if I were not staying with Madame de Maisonrouge I should not be living in the Faubourg St. Germain, I don’t know that from the point of view of exclusiveness it is any great loss to be here.

Our rooms are very prettily arranged, and the table is remarkably good.  Mamma thinks the whole thing—the place and the people, the manners and customs—very amusing; but mamma is very easily amused.  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 have 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 is very well managed, 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 father.  She is what they call here a belle femme, which means that she is a tall, ugly woman, with style.  She dresses very well, and has a great deal of talk; but, though she is a very good imitation of a lady, I never see her behind the dinner-table, in the evening, smiling and bowing, as the people come in, and looking 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 am sure that, in spite of her fine name, she was once a dame de comptoir.  I am 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 bored to death at passing all her time in the midst of stupid English people who mumble broken French at her.  Some day she will poison the soup or the vin rouge; but I hope that will not be until after mother and I shall have left her.  She has two daughters, who, except that one is 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 is an Englishman here, with his sister, and they seem to be rather nice people.  He is 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 is very pretty, and, apparently, very nice; but, in costume, she is Britannia incarnate.  There is a very pleasant little Frenchman—when they are nice they are charming—and a German doctor, a big blonde man, who looks like a great white bull; and two Americans, besides mother and me.  One of them is a young man from Boston,—an æsthetic young man, who talks about its being “a real Corot day,” etc., 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 is the most extraordinary specimen of artless Yankeeism that I ever encountered; she is really too horrible.  I have been three times to Clémentine about your underskirt, etc.



September 25th.

My dear Harvard—I have carried out my plan, of which I gave you a hint in my last, and I only regret that I should not have done it before.  It is human nature, after all, that is the most interesting thing in the world, and it only reveals itself to the truly earnest seeker.  There is a want of earnestness in that life of hotels and railroad trains, which so many of our countrymen are content to lead in this strange Old World, and I was distressed to find how far I, myself; had been led along the dusty, beaten track.  I had, however, constantly wanted to turn aside into more unfrequented ways; to plunge beneath the surface and see what I should discover.  But the opportunity had always been missing; somehow, I never meet those opportunities that we hear about and read about—the things that happen to people in novels and biographies.  And yet I am always on the watch to take advantage of any opening that may present itself; I am always looking out for experiences, for sensations—I might almost say for adventures.

The great thing is to live, you know—to feel, to be conscious of one’s possibilities; not to pass through life mechanically and insensibly, like a letter through the post-office.  There are times, my dear Harvard, when I feel as if I were really capable of everything—capable de tout, as they say here—of the greatest excesses as well as the greatest heroism.  Oh, to be able to say that one has lived—qu’on a vécu, as they say here—that idea exercises an indefinable attraction for me.  You will, perhaps, reply, it is easy to say it; but the thing is to make people believe you!  And, then, I don’t want any second-hand, spurious sensations; I want the knowledge that leaves a trace—that leaves strange scars and stains and reveries behind it!  But I am afraid I shock you, perhaps even frighten you.

If you repeat my remarks to any of the West Cedar Street circle, be sure you tone them down as your discretion will suggest.  For yourself; you will know that I have always had an intense desire to see something of real French life.  You are acquainted with my great sympathy with the French; with my natural tendency to enter into the French way of looking at life.  I sympathise with the artistic temperament; I remember you used sometimes to hint to me that you thought my own temperament too artistic.  I don’t think that in Boston there is any real sympathy with the artistic temperament; we tend to make everything a matter of right and wrong.  And in Boston one can’t live—on ne peut pas vivre, as they say here.  I don’t mean one can’t reside—for a great many people manage that; but one can’t live æsthetically—I may almost venture to say, sensuously.  This is why I have always been so much drawn to the French, who are so æsthetic, so sensuous.  I am so sorry that Théophile Gautier has passed away; I should have liked so much to go and see him, and tell him all that I owe him.  He was living when I was here before; but, you know, at that time I was travelling with the Johnsons, who are not æsthetic, and who used to make me feel rather ashamed of my artistic temperament.  If I had gone to see the great apostle of beauty, I should have had to go clandestinely—en cachette, as they say here; and that is not my nature; I like to do everything frankly, freely, naïvement, au grand jour.  That is the great thing—to be free, to be frank, to be naïf.  Doesn’t Matthew Arnold say that somewhere—or is it Swinburne, or Pater?

When I was with the Johnsons everything was superficial; and, as regards life, everything was brought down to the question of right and wrong.  They were too didactic; art should never be didactic; and what is life but an art?  Pater has said that so well, somewhere.  With the Johnsons I am afraid I lost many opportunities; the tone was gray and cottony, I might almost say woolly.  But now, as I tell you, I have determined to take right hold for myself; to look right into European life, and judge it without Johnsonian prejudices.  I have taken up my residence in a French family, in a real Parisian house.  You see I have the courage of my opinions; I don’t shrink from carrying out my theory that the great thing is to live.

You know I have always been intensely interested in Balzac, who never shrank from the reality, and whose almost lurid pictures of Parisian life have often haunted me in my wanderings through the old wicked-looking streets on the other side of the river.  I am only sorry that my new friends—my French family—do not live in the old city—au coeur du vieux Paris, as they say here.  They live only in the Boulevard Haussman, which is less picturesque; but in spite of this they have a great deal of the Balzac tone.  Madame de Maisonrouge belongs to one of the oldest and proudest families in France; but she has had reverses which have compelled her to open an establishment in which a limited number of travellers, who are weary of the beaten track, who have the sense of local colour—she explains it herself; she expresses it so well—in short, to open a sort of boarding-house.  I don’t see why I should not, after all, use that expression, for it is the correlative of the term pension bourgeoise, employed by Balzac in the Père Goriot.  Do you remember the pension bourgeoise of Madame Vauquer née de Conflans?  But this establishment is not at all like that: and indeed it is not at all bourgeois; there is something distinguished, something aristocratic, about it.  The Pension Vauquer was dark, brown, sordid, graisseuse; but this is in quite a different tone, with high, clear, lightly-draped windows, tender, subtle, almost morbid, colours, and furniture in elegant, studied, reed-like lines.  Madame de Maisonrouge reminds me of Madame Hulot—do you remember “la belle Madame Hulot?”—in Les Barents Pauvres.  She has a great charm; a little artificial, a little fatigued, with a little suggestion of hidden things in her life; but I have always been sensitive to the charm of fatigue, of duplicity.

I am rather disappointed, I confess, in the society I find here; it is not so local, so characteristic, as I could have desired.  Indeed, to tell the truth, it is not local at all; but, on the other hand, it is cosmopolitan, and there is a great advantage in that.  We are French, we are English, we are American, we are German; and, I believe, there are some Russians and Hungarians expected.  I am much interested in the study of national types; in comparing, contrasting, seizing the strong points, the weak points, the point of view of each.  It is interesting to shift one’s point of view—to enter into strange, exotic ways of looking at life.

The American types here are not, I am sorry to say, so interesting as they might be, and, excepting myself; are exclusively feminine.  We are thin, my dear Harvard; we are pale, we are sharp.  There is something meagre about us; our line is wanting in roundness, our composition in richness.  We lack temperament; we don’t know how to live; nous ne savons pas vivre, as they say here.  The American temperament is represented (putting myself aside, and I often think that my temperament is not at all American) by a young girl and her mother, and another young girl without her mother—without her mother or any attendant or appendage whatever.  These young girls are rather curious types; they have a certain interest, they have a certain grace, but they are disappointing too; they don’t go far; they don’t keep all they promise; they don’t satisfy the imagination.  They are cold, slim, sexless; the physique is not generous, not abundant; it is only the drapery, the skirts and furbelows (that is, I mean in the young lady who has her mother) that are abundant.  They are very different: one of them all elegance, all expensiveness, with an air of high fashion, from New York; the other a plain, pure, clear-eyed, straight-waisted, straight-stepping maiden from the heart of New England.  And yet they are very much alike too—more alike than they would care to think themselves for they eye each other with cold, mistrustful, deprecating looks.  They are both specimens of the emancipated young American girl—practical, positive, passionless, subtle, and knowing, as you please, either too much or too little.  And yet, as I say, they have a certain stamp, a certain grace; I like to talk with them, to study them.

The fair New Yorker is, sometimes, very amusing; she asks me if every one in Boston talks like me—if every one is as “intellectual” as your poor correspondent.  She is for ever throwing Boston up at me; I can’t get rid of Boston.  The other one rubs it into me too; but in a different way; she seems to feel about it as a good Mahommedan feels toward Mecca, and regards it as a kind of focus of light for the whole human race.  Poor little Boston, what nonsense is talked in thy name!  But this New England maiden is, in her way, a strange type: she is travelling all over Europe alone—“to see it,” she says, “for herself.”  For herself!  What can that stiff slim self of hers do with such sights, such visions!  She looks at everything, goes everywhere, passes her way, with her clear quiet eyes wide open; skirting the edge of obscene abysses without suspecting them; pushing through brambles without tearing her robe; exciting, without knowing it, the most injurious suspicions; and always holding her course, passionless, stainless, fearless, charmless!  It is a little figure in which, after all, if you can get the right point of view, there is something rather striking.

By way of contrast, there is a lovely English girl, with eyes as shy as violets, and a voice as sweet!  She has a sweet Gainsborough head, and a great Gainsborough hat, with a mighty plume in front of it, which makes a shadow over her quiet English eyes.  Then she has a sage-green robe, “mystic, wonderful,” all embroidered with subtle devices and flowers, and birds of tender tint; very straight and tight in front, and adorned behind, along the spine, with large, strange, iridescent buttons.  The revival of taste, of the sense of beauty, in England, interests me deeply; what is there in a simple row of spinal buttons to make one dream—to donnor à rêver, as they say here?  I think that a great æsthetic renascence is at hand, and that a great light will be kindled in England, for all the world to see.  There are spirits there that I should like to commune with; I think they would understand me.

This gracious English maiden, with her clinging robes, her amulets and girdles, with something quaint and angular in her step, her carriage something mediæval and Gothic, in the details of her person and dress, this lovely Evelyn Vane (isn’t it a beautiful name?) is deeply, delightfully picturesque.  She is much a woman—elle est bien femme, as they say here; simpler, softer, rounder, richer than the young girls I spoke of just now.  Not much talk—a great, sweet silence.  Then the violet eye—the very eye itself seems to blush; the great shadowy hat, making the brow so quiet; the strange, clinging, clutching, pictured raiment!  As I say, it is a very gracious, tender type.  She has her brother with her, who is a beautiful, fair-haired, gray-eyed young Englishman.  He is purely objective; and he, too, is very plastic.



September 26th.

You must not be frightened at not hearing from me oftener; it is not because I am in any trouble, but because I am getting on so well.  If I were in any trouble I don’t think I should write to you; I should just keep quiet and see it through myself.  But that is not the case at present and, if I don’t write to you, it is because I am so deeply interested over here that I don’t seem to find time.  It was a real providence that brought me to this house, where, in spite of all obstacles, I am able to do much good work.  I wonder how I find the time for all I do; but when I think that I have only got a year in Europe, I feel as if I wouldn’t sacrifice a single hour.

The obstacles I refer to are the disadvantages I have in learning French, there being so many persons around me speaking English, and that, as you may say, in the very bosom of a French family.  It seems as if you heard English everywhere; but I certainly didn’t expect to find it in a place like this.  I am not discouraged, however, and I talk French all I can, even with the other English boarders.  Then I have a lesson every day from Miss Maisonrouge (the elder daughter of the lady of the house), and French conversation every evening in the salon, from eight to eleven, with Madame herself, and some friends of hers that often come in.  Her cousin, Mr. Verdier, a young French gentleman, is fortunately staying with her, and I make a point of talking with him as much as possible.  I have extra private lessons from him, and I often go out to walk with him.  Some night, soon, he is to accompany me to the opera.  We have also a most interesting plan of visiting all the galleries in Paris together.  Like most of the French, he converses with great fluency, and I feel as if I should really gain from him.  He is remarkably handsome, and extremely polite—paying a great many compliments, which, I am afraid, are not always sincere.  When I return to Bangor I will tell you some of the things he has said to me.  I think you will consider them extremely curious, and very beautiful in their way.

The conversation in the parlour (from eight to eleven) is often remarkably brilliant, and I often wish that you, or some of the Bangor folks, could be there to enjoy it.  Even though you couldn’t understand it I think you would like to hear the way they go on; they seem to express so much.  I sometimes think that at Bangor they don’t express enough (but it seems as if over there, there was less to express).  It seems as if; at Bangor, there were things that folks never tried to say; but here, I have learned from studying French that you have no idea what you can say, before you try.  At Bangor they seem to give it up beforehand; they don’t make any effort.  (I don’t say this in the least for William Platt, in particular.)

I am sure I don’t know what they will think of me when I get back.  It seems as if; over here, I had learned to come out with everything.  I suppose they will think I am not sincere; but isn’t it more sincere to come out with things than to conceal them?  I have become very good friends with every one in the house—that is (you see, I am sincere), with almost every one.  It is the most interesting circle I ever was in.  There’s a girl here, an American, that I don’t like so much as the rest; but that is only because she won’t let me.  I should like to like her, ever so much, because she is most lovely and most attractive; but she doesn’t seem to want to know me or to like me.  She comes from New York, and she is remarkably pretty, with beautiful eyes and the most delicate features; she is also remarkably elegant—in this respect would bear comparison with any one I have seen over here.  But it seems as if she didn’t want to recognise me or associate with me; as if she wanted to make a difference between us.  It is like people they call “haughty” in books.  I have never seen any one like that before—any one that wanted to make a difference; and at first I was right down interested, she seemed to me so like a proud young lady in a novel.  I kept saying to myself all day, “haughty, haughty,” and I wished she would keep on so.  But she did keep on; she kept on too long; and then I began to feel hurt.  I couldn’t think what I have done, and I can’t think yet.  It’s as if she had got some idea about me, or had heard some one say something.  If some girls should behave like that I shouldn’t make any account of it; but this one is so refined, and looks as if she might be so interesting if I once got to know her, that I think about it a good deal.  I am bound to find out what her reason is—for of course she has got some reason; I am right down curious to know.

I went up to her to ask her the day before yesterday; I thought that was the best way.  I told her I wanted to know her better, and would like to come and see her in her room—they tell me she has got a lovely room—and that if she had heard anything against me, perhaps she would tell me when I came.  But she was more distant than ever, and she just turned it off; said that she had never heard me mentioned, and that her room was too small to receive visitors.  I suppose she spoke the truth, but I am sure she has got some reason, all the same.  She has got some idea, and I am bound to find out before I go, if I have to ask everybody in the house.  I am right down curious.  I wonder if she doesn’t think me refined—or if she had ever heard anything against Bangor?  I can’t think it is that.  Don’t you remember when Clara Barnard went to visit New York, three years ago, how much attention she received?  And you know Clara is Bangor, to the soles of her shoes.  Ask William Platt—so long as he isn’t a native—if he doesn’t consider Clara Barnard refined.

Apropos, as they say here, of refinement, there is another American in the house—a gentleman from Boston—who is just crowded with it.  His name is Mr. Louis Leverett (such a beautiful name, I think), and he is about thirty years old.  He is rather small, and he looks pretty sick; he suffers from some affection of the liver.  But his conversation is remarkably interesting, and I delight to listen to him—he has such beautiful ideas.  I feel as if it were hardly right, not being in French; but, fortunately, he uses a great many French expressions.  It’s in a different style from the conversation of Mr. Verdier—not so complimentary, but more intellectual.  He is intensely fond of pictures, and has given me a great many ideas about them which I should never have gained without him; I shouldn’t have known where to look for such ideas.  He thinks everything of pictures; he thinks we don’t make near enough of them.  They seem to make a good deal of them here; but I couldn’t help telling him the other day that in Bangor I really don’t think we do.

If I had any money to spend I would buy some and take them back, to hang up.  Mr. Leverett says it would do them good—not the pictures, but the Bangor folks.  He thinks everything of the French, too, and says we don’t make nearly enough of them.  I couldn’t help telling him the other day that at any rate they make enough of themselves.  But it is very interesting to hear him go on about the French, and it is so much gain to me, so long as that is what I came for.  I talk to him as much as I dare about Boston, but I do feel as if this were right down wrong—a stolen pleasure.

I can get all the Boston culture I want when I go back, if I carry out my plan, my happy vision, of going there to reside.  I ought to direct all my efforts to European culture now, and keep Boston to finish off.  But it seems as if I couldn’t help taking a peep now and then, in advance—with a Bostonian.  I don’t know when I may meet one again; but if there are many others like Mr. Leverett there, I shall be certain not to want when I carry out my dream.  He is just as full of culture as he can live.  But it seems strange how many different sorts there are.

There are two of the English who I suppose are very cultivated too; but it doesn’t seem as if I could enter into theirs so easily, though I try all I can.  I do love their way of speaking, and sometimes I feel almost as if it would be right to give up trying to learn French, and just try to learn to speak our own tongue as these English speak it.  It isn’t the things they say so much, though these are often rather curious, but it is in the way they pronounce, and the sweetness of their voice.  It seems as if they must try a good deal to talk like that; but these English that are here don’t seem to try at all, either to speak or do anything else.  They are a young lady and her brother.  I believe they belong to some noble family.  I have had a good deal of intercourse with them, because I have felt more free to talk to them than to the Americans—on account of the language.  It seems as if in talking with them I was almost learning a new one.

I never supposed, when I left Bangor, that I was coming to Europe to learn English!  If I do learn it, I don’t think you will understand me when I get back, and I don’t think you’ll like it much.  I should be a good deal criticised if I spoke like that at Bangor.  However, I verily believe Bangor is the most critical place on earth; I have seen nothing like it over here.  Tell them all I have come to the conclusion that they are a great deal too fastidious.  But I was speaking about this English young lady and her brother.  I wish I could put them before you.  She is lovely to look at; she seems so modest and retiring.  In spite of this, however, she dresses in a way that attracts great attention, as I couldn’t help noticing when one day I went out to walk with her.  She was ever so much looked at; but she didn’t seem to notice it, until at last I couldn’t help calling attention to it.  Mr. Leverett thinks everything of it; he calls it the “costume of the future.”  I should call it rather the costume of the past—you know the English have such an attachment to the past.  I said this the other day to Madame do Maisonrouge—that Miss Vane dressed in the costume of the past.  De l’an passé, vous voulez dire? said Madame, with her little French laugh (you can get William Platt to translate this, he used to tell me he knew so much French).

You know I told you, in writing some time ago, that I had tried to get some insight into the position of woman in England, and, being here with Miss Vane, it has seemed to me to be a good opportunity to get a little more.  I have asked her a great deal about it; but she doesn’t seem able to give me much information.  The first time I asked her she told me the position of a lady depended upon the rank of her father, her eldest brother, her husband, etc.  She told me her own position was very good, because her father was some relation—I forget what—to a lord.  She thinks everything of this; and that proves to me that the position of woman in her country cannot be satisfactory; because, if it were, it wouldn’t depend upon that of your relations, even your nearest.  I don’t know much about lords, and it does try my patience (though she is just as sweet as she can live) to hear her talk as if it were a matter of course that I should.

I feel as if it were right to ask her as often as I can if she doesn’t consider every one equal; but she always says she doesn’t, and she confesses that she doesn’t think she is equal to “Lady Something-or-other,” who is the wife of that relation of her father.  I try and persuade her all I can that she is; but it seems as if she didn’t want to be persuaded; and when I ask her if Lady So-and-so is of the same opinion (that Miss Vane isn’t her equal), she looks so soft and pretty with her eyes, and says, “Of course she is!”  When I tell her that this is right down bad for Lady So-and-so, it seems as if she wouldn’t believe me, and the only answer she will make is that Lady So-and-so is “extremely nice.”  I don’t believe she is nice at all; if she were nice, she wouldn’t have such ideas as that.  I tell Miss Vane that at Bangor we think such ideas vulgar; but then she looks as though she had never heard of Bangor.  I often want to shake her, though she is so sweet.  If she isn’t angry with the people who make her feel that way, I am angry for her.  I am angry with her brother too, for she is evidently very much afraid of him, and this gives me some further insight into the subject.  She thinks everything of her brother, and thinks it natural that she should be afraid of him, not only physically (for this is natural, as he is enormously tall and strong, and has very big fists), but morally and intellectually.  She seems unable, however, to take in any argument, and she makes me realise what I have often heard—that if you are timid nothing will reason you out of it.

Mr. Vane, also (the brother), seems to have the same prejudices, and when I tell him, as I often think it right to do, that his sister is not his subordinate, even if she does think so, but his equal, and, perhaps in some respects his superior, and that if my brother, in Bangor, were to treat me as he treates this poor young girl, who has not spirit enough to see the question in its true light, there would be an indignation, meeting of the citizens to protest against such an outrage to the sanctity of womanhood—when I tell him all this, at breakfast or dinner, he bursts out laughing so loud that all the plates clatter on the table.

But at such a time as this there is always one person who seems interested in what I say—a German gentleman, a professor, who sits next to me at dinner, and whom I must tell you more about another time.  He is very learned, and has a great desire for information; he appreciates a great many of my remarks, and after dinner, in the salon, he often comes to me to ask me questions about them.  I have to think a little, sometimes, to know what I did say, or what I do think.  He takes you right up where you left off; and he is almost as fond of discussing things as William Platt is.  He is splendidly educated, in the German style, and he told me the other day that he was an “intellectual broom.”  Well, if he is, he sweeps clean; I told him that.  After he has been talking to me I feel as if I hadn’t got a speck of dust left in my mind anywhere.  It’s a most delightful feeling.  He says he’s an observer; and I am sure there is plenty over here to observe.  But I have told you enough for to-day.  I don’t know how much longer I shall stay here; I am getting on so fast that it sometimes seems as if I shouldn’t need all the time I have laid out.  I suppose your cold weather has promptly begun, as usual; it sometimes makes me envy you.  The fall weather here is very dull and damp, and I feel very much as if I should like to be braced up.



Paris, September 30th.

Dear Lady Augusta—I am afraid I shall not be able to come to you on January 7th, as you kindly proposed at Homburg.  I am so very, very sorry; it is a great disappointment to me.  But I have just heard that it has been settled that mamma and the children are coming abroad for a part of the winter, and mamma wishes me to go with them to Hyères, where Georgina has been ordered for her lungs.  She has not been at all well these three months, and now that the damp weather has begun she is very poorly indeed; so that last week papa decided to have a consultation, and he and mamma went with her up to town and saw some three or four doctors.  They all of them ordered the south of France, but they didn’t agree about the place; so that mamma herself decided for Hyères, because it is the most economical.  I believe it is very dull, but I hope it will do Georgina good.  I am afraid, however, that nothing will do her good until she consents to take more care of herself; I am afraid she is very wild and wilful, and mamma tells me that all this month it has taken papa’s positive orders to make her stop in-doors.  She is very cross (mamma writes me) about coming abroad, and doesn’t seem at all to mind the expense that papa has been put to—talks very ill-naturedly about losing the hunting, etc.  She expected to begin to hunt in December, and wants to know whether anybody keeps hounds at Hyères.  Fancy a girl wanting to follow the hounds when her lungs are so bad!  But I daresay that when she gets there she will he glad enough to keep quiet, as they say that the heat is intense.  It may cure Georgina, but I am sure it will make the rest of us very ill.

Mamma, however, is only going to bring Mary and Gus and Fred and Adelaide abroad with her; the others will remain at Kingscote until February (about the 3d), when they will go to Eastbourne for a month with Miss Turnover, the new governess, who has turned out such a very nice person.  She is going to take Miss Travers, who has been with us so long, but who is only qualified for the younger children, to Hyères, and I believe some of the Kingscote servants.  She has perfect confidence in Miss T.; it is only a pity she has such an odd name.  Mamma thought of asking her if she would mind taking another when she came; but papa thought she might object.  Lady Battledown makes all her governesses take the same name; she gives £5 more a year for the purpose.  I forget what it is she calls them; I think it’s Johnson (which to me always suggests a lady’s maid).  Governesses shouldn’t have too pretty a name; they shouldn’t have a nicer name than the family.

I suppose you heard from the Desmonds that I did not go back to England with them.  When it began to be talked about that Georgina should be taken abroad, mamma wrote to me that I had better stop in Paris for a month with Harold, so that she could pick me up on their way to Hyères.  It saves the expense of my journey to Kingscote and back, and gives me the opportunity to “finish” a little in French.

You know Harold came here six weeks ago, to get up his French for those dreadful examinations that he has to pass so soon.  He came to live with some French people that take in young men (and others) for this purpose; it’s a kind of coaching place, only kept by women.  Mamma had heard it was very nice; so she wrote to me that I was to come and stop here with Harold.  The Desmonds brought me and made the arrangement, or the bargain, or whatever you call it.  Poor Harold was naturally not at all pleased; but he has been very kind, and has treated me like an angel.  He is getting on beautifully with his French; for though I don’t think the place is so good as papa supposed, yet Harold is so immensely clever that he can scarcely help learning.  I am afraid I learn much less, but, fortunately, I have not to pass an examination—except if mamma takes it into her head to examine me.  But she will have so much to think of with Georgina that I hope this won’t occur to her.  If it does, I shall be, as Harold says, in a dreadful funk.

This is not such a nice place for a girl as for a young man, and the Desmonds thought it exceedingly odd that mamma should wish me to come here.  As Mrs. Desmond said, it is because she is so very unconventional.  But you know Paris is so very amusing, and if only Harold remains good-natured about it, I shall be content to wait for the caravan (that’s what he calls mamma and the children).  The person who keeps the establishment, or whatever they call it, is rather odd, and exceedingly foreign; but she is wonderfully civil, and is perpetually sending to my door to see if I want anything.  The servants are not at all like English servants, and come bursting in, the footman (they have only one) and the maids alike, at all sorts of hours, in the most sudden way.  Then when one rings, it is half an hour before they come.  All this is very uncomfortable, and I daresay it will be worse at Hyères.  There, however, fortunately, we shall have our own people.

There are some very odd Americans here, who keep throwing Harold into fits of laughter.  One is a dreadful little man who is always sitting over the fire, and talking about the colour of the sky.  I don’t believe he ever saw the sky except through the window—pane.  The other day he took hold of my frock (that green one you thought so nice at Homburg) and told me that it reminded him of the texture of the Devonshire turf.  And then he talked for half an hour about the Devonshire turf; which I thought such a very extraordinary subject.  Harold says he is mad.  It is very strange to be living in this way with people one doesn’t know.  I mean that one doesn’t know as one knows them in England.

The other Americans (beside the madman) are two girls, about my own age, one of whom is rather nice.  She has a mother; but the mother is always sitting in her bedroom, which seems so very odd.  I should like mamma to ask them to Kingscote, but I am afraid mamma wouldn’t like the mother, who is rather vulgar.  The other girl is rather vulgar too, and is travelling about quite alone.  I think she is a kind of schoolmistress; but the other girl (I mean the nicer one, with the mother) tells me she is more respectable than she seems.  She has, however, the most extraordinary opinions—wishes to do away with the aristocracy, thinks it wrong that Arthur should have Kingscote when papa dies, etc.  I don’t see what it signifies to her that poor Arthur should come into the property, which will be so delightful—except for papa dying.  But Harold says she is mad.  He chaffs her tremendously about her radicalism, and he is so immensely clever that she can’t answer him, though she is rather clever too.

There is also a Frenchman, a nephew, or cousin, or something, of the person of the house, who is extremely nasty; and a German professor, or doctor, who eats with his knife and is a great bore.  I am so very sorry about giving up my visit.  I am afraid you will never ask me again.



September 28th.

My Dear Prosper—It is a long time since I have given you of my news, and I don’t know what puts it into my head to-night to recall myself to your affectionate memory.  I suppose it is that when we are happy the mind reverts instinctively to those with whom formerly we shared our exaltations and depressions, and je t’eu ai trop dit, dans le bon temps, mon gros Prosper, and you always listened to me too imperturbably, with your pipe in your mouth, your waistcoat unbuttoned, for me not to feel that I can count upon your sympathy to-day.  Nous en sommes nous flanquées des confidences—in those happy days when my first thought in seeing an adventure poindre à l’horizon was of the pleasure I should have in relating it to the great Prosper.  As I tell thee, I am happy; decidedly, I am happy, and from this affirmation I fancy you can construct the rest.  Shall I help thee a little?  Take three adorable girls . . . three, my good Prosper—the mystic number—neither more nor less.  Take them and place thy insatiable little Léon in the midst of them!  Is the situation sufficiently indicated, and do you apprehend the motives of my felicity?

You expected, perhaps, I was going to tell you that I had made my fortune, or that the Uncle Blondeau had at last decided to return into the breast of nature, after having constituted me his universal legatee.  But I needn’t remind you that women are always for something in the happiness of him who writes to thee—for something in his happiness, and for a good deal more in his misery.  But don’t let me talk of misery now; time enough when it comes; ces demoiselles have gone to join the serried ranks of their amiable predecessors.  Excuse me—I comprehend your impatience.  I will tell you of whom ces demoiselles consist.

You have heard me speak of my cousine de Maisonrouge, that grande belle femme, who, after having married, en secondes noces—there had been, to tell the truth, some irregularity about her first union—a venerable relic of the old noblesse of Poitou, was left, by the death of her husband, complicated by the indulgence of expensive tastes on an income of 17,000 francs, on the pavement of Paris, with two little demons of daughters to bring up in the path of virtue.  She managed to bring them up; my little cousins are rigidly virtuous.  If you ask me how she managed it, I can’t tell you; it’s no business of mine, and, à fortiori none of yours.  She is now fifty years old (she confesses to thirty-seven), and her daughters, whom she has never been able to marry, are respectively twenty-seven and twenty-three (they confess to twenty and to seventeen).  Three years ago she had the thrice-blessed idea of opening a sort of pension for the entertainment and instruction of the blundering barbarians who come to Paris in the hope of picking up a few stray particles of the language of Voltaire—or of Zola.  The idea lui a porté bonheur; the shop does a very good business.  Until within a few months ago it was carried on by my cousins alone; but lately the need of a few extensions and embellishments has caused itself to be felt.  My cousin has undertaken them, regardless of expense; she has asked me to come and stay with her—board and lodging gratis—and keep an eye on the grammatical eccentricities of her pensionnaires.  I am the extension, my good Prosper; I am the embellishment!  I live for nothing, and I straighten up the accent of the prettiest English lips.  The English lips are not all pretty, heaven knows, but enough of them are so to make it a gaining bargain for me.

Just now, as I told you, I am in daily conversation with three separate pairs.  The owner of one of them has private lessons; she pays extra.  My cousin doesn’t give me a sou of the money; but I make bold, nevertheless, to say that my trouble is remunerated.  But I am well, very well, with the proprietors of the two other pairs.  One of them is a little Anglaise, of about twenty—a little figure de keepsake; the most adorable miss that you ever, or at least that I ever beheld.  She is decorated all over with beads and bracelets and embroidered dandelions; but her principal decoration consists of the softest little gray eyes in the world, which rest upon you with a profundity of confidence—a confidence that I really feel some compunction in betraying.  She has a tint as white as this sheet of paper, except just in the middle of each cheek, where it passes into the purest and most transparent, most liquid, carmine.  Occasionally this rosy fluid overflows into the rest of her face—by which I mean that she blushes—as softly as the mark of your breath on the window-pane.

Like every Anglaise, she is rather pinched and prim in public; but it is very easy to see that when no one is looking elle ne demande qu’à se laisser aller!  Whenever she wants it I am always there, and I have given her to understand that she can count upon me.  I have reason to believe that she appreciates the assurance, though I am bound in honesty to confess that with her the situation is a little less advanced than with the others.  Que voulez-vous?  The English are heavy, and the Anglaises move slowly, that’s all.  The movement, however, is perceptible, and once this fact is established I can let the pottage simmer.  I can give her time to arrive, for I am over-well occupied with her concurrentesCelles-ci don’t keep me waiting, par exemple!

These young ladies are Americans, and you know that it is the national character to move fast.  “All right—go ahead!”  (I am learning a great deal of English, or, rather, a great deal of American.)  They go ahead at a rate that sometimes makes it difficult for me to keep up.  One of them is prettier than the other; but this hatter (the one that takes the private lessons) is really une file prodigieuseAh, par exemple, elle brûle ses vais-seux cella-la!  She threw herself into my arms the very first day, and I almost owed her a grudge for having deprived me of that pleasure of gradation, of carrying the defences, one by one, which is almost as great as that of entering the place.

Would you believe that at the end of exactly twelve minutes she gave me a rendezvous?  It is true it was in the Galerie d’Apollon, at the Louvre; but that was respectable for a beginning, and since then we have had them by the dozen; I have ceased to keep the account.  Non, c’est une file qui me dépasse.

The little one (she has a mother somewhere, out of sight, shut up in a closet or a trunk) is a good deal prettier, and, perhaps, on that account elle y met plus de façons.  She doesn’t knock about Paris with me by the hour; she contents herself with long interviews in the petit salon, with the curtains half-drawn, beginning at about three o’clock, when every one is à la promenade.  She is admirable, this little one; a little too thin, the bones rather accentuated, but the detail, on the whole, most satisfactory.  And you can say anything to her.  She takes the trouble to appear not to understand, but her conduct, half an hour afterwards, reassures you completely—oh, completely!

However, it is the tall one, the one of the private lessons, that is the most remarkable.  These private lessons, my good Prosper, are the most brilliant invention of the age, and a real stroke of genius on the part of Miss Miranda!  They also take place in the petit salon, but with the doors tightly closed, and with explicit directions to every one in the house that we are not to be disturbed.  And we are not, my good Prosper; we are not!  Not a sound, not a shadow, interrupts our felicity.  My cousine is really admirable; the shop deserves to succeed.  Miss Miranda is tall and rather flat; she is too pale; she hasn’t the adorable rougeurs of the little Anglaise.  But she has bright, keen, inquisitive eyes, superb teeth, a nose modelled by a sculptor, and a way of holding up her head and looking every one in the face, which is the most finished piece of impertinence I ever beheld.  She is making the tour du monde entirely alone, without even a soubrette to carry the ensign, for the purpose of seeing for herself à quoi s’en tenir sur les hommes et les choses—on les hommes particularly.  Dis donc, Prosper, it must be a drôle de pays over there, where young persons animated by this ardent curiosity are manufactured!  If we should turn the tables, some day, thou and I, and go over and see it for ourselves.  It is as well that we should go and find them chez elles, as that they should come out here after us.  Dis donc, mon gras Prosper . . .



My dear brother in Science—I resume my hasty notes, of which I sent you the first instalment some weeks ago.  I mentioned then that I intended to leave my hotel, not finding it sufficiently local and national.  It was kept by a Pomeranian, and the waiters, without exception, were from the Fatherland.  I fancied myself at Berlin, Unter den Linden, and I reflected that, having taken the serious step of visiting the head-quarters of the Gallic genius, I should try and project myself; as much as possible, into the circumstances which are in part the consequence and in part the cause of its irrepressible activity.  It seemed to me that there could be no well-grounded knowledge without this preliminary operation of placing myself in relations, as slightly as possible modified by elements proceeding from a different combination of causes, with the spontaneous home-life of the country.

I accordingly engaged a room in the house of a lady of pure French extraction and education, who supplements the shortcomings of an income insufficient to the ever-growing demands of the Parisian system of sense-gratification, by providing food and lodging for a limited number of distinguished strangers.  I should have preferred to have my room alone in the house, and to take my meals in a brewery, of very good appearance, which I speedily discovered in the same street; but this arrangement, though very lucidly proposed by myself; was not acceptable to the mistress of the establishment (a woman with a mathematical head), and I have consoled myself for the extra expense by fixing my thoughts upon the opportunity that conformity to the customs of the house gives me of studying the table-manners of my companions, and of observing the French nature at a peculiarly physiological moment, the moment when the satisfaction of the taste, which is the governing quality in its composition, produces a kind of exhalation, an intellectual transpiration, which, though light and perhaps invisible to a superficial spectator, is nevertheless appreciable by a properly adjusted instrument.

I have adjusted my instrument very satisfactorily (I mean the one I carry in my good square German head), and I am not afraid of losing a single drop of this valuable fluid, as it condenses itself upon the plate of my observation.  A prepared surface is what I need, and I have prepared my surface.

Unfortunately here, also, I find the individual native in the minority.  There are only four French persons in the house—the individuals concerned in its management, three of whom are women, and one a man.  This preponderance of the feminine element is, however, in itself characteristic, as I need not remind you what an abnormally—developed part this sex has played in French history.  The remaining figure is apparently that of a man, but I hesitate to classify him so superficially.  He appears to me less human than simian, and whenever I hear him talk I seem to myself to have paused in the street to listen to the shrill clatter of a hand-organ, to which the gambols of a hairy homunculus form an accompaniment.

I mentioned to you before that my expectation of rough usage, in consequence of my German nationality, had proved completely unfounded.  No one seems to know or to care what my nationality is, and I am treated, on the contrary, with the civility which is the portion of every traveller who pays the bill without scanning the items too narrowly.  This, I confess, has been something of a surprise to me, and I have not yet made up my mind as to the fundamental cause of the anomaly.  My determination to take up my abode in a French interior was largely dictated by the supposition that I should be substantially disagreeable to its inmates.  I wished to observe the different forms taken by the irritation that I should naturally produce; for it is under the influence of irritation that the French character most completely expresses itself.  My presence, however, does not appear to operate as a stimulus, and in this respect I am materially disappointed.  They treat me as they treat every one else; whereas, in order to be treated differently, I was resigned in advance to be treated worse.  I have not, as I say, fully explained to myself this logical contradiction; but this is the explanation to which I tend.  The French are so exclusively occupied with the idea of themselves, that in spite of the very definite image the German personality presented to them by the war of 1870, they have at present no distinct apprehension of its existence.  They are not very sure that there are any Germans; they have already forgotten the convincing proofs of the fact that were presented to them nine years ago.  A German was something disagreeable, which they determined to keep out of their conception of things.  I therefore think that we are wrong to govern ourselves upon the hypothesis of the revanche; the French nature is too shallow for that large and powerful plant to bloom in it.

The English-speaking specimens, too, I have not been willing to neglect the opportunity to examine; and among these I have paid special attention to the American varieties, of which I find here several singular examples.  The two most remarkable are a young man who presents all the characteristics of a period of national decadence; reminding me strongly of some diminutive Hellenised Roman of the third century.  He is an illustration of the period of culture in which the faculty of appreciation has obtained such a preponderance over that of production that the latter sinks into a kind of rank sterility, and the mental condition becomes analogous to that of a malarious bog.  I learn from him that there is an immense number of Americans exactly resembling him, and that the city of Boston, indeed, is almost exclusively composed of them.  (He communicated this fact very proudly, as if it were greatly to the credit of his native country; little perceiving the truly sinister impression it made upon me.)

What strikes one in it is that it is a phenomenon to the best of my knowledge—and you know what my knowledge is—unprecedented and unique in the history of mankind; the arrival of a nation at an ultimate stage of evolution without having passed through the mediate one; the passage of the fruit, in other words, from crudity to rottenness, without the interposition of a period of useful (and ornamental) ripeness.  With the Americans, indeed, the crudity and the rottenness are identical and simultaneous; it is impossible to say, as in the conversation of this deplorable young man, which is one and which is the other; they are inextricably mingled.  I prefer the talk of the French homunculus; it is at least more amusing.

It is interesting in this manner to perceive, so largely developed, the germs of extinction in the so-called powerful Anglo-Saxon family.  I find them in almost as recognisable a form in a young woman from the State of Maine, in the province of New England, with whom I have had a good deal of conversation.  She differs somewhat from the young man I just mentioned, in that the faculty of production, of action, is, in her, less inanimate; she has more of the freshness and vigour that we suppose to belong to a young civilisation.  But unfortunately she produces nothing but evil, and her tastes and habits are similarly those of a Roman lady of the lower Empire.  She makes no secret of them, and has, in fact, elaborated a complete system of licentious behaviour.  As the opportunities she finds in her own country do not satisfy her, she has come to Europe “to try,” as she says, “for herself.”  It is the doctrine of universal experience professed with a cynicism that is really most extraordinary, and which, presenting itself in a young woman of considerable education, appears to me to be the judgment of a society.

Another observation which pushes me to the same induction—that of the premature vitiation of the American population—is the attitude of the Americans whom I have before me with regard to each other.  There is another young lady here, who is less abnormally developed than the one I have just described, but who yet bears the stamp of this peculiar combination of incompleteness and effeteness.  These three persons look with the greatest mistrust and aversion upon each other; and each has repeatedly taken me apart and assured me, secretly, that he or she only is the real, the genuine, the typical American.  A type that has lost itself before it has been fixed—what can you look for from this?

Add to this that there are two young Englanders in the house, who hate all the Americans in a lump, making between them none of the distinctions and favourable comparisons which they insist upon, and you will, I think, hold me warranted in believing that, between precipitate decay and internecine enmities, the English-speaking family is destined to consume itself; and that with its decline the prospect of general pervasiveness, to which I alluded above, will brighten for the deep-lunged children of the Fatherland!



October 22d

Dear Mother—I am off in a day or two to visit some new country; I haven’t yet decided which.  I have satisfied myself with regard to France, and obtained a good knowledge of the language.  I have enjoyed my visit to Madame de Maisonrouge deeply, and feel as if I were leaving a circle of real friends.  Everything has gone on beautifully up to the end, and every one has been as kind and attentive as if I were their own sister, especially Mr. Verdier, the French gentleman, from whom I have gained more than I ever expected (in six weeks), and with whom I have promised to correspond.  So you can imagine me dashing off the most correct French letters; and, if you don’t believe it, I will keep the rough draft to show you when I go back.

The German gentleman is also more interesting, the more you know him; it seems sometimes as if I could fairly drink in his ideas.  I have found out why the young lady from New York doesn’t like me!  It is because I said one day at dinner that I admired to go to the Louvre.  Well, when I first came, it seemed as if I did admire everything!

Tell William Platt his letter has come.  I knew he would have to write, and I was bound I would make him!  I haven’t decided what country I will visit yet; it seems as if there were so many to choose from.  But I shall take care to pick out a good one, and to meet plenty of fresh experiences.

Dearest mother, my money holds out, and it is most interesting!

Story first published in The Parisian, 1878.

About the Author:

Henry James (15 April 1843 – 28 February 1916) was a British writer.

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