Part 33

I’m rather disappointed, I confess, in the society I find here; it isn’t so richly native, of so indigenous a note, as I could have desired. Indeed, to tell the truth, it’s not native at all; though on the other hand it _is_ furiously cosmopolite, and that speaks to me too at my hours. We’re French _and_ we’re English; we’re American _and_ we’re German; I believe too there are some Spaniards and some Hungarians expected. I’m much interested in the study of racial types; in comparing, contrasting, seizing the strong points, the weak points, in identifying, however muffled by social hypocrisy, the sharp keynote of each. It’s interesting to shift one’s point of view, to despoil one’s self of one’s idiotic prejudices, to enter into strange exotic ways of looking at life.

The American types don’t, I much regret to say, make a strong or rich affirmation, and, excepting my own (and what _is_ my own, dear Harvard, I ask you?), are wholly negative and feminine. We’re _thin_—that I should have to say it! we’re pale, we’re poor, we’re flat. There’s 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 isn’t at all American—by a young girl and her mother and by another young girl without her mother, without either parent or any attendant or appendage whatever. These inevitable creatures are more or less in the picture; they have a certain interest, they have a certain stamp, but they’re 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’s not generous, not abundant; it’s only the drapery, the skirts and furbelows—that is, I mean in the young lady who has her mother—that are abundant. They’re rather different—we _have_ our little differences, thank God: one of them all elegance, all “paid bills” and extra-fresh _gants de Suède_, from New York; the other a plain pure clear-eyed narrow-chested straight-stepping maiden from the heart of New England. And yet they’re very much alike too—more alike than they would care to think themselves; for they face each other with scarcely disguised opposition and disavowal. They’re both specimens of the practical positive passionless young thing as we let her loose on the world—and yet with a certain fineness and knowing, as you please, either too much or too little. With all of which, as I say, they have their spontaneity and even their oddity; though no more mystery, either of them, than the printed circular thrust into your hand on the street-corner.

The little New Yorker’s sometimes very amusing; she asks me if every one in Boston talks like me—if every one’s as “intellectual” as your poor correspondent. She’s for ever throwing Boston up at me; I can’t get rid of poor dear little 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 focus of light for the whole human race. Yes, poor little Boston, what nonsense is talked in thy name! But this New England maiden is in her way a rare white flower; she’s travelling all over Europe alone—“to see it,” she says, “for herself.” For herself! What can that strangely serene self of hers do with such sights, such depths! 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—without a stain, without a sense, without a fear, without a charm!

Then by way of contrast there’s a lovely English girl with eyes as shy as violets and a voice as sweet!—the difference between the printed, the distributed, the gratuitous hand-bill and the shy scrap of a _billet-doux_ dropped where you may pick it up. She has a sweet Gainsborough head and a great Gainsborough hat with a mighty plume in front of it that makes a shadow over her quiet English eyes. Then she has a sage-green robe, “mystic wonderful,” all embroidered with subtle devices and flowers, with birds and beasts 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 _donner à rêver_, as they say here? I believe a grand esthetic renascence to be at hand and that a great light will be kindled in England for all the world to see. There are spirits there I should like to commune with; I think they’d 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 medieval and Gothic in the details of her person and dress, this lovely Evelyn Vane (isn’t it a beautiful name?) exhales association and implication. She’s so much a woman—_elle est bien femme_, as they say here; simpler softer rounder richer than the easy products 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 clutched pictured raiment! As I say, it’s a very gracious tender type. She has her brother with her, who’s a beautiful fair-haired grey-eyed young Englishman. He’s purely objective, but he too is very plastic.

V FROM MIRANDA HOPE TO HER MOTHER

_September_ 26.

You mustn’t be frightened at not hearing from me oftener; it isn’t because I’m in any trouble, but because I’m getting on so well. If I were in any trouble I don’t think I’d write to you; I’d just keep quiet and see it through myself. But that’s not the case at present; and if I don’t write to you it’s because I’m 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 press onward. I wonder how I find time for all I do, but when I realise I’ve only got about a year left, all told, I feel as if I wouldn’t sacrifice a single hour.

The obstacles I refer to are the disadvantages I have in acquiring the language, there being so many persons round me speaking English, and that, as you may say, in the very bosom of a regular 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’m not discouraged, however, and I exercise all I can, even with the other English boarders. Then I’ve a lesson every day from Mademoiselle—the elder daughter of the lady of the house and the intellectual one; she has a wonderful fearless mind, almost like my friend at the hotel—and French give-and-take every evening in the salon, from eight to eleven, with Madame herself and some friends of hers who 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 ramble round with him. Some night soon he’s to accompany me to the comic opera. We’ve also a most interesting plan of visiting the galleries successively together and taking the schools in their order—for they mean by “the schools” here something quite different from what we do. Like most of the French Mr. Verdier converses with great fluency, and I feel I may really gain from him. He’s remarkably handsome, in the French style, and extremely polite—making a great many speeches which I’m afraid it wouldn’t always do to pin one’s faith on. When I get down in Maine again I guess I’ll tell you some of the things he has said to me. I think you’ll consider them extremely curious—very beautiful _in their French way_.

The conversation in the parlour (from eight to eleven) ranges over many subjects—I sometimes feel as if it really avoided _none_; and I often wish you or some of the Bangor folks could be there to enjoy it. Even though you couldn’t understand it I think you’d 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—except that it seems as if over there they’ve less _to_ express. It seems as if at Bangor there were things that folks never _tried_ to say; but I seem to have learned here from studying French that you’ve no idea what you _can_ say before you try. At Bangor they kind of give it up beforehand; they don’t make any effort. (I don’t say this in the least for William Platt _in particular_.)

I’m sure I don’t know what they’ll think of me when I get back anyway. It seems as if over here I had learned to come out with everything. I suppose they’ll think I’m not sincere; but isn’t it more sincere to come right out with things than just to keep feeling of them in your mind—without giving any one the benefit? I’ve become very good friends with every one in the house—that is (you see I _am_ sincere) with _almost_ every one. It’s 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’s only because she won’t let me. I should like to like her, ever so much, because she’s most lovely and most attractive; but she doesn’t seem to want to know me or to take to me. She comes from New York and she’s remarkably pretty, with beautiful eyes and the most delicate features; she’s also splendidly stylish—in this respect would bear comparison with any one I’ve 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’ve 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’d keep on so. But she did keep on—she kept on too long; and then I began to feel it in a different way, to feel as if it kind of wronged me. I couldn’t think what I’ve 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 wouldn’t make any account of it; but this one’s so refined, and looks as if she might be so fascinating if I once got to know her, that I think about it a good deal. I’m bound to find out what her reason is—for of course she has got some reason; I’m right down curious to know.

I went up to her to ask her the day before yesterday; I thought that 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 one—and that if she had heard anything against me perhaps she’d tell me when I came. But she was more distant than ever and just turned it off; said she had never heard me mentioned and that her room was too small to receive visitors. I suppose she spoke the truth, but I’m sure she has some peculiar ground, all the same. She has got some idea; which I’ll die if I don’t find out soon—if I have to ask every one in the house. I never _could_ be happy under an appearance of wrong. I wonder if she doesn’t think me refined—or if she had ever heard anything against Bangor? I can’t think it’s that. Don’t you remember when Clara Barnard went to visit in 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 native—if he doesn’t consider Clara Barnard refined.

Apropos, as they say here, of refinement, there’s another American in the house—a gentleman from Boston—who’s just crammed with it. His name’s Mr. Louis Leverett (such a beautiful name I think) and he’s about thirty years old. He’s rather small and he looks pretty sick; he suffers from some affection of the liver. But his conversation leads you right on—they _do_ go so far over here: even our people seem to strain ahead in Europe, and perhaps when I get back it may strike you I’ve learned to keep up with them. I delight to listen to him anyhow—he has such beautiful ideas. I feel as if these moments were hardly right, not being in French; but fortunately he uses a great many French expressions. It’s in a different style from the dazzle of Mr. Verdier—not so personal, but much more earnest: he says the only earnestness left in the world now is French. He’s intensely fond of pictures and has given me a great many ideas about them that I’d never have gained without him; I shouldn’t have known how to go to work to strike them. 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’d buy some and take them back to hang right up. Mr. Leverett says it would do them good—not the pictures, but the Bangor folks (though sometimes he seems to want to hang _them_ up too). He thinks everything of the French, anyhow, and says we don’t make nearly enough of them. I couldn’t help telling him the other day that they certainly make enough of _themselves_. But it’s very interesting to hear him go on about the French, and it’s so much gain to me, since it’s about the same as 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 heart’s secret, of going there to reside. I ought to direct all my efforts to European culture now, so as to keep Boston to finish off. But it seems as if I couldn’t help taking a peep now and then in advance—with a real 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 lack when I carry out my dream. He’s 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 going for French and just try to get the hang of English as these people have got it. It doesn’t come out in the things they say so much, though these are often rather curious, but in the sweet way they say them and in their kind of making so much, such an easy lovely effect, of saying almost anything. It seems as if they must try a good deal to sound like that; but these English who are here don’t seem to try at all, either to speak or do anything else. They’re a young lady and her brother, who belong, I believe, to some noble family. I’ve had a good deal of intercourse with them, because I’ve felt more free to talk to them than to the Americans—on account of the language. They often don’t understand mine, and then it’s as if I had to learn theirs to explain.

I never supposed when I left Bangor that I was coming to Europe to improve in _our_ old language—and yet I feel I can. If I do get where I _may_ in it I guess you’ll scarcely understand me when I get back, and I don’t think you’ll particularly see the point. I’d be a good deal criticised if I spoke like that at Bangor. However, I verily believe Bangor’s the most critical place on earth; I’ve seen nothing like it over here. Well, tell them I’ll give them about all they can do. But I was speaking about this English young lady and her brother; I wish I could put them before you. She’s lovely just to see; 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 more looked at than what I’d have thought she’d like; but she didn’t seem to care, till 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’d 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 de Maisonrouge—that Miss Vane dressed in the costume of the past. De l’an passé, vous voulez dire? she asked in her gay French way. (You can get William Platt to translate this; he used to tell me he knows 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’ve asked her a great deal about it, but she doesn’t seem able to tell me much. The first time I asked her she said the position of a lady depended on the rank of her father, her eldest brother, her husband—all on somebody else; and they, as to their position, on something quite else (than themselves) as well. 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 their standing can’t be _really_ good, because if it were it wouldn’t be involved in that of your relations, even your nearest. I don’t know much about lords, and it does try my patience—though she’s just as sweet as she can live—to hear her talk as if it were a matter of course 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’s_ equal to Lady Something-or-Other, who’s 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 that superior being is of the same opinion—that Miss Vane isn’t her equal—she looks so soft and pretty with her eyes and says “How can she not be?” When I tell her that this is right down bad for the other person it seems as if she wouldn’t believe me, and the only answer she’ll make is that the other person’s “awfully nice.” I don’t believe she’s 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 at least I’m angry _for_ her. I’m angry with her brother too, for she’s evidently very much afraid of him, and this gives me some further insight into the subject. She thinks everything of her brother; she thinks it natural she should be afraid of him not only physically—for that is natural, as he’s 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’ve often heard—that if you’re 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’s 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 treats this charming but abject creature, 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 only bursts out laughing so loud that all the plates clatter on the table.

But at such a time as this there’s 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’s very learned, but wants to push further and further all the time; 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’s most as fond of discussing things as William Platt ever was. He’s 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 a remorseless observer, and though I don’t know about remorse—for a bright mind isn’t a crime, is it?—I’m sure there’s plenty over here to observe. But I’ve told you enough for to-day. I don’t know how much longer I shall stay here; I’m getting on now so fast that it has come to seem sometimes as if I shouldn’t need all the time I’ve 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 often suffer from the want of bracing.

VI FROM MISS EVELYN VANE IN PARIS TO THE LADY AUGUSTA FLEMING AT BRIGHTON

PARIS, _September_ 30.

DEAR LADY AUGUSTA,

I’m afraid I shall not be able to come to you on January 7th, as you kindly proposed at Homburg. I’m so very very sorry; it’s an immense disappointment. But I’ve just heard that it has been settled that mamma and the children come 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’s 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’s the most economical. I believe it’s very dull, but I hope it will do Georgina good. I’m afraid, however, that nothing will do her good until she consents to take more care of herself; I’m afraid she’s very wild and wilful, and mamma tells me that all this month it has taken papa’s positive orders to make her stop indoors. She’s very cross (mamma writes me) about coming abroad, and doesn’t seem at all to mind the expense papa has been put to—talks very ill-naturedly about her loss of the hunting and even perhaps of the early spring meetings. She expected to begin to hunt in December and wants to know whether anybody keeps hounds at Hyères. Fancy that rot when she’s too ill to sit a horse or to go anywhere. But I daresay that when she gets there she’ll be glad enough to keep quiet, as they say the heat’s intense. It may cure Georgina, but I’m sure it will make the rest of us very ill.