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Lady Barbarina, The Siege of London, An International Episode, and Other Tales
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.
Mamma, however, is only going to bring Mary and Gus and Fred and Adelaide abroad with her: the others will remain at Kingscote till February (about the 3rd) when they’ll go to Eastbourne for a month with Miss Turnover, the new governess, who has proved such a very nice person. She’s going to take Miss Travers, who has been with us so long, but 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’s only a pity the poor woman 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 didn’t 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 exams 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’s 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’m afraid I learn much less, but fortunately I haven’t to go up for anything—unless perhaps to mamma if she takes it into her head to examine me. But she’ll 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 isn’t such a nice place for a girl as for a gentleman, and the Desmonds thought it exceedingly odd that mamma should wish me to come here. As Mrs. Desmond said, it’s because she’s 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—which is 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’s wonderfully civil and is perpetually sending to my door to see if I want anything. She’s tremendously pretentious and of course isn’t a lady. The servants are not at all like English ones and come bursting in, the footman—they’ve only one—and the maids alike, at all sorts of hours, in the most sudden way. Then when one rings it takes ages. Some of the food too is rather nasty. All of which is very uncomfortable, and I daresay 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’s a dreadful little man whom indeed he also wants to kick and who’s 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 firmly believes him mad. It’s rather horrid to be living in this way with people one doesn’t know—I mean 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 always sits in her bedroom, which seems so very odd. I should like mamma to ask them to Kingscote, but I’m afraid mamma wouldn’t like the mother, who’s awfully vulgar. The other girl is awfully vulgar herself—she’s travelling about quite alone. I think she’s a middle-class schoolmistress—sacked perhaps for some irregularity; but the other girl (I mean the nicer one, with the objectionable mother) tells me she’s 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’s mad too. He chaffs her tremendously about her radicalism, and he’s so immensely clever that she can’t answer him, though she has a supply of the most extraordinary big words.
There’s also a Frenchman, a nephew or cousin or something of the person of the house, who’s a horrid low cad; and a German professor or doctor who eats with his knife and is a great bore. I’m so very sorry about giving up my visit. I’m afraid you’ll never ask me again.
