CHAPTER V
FROM MIRANDA HOPE TO HER MOTHER.
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 passe, 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.
