THE POINT OF VIEW
by Henry James
I. FROM MISS AURORA CHURCH, AT SEA, TO MISS WHITESIDE, IN PARIS.
. . . My dear child, the bromide of sodium (if that's what you call
it) proved perfectly useless. I don't mean that it did me no good,
but that I never had occasion to take the bottle out of my bag. It
might have done wonders for me if I had needed it; but I didn't,
simply because I have been a wonder myself. Will you believe that I
have spent the whole voyage on deck, in the most animated
conversation and exercise? Twelve times round the deck make a mile,
I believe; and by this measurement I have been walking twenty miles
a day. And down to every meal, if you please, where I have
displayed the appetite of a fish-wife. Of course the weather has
been lovely; so there's no great merit. The wicked old Atlantic has
been as blue as the sapphire in my only ring (a rather good one),
and as smooth as the slippery floor of Madame Galopin's dining-room.
We have been for the last three hours in sight of land, and we are
soon to enter the Bay of New York, which is said to be exquisitely
beautiful. But of course you recall it, though they say that
everything changes so fast over here. I find I don't remember
anything, for my recollections of our voyage to Europe, so many
years ago, are exceedingly dim; I only have a painful impression
that mamma shut me up for an hour every day in the state-room, and
made me learn by heart some religious poem. I was only five years
old, and I believe that as a child I was extremely timid; on the
other hand, mamma, as you know, was dreadfully severe. She is
severe to this day; only I have become indifferent; I have been so
pinched and pushed--morally speaking, bien entendu. It is true,
however, that there are children of five on the vessel today who
have been extremely conspicuous--ranging all over the ship, and
always under one's feet. Of course they are little compatriots,
which means that they are little barbarians. I don't mean that all
our compatriots are barbarous; they seem to improve, somehow, after
their first communion. I don't know whether it's that ceremony that
improves them, especially as so few of them go in for it; but the
women are certainly nicer than the little girls; I mean, of course,
in proportion, you know. You warned me not to generalise, and you
see I have already begun, before we have arrived. But I suppose
there is no harm in it so long as it is favourable. Isn't it
favourable when I say that I have had the most lovely time? I have
never had so much liberty in my life, and I have been out alone, as
you may say, every day of the voyage. If it is a foretaste of what
is to come, I shall take to that very kindly. When I say that I
have been out alone, I mean that we have always been two. But we
two were alone, so to speak, and it was not like always having
mamma, or Madame Galopin, or some lady in the pension, or the
temporary cook. Mamma has been very poorly; she is so very well on
land, it's a wonder to see her at all taken down. She says,
however, that it isn't the being at sea; it's, on the contrary,
approaching the land. She is not in a hurry to arrive; she says
that great disillusions await us. I didn't know that she had any
illusions--she's so stern, so philosophic. She is very serious; she
sits for hours in perfect silence, with her eyes fixed on the
horizon. I heard her say yesterday to an English gentleman--a very
odd Mr. Antrobus, the only person with whom she converses--that she
was afraid she shouldn't like her native land, and that she
shouldn't like not liking it. But this is a mistake--she will like
that immensely (I mean not liking it). If it should prove at all
agreeable, mamma will be furious, for that will go against her
system. You know all about mamma's system; I have explained that so
often. It goes against her system that we should come back at all;
that was MY system--I have had at last to invent one! She consented
to come only because she saw that, having no dot, I should never
marry in Europe; and I pretended to be immensely pre-occupied with
this idea, in order to make her start. In reality cela m'est
parfaitement egal. I am only afraid I shall like it too much (I
don't mean marriage, of course, but one's native land). Say what
you will, it's a charming thing to go out alone, and I have given
notice to mamma that I mean to be always en course. When I tell her
that, she looks at me in the same silence; her eye dilates, and then
she slowly closes it. It's as if the sea were affecting her a
little, though it's so beautifully calm. I ask her if she will try
my bromide, which is there in my bag; but she motions me off, and I
begin to walk again, tapping my little boot-soles upon the smooth
clean deck. This allusion to my boot-soles, by the way, is not
prompted by vanity; but it's a fact that at sea one's feet and one's
shoes assume the most extraordinary importance, so that we should
take the precaution to have nice ones. They are all you seem to see
as the people walk about the deck; you get to know them intimately,
and to dislike some of them so much. I am afraid you will think
that I have already broken loose; and for aught I know, I am writing
as a demoiselle bien-elevee should not write. I don't know whether
it's the American air; if it is, all I can say is that the American
air is very charming. It makes me impatient and restless, and I sit
scribbling here because I am so eager to arrive, and the time passes
better if I occupy myself. I am in the saloon, where we have our
meals, and opposite to me is a big round porthole, wide open, to let
in the smell of the land. Every now and then I rise a little and
look through it, to see whether we are arriving. I mean in the Bay,
you know, for we shall not come up to the city till dark. I don't
want to lose the Bay; it appears that it's so wonderful. I don't
exactly understand what it contains, except some beautiful islands;
but I suppose you will know all about that. It is easy to see that
these are the last hours, for all the people about me are writing
letters to put into the post as soon as we come up to the dock. I
believe they are dreadful at the custom-house, and you will remember
how many new things you persuaded mamma that (with my pre-occupation
of marriage) I should take to this country, where even the prettiest
girls are expected not to go unadorned. We ruined ourselves in
Paris (that is part of mamma's solemnity); mais au moins je serai
belle! Moreover, I believe that mamma is prepared to say or to do
anything that may be necessary for escaping from their odious
duties; as she very justly remarks, she can't afford to be ruined
twice. I don't know how one approaches these terrible douaniers,
but I mean to invent something very charming. I mean to say,
"Voyons, Messieurs, a young girl like me, brought up in the
strictest foreign traditions, kept always in the background by a
very superior mother--la voila; you can see for yourself!--what is
it possible that she should attempt to smuggle in? Nothing but a
few simple relics of her convent!" I won't tell them that my
convent was called the Magasin du Bon Marche. Mamma began to scold
me three days ago for insisting on so many trunks, and the truth is
that, between us, we have not fewer than seven. For relics, that's
a good many! We are all writing very long letters--or at least we
are writing a great number. There is no news of the Bay as yet.
Mr. Antrobus, mamma's friend, opposite to me, is beginning on his
ninth. He is an Honourable, and a Member of Parliament; he has
written, during the voyage, about a hundred letters, and he seems
greatly alarmed at the number of stamps he will have to buy when he
arrives. He is full of information; but he has not enough, for he
asks as many questions as mamma when she goes to hire apartments.
He is going to "look into" various things; he speaks as if they had
a little hole for the purpose. He walks almost as much as I, and he
has very big shoes. He asks questions even of me, and I tell him
again and again that I know nothing about America. But it makes no
difference; he always begins again, and, indeed, it is not strange
that he should find my ignorance incredible. "Now, how would it be
in one of your South-Western States?"--that's his favourite way of
opening conversation. Fancy me giving an account of the South-
Western States! I tell him he had better ask mamma--a little to
tease that lady, who knows no more about such places than I. Mr.
Antrobus is very big and black; he speaks with a sort of brogue; he
has a wife and ten children; he is not very romantic. But he has
lots of letters to people la-bas (I forget that we are just
arriving), and mamma, who takes an interest in him in spite of his
views (which are dreadfully advanced, and not at all like mamma's
own), has promised to give him the entree to the best society. I
don't know what she knows about the best society over here today,
for we have not kept up our connections at all, and no one will know
(or, I am afraid, care) anything about us. She has an idea that we
shall be immensely recognised; but really, except the poor little
Rucks, who are bankrupt, and, I am told, in no society at all, I
don't know on whom we can count. C'est egal. Mamma has an idea
that, whether or not we appreciate America ourselves, we shall at
least be universally appreciated. It's true that we have begun to
be, a little; you would see that by the way that Mr. Cockerel and
Mr. Louis Leverett are always inviting me to walk. Both of these
gentlemen, who are Americans, have asked leave to call upon me in
New York, and I have said, Mon Dieu, oui, if it's the custom of the
country. Of course I have not dared to tell this to mamma, who
flatters herself that we have brought with us in our trunks a
complete set of customs of our own, and that we shall only have to
shake them out a little and put them on when we arrive. If only the
two gentlemen I just spoke of don't call at the same time, I don't
think I shall be too much frightened. If they do, on the other
hand, I won't answer for it. They have a particular aversion to
each other, and they are ready to fight about poor little me. I am
only the pretext, however; for, as Mr. Leverett says, it's really
the opposition of temperaments. I hope they won't cut each other's
throats, for I am not crazy about either of them. They are very
well for the deck of a ship, but I shouldn't care about them in a
salon; they are not at all distinguished. They think they are, but
they are not; at least Mr. Louis Leverett does; Mr. Cockerel doesn't
appear to care so much. They are extremely different (with their
opposed temperaments), and each very amusing for a while; but I
should get dreadfully tired of passing my life with either. Neither
has proposed that, as yet; but it is evidently what they are coming
to. It will be in a great measure to spite each other, for I think
that au fond they don't quite believe in me. If they don't, it's
the only point on which they agree. They hate each other awfully;
they take such different views. That is, Mr. Cockerel hates Mr.
Leverett--he calls him a sickly little ass; he says that his
opinions are half affectation, and the other half dyspepsia. Mr.
Leverett speaks of Mr. Cockerel as a "strident savage," but he
declares he finds him most diverting. He says there is nothing in
which we can't find a certain entertainment, if we only look at it
in the right way, and that we have no business with either hating or
loving; we ought only to strive to understand. To understand is to
forgive, he says. That is very pretty, but I don't like the
suppression of our affections, though I have no desire to fix mine
upon Mr. Leverett. He is very artistic, and talks like an article
in some review, he has lived a great deal in Paris, and Mr. Cockerel
says that is what has made him such an idiot. That is not
complimentary to you, dear Louisa, and still less to your brilliant
brother; for Mr. Cockerel explains that he means it (the bad effect
of Paris) chiefly of the men. In fact, he means the bad effect of
Europe altogether. This, however, is compromising to mamma; and I
am afraid there is no doubt that (from what I have told him) he
thinks mamma also an idiot. (I am not responsible, you know--I have
always wanted to go home.) If mamma knew him, which she doesn't,
for she always closes her eyes when I pass on his arm, she would
think him disgusting. Mr. Leverett, however, tells me he is nothing
to what we shall see yet. He is from Philadelphia (Mr. Cockerel);
he insists that we shall go and see Philadelphia, but mamma says she
saw it in 1855, and it was then affreux. Mr. Cockerel says that
mamma is evidently not familiar with the march of improvement in
this country; he speaks of 1855 as if it were a hundred years ago.
Mamma says she knows it goes only too fast--it goes so fast that it
has time to do nothing well; and then Mr. Cockerel, who, to do him
justice, is perfectly good-natured, remarks that she had better wait
till she has been ashore and seen the improvements. Mamma rejoins
that she sees them from here, the improvements, and that they give
her a sinking of the heart. (This little exchange of ideas is
carried on through me; they have never spoken to each other.) Mr.
Cockerel, as I say, is extremely good-natured, and he carries out
what I have heard said about the men in America being very
considerate of the women. They evidently listen to them a great
deal; they don't contradict them, but it seems to me that this is
rather negative. There is very little gallantry in not
contradicting one; and it strikes me that there are some things the
men don't express. There are others on the ship whom I've noticed.
It's as if they were all one's brothers or one's cousins. But I
promised you not to generalise, and perhaps there will be more
expression when we arrive. Mr. Cockerel returns to America, after a
general tour, with a renewed conviction that this is the only
country. I left him on deck an hour ago looking at the coast-line
with an opera-glass, and saying it was the prettiest thing he had
seen in all his tour. When I remarked that the coast seemed rather
low, he said it would be all the easier to get ashore; Mr. Leverett
doesn't seem in a hurry to get ashore; he is sitting within sight of
me in a corner of the saloon--writing letters, I suppose, but
looking, from the way he bites his pen and rolls his eyes about, as
if he were composing a sonnet and waiting for a rhyme. Perhaps the
sonnet is addressed to me; but I forget that he suppresses the
affections! The only person in whom mamma takes much interest is
the great French critic, M. Lejaune, whom we have the honour to
carry with us. We have read a few of his works, though mamma
disapproves of his tendencies and thinks him a dreadful materialist.
We have read them for the style; you know he is one of the new
Academicians. He is a Frenchman like any other, except that he is
rather more quiet; and he has a gray mustache and the ribbon of the
Legion of Honour. He is the first French writer of distinction who
has been to America since De Tocqueville; the French, in such
matters, are not very enterprising. Also, he has the air of
wondering what he is doing dans cette galere. He has come with his
beau-frere, who is an engineer, and is looking after some mines, and
he talks with scarcely any one else, as he speaks no English, and
appears to take for granted that no one speaks French. Mamma would
be delighted to assure him of the contrary; she has never conversed
with an Academician. She always makes a little vague inclination,
with a smile, when he passes her, and he answers with a most
respectful bow; but it goes no farther, to mamma's disappointment.
He is always with the beau-frere, a rather untidy, fat, bearded man,
decorated, too, always smoking and looking at the feet of the
ladies, whom mamma (though she has very good feet) has not the
courage to aborder. I believe M. Lejaune is going to write a book
about America, and Mr. Leverett says it will be terrible. Mr.
Leverett has made his acquaintance, and says M. Lejaune will put him
into his book; he says the movement of the French intellect is
superb. As a general thing, he doesn't care for Academicians, but
he thinks M. Lejaune is an exception, he is so living, so personal.
I asked Mr. Cockerel what he thought of M. Lejaune's plan of writing
a book, and he answered that he didn't see what it mattered to him
that a Frenchman the more should make a monkey of himself. I asked
him why he hadn't written a book about Europe, and he said that, in
the first place, Europe isn't worth writing about, and, in the
second, if he said what he thought, people would think it was a
joke. He said they are very superstitious about Europe over here;
he wants people in America to behave as if Europe didn't exist. I
told this to Mr. Leverett, and he answered that if Europe didn't
exist America wouldn't, for Europe keeps us alive by buying our
corn. He said, also, that the trouble with America in the future
will be that she will produce things in such enormous quantities
that there won't be enough people in the rest of the world to buy
them, and that we shall be left with our productions--most of them
very hideous--on our hands. I asked him if he thought corn a
hideous production, and he replied that there is nothing more
unbeautiful than too much food. I think that to feed the world too
well, however, that will be, after all, a beau role. Of course I
don't understand these things, and I don't believe Mr. Leverett
does; but Mr. Cockerel seems to know what he is talking about, and
he says that America is complete in herself. I don't know exactly
what he means, but he speaks as if human affairs had somehow moved
over to this side of the world. It may be a very good place for
them, and Heaven knows I am extremely tired of Europe, which mamma
has always insisted so on my appreciating; but I don't think I like
the idea of our being so completely cut off. Mr. Cockerel says it
is not we that are cut off, but Europe, and he seems to think that
Europe has deserved it somehow. That may be; our life over there
was sometimes extremely tiresome, though mamma says it is now that
our real fatigues will begin. I like to abuse those dreadful old
countries myself, but I am not sure that I am pleased when others do
the same. We had some rather pretty moments there, after all; and
at Piacenza we certainly lived on four francs a day. Mamma is
already in a terrible state of mind about the expenses here; she is
frightened by what people on the ship (the few that she has spoken
to) have told her. There is one comfort, at any rate--we have spent
so much money in coming here that we shall have none left to get
away. I am scribbling along, as you see, to occupy me till we get
news of the islands. Here comes Mr. Cockerel to bring it. Yes,
they are in sight; he tells me that they are lovelier than ever, and
that I must come right up right away. I suppose you will think that
I am already beginning to use the language of the country. It is
certain that at the end of a month I shall speak nothing else. I
have picked up every dialect, wherever we have travelled; you have
heard my Platt-Deutsch and my Neapolitan. But, voyons un peu the
Bay! I have just called to Mr. Leverett to remind him of the
islands. "The islands--the islands? Ah, my dear young lady, I have
seen Capri, I have seen Ischia!" Well, so have I, but that doesn't
prevent . . . (A little later.)--I have seen the islands; they are
rather queer.
