Collected Stories

  ‘I’m afraid I haven’t the American toilette,’ said Aurora, looking at the other’s superior splendour.

  ‘Well, your dress was cut in France; any one can see that.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Aurora, with a laugh, ‘my dress was cut in France – at Avranches.’

  ‘Well, you’ve got a lovely figure, any way,’ pursued her companion.

  ‘Ah,’ said the young girl, ‘at Avranches, too, my figure was admired.’ And she looked at me askance, with a certain coquetry. But I was an innocent youth, and I only looked back at her, wondering. She was a great deal nicer than Miss Ruck, and yet Miss Ruck would not have said that. ‘I try to be like an American girl,’ she continued; ‘I do my best, though mamma doesn’t at all encourage it. I am very patriotic. I try to copy them, though mamma has brought me up à la française; that is, as much as one can in pensions. For instance, I have never been out of the house without mamma; oh, never, never. But sometimes I despair; American girls are so wonderfully frank. I can’t be frank, like that. I am always afraid. But I do what I can, as you see. Excusez du peu!’

  I thought this young lady at least as outspoken as most of her unexpatriated sisters; there was something almost comical in her despondency. But she had by no means caught, as it seemed to me, the American tone. Whatever her tone was, however, it had a fascination; there was something dainty about it, and yet it was decidedly audacious.

  The young ladies began to stroll about the garden again, and I enjoyed their society until M. Pigeonneau’s festival came to an end.

  V

  MR RUCK did not take his departure to Appenzell on the morrow, in spite of the eagerness to witness such an event which he had attributed to Mrs Church. He continued, on the contrary, for many days after, to hang about the garden, to wander up to the banker’s and back again, to engage in desultory conversation with his fellow-boarders, and to endeavour to assuage his constitutional restlessness by perusal of the American journals. But on the morrow I had the honour of making Mrs Church’s acquaintance. She came into the salon, after the midday breakfast, with her German octavo under her arm, and she appealed to me for assistance in selecting a quiet corner.

  ‘Would you very kindly,’ she said, ‘move that large fauteuil a little more this way? Not the largest; the one with the little cushion. The fauteuils here are very insufficient; I must ask Madame Beaurepas for another. Thank you; a little more to the left, please; that will do. Are you particularly engaged?’ she inquired, after she had seated herself. ‘If not, I should like to have some conversation with you. It is some time since I have met a young American of your – what shall I call it? – your affiliations. I have learned your name from Madame Beaurepas; I think I used to know some of your people. I don’t know what has become of all my friends. I used to have a charming little circle at home, but now I meet no one I know. Don’t you think there is a great difference between the people one meets and the people one would like to meet? Fortunately, sometimes,’ added my interlocutress graciously, ‘it’s quite the same. I suppose you are a specimen, a favourable specimen,’ she went on, ‘of young America. Tell me, now, what is young America thinking of in these days of ours? What are its feelings, its opinions, its aspirations? What is its ideal?’ I had seated myself near Mrs Church, and she had pointed this interrogation with the gaze of her bright little eyes. I felt it embarrassing to be treated as a favourable specimen of young America, and to be expected to answer for the great republic. Observing my hesitation, Mrs Church clasped her hands on the open page of her book and gave an intense, melancholy smile. ‘Has it an ideal?’ she softly asked. ‘Well, we must talk of this,’ she went on, without insisting. ‘Speak, for the present, for yourself simply. Have you come to Europe with any special design?’

  ‘Nothing to boast of,’ I said. ‘I am studying a little.’

  ‘Ah, I am glad to hear that. You are gathering up a little European culture; that’s what we lack, you know, at home. No individual can do much, of course. But you must not be discouraged; every little counts.’

  ‘I see that you, at least, are doing your part,’ I rejoined gallantly, dropping my eyes on my companion’s learned volume.

  ‘Yes, I frankly admit that I am fond of study. There is no one, after all, like the Germans. That is, for facts. For opinions I by no means always go with them. I form my opinions myself. I am sorry to say, however,’ Mrs Church continued, ‘that I can hardly pretend to diffuse my acquisitions. I am afraid I am sadly selfish; I do little to irrigate the soil. I belong – I frankly confess it – to the class of absentees.’

  ‘I had the pleasure, last evening,’ I said, ‘of making the acquaintance of your daughter. She told me you had been a long time in Europe.’

  Mrs Church smiled benignantly. ‘Can one ever be too long? We shall never leave it.’

  ‘Your daughter won’t like that,’ I said, smiling too.

  ‘Has she been taking you into her confidence? She is a more sensible young lady than she sometimes appears. I have taken great pains with her; she is really –I may be permitted to say it – superbly educated.’

  ‘She seemed to me a very charming girl,’ I rejoined. ‘And I learned that she speaks four languages.’

  ‘It is not only that,’ said Mrs Church, in a tone which suggested that this might be a very superficial species of culture. ‘She has made what we call de fortes études – such as I suppose you are making now. She is familiar with the results of modern science; she keeps pace with the new historical school.’

  ‘Ah,’ said I, ‘she has gone much farther than I!’

  ‘You doubtless think I exaggerate, and you force me, therefore, to mention the fact that I am able to speak of such matters with a certain intelligence.’

  ‘That is very evident,’ I said. ‘But your daughter thinks you ought to take her home.’ I began to fear, as soon as I had uttered these words, that they savoured of treachery to the young lady, but I was reassured by seeing that they produced on her mother’s placid countenance no symptom whatever of irritation.

  ‘My daughter has her little theories,’ Mrs Church observed, ‘she has, I may say, her illusions. And what wonder! What would youth be without its illusions? Aurora has a theory that she would be happier in New York, in Boston, in Philadelphia, than in one of the charming old cities in which our lot is cast. But she is mistaken, that is all. We must allow our children their illusions, must we not? But we must watch over them.’

  Although she herself seemed proof against discomposure, I found something vaguely irritating in her soft, sweet positiveness.

  ‘American cities,’ I said, ‘are the paradise of young girls.’

  ‘Do you mean,’ asked Mrs Church, ‘that the young girls who come from those places are angels?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, resolutely.

  ‘This young lady – what is her odd name? – with whom my daughter has formed a somewhat precipitate acquaintance: is Miss Ruck an angel? But I won’t force you to say anything uncivil. It would be too cruel to make a single exception.’

  ‘Well,’ said I, ‘at any rate, in America young girls have an easier lot. They have much more liberty.’

  My companion laid her hand for an instant on my arm. ‘My dear young friend, I know America, I know the conditions of life there, so well. There is perhaps no subject on which I have reflected more than on our national idiosyncrasies.’

  ‘I am afraid you don’t approve of them,’ said I, a little brutally.

  Brutal indeed my proposition was, and Mrs Church was not prepared to assent to it in this rough shape. She dropped her eyes on her book, with an air of acute meditation. Then, raising them, ‘We are very crude,’ she softly observed – ‘we are very crude.’ Lest even this delicately-uttered statement should seem to savour of the vice that she deprecated, she went on to explain. ‘There are two classes of minds, you know – those that hold back, and those that push forward. My daughter and I are not pushers; we move with little steps. We like the old, trodden
paths; we like the old, old world.’

  ‘Ah,’ said I, ‘you know what you like; there is a great virtue in that.’

  ‘Yes, we like Europe; we prefer it. We like the opportunities of Europe; we like the rest. There is so much in that, you know. The world seems to me to be hurrying, pressing forward so fiercely, without knowing where it is going. “Whither?” I often ask, in my little quiet way. But I have yet to learn that any one can tell me.’

  ‘You’re a great conservative,’ I observed, while I wondered whether I myself could answer this inquiry.

  Mrs Church gave me a smile which was equivalent to a confession. ‘I wish to retain a little – just a little. Surely, we have done so much, we might rest a while; we might pause. That is all my feeling – just to stop a little, to wait! I have seen so many changes. I wish to draw in, to draw in – to hold back, to hold back.’

  ‘You shouldn’t hold your daughter back!’ I answered, laughing and getting up. I got up, not by way of terminating our interview, for I perceived Mrs Church’s exposition of her views to be by no means complete, but in order to offer a chair to Miss Aurora, who at this moment drew near. She thanked me and remained standing, but without at first, as I noticed, meeting her mother’s eye.

  ‘You have been engaged with your new acquaintance, my dear?’ this lady inquired.

  ‘Yes, mamma dear,’ said the young girl, gently.

  ‘Do you find her very edifying?’

  Aurora was silent a moment; then she looked at her mother. ‘I don’t know, mamma; she is very fresh.’

  I ventured to indulge in a respectful laugh. ‘Your mother has another word for that. But I must not,’ I added, ‘be crude.’

  ‘Ah, vous m’en voulez?’ inquired Mrs Church. ‘And yet I can’t pretend I said it in jest. I feel it too much. We have been having a little social discussion,’ she said to her daughter. ‘There is still so much to be said. And I wish,’ she continued, turning to me, ‘that I could give you our point of view. Don’t you wish, Aurora, that we could give him our point of view?’

  ‘Yes, mamma,’ said Aurora.

  ‘We consider ourselves very fortunate in our point of view, don’t we dearest?’ mamma demanded.

  ‘Very fortunate, indeed, mamma.’

  ‘You see we have acquired an insight into European life,’ the elder lady pursued. ‘We have our place at many a European fireside. We find so much to esteem – so much to enjoy. Do we not, my daughter?’

  ‘So very much, mamma,’ the young girl went on, with a sort of inscrutable submissiveness. I wondered at it; it offered so strange a contrast to the mocking freedom of her tone the night before; but while I wondered, I was careful not to let my perplexity take precedence of my good manners.

  ‘I don’t know what you ladies may have found at European firesides,’ I said, ‘but there can be very little doubt what you have left there.’

  Mrs Church got up, to acknowledge my compliment. ‘We have spent some charming hours. And that reminds me that we have just now such an occasion in prospect. We are to call upon some Genevese friends – the family of the Pasteur Galopin. They are to go with us to the old library at the Hôtel de Ville, where there are some very interesting documents of the period of the Reformation; we are promised a glimpse of some manuscripts of poor Servetus, the antagonist and victim, you know, of Calvin. Here, of course, one can only speak of Calvin under one’s breath, but some day, when we are more private,’ and Mrs Church looked round the room, ‘I will give you my view of him. I think it has a touch of originality. Aurora is familiar with, are you not, my daughter, familiar with my view of Calvin?’

  ‘Yes, mamma,’ said Aurora, with docility, while the two ladies went to prepare for their visit to the Pasteur Galopin.

  VI

  ‘SHE has demanded a new lamp; I told you she would!’ This communication was made me by Madame Beaurepas a couple of days later. ‘And she has asked for a new tapis de lit, and she has requested me to provide Célestine with a pair of light shoes. I told her that, as a general thing, cooks are not shod with satin. That poor Célestine!’

  ‘Mrs Church may be exacting,’ I said, ‘but she is a clever little woman.’

  ‘A lady who pays but five francs and a half shouldn’t be too clever. C’est déplacé. I don’t like the type.’

  ‘What type do you call Mrs Church’s?’

  ‘Mon Dieu,’ said Madame Beaurepas, ‘c’est une de ces mamans comme vous en avez, qui promenent leur fille.’

  ‘She is trying to marry her daughter? I don’t think she’s of that sort.’

  But Madame Beaurepas shrewdly held to her idea. ‘She is trying it in her own way; she does it very quietly. She doesn’t want an American; she wants a foreigner. And she wants a mari sérieux. But she is travelling over Europe in search of one. She would like a magistrate.’

  ‘A magistrate?’

  ‘A gros bonnet of some kind; a professor or a deputy.’

  ‘I am very sorry for the poor girl,’ I said, laughing.

  ‘You needn’t pity her too much; she’s a sly thing.’

  ‘Ah, for that, no!’ I exclaimed. ‘She’s a charming girl.’

  Madame Beaurepas gave an elderly grin. ‘She has hooked you, eh? But the mother won’t have you.’

  I developed my idea, without heeding this insinuation. ‘She’s a charming girl, but she is a little odd. It’s a necessity of her position. She is less submissive to her mother than she has to pretend to be. That’s in self-defence; it’s to make her life possible.’

  ‘She wishes to get away from her mother,’ continued Madame Beaurepas. ‘She wishes to courir les champs.’

  ‘She wishes to go to America, her native country.’

  ‘Precisely. And she will certainly go.’

  ‘I hope so!’ I rejoined.

  ‘Some fine morning – or evening – she will go off with a young man; probably with a young American.’

  ‘Allons donc!’ said I, with disgust.

  ‘That will be quite America enough,’ pursued my cynical hostess. ‘I have kept a boarding-house for forty years. I have seen that type.’

  ‘Have such things as that happened chez vous?’ I asked.

  ‘Everything has happened chez moi. But nothing has happened more than once. Therefore this won’t happen here. It will be at the next place they go to, or the next. Besides, here there is no young American pour la partie – none except you, monsieur. You are susceptible, but you are too reasonable.’

  ‘It’s lucky for you I am reasonable,’ I answered. ‘It’s thanks to that fact that you escape a scolding.’

  One morning, about this time, instead of coming back to breakfast at the pension, after my lectures at the Academy, I went to partake of this meal with a fellow-student, at an ancient eating-house in the collegiate quarter. On separating from my friend, I took my way along that charming public walk known in Geneva as the Treille, a shady terrace, of immense elevation, overhanging a portion of the lower town. There are spreading trees and well-worn benches, and over the tiles and chimneys of the ville basse there is a view of the snow-crested Alps. On the other side, as you turn your back to the view, the promenade is overlooked by a row of tall, sober-faced hôtels, the dwellings of the local aristocracy. I was very fond of the place, and often resorted to it to stimulate my sense of the picturesque. Presently, as I lingered there on this occasion, I became aware that a gentleman was seated not far from where I stood, with his back to the Alpine chain, which this morning was brilliant and distinct, and a newspaper, unfolded, in his lap. He was not reading, however; he was staring before him in gloomy contemplation. I don’t know whether I recognised first the newspaper or its proprietor; one, in either case, would have helped me to identify the other. One was the New York Herald; the other, of course, was Mr Ruck. As I drew nearer, he transferred his eyes from the stony, high-featured masks of the grey old houses on the other side of the terrace, and I knew by the expression of his face just how he had been feeling about th
ese distinguished abodes. He had made up his mind that their proprietors were a dusky, narrow-minded, unsociable company; plunging their roots into a superfluous past. I endeavoured, therefore, as I sat down beside him, to suggest something more impersonal.

  ‘That’s a beautiful view of the Alps,’ I observed.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr Ruck, without moving, ‘I’ve examined it. Fine thing, in its way – fine thing. Beauties of nature – that sort of thing. We came up on purpose to look at it.’

  ‘Your ladies, then, have been with you?’

  ‘Yes; they are just walking round. They’re awfully restless. They keep saying I’m restless, but I’m as quiet as a sleeping child to them. It takes,’ he added in a moment, dryly, ‘the form of shopping.’

  ‘Are they shopping now?’

  ‘Well, if they ain’t, they’re trying to. They told me to sit here a while, and they’d just walk round. I generally know what that means. But that’s the principal interest for ladies,’ he added, retracting his irony. ‘We thought we’d come up here and see the cathedral; Mrs Church seemed to think it a dead loss that we shouldn’t see the cathedral, especially as we hadn’t seen many yet. And I had to come up to the banker’s any way. Well, we certainly saw the cathedral. I don’t know as we are any the better for it, and I don’t know as I should know it again. But we saw it, any way. I don’t know as I should want to go there regularly; but I suppose it will give us, in conversation, a kind of hold on Mrs Church, eh? I guess we want something of that kind. Well,’ Mr Ruck continued, ‘I stepped in at the banker’s to see if there wasn’t something, and they handed me out a Herald.’

  ‘I hope the Herald is full of good news,’ I said.

  ‘Can’t say it is. D—d bad news.’

  ‘Political,’ I inquired, ‘or commercial?’

  ‘Oh, hang politics! It’s business, sir. There ain’t any business. It’s all gone to,’ – and Mr Ruck became profane. ‘Nine failures in one day. What do you say to that?’