Chapter III: From Miss Violet Ray in Paris to Miss Agnes Rich in New York

_September_ 21.

We had hardly got here when father received a telegram saying he would have to come right back to New York. It was for something about his business—I don’t know exactly what; you know I never understand those things and never want to. We had just got settled at the hotel, in some charming rooms, and mother and I, as you may imagine, were greatly annoyed. Father’s extremely fussy, as you know, and his first idea, as soon as he found he should have to go back, was that we should go back with him. He declared he’d never leave us in Paris alone and that we must return and come out again. I don’t know what he thought would happen to us; I suppose he thought we should be too extravagant. It’s father’s theory that we’re always running-up bills, whereas a little observation would show him that we wear the same old _rags_ FOR MONTHS. But father has no observation; he has nothing but blind theories. Mother and I, however, have fortunately a great deal of _practice_, and we succeeded in making him understand that we wouldn’t budge from Paris and that we’d rather be chopped into small pieces than cross that squalid sea again. So at last he decided to go back alone and to leave us here for three months. Only, to show you how fussy he is, he refused to let us stay at the hotel and insisted that we should go into a _family_. I don’t know what put such an idea into his head unless it was some advertisement that he saw in one of the American papers that are published here. Don’t think you can escape from them anywhere.

There are families here who receive American and English people to live with them under the pretence of teaching them French. You may imagine what people they are—I mean the families themselves. But the Americans who choose this peculiar manner of seeing Paris must be actually just as bad. Mother and I were horrified—we declared that _main force_ shouldn’t remove us from the hotel. But father has a way of arriving at his ends which is more effective than violence. He worries and goes on; he “nags,” as we used to say at school; and when mother and I are quite worn to the bone his triumph is assured. Mother’s more quickly ground down than I, and she ends by siding with father; so that at last when they combine their forces against poor little me I’ve naturally to succumb. You should have heard the way father went on about this “family” plan; he talked to every one he saw about it; he used to go round to the banker’s and talk to the people there—the people in the post-office; he used to try and exchange ideas about it with the waiters at the hotel. He said it would be more safe, more respectable, more economical; that I should pick up more French; that mother would learn how a French household’s conducted; that he should feel more easy, and that we ourselves should enjoy it when we came to see. All this meant nothing, but that made no difference. It’s positively cruel his harping on our pinching and saving when every one knows that business in America has completely recovered, that the prostration’s all over and that _immense fortunes_ are being made. We’ve been depriving ourselves of the commonest necessities for the last five years, and I supposed we came abroad to reap the benefits of it.

As for my French it’s already much better than that of most of our helpless compatriots, who are all unblushingly destitute of the very rudiments. (I assure you I’m often surprised at my own fluency, and when I get a little more practice in the circumflex accents and the genders and the idioms I shall quite hold my own.) To make a long story short, however, father carried his point as usual; mother basely deserted me at the last moment, and after holding out alone for three days I told them to do with me what they would. Father lost three steamers in succession by remaining in Paris to argue with me. You know he’s like the schoolmaster in Goldsmith’s _Deserted Village_—“e’en though vanquished” he always argues still. He and mother went to look at some seventeen families—they had got the addresses somewhere—while I retired to my sofa and would have nothing to do with it. At last they made arrangements and I was transported, as in chains, to the establishment from which I now write you. I address you from the bosom of a Parisian ménage—from the depths of a second-rate boarding-house.

Father only left Paris after he had seen us what he calls comfortably settled here and had informed Madame de Maisonrouge—the mistress of the establishment, the head of the “family”—that he wished my French pronunciation especially attended to. The pronunciation, as it happens, is just what I’m most at home in; if he had said my genders or my subjunctives or my idioms there would have been some sense. But poor father has no native tact, and this deficiency has become flagrant since we’ve been in Europe. He’ll be absent, however, for three months, and mother and I shall breathe more freely; the situation will be less tense. I must confess that we breathe more freely than I expected in this place, where we’ve been about a week. I was sure before we came that it would prove to be an establishment of the _lowest description_; but I must say that in this respect I’m agreeably disappointed. The French spirit is able to throw a sort of grace even over a swindle of this general order. Of course it’s very disagreeable to live with strangers, but as, after all, if I weren’t staying with Madame de Maisonrouge I shouldn’t be _vautrée_ in the Faubourg Saint-Germain, I don’t know that from the point of view of exclusiveness I’m much the loser.

Our rooms are very prettily arranged and the table’s remarkably good. Mamma thinks the whole thing—the place and the people, the manners and customs—very amusing; but mamma can be put off with any imposture. As for me, you know, all that I ask is to be let alone and not to have people’s society _forced upon me_. I’ve never wanted for society of my own choosing, and, so long as I retain possession of my faculties, I don’t suppose I ever shall. As I said, however, the place seems to scramble along, and I succeed in doing as I please, which, you know, is my most cherished pursuit. Madame de Maisonrouge has a great deal of tact—much more than poor floundering father. She’s what they call here a _grande belle femme_, which means that she’s high-shouldered and short-necked and literally hideous, but with a certain quantity of false type. She has a good many clothes, some rather bad; but a very good manner—only one, and worked to death, but intended to be of the best. Though she’s a very good imitation of a _femme du monde_ I never see her behind the dinner-table in the evening, never see her smile and bow and duck as the people come in, really glaring all the while at the dishes and the servants, without thinking of a _dame de comptoir_ blooming in a corner of a shop or a restaurant. I’m sure that in spite of her _beau nom_ she was once a paid book-keeper. I’m also sure that in spite of her smiles and the pretty things she says to every one, she hates us all and would like to murder us. She is a hard clever Frenchwoman who would like to amuse herself and enjoy her Paris, and she must be furious at having to pass her time grinning at specimens of the stupid races who mumble broken French at her. Some day she’ll poison the soup or the _vin rouge_, but I hope that won’t be until after mother and I shall have left her. She has two daughters who, except that one’s decidedly pretty, are meagre imitations of herself.

The “family,” for the rest, consists altogether of our beloved compatriots and of still more beloved Englanders. There’s an Englander with his sister, and they seem rather decent. He’s remarkably handsome, but excessively affected and patronising, especially to us Americans; and I hope to have a chance of biting his head off before long. The sister’s very pretty and apparently very nice, but in costume Britannia incarnate. There’s a very pleasant little Frenchman—when they’re nice they’re charming—and a German doctor, a big blond man who looks like a great white bull; and two Americans besides mother and me. One of them’s a young man from Boston—an esthetic young man who talks about its being “a real Corot day,” and a young woman—a girl, a female, I don’t know what to call her—from Vermont or Minnesota or some such place. This young woman’s the most extraordinary specimen of self-complacent provinciality that I’ve ever encountered; she’s really too horrible and too humiliating. I’ve been three times to Clémentine about your underskirt, etc.