Генри Джеймс
The Pension Beaurepas
Mr. Ruck presently came out of the salon, having concluded his interview with Mrs. Church. Through the open window I saw the latter lady sitting under the lamp with her German octavo, while Mrs. Ruck, established, empty-handed, in an arm-chair near her, gazed at her with an air of fascination.
"Well, I told you she would know what I want," said Mr. Ruck. "She says I want to go up to Appenzell, wherever that is; that I want to drink whey and live in a high latitude—what did she call it?—a high altitude. She seemed to think we ought to leave for Appenzell to- morrow; she'd got it all fixed. She says this ain't a high enough lat—a high enough altitude. And she says I mustn't go too high either; that would be just as bad; she seems to know just the right figure. She says she'll give me a list of the hotels where we must stop, on the way to Appenzell. I asked her if she didn't want to go with as, but she says she'd rather sit still and read. I expect she's a big reader."
The daughter of this accomplished woman now reappeared, in company with Miss Ruck, with whom she had been strolling through the outlying parts of the garden.
"Well," said Miss Ruck, glancing at the red paper lanterns, "are they trying to stick the flower-pots into the trees?"
"It's an illumination in honour of our arrival," the other young girl rejoined. "It's a triumph over Madame Chamousset."
"Meanwhile, at the Pension Chamousset," I ventured to suggest, "they have put out their lights; they are sitting in darkness, lamenting your departure."
She looked at me, smiling; she was standing in the light that came from the house. M. Pigeonneau, meanwhile, who had been awaiting his chance, advanced to Miss Ruck with his glass of syrup. "I have kept it for you, Mademoiselle," he said; "I have jealously guarded it. It is very delicious!"
Miss Ruck looked at him and his syrup, without any motion to take the glass. "Well, I guess it's sour," she said in a moment; and she gave a little shake of her head.
M. Pigeonneau stood staring with his syrup in his hand; then he slowly turned away. He looked about at the rest of us, as if to appeal from Miss Ruck's insensibility, and went to deposit his rejected tribute on a bench.
"Won't you give it to me?" asked Miss Church, in faultless French.
"J'adore le sirop, moi."
M. Pigeonneau came back with alacrity, and presented the glass with a very low bow. "I adore good manners," murmured the old man.
This incident caused me to look at Miss Church with quickened interest. She was not strikingly pretty, but in her charming irregular face there was something brilliant and ardent. Like her mother, she was very simply dressed.
"She wants to go to America, and her mother won't let her," said Miss
Sophy to me, explaining her companion's situation.
"I am very sorry—for America," I answered, laughing.
"Well, I don't want to say anything against your mother, but I think it's shameful," Miss Ruck pursued.
"Mamma has very good reasons; she will tell you them all."
"Well, I'm sure I don't want to hear them," said Miss Ruck. "You have got a right to go to your own country; every one has a right to go to their own country."
"Mamma is not very patriotic," said Aurora Church, smiling.
"Well, I call that dreadful," her companion declared. "I have heard that there are some Americans like that, but I never believed it."
"There are all sorts of Americans," I said, laughing.
"Aurora's one of the right sort," rejoined Miss Ruck, who had apparently become very intimate with her new friend.
"Are you very patriotic?" I asked of the young girl.
"She's right down homesick," said Miss Sophy; "she's dying to go. If
I were you my mother would have to take me."
"Mamma is going to take me to Dresden."
"Well, I declare I never heard of anything so dreadful!" cried Miss
Ruck. "It's like something in a story."
"I never heard there was anything very dreadful in Dresden," I interposed.
Miss Ruck looked at me a moment. "Well, I don't believe YOU are a good American," she replied, "and I never supposed you were. You had better go in there and talk to Mrs. Church."
"Dresden is really very nice, isn't it?" I asked of her companion.
"It isn't nice if you happen to prefer New York," said Miss Sophy.
"Miss Church prefers New York. Tell him you are dying to see New
York; it will make him angry," she went on.
"I have no desire to make him angry," said Aurora, smiling.
"It is only Miss Ruck who can do that," I rejoined. "Have you been a long time in Europe?"
"Always."
"I call that wicked!" Miss Sophy declared.
"You might be in a worse place," I continued. "I find Europe very interesting."
Miss Ruck gave a little laugh. "I was saying that you wanted to pass for a European."
"Yes, I want to pass for a Dalmatian."
Miss Ruck looked at me a moment. "Well, you had better not come home," she said. "No one will speak to you."
"Were you born in these countries?" I asked of her companion.
"Oh, no; I came to Europe when I was a small child. But I remember
America a little, and it seems delightful."
"Wait till you see it again. It's just too lovely," said Miss Sophy.
"It's the grandest country in the world," I added.
Miss Ruck began to toss her head. "Come away, my dear," she said. "If there's a creature I despise it's a man that tries to say funny things about his own country."
"Don't you think one can be tired of Europe?" Aurora asked, lingering.
"Possibly—after many years."
"Father was tired of it after three weeks," said Miss Ruck.
"I have been here sixteen years," her friend went on, looking at me with a charming intentness, as if she had a purpose in speaking. "It used to be for my education. I don't know what it's for now."
"She's beautifully educated," said Miss Ruck. "She knows four languages."
"I am not very sure that I know English."
"You should go to Boston!" cried Miss Sophy. "They speak splendidly in Boston."
"C'est mon reve," said Aurora, still looking at me.
"Have you been all over Europe," I asked—"in all the different countries?"
She hesitated a moment. "Everywhere that there's a pension. Mamma is devoted to pensions. We have lived, at one time or another, in every pension in Europe."
"Well, I should think you had seen about enough," said Miss Ruck.
"It's a delightful way of seeing Europe," Aurora rejoined, with her brilliant smile. "You may imagine how it has attached me to the different countries. I have such charming souvenirs! There is a pension awaiting us now at Dresden,—eight francs a day, without wine. That's rather dear. Mamma means to make them give us wine. Mamma is a great authority on pensions; she is known, that way, all over Europe. Last winter we were in Italy, and she discovered one at Piacenza,—four francs a day. We made economies."
"Your mother doesn't seem to mingle much," observed Miss Ruck, glancing through the window at the scholastic attitude of Mrs. Church.
"No, she doesn't mingle, except in the native society. Though she lives in pensions, she detests them."
"Why does she live in them, then?" asked Miss Sophy, rather resentfully.
"Oh, because we are so poor; it's the cheapest way to live. We have tried having a cook, but the cook always steals. Mamma used to set me to watch her; that's the way I passed my jeunesse—my belle jeunesse. We are frightfully poor," the young girl went on, with the same strange frankness—a curious mixture of girlish grace and conscious cynicism. "Nous n'avons pas le sou. That's one of the reasons we don't go back to America; mamma says we can't afford to live there."
"Well, any one can see that you're an American girl," Miss Ruck remarked, in a consolatory manner. "I can tell an American girl a mile off. You've got the American style."
"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 a la francaise; 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.
CHAPTER V
Mr. Ruck did not take his departure for 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 coarse. 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 etudes—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 Hotel 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.
