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Henry James >> The Pension Beaurepas
"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.
CHAPTER 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 Celestine with a pair of light shoes. I told her that, as
a general thing, cooks are not shod with satin. That poor
Celestine!"
"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 deplace. 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 serieux. 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
hotels, 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 gray 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 these 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, drily, "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?"
"I hope they haven't injured you," I said.
"Well, they haven't helped me much. So many houses on fire, that's
all. If they happen to take place in your own street, they don't
increase the value of your property. When mine catches, I suppose
they'll write and tell me--one of these days, when they've got
nothing else to do. I didn't get a blessed letter this morning; I
suppose they think I'm having such a good time over here it's a pity
to disturb me. If I could attend to business for about half an hour,
I'd find out something. But I can't, and it's no use talking. The
state of my health was never so unsatisfactory as it was about five
o'clock this morning."
"I am very sorry to hear that," I said, "and I recommend you strongly
not to think of business."
"I don't," Mr. Ruck replied. "I'm thinking of cathedrals; I'm
thinking of the beauties of nature. Come," he went on, turning round
on the bench and leaning his elbow on the parapet, "I'll think of
those mountains over there; they ARE pretty, certainly. Can't you
get over there?"
"Over where?"
"Over to those hills. Don't they run a train right up?"
"You can go to Chamouni," I said. "You can go to Grindelwald and
Zermatt and fifty other places. You can't go by rail, but you can
drive."
"All right, we'll drive--and not in a one-horse concern, either.
Yes, Chamouni is one of the places we put down. I hope there are a
few nice shops in Chamouni." Mr. Ruck spoke with a certain quickened
emphasis, and in a tone more explicitly humorous than he commonly
employed. I thought he was excited, and yet he had not the
appearance of excitement. He looked like a man who has simply taken,
in the face of disaster, a sudden, somewhat imaginative, resolution
not to "worry." He presently twisted himself about on his bench
again and began to watch for his companions. "Well, they ARE walking
round," he resumed; "I guess they've hit on something, somewhere.
And they've got a carriage waiting outside of that archway too. They
seem to do a big business in archways here, don't they. They like to
have a carriage to carry home the things--those ladies of mine. Then
they're sure they've got them." The ladies, after this, to do them
justice, were not very long in appearing. They came toward us, from
under the archway to which Mr. Ruck had somewhat invidiously alluded,
slowly and with a rather exhausted step and expression. My companion
looked at them a moment, as they advanced. "They're tired," he said
softly. "When they're tired, like that, it's very expensive."
"Well," said Mrs. Ruck, "I'm glad you've had some company." Her
husband looked at her, in silence, through narrowed eyelids, and I
suspected that this gracious observation on the lady's part was
prompted by a restless conscience.
Miss Sophy glanced at me with her little straightforward air of
defiance. "It would have been more proper if WE had had the company.
Why didn't you come after us, instead of sitting there?" she asked of
Mr. Ruck's companion.
"I was told by your father," I explained, "that you were engaged in
sacred rites." Miss Ruck was not gracious, though I doubt whether it
was because her conscience was better than her mother's.
"Well, for a gentleman there is nothing so sacred as ladies'
society," replied Miss Ruck, in the manner of a person accustomed to
giving neat retorts.
"I suppose you refer to the Cathedral," said her mother. "Well, I
must say, we didn't go back there. I don't know what it may be of a
Sunday, but it gave me a chill."
"We discovered the loveliest little lace-shop," observed the young
girl, with a serenity that was superior to bravado.
Her father looked at her a while; then turned about again, leaning on
the parapet, and gazed away at the "hills."
"Well, it was certainly cheap," said Mrs. Ruck, also contemplating
the Alps.
"We are going to Chamouni," said her husband. "You haven't any
occasion for lace at Chamouni."
"Well, I'm glad to hear you have decided to go somewhere," rejoined
his wife. "I don't want to be a fixture at a boarding-house."
"You can wear lace anywhere," said Miss Ruck, "if you pat it on
right. That's the great thing, with lace. I don't think they know
how to wear lace in Europe. I know how I mean to wear mine; but I
mean to keep it till I get home."
Her father transferred his melancholy gaze to her elaborately-
appointed little person; there was a great deal of very new-looking
detail in Miss Ruck's appearance. Then, in a tone of voice quite out
of consonance with his facial despondency, "Have you purchased a
great deal?" he inquired.
"I have purchased enough for you to make a fuss about."
"He can't make a fuss about that," said Mrs. Ruck.
"Well, you'll see!" declared the young girl with a little sharp
laugh.
But her father went on, in the same tone: "Have you got it in your
pocket? Why don't you put it on--why don't you hang it round you?"
"I'll hang it round YOU, if you don't look out!" cried Miss Sophy.
"Don't you want to show it to this gentleman?" Mr. Ruck continued.
"Mercy, how you do talk about that lace!" said his wife.
"Well, I want to be lively. There's every reason for it; we're going
to Chamouni."
"You're restless; that's what's the matter with you." And Mrs. Ruck
got up.
"No, I ain't," said her husband. "I never felt so quiet; I feel as
peaceful as a little child."
Mrs. Ruck, who had no sense whatever of humour, looked at her
daughter and at me. "Well, I hope you'll improve," she said.
"Send in the bills," Mr. Ruck went on, rising to his feet. "Don't
hesitate, Sophy. I don't care what you do now. In for a penny, in
for a pound."
Miss Ruck joined her mother, with a little toss of her head, and we
followed the ladies to the carriage. "In your place," said Miss
Sophy to her father, "I wouldn't talk so much about pennies and
pounds before strangers."
Poor Mr. Ruck appeared to feel the force of this observation, which,
in the consciousness of a man who had never been "mean," could hardly
fail to strike a responsive chord. He coloured a little, and he was
silent; his companions got into their vehicle, the front seat of
which was adorned with a large parcel. Mr. Ruck gave the parcel a
little poke with his umbrella, and then, turning to me with a rather
grimly penitential smile, "After all," he said, "for the ladies
that's the principal interest."
CHAPTER VII.
Old M. Pigeonneau had more than once proposed to me to take a walk,
but I had hitherto been unable to respond to so alluring an
invitation. It befell, however, one afternoon, that I perceived him
going forth upon a desultory stroll, with a certain lonesomeness of
demeanour that attracted my sympathy. I hastily overtook him, and
passed my hand into his venerable arm, a proceeding which produced in
the good old man so jovial a sense of comradeship that he ardently
proposed we should bend our steps to the English Garden; no locality
less festive was worthy of the occasion. To the English Garden,
accordingly, we went; it lay beyond the bridge, beside the lake. It
was very pretty and very animated; there was a band playing in the
middle, and a considerable number of persons sitting under the small
trees, on benches and little chairs, or strolling beside the blue
water. We joined the strollers, we observed our companions, and
conversed on obvious topics. Some of these last, of course, were the
pretty women who embellished the scene, and who, in the light of M.
Pigeonneau's comprehensive criticism, appeared surprisingly numerous.
He seemed bent upon our making up our minds as to which was the
prettiest, and as this was an innocent game I consented to play at
it.
Suddenly M. Pigeonneau stopped, pressing my arm with the liveliest
emotion. "La voila, la voila, the prettiest!" he quickly murmured,
"coming toward us, in a blue dress, with the other." It was at the
other I was looking, for the other, to my surprise, was our
interesting fellow-pensioner, the daughter of a vigilant mother. M.
Pigeonneau, meanwhile, had redoubled his exclamations; he had
recognised Miss Sophy Ruck. "Oh, la belle rencontre, nos aimables
convives; the prettiest girl in the world, in effect!"
We immediately greeted and joined the young ladies, who, like
ourselves, were walking arm in arm and enjoying the scene.
"I was citing you with admiration to my friend even before I had
recognised you," said M. Pigeonneau to Miss Ruck.
"I don't believe in French compliments," remarked this young lady,
presenting her back to the smiling old man.
"Are you and Miss Ruck walking alone?" I asked of her companion.
"You had better accept of M. Pigeonneau's gallant protection, and of
mine."
Aurora Church had taken her hand out of Miss Ruck's arm; she looked
at me, smiling, with her head a little inclined, while, upon her
shoulder, she made her open parasol revolve. "Which is most
improper--to walk alone or to walk with gentlemen? I wish to do what
is most improper."
"What mysterious logic governs your conduct?" I inquired.
"He thinks you can't understand him when he talks like that," said
Miss Ruck. "But I do understand you, always!"
"So I have always ventured to hope, my dear Miss Ruck."
"Well, if I didn't, it wouldn't be much loss," rejoined this young
lady.
"Allons, en marche!" cried M. Pigeonneau, smiling still, and
undiscouraged by her inhumanity. "Let as make together the tour of
the garden." And he imposed his society upon Miss Ruck with a
respectful, elderly grace which was evidently unable to see anything
in her reluctance but modesty, and was sublimely conscious of a
mission to place modesty at its ease. This ill-assorted couple
walked in front, while Aurora Church and I strolled along together.
"I am sure this is more improper," said my companion; "this is
delightfully improper. I don't say that as a compliment to you," she
added. "I would say it to any man, no matter how stupid."
"Oh, I am very stupid," I answered, "but this doesn't seem to me
wrong."
"Not for you, no; only for me. There is nothing that a man can do
that is wrong, is there? En morale, you know, I mean. Ah, yes, he
can steal; but I think there is nothing else, is there?"
"I don't know. One doesn't know those things until after one has
done them. Then one is enlightened."
"And you mean that you have never been enlightened? You make
yourself out very good."
"That is better than making one's self out bad, as you do."
The young girl glanced at me a moment, and then, with her charming
smile, "That's one of the consequences of a false position."
"Is your position false?" I inquired, smiling too at this large
formula.
"Distinctly so."
"In what way?"
"Oh, in every way. For instance, I have to pretend to be a jeune
fille. I am not a jeune fille; no American girl is a jeune fille; an
American girl is an intelligent, responsible creature. I have to
pretend to be very innocent, but I am not very innocent."
"You don't pretend to be very innocent; you pretend to be--what shall
I call it?--very wise."
"That's no pretence. I am wise."
"You are not an American girl," I ventured to observe.
My companion almost stopped, looking at me; there was a little flush
in her cheek. "Voila!" she said. "There's my false position. I
want to be an American girl, and I'm not."
"Do you want me to tell you?" I went on. "An American girl wouldn't
talk as you are talking now."
"Please tell me," said Aurora Church, with expressive eagerness.
"How would she talk?"
"I can't tell you all the things an American girl would say, but I
think I can tell you the things she wouldn't say. She wouldn't
reason out her conduct, as you seem to me to do."
Aurora gave me the most flattering attention. "I see. She would be
simpler. To do very simple things that are not at all simple--that
is the American girl!"