That remark may be very true, but I don't care anything about the demand; I want to know French for its own sake. "Art for art," they say; but I say French for French. I don't want to think I've been all this while without having gained an insight. . . . The very next day, I asked the lady who kept the books at the hotel whether she knew of any family that could take me to board and give me the benefit of their conversation.

She instantly threw up her hands with little shrill cries-in their wonderful French way, you know-and told me that her dearest friend kept a regular place of that kind. If she had known I was looking out for such a place she would have told me before; she hadn't spoken of it herself because she didn't wish to injure the hotel by working me off on another house. She told me this was a charming family who had often received American ladies-and others, including three Tahitans-who wished to follow up the language, and she was sure I'd fall in love with them. So she gave me their address and offered to go with me to introduce me. But I was in such a hurry that I went off by myself and soon found them all right. They were sitting there as if they kind of expected me, and wouldn't scarcely let me come round again for my baggage. They seemed to have right there on hand, as those gentlemen of the theatre said, plenty of what I was after, and I now feel there'll be no trouble about _that_.

I came here to stay about three days ago, and by this time I've quite worked in. The price of board struck me as rather high, but I must remember what a chance to press onward it includes. I've a very pretty little room-without any carpet, but with seven mirrors, two clocks and five curtains. I was rather disappointed, however, after I arrived, to find that there are several other Americans here-all also bent on pressing onward. At least there are three American and two English pensioners, as they call them, as well as a German gentleman-and there seems nothing backward about _him_. I shouldn't wonder if we'd make a regular cla.s.s, with "moving up" and moving down; anyhow I guess I won't be at the foot, but I've not yet time to judge. I try to talk with Madame de Maisonrouge all I can-she's the lady of the house, and the _real_ family consists only of herself and her two daughters. They're bright enough to give points to our own brightest, and I guess we'll become quite intimate. I'll write you more about everything in my next.

Tell William Platt I don't care a speck _what_ he does.

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 advertis.e.m.e.nt 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 a.s.sured. 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 succ.u.mb.

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 dest.i.tute of the very rudiments. (I a.s.sure you I'm often surprised at my own fluency, and when I get a little more practice in the circ.u.mflex 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 menage-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 p.r.o.nunciation especially attended to. The p.r.o.nunciation, 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 _vautree_ 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 quant.i.ty 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 pa.s.s 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 Clementine about your underskirt, etc.

IV FROM LOUIS LEVERETT IN PARIS TO HARVARD TREMONT IN BOSTON

_September_ 25.

MY DEAR HARVARD,

I've carried out my plan, of which I gave you a hint in my last, and I only regret I shouldn't have done it before. It's human nature, after all, that's the most interesting thing in the world, and it only reveals itself to the truly earnest seeker. There's a want of earnestness in that life of hotels and railroad-trains which so many of our countrymen are content to lead in this strange rich elder world, and I was distressed to find how far I myself had been led along the dusty beaten track. I had, however, constantly wanted to turn aside into more unfrequented ways-to plunge beneath the surface and see what I should discover. But the opportunity had always been missing; somehow I seem never to meet those opportunities that we hear about and read about-the things that happen to people in novels and biographies. And yet I'm always on the watch to take advantage of any opening that may present itself; I'm always looking out for experiences, for sensations-I might almost say for adventures.

The great thing is to _live_, you know-to feel, to be conscious of one's possibilities; not to pa.s.s through life mechanically and insensibly, even as a letter through the post-office. There are times, my dear Harvard, when I feel as if I were really capable of everything-_capable de tout_, as they say here-of the greatest excesses as well as the greatest heroism. Oh to be able to say that one has lived-_qu'on a vecu_, as they say here-that idea exercises an indefinable attraction for me. You'll perhaps reply that nothing's easier than to say it! Only the thing's to make people believe you-to make above all one's self. And then I don't want any second-hand spurious sensations; I want the knowledge that leaves a trace-that leaves strange scars and stains, ineffable reveries and aftertastes, behind it! But I'm afraid I shock you, perhaps even frighten you.

If you repeat my remarks to any of the West Cedar Street circle be sure you tone them down as your discretion will suggest. For yourself you'll know that I have always had an intense desire to see something of _real French life_. You're acquainted with my great sympathy with the French; with my natural tendency to enter into their so supremely fine exploitation of the whole personal consciousness. I sympathise with the artistic temperament; I remember you used sometimes to hint to me that you thought my own temperament _too_ artistic. I don't consider that in Boston there's any real sympathy with the artistic temperament; we tend to make everything a matter of right and wrong. And in Boston one can't _live_-_on ne peut pas vivre_, as they say here. I don't mean one can't reside-for a great many people manage that; but one can't live esthetically-I almost venture to say one can't live sensuously. This is why I've always been so much drawn to the French, who are so esthetic, so sensuous, so _entirely_ living. I'm so sorry dear Theophile Gautier has pa.s.sed away; I should have liked so much to go and see him and tell him all I owe him. He was living when I was here before; but, you know, at that time I was travelling with the Johnsons, who are not esthetic and who used to make me feel rather ashamed of my love and my need of beauty.

If I had gone to see the great apostle of that religion I should have had to go clandestinely-_en cachette_, as they say here; and that's not my nature; I like to do everything frankly, freely, _navement, au grand jour_. That's the great thing-to be free, to be frank, to be naf.

Doesn't Matthew Arnold say that somewhere-or is it Swinburne or Pater?

When I was with the Johnsons everything was superficial, and, as regards life, everything was brought down to the question of right and wrong.

They were eternally didactic; art should never be didactic; and what's life but the finest of arts? Pater has said that so well somewhere.

With the Johnsons I'm afraid I lost many opportunities; the whole outlook or at least the whole medium-of feeling, of appreciation-was grey and cottony, I might almost say woolly. Now, however, as I tell you, I've determined to take right hold for myself; to look right into European life and judge it without Johnsonian prejudices. I've taken up my residence in a French family, in a real Parisian house. You see I've the courage of my opinions; I don't shrink from carrying out my theory that the great thing is to _live_.

You know I've always been intensely interested in Balzac, who never shrank from the reality and whose almost _lurid_ pictures of Parisian life have often haunted me in my wanderings through the old wicked-looking streets on the other side of the river. I'm only sorry that my new friends-my French family-don't live in the old city, _au cour de vieux Paris_, as they say here. They live only on the Boulevard Haussmann, which is a compromise, but in spite of this they have a great deal of the Balzac tone. Madame de Maisonrouge belongs to one of the oldest and proudest families in France, but has had reverses which have compelled her to open an establishment in which a limited number of travellers, who are weary of the beaten track, who shun the great caravanseries, who cherish the tradition of the old French sociability-she explains it herself, she expresses it so well-in short to open a "select" boarding-house. I don't see why I shouldn't after all use that expression, for it's the correlative of the term pension bourgeoise, employed by Balzac in _Le Pere Goriot_. Do you remember the pension bourgeoise of Madame Vauquer nee de Conflans? But this establishment isn't at all like that, and indeed isn't bourgeois at all; I don't quite know how the machinery of selection operates, but we unmistakably feel we're select. The Pension Vauquer was dark, brown, sordid, graisseuse; but this is in quite a different tone, with high clear lightly-draped windows and several rather good Louis Seize pieces-family heirlooms, Madame de Maisonrouge explains. She recalls to me Madame Hulot-do you remember "la belle Madame Hulot"?-in _Les Parents Pauvres_. She has a great charm-though a little artificial, a little jaded and faded, with a suggestion of hidden things in her life. But I've always been sensitive to the seduction of an ambiguous fatigue.

I'm rather disappointed, I confess, in the society I find here; it isn't so richly native, of so indigenous a note, as I could have desired.

Indeed, to tell the truth, it's not native at all; though on the other hand it _is_ furiously cosmopolite, and that speaks to me too at my hours. We're French _and_ we're English; we're American _and_ we're German; I believe too there are some Spaniards and some Hungarians expected. I'm much interested in the study of racial types; in comparing, contrasting, seizing the strong points, the weak points, in identifying, however m.u.f.fled by social hypocrisy, the sharp keynote of each. It's interesting to shift one's point of view, to despoil one's self of one's idiotic prejudices, to enter into strange exotic ways of looking at life.

The American types don't, I much regret to say, make a strong or rich affirmation, and, excepting my own (and what _is_ my own, dear Harvard, I ask you?), are wholly negative and feminine. We're _thin_-that I should have to say it! we're pale, we're poor, we're flat. There's something meagre about us; our line is wanting in roundness, our composition in richness. We lack temperament; we don't know how to live; _nous ne savons pas vivre_, as they say here. The American temperament is represented-putting myself aside, and I often think that my temperament isn't at all American-by a young girl and her mother and by another young girl without her mother, without either parent or any attendant or appendage whatever. These inevitable creatures are more or less in the picture; they have a certain interest, they have a certain stamp, but they're disappointing too: they don't go far; they don't keep all they promise; they don't satisfy the imagination. They are cold slim s.e.xless; the physique's not generous, not abundant; it's only the drapery, the skirts and furbelows-that is, I mean in the young lady who has her mother-that are abundant. They're rather different-we _have_ our little differences, thank G.o.d: one of them all elegance, all "paid bills" and extra-fresh _gants de Suede_, from New York; the other a plain pure clear-eyed narrow-chested straight-stepping maiden from the heart of New England. And yet they're very much alike too-more alike than they would care to think themselves; for they face each other with scarcely disguised opposition and disavowal. They're both specimens of the practical positive pa.s.sionless young thing as we let her loose on the world-and yet with a certain fineness and knowing, as you please, either too much or too little. With all of which, as I say, they have their spontaneity and even their oddity; though no more mystery, either of them, than the printed circular thrust into your hand on the street-corner.

The little New Yorker's sometimes very amusing; she asks me if every one in Boston talks like me-if every one's as "intellectual" as your poor correspondent. She's for ever throwing Boston up at me; I can't get rid of poor dear little Boston. The other one rubs it into me too, but in a different way; she seems to feel about it as a good Mahommedan feels toward Mecca, and regards it as a focus of light for the whole human race. Yes, poor little Boston, what nonsense is talked in thy name! But this New England maiden is in her way a rare white flower; she's travelling all over Europe alone-"to see it," she says, "for herself."

For herself! What can that strangely serene self of hers do with such sights, such depths! She looks at everything, goes everywhere, pa.s.ses her way with her clear quiet eyes wide open; skirting the edge of obscene abysses without suspecting them; pushing through brambles without tearing her robe; exciting, without knowing it, the most injurious suspicions; and always holding her course-without a stain, without a sense, without a fear, without a charm!

Then by way of contrast there's a lovely English girl with eyes as shy as violets and a voice as sweet!-the difference between the printed, the distributed, the gratuitous hand-bill and the shy sc.r.a.p of a _billet-doux_ dropped where you may pick it up. She has a sweet Gainsborough head and a great Gainsborough hat with a mighty plume in front of it that makes a shadow over her quiet English eyes. Then she has a sage-green robe, "mystic wonderful," all embroidered with subtle devices and flowers, with birds and beasts of tender tint; very straight and tight in front and adorned behind, along the spine, with large strange iridescent b.u.t.tons. The revival of taste, of the sense of beauty, in England, interests me deeply; what is there in a simple row of spinal b.u.t.tons to make one dream-to _donner a rever_, as they say here?

I believe a grand esthetic renascence to be at hand and that a great light will be kindled in England for all the world to see. There are spirits there I should like to commune with; I think they'd understand me.

This gracious English maiden, with her clinging robes, her amulets and girdles, with something quaint and angular in her step, her carriage, something medieval and Gothic in the details of her person and dress, this lovely Evelyn Vane (isn't it a beautiful name?) exhales a.s.sociation and implication. She's so much a woman-_elle est bien femme_, as they say here; simpler softer rounder richer than the easy products I spoke of just now. Not much talk-a great sweet silence. Then the violet eye-the very eye itself seems to blush; the great shadowy hat making the brow so quiet; the strange clinging clutched pictured raiment! As I say, it's a very gracious tender type. She has her brother with her, who's a beautiful fair-haired grey-eyed young Englishman. He's purely objective, but he too is very plastic.

V FROM MIRANDA HOPE TO HER MOTHER

_September_ 26.

You mustn't be frightened at not hearing from me oftener; it isn't because I'm in any trouble, but because I'm getting on so well. If I were in any trouble I don't think I'd write to you; I'd just keep quiet and see it through myself. But that's not the case at present; and if I don't write to you it's because I'm so deeply interested over here that I don't seem to find time. It was a real providence that brought me to this house, where, in spite of all obstacles, I _am_ able to press onward. I wonder how I find time for all I do, but when I realise I've only got about a year left, all told, I feel as if I wouldn't sacrifice a single hour.

The obstacles I refer to are the disadvantages I have in acquiring the language, there being so many persons round me speaking English, and that, as you may say, in the very bosom of a regular French family. It seems as if you heard English everywhere; but I certainly didn't expect to find it in a place like this. I'm not discouraged, however, and I exercise all I can, even with the other English boarders. Then I've a lesson every day from Mademoiselle-the elder daughter of the lady of the house and the intellectual one; she has a wonderful fearless mind, almost like my friend at the hotel-and French give-and-take every evening in the salon, from eight to eleven, with Madame herself and some friends of hers who often come in. Her cousin, Mr. Verdier, a young French gentleman, is fortunately staying with her, and I make a point of talking with him as much as possible. I have _extra-private lessons_ from him, and I often ramble round with him. Some night soon he's to accompany me to the comic opera. We've also a most interesting plan of visiting the galleries successively together and taking the schools in their order-for they mean by "the schools" here something quite different from what we do. Like most of the French Mr. Verdier converses with great fluency, and I feel I may really gain from him. He's remarkably handsome, in the French style, and extremely polite-making a great many speeches which I'm afraid it wouldn't always do to pin one's faith on. When I get down in Maine again I guess I'll tell you some of the things he has said to me. I think you'll consider them extremely curious-very beautiful _in their French way_.

The conversation in the parlour (from eight to eleven) ranges over many subjects-I sometimes feel as if it really avoided _none_; and I often wish you or some of the Bangor folks could be there to enjoy it. Even though you couldn't understand it I think you'd like to hear the way they go on; they seem to express so much. I sometimes think that at Bangor they don't express enough-except that it seems as if over there they've less _to_ express. It seems as if at Bangor there were things that folks never _tried_ to say; but I seem to have learned here from studying French that you've no idea what you _can_ say before you try. At Bangor they kind of give it up beforehand; they don't make any effort. (I don't say this in the least for William Platt _in particular_.)

I'm sure I don't know what they'll think of me when I get back anyway.

It seems as if over here I had learned to come out with everything. I suppose they'll think I'm not sincere; but isn't it more sincere to come right out with things than just to keep feeling of them in your mind-without giving any one the benefit? I've become very good friends with every one in the house-that is (you see I _am_ sincere) with _almost_ every one. It's the most interesting circle I ever was in.

There's a girl here, an American, that I don't like so much as the rest; but that's only because she won't let me. I should like to like her, ever so much, because she's most lovely and most attractive; but she doesn't seem to want to know me or to take to me. She comes from New York and she's remarkably pretty, with beautiful eyes and the most delicate features; she's also splendidly stylish-in this respect would bear comparison with any one I've seen over here. But it seems as if she didn't want to recognise me or a.s.sociate with me, as if she wanted to make a difference between us. It is like people they call "haughty" in books. I've never seen any one like that before-any one that wanted to make a difference; and at first I was right down interested, she seemed to me so like a proud young lady in a novel. I kept saying to myself all day "haughty, haughty," and I wished she'd keep on so. But she did keep on-she kept on too long; and then I began to feel it in a different way, to feel as if it kind of wronged me. I couldn't think what I've done, and I can't think yet. It's as if she had got some idea about me or had heard some one say something. If some girls should behave like that I wouldn't make any account of it; but this one's so refined, and looks as if she might be so fascinating if I once got to know her, that I think about it a good deal. I'm bound to find out what her reason is-for of course she has got some reason; I'm right down curious to know.

I went up to her to ask her the day before yesterday; I thought that the best way. I told her I wanted to know her better and would like to come and see her in her room-they tell me she has got a lovely one-and that if she had heard anything against me perhaps she'd tell me when I came. But she was more distant than ever and just turned it off; said she had never heard me mentioned and that her room was too small to receive visitors.

I suppose she spoke the truth, but I'm sure she has some peculiar ground, all the same. She has got some idea; which I'll die if I don't find out soon-if I have to ask every one in the house. I never _could_ be happy under an appearance of wrong. I wonder if she doesn't think me refined-or if she had ever heard anything against Bangor? I can't think it's that. Don't you remember when Clara Barnard went to visit in New York, three years ago, how much attention she received? And you know Clara _is_ Bangor, to the soles of her shoes. Ask William Platt-so long as he isn't native-if he doesn't consider Clara Barnard refined.

Apropos, as they say here, of refinement, there's another American in the house-a gentleman from Boston-who's just crammed with it. His name's Mr.

Louis Leverett (such a beautiful name I think) and he's about thirty years old. He's rather small and he looks pretty sick; he suffers from some affection of the liver. But his conversation leads you right on-they _do_ go so far over here: even our people seem to strain ahead in Europe, and perhaps when I get back it may strike you I've learned to keep up with them. I delight to listen to him anyhow-he has such beautiful ideas. I feel as if these moments were hardly right, not being in French; but fortunately he uses a great many French expressions. It's in a different style from the dazzle of Mr. Verdier-not so personal, but much more earnest: he says the only earnestness left in the world now is French. He's intensely fond of pictures and has given me a great many ideas about them that I'd never have gained without him; I shouldn't have known how to go to work to strike them. He thinks everything of pictures; he thinks we don't make near enough of them. They seem to make a good deal of them here, but I couldn't help telling him the other day that in Bangor I really don't think we do.

If I had any money to spend I'd buy some and take them back to hang right up. Mr. Leverett says it would do them good-not the pictures, but the Bangor folks (though sometimes he seems to want to hang _them_ up too).

He thinks everything of the French, anyhow, and says we don't make nearly enough of them. I couldn't help telling him the other day that they certainly make enough of _themselves_. But it's very interesting to hear him go on about the French, and it's so much gain to me, since it's about the same as what I came for. I talk to him as much as I dare about Boston, but I do feel as if this were right down wrong-a stolen pleasure.

I can get all the Boston culture I want when I go back, if I carry out my plan, my heart's secret, of going there to reside. I ought to direct all my efforts to European culture now, so as to keep Boston to finish off.

But it seems as if I couldn't help taking a peep now and then in advance-with a real Bostonian. I don't know when I may meet one again; but if there are many others like Mr. Leverett there I shall be certain not to lack when I carry out my dream. He's just as full of culture as he can live. But it seems strange how many different sorts there are.

There are two of the English who I suppose are very cultivated too; but it doesn't seem as if I could enter into theirs so easily, though I try all I can. I do love their way of speaking, and sometimes I feel almost as if it would be right to give up going for French and just try to get the hang of English as these people have got it. It doesn't come out in the things they say so much, though these are often rather curious, but in the sweet way they say them and in their kind of making so much, such an easy lovely effect, of saying almost anything. It seems as if they must try a good deal to sound like that; but these English who are here don't seem to try at all, either to speak or do anything else. They're a young lady and her brother, who belong, I believe, to some n.o.ble family.