September 21st.
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, 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 is extremely fussy1, 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 would 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 extravagant2. It’s father’s theory that we are 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 theories. Mother and I, however, have, fortunately, a great deal of practice, and we succeeded in making him understand that we wouldn’t budge3 from Paris, and that we would rather be chopped into small pieces than cross that dreadful ocean again. So, at last, he decided4 to go back alone, and to leave us here for three months. But, 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.
There are families here who receive American and English people to live with them, under the pretence5 of teaching them French. You may imagine what people they are—I mean the families themselves. But the Americans who choose this peculiar6 manner of seeing Paris must be actually just as bad. Mother and I were horrified7, and declared that main force should not remove us from the hotel. But father has a way of arriving at his ends which is more efficient than violence. He worries and fusses; he “nags,” as we used to say at school; and, when mother and I are quite worn out, his triumph is assured. Mother is usually worn out more easily than I, and she ends by siding with father; so that, at last, when they combine their forces against poor little me, I have to succumb8. 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 perfect my French; that mother would learn how a French household is conducted; that he should feel more easy, and five hundred reasons more. They were none of them good, but that made no difference. It’s all humbug9, his talking about economy, when every one knows that business in America has completely recovered, that the prostration10 is all over, and that immense fortunes are being made. We have been economising for the last five years, and I supposed we came abroad to reap the benefits of it.
As for my French, it is quite as perfect as I want it to be. (I assure you I am often surprised at my own fluency11, and, when I get a little more practice in the genders12 and the idioms, I shall do very well in this respect.) To make a long story short, however, father carried his point, as usual; mother basely deserted13 me at the last moment, and, after holding out alone for three days, I told them to do with me what they pleased! Father lost three steamers in succession by remaining in Paris to argue with me. You know he is like the schoolmaster in Goldsmith’s “Deserted Village”—“e’en though vanquished14, he would argue still.” He and mother went to look at some seventeen families (they had got the addresses somewhere), while I retired15 to my sofa, and would have nothing to do with it. At last they made arrangements, and I was transported to the establishment from which I now write you. I write you from the bosom16 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 am most at home in; if he had said my genders or my idioms there would have been some sense. But poor father has no tact19, and this defect is especially marked since he has been in Europe. He will be absent, however, for three months, and mother and I shall breathe more freely; the situation will be less intense. I must confess that we breathe more freely than I expected, in this place, where we have been for 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 am agreeably disappointed. The French are so clever that they know even how to manage a place of this kind. Of course it is very disagreeable to live with strangers, but as, after all, if I were not staying with Madame de Maisonrouge I should not be living in the Faubourg St. Germain, I don’t know that from the point of view of exclusiveness it is any great loss to be here.
Our rooms are very prettily20 arranged, and the table is remarkably21 good. Mamma thinks the whole thing—the place and the people, the manners and customs—very amusing; but mamma is very easily amused. 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 have never wanted for society of my own choosing, and, so long as I retain possession of my faculties22, I don’t suppose I ever shall. As I said, however, the place is very well managed, 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 father. She is what they call here a belle23 femme, which means that she is a tall, ugly woman, with style. She dresses very well, and has a great deal of talk; but, though she is a very good imitation of a lady, I never see her behind the dinner-table, in the evening, smiling and bowing, as the people come in, and looking all the while at the dishes and the servants, without thinking of a dame17 de comptoir blooming in a corner of a shop or a restaurant. I am sure that, in spite of her fine name, she was once a dame de comptoir. I am 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 bored to death at passing all her time in the midst of stupid English people who mumble24 broken French at her. Some day she will poison the soup or the vin rouge18; but I hope that will not be until after mother and I shall have left her. She has two daughters, who, except that one is 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 is an Englishman here, with his sister, and they seem to be rather nice people. He is remarkably handsome, but excessively affected25 and patronising, especially to us Americans; and I hope to have a chance of biting his head off before long. The sister is very pretty, and, apparently26, very nice; but, in costume, she is Britannia incarnate27. There is a very pleasant little Frenchman—when they are nice they are charming—and a German doctor, a big blonde man, who looks like a great white bull; and two Americans, besides mother and me. One of them is a young man from Boston,—an æsthetic young man, who talks about its being “a real Corot day,” etc., 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 is the most extraordinary specimen28 of artless Yankeeism that I ever encountered; she is really too horrible. I have been three times to Clémentine about your underskirt, etc.
点击收听单词发音
1 fussy | |
adj.为琐事担忧的,过分装饰的,爱挑剔的 | |
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2 extravagant | |
adj.奢侈的;过分的;(言行等)放肆的 | |
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3 budge | |
v.移动一点儿;改变立场 | |
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4 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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5 pretence | |
n.假装,作假;借口,口实;虚伪;虚饰 | |
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6 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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7 horrified | |
a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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8 succumb | |
v.屈服,屈从;死 | |
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9 humbug | |
n.花招,谎话,欺骗 | |
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10 prostration | |
n. 平伏, 跪倒, 疲劳 | |
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11 fluency | |
n.流畅,雄辩,善辩 | |
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12 genders | |
n.性某些语言的(阳性、阴性和中性,不同的性有不同的词尾等)( gender的名词复数 );性别;某些语言的(名词、代词和形容词)性的区分 | |
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13 deserted | |
adj.荒芜的,荒废的,无人的,被遗弃的 | |
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14 vanquished | |
v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 );战胜;克服;抑制 | |
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15 retired | |
adj.隐退的,退休的,退役的 | |
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16 bosom | |
n.胸,胸部;胸怀;内心;adj.亲密的 | |
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17 dame | |
n.女士 | |
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18 rouge | |
n.胭脂,口红唇膏;v.(在…上)擦口红 | |
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19 tact | |
n.机敏,圆滑,得体 | |
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20 prettily | |
adv.优美地;可爱地 | |
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21 remarkably | |
ad.不同寻常地,相当地 | |
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22 faculties | |
n.能力( faculty的名词复数 );全体教职员;技巧;院 | |
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23 belle | |
n.靓女 | |
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24 mumble | |
n./v.喃喃而语,咕哝 | |
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25 affected | |
adj.不自然的,假装的 | |
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26 apparently | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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27 incarnate | |
adj.化身的,人体化的,肉色的 | |
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28 specimen | |
n.样本,标本 | |
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