A Bundle of Letters

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Генри Джеймс. A Bundle of Letters

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

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Since I last wrote to you I have left that hotel, and come to live in a French family.  It’s a kind of boarding-house combined with a kind of school; only it’s not like an American hoarding-house, nor like an American school either.  There are four or five people here that have come to learn the language—not to take lessons, but to have an opportunity for conversation.  I was very glad to come to such a place, for I had begun to realise that I was not making much progress with the French.  It seemed to me that I should feel ashamed to have spent two months in Paris, and not to have acquired more insight into the language.  I had always heard so much of French conversation, and I found I was having no more opportunity to practise it than if I had remained at Bangor.  In fact, I used to hear a great deal more at Bangor, from those French Canadians that came down to cut the ice, than I saw I should ever hear at that hotel.  The lady that kept the books seemed to want so much to talk to me in English (for the sake of practice, too, I suppose), that I couldn’t bear to let her know I didn’t like it.  The chambermaid was Irish, and all the waiters were German, so that I never heard a word of French spoken.  I suppose you might hear a great deal in the shops; only, as I don’t buy anything—I prefer to spend my money for purposes of culture—I don’t have that advantage.

I have been thinking some of taking a teacher, but I am well acquainted with the grammar already, and teachers always keep you bothering over the verbs.  I was a good deal troubled, for I felt as if I didn’t want to go away without having, at least, got a general idea of French conversation.  The theatre gives you a good deal of insight, and as I told you in my last, I go a good deal to places of amusement.  I find no difficulty whatever in going to such places alone, and am always treated with the politeness which, as I told you before, I encounter everywhere.  I see plenty of other ladies alone (mostly French), and they generally seem to be enjoying themselves as much as I.  But at the theatre every one talks so fast that I can scarcely make out what they say; and, besides, there are a great many vulgar expressions which it is unnecessary to learn.  But it was the theatre, nevertheless, that put me on the track.  The very next day after I wrote to you last I went to the Palais Royal, which is one of the principal theatres in Paris.  It is very small, but it is very celebrated, and in my guide-book it is marked with two stars, which is a sign of importance attached only to first-class objects of interest.  But after I had been there half an hour I found I couldn’t understand a single word of the play, they gabbled it off so fast, and they made use of such peculiar expressions.  I felt a good deal disappointed and troubled—I was afraid I shouldn’t gain all I had come for.  But while I was thinking it over—thinking what I should do—I heard two gentlemen talking behind me.  It was between the acts, and I couldn’t help listening to what they said.  They were talking English, but I guess they were Americans.

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“No, I won’t damn French,” said his friend.  “I’ll acquire it—that’s what I’ll do with it.  I’ll go right into a family.”

“What family’ll you go into?”

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