Those Accomplished Young French Ladies

I suppose it was all my fault. I had got to know her quite well, and we were sitting on the grass looking across the harbor toward Roscanvel. The circumstances somehow emboldened me to quote some lines from du Bellay, whom I had been reading. They contained a reference to strawberries, and we had just had strawberries for lunch, so there may have been a gastronomic as well as an æsthetic element in the suggestion. Or perhaps I had a vague desire to distinguish myself from cowboys, with whom I sometimes suspected her of associating me. She was very young, and such methods were excusable. Anyhow, the effect was nil. She finished the quotation, and proceeded to remark that du Bellay had more or less stolen it from Propertius.

This really interested me — not the Propertius, but the young lady.

‘Oh, yes,’ said I; ‘and where did you read Propertius?’

‘At school,’ she answered; ‘but I really read this particular bit in an Italian translation.’

An Italian translation of Propertius! I made a mental note never again to lay any claim to ‘culture,’ but felt very curious as to how many other things this young lady knew.

‘Did you learn Italian at school also?’ I asked.

‘Oh, no, I have always known Italian,’ she said, in a tone of voice that I might have used if asked whether I could read and write.

‘What else did you learn at school, then?’ I pursued.

‘Oh, we worked very hard,’ she said, ‘and were supposed to learn history, French literature, Latin and Greek, mathematics, and philosophy, and then, of course, music and a little painting. But I never learned more than spherical trigonometry in mathematics — I do not care for the subject.’

I tried to look as if dropping mathematics at that point were an unpardonable crime. She continued, —

‘Of course, I left the Lycée before finishing, to go to England with my father. So I know very little. For instance, I can speak French, of course, and English and Italian and German, but my Spanish is really very poor, and I have an awful time with Greek.’

‘Mercy!’ I exclaimed, ‘how awkward if you were left alone in northern China! ’

And then I was sorry I said it, because she was obviously hurt, and suspected me of thinking she was ‘showing off.’ But I knew she was not. She was very young, I repeat, and I knew her quite well — we had discussed the future of Christianity in France. Anyone who had maintained that she was deliberately trying to impress me with her education would have been unworthy of the honor of knowing her at all.

Now, I don’t know enough about France to say whether my companion was far above the average or not. But I knew another girl, thirteen years old, who had just finished what I considered a fine copy of the Mona Lisa, and who accompanied Paris singers on the piano. Furthermore, I found that most French girls whom I met held most decided and intelligent political opinions. They could dissect the black heart of M. Malvy, and estimate the Socialist strength in various parts of the country.

God forbid that I should pretend to understand French girls, American girls, or any other girls! But I am not alone in my ignorance; many other Americans must have been struck by certain differences between their friends at home and their friends in France. Most of these returning Americans would shudder, as I do, at a discussion of ‘The Higher Education of Women,’ or any other phrase that suggests ‘a series of lectures at one dollar for each lecture or five dollars for the entire course.’ But won’t they feel vaguely that it would be nice to discuss Hearst, or La Follette, or Alfred Noyes, or Robert W. Chambers, with women as well as with men? Perhaps they will, and perhaps they won’t. Perhaps they will thank God for the manifold blessings He has bestowed on the American girl, and forget those He has not. I did not meet any French girls who knew anything about baseball or who could use a typewriter. But then, I have no intention of trying to become a sporting editor.