FROM M.GUSTAVE LEJAUNE, OF THE FRENCH ACADEMY, TO M.ADOLPHEBOUCHE, IN PARIS.
Washington, October 5.
I give you my little notes; you must make allowances for haste, for bad inns, for the perpetual scramble, for ill-humour.Everywhere the same impression--the platitude of unbalanced democracy intensified by the platitude of the spirit of commerce.Everything on an immense scale--everything illustrated by millions of examples.
My brother-in-law is always busy; he has appointments, inspections, interviews, disputes.The people, it appears, are incredibly sharp in conversation, in argument; they wait for you in silence at the corner of the road, and then they suddenly discharge their revolver.
If you fall, they empty your pockets; the only chance is to shoot them first.With that, no amenities, no preliminaries, no manners, no care for the appearance.I wander about while my brother is occupied; I lounge along the streets; I stop at the corners; I look into the shops; je regarde passer les femmes.It's an easy country to see; one sees everything there is; the civilisation is skin deep;you don't have to dig.This positive, practical, pushing bourgeoisie is always about its business; it lives in the street, in the hotel, in the train; one is always in a crowd--there are seventy-five people in the tramway.They sit in your lap; they stand on your toes; when they wish to pass they simply push you.
Everything in silence; they know that silence is golden, and they have the worship of gold.When the conductor wishes your fare he gives you a poke, very serious, without a word.As for the types--but there is only one--they are all variations of the same--the commis-voyageur minus the gaiety.The women are often pretty; you meet the young ones in the streets, in the trains, in search of a husband.They look at you frankly, coldly, judicially, to see if you will serve; but they don't want what you might think (du moins on me l'assure); they only want the husband.A Frenchman may mistake; he needs to be sure he is right, and I always make sure.
They begin at fifteen; the mother sends them out; it lasts all day (with an interval for dinner at a pastry-cook's); sometimes it goes on for ten years.If they haven't found the husband then, they give it up; they make place for the cadettes, as the number of women is enormous.No salons, no society, no conversation; people don't receive at home; the young girls have to look for the husband where they can.It is no disgrace not to find him--several have never done so.They continue to go about unmarried--from the force of habit, from the love of movement, without hopes, without regret--no imagination, no sensibility, no desire for the convent.We have made several journeys--few of less than three hundred miles.