Cockerel, as I say, is extremely good-natured, and he carries out what I have heard said about the men in America being very considerate of the women.They evidently listen to them a great deal; they don't contradict them, but it seems to me that this is rather negative.There is very little gallantry in not contradicting one; and it strikes me that there are some things the men don't express.There are others on the ship whom I've noticed.
It's as if they were all one's brothers or one's cousins.But Ipromised you not to generalise, and perhaps there will be more expression when we arrive.Mr.Cockerel returns to America, after a general tour, with a renewed conviction that this is the only country.I left him on deck an hour ago looking at the coast-line with an opera-glass, and saying it was the prettiest thing he had seen in all his tour.When I remarked that the coast seemed rather low, he said it would be all the easier to get ashore; Mr.Leverett doesn't seem in a hurry to get ashore; he is sitting within sight of me in a corner of the saloon--writing letters, I suppose, but looking, from the way he bites his pen and rolls his eyes about, as if he were composing a sonnet and waiting for a rhyme.Perhaps the sonnet is addressed to me; but I forget that he suppresses the affections! The only person in whom mamma takes much interest is the great French critic, M.Lejaune, whom we have the honour to carry with us.We have read a few of his works, though mamma disapproves of his tendencies and thinks him a dreadful materialist.
We have read them for the style; you know he is one of the new Academicians.He is a Frenchman like any other, except that he is rather more quiet; and he has a gray mustache and the ribbon of the Legion of Honour.He is the first French writer of distinction who has been to America since De Tocqueville; the French, in such matters, are not very enterprising.Also, he has the air of wondering what he is doing dans cette galere.He has come with his beau-frere, who is an engineer, and is looking after some mines, and he talks with scarcely any one else, as he speaks no English, and appears to take for granted that no one speaks French.Mamma would be delighted to assure him of the contrary; she has never conversed with an Academician.She always makes a little vague inclination, with a smile, when he passes her, and he answers with a most respectful bow; but it goes no farther, to mamma's disappointment.
He is always with the beau-frere, a rather untidy, fat, bearded man, decorated, too, always smoking and looking at the feet of the ladies, whom mamma (though she has very good feet) has not the courage to aborder.I believe M.Lejaune is going to write a book about America, and Mr.Leverett says it will be terrible.Mr.
Leverett has made his acquaintance, and says M.Lejaune will put him into his book; he says the movement of the French intellect is superb.As a general thing, he doesn't care for Academicians, but he thinks M.Lejaune is an exception, he is so living, so personal.
I asked Mr.Cockerel what he thought of M.Lejaune's plan of writing a book, and he answered that he didn't see what it mattered to him that a Frenchman the more should make a monkey of himself.I asked him why he hadn't written a book about Europe, and he said that, in the first place, Europe isn't worth writing about, and, in the second, if he said what he thought, people would think it was a joke.He said they are very superstitious about Europe over here;he wants people in America to behave as if Europe didn't exist.Itold this to Mr.Leverett, and he answered that if Europe didn't exist America wouldn't, for Europe keeps us alive by buying our corn.He said, also, that the trouble with America in the future will be that she will produce things in such enormous quantities that there won't be enough people in the rest of the world to buy them, and that we shall be left with our productions--most of them very hideous--on our hands.I asked him if he thought corn a hideous production, and he replied that there is nothing more unbeautiful than too much food.I think that to feed the world too well, however, that will be, after all, a beau role.Of course Idon't understand these things, and I don't believe Mr.Leverett does; but Mr.Cockerel seems to know what he is talking about, and he says that America is complete in herself.I don't know exactly what he means, but he speaks as if human affairs had somehow moved over to this side of the world.It may be a very good place for them, and Heaven knows I am extremely tired of Europe, which mamma has always insisted so on my appreciating; but I don't think I like the idea of our being so completely cut off.Mr.Cockerel says it is not we that are cut off, but Europe, and he seems to think that Europe has deserved it somehow.That may be; our life over there was sometimes extremely tiresome, though mamma says it is now that our real fatigues will begin.I like to abuse those dreadful old countries myself, but I am not sure that I am pleased when others do the same.We had some rather pretty moments there, after all; and at Piacenza we certainly lived on four francs a day.Mamma is already in a terrible state of mind about the expenses here; she is frightened by what people on the ship (the few that she has spoken to) have told her.There is one comfort, at any rate--we have spent so much money in coming here that we shall have none left to get away.I am scribbling along, as you see, to occupy me till we get news of the islands.Here comes Mr.Cockerel to bring it.Yes, they are in sight; he tells me that they are lovelier than ever, and that I must come right up right away.I suppose you will think that I am already beginning to use the language of the country.It is certain that at the end of a month I shall speak nothing else.Ihave picked up every dialect, wherever we have travelled; you have heard my Platt-Deutsch and my Neapolitan.But, voyons un peu the Bay! I have just called to Mr.Leverett to remind him of the islands."The islands--the islands? Ah, my dear young lady, I have seen Capri, I have seen Ischia!" Well, so have I, but that doesn't prevent...(A little later.)--I have seen the islands; they are rather queer.