[Europe and the bright American Girl.]
"How does she do it?"
That is what the European girl wants to know.The American girl!
She comes over here, and, as a British matron, reduced to slang by force of indignation, once exclaimed to me: "You'd think the whole blessed show belonged to her." The European girl is hampered by her relatives.She has to account for her father: to explain away, if possible, her grandfather.The American girl sweeps them aside:
"Don't you worry about them," she says to the Lord Chamberlain.
"It's awfully good of you, but don't you fuss yourself.I'm looking after my old people.That's my department.What I want you to do is just to listen to what I am saying and then hustle around.I can fill up your time all right by myself."Her father may be a soap-boiler, her grandmother may have gone out charing.
"That's all right," she says to her Ambassador: "They're not coming.
You just take my card and tell the King that when he's got a few minutes to spare I'll be pleased to see him."And the extraordinary thing is that, a day or two afterwards, the invitation arrives.
A modern writer has said that "I'm Murrican" is the Civis Romanus sum of the present-day woman's world.The late King of Saxony, did, Ibelieve, on one occasion make a feeble protest at being asked to receive the daughter of a retail bootmaker.The young lady, nonplussed for the moment, telegraphed to her father in Detroit.The answer came back next morning: "Can't call it selling--practically giving them away.See Advertisement." The lady was presented as the daughter of an eminent philanthropist.
It is due to her to admit that, taking her as a class, the American girl is a distinct gain to European Society.Her influence is against convention and in favour of simplicity.One of her greatest charms, in the eyes of the European man, is that she listens to him.
I cannot say whether it does her any good.Maybe she does not remember it all, but while you are talking she does give you her attention.The English woman does not always.She greets you pleasantly enough:
"I've so often wanted to meet you," she says, "must you really go?"It strikes you as sudden: you had no intention of going for hours.
But the hint is too plain to be ignored.You are preparing to agree that you really must when, looking round, you gather that the last remark was not addressed to you, but to another gentleman who is shaking hands with her:
"Now, perhaps we shall be able to talk for five minutes," she says.
"I've so often wanted to say that I shall never forgive you.You have been simply horrid."Again you are confused, until you jump to the conclusion that the latter portion of the speech is probably intended for quite another party with whom, at the moment, her back towards you, she is engaged in a whispered conversation.When he is gone she turns again to you.
But the varied expressions that pass across her face while you are discussing with her the disadvantages of Protection, bewilder you.
When, explaining your own difficulty in arriving at a conclusion, you remark that Great Britain is an island, she roguishly shakes her head.It is not that she has forgotten her geography, it is that she is conducting a conversation by signs with a lady at the other end of the room.When you observe that the working classes must be fed, she smiles archly while murmuring:
"Oh, do you really think so?"
You are about to say something strong on the subject of dumping.
Apparently she has disappeared.You find that she is reaching round behind you to tap a new arrival with her fan.
[She has the Art of Listening.]
Now, the American girl looks at you, and just listens to you with her eyes fixed on you all the time.You gather that, as far as she is concerned, the rest of the company are passing shadows.She wants to hear what you have to say about Bi-metallism: her trouble is lest she may miss a word of it.From a talk with an American girl one comes away with the conviction that one is a brilliant conversationalist, who can hold a charming woman spell-bound.This may not be good for one: but while it lasts, the sensation is pleasant.
Even the American girl cannot, on all occasions, sweep from her path the cobwebs of old-world etiquette.Two American ladies told me a sad tale of things that had happened to them not long ago in Dresden.
An officer of rank and standing invited them to breakfast with him on the ice.Dames and nobles of the plus haut ton would be there.It is a social function that occurs every Sunday morning in Dresden during the skating season.The great lake in the Grosser Garten is covered with all sorts and conditions of people.Prince and commoner circle and recircle round one another.But they do not mix.The girls were pleased.They secured the services of an elderly lady, the widow of an analytical chemist: unfortunately, she could not skate.They wrapped her up and put her in a sledge.While they were in the garde robe putting on their skates, a German gentleman came up and bowed to them.
He was a nice young man of prepossessing appearance and amiable manners.They could not call to mind his name, but remembered having met him, somewhere, and on more than one occasion.The American girl is always sociable: they bowed and smiled, and said it was a fine day.He replied with volubility, and helped them down on to the ice.
He was really most attentive.They saw their friend, the officer of noble family, and, with the assistance of the German gentleman, skated towards him.He glided past them.They thought that maybe he did not know enough to stop, so they turned and skated after him.
They chased him three times round the pond and then, feeling tired, eased up and took counsel together.
