The Reflections of Ambrosine - A Novel | Page 2

a rule people don't live so long as grandmamma, and the other
maids of honor of the court of Charles X. were all buried years ago.
Grandmamma was eighty-eight last July! No one would think it to look
at her. She is not deaf or blind or any of those annoying things, and she
sits bolt-upright in her chair, and her face is not very wrinkled--more
like fine, old, white kid. Her hair is arranged with such a chic; it is
white, but she always has it a little powdered as well, and she wears
such becoming caps, rather like the pictures of Madame du Deffand.
They are always of real lace--I know, for I have to mend them. Some of
her dresses are a trifle shabby, but they look splendid when she puts
them on, and her eyes are the eyes of a hawk, the proudest eyes I have
ever seen. Her third and little fingers are bent with rheumatism, but she
still polishes her nails and covers the rest of her hands with mittens.
You can't exactly love grandmamma, but you feel you respect her
dreadfully, and it is a great honor when she is pleased.
I was twelve when we left Paris, and I am nineteen now. We have lived
on and off in England ever since, part of the time in London--that was
dull! All those streets and faces, and no one to speak to, and the mud
and the fogs!
During those years we have only twice had glimpses of papa--the
shortest visits, with long talks alone with grandmamma and generally
leaving by the early train.
He seems to me to be rather American, papa, and very coarse to be the
son of grandmamma; but I must say I have always had a sneaking
affection for him. He never takes much notice of me--a pat on the head
when I was a child, and since an awkward kiss, as if he was afraid of
breaking a bit of china. I feel somehow that he does not share all of
grandmamma's views; he seems, in fact, like a person belonging to
quite another world than ours. If it was not that he has the same nose
and chin as grandmamma, one would say she had bought him
somewhere, and that he could not be her own son.
Hephzibah says he is good-natured, so perhaps that is why he made a

bêtise in South America. One ought never to be called good-natured,
grandmamma says--as well write one's self down a noodle at once.
While we were in Paris we hardly ever saw papa either; he was always
out West in America, or at Rio, or other odd places. All we knew of
him was, there was plenty of money to grandmamma's account in the
bank.
Grandmamma has given me most of my education herself since we
came to England, and she has been especially particular about
deportment. I have never been allowed to lean back in my chair or loll
on a sofa, and she has taught me how to go in and out of a room and
how to enter a carriage. We had not a carriage, so we had to arrange
with footstools for the steps and a chair on top of a box for the seat.
That used to make me laugh!--but I had to do it--into myself. As for
walking, I can carry any sized bundle on my head, and grandmamma
says she has nothing further to teach me in that respect, and that I have
mastered the fact that a gentlewoman should give the impression that
the ground is hardly good enough to tread on. She has also made me go
through all kinds of exercises to insure suppleness, and to move from
the hips. And the day she told me she was pleased I shall never forget.
There are three things, she says, a woman ought to look--straight as a
dart, supple as a snake, and proud as a tiger-lily.
Besides deportment I seem to have learned a lot of stuff that I am sure
no English girls have to bother about, I probably am unacquainted with
half the useful, interesting things they know.
We brought with us a beautifully bound set of French classics, and we
read Voltaire one day, and La Bruyère the next, and Pascal, and
Fontenelle, and Molière, and Fénelon, and the sermons of Bossuet, and
since I have been seventeen the Maximes of La Rochefoucauld.
Grandmamma dislikes Jean Jacques; she says he helped the Revolution,
and she is all for the ancien régime. But in all these books she makes
me skip what I am sure are the nice parts, and there are whole volumes
of Voltaire that I may not even look into. For herself grandmamma