SCHOOL IN GENEVA
"But this will never do!" Did Mr. Long say this? Did he ever make such a remark…and to Mother? Is it because of that remark that our drifting, dreaming life in Venice came abruptly to an end? At any rate, this is what happened.
We are at a dinner party. Mr. Long, the American consul in Venice is giving the party. The party has been a success with much hearty laughter and much lively talk. I have sat through it in nervous silence. And now the party is over; it's late. Everyone is leaving in a mellow glow of good nights, and Mr. Long looks at Mother. "Don't go", he murmurs. When he returns after seeing the others to their gondolas, he looks at Mother and said, "This will never do."
First, meet Mr. Long. He is a bachelor in his middle fifties, with a background of embassies and consulates: "A Career Diplomat". He is charming, sophisticated and worldly. He takes my two hands, and there is just a flicker of an eyelid to me, like a secret shared. We all sit down and he looks at Mother. "So, you're planning to spend the winter in Rome". And when Mother agrees with a little patronizing smile, he looks at her. "Open Sesame", he says simply. Then he looks at me and says, "And here's your young Aladdin." Mother, after a puzzled moment, admits to looking forward to Rome. Mr. Long now leans back, ready to make his point, "Rome", his voice is a caress. "Rome, exotic, intoxicating, decadent. Modern Rome is fascinating…and dangerous.
"Dangerous!", Mother sparkles, "What can you mean? Again there is that glint in his eye, a flicker of his eyelid. Is he teasing? "Danger, certainly. "Fate Worse Than Death." "Oh…what?" breathes Mother. She glances hurriedly toward me. "You mean…?" "Danger, certainlyy. Danger of guided tours, bus trips, lectures, Tea Rooms!" And he finishes with the full horror of it — "Tourists", he said, "Tourists", reverently, "in Rome". "Sightseeing…?" Mother falters, "But that's…that's the reason we're…"
The teasing is over. Mr. Long is in earnest. "You have a daughter, therefore an obligation. You'll have opportunities few foreigners ever get. Your brother George," he tells Mother, "will give you Letters. He'll write to the people who are worth knowing. So you'll have opportunities and invitations." He comes to a full stop as he looks from Mother to me. "And one invitation", he says, "You'll be given the Entre, and that once," pained and apologetic he looks at us, "Will be all, for it will be enough."
He now gets down to business. "French!" he looks at me. "My dear girl, French! You must be fluent, easy, idiomatic, in the French language. French must come to you naturally and with confidence and this will give you the assurance you lack. Fluency! Fluency! This you must acquire. Italian too, of course, for the domestics and the shops. But first, last, and always: French!" A conversation like this must have happened, for in those last few days in Venice, Mother was uneasy. I would find her looking at me thoughtfully. She was very cross and I knew she was bothered.
"Education," she mutters. And this leads to a conference with Uncle George. Uncle George laughs and he too gives us a wink. "What does a girl need with an education? she's got something better to offer." Aunt Mary makes a quick interruption. "A convent," she says, "Certainly she must go to a convent. It's not too late. It could be arranged. All Italian girls, all the daughters of the Italian nobility are convent-bred…"
But a "Finishing School" turns out to be The Answer and I am shipped to Geneva to be "finished".
And now comes L'Ecole Brun-Le Croix. It comes echoing back across the years in gales of laughter: the glorious release of laughter echoing down the corridors, down and up the staircases —- the reeling, joyous laughter at absolutely nothing. But first, you must meet Madame. She is a Grande Dame. She is superlatively elegant, her manners impeccable and heer eyes like a fish. Her aim, her object o\is to have a life of her won: uninterrupted peace. Next after that (because necessary( is the Repi\utation of the L'Ecole Brun-Le-Croix. The L'Ecole will continue to produce Demoiselles well-prepared pour le monde. perfect in manners and fluent in the French language. Her school has a Name. This is due to one Madam and the ambiance she has created. Her tea parties, of ladies in hats and gloves are formal and elegant affairs, well-known in Geneva. (Due also to Mademoiselle Lili, Madame's daughter, harassed, lovable, but not a disciplinarian.)
It must be admitted that from the start the school simply went to my head. Pleased and surprised, I am regarded as a celebrity! "L'Americane!" I come to the eyes of the others as from the Land of the Indians. Wild advenrues in scalpings! Buffalos. i am something! As for me, my schoolmates are characters in novels. To me they are romance. the Russian girls! I think of all my Russian novels! The romantic Austrians from the land of the Merry Widow; Prince Danilo waltzing down the staircase. So from the start you can see there is a spark of excitement. For certainly a pulse of excitement grew throughout the school. these are girls released from the life of Family Estates, from European governesses and utors. The too become intoxicated at the new freedom, and we all go slightly mad.
But not at once, not immediately, but there is a throb, a dangerous ripple that spreads. Rules become a challenge! Why do we find it necessary to dash through, out and beyond the school gate and into the highway/ Ecstatic and pointless rush out and back: simply because it's forbidden to leave the school grounds unchaperoned. A situation has also arisen: My hats. Madame calls me to her office for a talk. My hats, "Tiernt trop les regardes." I instantly become wide-eyed. I am amazed, "but my hats are meant to attract attention." Madame is not amused. My mistake. So drawn swords from the start.
There are incidents. there is the incident of the Hair Brush. Madame is entertaining the ladies in he garden below my window. A hair brush flies from my Window and hits a lady below. (The hairbrush is only too evidently unwashed.) My worried explanation is unacceptable. Worriedly, I apologize, "It was not meant…an accident…." I can't find the word for "Rough House". Madame is too shaken to cope. Mademoiselle Lili begs me, tears in her eyes to try to be more…Convenable.
It's the noise, it's this…this? This lack of repose that rasps, Madam explains. Lectures on manners send us into supressed giggling. The fish eyes become more fish like.
Then there's the incident of the Serenade. It happens under my window at midnight. My window is in the front of the house, so it's not my fault that the students should gather with their guitars and mandolins and their full-throated tenors and basses, and, naturally, the girls should rush fom their rooms to gather at my window until teachers in wrappers and curlers, shocked and outraged, rescue our virtue. The school is called to assembly next morning to learn that our virtue and the school's reputation has been endangered. it is understood that this is due to me. Loose, I'm a loose woman. Without morals. I try to apologize. Again, without success.
And I must not forget the Midnight Feasts. I must tell you about them. For never again in life shall I know the thrill of stepping from our rooms into the silent dark of a sleeping house. So we gather, link arms and step together. This is because of creaking boards. So step, listen, wait, another stepS..giggle, pinch, stifled gasps - and we're at Lotte's door. Softly, softly, the door opens and we step into a darkness of black shapes, whispers and giggles. A crumbling bit of something is given me and something sickly sweet. Never in my life, then or later, has there ever been food so delicious. Sudden Terror! This is the end! The door is opening slowly. In the darkness we can see that slowly, ominously, but certainly the door is opening. The silence is frozen. If I could explain the deadliness, the fear! Finally, a whisper comes from the door, "C'est moi, Sophie>" So, it's Sophie! Sophie the coward, afraid to come, has now changed her mind. Drama like this will never happen again. Life will never again hold the suspense, that special paralysis of fear!
And there are monthly dances. Chateau De Lonce is our opposite number, the boys' school. Once a month they give a dance — a very formal affair, very serious. Manners are the object. Stately waltzes; Courtly Quadrilles; bows, hands on heart, the clicked heels at the invitation to dance — all well-chaperoned , of course. Somehow, American dances are introduced: the Aeroplane Glides for one. This dance is a series of leaps and swoops, from one end of the room to the other. A series of long dives, and the result is utter confusion among the Waltzers. Next day a note is delivered to L'Ecole Brun-La Croix. It comes from Chateau De Lonce. Well, I'm already on the skids, coasting rapidly, although I don't realize it.
And finally, that fatal Sunday.
Sundays are days of boredom. After church there is nothing to do. We're not allowed out. We flounce around, idle and restless. some of us are in Helene's room. Through boredom, we plan outrageous adventures: simple, impossible. Helene, a Greek girl, is asleep on her bed — except that she is not asleep, and her imagination is more realistic than ours. Lazy and bored we get wild ideas. we'll go to the roof in the dark and we'll wig-wag signals to chateau De Lonce. "But Madame will catch us," someone says. And I glibly answer, "Oh, I'll put something in her tea to make her sleep." We drift off bored, forgetting our silly talk. But Helene is not bored. she is in a panic. Europe, at the turn of the century, is a time of nihilists. The country is rife with plots and revolutions. A Greek girl, she knows the signs of danger. No sooner are we gone that she rushes to tell Madame.
Soon, a white faced teacher brings word that I amto go to my room. My roomate is given another room. As the door closes, I hear the click of a key turn and the lock snap. I'm intrigued rather than uneasy. Supper, breakfast and meals are brought to me. Footsteps pass my door, noone knocks. In the morning, from my window, I see a taxi enter the gate and, incredibly, out steps Mother. Mother summoned from Rome? I wait now in growing uneasiness. the door remains locked. Finally, I am summoned. Mother is with Madame. She does not greet me. she does not return my embrace. i have never seen mother baffled, but now I see she is angry and half-laughing in a baffled sort of way. "Pack your things," says Mother. I look from Mother to Madame, back to Mother. Silence. "Pour quoi…? totters out on my sigh. White and trembling, Madame turns from me to Madamoiselle Lili. Gravely, Madamoiselle Lili explains: Attempted murder. Plot. So I am a murderer. Fluent but not idiomatic French floods, outraged.
"And hurry," says Mother.
On our way to the hotel, Mother is frightened. The consulate she wonders? Or the American Embassy? A lawyer? An international incident? I am shaken and frightened. Mother finally decides to let well enough alone. I am deposited in a small Swiss village called Varnayaz, a village in a mountain valley where Janet, Stu and the Baby have been sent to escape the Roman heat. It is now late spring. Janet, Stu and I reside in gloomy state. Even Stu, my brash young brother, understands that the sitation is unmentionable. I am left in silence. My only memory of this sojourn are of solid and gloomy walks along one road where I met a drunken man. At last, at very long last, Mother arrives. We return to Venice. My education is over.
