There are millionaires'
residences in New York that might have been transplanted not only from
the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne, but from Touraine itself; while when I
made my pilgrimage to Mr. Widener's, just outside Philadelphia, I found
Rembrandt's "Mill," and Manet's dead bull-fighter, and a Vermeer, and a
little meadow painted divinely by Corot, and El Greco's family group,
and Donatello's St. George, and one of the most lovely scenes that ever
was created by Turner's enchanted brush, all enshrined in a palace which
Louis Seize might have built.
But America is even more French than this. Her women can be not less
_soignees_ than those of France, although they suggest a cooler
blood and less dependence on male society; her bread and coffee are
better than France's best. Moreover, when it comes to night and the
Broadway constellations challenge the darkness, New York leaves Paris
far behind. For every cabaret and supper resort that Paris can provide,
New York has three; and for every dancing floor in Paris, New York has
thirty. Good Americans, however, will still remain faithful to their old
posthumous love, if only for her wine.
Apropos of American women, their position struck me as very different
from the position of women with us. English women are deferential to
their husbands; they are content to be relegated to the background on
all occasions when they are not wanted.
Pages:
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119