Dear Polly,
This is to let you
know that there has been some conflict between me and your recent French
husband, Mr. La Bonnet. You no doubt are already familiar with my feelings
towards Arnaud La Bonnet, in that I’ve always regarded him as having a frothy and most frivolous disposition, rather unsuited to the state of
marriage. Yet up until now I resigned myself to your husband---for I respect
your claim to love him exceedingly; even though you admit that he has certain
flaws, which result from his general frothiness.
So I inform you of a
certain vexatious development that has dissolved the uneasy truce that existed
between us. It turns out that lately my Gallic son-in-law has refused to communicate in the English language, insisting on speaking only French with
me. He excuses his behavior by saying that he is merely trying to help me
improve my own French. Indeed my French has always been rather imperfect, and I
struggle mightily both in understanding Mr. La Bonnet and in communicating my
ideas to him in his native language. I know that your own French is superior to
mine, so you are better prepared, if I may say so, to put up with his rudeness.
I want to relate to
you one recent conversation that I had with Mr. La Bonnet---and you will
immediately see how stupefying it is. I will relate this conversation in my
imperfect French, for which I must heartily beg your pardon in advance, but I
do this in order that you may more convincingly perceive the real nature of
this painful affair.
Last Saturday, Mr.
La Bonnet entered the kitchen, where I had been peacefully reading the New York
Times, and he uttered the following harsh sounds—
“Vieil homme, tu ne
vois pas qu'il y ait un fou sans-abri dans le hall de notre immeuble? Vite,
aidez-moi le virer. "
Ruffled though I
was, I responded to his barbarity in the following manner, "Laissez-moi
tranquille, il ne dérange personne. Tu es la plus grande nuisance dans ma
vie."
"Fils de pute
diable, vous êtes laid comme ta femme," and Arnaud stormed out the
door.
Perhaps you can see,
my daughter, why I can only provide you with a short sample of this
conversation; lest I say something that is inappropriate for a lady’s ears. Yet
surely you can understand the purport of the conversation. Mr. La Bonnet has
clearly forgotten what belongs to him, for he has ventured to insult my honor. And still he continues to communicate to me
in his native language.
You must again
excuse the imperfect way in which I render our conversations in French. I
realize that, no matter how much I desire to preserve your ears from shock, I
still risk the chance of mortifying your sensibilities in continuing to relate
these conversations to you. But you are a grown woman, and I trust that
you can handle hearing about this crudeness. And here you have a similar
conversation that occurred between me and Arnaud yesterday.
Again Mr. Bonnet
came in and disturbed my rest, “Hé, le gros, avez-vous vu la poêle à frire? Je
dis, je ne peux pas trouver la fichue chose partout."
"Je n'ai pas vu
votre poêle à frire. Laissez-moi tranquille et obtenir une coupe de cheveux,
vous hippie."
"L'homme dont
vous avez besoin pour se détendre," this being the last thing he said
before storming out.
And there you have
another outburst from Mr. La Bonnet, which indeed shocked my sensibilities. I command, therefore, that you to speak to
your husband immediately, and, using your feminine charm, instill in him the
need to speak the Queen’s English, at least when in my company. I simply refuse
to put up with anything less. I am no fool---I know that Mr. Bonnet can both
speak and write Her Majesty’s English. And if it turns out that he is not
confident in his ability to communicate in our language, I pray that you
suggest to him that he enroll in an English language class at a community
college. And until my wishes are satisfied, I will remain
Your injured father
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