Mademoiselle Miss, and Other Stories — Inside the Classic

The Grammar of Loss

In the opening story, the narrator's grief is articulated through a series of precise, almost taxonomic observations. The departing friend has taken "an element from the earth and the sky, and a fibre from ourselves." The language is both abstract and concrete: the world is "subtly, incommunicably altered," and the bereft are left with a "changeling" that bears only a formal resemblance to what was. This attention to the mechanics of emotion—how loss reshapes perception—is a recurring method in the collection.

The narrator also describes the farewell scene at St. Lazare with a mixture of tenderness and absurdity: the group packs sandwiches and claret, brings violets and a book, and stands "forlornest" despite "spasmodic attempts at merriment." The detail of the third-class compartment "reserved for dames seules" anchors the scene in a specific social reality. Harland uses such small, concrete particulars to ground his psychological explorations.

A Young American Abroad

In "The Prodigal Father," Harold's earnestness provides a comic foil to the worldly cynicism of his father's set. When Harold asks a major about smokeless powder and a member of Parliament about population figures, he is met with ignorance. His question to Lady Angela about Robert Elsmere—a novel of religious doubt—elicits the reply that she doesn't know him. The humor lies in the mismatch between Harold's appetite for information and the social code that treats such inquiries as gauche.

Harold's father, Weir, defends Lady Angela as "perfectly, frankly, cynically wicked" yet able to "keep her place in society." When Harold is shocked, Weir jokes that she is "an amateur" compared to continental ladies. The dialogue moves swiftly between moral judgment and ironic deflection. Harold's diary entry, with its list of cab fares and planned sights, underscores his methodical, data-driven approach to experience—a contrast to the fluid, performative social world he has entered.

Dialogue as Social Barometer

Harland uses dialogue to reveal character and social dynamics. In the opening story, the narrator's interior monologue gives way to the group's fragmented exchanges at the station. In "The Prodigal Father," the conversation between Harold and Weir is a series of thrusts and parries: Harold accuses the set of being "all froth and glitter," while Weir pleads for charity and offers the example of Major Northbrook, "the best polo player in England." The dialogue is dense with implication, as when Weir describes Lady Angela as "a reg'lar bad un" who "makes no bones of it."

The rhythm of the exchanges—Harold's blunt questions, Weir's evasive or ironic replies—creates a sense of two worlds colliding. Weir's plea, "For pity's sake, don't tell me you're a Nonconformist," treats religious identity as a social embarrassment. Harold's response, "I'm an Episcopalian," is delivered with solemnity. The comedy arises from the gap between the son's moral seriousness and the father's worldly tolerance.

Structure and the Reader's Expectations

The collection's structure—opening with a story of loss and then moving to a comic tale of cultural misunderstanding—invites the reader to adjust expectations. The first story's lyrical, introspective mode gives way to the second's brisk, dialogue-driven narrative. This shift suggests that Harland is less interested in a single tone than in exploring different registers of social and emotional experience.

The excerpts also hint at recurring concerns: the tension between American and European manners, the role of observation in understanding character, and the way language can both reveal and conceal. The reader who begins with the first story's meditation on absence may find the second story's comedy a relief or a puzzle. The collection rewards attention to how each story frames its central conflict—whether through the narrator's interiority or through the clash of voices in dialogue.

As you read, note how Harland uses small details—a bunch of violets, a diary entry, a question about smokeless powder—to build larger portraits of character and society. The stories reward attention to the gaps between what characters say and what they mean, and to the way the narrator's voice shapes our understanding. The collection's variety of tone and setting invites comparison between its different worlds: the expatriate Paris of the first story, the London drawing rooms of the second, and whatever follows.