He was most cordial, saying in French that he was glad to meet an American woman who could doubtless answer many questions he was anxious to ask.

I could only partially get his meaning, so Bierstadt translated it to me.

And I, who could read and translate French easily, had never found time to learn to chat freely in any language but my own.

I could have cried right there; it was so mortifying, and I was losing such a pleasure.

I had the same pathetic experience with a Russian artist, Verestchagin, whose immense picture, revealing the horrors of war, was then on exhibition in New York.
Again and again I have felt like a dummy, if not an idiot, in such a position.