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THE SMART SET
Correspondence
&
Conversations
by
CLYDE FITCH
1897
Chicago & New York
Herbert S. Stone & Co
Copyright, 1897, by
Herbert S. Stone & Co.
TO
"MUMSY"
TO WHOM I OWE EVERYTHING FROM THE LITTLE
BEGINNING OF MY LIFE
NEW YORK
1897
The Correspondence and the Conversations
PAGE
THE MAKEWAY BALL 3
THE PLAINTIFF 43
THE SUMMER 53
THE CHILDREN 65
MATERNITY 85
A LETTER OF INTRODUCTION 105
WAGNER, 1897 113
ART 131
SORROW 139
THE THEATRE 149
THE OPERA 159
A PERFECT DAY 167
THE WESTINGTON'S BOHEMIAN DINNER 175
THE GAMBLERS 187
The Makeway Ball
Five Letters
I. From Wm. H. Makeway
II. From Mrs. Makeway
III. From Miss Makeway
IV. From a Guest
V. From an Uninvited
The Smart Set
I
_From Wm. H. Makeway to Joseph K. Makeway, of Denver._
New York, Jan. 12, 189--.
My Dear Brother:
You did well to stay West. Would to God I had! Julia's big party came
off last night. I told her weeks ago, when she began insinuating it,
that if it must be it must be, of course, and that I would pay all the
bills, but I wished it distinctly understood I wouldn't have anything
else to do with it. She assured me that nothing whatever would be
expected of me. Unfortunately, she wasn't the only woman with an
American husband, and that people would understand. She promised me I
should have a voice in the matter of cigars and champagne--you can know
they were _all right_--and I believe the success of the party was, in a
great measure, due to them.
My having "nothing whatever to do" with it consisted in hearing nothing
else discussed for days, and on the night in question having no room I
could call my own, my bedroom being devoted to the men (of course you
know that Julia and I haven't shared the same room for years, not since
the six months she spent with her married sister, Lady Glenwill), my
own sanctum down stairs was turned into a smoker, and I was obliged to
hang around in any place I could find, all ready for the guests a
couple of hours before they began to arrive. Of course, too, she
finally bulldozed me into helping her receive. You see, the little
woman really was worn out, for she had overseen everything. She is a
wonder! There isn't an English servant in New York, or London, either,
who can teach her anything, altho' our second footman happens to have
been with the Duke of Cambridge at one time. Not that I care a damn
about such things--except that the Duke is a soldier--but in speaking
of them I get to taking Julia's point of view. I helped her receive
some of the people, to sort of give her a feeling of not having the
whole infernal thing on her own shoulders. Everybody Julia wanted came,
and a great many she didn't want. I suppose out where you live you
don't have to ask the people you don't want. Here it's much more likely
you can't ask the people you do want. I have some business friends,
first-rate fellows, with good looking, dressy wives, but Julia bars
them every one because they aren't fashionables. You ought to see me
when _I'm_ fashionable! The most miserable specimen you ever saw. I
look just like one of the figures in a plate in a tailor's window,
labeled "latest autumn fashions," and I feel like one, too.
Julia looked stunning! By Jove! she was the handsomest woman there.
There isn't another in New York anywhere near her age who can touch
her. They say every one asked about her in London when she went out
with her sister in English society, and I don't wonder. You know she
has a tall crown of diamonds--tiaras, they call them--I've always been
ashamed to tell you before! She came home with it from Tiffany's one
day, and said it was my birthday present to her, and I let it go at
that. Well, last night no Duchess could have worn the same sort of
thing any better. The young one, too, looked as pretty as a ----
whatever you like, only it must be damned pretty! It was her first
ball, you know; she's a ----, you know what, it's her first time in
society. She had more bouquets than Patti used to get when you and I
were running about town. And she was as unconcerned about it! She's
fashionable enough--I only hope she isn't too much so. I don't want her
to marry this young Lord who's hanging around, and I say so three times
a day. The "young'un" says I'd better wait till he's asked her, but I
don't dare. Julia's fixed on it. She won't even argue with me, so you
can imagine how determined she is. But I want my daughter to marry an
American, and live in her own home where her father and mother live.
One thing, I know: most of these marrying foreigners that come over
here want money, and I'll be hanged if I'll give the young'un a penny
if she takes this one. I mean it. I give you my word. He led the
cotillon with her last night. I wouldn't watch it. I staid in my den
and helped smoke the cigars. None better! I can tell you that!
Well, good bye, old man. If you hear of any thing good out your way to
drop a couple of hundred thousand in, let me know--better wire me.
Politics have played the deuce with my Utahs. Julia sends her love, and
wants me to enclose you yards of newspaper clippings about the party.
Ha! Ha! Not by a damn sight! It's enough that I was bored to death by
it! The "young'un" often speaks of you. She is getting togged out to go
with her mother and do the town in the way of At Homes and such things.
What a life! Yet they seem to enjoy it, and pity us. Us! In Wall
street! The Elysian Fields of America! Can I do anything for you here?
You know I am always glad of a chance.
Your affectionate brother,
WILL.
How about that girl you were running after? Why don't you give it all
up? You know what a bad lot she is. Settle down and marry. It's the
only real happiness. Believe your old brother.
II
_Letter from Mrs. Wm. H. Makeway to Lady Glenwill, of London._
Thursday.
My Darling Tina:
It is over, and my dear, I'm dead! Only--_such_ a success! Surpassed my
wildest dreams! If you had _only_ been here. In the first place every
one of any consequence in New York came; except, of course, those who
are in mourning. There are certain people who have always held off from
me, you know; but they've come around at last, and were all in evidence
last night and in their best clothes, and _all_ their jewels, and you
know that always speaks well for the hostess. I wore my tiara that Will
so generously gave me my last birthday (of course he hates it himself,
but I brought it home, and he had to give in--the Dear!). My wedding
necklace, three strings of real pearls, and one string of those
"Orient" things we bought on Bond St.--no one could ever tell the
difference except Will, who makes a fuss every time I wear them. He
swears he will give me a new real string if I put them on again, but I
tell him we must economize now to make up for what the party cost. My
dress was charming. Grace Nott brought it over from Pacquin for her
mother, and meanwhile this cruel indecent new tariff came on! Get down
on your knees, my dear, and be grateful you don't live in this wretched
country which is being turned into one great picnicking ground for the
working classes. The custom house wanted to make Grace pay an awful
duty, and then, fortunately for me, but of course it was terrible for
them, something in Wall Street went up instead of down, or vice versa
(I never can understand those things), and the poor Notts went to
smash. The dress was to be left in the custom house. When I heard about
it I bought it, duties and all. My dear girl, it fitted me like a
dream. Did you ever hear anything like it? Of course, Mrs. Nott never
could have squeezed herself into it, so it's just as well she didn't
try! It is the new color, and made in the very latest way--in fact, the
coming spring mode. I really think Will's description is the best. I'll
try to quote it to you: "It begins at the top--_i.e._ decidedly below
the shoulders--to be one kind of a dress, changes its mind somewhere
midway, and ends out another sort altogether. One side starts off in
one direction, but comes to grief and a big jewel, somewhere in the
back. The other side, taking warning, starts off in an absolutely
different way, color, and effect, and explodes at the waist under the
opposite arm in a diamond sunburst and a knot of tulle, on accidentally
meeting its opponent half." It really is quite like that, too! Will is
as amusing as ever. And he was _so_ sweet about the party. Of course,
at first, I had to be very diplomatic and get his consent without his
knowing. He still hates society in the most unreasonable manner; would
even rather stay at home quietly than go to his club. But last night he
accepted the inevitable and behaved like a prince. I wonder how many
couples in New York who have been married nineteen years are as happy
as Will and I are? He made a great fuss, of course, about the champagne
and cigars. You would have thought the whole fate of the ball depended
upon them; and I must say they cost a ridiculous price. However, he
pays for them, and they made him happier; so I don't complain. I am
sure, after all, he enjoyed the ball thoroughly, too. You could see it
in his face. And what perfect manners he has! Do you remember? Will may
not be "smart," but he's a gentleman, and his grandfathers before him
were gentlemen, and that always tells.
We don't seem to have had many grandfathers, my dear--of our own, I
mean, of course. I know you've married a wonderful collection of them,
dating back to goodness knows when, but it isn't so important for
American women; they can acquire breeding in their own lifetime. I know
no other nation whose women can do the same, and even our men haven't
the same ability. Look at the American duchesses--don't they grace even
the parties at Marlborough House? Look at yourself, my dear girl. But
you won't, because you're too modest. Still you must acknowledge your
success in England is conspicuous. Will's manners are perhaps a little
old-school, but that's much better than the new-school. Young men's
manners nowadays are becoming atrocious, and I'm sorry to say I think
they get them from England. The first thing one knows the only
gentlemen left in America will be the women. But I hope American men
_won't_ lose their reputation--deserved, you must acknowledge--of being
the most courteous men in the world to women. Well, to go back to the
ball. Of course, all my feelings outside my guests were centered in
Helen. I might as well tell you at once, she is considered the most
attractive debutante of the year--not by me, I don't mean, nor by my
friends, but by the people who hate us, and _everybody_. I think she is
very like you, a sort of _distingué_ air that you always had. I
sometimes wonder if some of our grandmothers (for even if we didn't
have grandfathers we must have had grandmothers), if some _one_ of
them--hope not _two_--didn't make a wee slip once when royal personages
were about! Of course there is no use boasting of royal blood in one's
veins when it has no business there, but that would account for certain
things. You may remember the old portrait of mother's mother. She
looked a perfect duchess. Helen can have a title if she wants it. I
might as well tell you now. Please find out all you can for me about
young Lord ----. He will be Duke of ---- when his father or some one
dies; so find out if you can, too, how long you think it will probably
be before he becomes a duke. And is he rich or poor? He needn't be
rich, but I don't want to think it's Helen's money he's after. I'm
doing all I can to bring about the match, and yet I'm not so worldly
after all as to want a daughter of mine to make a loveless marriage.
Helen isn't exactly pretty, but she's extremely attractive. Her figure
is perfect, and she's the most stylish thing in the world. I am very
happy today as I think that I have _lancéed_ her in the best New York
can offer. It has not been all downhill work. Her father's name
entitled her to it; but he hated society, so he was more of a drawback
than anything else. I couldn't boast of any social position in Buffalo,
and it's extraordinary how well that was known here. However, the fact
of my being of a good, sterling, unpretentious family did help in the
end, when I got started, and people saw I was serious about "getting
in." Of course, you gave us our first big push forward, you darling. An
_entrée_ into smart English society doesn't mean so much for a New
Yorker nowadays as it used to, but it means a good deal. And a
sister-in-law of Lord Glenwill is a desirable person to know when in
London, so it is wise to take her up at home, and I, always having
Helen's future in mind, took advantage of every possibility. Perhaps I
shouldn't have had to push my way so much here if the Prince of Wales
were still _making_ an American girl each season, but you know for
several years now he seems to have given it up. I think he was
discouraged by the last two he made at Homburg; neither of them had any
success here the following winter, "hall-marked" as they were, and even
London hasn't found them husbands yet.
Of course, as to one of them, I remember the gossip you wrote me about
Colonel ----. But, as you said, he had a wife and other incumbrances;
so the least said about that the better.
Under any circumstance, I think it's a much bigger triumph to give
Helen all New York first, now, simply by our own right, and then this
May we'll take her to an early drawing-room, and see what happens next.
I shall depend upon you, dear, to see that we go to one of the
Princess' drawing-rooms, and don't get palmed off on one of the
Princess Christian's or anything of that sort.
Helen was dressed very simply, of course, and no jewels, but looked so
sweet. Lord ---- was devotion itself all evening. Naturally every one
is on the _qui vive_ for the engagement, but that's all right. They
danced the cotillon together. We had charming favors, not too
extravagant--that's such wretched taste--but things we bought in Venice
last year, and Hungarian things, and some Russian, and a set of tiny
gold things Tiffany got up especially for us.
I had several people down from Buffalo, and mother, of course. I wish
you could have seen her, bless her heart. She had on all her old lace,
and my coiffeur did her hair beautifully. She looked so handsome, and
Will insisted on her dancing a figure of a quadrille with him, and how
graceful and dignified she was. You would have been very proud. I was.
Lots of people asked about her, and some seemed so surprised when they
heard she was my mother. How rude people are; and what did they expect
my mother to be like? After all, do _I_ look like the daughter of a
washerwoman? I think not. We might ask the Grand Duke ----, if we meet
him again at Aix. You know I told Will about my small, timid flirtation
with the Russian, and really he seemed proud of my absurd little
conquest! A convenient husband for some women we know, wouldn't he be?
Ah, but then you see _they_ wouldn't deserve him!
Sherry did my supper. He imported some birds from Austria especially
for it, and invented some dishes of his own. I think it was all right.
People said so, but, of course, you can't believe people. I can vouch
at any rate for the serving of it. It was like magic. We seated _every
one_ at little tables which seemed to come up thro' the floors. They
were everywhere except in the ball-room; that was left clear.
We've built the ball-room since you were over. Will bought the house
next to us (such a sum as they asked when they heard _we_ wanted it!)
and the whole lower floor we made into a ball-room. It just holds my
series of Gobelins we bought for that outrageous price two years ago in
Paris at the Marquis de Shotteau's sale. For flowers, I had quantities
of gorgeous palms and lovely cut flowers in bowls and vases wherever it
was possible. That was all,--I hate this stuffing a house with
half-fading flowers, it always suggests a funeral to me, with the
banked-up mantels for coffins. It's horrid, I know, but I can't help
it. However, if I am writing in this vein it's time I stopped. My
letter is abnormally long as it is--I hope the right number of stamps
will be put on it. Forgive me for mentioning it, my dear, but we always
have to pay double postage due on your epistles. I don't mind at
all--they are quite worth it--only I thought you might like to know.
I have all the newspapers about the ball for you, but I will wait till
after Thursday and then send them on in a package. I want to see what
_Town Topics_ will say. Nobody cares, of course, only you don't like to
see horrid things about you in print. Sometimes it treats me very well,
and it's devoted to Helen, but once in a while it's atrocious. I'm only
a little worried about Lord ----. I don't want it to say I am after him
for Helen, because I am _not_! If the English papers have anything in,
please send them over--I know some articles are going to be written. If
there are any of them absurd and extravagant accounts, of course you
will take pains to contradict them. The English press seems often
determined to make American society ridiculous.
Will says we will be greatly indebted to your husband if he will get
us a house for the season, as you proposed. Carleton House Terrace,
if possible; if not, use your own judgment, only not Grosvenor
Square--they make too much fun of strangers who go there. I hope you
are well and taking some sort of care of yourself, which you know you
never do. And please, if you go to Paris at Easter, be sure to write us
at once if sleeves are still growing smaller, if hats are big or
little, and whether it's feathers or flowers, or both. Also, of course,
anything else that will help us. And don't forget to find out all you
can about Lord ----. And do you advise announcing the engagement before
her presentation, or afterward? And by no means say a word to anybody,
as he hasn't proposed yet. By the way, Will is violently opposed to it.
But I think Helen and I together will be too much for him, and if
absolutely necessary _my health_ can give out! That had to happen, you
remember, before I could get him out of 15th street and up here.
My love to the Hon. Bertha. How is the dear child? I long to see you.
Say what you like, this society life isn't altogether satisfactory. I
think after Helen is happily married--to whomever it is--I shall drift
quietly out of it, and gradually take to playing Joan to Will's Darby.
I'm sure Will would _love_ it.
Love to you both, and a heart full to yourself, Tina, dearest.
Your affectionate old sister,
MARY.
P.S.--Don't laugh at what I said about a society life. Of course I
don't mean it. I don't believe I could live without it now. I'm tired
after the ball, that's all. To tell the truth I don't quite know where
my head is. I shall take two phoenacetine powders right away. Do you
know about them; they're so good. Did I ask you if you went to Paris
Easter to be sure and write me if sleeves---- O yes, I remember, I did.
III
_From Miss Makeway to Miss Blanche Matheson in Rome._
Thursday.
My darling Blanche:
Of course I know you are having a wonderful time in Rome with Royalties
and all sorts of smart people and gay entertainments, but still I wish
you had been at our ball last night. I believe you would have enjoyed
it. I don't think anyone can deny we know how to give balls in America,
and mama is a wonder! You know she's been fishing for guests for this
ball for years. And she wouldn't give it till she was sure of a list of
people who would be present that would bear comparison with anybody's;
and, my dear, we had it! And I am sure mama feels more than repaid.
With such a culmination everything has been worth while--the French
_chef_ and his terrible extravagances, for you must pay to be known as
a good house to dine at--all the deadly afternoon parties, all the
exorbitant fees paid for years to the opera singers to sing, the house
at Newport--and the one at Lennox, the seasons in London, that shooting
box in Scotland (it bored us to death), it was all worth while now that
we have arrived at the toppest top. And no one could become her
position better than mama. A society matron of the first water is
certainly her _métier_.
Lord ---- is very much struck with mama. I will tell you about him
later. Of course poor papa looks a little what that amusing young
Englishman would call perhaps 1872. He wasn't in it for a minute; bored
to death, poor thing. You know he hates parties. Thank heaven I am
"out" at last, for now I can go to everything that comes on. And do as
I please, that is if I want to, because I may marry soon! I wish I
could see your expression when you read that. Of course it is Lord
----. He proposed last night, but I told him he must wait, and propose
again in a couple of weeks. I wasn't ready to decide yet. I must be
free "out" for a couple of weeks at least.
He will be Duke of ----, some day. As the Duchess I shall have
precedence over Mamie Smith, Gertrude Strong, and Irene van Worth, and
even over all the older women who have married abroad, except the
Duchesses of ---- and ----. Think what fun it would be to sail in
everywhere ahead of Mamie Smith, after all the insufferable airs she
has put on! I don't believe I could make a better match. Besides he's
youngish and good-looking, has splendid estates, and I really like him.
I mean I think he is the sort of man you can get very romantic about.
And of course there's no real social life anywhere but abroad, and
there's no other life that wouldn't bore me to death. It's only
natural, for my whole childhood was spent in an atmosphere of searching
after it. Ever since I can remember the chief occupation and interest
of mama was how diplomatically to get into the smartest set with
dignity. It seemed as difficult as the proverbial camel and eye of a
needle and the rich man getting into heaven, and in my younger days the
three were all very much mixed up together in my mind. I think I should
prefer London to Paris. Smart life in Paris seems to be so very much
more immoral than in London, judging from what one hears and the books
one reads, and you know I don't care about immorality. I get that from
mama, too. She is shocked all the time in the "world," over here even,
tho' she tries to hide it.
Our house looked lovely last night. We had powdered footmen, and just
enough music and just enough supper and just enough people. One of the
secrets of success in society is not to overcrowd anything.
Of course there were some drawbacks to the ball, but small things that
didn't really count. Mary Farnham came and sat the whole evening thro',
as usual, without once dancing. Even papa said he "drew the line at
that." Why doesn't she take something? You see lots of things
advertised that change people almost as big as she into a perfect
shadow in no time. You feel so sorry for her when she's your guest. I
had a great mind to put Lord ---- to the test, but I didn't quite dare!
Then Tommy Baggs came and repeated his customary gymnastics--waltzed on
everybody's toes in the rooms (slipper sellers ought to pay him a
commission), tore two women's gowns nearly off their waists and spilled
champagne frappé down Mrs. Carton's back; would have ruined her bodice,
if she'd had any on, at the back. She bore it like a lamb. Her teeth
were fairly chattering, but she laughed and said it was rather
pleasant.
Good heavens! Who do you suppose is down stairs? Lord ----! It's going
to be a bore if he's coming every day. I shall go down and tell him
these two weeks I am to have a complete holiday.
Do write me all you're doing.
With love always,
HELEN.
_Later_--I have accepted him! He was so perfectly charming! I couldn't
help it!
IV
_From a Guest._
Thursday.
My dear Claire:
I was so glad to hear from you about Florida, and, as you are having
such an amusing time, and as the season here is practically finished
now that the much-talked of Makeway ball is over, I've decided to join
you next week. Besides, I've missed you awfully, and it will be so nice
to be with you again. Will you be so good as to engage my rooms for
me?--a bedroom with two windows facing south; not near the elevator by
any means; not above the third floor--_but not on the first_. Please
see that the coloring is blue or pink; I'm not particular about design
or material, or anything of that sort (I don't think people should be
too _exigeant_)--only yellow, or red, or white, or green rooms are too
awfully unbecoming to me. Have drawing-room to connect with the bedroom
please, and then a room for my maid. I hope you won't have to pay more
than seven dollars a week for her (all included, naturally). She isn't
at all particular. I'm sure I couldn't afford to keep her if she were,
and she's such a treasure. Of course she reads all my letters and minds
my own business more than I do myself, and uses up my crested writing
paper at a terrific rate; but that one expects--don't you think
so--with a _good_ servant?
I know you are mad to hear all about the ball, so I'll tell you. In the
first place it was a great success, and that settles it! The Makeways
are now a power in New York society, and there's really no reason why
they shouldn't be. His family are all right and her English connections
are better; and then what a charming woman she is! She makes a perfect
hostess. Such tact! Everything was carried out in the best of taste. If
they erred at all it was on the side of simplicity; and yet that gives
you a wrong idea about the ball, because it really could boast of
splendor. Yes, I mean it, but of a solid, real kind. There is nothing
papier maché about the Makeway house; nor about its owners, nor about
their entertainment. You can't help but believe this, and it gives you
a sense of social security! Everyone anyone would want in their house
was there. If any line was drawn tightly inside the smart circle, it
defined the pseudo-déclassé. Mrs. Makeway might be described in England
as a slightly early-Victorian hostess, or if our presidents had at all
the position and social power of royalties, she would be ticketed
perhaps as of the Hayes period, except that would imply "Total
Abstinence," which would mean instant death to anyone in smart society,
thank goodness! I suppose you've heard that old _mot_ of the dinners at
the White House during the Hayes administration, that water flowed like
champagne! Well, that will never be said of the Makeways. Their wine
was the very best, too; I never had better at any party, seldom as
good, and even John, who scoffs at the idea of women being a judge of
wines, confesses, that, though we've entertained everybody all our
lives, we've never had such a good wine inside our doors. The supper
was, in the first place, comfortable, and, in the second place,
faultless. (There was a queer kind of game, which I loathed, but of
course I knew, whatever it was, under the circumstances it was the
right thing, so I choked it down.) The music was superb--all the good
Hungarian orchestras in town. The cotillon favors were lovely, and some
very stunning gold and jeweled things from Tiffany's must have cost a
fortune.
But of course what you want to know about most is the people and what
they had on. I wore my--but you'll see my dress in Florida, so never
mind. Mrs. Makeway had a superb dress, but she always dresses
handsomely. What a nice man Mr. Makeway is. You felt sure he was bored
to death by the party, and all of us at it, but he concealed it with
such charming manners and such natural courtesy that you really felt
somehow it was a pleasure to come and put him out. The daughter is a
great success; there's no denying that. She has a perfect figure, and
is very graceful. She seems to have her father's manners, brought up to
date by her mother. She's going to be a leader, you can tell that, and
apparently she can be an eventual duchess, if she wishes. Young Lord
---- is still here, and his devotion in the Makeway quarter is
undisguised. Everyone likes him, and says he isn't the sort of young
fellow to be merely after her money; but no one can tell if Helen is
going to take him or not. I am sure of one thing, she will do as she
pleases.
There were beautiful jewels in evidence at the ball. Mrs. Makeway wore,
I believe, a dozen strings of the most gorgeous pearls. All _real_, of
course, with their money. They must represent a fortune in themselves.
Poor old Mrs. Hammond Blake came with _all_ her Switzerland amethysts,
and a few new topazes mixed in (she must have been at Lucerne last
summer). She looked like one of those glass gas-lit signs. But really,
all the best jewels in New York were there. And it is wonderful to see
how the women whose throats are going the way of the world have
welcomed the revival of black velvet if they haven't the pearl
collarettes. I shall be wanting something of the sort myself soon. Woe
is me! And John does keep looking so abominally young. I tell him out
of courtesy to me he must get old more quickly, or people will be
saying I married a man years younger than myself!
John says I needn't trouble to furnish people with subjects for
talking; they can make up their own. But I don't think we are gossips
nowadays here in America; do you? Which reminds me that everybody says
the Mathews are going to separate at last. She's going to Dakota, and
get it on incaptability, or cruelty, or some little thing like that.
Everybody wondered at first why, since she'd stood it so long, she was
going to divorce Ned now, at this late day, but it has leaked out.
Think of it--Charlie Harris! Aren't you surprised? It's only about two
years since _he_ divorced his wife. Mrs. Harris got the children, so I
presume Mrs. Mathews will keep hers to give Charlie in place of his
own. If I remember the number he will be getting compound interest! You
know the Mathews babies came with such lightning rapidity we lost
count. One was always confusing the last baby with the one that came
before it. Anyway, I think Charlie Harris gets the best of it; so, even
if it isn't altogether ideal to possess your children "ready made," as
it were, still Elsie Mathews is a charming woman, and I never could
bear Mrs. Harris. She told such awful fibs, and her exaggerations were
not decorative; they were criminal. Why, I couldn't recognize a piece
of news I told her myself when I heard her repeating it to some one
else not five minutes after, as John says.
Heavens! for the third time, "as John says," I must stop. But _I am_ a
very happy married woman! John gives me everything I want, and I adore
him.
When I hear from you I will telegraph my train. We missed you awfully
at the Makeways. John spoke of it several times. He loves to dance with
you because you are always ready to sit it out and do all the talking.
Dear me, I'm afraid that doesn't sound complimentary, but I assure you
he _meant_ it as such!
How nice it will be to be with you. You aren't strict about your
mourning, are you? I don't think it's at all necessary, way off there.
With love, always affectionately,
MAYBEL PARKE RODNEY.
V
_From an Uninvited._
Thursday.
My Darling George:
I hope this letter will reach you before you leave Minneapolis. I do
wish you would leave politics alone, if they're going to take you away
like this. Believe me, the country can get along much better without
you than _I_ can! When we are married you have _got_ to give them up.
When we are married, too, and this bore of a divorce of mine is finally
settled, I presume I shall be invited to Mrs. Makeway's parties! I
wasn't asked last night to her big ball!--not that I care. I am sure
that beast of a husband of mine will never be able to prove his nasty
charges against us, and that I shall win the case. Then there'll be no
excuse for Mrs. Makeway and her prudish set, and I promise you they
shall eat "humble pie," if there's any left in the world after all my
dear friends have made me devour. Tom has been making overtures to my
maid through a detective, but Lena is faithful to us, and I've promised
her double any sum they offer her. _When_ my position is all right
again, I shall go in for society in the most extravagant, splendid way
for one long, brilliant, spiteful season, and I shall punish every one
of these women who have snubbed me so terribly. After all, half of them
owe their positions in the world to my family, and with my family to
back me there will be no trouble about my being absolutely reinstated.
My people will back me up, too, for we have never had a scandal up till
now. We have been almost the only family left.
Of course the papers are full of the Makeway ball, and the pictures of
Mrs. Makeway are too deliciously absurd for anything. One looks like
that one of me in the Evening News when I gave my evidence. I really
believe it's the same picture. I hear that she looked rather well with
her famous pearls on (which, between you and me, I believe are false),
and her tiara, which all the out-of-town people go to the opera to see.
But they say she was dressed entirely too young, and showed she thought
her own party a great success. However, what can you expect? She was
nobody; her family are most ordinary people, the kind that are
prominent in some unfashionable church and influential in its
Sunday-school. O, la-la-la-la! She prides herself on having an ancestor
of some sort who fought in the War of Independence--a common soldier, I
suppose, in Washington's army; that's why she has had an office in the
"Daughters of the Revolution." _We_ had several ancestors in the
war--commissioned officers; and they all fought for King George, thank
heaven; and if they had only won my father would have been the third
Lord Banner, probably, if not something better. So hang Mrs. Makeway!
Her daughter is an ugly little creature; she hasn't a single feature
that doesn't go its own way irrespective of the others, and with a
total disregard for the _tout ensemble_ of the poor girl's face. You
know the sort of thing--each feature seems to be minding the other's
business. Her teeth _look_ lovely, but I believe some of them are
"crowns"--they do that sort of thing so well nowadays! What I will
grant her is a beautiful figure, but my corset-maker, who is hers, too,
gives me her word of honor she laces awfully! They say she had the best
time of any girl at the ball; which, if you ask me, I think
beastly taste.
The house everyone says looked very beautiful--of course, money will do
everything--and the music was superb for the same reason, and the
supper not too extravagant. (I suppose they economized on that!) But
lots of people I've met say they were bored to death, and that there
was an awful crowd. It's extraordinary the people she had there! How
she got them I don't know--all the swells. But dear me, after all,
that's nothing; swells will go to anyone who'll amuse them. I hear old
Makeway looked fearfully miserable, and, instead of paying other women
compliments, made love to his own wife all the evening. It's
extraordinary, because he is really a gentleman. His great-grandfather
and my great-grandfather were great chums; made their money, I think,
in the same business.
By the way, the Pinkertons have written me that they have still more
evidence against Tom. They say _she_ is "doing a turn"--whatever that
is--in some variety theatre. According to accounts she _did_ Tom for a
good deal--just served him right.
Do hurry back--I miss you so, and am so lonely. It's a year and a half
since we've been separated so long as this. Come back. Don't make me
jealous or _suspicious_. Besides it isn't complimentary to _trust_ me
so tremendously.
The lawyer is here--I hope he has come to assure me of my positive
victory.
* * * * *
He has thrown up the suit. We are lost! He says Tom has indisputable
proof, and that there is no use trying. Can Lina be a wretch after all?
or do you suppose it is your man? Come at once, at no matter what
sacrifice. The Majestic sails on Wednesday. Hadn't we better throw up
the sponge and take it?
Always, and in spite of everything, your adoring
EDITH.
The Plaintiff
Two Letters
From Mr. John Stuart Kennington to Mrs. Kennington, his wife.
From Mrs. John Stuart Kennington, by special messenger, to the law firm
of Jordan & Fields.
I
_From John Stuart Kennington to Mrs. Kennington, his wife._
Newport, October --th, 189-.
Suspicion is absolutely foreign to my nature. Therefore, far from a
thought of worry when I found my business visits to New York this
summer becoming more and more easy to make as far as you were
concerned, I used instead to get "a lump in my throat" on the train
which left you here behind, believing that your love for me influenced
you to hide your own feelings and aid me all you could in the
performance of my duties, even at the cost of your own preferred
pleasure and at the price of a good many hours of loneliness.
Loneliness! Oh, what fools we men sometimes are! Yes, and how careless
you women become!
I shall never forget the day I changed my plans suddenly, deciding I
wouldn't go to New York that week after all, although my bag was packed
and Smithers already at the station with it. The instantaneous look of
disappointment which leaped across your face, and which for some
seconds you didn't sufficiently realize to conceal--what a vista that
look opened out to me--a hellish vista! And your constrained little
smile--a sort of conscious visible movement of the muscles about your
mouth--"on purpose"--came too late. That first look had been like a
Röntgen ray over the last six months of our life--lives I should say,
for while you and I were living one life, you at the same time, without
me, were living another. Then I understood this summer's comfortable
weekly good-byes, so different from other years! I think, down in the
bottom of my heart, I understood _all_ at _that moment_,--though I
wouldn't acknowledge it not even in secret to myself, and even when,
before another twenty-four hours had passed, my eyes were damnable
witnesses against you. I couldn't believe them, and doubt if I would
have if you had not confessed. Of course, I knew whenever we had guests
Jack Tolby was always one of them, and also one of the guests wherever
we went, but it only seemed natural. He was extremely agreeable in our
house; it's only now I realize he has always rather avoided me at the
club. I suppose even men like him have some sort of conscience, or at
least a sense of decency, if not of honor, toward their own friends,
and, if so, good God, how ashamed he must have been every time he had
to take my hand! And _you_, when you received my lips on yours, already
satiated with kisses in my absence! Ugh! Kate! Kate! how I hate you!
Yes, hate is the word. And to think _you_ are the mother of my
children! That is the _big_ hurt.
I want you to understand that what I am going to do is entirely for
their sake, not at all for yours. You who have been the first to drag
the name of Kennington in the public mud. Three honest generations of
us have kept it clean and honorable, and our wives have done the same
for us all down to you--all except my wife. I used to think that in
marrying me you had placed me deeper in your debt than I could ever
repay. Ever since the first time I saw you I loved you; and after that
meeting I put my arms about no woman--arms that had been free enough
before--until I put them around you. And since then the same. I have
been an absolutely faithful husband to you. Do you understand what that
means? I don't believe so. I preferred you to every other woman in the
world. When away from you, your memory guarded my embraces. Yet I am
not a romantic man. Now, for instance, I look at it all in a
straightforward light. I realize that you were a girl with no money and
no particular position in the world; and in marrying me you obtained
both. You have reveled in society--thanks to me and my family--and this
is the return you have made. You have dishonored us. Now listen; this
is what I propose doing. I do not intend to have my children suffer
publicly, as they would, especially my two little daughters, if your
disgrace were made public. It happens to be with us that a father's
falling in this direction does not so seriously, if at all, affect his
children; therefore, for their sake, instead of my divorcing _you_, I
am going to give you proof and witness by which you may divorce _me_,
for your own sin. But there are certain conditions with which you must
comply. I will send by my lawyer a paper, which you will sign in the
presence of witnesses before any further steps are taken. In this paper
you will agree on your securing your divorce to marry Tolby. I have had
an interview with him (this is not an age nor a country of duels), and
I demanded that he make me the reparation of marrying you when you are
free. I must frankly say from his manner I do not judge him over
anxious. I believe even a duel with pistols would on the whole have
pleased Tolby better. It is true that precedent is not in his favor.
His own experience with you will doubtless make him a little uneasy. To
continue: You are to marry him. You are to demand of me in your suit
the sum of $---- (and do not be uneasy, you will win your suit). This
will be convenient for you when you re-marry, for you know Tolby hasn't
a cent. It will be a real love match on your part, charming! You are to
give all my mother's jewels to our oldest daughter on her marriage, and
all the jewels I have ever given you to our second on hers. Should the
girls not marry at twenty-five, they are then to have the jewels. As to
the children I shall have to submit, in my rôle of the guilty party, to
letting you have control over them; but I warn you that this is to be
only nominal. If ever I find you prejudicing either one of them
_against me in any way whatever_--even if I find their affections are
being alienated from me by some sort of public opinion or gossip--I
warn you that when each one is old enough to understand he shall be
told the _truth_. You had better look to it then that my children love
me. Your own hold over their affections rests upon it. These points,
and a few others bearing upon them, will be set forth legally in the
paper which my lawyer will bring you. Kindly send me word if you are
prepared to sign, and, if so, when Mr. Jordan or his representative may
call. Good bye.
JOHN STUART KENNINGTON.
II
_From Mrs. John Stuart Kennington, by Special Messenger, to the law
firm of Jordan & Fields._
No. -- East 66th street.
Benj. K. Jordan, Esq.
Dear Sir:
On second thoughts, after you have left me, I have decided to ask you
to write Mr. Kennington as follows--I mean I will give you the idea of
what I wish said: Acknowledge the receipt of his letter, and say I
shall be delighted to sign the paper he proposes at his earliest
convenience. I must ask, however, that he submits the document through
you, etc. (the same as we agreed on just now in our interview). Now,
besides, you must demand for me the following changes or corrections,
or whatever is right to call them, in the paper. First, the sum of
$---- is too small; $---- must be added to it. Also, I am not willing
to give up all my homes. Either the house in New York, or in Newport,
or on Long Island must be made over to me. And I positively refuse to
part with the ruby necklace to one of my daughters unless I should
choose to do so of my own free will. For the other jewels I have no use
whatever. You can express that as you see fit. Ask him to let me hear
as soon as possible.
Yours truly,
GERTRUDE CORTE KENNINGTON.
Tuesday.
The Summer
A Letter
Grand Hôtel de l'Europe,
Aix-les-Bains,
Sunday.
My Dear Mary:
Our summer has been a perfect failure. I said in the very beginning if
we followed John and the children's ideas it would be; but as I was in
the minority I gave in. Fortunately we did catch the tail end of the
London season. The others wanted to go straight on to Paris, but for
that once I put my foot down--and all the trunks as well. It was very
warm; still there was a great deal going on, so we didn't mind the
heat, at least I didn't. Heat in London during the season is such a
different thing from heat in Switzerland or some dull seaside place,
where there is not sufficient distraction to take your mind off it. I
was doing something every minute. That's the charm of London. Every
hour of the day there is something, and if there ever was a dull
interval I dropped into one of the picture galleries. You know you have
to do that sort of thing over here. People talk about pictures, and
some do it very well, too, and you really meet painters out. The
children go and see things that are good for their education, you
know--the Tower, where Mary Queen of Scots, or Anne Boleyn, I forget
which, was beheaded, and the--well, all sorts of places like that. The
heat made them rather irritable, and Evelyn had a rash, but I thought
it was good for them to see all the historical sights. So we staid on
just the same till after Goodwood. And the races ended my pleasure, for
next we started for Lucerne.
I said all along there would be no one in the place. Of course people
do go there, but on their way to somewhere else, or coming home at odd
times, and not for too long. There is never really any society there. I
knew it. I have had experience with it. Besides, we know the places
that every one does go to in July and August. I preferred Homburg, with
Aix at the end, but I would have put up with Trouville first, or
Ostend, or even Dinard. But no, Switzerland it was! I hate it; I always
did. It's too like its photographs. It has absolutely no style. It's
all nature, nature, _nature_! The mountains and lakes, no matter how
old they really may be, still always have the _beauté du diable_; and
for a woman of my age--who has to resort to art to keep herself looking
the slightest little bit younger than she is!--it gets on one's nerves,
all this natural beauty! I prefer some _place_ that has to resort to
art, too, and make itself up a little with gorgeous hotels, casinos,
theatres, and baccarat tables. Mountains bore me, and I hate to go on
the water. There at Lucerne the mountains stood continually and
solemnly around, just like elderly relatives at a family reunion, and
the flat lake lies as uninteresting as the conversation of these
estimable creatures would be. And then the people! The town crowded to
suffocation, scarcely breathing space, and yet _nobody_ there. To be
sure once in a while one notices an extraordinary old frump go by, who
turns out to be the Duchess of this, or Princess that, but I assure you
one would have been ashamed to drive in the park with her (at home),
unless she was placarded. Now and then somebody decent from New York or
Boston arrived on a morning train, but, of course, they usually left in
the evening, driven away by the glare, or the white dust, or by the
eternal tourists. That man Cook has done more to spoil attractive
places than any other dozen people in the world put together.
Sometimes, of course, they are amusing. One day I went to see the Lion!
Don't laugh. John bet me five hundred dollars I wouldn't go. So, of
course, I did. Fortunately I'd heard the children explaining it or I
shouldn't have enjoyed so much the following joke.
A woman and her daughter, both Cooks, (tourists I mean, of course, tho'
heaven knows what the mother mightn't have been at home), stood in
front of the monument.
"What's this, Clara?" asked the older woman.
CLARA.
Why this is the famous Lion of Lucerne, mother!
MOTHER.
Oh is it, ain't it lovely! What's it for--I mean why is it?
CLARA.
Why, you know, mother, for defending poor Marie Antoinette in the
Tuilleries!
MOTHER.
Oh, did it! And then people say lions are such nasty, heartless
creatures.
CLARA.
(Laughing.) O mother! the lion didn't do it; it's only put up for a
monument to the soldiers who died trying to protect her from the mob!
MOTHER.
Oh, I see; it's just a fancy picture! Well, anyway, I think it's awful
sad.
* * * * *