through all the other rooms. We were everyone of us dead tired, looking
at pictures is so fatiguing. We decided to go back to the hotel and
have tea in the garden. But I think it is a dear gallery, and
to-morrow--we don't leave till the next day--if we've any time left
after doing the shops, I intend to go back and see the pictures all
over again.
Write to Eaton Sqr.; the servants will forward. Poor things, they must
have had a dull summer! They say the heat in town has been fearful! But
I don't think servants mind; do you? And then they have the run of the
house. I am sure they use the drawing-room and sleep in my bed!
Good-bye,
Lovingly,
FANNY.
Aubrey says Janet's portrait is by Rembrandt; but I tell him I don't
think it was by a Frenchman at all, I think it was by Greuze.
Sorrow
A Letter
_A Letter to Mrs. Carly, Florence, Italy._
New York, Wednesday.
My Dear Mary:
You were right when you said to me, two years ago, that the time would
come when I would realize the futility, the selfish, the absurd
insufficiency of my life. It is now six months since I lost my little
girl--my only child. I thank you so much for your letter; I was sure
you, who had so much heart, would realize more than most people what I
suffered and feel still. And it needn't have been--I shall always
maintain it _needn't_ have been! She was overheated at dancing-school
and caught cold coming home. I was late dressing for an early dinner,
thought it was nothing, and paid no attention. From the dinner I went
to the opera, from the opera to a ball, on to somebody else's. I was
dead tired when I came home and fell into bed and asleep. All this
time, my child, with her cold, was sleeping close beside an open
window! The maid was careless, of course, but it wasn't _her_ child--it
was mine--and I hold myself most to blame. In two more days the doctor
told me she couldn't live. I shall never forgive him! In six hours she
was dead. I think I went quite mad. I know I really felt as if I had
wantonly murdered her; and I still feel I was myself largely
responsible. She was the dearest little creature! I am so sorry you
never saw her. "I love my mamma best, and God next," she kept on saying
all that last day. One wondered and wondered what thought was in her
little brain. "You are mother's darling," I said to her--"mother's
precious little girl, but God gave you to her, so you are God's first!"
She threw her arms about my neck and kissed me, and said: "I like you
better than all the little boys at dancing-school put together!" She
fluttered about the bed with her arms like a little tired bird! She
made me sing to her. I sang hours and hours--lullabies and comic songs
she liked best. My maid came to me: "Madame is lunching out."
I was furious with her for coming to me with any such remark.
"Telegraph!" was all I said. "Telegraph what, madame?"
"I don't care," I answered.
O my dear Mary! to watch a little soul going--a little soul that is all
yours, or at least that you thought was all yours! To watch the light
of life fade and fade out of a face precious to you, into which you
cannot kiss the color again; to watch this little life, dearer to you
than your own, slip, slip away from you in spite of your hands
clutching to hold it back, or clasped in prayer to keep it! To sit and
lose and be helpless! Oh, the agony of it! Marie came once more; it was
dark; I guessed her errand, and only looked at her. She went away
without a word. I took the child out of the bed--it was like lifting a
flower. At dawn she died in my arms. Oh, were ever arms so empty as
when they hold the dead body of someone loved?
And then began the revelations. The stilted letters of condolence,
written with exactly the same amount of feeling as a note of regrets or
acceptance, and couched very much in the same sort of language.
One woman recommended her dressmaker as being the most _chic_
woman in New York for mourning--as if I cared! A great many cards were
left at the door with their corners turned down, and for awhile no
invitations came. That was all! Most of the people I was unfortunate
enough to meet made such remarks as----
"My Dear Mrs. Emery, I am so sorry to hear of your loss" (as if the
house had been burned down or the silver plate had been stolen); or
else----
"Dear Mrs. Emery, I was so shocked to hear it; such a _sweet_ child!
Which was it, a boy or a girl? Oh, yes, I remember, a boy--a nice
creature; but, my dear, so many boys turn out badly. You must try and
console yourself with thinking perhaps you have both been saved a world
of trouble after all!"
"My child was a little girl," I answered.
Another woman came to me, saying:
"You poor, dear thing! I'm glad you are bearing it so well--you look
splendidly. Of course you won't stay in mourning long; will you? It's
really not necessary for a child; and then I think one _needs_ the
distractions of society to drown one's sorrows!"
And all in such a flippant tone!
There are some who haven't heard of it at all, which seems so strange
to me, who see and think of nothing else indoor and out!
And Sue Troyon I shall never forget or stop loving as long as I live.
She put her arms about me and kissed me, when she first met me, right
in the street, and never said a word, but her eyes were wet. _She_ is
a woman and a friend!
So now I am going to join you abroad, to travel and live among pictures
and music and real people. These months out of society have broken the
charm. I've tried to go back, but I can't stand it. The inanities of an
afternoon At Home are more than I can bear. Everybody repeating to each
other the same absurd commonplaces over and over again. Society
conversation in one way is like a Wagner opera: it is composed of the
same themes, which recur over and over again; only, in the conversation
referred to, these themes are deadly, dull, fatuous remarks. As for
balls and evening parties, I don't care about dancing any more,
somehow, and to see the young _débutantes_ about me almost breaks my
heart, full of memories of my daughter and what she might have been.
Tears are not becoming to a very low-necked dress, and shouldn't be
worn with powder and jewels. No, my dear Mary, I see in this society of
ours, we all grow so hardened, that if we don't have some such grief as
I have had, we become hopeless. People soon forgot I had ever had a
child, or at least that she hadn't been dead for years. I find myself
becoming a bore, because of perhaps a certain lack of spirit that I
used to have; and I began to realize that I had never been liked for
myself, but for what I gave, and for the atmosphere of amusement which
I helped to create by nearly always being gay and enjoying myself. As
you yourself said of society, it is absolutely unsatisfactory. I never
knew a purely society woman yet who wasn't somewhat or sometimes
dissatisfied. First, they can't go as much or everywhere they want; and
soon after they have all the opportunities they desire, they find that
isn't sufficient, after all, to make life perfect, and then the boredom
of fatigue begins to creep upon them with the years, and soon old age
begins like a worm to eat into what happiness they have had.
Oh, no! When I think of how full your life is, of the interesting
people you know--not merely empty names with a fashionable address or a
coronet on their note paper,--of the places you see and the books you
read; and then hear you say your life is too short to see or enjoy a
third the world has to offer you! You happy, _happy_ woman you!
Well! The house is for sale! What furniture I want to keep stored!
John, who is prematurely old and half-dead with trying to earn enough
money to keep us going as we wished in New York, has entered into it
all in exactly my spirit. He has sold his seat on the stock exchange.
He has disposed of all his business interests here. We find we have
quite enough income to travel as long as we like, moderately, and to
live abroad for as many years as we please. When we get homesick--as we
are both sure to, for after all we are good Americans--we will come
back here and settle down quietly in some little house, near everybody,
but not in the whirlpool--on the banks of society, as it were, so that
when we feel like it we can go and paddle in it for a little, just over
our ankles. Two weeks after you receive this letter you will receive
us! We sail on _Kaiser Wilhelm_ to Naples.
No one here knows what to make of us! It's absurd the teapot tempest
we've created. The verdict finally is that we've either lost our money
or else our minds!
With a heart full of love,
Affectionately,
AGNES.
The Theatre
Four Letters, a Bill, and a Quotation from a Newspaper
I
_A Letter from Mrs. Frederick Strong to her Husband._
... Fifth Avenue, Saturday.
My Dear Fred:
You must come home at once. Dick has announced his engagement to an
actress--a soubrette, too, in a farce-comedy. If it had been a woman
who played Shakespeare, it would have been bad enough, but a girl who
sings and dances and does all sorts of things, including wearing her
dresses up-side down, as it were--that is, too high at the _bottom_ and
too _low_ at the top--well, this is a little too much!--just as we
were getting a really good position in society. If the marriage isn't
put a stop to, you can be sure she'll soon dance and kick us out of any
position whatever that's worth holding. It isn't as if we had any one
to back us; but you never had any family, and the least said about mine
the better, so we have to be our own ancestors. And just as we had
succeeded in getting a footing, in placing ourselves so that our
children will be all right, your brother must go and do his best to
ruin it all! You see how necessary it is for you to be on the spot. We
may be able to break the engagement off before it is too late. Leave
the mine to take care of itself, or go to pieces if need be. One mine
more or less won't make any difference to us. Besides, you must think
of your children! Your brother, too; he's sure to regret it.
I am ill over this thing. Can't sleep, and have frightful indigestion.
Everybody's talking about it, and the newspapers are full this morning.
My new costume came home from Mme. V----'s yesterday; but there's no
pleasure now in wearing it!
With love,
ANNIE.
January 19th.
And the ball we were going to give next month! What about the ball?
Mrs. W---- had promised me we should have some of the smartest people
here! This will ruin everything. Telegraph me when you will come. I am
suicidal.
II
_A Bill._
Mr. Fred'k Strong, Dr.
To the ---- Private Detective Agency, for services rendered,
$---- --.
Rec'd payment,
---- --
Feb. 10th, 189-.
III
_A Letter from Miss Beatrice North to Richard Strong, sent by special
delivery to his Club._
February 11th.
My Darling Dick:
What is the meaning of this letter from a lawyer? Who has been trying
to damage my character? To ruin my happiness? Who hates me? I have
never willingly harmed any one. I can't and won't believe this letter
was sent with your approval. But why didn't you come to see me
yesterday? My dearest in the world, you wouldn't believe evil stories
of me, surely! You to whom I have told all my life, everything, for
there has been nothing to hide. No, no; I am sure you don't know
anything about this cruel letter, and for God's sake hurry and tell me
so yourself, hurry and tell me so, and let me kiss the words as they
come to your lips.
Thine,
BEATRICE.
IV
_Letter from the Same to the Same._
The evidence that you have proves nothing whatever, and even then much
of it is exaggerated, which I, in my turn, can prove. I shall sue you
for breach of promise.
BEATRICE NORTH.
V
_From the Same to the Same, a day later._
I will not write to your lawyers. This second letter of theirs is too
insulting. They know very well they could never win the case against me.
(I am innocent; and even if I were not, your evidence is ridiculously
insufficient.) And that is why they offer to "settle" with me privately.
But my own feelings have changed over night. That you could, first,
believe the charges against me, and second, that you could have allowed
me to be insulted by your--_or your brother's_--lawyers, as you have
done, these two things have opened my eyes to your own weak
contemptible character. I am grateful the discovery came before it was
too late. I release you from your engagement to me, and far from
bringing a suit against you I feel I owe you a debt of thanks. I trust
this is a sufficient reply to your insult to "settle" privately. The
matter is at end with this letter.
BEATRICE NORTH.
VI
_Headlines of a Column in a Daily New York Paper._
THE STRONG'S BALL!
ALL THE SWELLS THERE!
DICK STRONG GETS THE COLD
SHOULDER FROM MOST
OF HIS FRIENDS!
The Opera
_Mrs. Sternwall's Box. The First Act of Tristan and Isolde is
three-quarters over. Mr. Alfred Easterfelt is seated alone in the
corner. He is bored._
MR. ALFRED EASTERFELT.
(_To himself, after a long sigh._) Damn it! What did I come so early
for?
(_People are heard by the entire audience entering the little
ante-room behind. The men's chorus on the stage drowns the sound of
artificial laughter. The curtains part, and_ Mr. Easterfelt _is
joined by_ Mrs. Sternwall, Mrs. Morley, Miss Beebar, and Mr. Carn.)
MRS. MORLEY.
(_Seriously._) What a pity we've missed so much.
(_There are general greetings, whispered pleasantly. Each person,
without exception, glances first all about the house, and then turns
his eyes slowly toward stage. Mrs. Sternwall sits in_ _the corner,
facing the audience with three-quarters face, as the photographers
express it, one-quarter toward the singers and_ mise en scène. _She
beckons Easterfelt to sit behind her. The others fall into the other
places more or less as they happen, the women in front looking lovely,
as each one is well aware, with her beautiful white neck, her jewels,
and her charming coif. The music continues._)
MRS. MORLEY.
(_Suddenly noticing that Mr. Sternwall is not with them._) But where is
Mr. Sternwall?
MRS. STERNWALL.
Oh, Henry always goes across to Hammerstein's Olympia during the acts,
but he will join us for each of the entre-acts.
(_She takes up her opera glass, and examines the house minutely._)
MISS BEEBAR.
What is the opera?
MRS. MORLEY.
Tristan and Isolde. I don't care for the new woman; do you? Somehow she
hasn't the soul for Wagner. She sings well enough, mechanically, but
she doesn't feel enough.
MISS BEEBAR.
Precisely. That's a wig of course; isn't it? And what an ugly one!
MRS. STERNWALL.
(_Low to Mr. Easterfelt._) Come to-morrow at four. He has taken to
leaving the office much earlier the last few days.
(_Owing to a sudden pause in the music, her voice has been heard
quite distinctly. She is embarrassed for a moment, to cover which she
leans over toward Mrs. Morley and Miss Beebar._)
I wish Eames sang in this, she wears such good clothes.
MR. CARN.
What's that about Eames?
MISS BEEBAR.
I thought Eames' name would wake you up!
MR. CARN.
I was listening to the music.
MISS BEEBAR.
Don't be absurd; you know you never come to hear the opera, except when
I am going.
MR. CARN.
Or when Eames sings.
MISS BEEBAR.
Ah! you acknowledge it! You brute!
MR. CARN.
It's her arms, and her eyes, and her hair. You must acknowledge she's
very beautiful----
MISS BEEBAR.
(_Interrupts._) For heaven's sake stop; you bore me to death. Besides
you must listen. It isn't the thing to talk at the opera any more.
(_Isolde gives Tristan the cup with the love potion in it._)
MRS. STERNWALL.
(_In a very low voice to Mr. Easterfelt._) Just before the curtain
falls change your position quietly. Go near Miss Beebar and Mrs.
Morley, on account of Henry. He will come to the box the minute the
lights are turned up.
MISS BEEBAR.
(_Very low to Mr. Carn._) I _hate_ Eames!
MR. CARN.
No. (_He kisses, without sound, her bare shoulders._)
(_Tristan and Isolde approach each other with outstretched arms. For
the first time Mrs. Morley takes her gaze from the stage. It rests upon
a dim figure in a certain seat in the Opera Club's box. Her eyes are
full of tears._)
A Perfect Day
A Leaf from the Diary of Mrs. Herbert Dearborn, Living in Paris
_May --, 1897._
A charming, delightful day! Marie brought me my coffee at nine, as
usual, with a perfect mail. No nasty business letters from America, but
only most desirable invitations, notes full of gossip, and regrets from
the Thompsons for the expensive dinner I felt obliged to give them at
_Armenonville_, so I won't have to give it! One's old friends in
America are really rather a bother, coming to Paris in the very middle
of the season. If they came only in midsummer, when every one is away,
one would be very glad to do what one could, if one were in the city.
Of course, as far as the Thompsons themselves are concerned, I love
them. My coffee never tasted so deliciously, and Marie said I looked
unusually well after my night's rest. To be sure Marie says that every
morning; but never mind, it is always pleasant to hear the first thing
one wakes up, and I only wish I didn't have a sneaking fear that the
new Empire pink bed-hangings help a good deal. Marie sprayed the room
with my new perfume (a secret; no one else has it), laved my face in
rose-water, and then I had a wee little nap by way of a starter for the
day. After my bath I answered my mail; and then, Marie having manicured
my nails, my toilet was made. I wore, to go out, my striking blue
costume, with the hat and sun-shade to match, which always necessitates
the greatest care with the complexion. I use an entirely different
powder with this dress, and one has to be most careful about one's
cheeks. But Marie is invaluable so far as the complexion is concerned,
and I went out quite satisfied. First, to the hair-dresser's to have my
hair re-dyed, as I went to the races in the afternoon, and the light
there is very trying. Unless your hair has been dyed very lately it is
quite useless to go. My hair was never done so well. I am trying it a
very little darker, and I am almost sure I like it better. Then I went
into some shops. I think it is always a good thing to have one's
carriage seen waiting outside the smart shops often. I priced a great
many things, and had several--which I of course have no idea whatever
of buying--sent home on approval. To the dressmaker's, to try on my new
dress. It was finished; but didn't suit me. I am having entirely new
sleeves and all the trimming changed. I persuaded them it was their
fault. I had really thought I should like it that way until I saw it
completed. Then to breakfast with the Countess of ----; a charming
_déjeuner_. All the women very desirable to know and very _chicly_
dressed, and not one looking so young for their age, I am sure, as I.
In fact, several made that remark to me. I know they say just the
opposite behind my back, but it is pleasant to hear nice things under
any circumstances. I think it is all one should ask of people, that
they should be nice to our faces. I left _déjeuner_ first, because that
makes a good impression, as if you are crowded with engagements, and
flatters your hostess, who is naturally pleased to catch a
much-sought-after guest. I really drove home to rest a little before
the races. I find taking off _everything_ and indulging in complete
relaxation, if only for ten minutes, is wonderfully refreshing, and
saves lots of _lines_! While I was resting my _masseur_ came and gave
me face massage. There is nothing like it for a wrinkle-destroyer. And
the man is a rather nice person who amuses me. I got him two new
clients at the luncheon today. As the other women said, one is only too
willing to pay extra to get a man who is good-looking.
The races were very exciting. It was a lovely day, our coach had a fine
position, and our party was much stared at! I had the most conspicuous
seat, and did my best to become it. It isn't for me to say to myself if
I succeeded or not, but I owe it to my dress-maker to make the
statement that no one else had on a better gown. I wish that statement
was the only thing I owed him! I won forty louis; I don't know how. I
am absolutely ignorant about horses. I only go because it seems to be
the thing to do now. But I thought one of the jockeys looked rather
fetching, and so I put my money on him, and he happened to win.
We all went for tea to Mrs. ----'s, where one of the most expensive
singers sang. But I didn't hear her, because if you go into the music
room you have to sit down in rows, and you don't see any of the people.
I was obliged to hurry away, as my appointment with Jacques to-day was
for 6:30, and I wanted to stop at an imitation jeweller's place in the
rue de la Paix, where I had heard were some wonderful paste necklaces.
They are quite extraordinary. I ordered one, and shall never tell a
soul it's not real. I was late home, but Jacques, the dear boy, was
waiting, and seemed to me sweeter than ever this afternoon. I gave him
the cuff links I have had made for him, with his initials in rubies,
and it was too delightful to see his pleasure. I took him out to dine.
I think I will marry him. I know he is much younger than I, and all
that, but he's so sweet, and, after all, I have enough money for two.
The Westington's "Bohemian Dinner"
A Letter
_The Sherwood_
58 West 57th St.
My Dear Dora:
We are just home from dining in one of the smartest houses in New York,
and I've been bored so wide awake I can't think of going to bed, so I
am sitting in my petticoat (that charming white silk, much-festooned,
and many-flounced one you brought me over from Paris) and a dressing
sack (pink, not so very unbecoming). My hair is down, but Dick doesn't
paint it any more--it's getting thin, dear!--and I've nice little
swansdown lined slippers over my best white silk-stockings. I've worn
to-night the best of everything my wardrobe affords, and I wasn't
ashamed of myself! No, I was much more ashamed of the Westingtons, and
I'm going to tell you all about it before I touch the pillow! I'm sure
you'll be amused.
In the first place, to be honest, we were rather pleased to be asked.
There is no one smarter than the W.'s, and, besides, they are
attractive and good-looking. The truth is, we've always been anxious to
go to their house--heaven knows why, now that we've been. We are
sufficiently punished, however, for being so foolish as to be flattered
by our invitation. For, my dear, we weren't asked to a swell dinner at
all; we were invited to what was intended for a "Bohemian" affair (but
it was only a dull and ungainly one), and it was apparently taken for
granted that, as Dick painted and I hadn't millions, we were decidedly
eligible. Of course, as you know, there is no such thing as a real
Bohemia in New York.