Millionaire, as a husband. The course of true love certainly does run
much more smoothly if it’s travelled in a Rolls-Royce. Such trifles as
diamond tiaras, Russian sables, chintz-lined limousines, and ropes of
pearls help Love’s young dream along considerably. The only trouble with
a Munitions Millionaire is that his neck is a little too much inclined
to bulge over the back of his collar.
THE FUTURIST--WITH A PAST
Then there is the Futurist Artist. He is really a great factor in a
girl’s education: he can show her how, at a glance, to tell the
difference between a Matisse painting and a Spanish omelette, and he
knows just what the vorticists are trying to prove. He dresses like the
property artist in musical comedies and he is simply ripping at
designing costumes--he tells you how Lucile is battling to engage him if
he would only descend to commercialism. Avoid them, girls, avoid them!
They always have a past!
[Illustration]
THE RIGHT MAN--AT LAST
But, after all, there’s no use in advising a girl what to do and what
not to do, in choosing a husband. The safest way is just to let Nature
take its course. She needn’t worry about the thing at all,--she is sure
to know the Leading Man, the moment he makes his entrance. He doesn’t
even have to be near her--if she just knows he’s back from patrol duty
in a distant land, and on the telephone, the cosmic urge will make her
break all existing running broad jump records, in order to get to the
telephone.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
HERE ARE YOUR JEWELS
It’s getting so that the members of the widely advertised working
classes get up in the morning, look out of the window, and say, “This
looks like a nice, warm day--let’s strike for something.” This little
habit of going on strike is like the cosmic urge, or the wanderlust, or
the young man’s fancy, or any of those things; it gets under way at any
time of year, and there’s simply no stopping it. Here is a harrowing
scene, one of the fearful tragedies incident to the strike of the
nursemaids. The nurse, just called out by her union, is returning her
charges to mother, a lady with whom they have but the merest bowing
acquaintance, thus utterly spoiling the lady’s afternoon.
The Open Season for Strikes
_If You Don’t See What You Want, Strike for It_
[Illustration]
THE HUSBANDS’ REVOLT
It’s only a question of time before the down-trodden husbands form a
union and strike for freedom. They have come to realize that bitter
truth of married life--it’s always the man who pays, and pays, and pays.
Street-cleaners, ship-builders, riveters, gasfitters, and all other
laborers claim the right to a forty-four hour week and every evening and
Sunday off, with no questions asked--why not husbands? Here is one of
the agitators of the Industrial Husbands of the World, shown in the act
of uprising.
WHAT ARE THE WILD WAVES SAYING?
Even the hairdressers are getting into the spirit of the times, and
pledging themselves to strike while the curling-iron is hot. They have
found that there is really very little in this silly idea of a life on a
Marcel wave. Observe this terrible catastrophe--the striker is throwing
down his badge of labor and going out, leaving his unfortunate client
with half her hair as art intended it to be, and half of it in the
unfinished state in which nature left it.
[Illustration]
THE WIVES’ UNION
A strike of wives may be called at any time; many wives have been
threatening to walk out for months. The thing is likely to prove rather
embarrassing. Here, for instance, is the case of a member of the wives’
union, whose husband has just returned from five years’ service in the
East. In the midst of her enthusiastic welcome, she has been called out
by three quite unfeeling delegates of her union.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE WAYS OF A MAID
The maids are at last coming around to the modern way of thinking--that
in unions there is strength. Here is an intimate glimpse of what will
happen if they ever start striking. The maid is obeying the first law of
all agitators,---be sure to strike at the most inconvenient time. She is
leaving her employer, so to speak, sunk--just on the point of throwing
up the sponge and going down for the third and last time.
THE ULTIMATE HORROR
There are many terrible things in this world, as someone has so cleverly
said, but the worst of all would be a strike of footmen. Why, all social
life would be completely paralyzed by it. Just see what a cruel thing it
would be. The footmen in this case are striking for shorter hours,
higher wages, and looser liveries; they have walked out in the middle of
the caviarre, leaving the guests face to face with starvation--and, what
is worse, face to face with each other.
[Illustration]
THE PORTRAITS OF OLD
Having your portrait painted, in the good old days, used to be a
comparatively simple matter. It was as much a part of a woman’s social
duties as going to the opera, or having her hair marcelled. All you
needed was a black evening gown, a lap-dog, a cheque for $10,000, and an
appointment at the studio of Mr. John Sargent.
[Illustration]
The Art of Fashionable Portraiture
_You Can’t Quite Be “It,” Without the Aid of a Modernist Artist_
[Illustration]
GO TO THE AUNT
It used to be considered awfully radical and just the least bit
Bohemian, to have your portrait done by a bearded foreigner like
Monsieur Chartran,--local talent was simply nowhere. It was always
obligatory, while posing for the portrait, to bring along a trained
aunt, to keep off draughts and gentlemen callers. When the canvas was
done, you could almost always tell, in six guesses, who the portrait was
intended to be.
[Illustration]
THE OVAL-SHAPED LADY
But having one’s portrait merely _painted_ isn’t being done any more.
The thing to do now is to lease a sculptor, and have him do a simple
little portrait in marble, and call it “Mrs. ...--a Mood.” Prospective
sitters for modernist busts should remember never to show surprise at
the finished product. Never behave like the lady in the sketch; remember
that only novices faint on seeing the completed masterpiece. The thing
to do is to clasp the hands, gaze yearningly at the ceiling and murmur
in passionate undertones, “It is wonderful--but wonderful! The feeling,
the soul, the ego--how could you know?”
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE HUMAN EGG
If you want to go that far, you can have your portrait done by one of
the cubist sculptors, who are causing such a furor--among themselves.
Just ask the first sculptor you meet at dinner if he won’t do a bust of
you; he is sure to be a cubist. He will only be too glad to oblige with
a charming trifle, looking rather like an egg after a hard Easter, and
to name it “Arrangement: Mrs. B.”
THE NUDE SOUL
But the sculpture of the young Roumanian refugee artiste, now so
plentifully in our midst, is the very farthest one can get in modern
portraiture. The gifted sculptress specializes in soul portraits.
Naturally, every woman loves to have a little statue of her soul,
somewhere around the house. The completed statue, always in the nude,
bears the title “My Soul, in Passing: Nocturne.”
[Illustration]
In case you haven’t decided just which school you want to employ in
creating your portrait, here is a cross-section of our artistic Bohemia.
It is a most representative group of sculptors at their recent notable
dinner. The noble spirit, at the extreme right is Henri Pryzmytioff, the
Post-Futurist Sculptor delivering a long and most impassioned talk on
“The Sculpture of Day After To-morrow--and Why.”
[Illustration]
Social Superstitions
_With Very Special Obeisances to Cupid_
THE SHEEP--AND THE GOAT
Everyone has a pet superstition, and pretty Madeleine Templeton’s is
that if a girl sleeps on her love-letters she is sure to dream of him
who is to be her true, true love. Unfortunately, Madeleine has so many
tender missives from so many true loves that she is positively
uncomfortable and can not sleep at all. She has tried counting her
fingers, counting her sheep and counting her admirers, but all is in
vain. She is now desperately wondering if she ought to try the modern
society method of marrying her true loves, one by one, until the right
husband finally turns up.
[Illustration]
THE SUIT AND THE SUITOR
Helen de Peyster’s favorite fear complex is the fatal number Thirteen!
And yet, what is she to do when, having rejected a dozen proposals,
along comes handsome Harry Radcliffe, with wealth, position and a
personality that causes her heart to miss like a faulty motor. And now
the Fates have spoken, indicating plainly that hearts are trumps and
that she should undoubtedly follow her partner’s lead. “Am I doomed?”
asks Helen, “Simply because Harry is the thirteenth man to propose to
me? That’s what I want to know--am I doomed?”
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
SALT AND BATTERY
Because Clarice Vanderhoff almost fainted when her fiancé, Teddy
Ashhurst, spilled the salt, Ted naturally placated the Unknown Gods by
throwing a handful of the offending seasoning over his left shoulder
with his right hand. This is undoubtedly very pleasing to the Fates and
Goddesses of Chance, but hardly as agreeable to the charming Mrs.
Drexel-Drexel who, quite naturally, objects to being salted, like an
almond--particularly in public.
THE WORST IS YET TO COME
It is an established fact, in the mind of Annabelle Armitage, who is
shown on our left, that she will wed the first man who meets her gaze on
St. Valentine’s morn. She has not yet looked down, nor has Tony Galati,
who does the Armitage roses, looked up, but Fate is plainly staging
another of those elopements in high society with a stirring last act in
which the pleasant news is broken to the present Signora Galati, in
Calabria, and the seven little Galatis.
[Illustration]
THE CROIX DE COUTEAUX
It is certainly hard on a hostess to have her dinner party spoiled by a
social contretemps, yet that is what happened at Mrs. Aspinwall’s when
her imported and important authoress, Patience Bitgood, fainted dead
away in mid-sweetbread, at the sight of crossed knives beside her plate.
This is one of the worst omens of a relentless Nemesis, and foretells a
solid year of hard luck.
[Illustration]
DANGEROUS DIANA
The new moon is a lovely sight, but, of course, it is absolutely fatal
to look at it through glass, a fact well known by Eric Appledorn, who,
we may say, is not as simple as he looks. “Come into the garden, Maud,”
he murmurs, “and let us go out through the dining room so that we may be
sure to gaze on Luna over your lovely right shoulder!” Something in
Maud’s eyes tells us that she will follow the red line of romance to its
usual and pleasant destination.
[Illustration]
Who’s Who--in the Audience
_Showing That the Smart Playgoer, Not the Smart Play, Is Really the
Thing_
IT’S ALL IN THE LINES
Musical comedy audiences are always notable for the rapt attention they
pay to the evening’s entertainment. The male students of the drama, in
particular, seem to be ever on the lookout for good lines--especially
those of the ladies of the chorus. Above is shown a loge-ful at that
standing-room-only success, “The Girl on the Nightboat.”
[Illustration]
CINEMA LOVERS
This is a scene from that realm of outer darkness--the moving picture
theatre. The audiences are the thing that make moving pictures move.
Observe how intent they are upon the thrilling scenes reeling out before
their very eyes. The stirring picture now on the screen shows the
inhabitants of Nova Scotia tinning salmon. Only two people--in the back
row--fail to register interest in the scenes before them,--those two
are, nevertheless, true devotees of the cinema theatres.
[Illustration]
CAN YOU GUESS WHO’S ON THE STAGE?
You can always tell, by looking at the audience, just who is holding the
center of the stage. When the masculine half of the audience occupies
itself in reading the corset advertisements in the programmes or in
looking restlessly about while the feminine half strains to catch every
word--then you can be sure that the marcelled hero, in the jet-buttoned
evening clothes, with the velvet collar, is standing in the spotlight
and singing, or talking, rhapsodically about the age-old passion of
LOVE.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
DOUBLE ENTENDRES
The war was really responsible for a great many unfortunate occurrences,
as so many observant people have already pointed out. Here, for
instance, is the case of two returned Lieutenants who, in their year’s
stay in Germany, have managed to pick up a good working knowledge of the
French language. By way of celebrating their home-coming, they have been
invited to see the latest imported French farce--and find that they can
understand every word of it. In the future, they will only patronize
domestic products.
FOR THE CHILDREN’S SAKE
This is one of those delightful little occasions where the children are
given their annual holiday treat. All their existing ancestors, in a
body, take them to the Hippodrome. For weeks before the eventful
evening, their parents, grandparents, aunts, and uncles go about
suffering intensely saying what a fearful bore it is going to be and how
they dread it, but they really must go through with it--it means so much
to the kiddies. Here is the party, shown in action,--observe the deadly
boredom of the grown people and the hysterical hilarity of the little
guests of honor.
[Illustration]
CAN YOU GUESS WHO’S ON THE STAGE, NOW?
As we explained just a few minutes ago, a glance at the audience will
show you what’s going on, on the stage. When the ladies are reading the
notes in the programme, or in studying the components of the complexion
of the woman in the stage box, while the attention of the gentlemen is
riveted on the stage--then you know that the chorus girls have undulated
on.
[Illustration]
SPEEDING THE PARTING GUESTS
Of course, you were thrilled when they--your week-end guests--accepted
your invitation; and you were tremendously glad to see them when they
arrived; and you enjoyed every minute of their stay,--but, oh, Lady,
Lady,--wasn’t the most exquisite moment of all that when you and your
consort waved a fond farewell to them and the back axle of their
Rolls-Royce? Week-ends are wonderful, but, wasn’t Tennyson clever when
he said that parting is _such_ sweet sorrow!
The Horrors of the Week End
_From the Tortured Hostess’s Point of View_
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
WHY DINNER WAS LATE
The chief horror of every week-end is the lady guest who comes without a
maid, borrows the hostess’s, monopolizes her wholly and leaves the
hostess marooned in her boudoir, unnerved, unnoticed, and unhooked. This
migratory blight always wears a gown out of which she can only escape
with the aid of Harry Houdini. In the meantime, below stairs, the
pommes-soufflés have collapsed and--which is a great deal more
important--the cook is getting ready to do likewise.
VISITORS-IN-LAW
There is something about family relationships that always wrecks the
entente-cordiale which should exist between guest and host. For
instance, there is your wife’s brother, who, warmed by heavy inroads on
your vintage Scotch, invariably tells you how little he thought of you
when he first met you, and how broken up his family were over the
wedding. Only the sacred rites of hospitality stand between this
repulsive and misguided being and the honors of a sudden death.
THE LADY BURGLAR
The statement that “old friends are best” was never made by a lady who
has endured the highwayman methods adopted by her old school-chum, or
knew-you-as-a-child type of visitor. Reverting to habits, this little
house-breaker rifles her hostess’s bureau and chiffonier with the avowed
intention of wearing each garment which the hostess has not had the
foresight to put on.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE HOOT-OWL
In this picture, we have a fiendish friend who, after boring you all
day with his silence and devastating dullness, suddenly wakes up, about
11.30 P.M., and begins to tell you about his salmon-fishing trip. After
the details of what his camp outfit consisted of, we see him, as the
clock strikes two, beginning to play his second salmon, and still going
fairly strong.
[Illustration]
RUDENESS REPAID
Have you ever lived, for a dozen odd years, next to some utterly
impossible neighbors whom you have carefully snubbed, avoided and
ignored only to have a well-meaning idiot, who happens to be your guest
over Sunday, lead them joyously into your home with an air of triumphant
discovery, as if he had done you the greatest sort of favour.
When Marriage Is a Failure--Cherchez la Femme
_Have You a Little Failure In Your Home?_
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE LAPLAND MODEL
Here we see a living embodiment of Model No. 2--the BIJOU DOLL. She is
often a blonde, but always a deceiver. Despite persistent complaints--by
husbands--against wives of this model, the demand for them continues to
be brisk. She always has a serious grievance against Fate! Why is it
that her husband is so _groundlessly_ jealous? Is it _her_ fault if his
men friends pester her and bother the life out of her? Was it _her_ plan
to share a chair with Mr. Reginald Stuart? And how absurd her husband is
to carry on in that ridiculous way, just because, being tired, she had
to sit _somewhere_, and, as there was nothing else to sit on, the
thought suddenly flashed on her: Why not sit on Mr. Stuart?
A CATALOGUE OF WIVES
There are only six kinds of wives. They are all shown on these two
pages, but only one of them can be--on a crossed heart--warmly
recommended. Fortunately marriage--which is at best but a primitive
substitute for friendship--is becoming less and less fashionable, so
that every year fewer of our young society leaders are sacrificed on the
wedding pyre. This is especially true among _clever_ people. And now,
reader, here is our first exhibit in wives, a very terrible kind, to be
sure. She is known as the DEVOTED wife. She loves--and watches out
for--her husband, especially in the early morning hours. Note the
restraint exercised by our artist in refusing to introduce a cuckoo
clock, a device usually inevitable in pictures of this kind.
THE SECRET SOLVED
And here we see the only perfect wife, the model known as the “LET YOU
ALONE.” She is positively the final word--the _dernier cri_--in wives.
Have you ever tried one? No! Ah, then you can’t imagine what married
happiness really is. She is guaranteed never to ask any of the four,
fatal questions, namely: Why? Where? Who? and When? Hers is an
incomparable model that robs marriage of many of its horrors. Give her a
cigarette, a glass of chartreuse, on improving little French novel, a
pet dog or two and she won’t ask for another thing during an entire
afternoon--until the gentlemen callers begin to arrive. More and more
sociologists are realizing that married life can be made one grand,
sweet song, if the two combatants will only _let each other alone_.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE SENSITIVE WIFE
This is the SENSITIVE wife. A familiar and, alas, incurable type. She
always makes the mistake of marrying a Fiend Incarnate while still an
Innocent and Trusting child. She then spends the remainder of her life
in “telling all,” to a strictly limited circle of female friends. Yes,
she has children, twin boys--for the Brute has left _nothing_ undone to
spoil her life. (N.B. The little boys are shown, in décolleté at the
lower left-hand corner). She is fond of “giving away” the fiend to her
circle of devoted harpies, furies, and bloodhounds. The Brute does not
understand her--and never has, since she was a little, sensitive,
misunderstood girl. Her mother should have warned her! Told her what
Life really was: explained the grim horror and hateful meaning of it
all.
THE “DRESSY” WIFE
An inordinate reader of _Vogue_; spends her mornings at Lucile’s; Paris
is her Heaven; would sell her child for a Callot lace teagown; has to be
torn, nightly, from shop windows; wears openwork stockings for
breakfast. Our artist shows her in one of her frequent _bruised_
moments. Her husband simply can’t understand how Poiret’s bill can be so
much for a single week. But then he _never_ understands anything. He is
just a business man. No heart! No soul! No inspired moments! She is
married to a “ledger,” a man who is nothing but a glorified adding
machine. Her “jailer” has, with the characteristic brutality of a Hun,
just refused to sign a blank check which she has made payable to Lanvin.
He is trying to squirm out of it by saying that he is overdrawn at the
bank--which statement she has just branded as a wilful, malicious and
palpable LIE. She knows what he is up to. He wants to HURT her!
[Illustration]
THE HUMAN BANK ACCOUNT
And here is the last portrait in our gallery--the rich or MONEYED wife.
We would like entirely to discontinue the manufacture of this model and
substitute for it, on all future occasions, the old-fashioned,
penniless, demure, rosy-cheeked, Oh Alfred, all-for-love, type of wife,
but, alas, business is business, and rents, and club dues, and golf
balls, and servants wages, are all going up, so why not recognize the
fact that a rich wife is a good thing to _begin_ on; something to hang
on to until you get up a little free action in the direction of True
Love? The only trouble with marrying a rich wife is that, when you sign
up for life, you are handed a leather leash along with the wedding
certificate. Put a metal collar on your neck and a little red velvet
blanket around your middle and you might just as well be Yami, or Sing
Hi, or Chihuahua, the only three things in the world that your female
meal-ticket really seems to love. Observe the prisoner’s heart-breaking,
backward glance! The cry of anguish: the caged spirit, sending out an
S.O.S. to two lovely nymphs.
[Illustration]
Opening of the Opera Season
_The opera opened--to crowded boxes--with the usual performance of
“Aïda.” Such of the fashionable people who came an act late, left an act
early, slept during the second act, and talked in between times, passed
an unusually pleasant evening._
[Illustration]
THE POOR, INNOCENT VICTIM
What type of bridge player is the most spirit-blighting? Some favor the
talking player; some the cheat--but we must vote, on every ballot, for
the three girlies mirrored on this page. First, there is the creature
shown above, who, after losing five rubbers, suddenly registers horror
with the orbs, and exclaims in dismay: “Heavens! are we playing for
_money_? I never dreamed of such a thing! I _never_ play for anything!”
Note the indifference of the other participants--intensified by
financial anguish.
[Illustration]
Blighters at Bridge
_A Terrifying Triumvirate of Familiar Lady Auction Pests_
[Illustration]
THE BLIGHTER, _PAR EXCELLENCE_
The supreme Blighter is undoubtedly that moon-faced Medusa who, after
each and every hand, lays it out, and delivers herself of a lengthy
post-mortem, the object of which is to prove that there must be
something mentally wrong with her partner and that he ought to be put
under observation, at once, by a first class alienist. She usually
passes for a lady, so that violent reprisals, however desirable, are not
always possible.
[Illustration]
THE HOODOO-ED DOWAGER
Explain, if you can, why luck always seems to run the wrong way with
Certain Sensitive Dowagers, just as the game is at its tensest? It does,
you know,--with the result that the poor Persecuted One insists upon
holding up the rubber while she does a majestic Marathon round and round
her little gilt chair. Such childish overtures to Chance may be employed
by ladies in many trifling matters, such as Love, Marriage, and Divorce,
but, Georgiana, dear! try to remember, this is BRIDGE!
A Way to Succeed on the Stage
_A Lady, Once a Creature of Fashion, and Now a Famous Actress, Tells of
Her Success_
[Illustration]
CONSIDER YOUR AUDIENCE