A year later, when she was eighteen, Yetta became, suddenly, Yvette.
The crowd she was going with thought Yetta an awful name, old-fashioned
and foreign. And certainly there was nothing foreign about her. She had
seen Yvette in a book—and, with the right initial and all—Yvette Rosen
sounded fine. After that she frowned at any one, even old Grandma, if
the old name crept in.
The family became more extravagant as the days passed, though not
extraordinarily so. But why not? Even Rosen had to admit, grudgingly,
that the factory was growing. Little things—Mrs. Rosen had a fine
black silk dress, with revers of green satin, lace covered. She
bought Grandma a black silk, too, for days when company came in. And
Yvette—how that girl did wear out clothes, to parties nearly every
night! And Irving wanted “his own money” and was put on an allowance,
though he always begged his mother for more before the month was half
over. Books cost a lot, it seemed, and you can’t be a tightwad with
a bunch of fellows. And Carrie had a notion that the family was very
rich—when she got new things she wanted the best. Even Mannie and
Dorothy needed new things frequently.
In 1906 Irving was graduated, at 18, from the high school. It was a
big event for the family. All of them, even Grandma, who didn’t go out
much, attended the graduation exercises. At the hall they chatted about
how fine and smart Irving was until Carrie, who could be very petulant
at fifteen, “shushed” them all into silence.
On the way home Mrs. Rosen couldn’t help calling her husband’s
attention to his family—weren’t they something to be proud of? To think
that only a few years before....
It was Irving who first spoke dissatisfaction with the Bronx apartment.
Irving was to enter Columbia University in the fall and he wanted to be
a little nearer his school.
“You don’t know how it is,” he said, one night at dinner. “Every one
laughs at the Bronx. I went to a vaudeville show with Yvette last week,
though Heavens knows why she goes to it, and at the mention of the
Bronx every one laughed. It isn’t only that. Here we are in a walk-up
apartment, when we could have something better. I’m starting—to—to make
friends. I’ve got to make a place for myself. I’m eighteen. When we
were younger it didn’t make much difference, now we ought to get out of
here.”
Carrie agreed with him.
“It certainly is terrible here,” she said. “I don’t like this high
school, either. I want to go to a private school. There are several
good ones in Harlem and a real fine one on Riverside Drive that I’ve
heard about. Irving is right. You’d think we were poor, the way we
live here—no servants or anything. When I meet new girls I’m ashamed to
bring them home. Ada is going to private school, and Beatrice has moved
to Long Island. I don’t know any one around here—but trash and poor
people.”
Even Mannie, at thirteen, was tired of the Bronx and Dorothy, at nine,
was ready for any change.
The Bronx suited Yvette. She had her crowd here. Still, there was
something in what the others were saying. Harlem sounded more stylish
certainly. She had friends there, too, and could get acquainted easily
enough.
Mrs. Rosen didn’t know. She felt, with Yvette, that things were very
nice as they were. The old friendliness of East Seventy-seventh Street
would never come back, and she, too, had acquaintances in Harlem. It
would cost more to live—but didn’t they have the money? There could be
a servant and new furniture—the children had been hard on the things
that had been so shining four years ago. After all, they were rich
people, and the children had to have advantages.
Gradually Rosen, grumblingly, was won over. Couldn’t he see how
terrible it was—all their money, and still living in the Bronx?
How could people know he was a success? Their apartment was
old-fashioned—that funny tub and only one bathroom for the whole
family. And Grandma ought to have a room for herself—with five children
there ought to be a servant girl—what was the use of having money if
you couldn’t get things with it?
Again there was a series of house-huntings. This time Irving
accompanied his mother and Yvette. Irving was very critical. Things
others pronounced “grand” he didn’t like at all. At eighteen he
considered himself quite a man. As a coming lawyer he felt that his
surroundings should reflect his own glory. What did his folks know
about things? Didn’t he go to homes they never entered, the Wissels’
and the Durham-Levi’s? Irving wanted a home with style to it. He
hadn’t definite ideas about decoration, but it must look fine and big
as you came in. He thought they ought to inquire a little about the
neighbours—find out if they were just the sort one would want to live
near. Their present neighbours certainly were awful.
The new apartment was in West 116th street. The building was large
and red, with white stone ornaments. The lower halls were grandly
ornamental and a great velvet curtain hung toward the rear. There was
an elevator, rather uncertain, with iron grille work in front. That
would make it nice for Grandma—she could get out more. The living room
had a gas grate and the woodwork was stylishly mission finished.
Followed the usual buying orgy and this, too, Irving consented to
attend. The piano came with them, but there was a new parlour set,
great heavy pieces of mission, square and dark, with leather cushions.
A huge mission davenport was the pièce de résistance. The dining-room
had a brand-new “set”—there might be company to dinner—a big table,
twelve chairs and a sideboard with a mirrored back. In the bedrooms
there were great brass beds, the posts three inches across, and large
mahogany dressers with “swell fronts,” curved generously outward.
In the living room, too, there were fine rugs, “real Orientals” this
time, about six small ones, oases of red and blue on the light inlaid
floor. The family admired the lighting fixtures—a cluster of fourteen
lights in the living-room, to which they added a fancy lamp with a
shade composed of bits of coloured glass in a floral pattern; in the
dining-room a great dome of multi-coloured glass hung directly over the
table.
Then Mrs. Rosen hired their first maid, though the family referred to
her as “the girl.” Her name was Marie and she didn’t have a very easy
life of it. At first Mrs. Rosen and Grandma helped her, but Mrs. Rosen
disliked housework increasingly and she didn’t want Grandma to work if
she didn’t. Grandma had always done all the cooking, but as “the girl”
learned to prepare the dishes liked by the Rosen family she gradually
took over the cooking, too. Then, when “the girl” complained about
working too hard a woman was hired for two days each week to do the
washing and heavy cleaning.
Grandma wasn’t quite as content as she had been, most likely because
she wasn’t so busy. Grandma couldn’t read English at all and Yiddish
very little, even if the children would have allowed a Yiddish paper in
the house, now, which is doubtful. Grandma had never had the reading
habit, nor, for that matter, any habits of leisure. She had thought
that life meant service and now there was nothing to do. It was harder
for her to go out because she walked very slowly. There were fewer
places to go, fewer friends, fewer Yiddish shops. People would stare,
embarrassingly, at Grandma’s _sheitel_ and Grandma hadn’t learned to
speak English very well. Mrs. Rosen spoke with an accent, but that was
different; people could hardly understand Grandma.
There was always lots of company in the house and Grandma liked young
people, but there was so little to say to them. Unless she knew them
awfully well they couldn’t understand her, or Yvette or Irving would
frown at her attempts at conversation. Every one smiled at Grandma
and shook hands, but that was all—it was more comfortable to stay in
her room, usually. There seemed to be fewer old people than there had
been. Fewer seemed to live in Harlem, anyhow. In MacDougal Street and
even in East 77th Street and the Bronx, Grandma had met old ladies,
occasionally, people from her own village, and had had long talks
with them, interrupted with nods and shakes of the head and tongue
cluckings. Here it was different. She loved her family, of course, but
she didn’t seem to fit in. Darning stockings wasn’t enough. Of course,
Grandma was glad the family was doing so nicely—a fine big apartment
with an elevator and a servant girl—and she had two new bonnets and
her old one not nearly worn out yet—where did she go to wear it?—and
her own room and everything she wanted. And Irving bringing her home
candy she liked and Yvette singing for her—Grandma knew she ought to be
awfully happy. Yet there seemed to be something—missing—
Mrs. Rosen grew to like the new apartment, though at first it had
overawed her a little. But before long she belonged to two card
clubs—she had known members of both of them when she lived in the
Bronx. She even tried to persuade Rosen to learn euchre or bridge so
that he could join a club that played in the evening. But Rosen didn’t
like “ladies’ games.”
There were some things about the new neighbourhood Mrs. Rosen didn’t
like at all. The neighbours seemed so cold and distant. As if she
wanted to know them! Wasn’t her husband the owner of a factory—with
more money than any of them, more than likely? Yet they minced by her,
as if they thought so much of themselves. Well, she could put on airs,
too!
That winter Mrs. Rosen went to a beauty parlour for the first time.
The women of her set were going, it seemed. It made your hair thicker
to have it shampooed and waved, especially when it was starting to get
grey. Though it did hurt a little, she grew used to manicures, too,
after a while. Mrs. Rosen even considered dieting. But, after a few
attempts she gave it up. Just the things she shouldn’t eat were the
ones she liked best. After all, she was forty-four, though she knew no
one would ever guess it, and if at that age you are a little plump who
is there to say anything against it? She bought a fur coat that winter,
seal, of course, with a great sweep to it and a hat to match, with a
curved feather. Now, let one of her neighbours say something! She knew
she looked mighty fine—as good as any one in her crowd. Why shouldn’t
she? Wasn’t her husband a well-known manufacturer?
Rosen wasn’t quite as busy as he had been, though the Acme Pants
Company was getting along splendidly. But with things in good condition
there was time to spare. He could have spent more time with his family
had he cared to but it seemed tiresome when he did. Irving annoyed him
more than ever with his debates and arguments. In the evening he fell
asleep over his paper—he didn’t care for other literature except an
occasional trade magazine. He still played cards with a few old friends
he had made when he first came to America, and who, like himself, had
prospered. He kept his coat on in the evenings now, or wore the smoking
jacket Carrie had given him. What if their friends came in—he had to
look nice for their sakes, didn’t he? There was a little room, off the
living room, which the family spoke of as “Papa’s den.” There was a
couch here, brought over from the Bronx, and a desk. Under pretence of
being busy, Rosen would read in there, until he fell asleep.