The next year there was a great change in the Acme Pants Company.
An opportunity came almost over night and he and Abrams, after long
discussions—at the factory this time—joined the Rex Pants Company,
McKensey and Hamberg, partners, and the four formed the Rex Suit
Company, Gentlemen’s Ready-Tailored Suits. Ready-tailored suits, it
seemed, were more in demand every day. The four had capital enough to
swing something good and to introduce a new name. Until then, most
ready-made suits were mere trade goods. But a few firms had learned
the value of a trade name and advertising, and Rosen and Abrams agreed
with McKensey and Hamberg that there was room for one more and great
possibilities in the idea. They rented an immense loft building and
were soon making and selling a line of ready-made suits under the
name of the King Brand. They hired an advertising man, giving him an
absurdly high salary, an office of his own, with a stenographer and all
of that, and agreed to pay exorbitant rates to magazines just for the
privilege of a half or a quarter of a page of blank space on which to
advertise their wares. A few months later, tall, exquisite young men,
in graceful poses, accompanied by impossibly thin young women or sporty
dogs looked at you from the magazines under such captivating captions
as “King’s Suits for the Kings of America” or “Every Inch a King in a
King Brand Suit.”
Rosen was interested again. Here, expenses were mounting, though
profits might mount, too. Now he could figure again, and plan and
talk things over with Abrams. Abrams, however, was Abrams no longer.
He was Adams, now. He had signed himself Adams when the new firm was
organized. Even Rosen’s name had changed—he dropped one more letter.
The indefinite Abraham G. had been altered and he blossomed forth as
Abraham Lincoln Rose, to the delight of his children.
Irving was going to Columbia. He had joined a debating club and even
his mother had to admit that, at this time, he was pretty much of a
bore. He even called his father “Governor” on occasions and twirled a
cane on holidays. He was “getting in with fine people” and dined at
the homes of new friends, bringing back stories of families who didn’t
interrupt when you were talking and who had servants who knew how to
serve meals. He felt he was going to be quite important and he wanted
his family to live up to him.
Carrie was going to a private school—the only kind of school suitable
for rich girls. It was in Riverside Drive, and she met some mighty
fine girls there. Like Irving, she brought home stories showing the
heights of other and the degradation of her own family. “—We are such
rich people and still we never have anything.”
Carrie objected to her name, too, it seemed. “Carrie” was such a cheap
name. Nobody would know you were rich with a name like that. She was
going to be Carolyn after this. Carolyn Rose was a pretty name, wasn’t
it?
Carolyn loved to spend money. She had decided that the family was
really wealthy, that it was all bluff about hard times and saving. She
wanted a gold mesh bag and got it before Yvette even knew there were
gold bags in the world. Carolyn had a fur coat as expensive as her
mother’s, but with a smarter, more girlish cut. She disregarded the
stupid idea, made up by some one who didn’t have the money, probably,
that diamonds were for older people, and persuaded her parents to give
her a big diamond ring, set in platinum, for her seventeenth birthday.
Yvette’s clothes were always a bit loud, too extreme, even cheap
looking. Although she paid big prices for them they were still tawdry.
Carolyn’s tastes were not quiet, but she managed to look “expensive.”
Her hair was black and sleek and she knew she had “style.” She liked
collars a bit higher than any one else wore, when they wore high, a bit
lower when low collars came in. She was no slavish follower of fashion,
like Yvette. She added a bit of “elegance” to whatever fashion had
dared to ask for. She liked smooth broadcloth suits, much tailored,
for day wear, and elaborate chiffon evening gowns. She talked with
an “accent” but not the kind her mother had. She said “cahn’t” when
she could remember it, and thought one ought to have “tone.” She had
languid airs.
Mannie was growing into a nice child. He was quiet and he started to
read when he was just a little fellow. Now you could find him, any
time, curled up with a book he’d brought home from school. He didn’t
care much for out-of-door games. He was the first of the family to have
literary leanings, though Dorothy read, too, when she couldn’t find
anything that pleased her better.
Dorothy was petted and spoiled by the whole family. She got things
even before she could think to ask for them. Because there was never
anything for her to be cross about the family said she had “a wonderful
disposition” though she had a pouting mouth and did not smile very much.
Dorothy was “a little beauty.” Although the family kept always with
their own race and declared, on all possible occasions, their great
pride in it and their aversion to associating with those of other
faiths, the thing that delighted them most about Dorothy was, for some
unexplainable reason, that every one said “she looked like a Gentile.”
Mrs. Rose would repeat to her friends that people had said, “you’d
never guess it—just like a Gentile that child looks.” Her friends
agreed and there was nothing in their minds but cordial congratulation
over the fact. Dorothy had lighter hair than the others and grey eyes.
She was a slender little thing, quiet, determined, impatient.
“We ought to have an automobile,” she said, one day. That was in 1909,
before cars had become as much of a necessity as they are now, and
Dorothy was only twelve. Two weeks later, after many hugs, her father
bought a car, a red one that would hold any five of them. Irving soon
learned to drive it and later Carolyn and Dorothy learned, too. Grandma
could never be persuaded to enter the car—it didn’t look safe to her.
Mrs. Rose rode, but it was always sitting stiffly erect with unrelaxed
muscles. Rose asked Irving to drive him places, occasionally, when he
was in a hurry. He never liked the automobile except as a convenience.
That year Grandma died. She was sick only a few days and didn’t
complain even then. The doctor came and fussed over her and finally
a nurse came, but Grandma persuaded her daughter to send the nurse
away. Grandma seemed quite content to die, and though the family was
fond of her, her going did not cause any undue emotion. Mrs. Rose wept
loudly at the funeral and Rose looked unusually solemn in the weeks
that followed. He had been very fond of Grandma and had appreciated the
little things she always loved doing for him. But, after all, as Mrs.
Rose would say to her husband, “it ain’t as if she was a baby at 72.
It ain’t as though Mamma ain’t had everything money could buy these
last years. A grand life she’s had, nothing to do and her own room and
all. Many times she spoke of it. It’s good we was able to give it to
her. She was a good woman but now she’s gone and I can say I ain’t got
nothing to reproach myself for.”
X
In 1910, when Yvette was twenty-four, she became engaged to marry
MacDougal Adams. Already MacDougal was sales manager for the Rex Suit
Company, and he was doing well. He had grown into a handsome fellow
who would be quite fat, one day, if he didn’t diet carefully. He was
crisply black-haired, ruddy-faced. He made friends easily and was
jovial most of the time. He had no subtleties, but Yvette was not the
one to notice. She considered him very modern, and liked the way he
“caught on to things.” Her friends—and the announcement Yvette mailed
to the newspapers—spoke of the affair as “a childhood romance,” as
indeed it was. It pleased the Roses and the Adams, too. They gave a
reception at a hall on 125th Street to celebrate the occasion, each
of the families inviting special friends, with Dorothy and little
Helen Nacker to pass flowers to the guests. There was a band behind
artificial palms, and waiters in white aprons passed refreshments.
Yvette wore a dress of pink and Carolyn wore yellow. Carolyn didn’t
think the party fine enough, and Mannie and Dorothy didn’t like it
much, either. The rest of the family thought it a successful affair.
Mrs. Rose, Yvette and Carolyn spent the following weeks shopping.
Yvette had to have a complete trousseau, starting with table
linens and ending with silk stockings. Three months later Yvette
and MacDougal were married at the Waldorf with Carolyn and Maurice
Adams as attendants. Only the most intimate friends were invited
to the elaborate banquet which followed, though later there was
an “informal reception” with much wine. MacDougal had just bought
an automobile—black, though Yvette would have preferred a gayer
colour—and, after a short Atlantic City honeymoon the young couple
took a new and elaborate apartment in Central Park West and settled
down, with two maids, to domesticity.
“Ain’t it grand, Papa?” Mrs. Rose had said to her husband after their
first call on the young couple. And even Rose had to agree that Yvette
was getting all that could be expected.
Carolyn was “the young lady of the family,” now. She was not as easily
satisfied as Yvette had been. She called Yvette’s crowd “loudly
vulgar,” though she was a trifle loud, herself, at times. She raised
eyebrows and drew away when fate included her in her sister’s parties.
She was glad when her sister married—now she could entertain her loud
friends in her own home. Maybe Yvette would even tone down a little;
she laughed too loudly, and her terrible taste in clothes! Her mother
talked loudly, too, except when she tried very hard to remember—and
it was terrible the way she shrieked and sing-songed when she grew
excited—but at least you could remonstrate with her.
The Harlem apartment didn’t suit Carolyn at all. Here she was, out of
school, nearly twenty—and living in—Harlem. She had gone to a series
of morning lectures at one of the hotels and one of the lectures had
been on furniture—it seemed all of the things in the Harlem apartment
were entirely wrong. Carolyn knew this was true, too. Hadn’t she been
to other homes, where people knew things? They were rich and had one
maid—and she didn’t know how to wait on the table—and the family
treated her as if she were one of them. And Irving talked back to his
father, rather impudently, even when company was there, and the car was
a sight—she was ashamed to use it. The least they could have was a new
car and a chauffeur.
Irving agreed with all of Carolyn’s criticisms, excepting those
which concerned himself. He was twenty-three, why shouldn’t he have
things nicer? Dorothy, going on fourteen, also found the Harlem house
distasteful.
“A terrible neighbourhood,” said Dorothy, who became Dorothea, that
year. “It’s too far from school and we do need a new car. I’m ashamed
to tell any one where I live. I want a big room and my own bath, so I
can ask girls to stay all night, if I want to.”
Rose sighed, said the family would break him and times were hard.
Mrs. Rose sighed, too. Still, Harlem wasn’t such a friendly
neighbourhood—the other couldn’t be worse. And with only one girl there
was too much for her to do. If they had a man to drive the car and a
cook, maybe—
Carolyn went house-hunting alone. She said she’d take the others with
her “when she found something.” Two weeks later she took her mother and
Dorothea to see the new apartment. It was a foregone conclusion with
Carolyn that they would take it—just the formality of mailing the lease
for her father’s signature.
The apartment was on Riverside Drive, in a huge building of
cream-coloured brick. At the door was a negro uniformed in dark green,
and another similarly clad attended the mirrored elevator. The halls
had Oriental rugs and were lit and draped with an expensiveness that
suited even Carolyn. Of course it was pretty far out on the Drive—but
it looked rich—and living on the Drive was rather grand, at that. Mrs.
Rose was speechless at first, but later the apartment seemed quite
satisfying. She liked the ornateness, the grandeur—it was even finer
than Yvette’s, than any of her friends. Why shouldn’t it be, with Abe a
partner in a big factory and all—?
The woodwork of the apartment was white enamel. There were little
panels in the living room, waiting to be papered, and the dining-room
had a white enamelled plate rail. The lighting fixtures were of the
new “inverted” style, on heavy brass chains ending with carved brass
holders of white frosted globes. There were French doors of mahogany
leading into the living-room and dining-room, a huge butler’s pantry
with numerous shelves, a kitchen with a big hooded range and immense
white sink, large bedrooms, four baths.
“If—if your Papa will pay for it,” Mrs. Rose admitted weakly.
“Oh, he’ll pay,” said Carolyn, “why shouldn’t he—a rich man like him?”
When the men of the family came to see the apartment Irving pronounced
it “immense.” Mr. Rose looked at the apartment, saw the library that
he could have for his own, the big bedroom and bath—and gave in with
unexpectedly little persuasion. After all—his friends were living
well—why shouldn’t he? He was making money—the family might as well
spend it. Didn’t the way you live show how well you were doing? Not
that he was making so much, of course, but, with Yvette married—if
Carolyn wanted the apartment.
Mannie and Dorothea were rather indifferent. Still, Mannie was in prep
school and cared most about books—even writing a poem occasionally. He
was eighteen. At fourteen, Dorothea didn’t care about details as long
as they were moving. Her new room was nice and big. Still, they ought
to have a new car—Dorothea was quite pouty over the old one.
Carolyn took charge of the furnishings of the new apartment. Mrs.
Rose, with uplifted hands, declared her ignorance of periods “and such
nonsense,” but begged her daughter not to spend too much money. “You
know your Papa. There is a limit even with him.”
Irving gave a long-winded dissertation about what to get and told about
a fine apartment he had visited, farther down on the drive—two girls he
knew, their father was a criminal lawyer. Carolyn didn’t listen very
closely. She knew what she wanted.
Accompanied by her most intimate friend, Eloise Morton, daughter
of S. G. Morton, the box people (both of Eloise’s parents had been
born in America), Carolyn visited a number of shops. She called the
stores where Yvette traded “middle class,” but she was afraid of the
decorating shops and called the things in the window “junk.”
“You might like that old stuff,” she said to Eloise, “but I can’t see
anything to it. Old chairs, stiff and funny—a hundred dollars apiece
and then a fake, probably. A whole room full of that doesn’t look like
anything. I like things that show their full value, that you can tell
cost a lot of money.”
Eloise agreed that her friend had the right idea.
Carolyn didn’t allow any mere furniture clerk to suggest or dictate
to her. Hadn’t she seen a lot of fine homes? Didn’t she go to every
new show in town and look especially at the stage settings? Hadn’t she
heard a furniture lecture? Who could advise her?
She didn’t want her mother with her, she’d “simply spoil things if she
started to talk.” Carolyn and Eloise, alone, could give an impression
of taste, elegance and riches.
Carolyn decided on Adam furniture for the living room. If the ghosts
of the brothers Adam groaned a bit Carolyn was too busy to hear. She
liked “sets” for the living rooms—didn’t every one have them?—so she
chose a great davenport of mahogany with cane sides and back, motifs
slightly after some of the Adam designs scattered over the woodwork.
The upholstery was rose velour. There were two huge chairs of similar
design, one a rocking chair. Other chairs were of cane and mahogany,
one a Venetian, one a fireside. There was a great oblong table, too,
that Carolyn knew showed good judgment, for it was of “dull antique
mahogany.” It, too, bore motifs of the house of Adam. There was a floor
lamp with a rose shade and two table lamps to match and several pieces
of “stylish” painted furniture, factory made. Carolyn looked with scorn
on the little rugs that had seemed so fine a few years ago. She chose
now an immense Oriental in rose and tan for the living room and a
Chinese rug in dark blue to combine with the intricately carved Queen
Anne furniture of the dining-room.
There were elaborately patterned filet lace curtains throughout the
house. Before this Mrs. Rose had always hemmed and hung the curtains.
Now Carolyn gave orders for them. The over-drapes and portières were
of rose velour, heavily lined, and above the windows were elaborate
valances, edged with fringe and wide gold braid. There were blue velour
curtains in the dining-room.
In the bedrooms Carolyn’s imagination had full play. Her parents’ room
was in mahogany with twin poster beds. Her own room was in ivory, cane
inset. Dorothea’s was white enamelled, painted with blue scenes.
For the walls of the living-room, between the panelling, Carolyn chose
a scenic paper in grey. On this were to be hung elaborate oil paintings
in scalloped gold frames: “A Scene at Twilight,” “The Fisherman’s
Return.” In the dining-room the paper was in tapestry effect, red and
blue fruit and flowers.
The family moved into the new apartment in October, 1911. The moving
was simple for the old furniture was to be sold and professional movers
attended to the packing of ornaments and dishes.
Mrs. Rose and Irving were impressed with the effects wrought by
Carolyn’s taste and her father’s money, but it did not take the family
long to settle down to the pleasures of life that Riverside Drive
opened to them.