Moving to the Drive, the Roses made the final change in their name.
Mannie, usually quiet, was the one to propose it.
“Rose is so—so peculiar,” said Mannie. “Any one could tell it had
been something else, Rosen or worse. I’m eighteen and go to College
this fall. I’m not going to have a name so—so ordinary. Let’s change
it to Ross. That’s not distinctive but it isn’t queer or foreign.
I’m changing my first name just a little, too. I’ve never been called
Emanuel, anyhow. Mannie isn’t a name at all. I’m going to register at
College as Manning Ross.”
There was no letter-box to announce the change, but the elevator man
knew the new occupants of Apartment 31—he wrote the names down with
a blurring stub of a pencil to be sure to remember them—were Mr. and
Mrs. A. Lincoln Ross, the two Misses Ross and two young men, Irving and
Manning.
The family had liked Rose—but there might be something in what Manning
said. But no more changes. Mr. Ross put his foot down, this time. He
was meeting important men in business, Gentiles, and he didn’t want any
more monkey-business about names. Ross was all right and Ross it would
have to stay. And it did.
Mrs. Ross took great delight in getting her new servants. It made her
feel superior and important, driving up to an employment agent and
interviewing prospective retainers. She took Carolyn along for advice
and counsel—Carolyn went out a lot and knew about such things.
Carolyn would have liked a retinue, but Ross rebelled—expenses were
awful and each servant was another mouth to feed. The old “girl” had
got married so they finally chose a cook who was not above helping with
other things, a waitress who could combine housework with waiting, and
a chauffeur. Besides, the washerwoman would still come for two days
each week.
Soon after the family was settled, Mr. Ross bought a big limousine,
American made, but one that Carolyn thought looked really expensive.
The chauffeur was in uniform, of course. He happened to be a young
Irish boy and it seemed to Carolyn, sometimes, that he smiled a bit
sarcastically and annoyingly as he held the door open for them,
especially after her mother had spoken with an accent or her old
sing-song.
Mr. Ross didn’t object to the new luxuries. It was much more
comfortable driving to the office in the limousine than waiting for
Irving or one of the girls to take him or depending on less comfortable
modes of transportation. He had more room to himself, too. He liked
the way the new cook prepared things—he was getting indigestion and
had to be careful about what he ate—though he still remembered with
real emotion the pot-roasts and fish and stuffed goose that Grandma
had delighted to prepare. These new dishes—salads and things like
that—everything served separately—you could get used to it—it didn’t
make much difference—here he was, used to a maid in cap and apron,
waiting on table—and Minnie used to it, too, excepting when she forgot
and talked to her or reached across the table for things. Still, Minnie
meant well, a good woman, rather fat these last years, but a good woman
who loved her family—none of this new foolishness some of the women
had, he’d noticed—
Mr. Ross didn’t pay much attention to women. He never had. He saw what
fine girls his daughters were, that was about all. He couldn’t have
recognized half a dozen of their best friends, whom he saw constantly
at his home, if he had passed them on the street.
His business—that was something. Still, even that didn’t keep him busy,
the way it used to. This new arrangement, the offices and the factory
separated—of course it was for the best. He could always go over to
the factory when he wanted to, though there wasn’t much need—machinery
he didn’t understand, everything in such order—with a head for every
little department, not to mention the big ones. And, with three
partners you couldn’t say things as if it were your own business. Mr.
Ross was fifty-three, but it hadn’t been an easy fifty-three years and
things had gone along rather rapidly for a while. Not that he was an
old man—far from it. Still, things that had passed seemed pleasanter
than they had seemed in the passing—and things to come lacked lustre.
This wasn’t age,—certainly not—he felt as well as he had twenty years
ago, practically. Give him some real work to do, you’d find out. But
there was so little to do, now. You’d go down to the office about ten
and dictate a few letters and potter around with things. You’d examine
“swatches” and find that an expert had already given them a chemical
analysis. You’d go to luncheon and be careful about what you ate. After
luncheon, a little sleepily, you’d dictate more letters, if there were
any more and see a few men on business, young upstarts, most likely,
or Gentiles who wanted something for nothing—or consult with your
partners. Then, you’d drive home after a while and read the paper or
listen to Carolyn play on the new player piano or talk with Dorothea,
though there wasn’t much to talk about. Dinner then, and a game with
Adams, though he had rheumatism these last years and wasn’t the man
he had been. Or Moss would drive over. There was a club, even, if you
cared to go to it—a lot of strange men who didn’t care anything about
you—a club—at least they were of your own race—Dorothea was always
asking questions about why the family didn’t mix with other people—such
notions a child gets—
The Rex Suit Company was still progressing. The great factories were
outside New York, but the business offices occupied a whole floor of an
office building, each partner with his own mahogany furnished office,
with its rows of bells and its private stenographers. There was an
expert to decide each thing. MacDougal was in the sales department
and Maurice, the younger Adams boy, was advertising manager—a big
advertising agent had charge of all of the advertising, of course.
And what advertising the firm did, too! Double pages in the popular
weeklies at thousands of dollars a page. Every one was familiar with
the “Kingly Men.” Girls cut them out and mounted them for their
rooms. “America’s Kings in Kingly Suits” had been familiar enough to
get applause at a musical comedy when it was used to introduce two
juveniles. “Every Inch a King for the Kings of Creation” and other
well-known slogans ran in letters four feet high above the artist’s
conception of the “Kingly Man” on the billboards.
Each year there was an ornate catalogue of the styles, “for the Prep
Youth,” “for the College Man,” “for the Younger Set,” “for the Older
Fellow.” Hundreds of merchants all over the country displayed King
Brand signs and carried King Brand suits. The Rex Company had invented
half sizes, adjustable models and the giving with each suit of an extra
bit of the goods and two extra buttons for mending. There wasn’t much
you could plan about for the Rex Company. Likely as not, some one else
would have thought of it first, anyway.
Mr. Ross was accustomed to meeting men, now. He liked to meet them,
in business. He would listen, weigh what they said, learn from them.
He never talked much. He always retained his look of severity. He was
known as “a crackerjack of a business man,” “a man you couldn’t put
anything over on,” but the other partners were good business men, too.
There was nothing for Mr. Ross to work for.
Outside of business he had little. His family still seemed apart, yet
he would have done anything to have saved them trouble or pain. He
liked Yvette because she was frank and lively, but these last years he
liked Dorothea, too, though there was nothing against Carolyn, a fine
girl, if she did like to spend money. Minnie was all right—the boys
would be, too, when they got a little older and settled down.
Mr. Ross didn’t mind listening to the mechanical piano or the Victrola
at home, but he did not care for other kinds of music. Concerts made
him miserable and fidgety. He saw nothing in them and after several
for charity and one visit to the opera he refused to partake of music
outside of the home. He had never learned to like reading. He was still
content with the daily papers and glanced, occasionally, at a weekly
devoted to current events. He knew nothing about art and said so. He
didn’t want to be bothered with “such notions.” Drama of all kinds
bored him and even musical comedies entertained him only for a little
while. Usually he got to thinking of business in the midst of things
and lost all consciousness of what was going on.
Mr. Ross had no social ambitions, so, with no business worries and no
outside interests, his days began to drag unpleasantly. He thought
often of other days, of “the other side”; when he had been planning
to come to America—he was glad that was over—of MacDougal Street,
the hard work he had done there, the long hours, the over-time, the
little economies so both ends would meet, then the newer tenement, with
things a little easier, the beginnings of the factory—those had been
real days—staying awake planning to meet bills, figuring to the dollar
how to get money to pay the “help” and have enough left for living
expenses, then Harlem and now Riverside. It was good to have planned
and worked. Still, now he was used to his comforts. He liked space and
quiet and the car—but, with nothing to do—
Mrs. Ross had long since relaxed her anxiety over her husband. He
had never talked business and he seemed just like always, willing to
listen to her stories of how she had spent the day. Mrs. Ross was quite
content with the Drive. The aloofness of the neighbours, that had been
disagreeable to her in Harlem, became one of her own characteristics
now. She became more and more aware of her own importance. She had
disliked the way “outsiders” and Gentiles had treated her, years
before. Now, her last vestige of humbleness gone, she felt herself more
than “as good as any one.” Wasn’t she Mrs. A. Lincoln Ross, wife of
Ross of the Rex Suit Company, a real figure in New York? Didn’t she get
her picture in the paper when she gave money to charity? Didn’t people
treat her with respect as soon as they found out who she was? She was
frankly fat, but she didn’t mind. She had expensive dressmakers and
tailors and she thought the results of her toilet satisfactory. After
all, she was nearly fifty.
Her voice had toned down, during the years, as had Yvette’s. When
talking with those she considered important, she even tried to put
an elegant swing into her sentences. Usually, though, her voice was
accented, ordinary, uninteresting. She still made errors and sometimes
quite a lot of sing-song crept in.
In the morning Mrs. Ross attended to her household affairs, giving
directions to the servants, ordering her own provisions over the
telephone, even planning meals. She looked into the ice-box to see what
provisions remained, rubbed fingers across furniture for dust, examined
linens. She was a good housekeeper. In the afternoon, with Yvette, whom
she found most congenial, or an acquaintance, she went for a drive or
shopped. She dropped most of her old friends who had not progressed and
she had no sentimental regrets concerning them. A few earlier friends
she kept up with, asking them for luncheon or for a drive, with a hint
of patronage. Through her daughters she met other women of her own age
and circumstances. To these she tried to be pleasant, using her best
language and manners. She had no intimacies with these women.
During the second year of the family’s residence on the Drive, Mrs.
Ross was asked to belong to several committees of important charitable
organizations. She joined these gladly and gave generous sums. She
liked the society of her own race. She did not feel at home with
“outsiders” nor know what to say to them—she felt that they were
constantly criticizing her. She had decided social ambitions, however,
and wanted Mr. Ross to join a well-known club composed of members of
his people. She was proud to know women who, a few years ago, or even
now, were she less wealthy, would have ignored her. To the arts she was
as indifferent as her husband.