Manning stopped school the year after the family moved into their new
home. He had had a year at Harvard and a year or so at art school.
Now, at twenty-two, he felt that he was a sculptor. His father was
disappointed—Manning had started out a nice boy—it did seem that one of
the boys....
But Manning shrugged sensitive shoulders at anything as crude as the
clothing business, even wholesale. His soul was not in such things. And
Mr. Ross had to admit that the position of model was about the only one
in the establishment that Manning could have filled. Manning went in,
rather heavily, for the arts that the rest of the family had neglected.
Of course Dorothea read, but Manning thought she skimmed too lightly
over real literature. And Irwin—an impossible, material fellow.
Manning wore his hair a trifle long. He talked knowingly of Byzantine
enamels and the School of Troyes. He knew Della Robbia and the
Della-Cruscans. There was nothing he didn’t know about French ivories.
He knew how champlevé enamelling differed from other methods ... there
were few mysteries for Manning. His personal contributions to Wanty
consisted of fantastic heads, influenced slightly by the French of the
Fourteenth Century, in bas-relief—very flat relief, of course.
Manning’s friends felt they formed a real part of New York’s “new
serious Bohemia.” They ate in “unexploited” Greenwich Village
restaurants, never complaining about the poorly cooked food, sitting
for hours at the bare, painted tables, talking eagerly in the dim
candle or lamp light. They expressed disgust when “uptowners”
discovered their retreats and sometimes moved elsewhere. You could find
them every Saturday and Sunday night in parties of from four to ten,
at the Brevoort, sometimes with pretty girls who didn’t listen to what
they were saying, sometimes with homely little “artistic” ones, hung
with soiled embroidered smocks, who listened too eagerly, talking of
life and art, revolution and undiscovered genius.
There was no question that Manning’s father should continue his
allowance—there is no money in sincere art these days. Manning knew
that even his father must recognize that. Manning spent his summer with
the family on Long Island—it was hot in town. But, when one’s family is
of the bourgeoisie, it does draw one’s energy so. In the autumn Manning
decided he must have a real studio, some place he could work and
expand, going to “the town house” for week-ends. Having one’s family
uptown was quite all right, of course—but you couldn’t expect an artist
to live with them.
Mr. Ross agreed to the studio. He was getting accustomed to Dorothea’s
friends, unbelievers though they were. He found he could not accept the
artistic friends that Manning thought so delightful.
Manning found his studio, finally. The rent was terrific, of course,
but the building had been rebuilt at great expense and was absolutely
desirable in location, construction, everything. He furnished it
himself in Italian and Spanish Renaissance things. Rather nice! When
it was furnished—though they probably couldn’t “get it” he’d let the
family see it.
One Sunday, after a family reunion dinner, Manning announced that his
studio was done. If the family liked they might all run down that
way—a sort of informal reception ... of course, they probably couldn’t
understand it all....
It was in the Village, of course, but not “of” it. Did they think the
Village was slumming? Uptown people did. But that’s where you’d find
real thought, people who accomplished things....
“Why, my new studio has real atmosphere”—Manning ran his fingers
through his hair as he spoke. “It’s in a wonderful old building,
magnificent lines and the architect left them all—it’s just inside he’s
remodelled. I’ve the third floor front, two magnificent rooms, a huge
fireplace, some lovely Italian things ... and the view from the window
is so quaint and artistic ... of course you may not understand it ...
this family ... it’s just a block from Washington Square.”
“Why, that’s where....” began Mrs. Ross.
Irwin silenced her.
“Don’t begin old times, Mamma. Most of us haven’t as long memories as
you,” he said.
“Come on, now that we’re all here, let’s go down,” Manning went on, “I
want you to see something really artistic. A friend of mine, DuBroil—I
think you’ve met him—did me a stunning name plate in copper, just my
name, Manning Cuyler Ross. I’m so glad I took Cuyler for a middle name
last year. And there is just the single word, ‘masks.’ I thought it
was—rather good. And I’ve a stunning bit of tapestry on the south wall.
Come on—you’ve got your cars here, we’d better get started—”
It was a pleasant drive. The three cars drew up, almost at once, in
front of Manning’s studio, as he, in the front car, pointed it out to
them.
They made quite a party as they turned out in front of the building—a
prosperous American family—Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln Ross, well-dressed,
commanding, in their fifties, which isn’t old, these days; MacDougal
Adams, plump, pompous; Yvette Ross Adams, in handsome furs and silks;
Jack Morton, sleek, black-haired; his always exquisitely gowned wife,
Carolyn Ross Morton; Irwin Ross, in a well-fitting cutaway, eyebrows
raised inquiringly, chatting alertly; Dorothea Ross, attractive and
girlish in rough tan homespun, and Manning Cuyler Ross, their host,
pleasantly artistic.
“Here’s the place,” said Manning. “No elevator, real Bohemia, three
flights up, uncarpeted stairs. Come on, Mother.”
Mrs. Ross was strangely pale, and on the faces of Yvette and Irwin and
MacDougal Adams there were curious shadows. The rest, save for Mr.
Ross, were too young to remember. As for him he broke, for the first
time in years, into a broad smile. Manning went rattling on.
“This,” he proclaimed, “is the way to live! None of your middle-class
fripperies. Plain living, high thinking—this is the life!”
They came to the studio at last, and all stood about in silence while
Manning explained its charms—the clear light, the plain old woodwork,
the lovely view of the square, the remote, old-world atmosphere. In
the midst of his oratory Mr. Ross sidled up to Mamma Ross and reached
stealthily for her hand.
“Do you remember, Minnie,” he whispered, “this room—this old
place—those old days—”
“Hush,” said Mamma Ross, “the children will hear you.”