A Test
The opening of the house in Michigan Avenue occurred late in November
in the fall of eighteen seventy-eight. When Aileen and Cowperwood had
been in Chicago about two years. Altogether, between people whom they
had met at the races, at various dinners and teas, and at receptions of
the Union and Calumet Clubs (to which Cowperwood, through Addison's
backing, had been admitted) and those whom McKibben and Lord
influenced, they were able to send invitations to about three hundred,
of whom some two hundred and fifty responded. Up to this time, owing to
Cowperwood's quiet manipulation of his affairs, there had been no
comment on his past--no particular interest in it. He had money,
affable ways, a magnetic personality. The business men of the
city--those whom he met socially--were inclined to consider him
fascinating and very clever. Aileen being beautiful and graceful for
attention, was accepted at more or less her own value, though the
kingly high world knew them not.
It is amazing what a showing the socially unplaced can make on occasion
where tact and discrimination are used. There was a weekly social
paper published in Chicago at this time, a rather able publication as
such things go, which Cowperwood, with McKibben's assistance, had
pressed into service. Not much can be done under any circumstances
where the cause is not essentially strong; but where, as in this case,
there is a semblance of respectability, considerable wealth, and great
force and magnetism, all things are possible. Kent McKibben knew
Horton Biggers, the editor, who was a rather desolate and disillusioned
person of forty-five, gray, and depressed-looking--a sort of human
sponge or barnacle who was only galvanized into seeming interest and
cheerfulness by sheer necessity. Those were the days when the society
editor was accepted as a member of society--de facto--and treated more
as a guest than a reporter, though even then the tendency was toward
elimination. Working for Cowperwood, and liking him, McKibben said to
Biggers one evening:
"You know the Cowperwoods, don't you, Biggers?"
"No," replied the latter, who devoted himself barnacle-wise to the more
exclusive circles. "Who are they?"
"Why, he's a banker over here in La Salle Street. They're from
Philadelphia. Mrs. Cowperwood's a beautiful woman--young and all that.
They're building a house out here on Michigan Avenue. You ought to
know them. They're going to get in, I think. The Addisons like them.
If you were to be nice to them now I think they'd appreciate it later.
He's rather liberal, and a good fellow."
Biggers pricked up his ears. This social journalism was thin picking
at best, and he had very few ways of turning an honest penny. The
would be's and half-in's who expected nice things said of them had to
subscribe, and rather liberally, to his paper. Not long after this
brief talk Cowperwood received a subscription blank from the business
office of the Saturday Review, and immediately sent a check for one
hundred dollars to Mr. Horton Biggers direct. Subsequently certain not
very significant personages noticed that when the Cowperwoods dined at
their boards the function received comment by the Saturday Review, not
otherwise. It looked as though the Cowperwoods must be favored; but
who were they, anyhow?
The danger of publicity, and even moderate social success, is that
scandal loves a shining mark. When you begin to stand out the least
way in life, as separate from the mass, the cognoscenti wish to know
who, what, and why. The enthusiasm of Aileen, combined with the genius
of Cowperwood, was for making their opening entertainment a very
exceptional affair, which, under the circumstances, and all things
considered, was a dangerous thing to do. As yet Chicago was
exceedingly slow socially. Its movements were, as has been said, more
or less bovine and phlegmatic. To rush in with something utterly
brilliant and pyrotechnic was to take notable chances. The more
cautious members of Chicago society, even if they did not attend, would
hear, and then would come ultimate comment and decision.
The function began with a reception at four, which lasted until
six-thirty, and this was followed by a dance at nine, with music by a
famous stringed orchestra of Chicago, a musical programme by artists of
considerable importance, and a gorgeous supper from eleven until one in
a Chinese fairyland of lights, at small tables filling three of the
ground-floor rooms. As an added fillip to the occasion Cowperwood had
hung, not only the important pictures which he had purchased abroad,
but a new one--a particularly brilliant Gerome, then in the heyday of
his exotic popularity--a picture of nude odalisques of the harem,
idling beside the highly colored stone marquetry of an oriental bath.
It was more or less "loose" art for Chicago, shocking to the
uninitiated, though harmless enough to the illuminati; but it gave a
touch of color to the art-gallery which the latter needed. There was
also, newly arrived and newly hung, a portrait of Aileen by a Dutch
artist, Jan van Beers, whom they had encountered the previous summer at
Brussels. He had painted Aileen in nine sittings, a rather brilliant
canvas, high in key, with a summery, out-of-door world behind her--a
low stone-curbed pool, the red corner of a Dutch brick palace, a
tulip-bed, and a blue sky with fleecy clouds. Aileen was seated on the
curved arm of a stone bench, green grass at her feet, a pink-and-white
parasol with a lacy edge held idly to one side; her rounded, vigorous
figure clad in the latest mode of Paris, a white and blue striped-silk
walking-suit, with a blue-and-white-banded straw hat, wide-brimmed,
airy, shading her lusty, animal eyes. The artist had caught her spirit
quite accurately, the dash, the assumption, the bravado based on the
courage of inexperience, or lack of true subtlety. A refreshing thing
in its way, a little showy, as everything that related to her was, and
inclined to arouse jealousy in those not so liberally endowed by life,
but fine as a character piece. In the warm glow of the guttered
gas-jets she looked particularly brilliant here, pampered, idle,
jaunty--the well-kept, stall-fed pet of the world. Many stopped to see,
and many were the comments, private and otherwise.
This day began with a flurry of uncertainty and worried anticipation on
the part of Aileen. At Cowperwood's suggestion she had employed a
social secretary, a poor hack of a girl, who had sent out all the
letters, tabulated the replies, run errands, and advised on one detail
and another. Fadette, her French maid, was in the throes of preparing
for two toilets which would have to be made this day, one by two
o'clock at least, another between six and eight. Her "mon dieus" and
"par bleus" could be heard continuously as she hunted for some article
of dress or polished an ornament, buckle, or pin. The struggle of
Aileen to be perfect was, as usual, severe. Her meditations, as to the
most becoming gown to wear were trying. Her portrait was on the east
wall in the art-gallery, a spur to emulation; she felt as though all
society were about to judge her. Theresa Donovan, the local
dressmaker, had given some advice; but Aileen decided on a heavy brown
velvet constructed by Worth, of Paris--a thing of varying aspects,
showing her neck and arms to perfection, and composing charmingly with
her flesh and hair. She tried amethyst ear-rings and changed to topaz;
she stockinged her legs in brown silk, and her feet were shod in brown
slippers with red enamel buttons.
The trouble with Aileen was that she never did these things with that
ease which is a sure sign of the socially efficient. She never quite
so much dominated a situation as she permitted it to dominate her.
Only the superior ease and graciousness of Cowperwood carried her
through at times; but that always did. When he was near she felt quite
the great lady, suited to any realm. When she was alone her courage,
great as it was, often trembled in the balance. Her dangerous past was
never quite out of her mind.
At four Kent McKibben, smug in his afternoon frock, his quick,
receptive eyes approving only partially of all this show and effort,
took his place in the general reception-room, talking to Taylor Lord,
who had completed his last observation and was leaving to return later
in the evening. If these two had been closer friends, quite intimate,
they would have discussed the Cowperwoods' social prospects; but as it
was, they confined themselves to dull conventionalities. At this
moment Aileen came down-stairs for a moment, radiant. Kent McKibben
thought he had never seen her look more beautiful. After all,
contrasted with some of the stuffy creatures who moved about in
society, shrewd, hard, bony, calculating, trading on their assured
position, she was admirable. It was a pity she did not have more
poise; she ought to be a little harder--not quite so genial. Still,
with Cowperwood at her side, she might go far.
"Really, Mrs. Cowperwood," he said, "it is all most charming. I was
just telling Mr. Lord here that I consider the house a triumph."
From McKibben, who was in society, and with Lord, another "in" standing
by, this was like wine to Aileen. She beamed joyously.
Among the first arrivals were Mrs. Webster Israels, Mrs. Bradford
Canda, and Mrs. Walter Rysam Cotton, who were to assist in receiving.
These ladies did not know that they were taking their future
reputations for sagacity and discrimination in their hands; they had
been carried away by the show of luxury of Aileen, the growing
financial repute of Cowperwood, and the artistic qualities of the new
house. Mrs. Webster Israels's mouth was of such a peculiar shape that
Aileen was always reminded of a fish; but she was not utterly homely,
and to-day she looked brisk and attractive. Mrs. Bradford Canda, whose
old rose and silver-gray dress made up in part for an amazing
angularity, but who was charming withal, was the soul of interest, for
she believed this to be a very significant affair. Mrs. Walter Rysam
Cotton, a younger woman than either of the others, had the polish of
Vassar life about her, and was "above" many things. Somehow she half
suspected the Cowperwoods might not do, but they were making strides,
and might possibly surpass all other aspirants. It behooved her to be
pleasant.
Life passes from individuality and separateness at times to a sort of
Monticelliesque mood of color, where individuality is nothing, the
glittering totality all. The new house, with its charming French
windows on the ground floor, its heavy bands of stone flowers and
deep-sunk florated door, was soon crowded with a moving, colorful flow
of people.
Many whom Aileen and Cowperwood did not know at all had been invited by
McKibben and Lord; they came, and were now introduced. The adjacent
side streets and the open space in front of the house were crowded with
champing horses and smartly veneered carriages. All with whom the
Cowperwoods had been the least intimate came early, and, finding the
scene colorful and interesting, they remained for some time. The
caterer, Kinsley, had supplied a small army of trained servants who
were posted like soldiers, and carefully supervised by the Cowperwood
butler. The new dining-room, rich with a Pompeian scheme of color, was
aglow with a wealth of glass and an artistic arrangement of delicacies.
The afternoon costumes of the women, ranging through autumnal grays,
purples, browns, and greens, blended effectively with the brown-tinted
walls of the entry-hall, the deep gray and gold of the general
living-room, the old-Roman red of the dining-room, the white-and-gold
of the music-room, and the neutral sepia of the art-gallery.
Aileen, backed by the courageous presence of Cowperwood, who, in the
dining-room, the library, and the art-gallery, was holding a private
levee of men, stood up in her vain beauty, a thing to see--almost to
weep over, embodying the vanity of all seeming things, the mockery of
having and yet not having. This parading throng that was more curious
than interested, more jealous than sympathetic, more critical than
kind, was coming almost solely to observe.
"Do you know, Mrs. Cowperwood," Mrs. Simms remarked, lightly, "your
house reminds me of an art exhibit to-day. I hardly know why."
Aileen, who caught the implied slur, had no clever words wherewith to
reply. She was not gifted in that way, but she flared with resentment.
"Do you think so?" she replied, caustically.
Mrs. Simms, not all dissatisfied with the effect she had produced,
passed on with a gay air, attended by a young artist who followed
amorously in her train.
Aileen saw from this and other things like it how little she was really
"in." The exclusive set did not take either her or Cowperwood seriously
as yet. She almost hated the comparatively dull Mrs. Israels, who had
been standing beside her at the time, and who had heard the remark; and
yet Mrs. Israels was much better than nothing. Mrs. Simms had
condescended a mild "how'd do" to the latter.
It was in vain that the Addisons, Sledds, Kingslands, Hoecksemas, and
others made their appearance; Aileen was not reassured. However, after
dinner the younger set, influenced by McKibben, came to dance, and
Aileen was at her best in spite of her doubts. She was gay, bold,
attractive. Kent McKibben, a past master in the mazes and mysteries of
the grand march, had the pleasure of leading her in that airy, fairy
procession, followed by Cowperwood, who gave his arm to Mrs. Simms.
Aileen, in white satin with a touch of silver here and there and
necklet, bracelet, ear-rings, and hair-ornament of diamonds, glittered
in almost an exotic way. She was positively radiant. McKibben, almost
smitten, was most attentive.
"This is such a pleasure," he whispered, intimately. "You are very
beautiful--a dream!"
"You would find me a very substantial one," returned Aileen. "Would
that I might find," he laughed, gaily; and Aileen, gathering the hidden
significance, showed her teeth teasingly. Mrs. Simms, engrossed by
Cowperwood, could not hear as she would have liked.
After the march Aileen, surrounded by a half-dozen of gay, rudely
thoughtless young bloods, escorted them all to see her portrait. The
conservative commented on the flow of wine, the intensely nude Gerome
at one end of the gallery, and the sparkling portrait of Aileen at the
other, the enthusiasm of some of the young men for her company. Mrs.
Rambaud, pleasant and kindly, remarked to her husband that Aileen was
"very eager for life," she thought. Mrs. Addison, astonished at the
material flare of the Cowperwoods, quite transcending in glitter if not
in size and solidity anything she and Addison had ever achieved,
remarked to her husband that "he must be making money very fast."
"The man's a born financier, Ella," Addison explained, sententiously.
"He's a manipulator, and he's sure to make money. Whether they can get
into society I don't know. He could if he were alone, that's sure.
She's beautiful, but he needs another kind of woman, I'm afraid. She's
almost too good-looking."
"That's what I think, too. I like her, but I'm afraid she's not going
to play her cards right. It's too bad, too."
Just then Aileen came by, a smiling youth on either side, her own face
glowing with a warmth of joy engendered by much flattery. The
ball-room, which was composed of the music and drawing rooms thrown
into one, was now the objective. It glittered before her with a moving
throng; the air was full of the odor of flowers, and the sound of music
and voices.
"Mrs. Cowperwood," observed Bradford Canda to Horton Biggers, the
society editor, "is one of the prettiest women I have seen in a long
time. She's almost too pretty."
"How do you think she's taking?" queried the cautious Biggers.
"Charming, but she's hardly cold enough, I'm afraid; hardly clever
enough. It takes a more serious type. She's a little too
high-spirited. These old women would never want to get near her; she
makes them look too old. She'd do better if she were not so young and
so pretty."
"That's what I think exactly," said Biggers. As a matter of fact, he
did not think so at all; he had no power of drawing any such accurate
conclusions. But he believed it now, because Bradford Canda had said
it.