Note: Images of the original pages are available through Kentuckiana Digital Library. See http://kdl. Kyvl. Org/cgi/t/text/text-idx?c=kyetexts;cc=kyetexts;xc=1&idno=b92-203-30752381&view=toc THE SMART SET Correspondence&Conversations by CLYDE FITCH 1897 Chicago & New YorkHerbert S. Stone & Co Copyright, 1897, byHerbert S. Stone & Co. TO "MUMSY" TO WHOM I OWE EVERYTHING FROM THE LITTLEBEGINNING OF MY LIFE NEW YORK1897 The Correspondence and the Conversations PAGE THE MAKEWAY BALL 3 THE PLAINTIFF 43 THE SUMMER 53 THE CHILDREN 65 MATERNITY 85 A LETTER OF INTRODUCTION 105 WAGNER, 1897 113 ART 131 SORROW 139 THE THEATRE 149 THE OPERA 159 A PERFECT DAY 167 THE WESTINGTON'S BOHEMIAN DINNER 175 THE GAMBLERS 187 The Makeway Ball Five Letters I. From Wm. H. Makeway II. From Mrs. MakewayIII. From Miss Makeway IV. From a Guest V. From an Uninvited The Smart Set I _From Wm. H. Makeway to Joseph K. Makeway, of Denver. _ New York, Jan. 12, 189--. My Dear Brother: You did well to stay West. Would to God I had! Julia's big party cameoff last night. I told her weeks ago, when she began insinuating it, that if it must be it must be, of course, and that I would pay all thebills, but I wished it distinctly understood I wouldn't have anythingelse to do with it. She assured me that nothing whatever would beexpected of me. Unfortunately, she wasn't the only woman with anAmerican husband, and that people would understand. She promised me Ishould have a voice in the matter of cigars and champagne--you can knowthey were _all right_--and I believe the success of the party was, in agreat measure, due to them. My having "nothing whatever to do" with it consisted in hearing nothingelse discussed for days, and on the night in question having no room Icould call my own, my bedroom being devoted to the men (of course youknow that Julia and I haven't shared the same room for years, not sincethe six months she spent with her married sister, Lady Glenwill), myown sanctum down stairs was turned into a smoker, and I was obliged tohang around in any place I could find, all ready for the guests acouple of hours before they began to arrive. Of course, too, shefinally bulldozed me into helping her receive. You see, the littlewoman really was worn out, for she had overseen everything. She is awonder! There isn't an English servant in New York, or London, either, who can teach her anything, altho' our second footman happens to havebeen with the Duke of Cambridge at one time. Not that I care a damnabout such things--except that the Duke is a soldier--but in speakingof them I get to taking Julia's point of view. I helped her receivesome of the people, to sort of give her a feeling of not having thewhole infernal thing on her own shoulders. Everybody Julia wanted came, and a great many she didn't want. I suppose out where you live youdon't have to ask the people you don't want. Here it's much more likelyyou can't ask the people you do want. I have some business friends, first-rate fellows, with good looking, dressy wives, but Julia barsthem every one because they aren't fashionables. You ought to see mewhen _I'm_ fashionable! The most miserable specimen you ever saw. Ilook just like one of the figures in a plate in a tailor's window, labeled "latest autumn fashions, " and I feel like one, too. Julia looked stunning! By Jove! she was the handsomest woman there. There isn't another in New York anywhere near her age who can touchher. They say every one asked about her in London when she went outwith her sister in English society, and I don't wonder. You know shehas a tall crown of diamonds--tiaras, they call them--I've always beenashamed to tell you before! She came home with it from Tiffany's oneday, and said it was my birthday present to her, and I let it go atthat. Well, last night no Duchess could have worn the same sort ofthing any better. The young one, too, looked as pretty as a ----whatever you like, only it must be damned pretty! It was her firstball, you know; she's a ----, you know what, it's her first time insociety. She had more bouquets than Patti used to get when you and Iwere running about town. And she was as unconcerned about it! She'sfashionable enough--I only hope she isn't too much so. I don't want herto marry this young Lord who's hanging around, and I say so three timesa day. The "young'un" says I'd better wait till he's asked her, but Idon't dare. Julia's fixed on it. She won't even argue with me, so youcan imagine how determined she is. But I want my daughter to marry anAmerican, and live in her own home where her father and mother live. One thing, I know: most of these marrying foreigners that come overhere want money, and I'll be hanged if I'll give the young'un a pennyif she takes this one. I mean it. I give you my word. He led thecotillon with her last night. I wouldn't watch it. I staid in my denand helped smoke the cigars. None better! I can tell you that! Well, good bye, old man. If you hear of any thing good out your way todrop a couple of hundred thousand in, let me know--better wire me. Politics have played the deuce with my Utahs. Julia sends her love, andwants me to enclose you yards of newspaper clippings about the party. Ha! Ha! Not by a damn sight! It's enough that I was bored to death byit! The "young'un" often speaks of you. She is getting togged out to gowith her mother and do the town in the way of At Homes and such things. What a life! Yet they seem to enjoy it, and pity us. Us! In Wallstreet! The Elysian Fields of America! Can I do anything for you here?You know I am always glad of a chance. Your affectionate brother, WILL. How about that girl you were running after? Why don't you give it allup? You know what a bad lot she is. Settle down and marry. It's theonly real happiness. Believe your old brother. II _Letter from Mrs. Wm. H. Makeway to Lady Glenwill, of London. _ Thursday. My Darling Tina: It is over, and my dear, I'm dead! Only--_such_ a success! Surpassed mywildest dreams! If you had _only_ been here. In the first place everyone of any consequence in New York came; except, of course, those whoare in mourning. There are certain people who have always held off fromme, you know; but they've come around at last, and were all in evidencelast night and in their best clothes, and _all_ their jewels, and youknow that always speaks well for the hostess. I wore my tiara that Willso generously gave me my last birthday (of course he hates it himself, but I brought it home, and he had to give in--the Dear!). My weddingnecklace, three strings of real pearls, and one string of those"Orient" things we bought on Bond St. --no one could ever tell thedifference except Will, who makes a fuss every time I wear them. Heswears he will give me a new real string if I put them on again, but Itell him we must economize now to make up for what the party cost. Mydress was charming. Grace Nott brought it over from Pacquin for hermother, and meanwhile this cruel indecent new tariff came on! Get downon your knees, my dear, and be grateful you don't live in this wretchedcountry which is being turned into one great picnicking ground for theworking classes. The custom house wanted to make Grace pay an awfulduty, and then, fortunately for me, but of course it was terrible forthem, something in Wall Street went up instead of down, or vice versa(I never can understand those things), and the poor Notts went tosmash. The dress was to be left in the custom house. When I heard aboutit I bought it, duties and all. My dear girl, it fitted me like adream. Did you ever hear anything like it? Of course, Mrs. Nott nevercould have squeezed herself into it, so it's just as well she didn'ttry! It is the new color, and made in the very latest way--in fact, thecoming spring mode. I really think Will's description is the best. I'lltry to quote it to you: "It begins at the top--_i. E. _ decidedly belowthe shoulders--to be one kind of a dress, changes its mind somewheremidway, and ends out another sort altogether. One side starts off inone direction, but comes to grief and a big jewel, somewhere in theback. The other side, taking warning, starts off in an absolutelydifferent way, color, and effect, and explodes at the waist under theopposite arm in a diamond sunburst and a knot of tulle, on accidentallymeeting its opponent half. " It really is quite like that, too! Will isas amusing as ever. And he was _so_ sweet about the party. Of course, at first, I had to be very diplomatic and get his consent without hisknowing. He still hates society in the most unreasonable manner; wouldeven rather stay at home quietly than go to his club. But last night heaccepted the inevitable and behaved like a prince. I wonder how manycouples in New York who have been married nineteen years are as happyas Will and I are? He made a great fuss, of course, about the champagneand cigars. You would have thought the whole fate of the ball dependedupon them; and I must say they cost a ridiculous price. However, hepays for them, and they made him happier; so I don't complain. I amsure, after all, he enjoyed the ball thoroughly, too. You could see itin his face. And what perfect manners he has! Do you remember? Will maynot be "smart, " but he's a gentleman, and his grandfathers before himwere gentlemen, and that always tells. We don't seem to have had many grandfathers, my dear--of our own, Imean, of course. I know you've married a wonderful collection of them, dating back to goodness knows when, but it isn't so important forAmerican women; they can acquire breeding in their own lifetime. I knowno other nation whose women can do the same, and even our men haven'tthe same ability. Look at the American duchesses--don't they grace eventhe parties at Marlborough House? Look at yourself, my dear girl. Butyou won't, because you're too modest. Still you must acknowledge yoursuccess in England is conspicuous. Will's manners are perhaps a littleold-school, but that's much better than the new-school. Young men'smanners nowadays are becoming atrocious, and I'm sorry to say I thinkthey get them from England. The first thing one knows the onlygentlemen left in America will be the women. But I hope American men_won't_ lose their reputation--deserved, you must acknowledge--of beingthe most courteous men in the world to women. Well, to go back to theball. Of course, all my feelings outside my guests were centered inHelen. I might as well tell you at once, she is considered the mostattractive debutante of the year--not by me, I don't mean, nor by myfriends, but by the people who hate us, and _everybody_. I think she isvery like you, a sort of _distingué_ air that you always had. Isometimes wonder if some of our grandmothers (for even if we didn'thave grandfathers we must have had grandmothers), if some _one_ ofthem--hope not _two_--didn't make a wee slip once when royal personageswere about! Of course there is no use boasting of royal blood in one'sveins when it has no business there, but that would account for certainthings. You may remember the old portrait of mother's mother. Shelooked a perfect duchess. Helen can have a title if she wants it. Imight as well tell you now. Please find out all you can for me aboutyoung Lord ----. He will be Duke of ---- when his father or some onedies; so find out if you can, too, how long you think it will probablybe before he becomes a duke. And is he rich or poor? He needn't berich, but I don't want to think it's Helen's money he's after. I'mdoing all I can to bring about the match, and yet I'm not so worldlyafter all as to want a daughter of mine to make a loveless marriage. Helen isn't exactly pretty, but she's extremely attractive. Her figureis perfect, and she's the most stylish thing in the world. I am veryhappy today as I think that I have _lancéed_ her in the best New Yorkcan offer. It has not been all downhill work. Her father's nameentitled her to it; but he hated society, so he was more of a drawbackthan anything else. I couldn't boast of any social position in Buffalo, and it's extraordinary how well that was known here. However, the factof my being of a good, sterling, unpretentious family did help in theend, when I got started, and people saw I was serious about "gettingin. " Of course, you gave us our first big push forward, you darling. An_entrée_ into smart English society doesn't mean so much for a NewYorker nowadays as it used to, but it means a good deal. And asister-in-law of Lord Glenwill is a desirable person to know when inLondon, so it is wise to take her up at home, and I, always havingHelen's future in mind, took advantage of every possibility. Perhaps Ishouldn't have had to push my way so much here if the Prince of Waleswere still _making_ an American girl each season, but you know forseveral years now he seems to have given it up. I think he wasdiscouraged by the last two he made at Homburg; neither of them had anysuccess here the following winter, "hall-marked" as they were, and evenLondon hasn't found them husbands yet. Of course, as to one of them, I remember the gossip you wrote me aboutColonel ----. But, as you said, he had a wife and other incumbrances;so the least said about that the better. Under any circumstance, I think it's a much bigger triumph to giveHelen all New York first, now, simply by our own right, and then thisMay we'll take her to an early drawing-room, and see what happens next. I shall depend upon you, dear, to see that we go to one of thePrincess' drawing-rooms, and don't get palmed off on one of thePrincess Christian's or anything of that sort. Helen was dressed very simply, of course, and no jewels, but looked sosweet. Lord ---- was devotion itself all evening. Naturally every oneis on the _qui vive_ for the engagement, but that's all right. Theydanced the cotillon together. We had charming favors, not tooextravagant--that's such wretched taste--but things we bought in Venicelast year, and Hungarian things, and some Russian, and a set of tinygold things Tiffany got up especially for us. I had several people down from Buffalo, and mother, of course. I wishyou could have seen her, bless her heart. She had on all her old lace, and my coiffeur did her hair beautifully. She looked so handsome, andWill insisted on her dancing a figure of a quadrille with him, and howgraceful and dignified she was. You would have been very proud. I was. Lots of people asked about her, and some seemed so surprised when theyheard she was my mother. How rude people are; and what did they expectmy mother to be like? After all, do _I_ look like the daughter of awasherwoman? I think not. We might ask the Grand Duke ----, if we meethim again at Aix. You know I told Will about my small, timid flirtationwith the Russian, and really he seemed proud of my absurd littleconquest! A convenient husband for some women we know, wouldn't he be?Ah, but then you see _they_ wouldn't deserve him! Sherry did my supper. He imported some birds from Austria especiallyfor it, and invented some dishes of his own. I think it was all right. People said so, but, of course, you can't believe people. I can vouchat any rate for the serving of it. It was like magic. We seated _everyone_ at little tables which seemed to come up thro' the floors. Theywere everywhere except in the ball-room; that was left clear. We've built the ball-room since you were over. Will bought the housenext to us (such a sum as they asked when they heard _we_ wanted it!)and the whole lower floor we made into a ball-room. It just holds myseries of Gobelins we bought for that outrageous price two years ago inParis at the Marquis de Shotteau's sale. For flowers, I had quantitiesof gorgeous palms and lovely cut flowers in bowls and vases wherever itwas possible. That was all, --I hate this stuffing a house withhalf-fading flowers, it always suggests a funeral to me, with thebanked-up mantels for coffins. It's horrid, I know, but I can't helpit. However, if I am writing in this vein it's time I stopped. Myletter is abnormally long as it is--I hope the right number of stampswill be put on it. Forgive me for mentioning it, my dear, but we alwayshave to pay double postage due on your epistles. I don't mind atall--they are quite worth it--only I thought you might like to know. I have all the newspapers about the ball for you, but I will wait tillafter Thursday and then send them on in a package. I want to see what_Town Topics_ will say. Nobody cares, of course, only you don't like tosee horrid things about you in print. Sometimes it treats me very well, and it's devoted to Helen, but once in a while it's atrocious. I'm onlya little worried about Lord ----. I don't want it to say I am after himfor Helen, because I am _not_! If the English papers have anything in, please send them over--I know some articles are going to be written. Ifthere are any of them absurd and extravagant accounts, of course youwill take pains to contradict them. The English press seems oftendetermined to make American society ridiculous. Will says we will be greatly indebted to your husband if he will getus a house for the season, as you proposed. Carleton House Terrace, if possible; if not, use your own judgment, only not GrosvenorSquare--they make too much fun of strangers who go there. I hope youare well and taking some sort of care of yourself, which you know younever do. And please, if you go to Paris at Easter, be sure to write usat once if sleeves are still growing smaller, if hats are big orlittle, and whether it's feathers or flowers, or both. Also, of course, anything else that will help us. And don't forget to find out all youcan about Lord ----. And do you advise announcing the engagement beforeher presentation, or afterward? And by no means say a word to anybody, as he hasn't proposed yet. By the way, Will is violently opposed to it. But I think Helen and I together will be too much for him, and ifabsolutely necessary _my health_ can give out! That had to happen, youremember, before I could get him out of 15th street and up here. My love to the Hon. Bertha. How is the dear child? I long to see you. Say what you like, this society life isn't altogether satisfactory. Ithink after Helen is happily married--to whomever it is--I shall driftquietly out of it, and gradually take to playing Joan to Will's Darby. I'm sure Will would _love_ it. Love to you both, and a heart full to yourself, Tina, dearest. Your affectionate old sister, MARY. P. S. --Don't laugh at what I said about a society life. Of course Idon't mean it. I don't believe I could live without it now. I'm tiredafter the ball, that's all. To tell the truth I don't quite know wheremy head is. I shall take two phoenacetine powders right away. Do youknow about them; they're so good. Did I ask you if you went to ParisEaster to be sure and write me if sleeves---- O yes, I remember, I did. III _From Miss Makeway to Miss Blanche Matheson in Rome. _ Thursday. My darling Blanche: Of course I know you are having a wonderful time in Rome with Royaltiesand all sorts of smart people and gay entertainments, but still I wishyou had been at our ball last night. I believe you would have enjoyedit. I don't think anyone can deny we know how to give balls in America, and mama is a wonder! You know she's been fishing for guests for thisball for years. And she wouldn't give it till she was sure of a list ofpeople who would be present that would bear comparison with anybody's;and, my dear, we had it! And I am sure mama feels more than repaid. With such a culmination everything has been worth while--the French_chef_ and his terrible extravagances, for you must pay to be known asa good house to dine at--all the deadly afternoon parties, all theexorbitant fees paid for years to the opera singers to sing, the houseat Newport--and the one at Lennox, the seasons in London, that shootingbox in Scotland (it bored us to death), it was all worth while now thatwe have arrived at the toppest top. And no one could become herposition better than mama. A society matron of the first water iscertainly her _métier_. Lord ---- is very much struck with mama. I will tell you about himlater. Of course poor papa looks a little what that amusing youngEnglishman would call perhaps 1872. He wasn't in it for a minute; boredto death, poor thing. You know he hates parties. Thank heaven I am"out" at last, for now I can go to everything that comes on. And do asI please, that is if I want to, because I may marry soon! I wish Icould see your expression when you read that. Of course it is Lord----. He proposed last night, but I told him he must wait, and proposeagain in a couple of weeks. I wasn't ready to decide yet. I must befree "out" for a couple of weeks at least. He will be Duke of ----, some day. As the Duchess I shall haveprecedence over Mamie Smith, Gertrude Strong, and Irene van Worth, andeven over all the older women who have married abroad, except theDuchesses of ---- and ----. Think what fun it would be to sail ineverywhere ahead of Mamie Smith, after all the insufferable airs shehas put on! I don't believe I could make a better match. Besides he'syoungish and good-looking, has splendid estates, and I really like him. I mean I think he is the sort of man you can get very romantic about. And of course there's no real social life anywhere but abroad, andthere's no other life that wouldn't bore me to death. It's onlynatural, for my whole childhood was spent in an atmosphere of searchingafter it. Ever since I can remember the chief occupation and interestof mama was how diplomatically to get into the smartest set withdignity. It seemed as difficult as the proverbial camel and eye of aneedle and the rich man getting into heaven, and in my younger days thethree were all very much mixed up together in my mind. I think I shouldprefer London to Paris. Smart life in Paris seems to be so very muchmore immoral than in London, judging from what one hears and the booksone reads, and you know I don't care about immorality. I get that frommama, too. She is shocked all the time in the "world, " over here even, tho' she tries to hide it. Our house looked lovely last night. We had powdered footmen, and justenough music and just enough supper and just enough people. One of thesecrets of success in society is not to overcrowd anything. Of course there were some drawbacks to the ball, but small things thatdidn't really count. Mary Farnham came and sat the whole evening thro', as usual, without once dancing. Even papa said he "drew the line atthat. " Why doesn't she take something? You see lots of thingsadvertised that change people almost as big as she into a perfectshadow in no time. You feel so sorry for her when she's your guest. Ihad a great mind to put Lord ---- to the test, but I didn't quite dare!Then Tommy Baggs came and repeated his customary gymnastics--waltzed oneverybody's toes in the rooms (slipper sellers ought to pay him acommission), tore two women's gowns nearly off their waists and spilledchampagne frappé down Mrs. Carton's back; would have ruined her bodice, if she'd had any on, at the back. She bore it like a lamb. Her teethwere fairly chattering, but she laughed and said it was ratherpleasant. Good heavens! Who do you suppose is down stairs? Lord ----! It's goingto be a bore if he's coming every day. I shall go down and tell himthese two weeks I am to have a complete holiday. Do write me all you're doing. With love always, HELEN. _Later_--I have accepted him! He was so perfectly charming! I couldn'thelp it! IV _From a Guest. _ Thursday. My dear Claire: I was so glad to hear from you about Florida, and, as you are havingsuch an amusing time, and as the season here is practically finishednow that the much-talked of Makeway ball is over, I've decided to joinyou next week. Besides, I've missed you awfully, and it will be so niceto be with you again. Will you be so good as to engage my rooms forme?--a bedroom with two windows facing south; not near the elevator byany means; not above the third floor--_but not on the first_. Pleasesee that the coloring is blue or pink; I'm not particular about designor material, or anything of that sort (I don't think people should betoo _exigeant_)--only yellow, or red, or white, or green rooms are tooawfully unbecoming to me. Have drawing-room to connect with the bedroomplease, and then a room for my maid. I hope you won't have to pay morethan seven dollars a week for her (all included, naturally). She isn'tat all particular. I'm sure I couldn't afford to keep her if she were, and she's such a treasure. Of course she reads all my letters and mindsmy own business more than I do myself, and uses up my crested writingpaper at a terrific rate; but that one expects--don't you thinkso--with a _good_ servant? I know you are mad to hear all about the ball, so I'll tell you. In thefirst place it was a great success, and that settles it! The Makewaysare now a power in New York society, and there's really no reason whythey shouldn't be. His family are all right and her English connectionsare better; and then what a charming woman she is! She makes a perfecthostess. Such tact! Everything was carried out in the best of taste. Ifthey erred at all it was on the side of simplicity; and yet that givesyou a wrong idea about the ball, because it really could boast ofsplendor. Yes, I mean it, but of a solid, real kind. There is nothingpapier maché about the Makeway house; nor about its owners, nor abouttheir entertainment. You can't help but believe this, and it gives youa sense of social security! Everyone anyone would want in their housewas there. If any line was drawn tightly inside the smart circle, itdefined the pseudo-déclassé. Mrs. Makeway might be described in Englandas a slightly early-Victorian hostess, or if our presidents had at allthe position and social power of royalties, she would be ticketedperhaps as of the Hayes period, except that would imply "TotalAbstinence, " which would mean instant death to anyone in smart society, thank goodness! I suppose you've heard that old _mot_ of the dinners atthe White House during the Hayes administration, that water flowed likechampagne! Well, that will never be said of the Makeways. Their winewas the very best, too; I never had better at any party, seldom asgood, and even John, who scoffs at the idea of women being a judge ofwines, confesses, that, though we've entertained everybody all ourlives, we've never had such a good wine inside our doors. The supperwas, in the first place, comfortable, and, in the second place, faultless. (There was a queer kind of game, which I loathed, but ofcourse I knew, whatever it was, under the circumstances it was theright thing, so I choked it down. ) The music was superb--all the goodHungarian orchestras in town. The cotillon favors were lovely, and somevery stunning gold and jeweled things from Tiffany's must have cost afortune. But of course what you want to know about most is the people and whatthey had on. I wore my--but you'll see my dress in Florida, so nevermind. Mrs. Makeway had a superb dress, but she always dresseshandsomely. What a nice man Mr. Makeway is. You felt sure he was boredto death by the party, and all of us at it, but he concealed it withsuch charming manners and such natural courtesy that you really feltsomehow it was a pleasure to come and put him out. The daughter is agreat success; there's no denying that. She has a perfect figure, andis very graceful. She seems to have her father's manners, brought up todate by her mother. She's going to be a leader, you can tell that, andapparently she can be an eventual duchess, if she wishes. Young Lord---- is still here, and his devotion in the Makeway quarter isundisguised. Everyone likes him, and says he isn't the sort of youngfellow to be merely after her money; but no one can tell if Helen isgoing to take him or not. I am sure of one thing, she will do as shepleases. There were beautiful jewels in evidence at the ball. Mrs. Makeway wore, I believe, a dozen strings of the most gorgeous pearls. All _real_, ofcourse, with their money. They must represent a fortune in themselves. Poor old Mrs. Hammond Blake came with _all_ her Switzerland amethysts, and a few new topazes mixed in (she must have been at Lucerne lastsummer). She looked like one of those glass gas-lit signs. But really, all the best jewels in New York were there. And it is wonderful to seehow the women whose throats are going the way of the world havewelcomed the revival of black velvet if they haven't the pearlcollarettes. I shall be wanting something of the sort myself soon. Woeis me! And John does keep looking so abominally young. I tell him outof courtesy to me he must get old more quickly, or people will besaying I married a man years younger than myself! John says I needn't trouble to furnish people with subjects fortalking; they can make up their own. But I don't think we are gossipsnowadays here in America; do you? Which reminds me that everybody saysthe Mathews are going to separate at last. She's going to Dakota, andget it on incaptability, or cruelty, or some little thing like that. Everybody wondered at first why, since she'd stood it so long, she wasgoing to divorce Ned now, at this late day, but it has leaked out. Think of it--Charlie Harris! Aren't you surprised? It's only about twoyears since _he_ divorced his wife. Mrs. Harris got the children, so Ipresume Mrs. Mathews will keep hers to give Charlie in place of hisown. If I remember the number he will be getting compound interest! Youknow the Mathews babies came with such lightning rapidity we lostcount. One was always confusing the last baby with the one that camebefore it. Anyway, I think Charlie Harris gets the best of it; so, evenif it isn't altogether ideal to possess your children "ready made, " asit were, still Elsie Mathews is a charming woman, and I never couldbear Mrs. Harris. She told such awful fibs, and her exaggerations werenot decorative; they were criminal. Why, I couldn't recognize a pieceof news I told her myself when I heard her repeating it to some oneelse not five minutes after, as John says. Heavens! for the third time, "as John says, " I must stop. But _I am_ avery happy married woman! John gives me everything I want, and I adorehim. When I hear from you I will telegraph my train. We missed you awfullyat the Makeways. John spoke of it several times. He loves to dance withyou because you are always ready to sit it out and do all the talking. Dear me, I'm afraid that doesn't sound complimentary, but I assure youhe _meant_ it as such! How nice it will be to be with you. You aren't strict about yourmourning, are you? I don't think it's at all necessary, way off there. With love, always affectionately, MAYBEL PARKE RODNEY. V _From an Uninvited. _ Thursday. My Darling George: I hope this letter will reach you before you leave Minneapolis. I dowish you would leave politics alone, if they're going to take you awaylike this. Believe me, the country can get along much better withoutyou than _I_ can! When we are married you have _got_ to give them up. When we are married, too, and this bore of a divorce of mine is finallysettled, I presume I shall be invited to Mrs. Makeway's parties! Iwasn't asked last night to her big ball!--not that I care. I am surethat beast of a husband of mine will never be able to prove his nastycharges against us, and that I shall win the case. Then there'll be noexcuse for Mrs. Makeway and her prudish set, and I promise you theyshall eat "humble pie, " if there's any left in the world after all mydear friends have made me devour. Tom has been making overtures to mymaid through a detective, but Lena is faithful to us, and I've promisedher double any sum they offer her. _When_ my position is all rightagain, I shall go in for society in the most extravagant, splendid wayfor one long, brilliant, spiteful season, and I shall punish every oneof these women who have snubbed me so terribly. After all, half of themowe their positions in the world to my family, and with my family toback me there will be no trouble about my being absolutely reinstated. My people will back me up, too, for we have never had a scandal up tillnow. We have been almost the only family left. Of course the papers are full of the Makeway ball, and the pictures ofMrs. Makeway are too deliciously absurd for anything. One looks likethat one of me in the Evening News when I gave my evidence. I reallybelieve it's the same picture. I hear that she looked rather well withher famous pearls on (which, between you and me, I believe are false), and her tiara, which all the out-of-town people go to the opera to see. But they say she was dressed entirely too young, and showed she thoughther own party a great success. However, what can you expect? She wasnobody; her family are most ordinary people, the kind that areprominent in some unfashionable church and influential in itsSunday-school. O, la-la-la-la! She prides herself on having an ancestorof some sort who fought in the War of Independence--a common soldier, Isuppose, in Washington's army; that's why she has had an office in the"Daughters of the Revolution. " _We_ had several ancestors in thewar--commissioned officers; and they all fought for King George, thankheaven; and if they had only won my father would have been the thirdLord Banner, probably, if not something better. So hang Mrs. Makeway!Her daughter is an ugly little creature; she hasn't a single featurethat doesn't go its own way irrespective of the others, and with atotal disregard for the _tout ensemble_ of the poor girl's face. Youknow the sort of thing--each feature seems to be minding the other'sbusiness. Her teeth _look_ lovely, but I believe some of them are"crowns"--they do that sort of thing so well nowadays! What I willgrant her is a beautiful figure, but my corset-maker, who is hers, too, gives me her word of honor she laces awfully! They say she had the besttime of any girl at the ball; which, if you ask me, I thinkbeastly taste. The house everyone says looked very beautiful--of course, money will doeverything--and the music was superb for the same reason, and thesupper not too extravagant. (I suppose they economized on that!) Butlots of people I've met say they were bored to death, and that therewas an awful crowd. It's extraordinary the people she had there! Howshe got them I don't know--all the swells. But dear me, after all, that's nothing; swells will go to anyone who'll amuse them. I hear oldMakeway looked fearfully miserable, and, instead of paying other womencompliments, made love to his own wife all the evening. It'sextraordinary, because he is really a gentleman. His great-grandfatherand my great-grandfather were great chums; made their money, I think, in the same business. By the way, the Pinkertons have written me that they have still moreevidence against Tom. They say _she_ is "doing a turn"--whatever thatis--in some variety theatre. According to accounts she _did_ Tom for agood deal--just served him right. Do hurry back--I miss you so, and am so lonely. It's a year and a halfsince we've been separated so long as this. Come back. Don't make mejealous or _suspicious_. Besides it isn't complimentary to _trust_ meso tremendously. The lawyer is here--I hope he has come to assure me of my positivevictory. * * * * * He has thrown up the suit. We are lost! He says Tom has indisputableproof, and that there is no use trying. Can Lina be a wretch after all?or do you suppose it is your man? Come at once, at no matter whatsacrifice. The Majestic sails on Wednesday. Hadn't we better throw upthe sponge and take it? Always, and in spite of everything, your adoring EDITH. The Plaintiff Two Letters From Mr. John Stuart Kennington to Mrs. Kennington, his wife. From Mrs. John Stuart Kennington, by special messenger, to the law firmof Jordan & Fields. I _From John Stuart Kennington to Mrs. Kennington, his wife. _ Newport, October --th, 189-. Suspicion is absolutely foreign to my nature. Therefore, far from athought of worry when I found my business visits to New York thissummer becoming more and more easy to make as far as you wereconcerned, I used instead to get "a lump in my throat" on the trainwhich left you here behind, believing that your love for me influencedyou to hide your own feelings and aid me all you could in theperformance of my duties, even at the cost of your own preferredpleasure and at the price of a good many hours of loneliness. Loneliness! Oh, what fools we men sometimes are! Yes, and how carelessyou women become! I shall never forget the day I changed my plans suddenly, deciding Iwouldn't go to New York that week after all, although my bag was packedand Smithers already at the station with it. The instantaneous look ofdisappointment which leaped across your face, and which for someseconds you didn't sufficiently realize to conceal--what a vista thatlook opened out to me--a hellish vista! And your constrained littlesmile--a sort of conscious visible movement of the muscles about yourmouth--"on purpose"--came too late. That first look had been like aRöntgen ray over the last six months of our life--lives I should say, for while you and I were living one life, you at the same time, withoutme, were living another. Then I understood this summer's comfortableweekly good-byes, so different from other years! I think, down in thebottom of my heart, I understood _all_ at _that moment_, --though Iwouldn't acknowledge it not even in secret to myself, and even when, before another twenty-four hours had passed, my eyes were damnablewitnesses against you. I couldn't believe them, and doubt if I wouldhave if you had not confessed. Of course, I knew whenever we had guestsJack Tolby was always one of them, and also one of the guests whereverwe went, but it only seemed natural. He was extremely agreeable in ourhouse; it's only now I realize he has always rather avoided me at theclub. I suppose even men like him have some sort of conscience, or atleast a sense of decency, if not of honor, toward their own friends, and, if so, good God, how ashamed he must have been every time he hadto take my hand! And _you_, when you received my lips on yours, alreadysatiated with kisses in my absence! Ugh! Kate! Kate! how I hate you!Yes, hate is the word. And to think _you_ are the mother of mychildren! That is the _big_ hurt. I want you to understand that what I am going to do is entirely fortheir sake, not at all for yours. You who have been the first to dragthe name of Kennington in the public mud. Three honest generations ofus have kept it clean and honorable, and our wives have done the samefor us all down to you--all except my wife. I used to think that inmarrying me you had placed me deeper in your debt than I could everrepay. Ever since the first time I saw you I loved you; and after thatmeeting I put my arms about no woman--arms that had been free enoughbefore--until I put them around you. And since then the same. I havebeen an absolutely faithful husband to you. Do you understand what thatmeans? I don't believe so. I preferred you to every other woman in theworld. When away from you, your memory guarded my embraces. Yet I amnot a romantic man. Now, for instance, I look at it all in astraightforward light. I realize that you were a girl with no money andno particular position in the world; and in marrying me you obtainedboth. You have reveled in society--thanks to me and my family--and thisis the return you have made. You have dishonored us. Now listen; thisis what I propose doing. I do not intend to have my children sufferpublicly, as they would, especially my two little daughters, if yourdisgrace were made public. It happens to be with us that a father'sfalling in this direction does not so seriously, if at all, affect hischildren; therefore, for their sake, instead of my divorcing _you_, Iam going to give you proof and witness by which you may divorce _me_, for your own sin. But there are certain conditions with which you mustcomply. I will send by my lawyer a paper, which you will sign in thepresence of witnesses before any further steps are taken. In this paperyou will agree on your securing your divorce to marry Tolby. I have hadan interview with him (this is not an age nor a country of duels), andI demanded that he make me the reparation of marrying you when you arefree. I must frankly say from his manner I do not judge him overanxious. I believe even a duel with pistols would on the whole havepleased Tolby better. It is true that precedent is not in his favor. His own experience with you will doubtless make him a little uneasy. Tocontinue: You are to marry him. You are to demand of me in your suitthe sum of $---- (and do not be uneasy, you will win your suit). Thiswill be convenient for you when you re-marry, for you know Tolby hasn'ta cent. It will be a real love match on your part, charming! You are togive all my mother's jewels to our oldest daughter on her marriage, andall the jewels I have ever given you to our second on hers. Should thegirls not marry at twenty-five, they are then to have the jewels. As tothe children I shall have to submit, in my rôle of the guilty party, toletting you have control over them; but I warn you that this is to beonly nominal. If ever I find you prejudicing either one of them_against me in any way whatever_--even if I find their affections arebeing alienated from me by some sort of public opinion or gossip--Iwarn you that when each one is old enough to understand he shall betold the _truth_. You had better look to it then that my children loveme. Your own hold over their affections rests upon it. These points, and a few others bearing upon them, will be set forth legally in thepaper which my lawyer will bring you. Kindly send me word if you areprepared to sign, and, if so, when Mr. Jordan or his representative maycall. Good bye. JOHN STUART KENNINGTON. II _From Mrs. John Stuart Kennington, by Special Messenger, to the lawfirm of Jordan & Fields. _ No. -- East 66th street. Benj. K. Jordan, Esq. Dear Sir: On second thoughts, after you have left me, I have decided to ask youto write Mr. Kennington as follows--I mean I will give you the idea ofwhat I wish said: Acknowledge the receipt of his letter, and say Ishall be delighted to sign the paper he proposes at his earliestconvenience. I must ask, however, that he submits the document throughyou, etc. (the same as we agreed on just now in our interview). Now, besides, you must demand for me the following changes or corrections, or whatever is right to call them, in the paper. First, the sum of$---- is too small; $---- must be added to it. Also, I am not willingto give up all my homes. Either the house in New York, or in Newport, or on Long Island must be made over to me. And I positively refuse topart with the ruby necklace to one of my daughters unless I shouldchoose to do so of my own free will. For the other jewels I have no usewhatever. You can express that as you see fit. Ask him to let me hearas soon as possible. Yours truly, GERTRUDE CORTE KENNINGTON. Tuesday. The Summer A Letter Grand Hôtel de l'Europe, Aix-les-Bains, Sunday. My Dear Mary: Our summer has been a perfect failure. I said in the very beginning ifwe followed John and the children's ideas it would be; but as I was inthe minority I gave in. Fortunately we did catch the tail end of theLondon season. The others wanted to go straight on to Paris, but forthat once I put my foot down--and all the trunks as well. It was verywarm; still there was a great deal going on, so we didn't mind theheat, at least I didn't. Heat in London during the season is such adifferent thing from heat in Switzerland or some dull seaside place, where there is not sufficient distraction to take your mind off it. Iwas doing something every minute. That's the charm of London. Everyhour of the day there is something, and if there ever was a dullinterval I dropped into one of the picture galleries. You know you haveto do that sort of thing over here. People talk about pictures, andsome do it very well, too, and you really meet painters out. Thechildren go and see things that are good for their education, youknow--the Tower, where Mary Queen of Scots, or Anne Boleyn, I forgetwhich, was beheaded, and the--well, all sorts of places like that. Theheat made them rather irritable, and Evelyn had a rash, but I thoughtit was good for them to see all the historical sights. So we staid onjust the same till after Goodwood. And the races ended my pleasure, fornext we started for Lucerne. I said all along there would be no one in the place. Of course peopledo go there, but on their way to somewhere else, or coming home at oddtimes, and not for too long. There is never really any society there. Iknew it. I have had experience with it. Besides, we know the placesthat every one does go to in July and August. I preferred Homburg, withAix at the end, but I would have put up with Trouville first, orOstend, or even Dinard. But no, Switzerland it was! I hate it; I alwaysdid. It's too like its photographs. It has absolutely no style. It'sall nature, nature, _nature_! The mountains and lakes, no matter howold they really may be, still always have the _beauté du diable_; andfor a woman of my age--who has to resort to art to keep herself lookingthe slightest little bit younger than she is!--it gets on one's nerves, all this natural beauty! I prefer some _place_ that has to resort toart, too, and make itself up a little with gorgeous hotels, casinos, theatres, and baccarat tables. Mountains bore me, and I hate to go onthe water. There at Lucerne the mountains stood continually andsolemnly around, just like elderly relatives at a family reunion, andthe flat lake lies as uninteresting as the conversation of theseestimable creatures would be. And then the people! The town crowded tosuffocation, scarcely breathing space, and yet _nobody_ there. To besure once in a while one notices an extraordinary old frump go by, whoturns out to be the Duchess of this, or Princess that, but I assure youone would have been ashamed to drive in the park with her (at home), unless she was placarded. Now and then somebody decent from New York orBoston arrived on a morning train, but, of course, they usually left inthe evening, driven away by the glare, or the white dust, or by theeternal tourists. That man Cook has done more to spoil attractiveplaces than any other dozen people in the world put together. Sometimes, of course, they are amusing. One day I went to see the Lion!Don't laugh. John bet me five hundred dollars I wouldn't go. So, ofcourse, I did. Fortunately I'd heard the children explaining it or Ishouldn't have enjoyed so much the following joke. A woman and her daughter, both Cooks, (tourists I mean, of course, tho'heaven knows what the mother mightn't have been at home), stood infront of the monument. "What's this, Clara?" asked the older woman. CLARA. Why this is the famous Lion of Lucerne, mother! MOTHER. Oh is it, ain't it lovely! What's it for--I mean why is it? CLARA. Why, you know, mother, for defending poor Marie Antoinette in theTuilleries! MOTHER. Oh, did it! And then people say lions are such nasty, heartlesscreatures. CLARA. (Laughing. ) O mother! the lion didn't do it; it's only put up for amonument to the soldiers who died trying to protect her from the mob! MOTHER. Oh, I see; it's just a fancy picture! Well, anyway, I think it's awfulsad. * * * * * What do you think of that? And those are the kind of people Switzerlandwas full of. Some were alone, and some were impersonally conducted in avery loose sort of way. Wherever you wanted to go they were sure to beahead, and kicking up a middle-class dust that choked you. The loudsound of their incessant _talk_ echoed from snow peak to snow peak. Andtheir terrible clothes, chosen evidently "not to show the dirt" (butthey did), came between your eyes and any beauty of scenery there mightbe, even if you cared to see it, and I didn't. And then the droves ofrich Americans at the hotels! Where did they come from? Where did theylearn how not to dress? Where did they learn how not to behave? Thoseare the questions I asked myself continually, and always gave them up!I became so tired of hearing of Pilatus and the Rigi, I felt as if onewere at the head of my grave and the other at the foot! I had a sort ofindigestion of mountains and lakes! And there was John! rushing outevery other minute to sit and look at them (I assure you I wasthreatened very much with the neuralgia from the damp of the laketerrace). And he climbed everything that was climbable, even preferredwalking up; but when there were railways I made him take them for fearhe'd hurt himself. I believe he went to the top of every blessed thingthat had any top! I found plenty of horrid people to look down onwithout going to the tops of mountains. I tried to drive, but therewasn't a decent turnout in the place. I went out in a little steamlaunch, but was frightened to death for fear I'd be run down by one ofthe steamers crowded with Cooks. Oh, no! _assez_ of Switzerland for me!I said to John--"Bring me here to bury me if you like, but don't bringme here alive again. " And finally, when he and the children couldn'tfind anything more to climb, I managed to move them on to Aix, and hereI am. And, of course, the English season has just finished, and the Frenchpeople haven't begun to come yet, and Aix is hot, and dull, and empty!Really, isn't it trying? There are even only second-rate cocottesabout, none of the smart ones yet! I am dying of the blues. Besides Ihave to take the baths, although I don't want them, because the onlyway I managed to persuade John to come here was by pretending I_needed_ them! When I think of you in Newport, in spite of the heat, leading an absolutely ideal life with your visits, your dinners, andyour balls, I am green with envy. These are the times when life seemsreally almost too complicated to worry through. Or course if I werelike John's sister Margaret, sort of half-crazy, who loves the realcountry, prefers a farmhouse to a hotel, fields and woods to a casino, I might get on well enough. But I consider that nothing short of amorbid state of mind. If you love me, write me soon, and cheer me up. But don't tell me oftoo much going on with you, or it will be more than I can bear. If youcould honestly say that it was rather a dull season in Newport thisyear, you don't know what a comfort it would be. I do hope John and thechildren appreciate the sacrifice I am making for them. I'm sure I tryto have them realize it. It only shows what we mothers will do for ourchildren. With love, your affectionate, but depressed, GERALDINE. P. S. --Of course, as you can imagine, the shops at Lucerne were filthy. I didn't buy a thing except some presents for the servants. At Aix theshops are better, but with so few people here, somehow one has noinspiration. I've bought literally nothing except five hats. The Children Three Dialogues I. Divorce. II. Birth. III. Death. I _Divorce. _ TOM BARNES, _age ten, whose mother, Mrs. Barnes, having divorced his father, her second husband, has since remarried, and is now Mrs. Fenley. _ CLAIRE WORTHING, _age seven, whose mother, Mrs. Worthing, having divorced her Father to marry the divorced Mr. Barnes, is now Mrs. Barnes. _ SCENE, _a Fashionable Dancing School in New York. A quadrille has been announced. Master Barnes goes up to Miss Claire and bowing somewhat stiffly, mumbles some not altogether intelligible wards. Miss Claire, sliding down from her chair, says "Thank you, " with perfect composure and a conventional smile, as, taking his arm, they choose a position in the dance. _ TOM. Shall we stop here in this set? CLAIRE. No! Becky Twines' dress would ruin mine. And she made her maid give herthat one on purpose I'm sure, because she knew what I was going towear. But I don't care. I heard mama say, yesterday, her mother, inspite of all her money, hadn't been able to buy her way into severalhouses. I don't think she ought to have been invited to join ourdancing class at all. When people buy their way into other people'shouses like that, how do they do it do you suppose? Does the butlersell tickets at the door, do you think? TOM. Perhaps so! Butlers look like that. My! I'd jolly like to be a butler!(_They have moved on to another set. _) Shall we stop here? CLAIRE. Oh, no, not here! Teddy Jones always mixes us up. He treads on ourtoes. TOM. Yes, and squeezes the girls' hands, too. CLAIRE. Oh, that we don't mind! Would you like to sit this dance out on thestairs? (_She would prefer it herself. _) TOM. No, let's dance. Come on, this is a good place. CLAIRE. As you please. Do you like kissing games? TOM. (_Red in the face. _) No; do you? (_He does. _) CLAIRE. Oh, I don't mind. (_An embarrassed pause. _) TOM. I like football and those kind of games. CLAIRE. They are all very well for boys. But I don't much care for gamesmyself, and, besides, I don't have the time. TOM. What do girls do with themselves all the time? CLAIRE. Oh! I have my lessons, and I walk out with my maid every morning, and Idress three times a day, and then I have visits to make on other littlegirls. TOM. You've got a new father, haven't you? CLAIRE. Yes, mama was married two weeks ago. TOM. How do you like him? CLAIRE. Oh, very much! TOM. You take my word for it, he's a brick. I know! He used to be my fatheronce. [_The music starts up, and the couples bow. _ II _Birth_ ELSIE, _age 6_. TERESA, _age 8_. BOB, _age 7_. (_They are sitting on the steps of the large piazza of a beautifulcountry house, the two little girls affectionately close, the boy at anawkward distance. There has been a pause in the conversation, which theboy breaks. _) BOB. We've got a new baby at our house! (_Splendid effect!_) ELSIE, TERESA. (_Together. _) Oh! (_Their eyes are suddenly bright and their faces glow with a sort ofawed curiosity and pleasure, not unmixed with envy. _) ELSIE. What kind? TERESA. (_Eagerly. _) Yes; which is it? BOB. (_Proudly. _) A boy, of course! (_The two little girls' faces fall for a second, and they are silent, but not for long. _) ELSIE. Of course there have to be boys sometimes. TERESA. Yes, to make a change. ELSIE. Isn't it funny where babies come from! BOB. Yes, you find them in cabbages. ELSIE. Oh, no! They come down in rainstorms. TERESA. No, no! They come out of the flowers. BOB. Stuff! ELSIE. They do come from the skies, because you know the stars are littlebabies waiting to be picked. TERESA. I thought the stars were the places where God put his fingers through. BOB. They aren't any such thing; they're the gold tacks that fasten on thecarpet of heaven. ELSIE. When I grow up I shall have eleven babies, because I have elevenfavorite names, and I shall have them all at once, so they can havenice, happy times playing together, and there won't have to be anyhorrid older brother and sister, always getting the best of everything. TERESA. And I'll tell you what! I'll have eleven children too, to marry yours. BOB. No, I'll marry one of them. ELSIE. No, you must marry one of us. BOB. Which one? ELSIE. Well, I think it would be best for you to marry me and be father for myeleven children. I want them to have a father. I love my father. TERESA. Yes; but then who'll be a father to my children? ELSIE. Yours can be sort of orphans; they needn't ever have had any father. TERESA. (_Approaching a tearful state. _) No, that's awfully sad. I want mychildren to have a father, too! BOB. Never mind. I'll be their father besides. ELSIE. Let's play house. TERESA. Let's! BOB. Let's play Indians, and I'll scalp you two girls! ELSIE. No, that's too rough. We'll play husband and wife. Bob and I will getmarried, and, Teresa, you must be the minister and a bridesmaid. (_They retire into the house, where, with the aid of a wrapper, anight dress, a bouquet, and a black mackintosh, the ceremony isproperly performed. _) ELSIE. Now we'll have a little girl baby, and (_to Teresa_) you must beit. TERESA. No, I want to be the wife now, and you be the baby. ELSIE. No, I'll be the husband, and let Bob be the baby. BOB. I won't be the baby! TERESA. Anyway, it isn't polite for a little baby to come right away like that. They never do. ELSIE. That's so; you have to wait till the news that they want one gets up tothe skies. III _Death_ _Teddy and Elsie are in the drawing-room, which is shadowy and sadwith the drawn curtains. The children speak in half whispers, and withan air of importance. _ TEDDY. It's going to be in here. ELSIE. Isn't it awful. (_Sobs. _) TEDDY. Papa was a brick! ELSIE. (_Sob. _) Now he's an angel. TEDDY. (_Thoughtfully. _) Do you really think papa would like being anangel? ELSIE. Everybody likes to be an angel. TEDDY. I don't. ELSIE. O Teddy! TEDDY. It sounds stupid to me, like Sunday all the week. Besides, papa won'thave any office there, and what'll he do without an office? ELSIE. Isn't it awful. (_Sob. _) Poor papa! TEDDY. (_Swallowing a lump. _) Don't cry! [_There is a slight noise overhead. _ ELSIE. O Teddy! What was that? TEDDY. (_Trembling. _) Don't be afraid! (_He puts his arm comfortingly around her, and they sit in a hugearm-chair together. _) ELSIE. What is it like to be dead. TEDDY. It's like school all the time, never letting out, and no recess. ELSIE. (_With another sob. _) Poor papa! Are you afraid of him now? TEDDY. No---- ELSIE. Do you want to go up and see him? TEDDY. No. That isn't him anyway upstairs! ELSIE. Yes, it's him; only his soul isn't there. TEDDY. Do you believe it? Say, if that's true, how did his soul get out? ELSIE. I've thought of that. This is what I believe: When people die, Godkisses them, and their soul comes right out of their lips to God's. TEDDY. I'll never play be dead with you, anymore. ELSIE. No, I don't want to, either. TEDDY. God might think I really was dead, and I might lose my soul. ELSIE. You can't make believe with God. TEDDY. That's so; I forgot. I say, Elsie, I'm never going to be wicked againin all my life. ELSIE. Nor I. TEDDY. Oh! girls never are wicked. I believe when we die Death comes along andpulls us by our feet; that's why our souls go out. They're afraid ofDeath. (_Elsie shudders, and nestles closer to her brother. _) TEDDY. Don't be afraid; I won't let him catch you. ELSIE. Poor mama, she cries all the time. TEDDY. And she won't eat. ELSIE. I know where there are some little cakes. TEDDY. (_Eagerly. _) Could you get them? ELSIE. Not alone. I'm afraid. TEDDY. I'll go with you. (_They get down out of the big chair. _) Do we go toschool the next day after it? ELSIE. Yes; and wear all black. (_Sobs. _) Poor papa. TEDDY. (_Choking. _) Don't cry. ELSIE. You're crying too. TEDDY. No, I ain't! (_Crying. _) (_She kisses him. He is comforted, but very much ashamed. _) ELSIE. Do you think we can go to the circus next week just the same? TEDDY. I don't care about circuses now. ELSIE. Neither do I. I don't want to go anyway. Let's find the cakes. TEDDY. And then we'll make a coach out of the chairs, and you'll drive me fourin hand. [_They go out of the room smiling. _ Maternity Three Letters and a Cable from Mrs. Stanton, a Widow I _To Robert N. Stanton, Esq. , her son_ (_and only child_) Venice, Thursday. My Darling Boy: Your letter reached me a few moments ago. We were just starting off tosee the Tintorettos in the Scuola, but I opened your envelope before Istepped into the gondola, and read enough in the first few lines to letthe others go on without me. First, let me say this; no one in all the world wishes you more joy, more real happiness, than your mother. I wish it more than anythingelse in the world, and have prayed for it for you every night of mylife since you first came into this world. And I've always counted awife for you as one of the chief joys of your future. I have alwayswanted you to marry, only I have always said to myself--not yet; Ican't spare him yet. Mothers begin their children's lives by being themost unselfish beings in the world; and then, as we grow older, I'mafraid we are inclined to go to the other extreme. I won't tell afalsehood and say I am glad you are going to be married now. Forgiveme, dear, forgive me; but in my heart there is still the same cry--"Notyet! not yet!" Oh, I know I'm wrong! It _is_ to be, and I accept it; but it seems sosudden; and, after all, I was so unprepared, and you are my life, dear--my everything. You must let me sigh just a little; I'll promiseto be all smiles at the wedding. When you first laughed in the sun, andtwinkled your baby eyes at the stars I was not a very happy woman. Youwere only six months old when I divorced your father. (How much I haveregretted that step since. It would have been far better had I bornewith him. He was the only man in the world for me; and he would havecome back to me if I had only waited. Then, instead of dying wretchedlymiserable as he did, he might have been alive to-day, and we would becompanions for each other; but I was proud and wilful--however, enoughof that. ) As I said: when you were a tiny baby I was an unhappy woman, with an heart empty and bruised. How I hugged you to it! O never, _never_ can I tell you, nor can you imagine, the comfort, the blessingyou became to me! Your butterfly-like little kisses made well all thebruises; your little hands, with their soft, flower-like caresses, smoothed away the troubles, and before long you seemed to have creptin, little body, little soul, into my heart, till you filled itcompletely. And now I must share--Oh, we _are_ selfish, we mothers! forI want all--all! I used to be a little jealous, in those early days, even of your nurse. Do you know, Rob, that I bathed my baby everymorning of your little life, so long as you took infant tubs? Iwouldn't leave it to anyone else; and for more than one year of yourlife, in the middle of each night and early morning, I warmed over alittle spirit lamp (I have it yet) your preparation of milk, and fed itto you, so that you would get your food from me in one way, if thedoctor wouldn't let me feed you as I hungered to do. How soon it wasyou knew me. I could make you smile when no one else could; and what ajoy it was to see a love for me coming into your infantile existence. Ihad cried a good deal before you were born, and some afterward, firstout of relief and then for pure gladness. But under your dear influenceI gradually forgot how tears came. You almost never cried; and what agood baby you were--oh, a blessed baby!--and I tried to repay you bynot worrying you with too many kisses, with too much loving, which I'msure is not good for a child. Sometimes I had to clench my hands, sostrong was my desire to take you up and clasp you tight. Then howquickly you began to grow; and before long my letters and intimateconversation began to be filled with what "Rob said this morning;" andyou did say such delightful things! I never knew so naïvely witty achild! And soon you reached the age when I could play the rôle ofcomforter. The knocks and bruises I've healed by kissing them!--do youremember one-third? I'm sure I don't. The many imagined slights of yourlittle friends, which were forgotten on my lap! The little aches andpains that were slept away in my arms! How full my life was then! Whata blessed boy you were! And then those half-lonely years, when everyonefrightened me--by saying you would be spoiled--into sending you away toschool. I begrudge those months I spent without you yet. But how weenjoyed the vacations! That's when we began reading together again realstories, not those of the younger days. Do you remember your favoritewhen a very small boy? We always read it when you weren't feeling verywell, or after you'd been punished for being naughty, sitting togetherin the great big old rocking-chair. It was about two poor littlefatherless boys whose mother died in a garret, and they were soterribly poor they had to beg a coffin for her, and they alone followedit to the grave. There was a very trying and sad woodcut of the twolittle orphans doing this, and we always cried together over it. Itwasn't a healthy story for a small boy, and I don't know how we gothold of it. Oh yes, I do! It was published by the Tract Society, andhad a moral. It was your aunt sent it to you, but I have forgotten themoral. The football period began in the school vacations, and went allthrough college; but still I think you were always more fond of booksand music than athletics; and I was never good at outdoor sports; Ionly managed to master tennis so as to be able to play with you. The four years of college had some loneliness in them, too; but Ienjoyed my visits to Williamstown, and then is when I began going into"society" a good deal again, for I said when Rob comes out he will wantto go. He will have at least three cotillon years, and I want him to goin the best society we have. Besides, there is sure to be a wife; lether be a girl of our own position and class. But the dearest parts ofyour college life were our four trips abroad during the summer. Andthen it was that I began to turn the tables, and when _I_ was tired tolean on _you_, and when disagreeable things happened to let you takemother in your arms and hold her there till she promised to forgetthem. Then it was when your judgment began to mature, and I found it soclear and good, and have been guided by it ever since. Oh, thoseperfect years between the day you graduated and now! How proud I was ofyou, too, in society. It seemed to me no one was so brilliant a talkerat a dinner table. It was all I could ever do to listen to my neighborinstead of straining my ears across the table in your direction. And Iam sure it was not maternal prejudice that picked you out in a ballroom, for it was not I who made you leader of all the cotillons so longas you cared to dance them. Then how more proud I was of you when youinterested yourself in politics. I love my country. Your father fought, and bravely, in the civil war; so did my brother. And I know if such aterrible calamity as another war should befall us, you would be ready. The patriot fights for his country, in peace, in politics, and I amhappy to say your interest in our government is as keen and activeto-day as ever. Then there is the ever increasing success in yourprofession--haven't I been through it all with you! Never, I am sure, were a mother and son more sympathetic. The reason I came abroad thisyear was because I was afraid we were getting too dependent on eachother. I realized you now preferred staying home with me evening afterevening instead of going out. I loved it, but I knew it was wrong. Iargued if I went away for a little you would go out into society again, and to your clubs, seeking companionship. It was not good for a youngman--I said to myself--not more than thirty-three, to be spending allof his spare time with an old woman--for practically I am that, thoughyou must never call me so; it would break my heart! And so, though itwas really an awful break for me to do it, I went away, and the onlything I wanted to happen did, only more. Oh, yes! more than Iwanted--because I didn't want you to marry--not yet! And if I hadn'tgone away you would probably never have met this Miss Stone, and youwould have been just as happy. For you _were_ happy with me before youmet her; weren't you? Oh, of course, I know not _so_ happy, and not inthe same way, but later on you would have met perhaps Miss Stone, orsomebody else you would have cared for in the same way; don't you thinkso? I am afraid, if I let myself, I'd be sorry I went away. And yetno--_no_; I'm not so selfish as all that. If you really have found theone woman in the world for you I will try to be glad. I WILL be glad. IAM glad! There! I am. After all it is your happiness. How unhappy Ishould feel if you loved her and she hadn't returned your love! Yes, itis much better as it is--for _you_, so it must be for me, too. Allowingeven for all a lover's enthusiasm, Miss Stone must be very charming andvery lovable. I can see it in her picture, too, which I thank you forsending. Of course, without it I should have been cruelly anxious tosee what she was like. She is very pretty--very. I am obliged toconfess that. I think I shall come to love her for her own sake, andnot only for yours. If only she will love me! You love me more than Ideserve or merit, so don't say too much about me or she will be sure tobe disappointed. If I must be a mother-in-law (horrid name), I want to be a nice one andbe loved. I shall do my best. Only it is the giving you up. O Rob, darling! What shall I do without you--without my blessed son? Breakfastalone, luncheon alone, dinner alone, everything alone! Ah, I can't bearthe thought of it! No! No! I don't mean that! But of course I can't andwon't live with you--it's very kind and like you, dear, to say I must, but I don't believe in that. You'll see enough of me, I'm sure, as itis. And I shall have my memories. Baby and boy, you are mine alone. Ididn't have to share you then; and I won't have to share the memoriesnow, and no one can take them away from me. And what if you make me agrandmother? It isn't at all sure. Everybody doesn't have babies now, like they used to. Still, if you do! Well, I shall probably adore it. But then I must settle down, wear caps, and perhaps revive a widow'sveil. I certainly shall have to be more dignified and not gogallivanting about everywhere, and control some of my enthusiasms, or Ishall be a ridiculous old creature. You see, I have always kept yourage. Now I must take one awful flying leap to my own; and then go alongwith myself properly. I shall have to become much more regular aboutchurch and know all the saints' days. A good thing that will be for me, too, I'm sure--What do you think? They've just knocked on the door andtold me it is dinner time. I've been three hours over this disgracefulletter. I knew I'd been dreaming[1] a good deal between sentences; butI didn't know it was so bad as all that. Well, I'm going down to tellthe others my _good_ news (you understand that _good_, don't you?), andwe'll drink to the health and happiness of you both in some crimsonChianti. And they shall all see how happy I am over your happiness. ForI am. And you will see it, too, when I come back; which will be as soonas I can. [1] The words "and crying" are well scratched over, so he couldn't possibly read them. Good bye, my boy. Forgive your old mother if she's seemed a littlecross in this letter, because she isn't really. I shall write MissStone a little letter to-night. God bless you and her (and me), andfill your lives as full of happiness as your hearts can hold and minecan hold for you! Good night, my comfort, you best son in the world! Your devoted MOTHER. Yes, yes, I _am_ glad, dear; so glad. Don't misunderstand my letter. Your mother is glad, honestly and with--yes, I _can_ say it now--with_all_ her heart. II _A Cable to her son. _ (_Sent fifteen minutes after the precedingletter. _) Overjoyed, congratulations, love. MOTHER. III _Letter to Miss Lucy Stone, Troy, N. Y. _ VENICE, Thursday. My dear Miss Stone: So you are going to take my boy away from me? I begrudge him, just alittle, or just a good deal; but I will tell you a secret. I feelpretty sure that when I know you, I shall be grateful to him, insteadof grudging, for giving me you for a daughter; and you must love me, for after all if it wasn't for me you wouldn't have him, would you? Hehas been a perfect son, and they make perfect husbands. And he lovesyou, my dear. Oh, if you had any doubts of it--which of course youhaven't, or I shouldn't like you--but if you had, could you have readover my shoulder his letter to me to-day telling me about it. I am very impatient to know you, but I think we shall be great friends, through Rob, before we even meet. Till then believe me your--dear me, what?--your Robert's affectionate old mother. KATHERINE MILES STANTON. I am sending with this a little old jewel I found at an old shop theother day; it is a love ring of the sixteenth century. Perhaps you willfind a place for it. I send it with my love. K. M. S. IV _Letter to Mrs. Henry A. Austin, Troy, N. Y. _ Venice, Thursday. Dear Gertrude: You will be very much surprised to hear from me, I imagine, as acorrespondence is something we could never keep up. But our friendshiphas lasted without it a long time, my dear girl--forty-two years--forwe met when I was fourteen. I haven't forgotten yet how the wholeschool became bearable after you took possession of the other littlewhite cot in my room. It's a year and a half now since I've seen you, and I've missed you. Troy is so near; and yet, after all, it is so far, too, when we realize how seldom we meet. You must give me a wholewinter soon! Yes, for I am going to be alone; Rob is going to marry, and that's why I am writing you. It is to a Miss Lucy Stone, of Troy. Do write me about her. Do you know the family? Are they friends ofyours? Rob is fearfully and wonderfully in love; and I can't blame himafter seeing her picture. She is lovely (and charmingly dressed), and Iam sure Rob would never fall in love with any one but a lady. Still, Iwant to know if she, or rather her family, are really smart people, orwhat. Even if they are "what, " I'm sure it won't make any difference toRob, and so it mustn't make any difference to me. But it will be a_relief_ to know that they are friends of yours, or even that youknow them. I pretend not to believe in class distinctions, and I don't;but when it comes to your own son, somehow or other you do want him tochoose his wife among his own social equals. Between you and me I amjust about broken-hearted. I know it is very wrong of me, but I hadsort of let myself grow very dependent upon him, and always had lookedupon his marriage much as one looks upon death, as inevitable, butalways remote and the end of all things. It still seems like the end ofall things, but in time I shall get used to it. I feel simply ashamedof myself for feeling as I do now. Of course, if it were given me thechoice, "your son's happiness, woman, or your own selfish comfort, " Iwouldn't hesitate a moment, but it's so hard for a mother who has spentsuch happy years with her son to realize that his happiness doesaltogether and absolutely depend on some one else, and on that one andno other? And then we always have that terrible doubt, --has he chosenthe right woman for him? Just as if he wasn't, after all, the bestjudge for himself. Of course he is; and in time I know I shall be ableto thank God he made this choice, but just now--just to-night--it seemsto me I come nearer to envying you your childless wifehood than I wouldever have thought possible. Being in this sentimental, unreal city, doesn't help me any! Forgivethis, I'm afraid morbid, letter, and believe me affectionatelyalways--write me the truth--your school girl friend, KITTY. Have they any position whatever in Troy? A Letter of Introduction Four Letters I. From Mrs. Joslyn of New York to Mrs. Lemaire of Washington. II. The same. III. From Mrs. Lemaire to Mrs. Joslyn. IV. From Mr. Hamilton-Locks to the Hon. Forbes Redding of England. I _Letter from Mrs. Joslyn of New York to Mrs. Lemaire of Washington, unsealed and unstamped. _ Friday. My Dear Mrs. Lemaire: I am very happy to introduce to you Mr. Hamilton-Locks, of London, afriend of mine, who goes to Washington for the first time. I know I amgiving you both a pleasure in bringing you together, and any courtesyyou may be able to extend to Mr. Hamilton-Locks will be as if shown tome also. Always sincerely, EMILY JOSLYN. II _A second Letter from Mrs. Joslyn to Mrs. Lemaire, sent with aspecial delivery stamp. _ Friday. My Dear Mrs. Lemaire: I gave a letter of introduction to you to a young Englishman thismorning. I hasten to write, and beg you, as far as I am concerned, topay no attention whatever to it. He was sent over to us by Lady Heton, a traveling acquaintance, whom we know really nothing of, and it's beena great bother trying to be civil and everything else to him. I feltobliged to give him the letter, but you will understand by this thatyou are to ignore it quite as much as you like. He is no friend of ourswhatever, merely an acquaintance that has been forced upon us. We hear you are having such a gay season in Washington. We think oftaking a house there for next winter. Can you manage to keep out of thepolitical set if you want to? I don't mind ambassadors, but I shouldthink all the other people would be most ordinary. I suppose you willcome on for the Makeway Ball; won't you? If so, do lunch with me theday after; don't forget. Yours, ever sincerely, EMILY JOSLYN. III _Letter from Mrs. Lemaire to Mrs. Joslyn. _ Wednesday. My dear Mrs. Joslyn: Where is your young Englishman? I adore young Englishmen, and whydoesn't yours come to see me? Did you give him the letter? He has beenin Washington a week, is constantly at the P----'s, and all thediplomatic corps are entertaining him. The women are mad about him, he's so awfully good-looking. If you want a house in Washington next winter why not rent ours? We aregoing to Rome in December. Yours, always cordially, GERTRUDE LEMAIRE. IV _Letter from Mr. Hamilton-Locks to the Hon. Forbes Redding. _ WASHINGTON, January, '97. My dear Old Chap: This place is a very good sort, rather like a little English Paris;more cosmopolitan than Boston, I mean, tho' no other city here seemsquite so lively as New York. The embassy is giving me no end of a goodtime. I'm sure I'm more than grateful to your uncle. I find society inthis place is more like European without trying to be, while in NewYork they try more, and _aren't_. New York society has an air of itsown, and, I must say, it's a damn fine air, too. Of course, like otherplaces, it has some frumps, and what Blanche Heton meant by giving me aletter to a Mrs. Joslyn is more than meets the eye. But we are notburnt twice by the same flame. The _lady_ gave me in turn a letter tosome one here, and I was so afraid I'd forget and use it by mistake, orleave it at the woman's door one day when I'd been drinking a good manywhiskeys and sodas and didn't care what I did, that I tore it into bitsand dropped them in an umbrella stand in Mrs. Joslyn's hall fiveminutes after she gave it to me. There's no use in running any risks. And when a woman over here _is_ stupid she's damn stupid. So is shesuperlatively fetching when she is charming. And, by Jove! but theyknow how to draw the line--all but Mrs. Joslyn. People over on this side think every Englishman comes over after awife, and at first they pretend to be very haughty and independent, andthen if they find out he is not after a wife after all, like yourhumble servant, they are quite angry about it. I hope you're keeping an eye on my dogs for me. Love to Millicent. Yours, TED. Wagner, 1897 _A Letter from Lady Aires to the Countess of Upham, at Homburg_. BAYREUTH, Aug. , 1897. My dear Rose: Our stay at Bayreuth is nearly over--the last opera to-morrow; and, tobe frank, I am extremely glad, although of course it has been perfectlycharming. First we heard Parsifal and the Ring; which is four operas, you know. Why they call them a "Ring" I can't see yet; and I don't liketo ask, it gives the musical people who really know the chance to be sosuperior, and they are conceited enough as it is, goodness knows. Anyone would think it was a disgrace not to have been lullabyed tosleep when a baby by a symphony orchestra! I'm sure it isn't my faultif I don't know which is Schumann and which is Schubert; and what's thedifference? (Between you and me I don't care. Of course I adore music, but it's like a great many other things--you mustn't ask too manyquestions!) Well the first day was "Parsifal. " It's a _dear_!Beautiful, perfectly beautiful! I wore my white mulle with my green andwhite hat, and if I _do_ say it (and I must, for I'm sure no one elsewill say it for me), women are such jealous cats about frocks. I didn'tsee a better turned out woman. Such a tremendous lot of smart people asare here, too. Really you ought to have come. I'm sure you would haveenjoyed it. Between the acts it's quite like Sunday in the park. Theentre-acts are very long, giving us a chance to shake out our frocksand wake up and amuse ourselves. Some people go up a little hill, orinto some pine woods; but that's rather dull, for you don't meet halfso many others--most everyone stays in front of the theatre. But I musttell you about "Parsifal. " In the first place it is awfully long. AndParsifal himself is entirely too fat! I am sure such a very good youngperson as Parsifal shouldn't have a stomach! There are a lot of sort ofmonks in rather fetching pink red cloaks, with pale bluey gray skirtsunderneath. (Not at all a bad combination, and gave me an idea for acostume for up the river. ) Their chief is ill, and almost always ingreat pain, but it does not prevent his singing the longest ofspeeches. Parsifal kills a lovely swan--it flies in _so_ naturally. Really Wagner was a most wonderful man! Then there is a Gypsy girl; asort of snake charmer, who has bottles of things all through the play. I couldn't make out quite if she were Parsifal's mother or what. Butshe is quite mad, and wears only a very uninteresting old brown dress. I must make this criticism of Wagner: You don't see many pretty dressesin his operas. Then everyone goes to a banqueting hall, which is alsopartly a church. The scenery moves along in a most miraculous way andthe hall is really very lovely. There are children in this scene, andthey lift the chalice, and it glows--an electric light in it you know, but it's really lovely. And the music is simply heavenly. I assure youI cried like a baby at this part; I couldn't tell you why, unless it'sthe poor wretched creature (Am-- something his name is; I can't find myprogramme). He's very handsome. I intend to buy his photograph. He hasto lift the holy cup, and he feels he is unfit to do it. He is a sinnerand wishes he were dead, and somehow or other you feel awfullysympathetic with him. I know the times I've been to church and kneltdown so ashamed I couldn't lift my head, thinking of some of thebeastly wicked things I've done in my life. And that's just what thesecond act is. A crowd of women try to seduce Parsifal, but they areall German chorus women, and it really doesn't seem such a greattemptation. But then the girl who was ugly in the other act comes on very beautiful(but hideously dressed, why don't they get Worth or Doucet, I wonder, to help them?) and she sings a great deal and very loud, and kissesParsifal, and then everything goes suddenly to wrack and ruin. I shallnever dare kiss any very good young man again--not after that! In thelast act, this same creature, looking more like Act I. , washesParsifal's feet. I should hate to play that part, but it's all verypretty and affecting, and the music--well there are no words todescribe it. And the whole rest of the act is too wonderful! Really youhave to cry. Of course, it's too long, and you're awfully hungry, butthere is a rather smart restaurant now, where everybody goes afterwardto get their spirits back; which reminds me that Mrs. Gordon turned upyesterday and appeared at the restaurant at night, affording us a gooddeal of amusement. First she started to courtesy to the Royalties, whodon't want to be noticed. This she perceived in the middle of hercourtesy, and cut it short in a quick way, which made her look exactlyas if _something_ important in her toilet had burst or broken. Then sheflew all over from room to room, trying to find a table that suitedher, disturbing the whole atmosphere, like meteors are said to do inthe skies, and creating the impression, or trying to, that she ownedthe entire place. She won't be happy here, for it isn't easy for anyoneelse to own anything where Frau Wagner is installed; which reminds meto stop this gossip and tell you seriously about the other operas. The first of the Ring is the Valkyrie; you can remember it because ofLord Dunraven's yacht. And they swim around in the water; which is, Isuppose, why he called it so. But no; on second thoughts, that isn't itat all. The first opera is Rheingold, and it's the Rhine maidens thatgo swimming about. How absurd of Dunraven to have made such a mistake. I like the Rheingold awfully. The first act looks just like water, andthe music is so pretty. Then, in the second act, there are two splendidbig men--one in white, the other in black bear skins--who are ratherfetching. The Rheingold is the least sociable of the operas, as thereis no entre-act. But it is fortunately a great deal the shortest. Ithink it is one of my favorites. I seem to know more what Wagner isabout in it. I don't believe he knows himself what he is about some ofthe time in the Valkyrie. This second opera is awfully long. However, it has two good entre-acts, when you can walk around and talk toeverybody; and I can assure you we have plenty to say after having beenkept quiet for over an hour in the dark theatre. The chairs are souncomfortable, and if you move somebody hisses. There is not muchpoliteness in Bayreuth. We don't get as good a view of the stage assome people, but we have splendid places; the Countess of ---- is infront of us, her sister right beside me, and behind are the ----s, andnear by Lady ----. So you see we couldn't possibly have better seats. For the Valkyrie I wore a new mauve and pale green frock. I don't thinkyou've seen it. The bill was atrocious. I sha'n't pay it; but thecostume is a great success. Portions of this second opera are awfullytiresome, first one couple and then another, going on for hours aboutnothing, but there are some exquisite clouds that move and grow andscatter exactly like nature, only more so, and make up a little for thedull people. I notice one thing: _all_ the gods and goddesses havealways such troubles. There isn't a single happy creature among them, not even Wotan, who is god of them all, and wears a silly gold curlover one eye. I think it lowers his whole dignity; but they make agreat many mistakes like that. Of course, one oughtn't to think ofthese things, but should simply listen to and enjoy the beautifulmusic, but my nature is so sensitive I can't help it. There are a lotof Valkyrie, you know, who wear a sort of antique dress-reform costume, not pretty, and ride through the air on deliciously funny-lookinghorses. And Brunhilde, the leader of them, a rather nice person, behaves quite like a human being in "Siegfried, " the next opera, whichI will tell you about later. In "Valkyrie" you think she is going to beburnt up, but in "Siegfried" she is saved after all. I suppose there issome sort of Biblical idea about hell. You recognized the Bible veryoften in "Parsifal. " I much prefer Siegfried as a person to Parsifal. He's not such a _very_ good boy. There's more an air of athletics, football, rowing, and all that about Siegfried, while Parsifal smacksjust a little, I think, of the Young Men's Christian Association. Youcan _kiss_ Siegfried with impunity, too; in fact, it saved Brunhilde'slife, and I wouldn't mind running a few risks myself to be saved in thesame way! You get perfectly drunk with this music of the last act ofSiegfried. Of course, my dear, you know I am now writing about the_third_ opera, "Siegfried. " You must follow me closely, for it's veryeasy to get confused about them. "Siegfried" is awfully long, too, andthe first act--well, I don't mind telling you I slept a good deal. Yousee, the theatre gets so stuffy, and then one is digesting one'sluncheon, and the stage is so dark, and I maintain that the musicsoothes you. I wore, of course, another dress, something quiet, as itwas rainy, but I saw no one who looked any better. Between the firstand second acts I managed to get a bow and a hand-shake from thePrince, to the visible envy of Mrs. Gordon. I wish you could see thedear beast. She flutters around the royalties every minute, like anervous bird, and as if they were her nest of eggs and a bad little boywas in the neighborhood. I _hate_ snobs; don't you? I am lunching, bythe way, with Mrs. G. To-morrow. Quite a big, smart party of us, Ihear. That funny dragon comes in "Siegfried, " you know, and of course it ismuch more amusing here than in Covent Garden or New York. But it's thelast act that I _love_! Such passionate music! Brunhilde falls madly inlove with Siegfried, who is, of course, ever so many years younger thanshe. But it's just like us women, especially when we are Brunhilde'sage. For I suppose she's forty something, as she was grown up and wentto sleep before Siegfried was born, and when he kisses her he seems tobe quite a man! By the way, Brunhilde was put to sleep for interferingsomehow or other in the love affairs of Siegfried's mother and father, who are really sister and brother. If you think of it, the story isextremely indecent, but operatic things never seem to be shocking;music, apparently, covers a multitude of naughtiness, like charity isreported to do. Very likely that's why Mrs. ---- is always doing somuch for institutions and what not--for her sins, I suppose. I alwaysthought she was a naughty old hypocrite! By the way, there is a comiccharacter in "Siegfried, " and in one of the others, I forget which, called Mime--a funny little dwarf, the sort of thing they put in aChristmas pantomime to amuse the children. _Later. _ I have just come from the "Götterdämmerung, " the last opera, and I amcompletely exhausted. I am as if I were in a dream, and can only thinkand feel and write of this beautiful, beautiful music and scenery. I amabsolutely absorbed in it. Some people took the train for Nurembergright after the performance. I am sure I never could have. I reallycan't believe they _felt_ the thing. Our train goes at 1:45. Such anice hour; one doesn't have to hurry in the morning, and can have one'shair done properly. I have a charming new way of doing the hair. I gotit from a Frenchwoman who sat just in front of me in the theatreto-day, and when it was light enough I studied the arrangement till Igot it by heart. You want something like that to do during the longduets. Otherwise your attention is apt to wander from the opera, or youget sleepy. To go back to the opera, it began with the same scene thatSiegfried finished with, which was rather disappointing, but a realhorse came on and behaved as quiet as a lamb, with Brunhilde screaminglike mad all about him. I suppose they put cotton in his ears, orsomething. The scene changed (without letting us go out for a rest, which I thought something of a sell) to the house, where Siegfriedfalls in love with another woman (Oh, these men!) I forgot to tell you, my mind is so full of the music, that I wore my new Russell & Allenwinter frock, and I caught lots of people taking it in. But, dear me, how badly the German women dress! I haven't seen a single _chic_ oneamong them since I've been here, I don't believe I shall come toBayreuth again. Besides, the music is too wearing. The Rhine maidenscome back in this act! It is most wonderful the way they swim about!But, as far as I can gather, they are rather nasty cats. One thing Iwill say, though: I think Wagner's on the side of the women; for, inspite of Brunhilde's being in love with little more than a boy, she hasall your sympathies. So has Siegfried, too; which is odd. I reallysobbed when he died, he was so good-looking, and seemed so sad. Thiswhole opera is very depressing. We reach Munich to-morrow night at 7;and I propose going to the Residenz Theatre there, and seeing a lightopera just for contrast. But how bad the shops are at Munich. I believethere are some good pictures, but I think one sees so many pictures inEurope; don't you? I presume you know Brunhilde behaves rather like Dido in the end:nearly everybody, more or less, is murdered off, and there is a sort ofMadame Tussaud exhibition in the clouds at the curtain. Of course, Ihaven't really given you any sort of an idea about it at all. There areno words that will adequately describe it, only I promised to give youa detailed personal account; and I have done so. The reason we aregoing to Munich is we can't get a sleeper yet, everything is socrowded. Isn't it disgusting. This last opera is rather too noisy attimes, and awfully long--longer than the others. But there's a men'sballet in it that is rather nice; not dancing, you know, but singingand posing and walking about, with imitation bare legs, most of them. But I think the best thing about the opera is it leaves you in such anexalted mood. I know I won't be able to think of small or worldlythings for weeks, much less write about them. Before I forget it, besure and write me if it's true that Mrs. ---- and Sir George ---- areboth at Homburg, at the same hotel. I hear they are, and there's noend of talk about it. But then I find there's no end of talk abouteverything and everybody. It is not that people mean badly, but one hasto pass the time somehow. I think I love best of all the Rheingoldmusic. It is like a jeweller's shop window in Bond street; it seemsto shine and glitter and sparkle. You see very few jewels here inBayreuth; of course, there's very little chance to display them. Womenwear the usual small string of pearls. That's about all. As mosteveryone wore one I wear two, with a different pendant each day. Ilike to be just a little original, and keep my own individuality. Well, now I must tumble into bed or I shall lose my beauty sleep. I'dhate to have my figure get like these German singers. I wonder why! I'dhave myself strapped between boards--I'd do _something_. Good-bye, mydear. Write me all the gossip you can get a hold of. I haven't sent youany in this, but that you couldn't expect. It was impossible that thisletter should be anything but Wagner, Wagner, Wagner. I wish you couldhave been here with me--you'd have seen heaps of your friends. Ofcourse I ought to tell you one thing, because I felt it myself: there'snothing catchy about the music. Lovingly, FANNY. Art A Letter _A second Letter from Lady Aires to the Countess of Upham. _ Munich. My dear Rose: It was very thoughtful of you to write me so soon, and Aubrey and Iwish very much we could join you, but our money is all spent and wemust hurry back to England, where we can economize by making cheapvisits among our friends for a couple of months. In December we go toNew York to spend the winter with mother. You never go home, do you? I am so glad you felt you got so complete an idea of Wagner from myletter. I was a little afraid I hadn't done the whole thing justice, but I assure you there were many more people there than I thought ofsuggesting, and the operas, tho' long, are very delightful. Here in Munich the chief thing is the picture gallery, as of course atthis time of year all fashionable society is away and the theatres andopera either closed or giving second-rate performances. There are moremusées than you really care to visit, and are full of masterpieces, many quite as atrocious as masterpieces so often are. The principalone--its name begins with a P--is the one we've been to. I wish you could see the Rubens, or else it's the Van Dykes--I forgetwhich, but they are beautiful; and when one thinks how long ago theywere painted, it's wonderful, isn't it? One thing awfully interestingabout a picture gallery is to see the absurd difference in women'sdress now and in former times; don't you think so? And sometimes onegets ideas for one's self. This particular gallery is altogether one of the most satisfactory I'veever been in. It wasn't crowded full of Baedeker people and that sortof thing. In the second room we went in we met Lord and Lady Jenks andthe Countess of Towns. That was the room where we saw a portrait theliving image of Janet Cowther. We all shrieked with laughter! You knowhow she has what my vulgar little brother calls an "ingrowing face"--itsinks in instead of coming out, so that the poor creature can't knowwhat it seems like to have a real profile. It's extraordinary thatthere should have been two such faces in the world--don't you thinkso?--even with two or three hundred years between them. The portraitwas painted by--dear me! I can't remember, but it was some one we allknow. There's one thing I shouldn't mind, and that is knowing thelady's corset maker; I'd like to give his address to Janet, because, mydear, in spite of her face he had made the lady's figure beautiful. Ithink that's really the nicest part of a picture gallery--seeing comiclikenesses to your friends. Lady Jenks and I sat down on an uncomfortable bench without any backand talked away for nearly an hour. What an amusing creature she is!Has stories to tell about everybody under the sun. By the way, shevowed you and your husband got on awfully, and only lived together as amatter of form! I took up your cudgels, my dear, and told her it wasn'ttrue in any particular; that Ned adored you and was an angel. Ofcourse, he got drunk--that I knew, as all the world did, but you wereused to that. It isn't true, is it? He never struck you? I'm sure hedidn't! You'd have told a good friend like me; wouldn't you? Well, just as Lady Jenks and I finished the others came back from goingthrough all the other rooms. We were everyone of us dead tired, lookingat pictures is so fatiguing. We decided to go back to the hotel andhave tea in the garden. But I think it is a dear gallery, andto-morrow--we don't leave till the next day--if we've any time leftafter doing the shops, I intend to go back and see the pictures allover again. Write to Eaton Sqr. ; the servants will forward. Poor things, they musthave had a dull summer! They say the heat in town has been fearful! ButI don't think servants mind; do you? And then they have the run of thehouse. I am sure they use the drawing-room and sleep in my bed! Good-bye, Lovingly, FANNY. Aubrey says Janet's portrait is by Rembrandt; but I tell him I don'tthink it was by a Frenchman at all, I think it was by Greuze. Sorrow A Letter _A Letter to Mrs. Carly, Florence, Italy. _ New York, Wednesday. My Dear Mary: You were right when you said to me, two years ago, that the time wouldcome when I would realize the futility, the selfish, the absurdinsufficiency of my life. It is now six months since I lost my littlegirl--my only child. I thank you so much for your letter; I was sureyou, who had so much heart, would realize more than most people what Isuffered and feel still. And it needn't have been--I shall alwaysmaintain it _needn't_ have been! She was overheated at dancing-schooland caught cold coming home. I was late dressing for an early dinner, thought it was nothing, and paid no attention. From the dinner I wentto the opera, from the opera to a ball, on to somebody else's. I wasdead tired when I came home and fell into bed and asleep. All thistime, my child, with her cold, was sleeping close beside an openwindow! The maid was careless, of course, but it wasn't _her_ child--itwas mine--and I hold myself most to blame. In two more days the doctortold me she couldn't live. I shall never forgive him! In six hours shewas dead. I think I went quite mad. I know I really felt as if I hadwantonly murdered her; and I still feel I was myself largelyresponsible. She was the dearest little creature! I am so sorry younever saw her. "I love my mamma best, and God next, " she kept on sayingall that last day. One wondered and wondered what thought was in herlittle brain. "You are mother's darling, " I said to her--"mother'sprecious little girl, but God gave you to her, so you are God's first!"She threw her arms about my neck and kissed me, and said: "I like youbetter than all the little boys at dancing-school put together!" Shefluttered about the bed with her arms like a little tired bird! Shemade me sing to her. I sang hours and hours--lullabies and comic songsshe liked best. My maid came to me: "Madame is lunching out. " I was furious with her for coming to me with any such remark. "Telegraph!" was all I said. "Telegraph what, madame?" "I don't care, " I answered. O my dear Mary! to watch a little soul going--a little soul that is allyours, or at least that you thought was all yours! To watch the lightof life fade and fade out of a face precious to you, into which youcannot kiss the color again; to watch this little life, dearer to youthan your own, slip, slip away from you in spite of your handsclutching to hold it back, or clasped in prayer to keep it! To sit andlose and be helpless! Oh, the agony of it! Marie came once more; it wasdark; I guessed her errand, and only looked at her. She went awaywithout a word. I took the child out of the bed--it was like lifting aflower. At dawn she died in my arms. Oh, were ever arms so empty aswhen they hold the dead body of someone loved? And then began the revelations. The stilted letters of condolence, written with exactly the same amount of feeling as a note of regrets oracceptance, and couched very much in the same sort of language. One woman recommended her dressmaker as being the most _chic_woman in New York for mourning--as if I cared! A great many cards wereleft at the door with their corners turned down, and for awhile noinvitations came. That was all! Most of the people I was unfortunateenough to meet made such remarks as---- "My Dear Mrs. Emery, I am so sorry to hear of your loss" (as if thehouse had been burned down or the silver plate had been stolen); orelse---- "Dear Mrs. Emery, I was so shocked to hear it; such a _sweet_ child!Which was it, a boy or a girl? Oh, yes, I remember, a boy--a nicecreature; but, my dear, so many boys turn out badly. You must try andconsole yourself with thinking perhaps you have both been saved a worldof trouble after all!" "My child was a little girl, " I answered. Another woman came to me, saying: "You poor, dear thing! I'm glad you are bearing it so well--you looksplendidly. Of course you won't stay in mourning long; will you? It'sreally not necessary for a child; and then I think one _needs_ thedistractions of society to drown one's sorrows!" And all in such a flippant tone! There are some who haven't heard of it at all, which seems so strangeto me, who see and think of nothing else indoor and out! And Sue Troyon I shall never forget or stop loving as long as I live. She put her arms about me and kissed me, when she first met me, rightin the street, and never said a word, but her eyes were wet. _She_ isa woman and a friend! So now I am going to join you abroad, to travel and live among picturesand music and real people. These months out of society have broken thecharm. I've tried to go back, but I can't stand it. The inanities of anafternoon At Home are more than I can bear. Everybody repeating to eachother the same absurd commonplaces over and over again. Societyconversation in one way is like a Wagner opera: it is composed of thesame themes, which recur over and over again; only, in the conversationreferred to, these themes are deadly, dull, fatuous remarks. As forballs and evening parties, I don't care about dancing any more, somehow, and to see the young _débutantes_ about me almost breaks myheart, full of memories of my daughter and what she might have been. Tears are not becoming to a very low-necked dress, and shouldn't beworn with powder and jewels. No, my dear Mary, I see in this society ofours, we all grow so hardened, that if we don't have some such grief asI have had, we become hopeless. People soon forgot I had ever had achild, or at least that she hadn't been dead for years. I find myselfbecoming a bore, because of perhaps a certain lack of spirit that Iused to have; and I began to realize that I had never been liked formyself, but for what I gave, and for the atmosphere of amusement whichI helped to create by nearly always being gay and enjoying myself. Asyou yourself said of society, it is absolutely unsatisfactory. I neverknew a purely society woman yet who wasn't somewhat or sometimesdissatisfied. First, they can't go as much or everywhere they want; andsoon after they have all the opportunities they desire, they find thatisn't sufficient, after all, to make life perfect, and then the boredomof fatigue begins to creep upon them with the years, and soon old agebegins like a worm to eat into what happiness they have had. Oh, no! When I think of how full your life is, of the interestingpeople you know--not merely empty names with a fashionable address or acoronet on their note paper, --of the places you see and the books youread; and then hear you say your life is too short to see or enjoy athird the world has to offer you! You happy, _happy_ woman you! Well! The house is for sale! What furniture I want to keep stored!John, who is prematurely old and half-dead with trying to earn enoughmoney to keep us going as we wished in New York, has entered into itall in exactly my spirit. He has sold his seat on the stock exchange. He has disposed of all his business interests here. We find we havequite enough income to travel as long as we like, moderately, and tolive abroad for as many years as we please. When we get homesick--as weare both sure to, for after all we are good Americans--we will comeback here and settle down quietly in some little house, near everybody, but not in the whirlpool--on the banks of society, as it were, so thatwhen we feel like it we can go and paddle in it for a little, just overour ankles. Two weeks after you receive this letter you will receiveus! We sail on _Kaiser Wilhelm_ to Naples. No one here knows what to make of us! It's absurd the teapot tempestwe've created. The verdict finally is that we've either lost our moneyor else our minds! With a heart full of love, Affectionately, AGNES. The Theatre Four Letters, a Bill, and a Quotation from a Newspaper I _A Letter from Mrs. Frederick Strong to her Husband. _ . . . Fifth Avenue, Saturday. My Dear Fred: You must come home at once. Dick has announced his engagement to anactress--a soubrette, too, in a farce-comedy. If it had been a womanwho played Shakespeare, it would have been bad enough, but a girl whosings and dances and does all sorts of things, including wearing herdresses up-side down, as it were--that is, too high at the _bottom_ andtoo _low_ at the top--well, this is a little too much!--just as wewere getting a really good position in society. If the marriage isn'tput a stop to, you can be sure she'll soon dance and kick us out of anyposition whatever that's worth holding. It isn't as if we had any oneto back us; but you never had any family, and the least said about minethe better, so we have to be our own ancestors. And just as we hadsucceeded in getting a footing, in placing ourselves so that ourchildren will be all right, your brother must go and do his best toruin it all! You see how necessary it is for you to be on the spot. Wemay be able to break the engagement off before it is too late. Leavethe mine to take care of itself, or go to pieces if need be. One minemore or less won't make any difference to us. Besides, you must thinkof your children! Your brother, too; he's sure to regret it. I am ill over this thing. Can't sleep, and have frightful indigestion. Everybody's talking about it, and the newspapers are full this morning. My new costume came home from Mme. V----'s yesterday; but there's nopleasure now in wearing it! With love, ANNIE. January 19th. And the ball we were going to give next month! What about the ball?Mrs. W---- had promised me we should have some of the smartest peoplehere! This will ruin everything. Telegraph me when you will come. I amsuicidal. II _A Bill. _ Mr. Fred'k Strong, Dr. To the ---- Private Detective Agency, for services rendered, $---- --. Rec'd payment, ---- -- Feb. 10th, 189-. III _A Letter from Miss Beatrice North to Richard Strong, sent by specialdelivery to his Club. _ February 11th. My Darling Dick: What is the meaning of this letter from a lawyer? Who has been tryingto damage my character? To ruin my happiness? Who hates me? I havenever willingly harmed any one. I can't and won't believe this letterwas sent with your approval. But why didn't you come to see meyesterday? My dearest in the world, you wouldn't believe evil storiesof me, surely! You to whom I have told all my life, everything, forthere has been nothing to hide. No, no; I am sure you don't knowanything about this cruel letter, and for God's sake hurry and tell meso yourself, hurry and tell me so, and let me kiss the words as theycome to your lips. Thine, BEATRICE. IV _Letter from the Same to the Same. _ The evidence that you have proves nothing whatever, and even then muchof it is exaggerated, which I, in my turn, can prove. I shall sue youfor breach of promise. BEATRICE NORTH. V _From the Same to the Same, a day later. _ I will not write to your lawyers. This second letter of theirs is tooinsulting. They know very well they could never win the case against me. (I am innocent; and even if I were not, your evidence is ridiculouslyinsufficient. ) And that is why they offer to "settle" with me privately. But my own feelings have changed over night. That you could, first, believe the charges against me, and second, that you could have allowedme to be insulted by your--_or your brother's_--lawyers, as you havedone, these two things have opened my eyes to your own weakcontemptible character. I am grateful the discovery came before it wastoo late. I release you from your engagement to me, and far frombringing a suit against you I feel I owe you a debt of thanks. I trustthis is a sufficient reply to your insult to "settle" privately. Thematter is at end with this letter. BEATRICE NORTH. VI _Headlines of a Column in a Daily New York Paper. _ THE STRONG'S BALL! ALL THE SWELLS THERE! DICK STRONG GETS THE COLD SHOULDER FROM MOST OF HIS FRIENDS! The Opera _Mrs. Sternwall's Box. The First Act of Tristan and Isolde is three-quarters over. Mr. Alfred Easterfelt is seated alone in the corner. He is bored. _ MR. ALFRED EASTERFELT. (_To himself, after a long sigh. _) Damn it! What did I come so earlyfor? (_People are heard by the entire audience entering the littleante-room behind. The men's chorus on the stage drowns the sound ofartificial laughter. The curtains part, and_ Mr. Easterfelt _isjoined by_ Mrs. Sternwall, Mrs. Morley, Miss Beebar, and Mr. Carn. ) MRS. MORLEY. (_Seriously. _) What a pity we've missed so much. (_There are general greetings, whispered pleasantly. Each person, without exception, glances first all about the house, and then turnshis eyes slowly toward stage. Mrs. Sternwall sits in_ _the corner, facing the audience with three-quarters face, as the photographersexpress it, one-quarter toward the singers and_ mise en scène. _Shebeckons Easterfelt to sit behind her. The others fall into the otherplaces more or less as they happen, the women in front looking lovely, as each one is well aware, with her beautiful white neck, her jewels, and her charming coif. The music continues. _) MRS. MORLEY. (_Suddenly noticing that Mr. Sternwall is not with them. _) But where isMr. Sternwall? MRS. STERNWALL. Oh, Henry always goes across to Hammerstein's Olympia during the acts, but he will join us for each of the entre-acts. (_She takes up her opera glass, and examines the house minutely. _) MISS BEEBAR. What is the opera? MRS. MORLEY. Tristan and Isolde. I don't care for the new woman; do you? Somehow shehasn't the soul for Wagner. She sings well enough, mechanically, butshe doesn't feel enough. MISS BEEBAR. Precisely. That's a wig of course; isn't it? And what an ugly one! MRS. STERNWALL. (_Low to Mr. Easterfelt. _) Come to-morrow at four. He has taken toleaving the office much earlier the last few days. (_Owing to a sudden pause in the music, her voice has been heardquite distinctly. She is embarrassed for a moment, to cover which sheleans over toward Mrs. Morley and Miss Beebar. _) I wish Eames sang in this, she wears such good clothes. MR. CARN. What's that about Eames? MISS BEEBAR. I thought Eames' name would wake you up! MR. CARN. I was listening to the music. MISS BEEBAR. Don't be absurd; you know you never come to hear the opera, except whenI am going. MR. CARN. Or when Eames sings. MISS BEEBAR. Ah! you acknowledge it! You brute! MR. CARN. It's her arms, and her eyes, and her hair. You must acknowledge she'svery beautiful---- MISS BEEBAR. (_Interrupts. _) For heaven's sake stop; you bore me to death. Besidesyou must listen. It isn't the thing to talk at the opera any more. (_Isolde gives Tristan the cup with the love potion in it. _) MRS. STERNWALL. (_In a very low voice to Mr. Easterfelt. _) Just before the curtainfalls change your position quietly. Go near Miss Beebar and Mrs. Morley, on account of Henry. He will come to the box the minute thelights are turned up. MISS BEEBAR. (_Very low to Mr. Carn. _) I _hate_ Eames! MR. CARN. No. (_He kisses, without sound, her bare shoulders. _) (_Tristan and Isolde approach each other with outstretched arms. Forthe first time Mrs. Morley takes her gaze from the stage. It rests upona dim figure in a certain seat in the Opera Club's box. Her eyes arefull of tears. _) A Perfect Day A Leaf from the Diary of Mrs. Herbert Dearborn, Living in Paris _May --, 1897. _ A charming, delightful day! Marie brought me my coffee at nine, asusual, with a perfect mail. No nasty business letters from America, butonly most desirable invitations, notes full of gossip, and regrets fromthe Thompsons for the expensive dinner I felt obliged to give them at_Armenonville_, so I won't have to give it! One's old friends inAmerica are really rather a bother, coming to Paris in the very middleof the season. If they came only in midsummer, when every one is away, one would be very glad to do what one could, if one were in the city. Of course, as far as the Thompsons themselves are concerned, I lovethem. My coffee never tasted so deliciously, and Marie said I lookedunusually well after my night's rest. To be sure Marie says that everymorning; but never mind, it is always pleasant to hear the first thingone wakes up, and I only wish I didn't have a sneaking fear that thenew Empire pink bed-hangings help a good deal. Marie sprayed the roomwith my new perfume (a secret; no one else has it), laved my face inrose-water, and then I had a wee little nap by way of a starter for theday. After my bath I answered my mail; and then, Marie having manicuredmy nails, my toilet was made. I wore, to go out, my striking bluecostume, with the hat and sun-shade to match, which always necessitatesthe greatest care with the complexion. I use an entirely differentpowder with this dress, and one has to be most careful about one'scheeks. But Marie is invaluable so far as the complexion is concerned, and I went out quite satisfied. First, to the hair-dresser's to have myhair re-dyed, as I went to the races in the afternoon, and the lightthere is very trying. Unless your hair has been dyed very lately it isquite useless to go. My hair was never done so well. I am trying it avery little darker, and I am almost sure I like it better. Then I wentinto some shops. I think it is always a good thing to have one'scarriage seen waiting outside the smart shops often. I priced a greatmany things, and had several--which I of course have no idea whateverof buying--sent home on approval. To the dressmaker's, to try on my newdress. It was finished; but didn't suit me. I am having entirely newsleeves and all the trimming changed. I persuaded them it was theirfault. I had really thought I should like it that way until I saw itcompleted. Then to breakfast with the Countess of ----; a charming_déjeuner_. All the women very desirable to know and very _chicly_dressed, and not one looking so young for their age, I am sure, as I. In fact, several made that remark to me. I know they say just theopposite behind my back, but it is pleasant to hear nice things underany circumstances. I think it is all one should ask of people, thatthey should be nice to our faces. I left _déjeuner_ first, because thatmakes a good impression, as if you are crowded with engagements, andflatters your hostess, who is naturally pleased to catch amuch-sought-after guest. I really drove home to rest a little beforethe races. I find taking off _everything_ and indulging in completerelaxation, if only for ten minutes, is wonderfully refreshing, andsaves lots of _lines_! While I was resting my _masseur_ came and gaveme face massage. There is nothing like it for a wrinkle-destroyer. Andthe man is a rather nice person who amuses me. I got him two newclients at the luncheon today. As the other women said, one is only toowilling to pay extra to get a man who is good-looking. The races were very exciting. It was a lovely day, our coach had a fineposition, and our party was much stared at! I had the most conspicuousseat, and did my best to become it. It isn't for me to say to myself ifI succeeded or not, but I owe it to my dress-maker to make thestatement that no one else had on a better gown. I wish that statementwas the only thing I owed him! I won forty louis; I don't know how. Iam absolutely ignorant about horses. I only go because it seems to bethe thing to do now. But I thought one of the jockeys looked ratherfetching, and so I put my money on him, and he happened to win. We all went for tea to Mrs. ----'s, where one of the most expensivesingers sang. But I didn't hear her, because if you go into the musicroom you have to sit down in rows, and you don't see any of the people. I was obliged to hurry away, as my appointment with Jacques to-day wasfor 6:30, and I wanted to stop at an imitation jeweller's place in therue de la Paix, where I had heard were some wonderful paste necklaces. They are quite extraordinary. I ordered one, and shall never tell asoul it's not real. I was late home, but Jacques, the dear boy, waswaiting, and seemed to me sweeter than ever this afternoon. I gave himthe cuff links I have had made for him, with his initials in rubies, and it was too delightful to see his pleasure. I took him out to dine. I think I will marry him. I know he is much younger than I, and allthat, but he's so sweet, and, after all, I have enough money for two. The Westington's "Bohemian Dinner" A Letter _The Sherwood_ 58 West 57th St. My Dear Dora: We are just home from dining in one of the smartest houses in New York, and I've been bored so wide awake I can't think of going to bed, so Iam sitting in my petticoat (that charming white silk, much-festooned, and many-flounced one you brought me over from Paris) and a dressingsack (pink, not so very unbecoming). My hair is down, but Dick doesn'tpaint it any more--it's getting thin, dear!--and I've nice littleswansdown lined slippers over my best white silk-stockings. I've wornto-night the best of everything my wardrobe affords, and I wasn'tashamed of myself! No, I was much more ashamed of the Westingtons, andI'm going to tell you all about it before I touch the pillow! I'm sureyou'll be amused. In the first place, to be honest, we were rather pleased to be asked. There is no one smarter than the W. 's, and, besides, they areattractive and good-looking. The truth is, we've always been anxious togo to their house--heaven knows why, now that we've been. We aresufficiently punished, however, for being so foolish as to be flatteredby our invitation. For, my dear, we weren't asked to a swell dinner atall; we were invited to what was intended for a "Bohemian" affair (butit was only a dull and ungainly one), and it was apparently taken forgranted that, as Dick painted and I hadn't millions, we were decidedlyeligible. Of course, as you know, there is no such thing as a realBohemia in New York. The dinner was given in honor (apparently) of the Hungarian pianistRomedek and his wife. He has been an enormous success here this year, and society has taken him up. But the trouble is with Madame Romedek;no one is sure she _is_ Madame Romedek, and a great many people aresure she isn't. She is a pretty, rather common-looking person, with noparticular intelligence or _esprit_. I am told she is morecommunicative _under_ the table than she is over it; and I know somemen are crazy about her. Of course, she isn't a woman any of us canstand for a moment. If Romedek were a painter we should know she'd beenhis model, and be awfully sorry for him. But Romedek is a musician (agreat one--I wish you could hear him); and they say she hasn't even thesocial prestige or poetic license of having been an artist's model, butof having been something quite wrong to begin with. Naturally, you see, some of society won't have her at any price. Those that must have _him_have difficulty in entertaining them. I hear one prominent woman whowas asked last week to dine and meet the Romedeks considered herselfinsulted, and has struck her would-be hostess' name off her visitinglist. So you see it wasn't all plain sailing with the Westington's, andI can hear them decide between themselves to give a "real Bohemiandinner;" that is, ask people who "do things, " and whom you sometimes domeet out at houses where they are not particular about mixing--the kindof people who would probably not take offense at being asked to meetMrs. Romedek without having her marriage certificate for their dinnercard. Of course, as you know, I don't mind being asked to meet anybody. Thank goodness! I feel perfectly secure about my reputation, and alsoabout my position, which is quite good enough to please me. But thereis a difference in being asked to meet a questionable person becausethat person is brilliant, or beautiful, or talented, and that thereforeyou (belonging to the aristocracy of brains) will appreciate her, and, on the other hand, being asked to meet her because you are an artist'swife and don't mind that sort of thing. We _do_ mind it very much! Wedon't even _care_ for it in geniuses--only we overlook it in a genius;disregard it as not being our affair. But to be asked to meet a silly, loose woman with the idea that I won't mind, almost as if I approved, Iresent that. However, let me tell you who was there. On Mrs. Westington's right, ofcourse, sat Romedek, and he is very handsome and very charming, and Ithink at least Mrs. Westington enjoyed her dinner if nobody else did. On Mrs. W. 's left was Mr. ----, who is, you know, a great swell hereand who poses as being a fast patron of the arts and graces--especiallythe graces--after the pattern of a Frenchman who has his _entrée_behind the scenes of the opera. His wife never accepts invitations thathe does; they meet, you know, under their own roof, for the sake of thechildren--but under their _own_ roof only. So in her place BelleCarterson was asked, who has gone in for keeping a swell florist'splace, and they say is making money. She is independent, and I likeher, but of course it is considered by her friends in society thatsince she went in for business she can't refuse to meet _anyone_. Dicksat next to her, and had on the other side of him Mrs. ----, who likescelebrities without the knack of selection, and whose invitationsnowadays I believe are never accepted at once, but are kept open aslong as possible to see if something better won't turn up. Then cameMrs. Romedek and Mr. Westington; he looking bored to death, and she asif she didn't know where she was at. Then Bobbie Lawsher, who writesbooks and operettas and things--rather amusing he is, but becoming moreand more of a snob every day. It's bad enough to see a woman strainingevery nerve to get into society, but when you see a man it's worse thanridiculous. I met him at a smart party the other night, and he stuck byme for hours, asking who everybody was till I lost my patience and toldhim I couldn't be a Blue Book for him or anybody, and he would eitherhave to dance with me at once or go to some one else with hisquestions. I never knew any one who could bring in the names of as manysmart people in one short remark as Bobbie can. If you happen to askhim what time it is, you could make a wager that, in his answer, in aperfectly natural way, he will mention familiarly three smart societywomen (calling one at least by her first name). Of course he does getasked a great deal, because he's little more than a snub-cushion--holdsany amount of them as easily as pins. Besides he goes to afternoonbores, like Teas and At Homes and Days, for which free and untrammelledmen can only be obtained by subterfuge and trick or some extraordinarybribe. To a young man like Bobbie Lawsher afternoon affairs are a sortof happy hunting ground, a social grab bag, where he can never be surethere isn't a dinner invitation, or one for the opera, or a luncheon, to be secured if one is clever and careful. Why, when a woman has a manguest back out at the last moment from a dinner, the first thing shedoes is to rush off to any At Home, that's going on, with the fairlyconfident expectation of finding Bobbie Lawsher and making him fill hervacancy. Bobbie has accomplishments of a certain sort, can sing apretty little song in a pretty little way, and can pass a tea cupwithout spilling, and drink tea himself, and can hang around when he'swanted, and be got rid of easily when he isn't. He is a sort of societyerrand boy, and very useful. I take it back about his havingaccomplishments--a better word for them is _conveniences_! Well, on the other side of Bobbie was Mrs. ----, red in the face, soangry she was asked to meet Madame Romedek, talking with poor Bobbie ina sharp, spasmodic sort of way, as if she were carrying on theconversation with her knife and fork, cutting the sentences into bits, some ignoring and some eating, --and none agreeing with her, or sheagreeing with none. Then George Ringold asked, I suppose, for me. I amquite aware that women who are indiscreet themselves think there is"more than meets the eye" between George and me. I am very fond of him, and so is Dick. And he has kissed me, and Dick knows it; but I am sureI need not tell you that is all. On the other side was Romedek, andperhaps I ought to feel complimented, but as, thanks to Mrs. Westington, we didn't succeed in carrying on to a finish any singleconversation we started, I don't allow myself to be too flattered. Mrs. W. Talked music, of course--the commonplaces of it--such as anywell-bred, smart, educated woman of the world knows how to talknowadays, with perhaps just one good, big, absurd mistake thrownin, --thus, by the grace of humor keeping banality from becomingabsolutely fatal. Madame Romedek was rather amusing. She tried to bethe lady--which, as she doesn't know how, and only succeeds in beingimpossibly stupid, must have bored the men on each side of hertremendously. That's where foolish women of that sort spoil their owngame. If they would make the best of the bargain, and be frankly acommon cocotte _gone right_, they would certainly be more amusing, and might have something like success, at any rate with the men. The food was excellent, the wine good, the house lovely! And as soonafter dinner as was at all decent, we left. We decided in the cab onour way home, from no point of view had it paid, --financially least ofall; for our dinner in the restaurant, with all our jolly friends, would have cost us only seventy-five cents, while our cab bill for theevening was three dollars. As for having had a good time, there wasonly one person there who had that--Mrs. Westington herself. I believeeven the servants must have been bored by the dinner, unless, perhaps, Madame Romedek flirted with _them_; which I should think extremelylikely. I am getting sleepy now, of which fact my letter undoubtedly bears"internal evidence. " So good night and sweet dreams to you, and none tome--I don't like them! Write me what you are doing in Paris. I am sure your husband will havehis usual great success in the Champ de Mars. We are all very proud ofhim. With love, dear Dora, GUENNE BARROWS. The Gamblers I. Madame Eugenie Leblanche, veuve, age 62 years. II. Mlle. Nina and Mlle. Fifi. III. Mrs. Henry B. Gording and Mrs. Wm. H. Lane. IV. Mme. Borté and Mme. Lautre. I _The Baccarat Table in the Villa des Fleurs, Aix-les-Bains. _ MADAME EUGENIE LEBLANCHE, _veuve_. (_A large, stout lady in black satin and brocade, violet-coloredface-powder, and a reddish blonde display underneath a questionablebonnet. She wears a somewhat profuse and miscellaneous display ofjewels, principally diamonds dull as the eyes of dissipation. She holdsher chips in large loose white cotton gloves that reach to her elbow. Her lips, compressed together, move constantly, with a sort of excitedswitch-back motion. _) (_To herself. _) I wonder who has the cards. Oh, it's that monsieurthere, I see. Not good! I will only place two louis. (_She asks thegentleman in front of her to place them for her. He does so. _) No, I amwrong, I will put three. (_She asks the gentleman to place a thirdlouis for her. In doing so the chip rolls from his fingers; heimmediately recaptures it and places it properly. _) Monsieur, monsieur, if you please. Return me my louis, if you please! I never play a louisthat has rolled on the table. That would bring us bad fortune, youwould see! Thank you, thank you very much. (_To herself again. _) I amsorry I did not ask him to hand me back two. We are going to lose! Goodheavens! it is sure we lose! Ah, the cards! Bad, that's sure! O, whatemotion! O good heavens! Seven! But the bank! No, we gain! O---- O goodheavens! Good heavens! what emotion! We gain! What a misfortune Ididn't leave the extra louis! It is disgusting! I regret it now. O, Iregret it very much! But it is always like that with me! Are we goingto be paid? I don't think so! No, we won't be paid! It is always likethat; when one loses one is taken, and when one wins one is never paid!O good heavens! Now he will pay our side. After all there ought to beenough money. O yes, yes, we will be paid! All the better! Two louisfor me if you please, thank you. Monsieur, I am sorry to trouble you togive me my four louis! No, no, you haven't given me enough! I put downtwo louis. O yes, you are right. Pardon me, I didn't understand; yes, Ihave four. Thank you very much. You are very kind. (_To herselfagain. _) I am paid! After all, I am paid! So much the better! Whatemotion! I will play two louis again; no, three; no, two; no, one musthave courage. Monsieur, if you please, will you have the kindness toplace my four louis on the table? Thank you very much! (_To herselfagain. _) But, if I lose! and I will lose. Good heavens! O---- whatemotion! (_Etc. , etc. _) II MLLE. NINA. (_Young, very beautiful, in an exquisite gown from Laferiere, withgorgeous jewels and a wonderful hat. _) Who is the banker? MLLE. FIFI. (_Equally charming, as magnificently jeweled, and as exquisitelygowned; also a chapeau of wonderful birds, such as never sang in anywood. _) He? He is an old Russian. He has millions and millions, my dear! MLLE. NINA. (_Raising her eyebrows and regarding the banker affectionately. _)Really? MLLE. FIFI. Yes, yes; and he is a perfect gentleman. He gave Lala of the Vaudevillethree strings of pearls in two days. He is very generous andaltogether nice. MLLE. NINA. (_Jealously. _) Do you know him? MLLE. FIFI. O no, my dear; he is not my style. You know I never like a gentlemanwho parts his hair on the left side. It's my fad. MLLE. NINA. (_Very pleasantly. _) Have you won to-night, dearie? MLLE. FIFI. Ah, yes, my dear! _Think!_ two thousand francs already! MLLE. NINA. (_Very sweetly, moving away. _) So much the better. I've lost like thedevil. (_She very slowly makes a detour of the table in the directionof the Russian banker. At the same time an elderly gentleman approachesMlle. Fifi and speaks to her. _) LE MONSIEUR. Good evening, my dear! MLLE. FIFI. Good evening, my pig of a Prince! LE MONSIEUR. You have won? MLLE. FIFI. Oh, but _no_, my dear! I have lost _enormously_! It is _terrible_ whatI've done! I have lost nearly _all_ I have! MLLE. NINA. (_Who has just arrived behind the banker, leaning over his shoulderand watching him win an enormous coup. _) Ah, ha! You see, Monsieur, I bring you good fortune always! THE BANKER. I didn't know you were behind me, mademoiselle. (_He looks up. Shesmiles sweetly and innocently. He is pleased. _) MLLE. NINA. Oh, yes, for a long time! THE BANKER. You don't play? MLLE. NINA. (_With a manner altogether modest, and a soft, low voice. _) Oh, no;never! I have nothing to risk; besides, it doesn't amuse me very much. I never play. THE BANKER. Put on that hundred francs just to try your fortune. MLLE. NINA. (_Leaning over, takes the note from the pile. _) If you wish it. (_Sheplays and wins; brushes his cheek and shoulder with her arm as shereaches over to take up her money. _) (_The play continues. _) MLLE. NINA. (_Still winning. _) You know you are very nice. (_She plays again with anote from the banker's pile. _) III MRS. HENRY B. GORDING, _of Rochester, New York. _ Do you play? MRS. WM. H. LANE, _of Brooklyn_. No, not really. I don't quite approve of it, but I just try my luckonce in awhile for amusement. MRS. HENRY B. GORDING. Yes, that's exactly the way I feel. So long as you don't go in for itseriously I don't see any harm. MRS. WM. H. LANE. And if you stop as soon as you begin to lose. MRS. HENRY B. GORDING. Yes, indeed! Oh my! are you putting one down? MRS. WM. H. LANE. Yes, I think that man looks lucky over there with the glasses; besidesI like him because his wife sits right by him all the evening. MRS. HENRY B. GORDING. (_Smiling nervously and fumbling in her glove where she has concealedthe money to have it conveniently ready. _) Put one down for me, too;will you? (_She smiles hysterically. _) Dear me, I wonder what myhusband would say if he could see me? MRS. WM. H. LANE. I don't know a single thing about the game; do you? MRS. HENRY B. GORDING. (_With two small red spots coming into her cheeks. _) Not the slightest. It's finished! I wonder who's won! MRS. WM. LANE. (_After a long excited sigh. _) I don't know. I never can tell till Isee them either taking up our chips, or else paying us! MRS. HENRY B. GORDING. (_Breathlessly. _) If I lose, I shall go. MRS. WM. H. LANE. So shall I! We've won! MRS. HENRY B. GORDING. Ah! -- -- -- --. MRS. WM. H. LANE. (_Looking at least ten years older than she did two minutes before. _)No, we've lost! MRS. HENRY B. GORDING. O! -- -- -- --. MRS. WM. H. LANE. I'm not going. I shall try once more! MRS. HENRY B. GORDING. So shall I. MRS. WM. H. LANE. And I don't believe the woman is that man's wife after all. If she hadbeen we wouldn't have lost our dollars! IV MME. BORTÉ. (_Leaning over a man's right shoulder for some gold on the table. _) Ibeg pardon; that is my two louis! MME. LAUTRE. (_Leaning over the man's left shoulder. _) But no, madame, it is mine! Iput a louis down there! MME. BORTÉ. No, no! That is where I put mine. Give me my louis! MME. LAUTRE. But you are wrong, madame; it is my louis, and I shall keep it! MME. BORTÉ. But no, madame! MME. LAUTRE. But yes----! THREE WOMEN BESIDE MME. BORTÉ. Yes, madame is right. She certainly put a louis down there. THE SAME NUMBER OF WOMEN BESIDE MME. LAUTRE. No, it is the other madame who put the money down there. A MAN ON THE OPPOSITE SIDE OF THE TABLE. Ssss---- UN MONSIEUR. Oh, the women! the women!--always rowing! CROUPIER. Make your plays, gentlemen! MME. LAUTRE AND MME. BORTÉ. (_Together; each to her own coterie. _) You know perfectly it is mylouis; isn't it? Oh, never in my life! Never! never! (_The game continues, and so does the discussion. _) PRINTED AT THE LAKESIDE PRESS, CHICAGO, FOR THE PUBLISHERS, HERBERT S. STONE & CO. CHICAGO, U. S. A.