guilt for loss of father’s income, elder daughter gives up job in the arts to marry him.Younger sister goes to art school. Climax: Younger sister quits art school. Dénouement: Older sister becomes disenfranchised widow. I could have sold the plot to Ibsen.”
My momentary glibness was a mask. The scars ran deeper than I let on. “Too much irony tastes bitter,” I murmured.
I squeezed Alice’s hand. “Come to work for Tiffany. We need you. At the worst possible time, Edith Mitchill left to marry an artist and go with him to paint the West. You could take her place. We could be together every day.”
“I have another year here.”
“We need talented women
now
, to finish our projects for the Chicago World’s Fair on time.”
“I’m sorry, but I want to complete my certificate. You’ll find others.”
“Then come live at my boardinghouse. It’s full of interesting, creative people. In the evenings we have sing-alongs around the piano, or we read poetry aloud, or plays that are in the theaters, each of us taking parts. We’re a literary society, a theater critics circle, an artists’ group, a philosophical society. I’ve stumbled upon the perfect place to live.”
“Sounds nice, but this room is so convenient to my classes.”
“Then think about it for the future, and come to the park with me now. We’ll wrap ourselves in green grass and see what’s blooming and be part of the grand mix of people and the babble of languages.”
“I’d like to, but I can’t.” Her cheeks became pink like the delicate petals of sweet peas. She was as pretty as a china doll. “A man from the league asked me to go to a concert with him.”
The lightness I’d felt at the thought of a stroll in Central Park with Alice was snuffed out like a candle in a draft.
“Well, some other time.”
I kissed her cheek and took my walk alone and tried not to brood. Central Park was still Central Park, bathing New Yorkers with spring, each person adding joy to others. I gave myself over to its refreshment.
WHEN I WENT HOME to my second-floor room, my door was ajar, and I heard whistling. I nudged it open cautiously.
“George!”
He was standing on my bed in his stockinged feet, paintbrush in one hand, palette in the other, an elfish grin on his face.
“I took your comment as an invitation. A caprice must be”—he flicked his brush in the air—“capricious.”
“Is it customary here to enter other people’s rooms, capriciously?”
I kept the door open so anyone passing in the corridor could see what was, and wasn’t, going on. Mother’s handbook would have advised me so.
“Customary for me and Dudley and Hank, but not the Hackleys. They’re premature fuddy-duddies. And not Mr. York, too quiet, or Dr. Griggs, too busy, or Bernard Booth, too English. Very proper—cheerio, jolly good, and all that.” George used his palette to doff an imaginary hat.
“I’m not accustomed to it.”
“Face it, Clara. You’ve moved into bohemia. Just down West Twenty-third is where the painters, artist models, poetry scribblers, actors, playwrights, set designers, costumers, wig makers, feather merchants, bird stuffers, wooden-toy painters, tarot card designers, fortunetellers, accordion players, and tambourine makers live.”
I had to laugh. It was impossible not to like him. What I needed was a friend.
“Continue, then.”
“And the patron saint of Irving Place, Washington Irving, lived across the street once, so goes the legend, in a house now occupied by Elsie de Wolfe, actress, stage designer, and interior decorator, and her lover, Bessie Marbury, literary agent to Oscar Wilde and George Bernard Shaw, my heroes. Wags call the women ‘the bachelors,’ but what do they care? Elsie’s silk parlor cushions are embroidered with her motto, ‘Never complain. Never explain.’ Macy’s sells copies. I call that high bohemia. Oh, you’re on the slippery edge of it here.”
He was a hopeless name-dropper, but I
My momentary glibness was a mask. The scars ran deeper than I let on. “Too much irony tastes bitter,” I murmured.
I squeezed Alice’s hand. “Come to work for Tiffany. We need you. At the worst possible time, Edith Mitchill left to marry an artist and go with him to paint the West. You could take her place. We could be together every day.”
“I have another year here.”
“We need talented women
now
, to finish our projects for the Chicago World’s Fair on time.”
“I’m sorry, but I want to complete my certificate. You’ll find others.”
“Then come live at my boardinghouse. It’s full of interesting, creative people. In the evenings we have sing-alongs around the piano, or we read poetry aloud, or plays that are in the theaters, each of us taking parts. We’re a literary society, a theater critics circle, an artists’ group, a philosophical society. I’ve stumbled upon the perfect place to live.”
“Sounds nice, but this room is so convenient to my classes.”
“Then think about it for the future, and come to the park with me now. We’ll wrap ourselves in green grass and see what’s blooming and be part of the grand mix of people and the babble of languages.”
“I’d like to, but I can’t.” Her cheeks became pink like the delicate petals of sweet peas. She was as pretty as a china doll. “A man from the league asked me to go to a concert with him.”
The lightness I’d felt at the thought of a stroll in Central Park with Alice was snuffed out like a candle in a draft.
“Well, some other time.”
I kissed her cheek and took my walk alone and tried not to brood. Central Park was still Central Park, bathing New Yorkers with spring, each person adding joy to others. I gave myself over to its refreshment.
WHEN I WENT HOME to my second-floor room, my door was ajar, and I heard whistling. I nudged it open cautiously.
“George!”
He was standing on my bed in his stockinged feet, paintbrush in one hand, palette in the other, an elfish grin on his face.
“I took your comment as an invitation. A caprice must be”—he flicked his brush in the air—“capricious.”
“Is it customary here to enter other people’s rooms, capriciously?”
I kept the door open so anyone passing in the corridor could see what was, and wasn’t, going on. Mother’s handbook would have advised me so.
“Customary for me and Dudley and Hank, but not the Hackleys. They’re premature fuddy-duddies. And not Mr. York, too quiet, or Dr. Griggs, too busy, or Bernard Booth, too English. Very proper—cheerio, jolly good, and all that.” George used his palette to doff an imaginary hat.
“I’m not accustomed to it.”
“Face it, Clara. You’ve moved into bohemia. Just down West Twenty-third is where the painters, artist models, poetry scribblers, actors, playwrights, set designers, costumers, wig makers, feather merchants, bird stuffers, wooden-toy painters, tarot card designers, fortunetellers, accordion players, and tambourine makers live.”
I had to laugh. It was impossible not to like him. What I needed was a friend.
“Continue, then.”
“And the patron saint of Irving Place, Washington Irving, lived across the street once, so goes the legend, in a house now occupied by Elsie de Wolfe, actress, stage designer, and interior decorator, and her lover, Bessie Marbury, literary agent to Oscar Wilde and George Bernard Shaw, my heroes. Wags call the women ‘the bachelors,’ but what do they care? Elsie’s silk parlor cushions are embroidered with her motto, ‘Never complain. Never explain.’ Macy’s sells copies. I call that high bohemia. Oh, you’re on the slippery edge of it here.”
He was a hopeless name-dropper, but I
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