“I don’t even think it’s quite—quite moral,” Mimi had said, meaning the nudity. He had not answered.
After all, most middle-class houses, when they couldn’t afford originals, adorned the walls with brown photographs of the masters: Gainsborough’s Blue Boy. No, America definitely was not ready for this.
And yet this girl Anna, this uneducated girl, could see, could contemplate and accept the new.
She was still studying the picture. He stood behind her, looking not at the painting but at the back of her head. Her hat, perched high, revealed half a head of thick hair coiled down her neck. How many shades of red there were in that glossy mass! There were tones of russet and copper, and of the fine red grain that runs through mahogany; where a few soft fibers lay free of the coiled mass, the red was touched with gold.
She was saying something. He started.
“I didn’t hear you. Pardon.”
“I was saying, it’s getting late. Perhaps we ought to go,” she said quite firmly.
But there was nothing pitiable about her! Why had he thought there was? Because she was slight and young? No, nothing pitiable after all. He was relieved.
“We’ll take the trolley,” he said.
Ordinarily he would have summoned a hansom cab. But it would be unwise to drive up to his house with her. He could imagine what would be said if they were seen. It wouldn’t do Anna any good! Or, to be honest, himself either!
“You take the trolley. I want to walk,” Anna said.
“After all you’ve walked today? It’s uptown and crosstown again.”
“I shan’t be out of doors until Wednesday, you see.”
“Oh, I’ll walk with you, then.”
She walked rapidly, without flagging. How healthy she was, and strong! The wind came up and it grew cold as the afternoon darkened. Her coat was flimsy, a cheap gray wool, belted around her narrow waist with flair, but surely not warm enough. Paul’s own coat was lined with fur.
They walked silently. For some reason he felt irritable. He was annoyed with himself for having weighed Mimi’s opinions against this girl’s. What difference did it make what a person thought about a painting? It was simply a matter of taste, like preferring chocolate over vanilla.
Anna said, “I forgot the name of that man. The cubist, you said?”
“Duchamp, Marcel Duchamp.”
“You know so much about art. Do you paint?”
“Goodness no. I can’t draw a straight line. But I try to learn what I can about it. Can’t stick with economics all the time.”
“Economics is …?”
“Business. Money. Banks.”
“Ah, yes, you work in a bank.”
“Well, in a way.” It was too difficult to describe what private investment banking was, and of no importance to her anyway.
“I see,” she said.
It seemed to him that she had frowned slightly and he thought, I daresay she has the working-class concept of a banker as some sort of ogre who eats the poor.
So his question came quickly. “You think bankers are bad people for lending money and making people pay for it?”
“Oh, no,” Anna said. “How else would anything get done? I mean, towers like that,” and she waved toward a tall construction that was rising across the park. “Nobody would have enough money by himself to build one of those! He would have to borrow, wouldn’t he?”
“Yes,” he answered, clearly pleased. “Of course, that’s the answer.” And he said, “You’re a very interesting woman, Anna.”
“You think that because you have never talked to anybody like me before.” She spoke boldly, with a trace of humor; the shyness of the first hour was gone. “An uneducated immigrant. I am different from the people you know.”
“That’s so. Very different.”
“And I think you and your family very different.”
“Do you? How?”
“Well, I have never known Jews like you before. I didn’t think you were Jewish until Mrs. Monaghan told me.”
“Well, we are, and very proud to be. We are like Jacob Schiff, Americans of Jewish faith.”
“Well, so I learned something. Ah, but I get discouraged. Because I think I don’t know anything and never will know anything or see anything, when what I want is to see the whole world.”
She made a pretty gesture, throwing her hands into the air.
“The whole world? That’s a big order. But I’ll tell you, Anna, I have a feeling that you’re going to have a whole lot more than you think you will. You’ll see the world. Europe, wonderful places—”
“Europe? Not Poland again, I can tell you that!”
“Not Poland, but Paris and London and Italy. Lake Maggiore, with castles and islands. The Alps, with snow on their peaks in the middle of the summer. You said you want to see hills.”
They had come to the house. It had grown quite dark and windy on the street. Welcome lights shone through the parlor windows, promising warm comfort.
“Anna, it was a nice day.”
Under the streetlamp her eyes and her bright hair gleamed. And turning to him with one of the loveliest curving smiles he had ever seen, she thanked him.
“It was a beautiful time. I will think of it, and the Alps with snow, and all the pictures.”
Then she turned and went down the steps to the basement, where no light burned. He watched until she had unlocked the door, then tipped his hat and stood looking after her before he, too, turned and went up the steps to the front door.
“When I was a child,” said Angelique, “no more than ten or twelve, I used to go visiting her relatives with my grandfather’s wife. She was a Creole. Oh, they thought I didn’t understand, but I did! My mother told me after I was married, about one old man’s slave-children. They looked just like the children he’d had by his wife. Even I could tell they were brothers. Sylvan Labouisse, that was his name.”
Enjoying the telling, she peered over the coffee cup to see what effect her tales had had upon her audience. It was seldom these days, reflected Paul, that his grandmother found a new audience.
Mimi was properly enthralled.
“Sylvan Labouisse! What a marvelous name!”
Mimi’s face, which was not one of those mobile faces that reveal emotion, now sparkled with curiosity. Paul had wondered fleetingly—not that it mattered practically what Mimi might think, except that he had hoped she would fit with Hennie enough so that they would like each other—whether she would be surprised at the meager flat and the neighborhood. For when had she been in such a neighborhood before, except to pass through without really seeing it? And she had, after all, met Hennie only in the very different setting of his parents’ and Alfie’s house. Certainly, she looked like a visitor from elsewhere, sitting on the shabby tan sofa. Her feet in their soft kid boots, and her ruby velvet jacket, were the only bright objects in the room, except for a wall of books and Angelique’s old silver on the tea table.
“Do you suppose his son knew about his half brothers?” Mimi asked.
“If he did, he certainly wouldn’t talk about it.” Angelique laughed. “Such things were never talked about. You can’t imagine the etiquette of those days! Talk about court ritual! I remember the first time I saw Mr. Labouisse I was in absolute awe. He had a rigid way of holding himself, almost royally, coming down the parterre in his garden, like Louis the Fourteenth at Versailles.”
Hennie and Paul exchanged glances over the precious worn-out reminiscences. Their eyes smiled their tolerant affection and amusement.
“Oh, they were courtly, those men; my own father too,” Angelique said, impressing Mimi. “All the men were like that.”
“Not Uncle David,” Hennie corrected.
Angelique corrected in turn, “Uncle David was never of the South, you know that.”
“What a fascinating family!” Mimi exclaimed.
“Oh, we are a family with a history.” Angelique nodded in appreciation. “I could go on and on about it. Maybe
Paul will bring you to tea at my apartment, since you are interested in history and antiques. I have some nice things I could show you, if you’d like.”
“I’d love it,” Mimi said. “I really would.”
Her courtesy came to the fore. It would have done so even if the old lady had bored her, Paul thought, proud of Mimi. There was not the slightest fault that anyone could have found with her. She had been simple and friendly. Not effusive, but correct in every way.
They rose to go. Paul laid Mimi’s fur cape over her shoulders.
“It’s been perfectly lovely,” Mimi said, shaking hands with both the women. “And the sponge cake, Mrs. Roth, was the lightest I’ve ever had.”
“Do call me Hennie.”
“I wish I had your skill, Hennie. And will you please give my regards to Freddy?”
“By the way, where is he?” Paul asked.
“He’s taken Leah to the matinee, Isadora Duncan’s dance recital, before he goes back to Yale on the evening train. They already had the tickets. Otherwise, you know they would have been here.”
“Mimi and I will have to see Isadora. I hear she’s a marvel.”
“I haven’t seen her. Leah says she’s thrilling. But then, Leah finds everything thrilling,” Hennie said fondly.
“I tell you again,” Angelique complained, “I don’t like it.”
The sharp tone cut into the affable air of departure. Mimi looked startled.
Hennie responded impatiently. “What is there not to like, Mama? Isadora Duncan?”
“You know quite well what I don’t like. He’s out with her every spare minute.”
“He’s not, and you make too much of it, Mama,” Hennie answered angrily.
They were standing in the cramped hall with the outer door already open. Mimi was looking away, toward an etching of the Colosseum on the wall, above Hennie’s head.
“A good deed,” Angelique went on, “an act of kindness, but very unwise all the same. Some things are just not suitable, and I said so from the beginning.”
Embarrassment lay like a cloak over everyone’s shoulders except the old lady’s.
“Well,” Paul said, “we really shall have to go. Thank you, Hennie. Thank you, Grandmother. I’m sorry about that,” he said as they went down the stairs. “Leah seems to be an unsolved issue between them.”
“She’s a very smart girl, I thought. And attractive too.”
“In a bold way.”
“You don’t like her, Paul?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. She just isn’t my sort of girl.”
The words repeated themselves in his ears: my sort of girl. What is my sort of girl?
Mimi’s new electric car was waiting at the curb. She took the tiller and, with a delicate whir, the little machine slid away down the street.
“Ten miles an hour! It’s such fun!” Mimi cried. “My very own car! It’s the best present Papa ever gave me.”
“I should think so.” It was a very costly present, this little shining leather-lined box on wheels. Paul’s mother owned one, and so did Uncle Alfie’s wife; they were “the thing.”
“Do please close the window,” Mimi said. “You know how easily I catch cold.”
Paul complied, filling the car with the strong scent of the carnation in its crystal vase. He detested the bitter scent of carnations.
“You’re grandmother’s charming,” Mimi remarked as they turned into Fifth Avenue and headed uptown.
“You think so? Sometimes I’m afraid I find she has too much charm.”
“What a strange thing to say! I liked her.”
“She shouldn’t have gotten on the Leah subject. It wasn’t the place or time.”
“Oh, well, I liked her all the same. She’s a lady, a kind of grande dame, don’t you think? But tell me about your Aunt Hennie. What was the feud about between her and your parents?”
“Oh, something to do with tenements. Uncle Dan’s a reformer. It’s a long story, I’ll tell you some other time.”
He was suddenly tired; the damned carnation was giving him a headache in the close air.
“I’m sorry for your aunt,” Mimi said.
“Sorry for Hennie? Because of the feud, you mean?”
“No, because they’re obviously so poor. That apartment! It must be awfully hard for her.”
He had rarely, if ever, given a thought to Hennie’s “poverty” until today. It had never seemed as marked as it had today. And he saw again the sofa, with Mimi’s skirts spread, and her pale kid boots resting on the old rug.
“Hennie doesn’t mind it,” he answered.
“Not mind it! How could she not!”
“She’s far too busy,” and his mind leapt back to a different picture. “You should have seen her marching on Fifth Avenue with the suffragettes! All of them dressed in white, with their heads up, and so proud.” He chuckled. “A sight to behold, I tell you!”
“I’ve seen the suffragettes. Papa says votes for women won’t make a particle of difference.”
He let that pass. “This parade wasn’t only for women’s voting rights. It was against child labor. Hennie’s always been active in that. I was proud of her. She’s quite a woman, you’ll find out.”
“I think your grandmother is much better off, isn’t she? Better off than Hennie, I mean.”
“You think so? Why?”
“Oh, her dress was lovely and she had on very expensive shoes.”
“My Uncle Alfie is very generous to his mother,” Paul said dryly.
“That’s nice. Families ought to be like that. My father sends money to cousins in Germany that he’s never even seen, and they’re only second cousins too. We’re all very warmhearted in my family, so I’m used to it.”
That was quite true. The Mayers were solid, good people, part of the fine old German Jewish community, an extended family in itself. You could feel as comfortable in any one of their homes as in your own.
But I don’t always feel comfortable in my own, Paul thought. A wry smile tightened his lips. Well, most of the time I do.
“What are you smiling at?” Mimi wanted to know, taking her eyes from the tiller.
“Nothing. Except that I’m happy.” He laid his hand over hers on the tiller. “I hope you are.”
“Oh, very, very! You know, I’ve been thinking, I’d like to do nice things for Hennie after we’re married. Nothing that could embarrass or offend her, just little presents for her birthday and whenever else it’s suitable. I hate to see anyone go in want.”
“You’re very kind, Mimi.”
That, too, was true. She could be depended on for decent goodness; a man knew where he stood with such a woman. And feeling a grateful comfort, he tightened his hold on the hand in the gray kid glove.
* * *
A crazy thing happened to him. He was passing Wanamaker’s when he heard two loud feminine voices behind him.
“Oh, look! Oh, I’ve got to stop a second! Have you ever seen such a hat in all your life? Now tell me, have you ever?”
“Gorgeous! It must cost a fortune, though. It’s got to be an import. I’m sure it is. Hats like that are only made in Paris.”
He was drawn to look. In the window stood a single hat, displayed like the jewel it was. The model head bore a cascade of red hair. On the silky straw brim lay a wreath of scarlet poppies and gold wheat. It was a hat to be worn by a tall girl at a garden party or a wedding on a ten-acre lawn. Or to tea at the Plaza in the spring. Red hair gleaming under the wide pale brim. He shut his eyes for a moment. Crazy, crazy. He opened his eyes. There it waited, asking to be bought for someone who would adorn it, rather than be adorned by it. Why let it go to waste on some fat woman of fifty or—or some girl who might have the means to buy it, but never the face to go with it?
He had a sudden vision of the cheap coat so smartly wrapped, the drab hat, the curving smile …
He had hardly spoken to her since that day, avoiding their little conversations, and staying out of his room when
she was working in it. When she served him at table, he was aware of her hands on the platter; a fragrant warmth trembled from her body. He averted his eyes. She must think he was angry at her.…
And all this time, remembering these things, he was staring at the hat.
He went inside and bought it. He didn’t ask the price until it was wrapped in its big round box and tied with a splendid ribbon. It seemed like an enormous price for a hat, and he supposed it was because of the respectful way the salesgirl handed it over: “Here you are, sir. I hope the lady will enjoy it.”
All the way home, clanging uptown on the trolley, the box lay on the seat beside him. Now that he had bought the thing, he was afraid of it. The motorman had to ask him twice for the fare, his thoughts were so far away. His thoughts were terribly troubling. To be truthful about it, they had been troubling for a long time.
But all men had such thoughts! The most happily married man had a wandering eye, everyone knew that. Oh, not like Uncle Dan, he didn’t mean that. And that bothered him, too, thinking about Hennie; all these things, questions of loyalty and faithfulness were so painful and perplexing. Yes, every man looked! He’d be a pretty poor specimen if he didn’t. And he suspected that women did so, too, surreptitiously, and why shouldn’t they? There was no reason to be ashamed of the natural call of the flesh, provided one kept it in decent bounds and didn’t wreck one’s family.
Yet surely he wouldn’t want Mimi or anyone to know his thoughts, or know about the hat. Good God, what had he done? The girl would misunderstand. And he was tempted to leave it on the seat.
Nevertheless, he carried it home. He waited for her in the hall outside his room, and intercepted her as she climbed the stairs.
“I thought you might like this,” he said, extending a stiff arm with the box dangling by its ribbon.
She didn’t understand.
“This. A box. A present for you. Open it.”
“For me? Why?”
“Because I like you. Because I like to give presents to people I like.” The words came more easily now that he had gotten started. “Here, let me,” he said as her fingers fumbled. From its crush of tissue paper, he lifted the marvelous hat. “Here! What do you think of it?”