Part 7 (1/2)
CHAPTER VIII
By this time I had my own little _coterie_ and I prided myself it was a cosmopolitan gathering which graced our little apartment on the second and third Sundays of the month. There was so much to learn, the interests were so diversified that I eagerly welcomed members of other professions than our own--if they were worth while. Our sculptor friend brought men who had travelled in remote parts of the world; they in turn brought others. We numbered several army and navy officers, a German scientist, men and women journalists, a cartoonist and an artist, women engaged in Settlement work and the quaint old French professor who taught me the language. When we could overcome his diffidence he was a mine of information. He had witnessed the Commune of Paris and was working on a book on that subject.
It is an interesting study to divide the _pastiche_ from the real. The time-killers and the curious soon dropped out. It was not difficult to limit our _coterie_ to the dimensions of our home. I could not but contrast my simple ”at homes” with those of the Dingleys. We had received several cards for their Sundays and Will said we must go to at least one of them. The Dingleys had sprung from humble beginnings. They were jocosely referred to as the ”ten, twent' and thirt's.”
When I was a little girl in short skirts they were members of a repertoire company which played our town during County Fair week. The repertoire comprised such good old timers as The Two Orphans, the Danites, East Lynne, the Silver King, Streets of New York, Camille and The Ticket-of-Leave Man. Mrs. Dingley was the leading lady and her husband the utility man. She was my ideal of a heroine--in those days.
Her hair was very golden, and as the weepy heroine she wore a black velvet dress with a long train. That black velvet (later experience told me it was velveteen) played many parts. It was a princess, and for evening wear the guimpe had only to be removed. Or, when the heroine was ailing, as becomes a persecuted woman, the princess, with the help of a full front panel, was converted into a tea-gown. Again, it was used as a riding habit, draped up on one side and topped by husband's silk hat wound round with a veil. With a good deal of crepe drapery from the bonnet, the same gown pa.s.sed muster as widow's weeds. Mentally, I resolved that when I became an actress I should have just such a prestidigital gown in my wardrobe.
By dint of hard work on Mrs. Dingley's part and unmitigated nerve on the part of her husband they had finally arrived on Broadway. They had recently acquired a large house in the older part of the city and I understood it was Mrs. Dingley's idea to establish a _salon_. Certainly she was successful in drawing a crowd. The house was strikingly furnished. There was much gold furniture and antique bric-a-brac; canopied beds and monogrammed counterpanes. After a personally conducted tour of the house and an enlightening dissertation upon the real worth of and prices paid for the fittings, one retained a confusing sense of having had an exercise in mental arithmetic.
It seemed rather catty of the women to make fun of the Dingleys behind their back and at the same time accept their hospitality. Two smart looking women whom I recognized as members of Mrs. D's. company appeared to get no little amus.e.m.e.nt out of the coat of arms on Mrs. Dingley's bed. ”Why didn't they purloin a beer-stein, quiescent on a j.a.panned tray?” I heard one say.
”Or a Holstein bull rampant on a field of cotton,” the other giggled.
I failed to grasp the significance of their remarks, though I saw the humour in their allusion to the empty book-shelves which lined the walls of the library. ”Why not buy several hundred feet of red-backed books, like a certain politician who wanted to fill up the wall s.p.a.ce in his library?”
”Pshaw! It would be cheaper to use props,” scoffed the other.
I myself thought a dictionary and a few grammars a sensible beginning, as Mrs. Dingley was a veritable Mrs. Malaprop. Later I committed a _faux pas_, though I meant no offense. In my effort to say something nice to my hostess I remarked that I had seen her years ago during the early days of her struggle and that I had been one of her ardent admirers. The way she said, ”Yes?” with the frosty inflection made me understand she did not care to remember her beginnings.
While we were drinking tea out of priceless cups--the history of which was being retailed by our host--there was a commotion and a craning of necks toward the stairs. The hostess hurried forward to greet the late arrival. There was considerable nudging and innuendo exchanged as a small pleasant-faced man with a Van d.y.k.e beard entered the room. Our host greeted him jovially, almost boisterously. ”Here comes the king--here comes the king!” hummed the two actresses, winking significantly at me. There was a buzz of voices while Mrs. Dingley paraded the lion of the occasion about the room with an air of playful proprietors.h.i.+p. The little man had a penchant for pretty girls and flattery. He got both. Everybody fawned on him, Mr. Dingley laboured heroically to be witty. My curiosity finally drove me to ask my neighbours who the little man was.
”Is he a manager, or a producer, or?--?” I whispered.
There was a peal of laughter before I was answered.
”O, he's a producer, all right! Why, don't you know who he is? He's the goose that laid the golden egg!” taking in the gold furniture with a comprehensive sweep of her hand. She lowered her voice and leaned toward me. ”He's Mr. ----!” I recognized the name of the multi-millionaire. ”Is he?” I queried, trying to get another look at him.
The women relapsed into their confidences. ”How do you suppose she explains it to ----?” calling Mr. Dingley by his first name. The other woman shrugged her shoulders. ”She doesn't have to explain; money talks.”
On the way home I asked Will what they meant.
He smiled and shrugged his shoulders. ”They do say that the little man is an 'angel.'”
”Well, suppose he is?” I began indignantly. ”There is such a thing as clean-minded men of the world: patrons of art without ulterior motives.
All art needs fostering, and who better able to help the climbers than ----?”
Will laid his hand on mine, a little way he had when he wanted to rea.s.sure me.
”I haven't a doubt in the world that there are clean-minded men of means without 'ulterior motives,' as you express it. I also believe that hen's teeth are rare.”
There were other near-salons to which we were invited. Some of them were highly temperamental gatherings. Every large city has its artistic set, but New York may safely claim the medal for the half-baked neurotics who wallow in illicit cults which they sanctify in the name of art. One of the most typical and, by the same token, the most amusing of these esoteric feasts was presided over by a lady-like creature who had spent some time in the Far East. We were met at the outer portal by a jet black, down-South negro done up in full Eastern regalia. An air of mysticism permeated even the box couches against the wall. They had a peculiar ”feel” to them and one sank into their enfolding depths as one is taught to sink into the arms of Nirvana. It must have been awful for short, fat persons to scramble to their feet, after once being beguiled into sitting on these couches. The mysticism was enhanced by burning incense, shaded lights, draperies, and the host himself, who received us in Eastern garb, resplendent with the famous jewels, a gift from some potentate or other. We were conducted to a dais where the guest of honour--an oily, complacent Swami--received us. If we were pretty, the Swami held our hands longer than the amenities of good society demand.
Some of the guests were highly sensitized beings. Some were lean like Ca.s.sius; perhaps they ”thought too much.” There was a preponderance of Greek and other cla.s.sic dresses, over un-cla.s.sic figures. (Why _will_ doctors condemn the corset?) Hair-dressing was simplicity itself; in fact, the simplicity suggested a lick and a promise. Sometimes there were beads woven in the scrambled mess.
The sockless damsel was in evidence and n.o.bility was represented by a certain antique Baroness with a penchant for baby blonde hair. Affinity hunters abounded. By the dreamy longing of their watery eyes shall ye know them. Some there were who had made several excursions into the realms of free and easy love, but _all_, all had returned empty-handed, unsatisfied. O cruel Fate! And so they go, hunting, hunting....
After a call to silence, the Swami with the ingratiating smile and good front teeth made an address. It was a mystical, tortuous, rambling discourse which sounded to me a good deal like an advocation of free love. He told what ailed us; he said we didn't love enough. He a.s.sured us it was O, so easy to get our slice of the wonderful, all-pervading ether with which we were saturated. We simply didn't know how to use it.