James Huneker
Painted Veils
Published by Good Press, 2019
EAN 4064066154714
Table of Contents
I
Until the day of her death Easter never forgot that first night in New York. It was the initial twist of her ship's wheel, and the commonplace happenings which followed her entrance into the Maison Felicé were to give force and direction to her entire life.
The journey from Washington had been stupid. An early November afternoon sky heavy with threatening snow, her nerves tense with expectation, made the girl feel that the big city once reached her troubles would be over; but at Jersey City they began. After a few blunders she reached the 23rd Street ferry and noted the snow falling in the foggy river. Her baggage had been checked to the hotel and she had nothing to do but climb into a hansom and direct the driver to west 25th Street. She made a tentative bargain with the man. Easter was prudent because she had little money. The hotel—it was in reality two old-fashioned houses with high steps and brown stone façades, the conventional residence of the early eighties—did not impress her; besides, it was snowing so thickly that she could hardly distinguish anything, and when she was admitted into the hall the light dazzled her eyes. She felt lonely, timid, uncomfortable. A tall, portly lady saluted her.
"You are Mlle. Esther Brandès? I am Madame Felice." Her room had been engaged for a month ahead through the aid of a common friend. Her heart beat faster when the Frenchwoman politely said:
"I am sorry, Mlle. Brandès. Your room is occupied for a few days. We did not expect you till next week." The look of dismay on the newcomer's face must have appealed, for Madame added:
"But I shall put you in another room, a splendid apartment on the ground floor. You will like it. It will cost you only five dollars a day, tout compris. Do you speak French?" Easter nodded. She was so appalled at the price that she was speechless.
"But—but—" she stammered.
"Yes, I know," continued Madame in her native tongue and more pleasantly, "yes, I know, but it is only for one week and if Mlle. Brandès could see our waiting list!" That settled the matter. She bowed her head and soon a maid had her handbag open in a small bedroom adjoining a large well-furnished room, containing a grand pianoforte. There were three windows at the side. "The piano, it is the property of Monsieur Invern. He is away till next week," said the too confidential gossip. Easter handed her a tip and she bowed herself out. The chandelier gave plenty of light. There were bookcases. Much music. On the walls hung photographs of composers. Evidently the apartment of a musical person. She looked out of a window. An extension with skylights, and a noise of clattering dishes coupled with certain odours, not disagreeable to her nostrils, told her that the cuisine of the establishment was beneath. What she saw was the roof of the dining-room. Maison Felicé was one of those semi-hotels with table d'hôtes so popular in New York two or three decades ago. The cookery was French and notoriously good. Its fame spread to Virginia, where a friend of her mother's had secured, after the funeral of the poor woman, a letter of introduction to Madame Felicé. It was not easy to get into the hotel as a permanent guest.
Easter should have accounted herself lucky. She didn't. She was too miserably homesick for a home that no longer existed to bother about the exclusiveness of an hotel. Her glance traversed the lighted roof of the dining-room, and through the fast dropping snow it was arrested by a gloomy wall. Again her heart sank.
"My God!" she cried. "What a dismal prospect!" Without parents and in her wallet a hundred dollars she was alone in New York. The situation was almost melodramatic. That snowstorm viewed in the aperture between two buildings, and from the windows of a hired apartment, made an ineradicable impression. For the first time in her life she felt absolutely friendless.
Madame had told her the hour for dinner—7 till 8 p.m.; the luncheon was till 2 o'clock; and breakfast eaten in the room. A foreign atmosphere permeated the house. She turned away from the depressing night, lighted all the gas-burners, pulled down the shades and proceeded to make a modest toilette. Her trunk hadn't arrived, so she must eat her first meal in street clothes. No gong had sounded. Summoning courage she pressed a button. No answer, but from the sounds of talking and general bustle she knew that dinner was served. Another embarrassment. How to enter a dining-room full of strangers? Easter was a well-bred young woman, but not accustomed to the world; above all, to a Bohemian world. At the Maison Felicé, she had been informed, that the guests were celebrated. Singers, painters, actors, musicians there congregated. A perfect Bohemia where she would rub elbows, even speak to the people she most admired—artistic folk. She crossed a parlour, and found herself on a landing from which she could see a long table in the middle of the room, with little tables ranged along the walls. A numerous company was assembled, gabbling, eating, drinking, seemingly happy. An old chap with a bald head and grizzled moustaches saluted her rather markedly. His eyes were bloodshot. He looked prosperous and authoritative.
"I wish you the good-evening and a welcome, Mademoiselle," he said. "You must be tired and hungry. I am Monsieur Felicé. Come with me. I give you a table to yourself with only one other guest. But—a nice young man, I assure you, quite an old friend of the house." His speech was voluble, accompanied by many gestures. He was Provençal, his wife Swiss. He stared at the girl. She was pretty, though not to his taste. He preferred blondes. She sat herself at a table near the short flight of steps that led from the foyer to the salle-à-manger. She was alone. Soon her soup was served. It was like wine to her faded spirits. Easter felt more cheerful. Decidedly a full stomach is an obstacle to melancholy. She sipped a glass of red wine. Her humour began to mellow. The soup was excellent, the fish promising—and then there stood before her, slightly bowing, a small, slender young man who introduced himself:
"Papa Felicé tells me I am to have the honour of sitting at dinner with you. My name is Stone, Alfred Stone, at your service." His manner was a trifle formal. He looked about forty and was barely thirty. A young-old man, worn, though not precisely dissipated looking. Easter didn't know whether she liked or disliked him. She resented his presence because he disturbed her dreams. But when he asked her name she became interested.
"Papa Felicé says you are a singer, Miss Brandès. Brandès! That must be a Jewish name?"
"No, I am not Jewish. And my first name Esther! My father was born in Virginia. So was I. He may have had Jewish blood in his veins. I don't know. He said his father was a Dane—"
"Aha!" cried Stone. "Georg Brandes the Danish writer is a Jew, and there is Marthe Brandès of Paris, you know, the beautiful actress—"
"I've never been to Paris," interrupted Easter. "Is she a great actress this Marthe Brandès?"
"Not so great as alluring. Yes, she is great if compared with any English or American actress." His dark eyes glowed. He almost became animated. Easter listened with curiosity. A man who spoke with such surety was somebody. Who was this Mr. Stone? She tried him with a touch of flattery.
"You must have seen a lot of actresses to pass such a judgment." He became quite languid.
"Miss Brandès, I am a critic of the theatre and music." She eagerly responded:
"A