She Walks in Beauty (7 page)

“Yes, of course it’s a shovel. But what is it destined for?”

“Something very … deep.”

“Yes.”

“And rather … narrow.”

“Yes.”

I was beginning to perspire behind the ears. “And … I really don’t know, Aunt.”

“Well, you’d better know! And I’ll tell you now: It’s a marrow shovel.”

“A marrow shovel.” I had not known there was such a thing.

“Yes. To dig it out of a bone.” Exasperation was evident in her tone.

“Is there a reason why I couldn’t just use a knife?”

“Would you like me to give you a toothpick as well? In fact, why not pick the whole bone up with your hands? And then wipe them on the table linen once they’ve become soiled? Any more questions?”

I did indeed have more questions. But what I wanted to know most of all was why I had been told to betray my closest friend. But I didn’t ask her. I couldn’t. I didn’t know how to do it.

6

BY THE TIME Thursday afternoon came, I was battling a headache two days old.

And Lizzie exploded in a display of hysterics when she saw me. As soon as she could, she latched on to my arm. “Did you see him?”

“Who?”

“The heir! At church!”

I nodded.

“Then tell me what he looked like. We arrived too early and by the time I knew he was there, we had already left.”

“He was . . .” I tried to disengage her gloved hand from my arm. “I’m not sure exactly which one he was.”

Lizzie only hung on tighter. “But what do you mean?”

“There were two. Two young men in the De Vries pew.”

“Then tell me what they both looked like and I’ll tell you which one he was.”

But how could she possibly know? “The first was darkhaired. . . .”

She nodded.

“Actually, they were both dark-haired.”

“I adore men with dark hair!”

“And … the one was wearing a frock coat.”

“What color?”

“Gray. Really, Lizzie, could you stop grasping at me?”

She dropped me from her clutches. “And the other?”

“An Inverness.”

She wrinkled her nose. “An Inverness? I’ve never liked them. I hope that one’s not the heir. Although maybe … maybe I could just throw it away once I’d married him.”

Throw it away? She would just throw someone’s clothes away?

“Or you could. So. They both have dark hair.”

“Yes. The one combs it back, like this.” I swept my hand from my brow over the crown of my head.

“The one in the frock coat or the Inverness?”

“The frock coat.”

“And the other?”

I shrugged. “He didn’t seem to care much where his hair went or what it was doing.”

Her lips crimped into a frown and then suddenly lifted. “The one in the frock coat’s the heir.”

“But how do you know?”

“I just do.” That question settled, Lizzie launched into a recital that took at least ten minutes to perform: who had been seen with whom and what they had been wearing.

I had just opened my mouth to ask her about her training for our debut when she spoke again.

“And did you see that woman in church? The one wearing the Havana brown-colored mantle? Mama said she hadn’t seen one in years! I can’t imagine that anyone would find it attractive.”

“Perhaps she was just trying to stay warm.”

“Warm! Why would warmth matter on a Sunday morning? One can get by with a stole at a dance and one can wear a higher collar at a reception, but on Sunday morning? Everyone sees you as you are. For a full hour and a half. Some from the back, and some from the side. No, there is no day so important to fashion as a Sunday!”

Lizzie left me quite as pained as she had found me, her words and general good humor ringing in my ears.

The next day with Aunt was given over to the practice of polite conversation. I was almost looking forward to it. There were so many interesting things of which to speak. The poor and the Riis book. Tammany Hall and politics. Since Miss Miller’s departure, I had longed to find someone with whom to discuss the issues of the day.

“The first rule is that there must be no mention of any unpleasant topic.”

No unpleasant topics? “But then … what is there of interest to converse about? And why wouldn’t I want to know what Mr. De Vries thinks about . . .” In my haste I had almost confessed to reading the Riis book. A thing that I had become quite sure I must not do.

“About?”

But why shouldn’t I confess to reading the Riis book? Any person with any kind of conscience would be aghast at the things that went on in the city. I lifted my chin and answered her question directly. “About the Jacob Riis book, for instance.”

“And how do you know about the Riis book?”

“Miss Miller gave me a copy.”

Aunt frowned. “Lies. Everything that man says is a lie. He’s an immigrant, for goodness’ sake!”

“There are photographs in the book. I could show you! All those poor people who live in the tenements on the Lower East Side—”

“He’s a liar. As for Mr. De Vries, he’ll think what any other normal person thinks about the poor: Some races are simply inferior to our own. The Irish, for instance. And the Italians. If they’re poor and they live in tenements, then it’s their own fault.”

“I don’t think anyone would choose to live in a building that’s falling down upon them.”

“Exactly. So if they do, then there’s bound to be something wrong with them, isn’t there?”

“Do you really think that’s what the heir thinks?” Could he truly be so unfeeling?

“That’s what most people with any sense believe. If God wanted the poor to prosper, then they would. If they’re not, then they deserve what they get. And of course that’s what he’ll think. Which is why there’s no need to mention it. Why speak of such unpleasantness when there are so many other things of which to speak? There must be no mention of politics or religion or any other objectionable topic. Nothing which will offend any of your listeners. Nothing which will lead to any lengthy sort of conversation. And you must always enunciate.”

No politics, religion, or any other objectionable topic. What was left?

“Now you may practice.”

“Practice … what?”

“Conversing.”

“With whom?”

Aunt looked down, pointedly, at the dog dozing on her lap.

“The dog can’t talk.”

“And neither will most of the people you attempt to converse with. It is always to your advantage to know how to carry on a conversation with a person who cannot or will not speak.”

“I couldn’t just say, for example, ‘Good day’? And then leave?”

“You could not.”

“It’s rather difficult to speak to someone who’s sleeping.”

Aunt roused the dog and then set it on the tea table. It blinked and opened its mouth for a yawn, exposing a row of sharp tiny teeth and a little pink tongue.

“You may begin.”

I directed my attention to the dog and, against all reason, began to speak to it.

“I hope you’re feeling well today.” Or at least better than yesterday, when it, or one of the other two, had dug up a flower bulb and become violently ill soon thereafter. I wish it had died and saved the rest of us from the stench of its indigestion.

“No. No. You may absolutely not ask any person about their health.”

I tried again. “It is so very good to meet you.”

The dog tilted its head to one side. In that posture, its skull very nearly disappeared into its fur. It looked like cushion. How I wished that I could tuft it with buttons, embroider it with flowers, and give it away as a gift. I smiled. “I have so often wanted to make your acquaintance.”

Aunt frowned, but she did not interrupt.

“Did you enjoy the … opera?”

The dog said nothing.

“I found it quite uplifting.”

Aunt coughed. “Remember that the first opera of the season will be
Romeo and Juliet
.”

“Uplifting in a tragic sort of way.”

The dog sighed and reached a foot up to scratch at its ear.

With starts and stops and prompts from Aunt, I talked to that dog for what seemed like an hour.

Aunt glanced at the clock on the mantel. “Ten minutes. Not bad. For a start.” She kept me practicing until I could talk for half of an hour without a prompt. “Most likely the opportunity to converse will come during dinner or at some reception or other event where you’ll also be able to ask for a glass of punch or otherwise distract your conversation partner.” She lifted the creature from the table and set it back on her lap. “Now then, a conversation such as that one will always stand you in good stead, even when the person you are conversing with does not wish to respond. Except, of course, if you are being cut.”

“Being cut?”

“Being snubbed. In that case it is expected that you would stop speaking and leave the person immediately to his or her own devices.”

“What if … I am by myself? How would I leave? If I’m not to go anywhere unescorted?”

Aunt’s brows seemed in danger of disappearing into her hair. “By yourself? When would you be by yourself?”

“I don’t know.”

“And neither do I. In any case, the proper way to be cut is not to acknowledge that you have been cut, but simply to pretend that it is your decision—in fact, your greatest desire—to leave that person’s presence.”

It sounded terribly humiliating. But … “What if I don’t know that I’m being cut?”

“If you are being cut, you will know it. Someone who knows you will suddenly refuse to acknowledge you. Someone to whom you are waiting to be introduced will turn away just as the introduction is about to be made. There are a hundred ways to cut a person and believe me, all of them will register upon that person. For that, after all, is the intention.”

I nodded, hoping that it would never happen to me.

“But you must also learn how to cut.”

“How to—?”

“How to snub someone.”

“Why would I ever want to snub someone?” The dark confines of her room seemed to have swallowed me. Nothing she was saying made sense.

“Not everyone who has met you need be acknowledged. Especially those you meet at dances.”

“At dances? Not even those I dance with?” How could I dance with someone without acknowledging him?

“Especially not those you dance with. Not unless it’s advantageous to know them.”

“But that doesn’t seem—”

“A true gentleman will never expect to be acknowledged if the only place he has met you is a dance.”

“Really?”

She nodded. “Truly. And in that case, he will provide you with an opportunity either to acknowledge or to cut him.”

“He will?” Why would he do that?

“He will. Must I always repeat myself?”

“No.” If I raised my hand to my head, I was sure I would feel my temple throbbing.

“Now then. If you do not wish to acknowledge someone, if you wish to cut them, then you must not give them the opportunity to speak to you.” Her jet earrings trembled at her vehemence. “You must either remove yourself from their presence, or you must make it clear that you do not wish to speak to them.”

“So … I should ignore them?”

Those stern lips suddenly smiled. “Very good. That is one way in which it can be done. You might also refuse to meet their eye. You might refuse to offer a hand. You might refuse to speak.”

“But then … wouldn’t they … keep on speaking? The way that you just taught me to do?”

“Ah. Perhaps, but only on the condition that they did not know they were being cut, and the first thing about cutting is that it must be done in such a way that the person knows he is being snubbed.”

I practiced the delicate art of cutting someone in a dozen different ways and by then, I could not keep myself from objecting to the course of instruction. “I have had a headache for three days now in succession.”

“I expected you might. It comes from trying to assimilate
en masse
those lessons which ought to have been taught, little by little, over the course of several years.”

“Might I, perhaps, excuse myself? To lie down and rest before dinner?”

“Lie down and rest? For a headache? Certainly not! The most useful remedy is to spend ten minutes walking backward. And it will improve your posture as well.” She nodded toward the hall. “Go on. It will be good for you.”

I took myself out of her bedroom and into the hall.

“And not too quickly! Slowly. And precisely!”

7

MY SOCIAL ETIQUETE was not the only thing to fall under Aunt’s mania for improvement. She ordered a new hallstand and a new card receiver for the front hall. She decided the furniture in the parlor needed a rearrangement. And she forced a flurry of new French recipes onto the cook. One morning when she found me in the parlor, she turned her attentions to my person.

“I have come to decide that your lips are too large. Too wide.”

I raised my hand to cover them.

“Yes. That is one thing you can do. You can hide them behind your hand . . .” She cocked her head and pursed her lips. “But then one might think that you were yawning. Perhaps better to use a fan. In my day, we all practiced saying the letter
P
. It had the advantage of puckering the lips. Of making them appear smaller than they were. Try it.”