could,
“Unfortunately we were missing half the party. I hope next time to pick a better date.”
They glanced at each other.
Mrs. Brown said, “I hear your husband has joined the Rainier
Club.”
“Yes indeed. He seems to quite like it. He’s been there nearly every evening.”
“They do get involved with their cigars and their talk.”
“So I’ve heard,” I said. “I assume your husbands are often there as well?”
“Oh yes,” Mrs. Porter said.
“Then you must be as bored as I. Tell me, how do you spend your evenings? I’ve looked through the newspaper, but I’ve seen nothing but phrenologists and temperance lecturers at the Lyceum. Oh, and a cat trained to pick up a bottle and carry it offstage.”
Mrs. Brown smiled thinly. “There are plays, of course. At the Regal and the Palace. But we don’t go often.”
“No opera?”
“Now and again at Frye’s.” Mrs. Porter looked a bit uncomfortable. “Nothing like what you’re used to, I imagine.”
“Oh, it seems it’s been so long since I’ve been entertained, I imagine I could get used to anything. Even, I suppose, a trained cat.”
Mrs. Brown’s smile took on a pitying quality. “Our charity work manages to fill the empty hours and then some, Mrs. Langley, though I doubt that would interest you.”
“Charity work? I used to do some of that as well. My father financed a wing for Mercy Hospital,” I said. “And I helped him organize the financing for the Chicago Art Institute. And the artist studios, of course. They had such need for them, you couldn’t imagine. Why, Miles Ashby was working out of a shed! Can you imagine? A genius such as that! He said it was often so cold his paints would freeze before he could use them.”
“I see.” Mrs. Porter’s expression was so purely blank it could have been a slab of untouched marble. “Who is Miles Ashby?”
I laughed; for a moment I thought she was teasing. When I realized she wasn’t, I managed, “Why … you mean you haven’t heard of him?”
“No,” she said. “Unfortunately, we’ve more pressing concerns than artist studios here. The Relief Society has never been so overwhelmed. Orphans starving, women beaten, men who cannot feed their families … I’m sure you can imagine.”
I felt myself flush with embarrassment and felt a stab of anger for it, which I quickly tamped. “It is true I was more concerned in Chicago with my father’s art patronage. But what better help can we offer the world than to support those who give us truth and beauty?”
Mrs. Porter said, “I myself believe that truth and beauty are better appreciated on a full stomach. The starving and downtrodden must rather concern themselves with surviving. What good are artists if there is no population to see them?”
Again my anger flared. I reminded myself of what I wanted: a fresh start, friends, though I knew already that Mrs. Porter was unlikely to be one. Still, she was here. She had attended a pariah’s dinner, and she was willing to be seen with me, and regardless of the fact that it was no doubt because of her husband’s positionin Stratford-Brown Mining, she was an ally when I had too few. I forced myself to say, “Why, I’ve never looked at it quite that way before. Do you suppose … could the society use my help?”
Her glance to Mrs. Brown was quick and a bit panicked. Mrs. Brown said smoothly, “We should hate to impose, Mrs. Langley—”
“No, not at all,” I said quickly, and sincerely. Such charity work was not what I had in mind, but it was a start. At last here was something I might do, a way to fit in. And Nathan would be pleased at it—he could find no fault with homeless women and orphans. “And you did say the society was quite overwhelmed. I’d hate to have it be so, when I’m here and quite at liberty.”
They looked at each other. Mrs. Brown cleared her throat. “We would love to have you, Mrs. Langley, you understand, but unfortunately Mrs. Porter and I
“Unfortunately we were missing half the party. I hope next time to pick a better date.”
They glanced at each other.
Mrs. Brown said, “I hear your husband has joined the Rainier
Club.”
“Yes indeed. He seems to quite like it. He’s been there nearly every evening.”
“They do get involved with their cigars and their talk.”
“So I’ve heard,” I said. “I assume your husbands are often there as well?”
“Oh yes,” Mrs. Porter said.
“Then you must be as bored as I. Tell me, how do you spend your evenings? I’ve looked through the newspaper, but I’ve seen nothing but phrenologists and temperance lecturers at the Lyceum. Oh, and a cat trained to pick up a bottle and carry it offstage.”
Mrs. Brown smiled thinly. “There are plays, of course. At the Regal and the Palace. But we don’t go often.”
“No opera?”
“Now and again at Frye’s.” Mrs. Porter looked a bit uncomfortable. “Nothing like what you’re used to, I imagine.”
“Oh, it seems it’s been so long since I’ve been entertained, I imagine I could get used to anything. Even, I suppose, a trained cat.”
Mrs. Brown’s smile took on a pitying quality. “Our charity work manages to fill the empty hours and then some, Mrs. Langley, though I doubt that would interest you.”
“Charity work? I used to do some of that as well. My father financed a wing for Mercy Hospital,” I said. “And I helped him organize the financing for the Chicago Art Institute. And the artist studios, of course. They had such need for them, you couldn’t imagine. Why, Miles Ashby was working out of a shed! Can you imagine? A genius such as that! He said it was often so cold his paints would freeze before he could use them.”
“I see.” Mrs. Porter’s expression was so purely blank it could have been a slab of untouched marble. “Who is Miles Ashby?”
I laughed; for a moment I thought she was teasing. When I realized she wasn’t, I managed, “Why … you mean you haven’t heard of him?”
“No,” she said. “Unfortunately, we’ve more pressing concerns than artist studios here. The Relief Society has never been so overwhelmed. Orphans starving, women beaten, men who cannot feed their families … I’m sure you can imagine.”
I felt myself flush with embarrassment and felt a stab of anger for it, which I quickly tamped. “It is true I was more concerned in Chicago with my father’s art patronage. But what better help can we offer the world than to support those who give us truth and beauty?”
Mrs. Porter said, “I myself believe that truth and beauty are better appreciated on a full stomach. The starving and downtrodden must rather concern themselves with surviving. What good are artists if there is no population to see them?”
Again my anger flared. I reminded myself of what I wanted: a fresh start, friends, though I knew already that Mrs. Porter was unlikely to be one. Still, she was here. She had attended a pariah’s dinner, and she was willing to be seen with me, and regardless of the fact that it was no doubt because of her husband’s positionin Stratford-Brown Mining, she was an ally when I had too few. I forced myself to say, “Why, I’ve never looked at it quite that way before. Do you suppose … could the society use my help?”
Her glance to Mrs. Brown was quick and a bit panicked. Mrs. Brown said smoothly, “We should hate to impose, Mrs. Langley—”
“No, not at all,” I said quickly, and sincerely. Such charity work was not what I had in mind, but it was a start. At last here was something I might do, a way to fit in. And Nathan would be pleased at it—he could find no fault with homeless women and orphans. “And you did say the society was quite overwhelmed. I’d hate to have it be so, when I’m here and quite at liberty.”
They looked at each other. Mrs. Brown cleared her throat. “We would love to have you, Mrs. Langley, you understand, but unfortunately Mrs. Porter and I
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