Read Online Dreamers of the Day by Mary Doria Russell - Free Book Online
Authors: Mary Doria Russell
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led me to an elaborately mirrored private dressing room, lifted Rosie’s paw, and wagged it in the direction of a curtained screen. “Off you go, Mommy,” she said in a baby voice, as though Rosie herself were speaking. “You’re going to park that girdle for good!”
The new underthings laid out for me were dauntingly simple and unconstructed, but with my hair decisively cut, there was no turning back. While I changed, Mildred perched on a stool, chattering about her rapid rise at Halle’s from stock girl to sales and telling me all about her boyfriend, Les Hope, who was thinking of changing his name to the jazzier Bob. “He’s a terrific dancer,” Mildred said, and I didn’t have the heart to point out that “terrific” means very frightening, not good. “He gives lessons, but that’s just temporary, y’know. He’s going to be a star—just you wait and see! Here, now, try this on.”
She stuck a hand through the curtains; in it was a limp length of ivory charmeuse. “No, really, Mildred,” I started to protest. “I have no use for—”
“Just try it!”
The fabric slid over me like a waterfall, and I let Mildred adjust its drape before I looked in the three-way mirror. Then—my fingers went to my lips. What had been woefully inadequate in the era of the Gibson girl was now a slim, elongated, shimmering elegance. And the color made my complexion look fresh as cream.
Mildred clapped her hands like the delighted child she was. “I just knew you’d be a knockout in that dress! Do you have pearls? Oh, my gosh, you’d be positively stunning in pearls!”
Agnes, don’t be foolish. You don’t want that dress,
said Mumma.
It’s completely impractical. What you want is a good woolen skirt and a nice cotton blouse that can take bleach and stand up to hard use. Where on earth would someone like you wear a silk charmeuse—?
“I’ll take it,” I heard myself say.
Piece by piece over the next two hours, a wardrobe was assembled. Like a butterfly in reverse, I drew on one cocoon after another. With every change of outfit, a new and different Agnes appeared in the mirror, and Mumma hated them all.
Tailored frocks with boyish collars and turned-back cuffs, belted low.
(You look like a stick in those things.)
Simple straight skirts in good Scottish wool, to be worn under the most beautiful costume tunics in crepe de Chine and printed silks.
(They’ll be ruined the first time you wash them.)
Round-necked voile blouses with hand-drawn embroidery work.
(You’ll snag the openings, Agnes, you know how careless you are.)
Shoes next, three pairs.
(Two are enough, surely. One for church and one for everyday. Why would anyone need three pairs of shoes?)
A long loose overcoat in jade green wool, with a deep shawl collar—stunningly expensive, but the loveliest thing I’d ever worn.
I brought you up to think of others,
Mumma said with a defeated sigh.
The moment I’m gone, you sink into selfish profligacy
.
I will give an equal amount to charity, I promised silently.
“I’ll take it,” I said aloud.
With the dressing room filled and me beginning to wonder where on earth I’d hang all these clothes once I got them home, the jubilant Mildred crooked a varnished finger and led me out to a cosmetics counter. While my purchases were being bagged and boxed, my lips were to be rouged and my eyes smudged with kohl.
“Oh, Mildred, really, I couldn’t!” Balking at long last, I gestured toward my forehead and confided my reluctance. “It will draw attention to—”
“What?” she asked.
“My eye,” I whispered.
“What about it?”
“Well, it—it crosses.”
“Which one?”
“The right. It crosses. When I’m tired.”
She shrugged. “So? Take naps.” She stared hard and finally admitted, “I suppose it does turn in, but it’s not that bad. Makes you look…like you’re really paying attention. Anyway, you’ve got lovely lips. We’ll play them up.”
Mildred and the Elizabeth Arden
The new underthings laid out for me were dauntingly simple and unconstructed, but with my hair decisively cut, there was no turning back. While I changed, Mildred perched on a stool, chattering about her rapid rise at Halle’s from stock girl to sales and telling me all about her boyfriend, Les Hope, who was thinking of changing his name to the jazzier Bob. “He’s a terrific dancer,” Mildred said, and I didn’t have the heart to point out that “terrific” means very frightening, not good. “He gives lessons, but that’s just temporary, y’know. He’s going to be a star—just you wait and see! Here, now, try this on.”
She stuck a hand through the curtains; in it was a limp length of ivory charmeuse. “No, really, Mildred,” I started to protest. “I have no use for—”
“Just try it!”
The fabric slid over me like a waterfall, and I let Mildred adjust its drape before I looked in the three-way mirror. Then—my fingers went to my lips. What had been woefully inadequate in the era of the Gibson girl was now a slim, elongated, shimmering elegance. And the color made my complexion look fresh as cream.
Mildred clapped her hands like the delighted child she was. “I just knew you’d be a knockout in that dress! Do you have pearls? Oh, my gosh, you’d be positively stunning in pearls!”
Agnes, don’t be foolish. You don’t want that dress,
said Mumma.
It’s completely impractical. What you want is a good woolen skirt and a nice cotton blouse that can take bleach and stand up to hard use. Where on earth would someone like you wear a silk charmeuse—?
“I’ll take it,” I heard myself say.
Piece by piece over the next two hours, a wardrobe was assembled. Like a butterfly in reverse, I drew on one cocoon after another. With every change of outfit, a new and different Agnes appeared in the mirror, and Mumma hated them all.
Tailored frocks with boyish collars and turned-back cuffs, belted low.
(You look like a stick in those things.)
Simple straight skirts in good Scottish wool, to be worn under the most beautiful costume tunics in crepe de Chine and printed silks.
(They’ll be ruined the first time you wash them.)
Round-necked voile blouses with hand-drawn embroidery work.
(You’ll snag the openings, Agnes, you know how careless you are.)
Shoes next, three pairs.
(Two are enough, surely. One for church and one for everyday. Why would anyone need three pairs of shoes?)
A long loose overcoat in jade green wool, with a deep shawl collar—stunningly expensive, but the loveliest thing I’d ever worn.
I brought you up to think of others,
Mumma said with a defeated sigh.
The moment I’m gone, you sink into selfish profligacy
.
I will give an equal amount to charity, I promised silently.
“I’ll take it,” I said aloud.
With the dressing room filled and me beginning to wonder where on earth I’d hang all these clothes once I got them home, the jubilant Mildred crooked a varnished finger and led me out to a cosmetics counter. While my purchases were being bagged and boxed, my lips were to be rouged and my eyes smudged with kohl.
“Oh, Mildred, really, I couldn’t!” Balking at long last, I gestured toward my forehead and confided my reluctance. “It will draw attention to—”
“What?” she asked.
“My eye,” I whispered.
“What about it?”
“Well, it—it crosses.”
“Which one?”
“The right. It crosses. When I’m tired.”
She shrugged. “So? Take naps.” She stared hard and finally admitted, “I suppose it does turn in, but it’s not that bad. Makes you look…like you’re really paying attention. Anyway, you’ve got lovely lips. We’ll play them up.”
Mildred and the Elizabeth Arden
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