Russel Wallace, which proposed that no modern person could be
said, objectively, to be "fit enough" to reproduce and that, in fact, excessive human
reproduction would certainly destroy the world as they knew it. Mrs. Bell talked about
these ideas with approbation for several weeks.
Mercer Hart was a fairly young man, and had gone to Kenyon College. Dora and
Margaret were eager for a look at him, but when they met him, they found him to be
excessively polite--though, at least, taller than Elizabeth. They briefly perked up when
Mrs. Bell reported that Mercer's grandfather had been a Jew, but (they fell again into
indifference) the grandfather had converted, and upon coming to St. Louis, Mercer had
joined her very own Methodist church. Anyway, the unusual and estimable thing about
St. Louis, according to Mrs. Bell, was that people of all faiths lived there side by side,
and many of the best families were Catholic--you couldn't avoid that, given that the city
was founded by the French, with the Irish, the Italians, and the Germans "hot on their
tail," as Mr. Bell said. All the best women's clubs had all types of women in them ("as
long as they're rich," said Lavinia).
Mrs. Bell was a more lackadaisical chaperone than Lavinia. The streetcars had
been the scene and occasion of a great strike only a year before--track had been blown
up, electrical lines cut, and any number of men killed on both sides. Dora clung to the
view that the policemen had committed tremendous crimes against the strikers. Whenever
Mr. Bell fumed that the strikers had gotten off "scot-free," Dora's rejoinder was "Only a
little starvation and destitution here and there," but she said it under her breath, and out of
the hearing of her father. But no one stopped them when, one day, Margaret followed
Dora out of the house on Kingshighway and they took the streetcar to Stix, Baer & Fuller.
They ended up riding it to the end of the line and back, staying out for most of the day.
Their excuse was that it was raining, and that they had to stay on the streetcar so as not to
get their shoes wet, but no one asked them for an excuse.
As delightful as it was to go to Stix and look at the floors and the counters and the
shelves of goods (lawns, organdies, mousselines, dimities, silks, velvets, laces of all
kinds), Margaret enjoyed the streetcar itself more, for the power with which it surged
away from every stop, for the airy breeze that blew her hair about and endangered her
hat, for the swaying motion both lulling and exciting.
The very next day, they went out again, and got on another streetcar, and since it
was not raining, they went to Mr. Shaw's garden, which was south on Kingshighway and
past Tower Grove Park. They walked along the paths and looked at the trees, reading the
labels beneath them, then wandered about the all-glass Linnean House for as long as they
could stand the heat. The next day, they went out again.
Dora was most observant of the passersby, whether they were walking or riding
the streetcar or wandering through the departments of Stix, Baer & Fuller. She would
scrutinize them without seeming to, and then, when they weren't looking, she would
produce some expression or gesture of perfect mimicry. Most of the people they saw
were men, and so the effect was quite amusing. Her pencil might turn for an instant into a
cigar, her parasol into a cane, her hat into a homburg, her smile into a supercilious smirk.
The crowds they encountered were transformed into a gallery of types, all oblivious. For
Margaret, there was the added pleasure of watching the eyes of these men pass
indifferently over Dora just seconds before she put their idiosyncrasies--something as
tiny as a gorge-clearing or an unconscious pull of an ear--on display. Margaret laughed
aloud, drawing the attention of Dora's target, at which point Dora would pass effortlessly
into her most maidenly demeanor.
One day, on the streetcar up to
said, objectively, to be "fit enough" to reproduce and that, in fact, excessive human
reproduction would certainly destroy the world as they knew it. Mrs. Bell talked about
these ideas with approbation for several weeks.
Mercer Hart was a fairly young man, and had gone to Kenyon College. Dora and
Margaret were eager for a look at him, but when they met him, they found him to be
excessively polite--though, at least, taller than Elizabeth. They briefly perked up when
Mrs. Bell reported that Mercer's grandfather had been a Jew, but (they fell again into
indifference) the grandfather had converted, and upon coming to St. Louis, Mercer had
joined her very own Methodist church. Anyway, the unusual and estimable thing about
St. Louis, according to Mrs. Bell, was that people of all faiths lived there side by side,
and many of the best families were Catholic--you couldn't avoid that, given that the city
was founded by the French, with the Irish, the Italians, and the Germans "hot on their
tail," as Mr. Bell said. All the best women's clubs had all types of women in them ("as
long as they're rich," said Lavinia).
Mrs. Bell was a more lackadaisical chaperone than Lavinia. The streetcars had
been the scene and occasion of a great strike only a year before--track had been blown
up, electrical lines cut, and any number of men killed on both sides. Dora clung to the
view that the policemen had committed tremendous crimes against the strikers. Whenever
Mr. Bell fumed that the strikers had gotten off "scot-free," Dora's rejoinder was "Only a
little starvation and destitution here and there," but she said it under her breath, and out of
the hearing of her father. But no one stopped them when, one day, Margaret followed
Dora out of the house on Kingshighway and they took the streetcar to Stix, Baer & Fuller.
They ended up riding it to the end of the line and back, staying out for most of the day.
Their excuse was that it was raining, and that they had to stay on the streetcar so as not to
get their shoes wet, but no one asked them for an excuse.
As delightful as it was to go to Stix and look at the floors and the counters and the
shelves of goods (lawns, organdies, mousselines, dimities, silks, velvets, laces of all
kinds), Margaret enjoyed the streetcar itself more, for the power with which it surged
away from every stop, for the airy breeze that blew her hair about and endangered her
hat, for the swaying motion both lulling and exciting.
The very next day, they went out again, and got on another streetcar, and since it
was not raining, they went to Mr. Shaw's garden, which was south on Kingshighway and
past Tower Grove Park. They walked along the paths and looked at the trees, reading the
labels beneath them, then wandered about the all-glass Linnean House for as long as they
could stand the heat. The next day, they went out again.
Dora was most observant of the passersby, whether they were walking or riding
the streetcar or wandering through the departments of Stix, Baer & Fuller. She would
scrutinize them without seeming to, and then, when they weren't looking, she would
produce some expression or gesture of perfect mimicry. Most of the people they saw
were men, and so the effect was quite amusing. Her pencil might turn for an instant into a
cigar, her parasol into a cane, her hat into a homburg, her smile into a supercilious smirk.
The crowds they encountered were transformed into a gallery of types, all oblivious. For
Margaret, there was the added pleasure of watching the eyes of these men pass
indifferently over Dora just seconds before she put their idiosyncrasies--something as
tiny as a gorge-clearing or an unconscious pull of an ear--on display. Margaret laughed
aloud, drawing the attention of Dora's target, at which point Dora would pass effortlessly
into her most maidenly demeanor.
One day, on the streetcar up to
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