Chapter XIV

Manning stopped school the year after the family moved into their new home. He had had a year at Harvard and a year or so at art school. Now, at twenty-two, he felt that he was a sculptor. His father was disappointed—Manning had started out a nice boy—it did seem that one of the boys....

But Manning shrugged sensitive shoulders at anything as crude as the clothing business, even wholesale. His soul was not in such things. And Mr. Ross had to admit that the position of model was about the only one in the establishment that Manning could have filled. Manning went in, rather heavily, for the arts that the rest of the family had neglected. Of course Dorothea read, but Manning thought she skimmed too lightly over real literature. And Irwin—an impossible, material fellow.

Manning wore his hair a trifle long. He talked knowingly of Byzantine enamels and the School of Troyes. He knew Della Robbia and the Della-Cruscans. There was nothing he didn’t know about French ivories. He knew how champlevé enamelling differed from other methods ... there were few mysteries for Manning. His personal contributions to Wanty consisted of fantastic heads, influenced slightly by the French of the Fourteenth Century, in bas-relief—very flat relief, of course.

Manning’s friends felt they formed a real part of New York’s “new serious Bohemia.” They ate in “unexploited” Greenwich Village restaurants, never complaining about the poorly cooked food, sitting for hours at the bare, painted tables, talking eagerly in the dim candle or lamp light. They expressed disgust when “uptowners” discovered their retreats and sometimes moved elsewhere. You could find them every Saturday and Sunday night in parties of from four to ten, at the Brevoort, sometimes with pretty girls who didn’t listen to what they were saying, sometimes with homely little “artistic” ones, hung with soiled embroidered smocks, who listened too eagerly, talking of life and art, revolution and undiscovered genius.

There was no question that Manning’s father should continue his allowance—there is no money in sincere art these days. Manning knew that even his father must recognize that. Manning spent his summer with the family on Long Island—it was hot in town. But, when one’s family is of the bourgeoisie, it does draw one’s energy so. In the autumn Manning decided he must have a real studio, some place he could work and expand, going to “the town house” for week-ends. Having one’s family uptown was quite all right, of course—but you couldn’t expect an artist to live with them.

Mr. Ross agreed to the studio. He was getting accustomed to Dorothea’s friends, unbelievers though they were. He found he could not accept the artistic friends that Manning thought so delightful.

Manning found his studio, finally. The rent was terrific, of course, but the building had been rebuilt at great expense and was absolutely desirable in location, construction, everything. He furnished it himself in Italian and Spanish Renaissance things. Rather nice! When it was furnished—though they probably couldn’t “get it” he’d let the family see it.

One Sunday, after a family reunion dinner, Manning announced that his studio was done. If the family liked they might all run down that way—a sort of informal reception ... of course, they probably couldn’t understand it all....

It was in the Village, of course, but not “of” it. Did they think the Village was slumming? Uptown people did. But that’s where you’d find real thought, people who accomplished things....

“Why, my new studio has real atmosphere”—Manning ran his fingers through his hair as he spoke. “It’s in a wonderful old building, magnificent lines and the architect left them all—it’s just inside he’s remodelled. I’ve the third floor front, two magnificent rooms, a huge fireplace, some lovely Italian things ... and the view from the window is so quaint and artistic ... of course you may not understand it ... this family ... it’s just a block from Washington Square.”

“Why, that’s where....” began Mrs. Ross.

Irwin silenced her.

“Don’t begin old times, Mamma. Most of us haven’t as long memories as you,” he said.

“Come on, now that we’re all here, let’s go down,” Manning went on, “I want you to see something really artistic. A friend of mine, DuBroil—I think you’ve met him—did me a stunning name plate in copper, just my name, Manning Cuyler Ross. I’m so glad I took Cuyler for a middle name last year. And there is just the single word, ‘masks.’ I thought it was—rather good. And I’ve a stunning bit of tapestry on the south wall. Come on—you’ve got your cars here, we’d better get started—”

It was a pleasant drive. The three cars drew up, almost at once, in front of Manning’s studio, as he, in the front car, pointed it out to them.

They made quite a party as they turned out in front of the building—a prosperous American family—Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln Ross, well-dressed, commanding, in their fifties, which isn’t old, these days; MacDougal Adams, plump, pompous; Yvette Ross Adams, in handsome furs and silks; Jack Morton, sleek, black-haired; his always exquisitely gowned wife, Carolyn Ross Morton; Irwin Ross, in a well-fitting cutaway, eyebrows raised inquiringly, chatting alertly; Dorothea Ross, attractive and girlish in rough tan homespun, and Manning Cuyler Ross, their host, pleasantly artistic.

“Here’s the place,” said Manning. “No elevator, real Bohemia, three flights up, uncarpeted stairs. Come on, Mother.”

Mrs. Ross was strangely pale, and on the faces of Yvette and Irwin and MacDougal Adams there were curious shadows. The rest, save for Mr. Ross, were too young to remember. As for him he broke, for the first time in years, into a broad smile. Manning went rattling on.

“This,” he proclaimed, “is the way to live! None of your middle-class fripperies. Plain living, high thinking—this is the life!”

They came to the studio at last, and all stood about in silence while Manning explained its charms—the clear light, the plain old woodwork, the lovely view of the square, the remote, old-world atmosphere. In the midst of his oratory Mr. Ross sidled up to Mamma Ross and reached stealthily for her hand.

“Do you remember, Minnie,” he whispered, “this room—this old place—those old days—”

“Hush,” said Mamma Ross, “the children will hear you.”

AMY’S STORY