Chapter XVIII

In the fall, after a most successful season so far as crops went, my mother decided she could not let me do the hard work of carrying on the farm in order to give her a home. She felt that it would be better for me to go to the city, while she would go to California to a brother who was unable to come to her but who was glad to have her make her home with his family. So after everything, including the farm and all belongings, were sold, and my mother had left for the western coast, Juno and I went back to the city, with a little Cocker spaniel which Juno had acquired, to start a new home of our own.

This time we took a large studio near the school where Juno was to begin her new duties. It was interesting to construct a cozy home in what seemed at first quite a big barn of a place. We went at it slowly and, as our tastes were alike, we reveled in each new idea.

I took up my brushes again with a strong feeling that perhaps I would still be able to fulfill at least one of the predictions which had been made for my future. In order to enhance my income, I was obliged to commercialize some of my art by making Christmas cards, favors, place cards, and the like, which did not appeal to me. Designing I loved. But when I found, upon showing what promised to be a good seller, that I was obliged to duplicate it perhaps hundreds of times, the work became very monotonous.

I became a sort of a machine with my hands, while my real joy was in the thoughts of our great love. The hours we were together, however, were indeed worth-while. During the “season” I had to work night and day as, in some way, my designs were always popular and I had to make hay, and wait for the duller times to do the kind of painting I really loved.

I seemed to be full of the beauties in nature which I had imbibed during my childhood, during my walks with my father. He would often take me out to see some wonderful sunset, which would not be of the spectacular kind to attract attention, of which I once heard some one say, “Oh, it’s just like a chromo!” She might have added “Ain’t nature grand!” But the things Father wanted me to see were the atmospheric effects and the dull blended colors which seemed to have such great depth and allure—some little glint of color which would but emphasize the duller yet vibrant backgrounds.

Of course, Juno would always think that each and every one of these little “tries” were wonderful, but would always look forward to the time when I might be able to work right before the subject which I was now able to recall only from memory.

These little oils were a joy to me as, once in a great while, I seemed to catch one little bit which pleased me. At times my friends would look at them and whenever they expressed a preference for one, I would give it to them, feeling happy that anyone could find something to admire in my crude attempts. Incident to this, I recall a day, years and years afterwards, when great changes had come in all our lives. I was being shown a collection of pictures which a brother of Juno’s had made and hung in his drawing room.

The millionaire, “multied” many times over, had died and left a few thousands to each of the nieces and nephews. The uncle had had a marvelous collection of rare canvasses which he willed to the city. The brother of whom I am speaking was keen to emulate the rich uncle and began backwards, as it were. Instead of regarding an art collection as the result of study and adequate riches acquired by hard work, he thought to use a large part of his inheritance in buying pictures. To me the drawing room looked very much like the picture sales room in a department store. There was not a painter’s name familiar to me, and the pictures had little merit, as far as I could see. I was frightfully embarrassed, for I felt he was waiting for my applause. I said little, hoping he would think it was from suppressed emotion that words failed me. Finally we came to rather a small canvas in a shadow box which attracted me. Here was my chance! I exclaimed: “Is this a Corot? How wonderful!” He smiled in a rather peculiar way and said, “That is what it is called.”

As I turned to him I saw there was a very quizzical expression on his face and asked him the cause of it. I was afraid I had made some awful _faux pas_. He said: “Don’t you _really_ know who painted that picture?” I told him I did not. He then turned on a stronger light and drew me up to the canvas. Much to my chagrin, there in the corner were my own initials which I had placed there over thirty years before. When he liked the thing I was doing I had given it to him in gratitude.

He said that everyone who saw the picture had thought as I did, yet it was not even an attempt at a copy. If one could be turned to color, I would say that something in me had always been in perfect harmony with Corot’s expressions of soul on canvas, as my heart has been in accord with the strains of harmony of Chopin’s music.

At that moment (remember, it was thirty years after the events of which I am writing) I felt the artistic personality in me rise up, pointing with a finger of shame because I had neglected to carry on the art work in which I believe I had some talent. However, I will now go back to the studio where, after busy days, each with her own work, Juno would rush into my longing arms for our night of love and peace.

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For some time Juno and I believed it to be wise to receive our men friends now and then as suitors, in order to blind our unsophisticated friends to our love for each other, firmly believing it to be unheard-of before. We believed it to be the highest type of love ourselves, however, and had nothing to hide from our point of view.

Our love for each other but increased by our contact with men. Never were we even tempted to have a male in our intimate lives. We were thoroughly bored when it was necessary for one to accept an engagement which would separate us for even a few hours.

We finally declined all such invitations, and it was then understood that while we loved to go to the theater and to concerts we preferred to go together. So tickets, flowers, candy, and the like were ever forthcoming for us to enjoy by ourselves. We would go to dinners with our men friends, but always when there were two escorts.

* * * * *

We grew perhaps rather selfish with our free time, somewhat to the distress of our families and our old friends. With each other there was never a selfish act or thought.

One old friend of ours, quite a philosopher, whom we had often visited at her country home in the summer, watched us very carefully. We dined with her (she was unmarried and lived alone with only her servants in attendance) regularly once a week during the winter, as did she with us. She told us that in the five years she had been in our lives she had been trying to discover which of us two was the selfish one, and she had not been able to find an answer.

Having about the same income, we decided at the first to have but one bank account. When our friends knew this a breakup of our friendship was predicted. Men especially said it would never work—that money should be kept out of any friendship just as it should not be allowed to come between husband and wife. Notwithstanding these warnings, we never had a clash on that account. Each wanted the other to have the lion’s share. But there was no lion. We each had what we needed and all was share and share alike.

In this union my role was the one which was the most natural to me, that of the male. Not that Juno was ever one to sit down and let me wait on her hand and foot with never a move to do little things for me, as do some women I have known. It was in the greater things that I always took the lead. In our travels about the city and outside, I always bought the tickets, engaged cabs, let her enter a car or door first, and saw that she got a seat if possible. Not that these were “great things,” but I use them as an illustration of my attitude of protection, which was my very nature.

An incident comes to my mind which may further explain the point. Years after the studio days, we were returning home together after our work. It was raining. Juno was suffering from her monthly illness and I was most anxious to get her home as soon as possible. We lived so far up town that a cab was impossible, considering our state of finances. We were obliged to change cars at an intersection where our car had to turn a corner before it stopped for us. Men who were waiting for the same car would go and get on before the car turned the corner, while it was still moving. By the time it got to us it would be filled, with “standing room only” available. A car was approaching, and I saw an opportunity for a seat. I told Juno to stand close to me. Then as the car approached I grabbed the upright bar (it was an open car as it was summer) and stood back for her to climb on. A man came up behind me and tried to push my arm away from the hold I had. I turned a bit without relinquishing my hold and gave the man (well-dressed, with every appearance of a gentleman) a mighty shove with my shoulder so that he went sprawling in the mud.

Juno got her seat without knowing what had happened. I went past her and sat down and in came the muddy man and sat next to me. As he did so I turned and said, “I’m sorry we have to forget our sex sometimes as you seem to do.” Quite taking my breath away he politely raised his hat and said, “Madam, you did exactly right and I apologize for forgetting myself.”

It was always my desire to make Juno comfortable and happy and to guard her from anything undesirable. Our friendship was the envy of all of our friends, both married and single. It was an ideal union of two souls.

The girls in the school all adored Juno and when later I was asked to take up the duties of chaperone for some hours (oh, yes, these girls were carefully guarded!) I became very much interested in them as a class and I had reason to believe that I too was popular with the girls.

A few days after the opening of the new term a dear, new girl from the Middle West came to Juno in tears and, weeping on her neck, declared she must go home that very day. She simply could not stay in such a wicked place. She had been shocked beyond endurance. She told Juno that her room-mate, a girl in a higher class had, last night after hours, given a “smoker” in their room, and she was disgraced for life. Juno gave her what comfort she could and turned her over to the president-owner of the school, whose duty it was to turn out “finished” girls. The principal remarked to Juno afterwards that this same child would probably give the next “smoker” in less than two weeks. Such apt teachers are the girls in a fashionable “finishing school for girls.” She was right. Little “Mid West” had been initiated.

Both Juno and I liked this particular girl beyond most of the others. We made a great exception in her case and let her come to our apartment once in a while for tea, when we were free. These days for her were evidently marked with large “red letters.” As she was to come into my life many years after, this is the reason for introducing her now.