_ The opening of the house in Michigan Avenue occurred late in
November in the fall of eighteen seventy-eight. When Aileen and
Cowperwood had been in Chicago about two years. Altogether, between
people whom they had met at the races, at various dinners and teas,
and at receptions of the Union and Calumet Clubs (to which Cowperwood,
through Addison's backing, had been admitted) and those whom
McKibben and Lord influenced, they were able to send invitations
to about three hundred, of whom some two hundred and fifty responded.
Up to this time, owing to Cowperwood's quiet manipulation of his
affairs, there had been no comment on his past--no particular
interest in it. He had money, affable ways, a magnetic personality.
The business men of the city--those whom he met socially--were
inclined to consider him fascinating and very clever. Aileen being
beautiful and graceful for attention, was accepted at more or less
her own value, though the kingly high world knew them not.
It is amazing what a showing the socially unplaced can make on
occasion where tact and discrimination are used. There was a
weekly social paper published in Chicago at this time, a rather
able publication as such things go, which Cowperwood, with McKibben's
assistance, had pressed into service. Not much can be done under
any circumstances where the cause is not essentially strong; but
where, as in this case, there is a semblance of respectability,
considerable wealth, and great force and magnetism, all things are
possible. Kent McKibben knew Horton Biggers, the editor, who was
a rather desolate and disillusioned person of forty-five, gray,
and depressed-looking--a sort of human sponge or barnacle who was
only galvanized into seeming interest and cheerfulness by sheer
necessity. Those were the days when the society editor was accepted
as a member of society--de facto--and treated more as a guest than
a reporter, though even then the tendency was toward elimination.
Working for Cowperwood, and liking him, McKibben said to Biggers one
evening:
"You know the Cowperwoods, don't you, Biggers?"
"No," replied the latter, who devoted himself barnacle-wise to
the more exclusive circles. "Who are they?"
"Why, he's a banker over here in La Salle Street. They're from
Philadelphia. Mrs. Cowperwood's a beautiful woman--young and all
that. They're building a house out here on Michigan Avenue. You
ought to know them. They're going to get in, I think. The Addisons
like them. If you were to be nice to them now I think they'd
appreciate it later. He's rather liberal, and a good fellow."
Biggers pricked up his ears. This social journalism was thin
picking at best, and he had very few ways of turning an honest
penny. The would be's and half-in's who expected nice things said
of them had to subscribe, and rather liberally, to his paper. Not
long after this brief talk Cowperwood received a subscription blank
from the business office of the Saturday Review, and immediately
sent a check for one hundred dollars to Mr. Horton Biggers direct.
Subsequently certain not very significant personages noticed that
when the Cowperwoods dined at their boards the function received
comment by the Saturday Review, not otherwise. It looked as though
the Cowperwoods must be favored; but who were they, anyhow?
The danger of publicity, and even moderate social success, is that
scandal loves a shining mark. When you begin to stand out the
least way in life, as separate from the mass, the cognoscenti wish
to know who, what, and why. The enthusiasm of Aileen, combined
with the genius of Cowperwood, was for making their opening
entertainment a very exceptional affair, which, under the
circumstances, and all things considered, was a dangerous thing
to do. As yet Chicago was exceedingly slow socially. Its movements
were, as has been said, more or less bovine and phlegmatic. To
rush in with something utterly brilliant and pyrotechnic was to
take notable chances. The more cautious members of Chicago society,
even if they did not attend, would hear, and then would come ultimate
comment and decision.
The function began with a reception at four, which lasted until
six-thirty, and this was followed by a dance at nine, with music
by a famous stringed orchestra of Chicago, a musical programme by
artists of considerable importance, and a gorgeous supper from
eleven until one in a Chinese fairyland of lights, at small tables
filling three of the ground-floor rooms. As an added fillip to
the occasion Cowperwood had hung, not only the important pictures
which he had purchased abroad, but a new one--a particularly
brilliant Gerome, then in the heyday of his exotic popularity--a
picture of nude odalisques of the harem, idling beside the highly
colored stone marquetry of an oriental bath. It was more or less
"loose" art for Chicago, shocking to the uninitiated, though
harmless enough to the illuminati; but it gave a touch of color
to the art-gallery which the latter needed. There was also, newly
arrived and newly hung, a portrait of Aileen by a Dutch artist,
Jan van Beers, whom they had encountered the previous summer at
Brussels. He had painted Aileen in nine sittings, a rather brilliant
canvas, high in key, with a summery, out-of-door world behind
her--a low stone-curbed pool, the red corner of a Dutch brick
palace, a tulip-bed, and a blue sky with fleecy clouds. Aileen
was seated on the curved arm of a stone bench, green grass at her
feet, a pink-and-white parasol with a lacy edge held idly to one
side; her rounded, vigorous figure clad in the latest mode of
Paris, a white and blue striped-silk walking-suit, with a
blue-and-white-banded straw hat, wide-brimmed, airy, shading her
lusty, animal eyes. The artist had caught her spirit quite
accurately, the dash, the assumption, the bravado based on the
courage of inexperience, or lack of true subtlety. A refreshing
thing in its way, a little showy, as everything that related to
her was, and inclined to arouse jealousy in those not so liberally
endowed by life, but fine as a character piece. In the warm glow
of the guttered gas-jets she looked particularly brilliant here,
pampered, idle, jaunty--the well-kept, stall-fed pet of the world.
Many stopped to see, and many were the comments, private and
otherwise.
This day began with a flurry of uncertainty and worried anticipation
on the part of Aileen. At Cowperwood's suggestion she had employed
a social secretary, a poor hack of a girl, who had sent out all
the letters, tabulated the replies, run errands, and advised on
one detail and another. Fadette, her French maid, was in the
throes of preparing for two toilets which would have to be made
this day, one by two o'clock at least, another between six and
eight. Her "mon dieus" and "par bleus" could be heard continuously
as she hunted for some article of dress or polished an ornament,
buckle, or pin. The struggle of Aileen to be perfect was, as
usual, severe. Her meditations, as to the most becoming gown to
wear were trying. Her portrait was on the east wall in the
art-gallery, a spur to emulation; she felt as though all society
were about to judge her. Theresa Donovan, the local dressmaker,
had given some advice; but Aileen decided on a heavy brown velvet
constructed by Worth, of Paris--a thing of varying aspects, showing
her neck and arms to perfection, and composing charmingly with her
flesh and hair. She tried amethyst ear-rings and changed to topaz;
she stockinged her legs in brown silk, and her feet were shod in
brown slippers with red enamel buttons.
The trouble with Aileen was that she never did these things with
that ease which is a sure sign of the socially efficient. She
never quite so much dominated a situation as she permitted it to
dominate her. Only the superior ease and graciousness of Cowperwood
carried her through at times; but that always did. When he was
near she felt quite the great lady, suited to any realm. When she
was alone her courage, great as it was, often trembled in the
balance. Her dangerous past was never quite out of her mind.
At four Kent McKibben, smug in his afternoon frock, his quick,
receptive eyes approving only partially of all this show and effort,
took his place in the general reception-room, talking to Taylor
Lord, who had completed his last observation and was leaving to
return later in the evening. If these two had been closer friends,
quite intimate, they would have discussed the Cowperwoods' social
prospects; but as it was, they confined themselves to dull
conventionalities. At this moment Aileen came down-stairs for a
moment, radiant. Kent McKibben thought he had never seen her look
more beautiful. After all, contrasted with some of the stuffy
creatures who moved about in society, shrewd, hard, bony, calculating,
trading on their assured position, she was admirable. It was a
pity she did not have more poise; she ought to be a little harder
--not quite so genial. Still, with Cowperwood at her side, she
might go far.
"Really, Mrs. Cowperwood," he said, "it is all most charming. I
was just telling Mr. Lord here that I consider the house a triumph."
From McKibben, who was in society, and with Lord, another "in"
standing by, this was like wine to Aileen. She beamed joyously.
Among the first arrivals were Mrs. Webster Israels, Mrs. Bradford
Canda, and Mrs. Walter Rysam Cotton, who were to assist in receiving.
These ladies did not know that they were taking their future
reputations for sagacity and discrimination in their hands; they
had been carried away by the show of luxury of Aileen, the growing
financial repute of Cowperwood, and the artistic qualities of the
new house. Mrs. Webster Israels's mouth was of such a peculiar
shape that Aileen was always reminded of a fish; but she was not
utterly homely, and to-day she looked brisk and attractive. Mrs.
Bradford Canda, whose old rose and silver-gray dress made up in
part for an amazing angularity, but who was charming withal, was
the soul of interest, for she believed this to be a very significant
affair. Mrs. Walter Rysam Cotton, a younger woman than either of
the others, had the polish of Vassar life about her, and was "above"
many things. Somehow she half suspected the Cowperwoods might not
do, but they were making strides, and might possibly surpass all
other aspirants. It behooved her to be pleasant.
Life passes from individuality and separateness at times to a sort
of Monticelliesque mood of color, where individuality is nothing,
the glittering totality all. The new house, with its charming
French windows on the ground floor, its heavy bands of stone flowers
and deep-sunk florated door, was soon crowded with a moving,
colorful flow of people.
Many whom Aileen and Cowperwood did not know at all had been invited
by McKibben and Lord; they came, and were now introduced. The
adjacent side streets and the open space in front of the house
were crowded with champing horses and smartly veneered carriages.
All with whom the Cowperwoods had been the least intimate came
early, and, finding the scene colorful and interesting, they
remained for some time. The caterer, Kinsley, had supplied a small
army of trained servants who were posted like soldiers, and carefully
supervised by the Cowperwood butler. The new dining-room, rich
with a Pompeian scheme of color, was aglow with a wealth of glass
and an artistic arrangement of delicacies. The afternoon costumes
of the women, ranging through autumnal grays, purples, browns, and
greens, blended effectively with the brown-tinted walls of the
entry-hall, the deep gray and gold of the general living-room, the
old-Roman red of the dining-room, the white-and-gold of the
music-room, and the neutral sepia of the art-gallery.
Aileen, backed by the courageous presence of Cowperwood, who, in
the dining-room, the library, and the art-gallery, was holding a
private levee of men, stood up in her vain beauty, a thing to
see--almost to weep over, embodying the vanity of all seeming
things, the mockery of having and yet not having. This parading
throng that was more curious than interested, more jealous than
sympathetic, more critical than kind, was coming almost solely to
observe.
"Do you know, Mrs. Cowperwood," Mrs. Simms remarked, lightly, "your
house reminds me of an art exhibit to-day. I hardly know why."
Aileen, who caught the implied slur, had no clever words wherewith
to reply. She was not gifted in that way, but she flared with
resentment.
"Do you think so?" she replied, caustically.
Mrs. Simms, not all dissatisfied with the effect she had produced,
passed on with a gay air, attended by a young artist who followed
amorously in her train.
Aileen saw from this and other things like it how little she was
really "in." The exclusive set did not take either her or Cowperwood
seriously as yet. She almost hated the comparatively dull Mrs.
Israels, who had been standing beside her at the time, and who had
heard the remark; and yet Mrs. Israels was much better than nothing.
Mrs. Simms had condescended a mild "how'd do" to the latter.
It was in vain that the Addisons, Sledds, Kingslands, Hoecksemas,
and others made their appearance; Aileen was not reassured.
However, after dinner the younger set, influenced by McKibben,
came to dance, and Aileen was at her best in spite of her doubts.
She was gay, bold, attractive. Kent McKibben, a past master in
the mazes and mysteries of the grand march, had the pleasure of
leading her in that airy, fairy procession, followed by Cowperwood,
who gave his arm to Mrs. Simms. Aileen, in white satin with a
touch of silver here and there and necklet, bracelet, ear-rings,
and hair-ornament of diamonds, glittered in almost an exotic way.
She was positively radiant. McKibben, almost smitten, was most
attentive.
"This is such a pleasure," he whispered, intimately. "You are
very beautiful--a dream!"
"You would find me a very substantial one," returned Aileen.
"Would that I might find," he laughed, gaily; and Aileen, gathering
the hidden significance, showed her teeth teasingly. Mrs. Simms,
engrossed by Cowperwood, could not hear as she would have liked.
After the march Aileen, surrounded by a half-dozen of gay, rudely
thoughtless young bloods, escorted them all to see her portrait.
The conservative commented on the flow of wine, the intensely nude
Gerome at one end of the gallery, and the sparkling portrait of
Aileen at the other, the enthusiasm of some of the young men for
her company. Mrs. Rambaud, pleasant and kindly, remarked to her
husband that Aileen was "very eager for life," she thought. Mrs.
Addison, astonished at the material flare of the Cowperwoods, quite
transcending in glitter if not in size and solidity anything she
and Addison had ever achieved, remarked to her husband that "he
must be making money very fast."
"The man's a born financier, Ella," Addison explained, sententiously.
"He's a manipulator, and he's sure to make money. Whether they
can get into society I don't know. He could if he were alone,
that's sure. She's beautiful, but he needs another kind of woman,
I'm afraid. She's almost too good-looking."
"That's what I think, too. I like her, but I'm afraid she's not
going to play her cards right. It's too bad, too."
Just then Aileen came by, a smiling youth on either side, her own
face glowing with a warmth of joy engendered by much flattery.
The ball-room, which was composed of the music and drawing rooms
thrown into one, was now the objective. It glittered before her
with a moving throng; the air was full of the odor of flowers, and
the sound of music and voices.
"Mrs. Cowperwood," observed Bradford Canda to Horton Biggers, the
society editor, "is one of the prettiest women I have seen in a
long time. She's almost too pretty."
"How do you think she's taking?" queried the cautious Biggers.
"Charming, but she's hardly cold enough, I'm afraid; hardly clever
enough. It takes a more serious type. She's a little too
high-spirited. These old women would never want to get near her;
she makes them look too old. She'd do better if she were not so
young and so pretty."
"That's what I think exactly," said Biggers. As a matter of fact,
he did not think so at all; he had no power of drawing any such
accurate conclusions. But he believed it now, because Bradford
Canda had said it. _