To Bertha from Marie Schubert – Date is approximate
Dearest Bertha,
Perhaps Dorothy has told you how bad luck has piled upon back luck with me. How Karl [Note: Her husband] has not only been out of work since before Christmas but has discovered that he has been ruptured on the other side. (You know he nearly died of paralysis of the stomach following an operation for rupture several years ago.) We just feel terribly about it for even if he had the money and the time (six months at least to recover.) He still would hardly have the courage to undergo such an ordeal again and if he doesn’t, well it means that he never will be quite well and added to this I have been having the darndest time with my sprained back. It is nearly three months now it is not as bad as it was but it is still quite sufficiently trying.
However, all is well with the most adorable Sonny Boy in the world. He’s just a little blessing.
To continue my melancholy news however (I’m so sorry to have so much of it). Catherine Melton isn’t at all well. It’s nerves which is, it seems to me, harder to bear than some more specific ailment. One day, it’s a swollen face, the next it’s shooting pains in her arms and another day it’s a rash and always a profound depression. It really is a pity. She’s thinking of giving up her position. She won’t tell her brother or let anyone else tell him. Dorothy and I are quite worried over her condition.
The three of us went to the Washington Society exhibit at the Corcoran. This year they had awards medal and mentions. Felicia Howell took the medal (It’s funny and again it’s rather tragic but I think a number of Washington artists were much chagrined at this). The medal picture was a foreground full of complicated forests of masts and ropes and a little patch of still water seen thru them. Very difficult but not beautiful particularly, really no excuse for such a picture except to display technique. Sort of a trick painting. Interesting as pulling rabbits out of one’s sleeve or infants nursing bottoms out of a bachelor’s pocket or something equally astonishing.
And guess who took the First Honorable Mention! SaraH Munroe. Also a trick picture sort of a puzzle picture, little-dabs-of-paint effect which did have sunshine in it. The subject so far as I could make out was an original damsel wearing a parasol to serve tea to an ultra-modest maiden who sits absolutely devoid of pedal extremities in a bunch of shrubbery, or perhaps it is a ghost rising like Venus from some troubled waters, but it wears a hat (at least I thought it was a hat). Well, anyway. Louise Herron loathed it and Dorothy Davidson contended that she could see why it took a mention. The discussion was becoming gesticulatory when an absolute stranger who had studied art at school (“taken a course of some kind” you know) couldn’t help but joining in. The picture had shocked her to say nothing of the shock of finding that the jury had awarded it a mention. Catherine and I had nothing to contribute to the discussion other than shrugs, the interchange of hopeless glances, and dumb misery. Sarah also had “an invalid” hung on the flat wall. Poor creature! Not only an invalid but hopelessly deformed! If you could have seen what came out of her sleeve… Good night! Dante never dreamed of anything hopeless looking as that. She looked like one of Henrik Jensen’s characters and amateur’s rendition of “addio del Passato.” There’s one thing about Sarah’s stuff one notices it.
Let me see who else was there. Miss Critcher had two children-on-a-beach-by-the-sea. Both Catherine and Dorothy gave themselves away by exclaiming when I said, “Why it’s Miss Critcher’s. It’s different from her usual style isn’t it? _____ sakes hush! There she is right behind you!”
I hadn’t been enticing, merely remarking, but their tones made me involuntarily cast a guilty glance about. Do you suppose she heard and saw?
Jerry Tarnsworth was there with a quite remarkable head of a man (a large canvas) and Wynne Johnson with a little pleasant landscape. Gertrude Heilprin had two nice things, a strangely looking bouquet in a beautifully rendered glass receptacle and a portrait of Corinne Cunningham. (Who was strolling about with her friend, husband, by the way, and cut Dorothy and Catherine and they cut her back and were both amused and indignant.)
The picture which I liked far away best of all and wanted was a wee little jewel of snow scene “_____” by entrance of the hemicycle. It was signed by somebody I never heard of and every stroke and tone and line was just right.
A number of the, what I call, professional art students were represented and or once in her life, Leila Mechlin was astoundingly gracious to everybody. My word, she was positively flowery in her write up, said that Washington artists had in this exhibit taken leading places in the ranks of our foremost contemporary geniuses and so forth for half a page, with a personal hat on the head for nearly every exhibition. Karl insisted that somebody had presented her with a little bootlegged Christmas cheer. It is certain that such condescension is unique in my knowledge of her career as a critic.
Everybody went about beaming and congratulating everybody else and the atmosphere radiated and wriggled with joy.
By the way, one of these Greenwich village effects explaining art to a blonde passed us on the way out (we had all been cordially requested to beat it by Mrs. Maier) and said to her, “that” pointing to the dancing maiden capering in the _____ draperies in front of the bull in the “Feast of Europa” (You know that big canvas in the room adjoin the hemicycle.) “That is the most beautiful female figure I’ve ever seen painted.” He would have continued but the blonde exclaimed gushingly, “yes, isn’t she dear!”
Catherine convulsed us by murmuring under her breath, “she’s a perfect pet!”
Speaking of pictures, Catherine wore a leaf brown coat with a jet black fur collar and a white camelia, a black hat (which shaded her eyes) across the top which was deaped the most delicious shade of velvet. I don’t know whether it was vermillion or orange but somehow it had a silvery tone thru it that took off the glare of the red. And as we came home at sunset, there was a golden light on one side of her face and twilight blue lights not shadows on the other side and I felt the long crushed desire to paint leaping up in me and that tantalizing miserable pleasure or pleasurable misery that feeling of “I could do something worthwhile if I could out down the beauty I can see and if I keep on trying maybe someday some happy day…?” I wonder…
Dorothy and I had quite a chat with Miss Millarde who tells us that Mr. Merryman is expecting an addition to his family soon. She told us her brother exclaimed at first view of his “infant. Oh, nurse. Haven’t you made a mistake?” And here is some news which comes I think two years too late. They are “never going to have that horrid Mr. Peiffer again!” It seems he has been putting all the models up to boosting their prices after their arrival here and the morning before beginning a pose. So poor Miss _____ has no choice but to pay it or do without a model till one can be telegraphed from New York and who may also boost the price upon arrival.
She also told us how Mr. Merryman is painting Secretary Daniels and what an amiable entertaining spirit he is and how a model the freshest of the fresh flounced in to have lunch with her (Miss M you know) and how she disposed of the creature. (This was not as snobbish as it sounds for the model was a terror.) Miss _____ said she could stand them almost any way but young bold ignorant and flip.
Speaking of models, it seems that a young woman accosted Mr. Mimmegerode in the school and asked if there was a free dispensary near as she had a fall and hurt her back, thinking her a student Mr. Mimmergerode took the greatest pains to the very most gracious thing and called up a friend (a physician and surgeon here) and told him that he was sending a “little friend” of his to be treated and “anything done for her would be a favor” to Mr. M and so forth. A little later, Mr. M was called to the phone and the physician’s wife (a happy spirit) wanted to know how long since Powell Minnegerode began taking such an interest in be backs of the models.
His “little friend” was a life model and talked volubly about how lovely Mr. M was to her. He’s been “living it down” ever since. Fancy it, Mr. M. Isn’t it lovely!
Speaking of Lee Daniels a few minutes ago reminded me of the furor at the Navy Department of which you have perhaps heard. The dear man retires in a din of battle. You know he has completely revised the whole “regulations” beginning by changing even the name of the book (for the better I think, U.S. Navy Regulations is less of a mouthful than Rules for Regulating the Government of the Navy of the United States) and then coolly sent the revised version to the Chief of “Operations” for his O.K. when he (Mr. See had struck out Chief of Operations a dozen time substituting Mr. Secretary in place of that outraged official – over and over again, the Secretary delegated to himself powers _____ vested in Board of Operations. They revised the M.S.S. and sent it back with “Secretary” struck out and “Chief of Board of Operations” replaced Mr. Secretary then once more revised it in his favor again, sent it to be printed and when the copies arrived instead of sending the to all the Bureau Chiefs and Rear Admirals etcetera. He merely handed a copy to each of his personal friends. Well, keeps the navy in fighting form.
I seem to be rambling on and on but before I finish I must tell you about last Sunday. Catherine had raved about Sonny Boy’s adorable little curves and dimples and so I called her to ask her to come over Sunday morning and see his fatness in the tub. He looks so darling splashing about and cooing in his bath, very paintable, rose leaf flesh tones in the bright water blue from the blue tub, his little reddish brown pompadour sitting up all over his topknot in wet little rings and his dark blue eyes so interested looking. So, as I said, I called her up and invited her to witness the bath. She said she would like to but that I reminded her that Laddie needed a bath so she couldn’t come.
Karl read a joke last night in the paper about friend husband reading to wifie about the millions of babies starving in Europe and China and wifie cries “_____ sakes that reminds me. I forgot to give fido his chop!”
To change the subject, there is the “original company of grand opera stars here this week at the national in Booth _____ “Monsieur Beaucaire” made into an operetta by a famous French composer. This company comes direct from London triumphs. I have always adored the story and considered it a masterpiece and I hope nothing will prevent me from hearing the musical version which I understand is excellent. It has always been a source of wonder to me that light opera and musical comedy should have such impossible plots or rather such a lack of plot. They are so patchy and helter-skelter and silly and farfetched as a rule. Dialogue and songs thrown together hit or miss and the kind of a story that it wouldn’t matter if the first act came last and the second act came first. It would be just as logical and certainly no more absurd one way than another.
Dear me, I’ve scratched upon a great deal of paper without saying anything of much importance I fear. At any rate, you will understand that the “spirit was willin’ even if the brains were feeble.” I’d love to have you at my _____ tea table just about now for I can still think of a number of things to chatter about. Add garrulity to an artistic temperament and result costs postage. So in order that stamps will leave space for the address I think. I’ll cork up my bottle and search for half a lemon to remove these mournful stains.
Take care of yourself and do write soon.
Loads of love, as always,
Marie
P.S.
Dolores’ address is “The Clearing” Ukiah, California. Catherine’s is 1911 Eye St., still, that apartment she hoped to get has not yet been vacated and she has almost given it up.