Kristin clenched one hand over the other in her lap.
"Well, speak up."
"I don't know, Papa,” she quavered.
"You don't know? What does that mean?"
"I don't remember very clearly.” Nor was she sure what he had seen.
"She doesn't remember.” Various members of the family echoed him in sepulchral tones.
"Well, let me tell you what you've done."
Kristin waited to hear.
"You have disgraced your family. You have attempted to lure your sister's fiance away from her."
"I have not!” said Kristin, surprised out of her anxiety and humiliation.
"Perhaps hoping that the bigger dowry would be yours."
A silence ensued as Kristin wondered why, aside from her most recent transgression, her dowry had to be smaller than Minna's. Her father seemed to be waiting for her to speak. Finally he said, “It would seem that you cannot find an excuse for your conduct."
No one seemed to be blaming Mr. Cameron for what had happened. A seed of bitterness that had lain fallow in the meadow of Kristin's family feelings began to grow. Mr. Cameron was wealthy and could contribute to their prosperity, while she, being a girl, had nothing to offer and no defense unless she spoke up for herself.
"It seems to me, Papa,” she said, trying to sound brave and reasonable, “that any man who urges strong spirits on his fiancée's sister and then makes an attempt on her virtue, which you seem to think he did—well, he's no gentleman. Hardly someone you'd want to marry your daughter."
"Don't you dare suggest,” shrieked Minna, “that I give up Mr. Cameron!"
"And how can any woman call herself a lady,” said Kristin, “when she deliberately leaves her fiance cooling his heels while she sits gossiping with female friends?"
Minna turned scarlet and began to stammer with fury.
"Be silent, both of you,” roared Mr. Traube. “And you, Kristin, since you think yourself old enough to lecture me—and your sister—and to sit in my library drinking brandy as if you were a man, as if you were one of your brothers instead of a mere girl, perhaps you also think you're old enough to go into the world and fend for yourself."
Did he mean to put her to work at the sausage factory like Heinrich II, Ludovich, Otto, and Baldwin? Kristin wondered apprehensively. It was a terrible place. She couldn't imagine working there in all the heat and noise, where everything was permeated with grease, and pig innards lay slippery and noisome under foot.
"Very well,” said her father, as if she had agreed. “Go. Pack your things."
He stood and took his money clip from the inner pocket of his frock coat. “Nor do I intend to be stingy with you, even though you have been a thankless, disgraceful daughter. I have started your brothers off in life, and I will do the same for you. With the fine education I've given you, you will doubtless find a job somewhere."
Kristin stared at her father. He meant for her to leave the house? To leave the protection of her family? To look for work and live in some shabby room, eating what little she could afford, never enough, like the poor creatures she had heretofore rescued in railroad stations?
He counted out a pile of greenbacks on the table. “Pass that to your sister,” he said grandly, handing the lot to Heinrich II. As the money traveled from Heinrich to Otto to Kristin, Mr. Traube said, “Go out into the world. Make your own way, since you cannot keep the rules of my house or of society. Then perhaps, if you prove to me that you can live a respectable life and if you see the error of your ways, we will readmit you to this family. I expect you to leave after breakfast tomorrow."
Kristin sat staring at the stack of bills that rested beside her plate. Part of her wanted to spurn the money. However, good sense prevailed. She raised a hand from her lap and closed slender fingers around the greenbacks.
"Now leave the table."
Kristin rose. In a second she was gone from the room.
Mr. Traube carved the roast with a grand ferocity. Minna was the first to break the silence. “You have done just right, Papa,” she said triumphantly.
"I do not need you to pass judgment on my conduct of family affairs,” said Mr. Traube, using the knife to cut slices of roast and place them on each plate.
"No, of course not, Papa,” said Minna, “but she had no right to throw herself at my fiance. I shall have to teach Mr. Cameron a lesson about—"
"You will treat Mr. Cameron with the respect and duty you owe him,” said Mr. Traube. “If you had kept your dinner engagement, this would not have happened."
Minna flushed. “I think he got the night wrong."
"She's lying,” said Otto. “I saw the card in his flowers. She means to make him a hen-pecked husband."
Heinrich Traube, in whose mind all respect and obedience were owed to the man of the family, said to his daughter, “I have provided you with the handsomest of dowries. If, after my generosity, you destroy this opportunity, I may reconsider what you are worth on the marriage market. You may find yourself married to some butcher down in South Chicago or not married at all. Do I make myself clear?"
Minna went pale. “Yes, Papa,” she hastened to assure him. “I will not let Mr. Cameron get away. I understand that he is of financial importance to the family."
"Good. See that you do not put your pride above our interest."
"Kristin's banishment,” said Heinrich II, “may prove an embarrassment to the family. And we should remember that Minna hates Kristin."
"Why do you say that?” demanded Hildegarde Traube.
"Minna used to pinch her,” said Ludovich, “even when she was a baby. That's why Kristin cried so much."
"I did not,” said Minna.
"You did too,” said Otto. “Because she was pretty and you were jealous."
"She's jealous of me!” screeched Minna and pinched Otto.
"Did you see that?” Ludovich crowed. “She's still pinching."
"Silence!” roared Mr. Traube. His offspring all cowered against the backs of their chairs. Then Mr. Traube smiled. “Who knows,” he said, having exacted his due in terror, “I may relent by breakfast time and let her stay."
"A fine joke, Papa,” said Ludovich admiringly, and the family members began to pile their plates with creamed potatoes, bread, and vegetables richly drenched in lard, the product of Mr. Traube's own sausage-making empire.
"What are you doing, lass?” asked the housekeeper.
"I'm packing,” said Kristin, brushing away another fall of tears. “I've been told that I must leave the house."
"Pish-posh. He'll ha’ changed his mind by mornin'."
"Papa never changes his mind, Lottie. He's always telling us that. He said that I must make my own way in the world.” The very thought terrified her, but she was too proud to show it. “I see this as a great opportunity,” she said, trying to sound brave and optimistic. “Now I can pursue the career as an artist that I gave up two years ago because Papa insisted.” She bent to fasten a strap, hiding her tears. “Of course, I can never marry, having been dishonored, but I shall become a famous artist. Papa will wish he hadn't driven me away."
"And who will buy enough paintings to support you?"
"Mrs. Potter Palmer.” Just thinking of Mrs. Palmer gave Kristin courage. “And Papa has given me money to make a start on my new career."
"Has he? How much?” asked Lottie. Kristin pointed to the pile of greenbacks on the table by her bed. Lottie counted it. “Stingy as always,” she muttered.
"Really?” Kristin's heart sank. She knew very little about finances, having been given only trifling sums each week. Her major expenses—clothing and gifts—came out of her father's pocket, so the amount he provided had seemed generous, a small source of reassurance—that and her talent—as she faced the frightening prospect of being separated from a lifetime of security.
"This won't last long,” said Lottie. “You're a babe in the woods where money's concerned. And where will you go?"
"To my friend Genevieve
's.” Kristin had considered taking refuge with Aunt Frieda, the only member of the family who was consistently kind to her, but she had decided that such a course would be unfair to Aunt Frieda. Her aunt might take her in, but it would cause a rift between the sisters and would endanger Aunt Frieda's position in society now that Kristin was an outcast. Also Kristin's father hated Aunt Frieda for her anarchist opinions on women's suffrage and property rights. Therefore, it had to be Genevieve's. Instead of feeling terrified and bereft, she should be thanking God that she had a talent on which to build a new life and a friend to take her in.
Kristin finished tying another bundle. “Now, I have packed enough canvas to start my professional life, but I must choose what clothes to take. Several dresses suitable for tea with Mrs. Palmer, of course, smocks for when I am painting, a ball gown for exhibitions—why are you groaning, Lottie? That seems a practical list to me."
"Even if he lets you go, he'll soon decide that it's a shame to ha’ a daughter in exile. After all, no one knows of your disgrace except the family. Is this Genevieve a good woman? Yes? Then I suppose she can watch over you an’ see you come to no harm. ‘Twill only be a day or so.” Lottie patted Kristin's shoulder. “You'll see, lassie."
Once Lottie had gone, Kristin thought about facing the family at breakfast. No one had defended her at the dinner table. No one had come to commiserate with her since. And they wouldn't. Her mother and brothers, even if they felt sorry for her, wouldn't risk Papa's wrath. Breakfast would be more hurtful than dinner had been.
Hearing on the street below the rattle of a carriage and the clip-clop of horses’ hooves, she fantasized that Mr. Cameron was coming to rescue her from her cruel family. But what nonsense that was, she chided herself. Mr. Cameron was no handsome prince! He was a scoundrel, and no one would be coming to rescue her. So why wait? She might as well go tonight. Obviously, she could not call upon Mrs. Palmer at such an hour, but Genevieve took in young women at all hours, and Kristin had money to pay for a cab.
Not sure whether this decision represented bravery or cowardice, Kristin rang for the upstairs maid and sent her to the attics to fetch down the cases Kristin used on summer trips to the country. Having packed her art supplies—paints, brushes, pencils, drawing paper—she strapped an easel to the side of the suitcase. Then she selected the clothing she had mentioned to Lottie and packed those items, followed by everything else she had room for. Maybe she would never return. Instead she would become a famous artist, the toast of Chicago society, from which position she could snub Mr. Cameron and her parents. By the time she had finished packing, the house was silent, all the occupants having gone to bed. Kristin herself was sleepy.
She lugged the cases, one by one, down the stairs and placed them at the front door in the great hall, which was now silent and dark, lit by only one lamp, trimmed low, its flame safe in the glass casing.
She went to the back of the house and knocked timidly at the door of her father's driver. When Carl answered, he was clad only in his trousers and undershirt, a pipe clenched in his teeth.
"Carl,” she said, embarrassed to have him staring at her puffy, tear-reddened eyes, “I must impose upon you to get me a hackney cab."
The man shook his head. "Gross Gott!" he exclaimed. “What are things coming to in this family when the little princess is put out in the street?"
Kristin flushed. Obviously the story had been whispered through the servants’ quarters already. Perhaps Carl would refuse to help her because she was a fallen woman. She sniffed back tears. “I don't want to have to go afoot, Carl. Surely it's not good for a young woman to be on the streets at night."
The driver turned, tapped out the bowl of his pipe into a dish he kept for that purpose, and got his shirt. “I'll find you a cab, miss.” And so he did, first packing it with her mountain of luggage, then helping her in. “Go with God,” he muttered as he closed the door and Kristin waved to him through the window, taking a last look at “the house that sausage built,” as she often thought of it. Her father's mansion, of which both parents were so proud, was massive, ornate, and tasteless. When she was famous and could afford her own house, she would build something much nicer, she told herself.
Still, it was terrible to leave home with no member of the family to see her off. Would they have done so had she stayed for breakfast? Well, no matter. She must face the change bravely. Her grandmother had come to this country all on her own when her family died in a typhoid epidemic. If Grossmutter could do that, Kristin could surely embark on a new life in the country where she had always lived. Tomorrow she would call upon Mrs. Potter Palmer and make a start.
During the cab ride between her father's mansion and Genevieve's boarding house, Kristin's fears were forgotten in the wonder of nighttime Chicago. Because she was alone, she could look at everything, breathe in, with the cold March air, the mystery of her own city. Shades of black. Halos of gaslight blossoming tenuously in the dark, shining on cobblestones like oil swells. Flashes of color as people appeared and disappeared, moving indistinctly through pools of soft radiance and her field of vision.
Oh, if she could paint this, catch the black glow, the golden aureoles crowning the lamp posts, under which stood men in evening clothes and top hats, impressions without details or color, only line and shadow. What techniques would she use? Perhaps those of the new school rising in Paris—Independents they called themselves, or Impressionists. Kristin had seen a few pieces of their work at Mrs. Palmer's house and at exhibitions. There was an American woman among them—Mary Cassatt. Perhaps someday Kristin could go to Paris herself.
Her heart raced with excitement as in her head the painting of midnight streets took shape. “Nightscape in Chicago,” she'd call it. Her fingers trembled for the feel of a brush, the smell of oils. How could she have frittered away these two years in desultory activity, seeing and painting nothing new, expending her time and energy on good works and social calls when she should have been reaching for new goals that beckoned the eyes and fingers of an artist? And she was an artist!
Perhaps Mr. Cameron had done her a favor in forcing her out of her safe, dull niche. Lottie had said the family would come for her. But did Kristin want that? Maybe God didn't mean for her to live an ordinary life circumscribed by the expectations of her father and thereafter whatever man her father chose for her, a husband who would have to be deceived into thinking that she was pure. How much better to stay single, live a Bohemian life, and put onto canvas insights into places and people that came from her heart, her eye, her brush.
"We're here, miss,” called the driver. “You sure this is the address you want?"
Kristin peered out and saw a three-story frame house, many-windowed but of no architectural distinction, on a street crowded with similar structures. She noticed for the first time the stench of the slaughter houses. She had arrived in South Chicago, the least desirable of districts. Even so, she was filled with glowing optimism as she hastened up Genevieve's steps, hugged the surprised woman, and tipped the driver generously to carry in her fourteen trunks, suitcases, and bundles.
Book II
The Bohemian Spinster Artist
Chapter Three
Nothing had worked out as she'd hoped, as she'd dreamed, Kristin thought. She huddled into the Medici collar of her blue mantle and boarded a narrow-gauge train in Como, Colorado, a nasty little coal-mining and railroad town in the middle of a treeless plain surrounded by mountains. She was on her own and terrified, thousands—maybe millions—of miles from home. The difficulties of getting here had certainly made it seem that far.
Once aboard, she folded the mantle carefully on the seat beside her. She was wearing a cream-colored suit with elaborate blue cording rising in points from the bottom of her flared skirt and the wrists of her jacket and decorating the lapels. The bright blue of her hat and gloves and the blue leather of her high-buttoned boots matched the passementerie on her suit. Kristin's traveling costume would have been seasonable in many sections of the
country. Here in April, winter still had a grip on Colorado. The previous train had traveled through snow from which spring flowers had just begun to peek. Birds exploded ahead of the engine from evergreens still frosted with white. Small ground creatures scuttled about, their tracks peeking snow fields. As the second train wound higher into the next mountain range, a rotary snowplow cleared the tracks ahead of them and sent whirlwinds of snow crystals to either side of the engine.
Still, whether or not her costume was seasonally appropriate, Kristin was the most fashionably dressed person on the train. She had more baggage, undoubtedly, than anyone else—fourteen pieces, which had caused endless commentary at Genevieve's house, at the Chicago railroad station where the conductor had made her pay extra, by Maeve Macleod, to whose house Kristin went in Denver, and now by various railroad employees between Denver, Como, and Breckenridge. She had a more extensive wardrobe than a bride on a wedding trip, than a famous artist setting across the ocean to paint on the continent, but she had no money. Kristin was probably the best dressed woman in all of Colorado. And the poorest. The most disillusioned. The most disheartened and melancholy.
Dreams, she had discovered, were not the forerunners to reality. She had dreamed of being a famous, Bohemian, spinster artist. But Mrs. Potter Palmer had been out of the country, unavailable to launch Kristin's career. Then Kristin had turned to Mrs. Sara Hallowell of the Chicago Interstate Industrial Exposition, an art expert who advised the Palmers on their collection, a woman so forceful that she had almost succeeded, just the year before, in forcing Heinrich Traube to let one of Kristin's paintings be shown at the exposition. But Mrs. Hallowell was no help! She had advised Kristin to go home to her family and make a good marriage.
Mrs. Drusilla Weems, a member of the Palette Club at whose exhibitions Kristin's paintings had been shown when she was still the schoolgirl protege of Sister Ermentrude, had told Kristin that it took years, even decades, to establish oneself as a self-supporting artist. She showed Kristin a picture of an elk with immense, overbalancing antlers, painted in Colorado and already sold. Then she offered Kristin a glass of wine, had three herself, and advised Kristin to try for mural commissions at businesses or in the nurseries of women with child since Kristin couldn't afford to travel to Colorado to paint elk. Unfortunately, the Palmer House, even given Kristin's connection to Mrs. Potter Palmer, had not been interested in a mural, and an expectant mother in Genevieve's district, when Kristin offered to paint a nursery mural, had called her a lunatic and summoned a policeman. So much for her dreams of being an artist!
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