Madame Soubrine
Robes
She forgot everything in the catlike smile of Madame Soubrine herself, a stout blackhaired perhaps Russian woman who came out to her from behind a curtain with outstretched arms, while other customers waiting on sofas in a sort of Empress Josephine parlor, looked on enviously.
“My dear Mrs. Herf, where have you been? We’ve had your dress for a week,” she exclaimed in too perfect English. “Ah my dear, you wait … it’s magnificent. … And how is Mr. Harrpiscourt?”
“I’ve been very busy. … You see I’m giving up my job.”
Madame Soubrine nodded and blinked knowingly and led the way through the tapestry curtains into the back of the shop.
“Ah ça se voit. … Il ne faut pas trravailler, on peut voir dejà des toutes petites rrides. Mais ils dispareaitront. Forgive me, dear.” The thick arm round her waist squeezed her. Ellen edged off a little. … “Vous la femme la plus belle de New Yorrk. … Angelica Mrs. Herf’s evening dress,” she shouted in a shrill grating voice like a guineahen’s.
A hollowcheeked washedout blond girl came in with the dress on a hanger. Ellen slipped off her gray tailored walkingsuit. Madame Soubrine circled round her, purring. “Angelica look at those shoulders, the color of the hair. … Ah c’est le rêve,” edging a little too near like a cat that wants its back rubbed. The dress was pale green with a slash of scarlet and dark blue.
“This is the last time I have a dress like this, I’m sick of always wearing blue and green. …” Madame Soubrine, her mouth full of pins, was at her feet, fussing with the hem.
“Perfect Greek simplicity, wellgirdled like Diana. … Spiritual with Spring … the ultimate restraint of an Annette Kellermann, holding up the lamp of liberty, the wise virgin,” she was muttering through her pins.
She’s right, Ellen was thinking, I am getting a hard look. She was looking at herself in the tall pierglass. Then my figure’ll go, the menopause haunting beauty parlors, packed in boncilla, having your face raised.
“Regardez-moi ça, cherrie;” said the dressmaker getting to her feet and taking the pins out of her mouth. “C’est le chef-dœuvre de la maison Soubrine.”
Ellen suddenly felt hot, tangled in some prickly web, a horrible stuffiness of dyed silks and crêpes and muslins was making her head ache; she was anxious to be out on the street again.
“I smell smoke, there’s something the matter,” the blond girl suddenly cried out. “Sh‑sh‑sh,” hissed Madame Soubrine. They both disappeared through a mirrorcovered door.
Under a skylight in the back room of Soubrine’s Anna Cohen sits sewing the trimming on a dress with swift tiny stitches. On the table in front of her a great pile of tulle rises full of light like beaten white of egg. Charley my boy, Oh Charley my boy, she hums, stitching the future with swift tiny stitches. If Elmer wants to marry me we might as well; poor Elmer, he’s a nice boy but so dreamy. Funny he’d fall for a girl like me. He’ll grow out of it, or maybe in the Revolution, he’ll be a great man. … Have to cut out parties when I’m Elmer’s wife. But maybe we can save up money and open a little store on Avenue A in a good location, make better money there than uptown. La Parisienne, Modes.
I bet I could do as good as that old bitch. If you was your own boss there wouldn’t be this fightin about strikers and scabs. … Equal Opportunity for All. Elmer says that’s all applesauce. No hope for the workers but in the Revolution. Oh I’m juss wild about Harree, And Harry’s juss wild about me. … Elmer in a telephone central in a dinnercoat, with eartabs, tall as Valentino, strong as Doug. The Revolution is declared. The Red Guard is marching up Fifth Avenue. Anna in golden curls with a little kitten under her arm leans with him out of the tallest window. White tumbler pigeons flutter against the city below them. Fifth Avenue bleeding red flags, glittering with marching bands, hoarse voices singing “Die Rote Fahne” in Yiddish; far away, from the Woolworth a banner shakes into the wind. “Look Elmer darling” Elmer Duskin for Mayor. And they’re dancing the Charleston in all the officebuildings. … Thump. Thump. That Charleston dance. … Thump. Thump. … Perhaps I do love him. Elmer take me. Elmer, loving as Valentino, crushing me to him with Doug-strong arms, hot as flame, Elmer.
Through the dream she is stitching white fingers beckon. The white tulle shines too bright. Red hands clutch suddenly out of the tulle, she cant fight off the red tulle all round her biting into her, coiled about her head. The skylight’s blackened with swirling smoke. The room’s full of smoke and screaming. Anna is on her feet whirling round fighting with her hands the burning tulle all round her.
Ellen stands looking at herself in the pierglass in the fitting room. The smell of singed fabrics gets stronger. After walking to and fro nervously a little while she goes through the glass door, down a passage hung with dresses, ducks under a cloud of smoke, and sees through streaming eyes the big workroom, screaming girls huddling behind Madame Soubrine, who is pointing a chemical extinguisher at charred piles of goods about a table. They are picking something moaning out of the charred goods. Out of the corner of her eye she sees an arm in shreds, a seared black red face, a horrible naked head.
“Oh Mrs. Herf, please tell them
