The Vertical City

The Vertical City

The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Vertical City, by Fannie Hurst
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Title: The Vertical City
Author: Fannie Hurst
Release Date: June 25, 2004 [EBook #12659]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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VERTICAL CITY ***

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THE VERTICAL CITY
By
FANNIE HURST
Author of "GASLIGHT SONATAS"
"HUMORESQUE"
ETC.
1922

CONTENTS
SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY
BACK PAY
THE VERTICAL CITY
THE SMUDGE
GUILTY
ROULETTE

SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY
By that same architectural gesture of grief which caused Jehan at Agra
to erect the Taj Mahal in memory of a dead wife and a cold hearthstone,
so the Bon Ton hotel, even to the pillars with red-freckled monoliths
and peacock-backed lobby chairs, making the analogy rather absurdly
complete, reared its fourteen stories of "elegantly furnished suites, all
the comforts and none of the discomforts of home."
A mausoleum to the hearth. And as true to form as any that ever
mourned the dynastic bones of an Augustus or a Hadrian.
An Indiana-limestone and Vermont-marble tomb to Hestia.
All ye who enter here, at sixty dollars a week and up, leave behind the
lingo of the fireside chair, parsley bed, servant problem, cretonne shoe
bags, hose nozzle, striped awnings, attic trunks, bird houses, ice-cream
salt, spare-room matting, bungalow aprons, mayonnaise receipt, fruit
jars, spring painting, summer covers, fall cleaning, winter apples.
The mosaic tablet of the family hotel is nailed to the room side of each
door and its commandments read something like this:
One ring: Bell Boy.
Two rings: Chambermaid.
Three rings: Valet.
Under no conditions are guests permitted to use electric irons in rooms.
Cooking in rooms not permitted.
No dogs allowed.
Management not responsible for loss or theft of jewels. Same can be
deposited for safe-keeping in the safe at office.
* * * * *
Note:
Our famous two-dollar Table d'Hôte dinner is served in the Red Dining
Room from six-thirty to eight. Music.

It is doubtful if in all its hothouse garden of women the Hotel Bon Ton
boasted a broken finger nail or that little brash place along the
forefinger that tattles so of potato peeling or asparagus scraping.
The fourteenth-story manicure, steam bath, and beauty parlors saw to
all that. In spite of long bridge table, lobby divan, and table-d'hôte
séances, "tea" where the coffee was served with whipped cream and the
tarts built in four tiers and mortared in mocha filling, the Bon Ton hotel
was scarcely more than an average of fourteen pounds overweight.
Forty's silhouette, except for that cruel and irrefutable place where the
throat will wattle, was almost interchangeable with eighteen's. Indeed,
Bon Ton grandmothers with backs and French heels that were twenty
years younger than their throats and bunions, vied with twenty's profile.
Whistler's kind of mother, full of sweet years that were richer because
she had dwelt in them, but whose eyelids were a little weary, had no
place there.
Mrs. Gronauer, who occupied an outside, southern-exposure suite of
five rooms and three baths, jazzed on the same cabaret floor with her
granddaughters.
Many the Bon Ton afternoon devoted entirely to the possible lack of
length of the new season's skirts or the intricacies of the new filet-lace
patterns.
Fads for the latest personal accoutrements gripped the Bon Ton in
seasonal epidemics.
The permanent wave swept it like a tidal one.
In one winter of afternoons enough colored-silk sweaters were knitted
in the lobby alone to supply an orphan asylum, but didn't.
The beaded bag, cunningly contrived, needleful by needleful, from
little strands of colored-glass caviar, glittered its hour.
Filet lace came then, sheerly, whole yokes of it for crêpe-de-Chine
nightgowns and dainty scalloped edges for camisoles.
Mrs. Samstag made six of the nightgowns that winter--three for herself
and three for her daughter. Peach-blowy pink ones with lace yokes that
were scarcely more to the skin than the print of a wave edge running up
sand, and then little frills of pink-satin ribbon, caught up here and there
with the most delightful and unconvincing little blue-satin rosebuds.
It was bad for her neuralgic eye, the meanderings of the filet pattern,
but she liked the delicate threadiness of the handiwork, and Mr. Latz

liked watching her.
There you have it! Straight through the lacy mesh of the filet to the
heart interest.
Mr. Louis Latz, who was too short, slightly too stout, and too shy of
likely length of swimming arm ever to have figured in any woman's
inevitable visualization of her