From the Top of the Stairs

by GRETCHEN FINLETTER

1

To OBSERVE the human race and be invisible oneself gives one a strange sense of power. It is especially interesting to study another generation and to observe its foibles. There should be more concealed doors and hidden balconies in the world.

My sisters and I watched dinner parties from the top of the stairs. It was a proscenium box and gave an excellent view of a series of good first-act entrances and exits. From our position we could see the front hall and its mirror, the center hall and its mirror, a section of the parlor if the portieres were pulled back far enough, the door and a bit of the dining room, and we had a clear view into the very congested pantry.

What we could not see, we could hear. The voices would at times be obscured; but sounds rise, and by moving down a few steps, we could catch actual dialogue.

Though the play began when the curtain went up on the cast, there was a prologue that we never missed. These fifteen minutes gave an overtone to the performance. As soon as my parents had gone down to the parlor we would seat ourselves in our box. Dressed in easy wrappers, knowing we should eat at certain intermissions, we comfortably waited for the show to start.

My mother had just opened a window, and all the portieres were waving. My father, looking very handsome in a dress suit and big white tie, hurried in.

“Margaret, it’s freezing,” and he lit the fire. “The papers say snow. This room gets cold enough anyhow with the draft that comes from the front door.”

Then started the perennial discussion as to whether the whole house should be altered into what was called English basement. We had heard this argument so often that we turned our attention to the pantry door.

Our regular waitress, a tall lady with a great gray pompadour on the top of which rested a white cap with a black bow, was giving some directions to the hired waitress, who wore a different kind of cap and had a haughty manner. It seemed that at the last dinner party where she had hired out, she had started with the roast and the regular waitress had followed with the gravy. But Jenny, our waitress, was sticking up for her rights.

Behind them was Katy, our friend the chambermaid, who had only recently been raised in status from kitchenmaid. Katy easily broke into wild laughter if she got nervous, and showed a set of teeth that looked like Roquefort cheese. She also was wearing a cap — for the first time. Jenny considered Katy too flighty to go into the dining room, and she was kept concealed in the pantry to “hand things.”

My father now appeared at the pantry door and told Katy to go in and light the candles. No matter what distance Katy had to travel, she always ran it in 10 flat; so seizing the matches and ejaculating an unhappy “Begorra, I’m wrong agin,” she tore through the hall, not forgetting, however, to wave to us. Katy was warmhearted and wanted everyone to have a good time tonight.

There were candles on the piano, at the ends of the mantel, and in two great candelabra on the tops of the bookcases. The whole room took on a gay glow. It looked like a party. To us the depth to which the candles burned was the yardstick of how good the evening had been. If they were down a third it was average. If they burned themselves out it was tremendous.

My father’s voice now came from the pantry with a note of real anguish: “Jenny, red wine is never iced! Claret should be the temperature of the room. Are you color-blind?”

There was a “Glory be to God” from Jenny, and my mother called out, “Close the pantry door. There’s a smell of fish coming up through the dumbwaiter.”

My father, having rectified the disaster to the claret by producing four new bottles, joined my mother again in the parlor, but his face was still flushed.

“Ce domestique est insupportable.”

“ Cette domestique,” corrected my mother. She spoke better French than my father and seldom let him forget it.

2

MY PARENTS now began a slightly depressing discussion about their expected guests.

“The trouble with having asked Madame Henriques,” said my father, “is that she spoils general conversation by wanting to tete-a-tete all the time.”

My father has always been the enemy of the tête-à-tête. He hated being washed up on a sofa alone with any lady. I was never sure whether he felt that he was missing all the fun in the rest of the room or whether he felt the rest of the room was missing something good that he was saying, but lie never let himself be trapped for long. An eager lady who wanted to tell him how she adored musicians never got very far unless she was willing to shout it out in front of a big circle. He wanted six or seven in on the love scene, and in the same way he felt destructive towards other duets. If a man and a woman at the dinner table seemed to be having obvious pleasure talking together, they must want to share this pleasure with everyone else. So my father would tap on his glass, propose a health, and cheerfully and successfully break up the dialogue.

“I’m sorry you asked Charley Robinson,” continued my father. “He hates music.”

“But I got him to balance what you told me was a French soprano, Mademoiselle Bonnard,” answered my mother.

“I misread the letter of introduction. It’s a tenor, René Bonnard. They say he sings very well.”

“I’ve put him next Ethel Barrymore. Ethel will be wonderful with an unknown tenor.”

“Ethel is wonderful with everyone,” declared my father with great conviction, and the bell rang.

The hired waitress determinedly went to the front door and a lady came in.

“Is this Mr. Damrosch’s house?” she asked.

Even to our inexperienced ears the answer did not sound quite right: “I’ll be going and finding out. I’m thinking that’s the name, but then again, maybe it’s not,.”

Jenny indignantly appeared and ushered the lady to the center hall. The hired waitress opened the front door again to a gentleman with a beard.

“It’s begun to snow,” he announced in a surprised voice.

We now had the double view of the lady and gentleman each in front of a mirror and both lost in contemplation. The lady finally walked into the parlor.

“Dear Madame Henriques,” exclaimed my father. “What a pleasure!”

Polly beckoned us to come to the window and look out. Hundreds of little specks were falling by the street lamp. There was that strange soundless sound that seems to belong only to a snowstorm in the city. The pavements were white and some flakes had collected on t he window sill. A taxi drew up.

Richard Harding Davis appeared in the hall below with his wife Cecil. He stood in front of the mirror looking at his handsome, ruddy, soldier-offortune reflection with an obvious satisfaction which we above shared. Cecil Davis was taking off a long cape. Her hair was the color of her chow dogs and she had the same mysterious eyes.

“Walter, it’s begun to snow,” she called.

Two other guests walked in, Irene and Charles Dana Gibson. There were loud greetings from the Davises. Dana Gibson took off his coat and hat. He had on an even bigger white tie than my father’s and his collar was much higher. He looked seriously into the mirror. Then he winked at himself once and went into the center hall.

Katy, who had somehow escaped the pantry, gesticulated to us not to miss Irene Gibson. If she would only move a. little closer to the mirror we could get a clear view. But in that, not so very long ago ladies apparently dressed at home and did not have to remake their faces with powder and lipstick. All we could see was the tip of one white shoulder and her blonde hair.

“Button this button on my glove, Dick,” said Irene Gibson. “f can’t get it through the hole.”

My father, hearing cheerful sounds from behind the portieres, or perhaps finding himself too enmeshed by Madame Henriques, now burst through the curtains and seized the gloved hand.

“That is the host’s privilege,” he exclaimed.

“I got her hand first,” answered Dick Davis, not letting go.

Katy, with a singular lack of tact, approached with a hairpin and said sure she could do it easy. Katy was palpably searching for any excuse to be of the party.

The doorbell rang again and they all moved into the parlor.

We watched the new arrival with interest. We had never seen him before. He carried a bouquet of roses with a ruffle of paper around it. The flowers must be for my mother. My mother must be nearly forty years old. It was preposterous. He took off his hat. Ah, good, it was an opera hat — the crush kind. We could experiment with it later. He hung up a fur-lined overcoat and unwound a heavy silk scarf from about his neck. Then to our great pleasure he pulled a small comb from an inside pocket and combed his hair carefully on each side of a middle part.

We hung over the balustrade, trying not to breathe too loud. He replaced the comb in a little case and put it back in his pocket. Suddenly he leaned forward, opened his mouth wide, and examined his teeth. Apparently satisfied, he smiled charmingly at himself, picked up the roses, and walked through the middle hall and into the parlor. Then he kissed my mother’s hand.

Two more guests came and my father appeared again in the center hall, calling to Jenny to close the front door, everyone was freezing. There was a tap on the glass.

“Are you trying to shut me out?” said a lovely familiar voice.

“Ethel!” exclaimed my father with delight.

“Ach, mein kleiner Walter!”

He helped her off with her wrap.

“Did you know it was snowing?” she asked.

Polly signaled up to the third floor to tell Minnie, who was watching from above, to come down and get a good look. Minnie would only observe if she felt it was really worth it. Certain guests she would dismiss after a penetrating glance through her eyeglasses as “Trash!” This time she gave her highest praise.

“Very nice. Who is it?”

“It’s Ethel Barrymore. Isn’t she beautiful?”

Minnie studied her again. “Akee-kock, why don’t they cover up their shoulders!”

Minnie was always chilly and always wore what she called a “yacket.” Those who were dressed the warmest were to her the prettiest. She now turned her attention to Katy, with deep disapproval.

“Greenhorn!” Minnie hated the Irish.

3

FROM the pantry came Jenny with fourteen very small cocktail glasses in which were fourteen Bronx cocktails — no shaker, no dividends. The hired waitress followed with two plates of little sandwiches. Katy leaped about them like a setter, opened doors, and pulled curtains.

Minnie descended the stairs toward the basement,

“That tramp Antonio calls himself a furnaceman. I’m going to put on some coal myself!”

There was a series of little agony buzzes from the dumb-waiter bell. Katy lit the candles on the dining-room table and at last Jenny announced, “Dinner is served,” and we watched them march into the dining room. They were all talking, the gentlemen stepping carefully so as not to walk on the ladies’ trains.

Katy, having been instructed by us, partially closed the dining-room door. We ran down the stairs quickly and into the parlor. Then we drank up what was left of the cocktails. We did this because we liked the taste of orange juice and this seemed to have more bite to it than the breakfast kind. We then ate up the sandwiches.

Feeling for some reason released, we proceeded to the front hall to examine the tenor’s opera hat. The fifth time that we snapped it open, it would not close. By all of us pressing it very hard together we finally shut it again. Something clicked inside. Without saying so, we knew it would never open again. We next tried on a couple of the silk hats and rubbed them both the right and the wrong way. Then we returned to our position on the stairs.

“Do ye want soup?” asked Katy.

“Skip the soup and the fish unless it’s shad roe. Open the door wider into the dining room so that we can hear.”

The noise was tremendous. Everyone was talking at once. Then came my father’s voice.

“Dick Davis has just asked Dana if he is not a perfect Gibson man. I insist that I have always been the model. The ladies must vote.”

“I vote for Dick,” cried my mother.

“Margaret, you don’t count. You’re prejudiced. Ethel, Irene, Cecil, I appeal to you!”

There were sounds of everyone disputing. Katy stood in the door, her mouth wide open, watching with burning interest.

Minnie came toiling up the stairs again, carrying two plates of ice cream, one for herself and one for little Anita. She halfheartedly suggested that we go to bed.

There was applause from the dining room. Katy wheeled once, regained her sense of direction, and made for the hall.

“Sure it’s your father that’s won the iliction. Ain’t that grand!” she panted to us.

“Hurry up and get us something to eat.”

Irene Gibson was telling a darky story, mimicking each voice. There was a loud laugh, but the French tenor had apparently not understood. My father tried to translate.

“Un jour un vieux nègre s’appelait Oncle Rastu disait à son arriere petit fils —”

“You had better say it in German,” urged my mother.

“Es war einmal ein alter schwarzer Mann,” obliged my father, “der bei dem Name Onkle Rastus bekannt war. . .

4

As THE dinner progressed, the noise from the dining room grew louder and louder and sounded like the lions at feeding time. We could no longer distinguish conversation.

We ate sections of the courses as they were brought to us, a melange of salad, rolls, cake, and Hollandaise sauce. The dessert was an egg shape of yellow ice cream embedded in a nest of spun sugar. The spun sugar did not possess any particular flavor, but, like alligator pears, was a party dish we always hailed with admiration. It scratched the mouth but looked holiday. Polly placed some on her upper lip in a trailing white mustache and signaled to the faithful public, Katy.

“Ye look just like Santa Claus,” she called appreciatively.

A pleasant smell of tobacco smoke began to float up the stairs. A little later the ladies left the gentlemen, but Cecil Davis remained in the dining room.

“That’s what I’m going to do,” I announced. “I’m always going to stay with the men and never join the ladies.”

I saw a rosy future — me, in a train, with yellow hair, sitting at a table surrounded by Gibson profiles in white ties.

As the men walked through the center hall looking well-fed and contented, Madame Henriques came through the portieres.

“I think I left my handkerchief in my wrap,” she said to my father.

“Let me help you.”

Madame Henriques seemed to be in no hurry to find it.

“When I watched you conduct last Friday I was so profoundly moved. There was a certain something —”

“It was the tails of my beautiful new dress suit,” replied my father, spreading them out. “Jenny,” and he made for the pantry door, “ bring in the Scotch.”

Madame Henriques was left hunting her handkerchief.

The door upstairs opened and little Anita, eluding Minnie and dressed in a pair of blue flannel pajamas, joined us.

“It’s snowing!” she told us.

We went again to the window. An unmistakable sound came from outdoors, the scrape of a wooden shovel. There was no one on the streets, but down the block two men had begun to pile the snow. It was a real blizzard. Already the footprints of the guests on our steps had been obliterated. We opened the windows. The outside world had changed. It was intoxicating watching the white flakes whirl by. We must be the only people awake in the city to see it.

Then we heard my father playing a few soft chords at the piano, and the voice of Bonnard rang out: —

The voice was beautiful, with that strange intensity that seems to be the unique possession of French singers.

“He’s good,” whispered Anita.

He sang on: —

Across the street a taxi drew up, struggling through the drifts. Our neighbors, the Douglas Robinsons, were coming home from a party, and their shouts and laughter echoed across to us as they floundered through the snow.

Up the stairs came the creaking footsteps of the cook, who was carrying a loud ticking clock and groaning to herself. Again we heard the piano, and Monsieur Bonnard sang: —

We knew that the candles would gut themselves tonight.