It seemed to us that Council Bluffs and Omaha were comparatively not unlike Brooklyn and Manhattan. Council Bluffs is much the smaller city and the Bluffs from which it takes its name are not steep river embankments as we had supposed, but a high residence-crowned hill behind and above its innumerable railroad stations. Nothing, by the way, seems more typical of American towns than to have a “residential district” on the“heights.”
Omaha, as I said before, is an impressively up-to-date city with many fine new buildings, important dwellings and beautiful avenues on which, last but not least, motors are made hospitably welcome. In nearly all Eastern cities automobiles are treated as though they were loitering tramps; continually ordered by the police to “keep moving along.” In Omaha the avenues are so splendidly wide that they can afford chalked-off parking-places in the center of the streets where motors can stand unmolested and indefinitely. If only New York and Boston had the space to follow their example!
Much as New Yorkers go to Sherry’s or the Ritz, Omaha society seems to come to the Fontanelle to dine. On Sunday evenings, we are told, it is impossible to secure a table unless ordered long in advance. Even on an ordinary evening, the dining-room of the Fontanelle looked like an “Importers’ Opening.” A few women looked smart, but a number suggested the probability of their having arrayed themselves to take part in tableau vivants, or an amateur fashion parade.
A young girl with pink tulle draped around the lower half of her face bent the top edge down gingerly while she ate a few mouthfuls, and then carefully arranged it across the tip of her nose again. It seemed to be another example beside that of banting for thinness, of faut avoir faim pour etre belle.
A quite plump matron had on a high-necked dress of white satin hooped round the hips, and trimmed with black velvet; another wore black charmeuse, the neck and sleeves and picture hat outlined with three-quarter inch diameter pearl beads, but the prize for eccentricities of costumes belonged to a man in a black-and-white checked suit, black-and-white striped socks and tie, and a white stiff shirt with black mourning border on the collar and cuffs and down the front seam. You can’t get away from the black-and-white craze anywhere; people will paint the fronts of their houses in black-and-white stripes if the obsession goes any further.
Among the appropriately and well-dressed women one was superlatively smart. This one was really perfect, from the direction in which her hair was brushed to exactly suit the outline of her hat, to her perfectly shaped patent-leather shoes. Her costume is not much to describe: a severely simple gun-metal-colored taffeta one-piece dress with a white organdie collar and sleeves of self-colored chiffon, a wide-brimmed black straw hat turned up at one side of the back with a black bird. The distinctive effect was due more to the way it was worn than to the costume. You felt that it belonged to her almost in the way that a collie’s fur belongs to him; it was as much a part of her, as her perfectly done hair or her polished fingernails. How few women pay attention to the effect or outline that their heads make! Nine women out of ten—more, forty-nine out of fifty—seemingly gather their hair up on a haphazard spot on their heads and fasten it there almost any way. Sit in any theater audience and look at them! And yet a paradox; a really chic woman never gives the appearance of having made an effort. Her hair suggests dexterity, not effort, and though she may have on a four-hundred-dollar creation of jet or white velvet she looks as though she happened to put on a black dress or a white one, but never as though she had put on the black or the white one! This dissertation, by the way, belongs by no means solely to Omaha, but to every city where women follow fashions. New York women are quite as prone to be content with being mannequins for the display of their clothes rather than take greater pains to select clothes that are a completion of their own personalities—the last leaf left for the American woman to take out of the book of her Parisian sister.
Quite by chance on our last evening, we ran across Mrs. K. in the corridor of the Fontanelle; and the next moment found ourselves in a little fragment of Omaha Society—with a capital S. Had it not been for one topic of conversation I should probably not mention the incident, as we had merely a glimpse of a few well-bred people that offered little matter for comment. The topic was the famous cyclone of three years ago. Among the stories they told us, was one of Mrs. R., the one whose appearance I had so much admired earlier in the evening. Three years ago she arrived home from Paris with seventeen trunks full of trousseau, and as soon as her things could be unpacked she spread them around a big room, in imitation of a bazaar, so that her particular friends might view them. Instead of her friends, however, arrived the Cyclone! It tore off the entire bay window; caught up dresses, hats, lingerie, wraps; whisked them through the open space where the window had been, and festooned the topmost branches of the trees all down Farnum Avenue with fragments of French finery.
Scarcely a garment was ever worth rescuing, as each was pierced through and through by the branches that skewered it fast.
Mrs. K.’s own story of the cyclone, I give as she told it. “It did not seem very amusing at the time, but one of the funny things to look back upon was what happened to Father! The storm came from the south. Father started across the living-room, which has both north and south windows, just as the cyclone struck. The windows burst out, the furniture flew around the room and literally out of the north window. Father made a sort of vortex in the middle and everything swirled like a whirlpool around him. When we got to him he was tightly bound up in the rugs, portières, and curtains, which completely prevented his moving; but also protected him snugly from flying glass. He was prostrate, of course, and lightly resting on his chest was a large picture of the Doge’s palace.”
Whatever damage the cyclone did has long been obliterated, and Omaha now presents a beautifully in order exterior and enjoys an evidently gay social life; two features of which are the new Hotel, and the Country Club—neither of them likely to grow much moss on their ballroom floors.