Page 145 - The Legacy of Abraham Rothstein - text

Courtship

Of course, romantic courtship, as written in song and prose, must
have a boating scene on a lake—or, in the case of the rich, on a great
liner on a trip to Europe. So we went boating in Prospect Park in
Brooklyn one Sunday. One can spend a lot of money to please the
girl he loves, but it depends on whether or not the girl appreciates the
entertainment. I could not spend enough money to hire a boat for
two, so we went two couples in one boat. The affair was a success,
until a deluge of rain fell upon us at sunset when we were waiting for
a streetcar. The girls, wearing thin georgette blouses and no jackets,
were soaked to the bone. The cars were crowded, and the day ended
imperfectly—which usually happens in the east when thunder,
lightning, and rain come so suddenly and unexpectedly.
And today, the girl expects her suitor to drive up to the front of
her house with a shining car and honk the horn, then speed hither
and thither with his beloved. It would be very monotonous for her to
walk for hours, crossing the long Williamsburg Bridge across the East
River and back again. Yes, to the New Look girl it would be very
prosaic and unromantic, but when you look at some of those old love
pictures you always find a lake with a girl and boy on a bridge looking
down at the water. In New York, the only place you could take a girl
was on a walk away from home where her sisters and small brother
were grimacing at your romanticism, to a bridge like the
Williamsburg, long enough for you to cross and talk and dream of
the future and return home. On some occasions, when work was
slack, I used to walk up to Broadway where the big offices were and
Fannie worked. I waited there until she quit work, and then we
walked home together, arm in arm, hearts beating in unison.
Our love had proceeded normally for six or eight months, when
something occurred which happens between lovers in books. When
one is deeply in love, way over his head, suddenly, like a dream
broken by awakening, the idol that he worships moves away from
him farther and farther, out of his grasp. Fannie had some uncles and
aunts in Olean, a city near Buffalo. For the first time in her life, they
invited her to come for two weeks’ vacation, and she went. To a
young girl in the crowded city of New York it was a great affair to go
to relatives, to see the outside world—including Niagara—and have
the thrill of traveling on a train for hundreds of miles. I escorted her
141