French Armoires

French Armoires

About that time a craze developed for restored French "armoires" or wardrobes: large, dark old cupboards, often ornately carved, that had once graced the old homes of St. Louis in the late 19th Century. Please, gentle reader, do not be offended by what follows - for it is all reported just as it was told to me long ago - and to change even one word of it (and only for such a flimsy notion as "P.C." at that ) would destroy its "feel" and render it dull and colorless...

Many of these old homes were now in slum sections of town - and often inhabited by negro families. What George began to do was go around to these places and buy up the old armoires still on the premises and cart them home. Their current owners being mostly all too eager to sell them cheap...

Back at the Mansion, he went to work... It was necessary, as he put it none too delicately, to first "...wash all that nigger sweat out of them...". To this end, he rigged up a wooden turntable in the backyard (!), and on this contraption he and his stalwart sons would place the ponderous wardrobes - doors open. The turntable was operated by an electric motor - Rube Goldberg style, and was surrounded by a battery of garden hoses - all rigged so as to spray the rotating furniture with water from every angle...

This marvelous affair was all lit from overhead by a spotlight in a tree - and the situation being what it was - the production line operated mostly at night.

Soon, the neighbors were complaining about the noise and unusual activity and the lights and spraying water and all night after night over in the Liggett's formerly quiet backyard.

There was at that time resident in the neighborhood an old dowager with, as George put it, "balls o' brass" who was sort of the unofficial spokesman (oops! spokesperson - I'll go along with that one if you like...) for the group. Old Mrs. Mudd. The Mudds, as I understand - like the Choteaus and others - were one of the fine old first families of St. Louis - and had been there since the first fur trappers camped on the banks of this river town.

A day or so later here came Mrs. Mudd, leaning on her cane, and covered with the last of her diamond jewelry - leading a sorry band of locals, which included an idiot nephew who lived with the old lady. This ragtag assembly - cowering behind its leader - shuffled to a halt on George's doorstep. Old Mrs. Mudd, however, was cut from a different cloth - perhaps more nearly like the fabric that constituted the makeup of her opponent - who had now emerged upon his stoop to see what this delegation sought.

"Mr. Rhine," began the old lady - in a clear and ringing voice, "you must simply stop all this racket over here! Sakes alive! - you are destroying the atmosphere of our neighborhood and homes!"

And on and on in that vein. Then George presented his side of the matter - "Man's home is his castle, etc." and so it went back and forth while everyone aired his grievance and his or her personal views...

Soon, however, George saw a way clear to solve this problem ("These things work themselves out, you know"). It was the case, that at the entrance to this once exclusive community, there was an ornate old iron gate - long since rusted ajar - and the road curved round an abandoned marble fountain and reflecting pool - long since given over to weeds and beer cans...

"Mrs. Mudd! Tell you what I'll do," he said.

"If you and your many friends here can agree among yourselves to forebear a bit and perhaps to overlook an old man's eccentric joys at his hobbies in his declining years (ahem!) " (here the collective feet of the sheep-like followers shuffled a bit in unison)... "then I tell you what I'd like to do. I will personally undertake to refurbish and restore the fountain and pool out at our common entrance - and once again make this neighborhood the garden spot it once was...".

This was a generous offer, indeed - for the fountain had been inoperative for years, and there probably wasn't enough spare cash in the bank accounts of the whole lot of them, George said, to have bought one goldfish for it - let alone rebuild and maintain it.

It was a done deal!

Soon, the fountain played once again and lilies graced the calm surface of the little reflecting pond. Forces for good in the community lauded the whole affair -and the local paper ran an article in the garden column...

Meanwhile, rather more circumspectly, the spotlight (now shaded) continued to burn, and the hoses to spray night after night in at least one backyard of this otherwise model neighborhood....