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By Root 287 0

the wraps and folds of her somber-colored kimonos. A trunkful of these garments, souvenirs from Leo's travels without her, were waiting for her in the studio. She thanked her brother with a slap on the back and a hug that made his crushing lungs wheeze. She immediately discarded the kimonos embroidered with cranes, peonies, and cherry blossoms and began wearing the rest. Solid, impenetrable fields of blues, browns, and grays, these everyday kimonos were ideal, as they allowed her to dispense with a corset altogether. A string of prayer beads that she found at the bottom of the trunk completed her ensemble. The handsome necklace, each bead the size of an unripe plum, swung from Gertrude's neck down to where her waistline would be, if she had had one. She was then just "Gertrude," the sister, the younger, the follower in her brother's footsteps, and so Leo more appropriately bore their last name. He is the one, Gertrude thought. Their household at 27 rue de Fleurus was to be the beginning of a lifetime of cohabitation. No husbands and no wives here, she thought. No husbands and no wives needed in the twentieth century, she proposed and wholeheartedly accepted. She was, of course, wrong.

"She is always wrong when it comes to the practicality of daily life," as Miss Toklas can attest. This conclusion required the passage of time—the growing gray of my Mesdames' hair, the yellowing of their teeth, the blue veining of their calves—to be proven valid and true. its corollary—"GertrudeStein is a genius"—did not, and Alice Babette Toklas, thirty years of age and fresh from her own ocean crossing, made it a point to proclaim it so. The moment these words were spoken, a spell that declared its intention never be broken, Gertrude, thirty-three and unabashedly corsetless, became "GertrudeStein." No longer a diminutive, as female names are doomed to be, but a powerful whopping declaration of her full self, each and every time. Not any Gertie but GertrudeStein, the older, the wiser, the writer. "The genius," Miss Toklas added, as she gently placed GertrudeStein's head down upon her lap.

"But, Pussy, there can be only one in any given family," GertrudeStein murmured, as she slipped her hands underneath the fabric waves of Miss Toklas's skirt.

"Then for the Steins, it is you, Lovey."

GertrudeStein was already inclined to agree. She, by then, had lived with her brother Leo for four years, and he in her opinion had grown increasingly pale. The reason was clear. Leo no longer painted, and that, thought GertrudeStein, was depriving him of the rush of creativity that kept her own cheeks pink. Worse, Leo had allowed his interest in other people's art to surpass their interest in his. Over the years, they together had distinguished themselves in this city precisely for the interest that they showed in other people's art. At 27 rue de Fleurus, they collected paintings, artists, and a society of people who were interested in all three. The relevant three were the paintings, the artists, and the Steins. The paintings, they hung on the walls of the studio. The artists, they sat on its settees and chairs. The people, they invited through the studio door to gaze up and around. It was the simultaneous existence of all three, as Miss Toklas had come to see, which formed the tricolor of advancing fame that flew high over 27 rue de Fleurus. But Leo, like his sister, thought that there could be only one in any given family, and Leo was certain that it was he. The older, the wiser, the genius, thought Leo. Worse, he made it a point to proclaim it so: "Certainly, Gertrude contributes to the cause, but it begins and ends at the cosigning of the check. My sister does have her opinions, but mine are informed. Of course, she has her favorites, but I prefer the artistic to the merely artful."

GertrudeStein loved her brother, her only one. She loved him enough not to hear a word of what he was saying. But after Miss Toklas began her daily visits to the rue de Fleurus, Leo added jealousy and cruelty to the list of his difficult-to-love attributes. He began to