of the Palace Hotel and Lucky Baldwin’s showplace. Due south, the panorama of Market Street, the Cocktail Route, and all the delights of the old city. To the northwest, the exotic curved roofs of Chinatown like another little country. Behind Chinatown, purple hills scarcely touched by civilization--Russian Hill, Pacific Heights. To the northeast the scruffy dome of Telegraph Hill—“dirty awld smelly awld Telygraft Hill”—and the German castle at its peak. And when Jessie throws open the wobbly glass of the east window and leans far out over the sill, she glimpses the whole crawling heap of the Barbary Coast. Beyond that, the bobbing masts of the great clipper ships, the steamers and the fishing trawlers, the blue-gray bay sparkling when the sun rises like a sack of spilled diamonds.
It is a beautiful house, and Jessie has covered her parlor’s walls with the finest rose-colored damask she ever did see with a rose-of-Sharon pattern. That’s for starters. She has hung every window with scarlet velvet curtains that sweep up and back and dangle thickets of tassels and thick furry fringe. She has laid Persian carpets down on the plank maple floor, layer upon layer of carpets till the floor is a patchwork of arabesques and medallions.
And Jessie has bought and arranged good furniture, some wood, some wicker, some fancy French gilt. Ferns in massive Chinese pots adorn every sunlit corner. And gold, lots of gold—a gold tea set, gold dinnerware, gold lamp sticks, gold embroidered doilies, gold statuettes of Venuses with their heads and arms intact. She cannot abide Venuses with their heads and arms lopped off. Her long mirror is framed in pure gold, the frame encrusted with birds and foliage in gold and silver. A gold-plated spittoon is set out just for show, since Jessie abides no chaw in her private parlor. Gilt frames surround every piece of Art.
Oh, and the Art! She prides herself on her Art collection. She has made them Gump boys richer than thieves in their import business. One of the Gumps’ best customers, that’s what Miss Jessie Malone is, more than two of them Snob Hill ladies rolled up into one. She’s got fauns playing flutes and cupids on the wing. But mostly Jessie collects nudes, the female in all her glory. Nudes recline on couches. Nudes stroll through fantastic gardens, through forests, through fields. Nudes are sold into slavery, their hands bound behind their pearlescent backs. Nudes pose in the bedroom, in the bath, in the stables. What a hoot!
Now Mariah brings in goblets and a gold-plated ice bucket. Jessie frowns. She should have bought the solid gold bucket, not this cheap plate, but her pony lost at Ingleside Track and she balked at the expense. She pops the cork with a thirsty smile, splashes champagne into the goblets. The young gentleman studies her Art collection, his expression inscrutable.
“Why, Miss Malone, you’ve got an Aubrey Beardsley!” Mr. Watkins exclaims over the photomechanical reproduction of an odd line drawing Jessie has never understood except that it is very wicked.
“A gambler whose name you would recognize gave me that drawing.”
The drawing depicts denizens of the night--a masked clown, a depraved ballerina, a devil-eared satyr with a huge erect penis and cloven hooves.
“Is it true Mr. Beardsley slept with Oscar Wilde?” Jessie hands Mr. Watkins a goblet and smiles at his surprise. She follows the international gossip as best she can. “I heard that after the glory of his play, The Importance of Being Earnest, Mr. Wilde was imprisoned for having his way with young men.”
“Mr. Wilde languishes in prison even as we speak, but I cannot vouch for Mr. Beardsley. We do call him Awfully Wierdsley,” Mr. Watkins says. “Poor fellow is a wreck with the consumption. They say he won’t live out the year.”
“So young and talented, what a shame.” Jessie clinks her goblet with his. “That’s why I say eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die.” They drain their goblets and Jessie refreshes them. “Mr. Watkins, what with your interest in ladies’ fashion and art and the theater, you’re not a queen, are you?”
“Heavens, you are blunt, Miss Malone. But no, whatever else I am, that I am not,” he says without missing a beat.” He drains his goblet again, holds it out for another round. “Have you read Mr. Wilde, then?”
“Of course. Why, I’ve read all them French poets, Baudelaire and Verlaine.” Jessie takes her copy of Salon from the side table where she keeps naughty magazines like The Pearl