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Gertrude
Stein (1874-1946)
by Janice Albert

Picasso's 1906 portrait of Gertrude Stein hangs in the Museum of
Modern
Art, New York City.
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When Virginia
Woolf wrote that to develop her mind and talent, a person required
a room of
one’s own, she was not speaking of the American middle-class
ideal of giving every child her own room. She was speaking of privacy
and leisure, two elusive qualities that can accompany life graced
with money. Leisure and privacy, plus talent and inclination are
a powerful quartet, and they were the making of the writer Gertrude
Stein.
Stein, the youngest
of five children, was living in Oakland, California, when her mother
died in 1888, Three years later, her father’s death left
the children orphans, but her father’s fortune, managed by
her oldest brother, guaranteed her leisure for the next forty years.
When
Stein left Oakland to live with relatives in Baltimore, she was
a young woman
who was already cultivating the mind of a writer. She had developed
a prodigious reading habit, fed by her mother’s books and trips
to the Oakland Public Library. |
Her father, after exposing his children
to
life in Europe, returned the family to the West Coast and decreed that
they were to stop
speaking French and German, and instead concentrate on their English,
which he wanted to be flawless. Gertrude Stein recalls a composition
of hers being chosen by her teacher at Franklin School to be posted
on the wall, and this may have been the germ of her sense of herself
as a writer.
She followed
her brother Leo to Massachusetts and enrolled at Radcliff, met the
philosopher William James, started toward a degree in medicine,
and then
abruptly
withdrew. After a period of restlessness and travel, at the age of 29,
she settled with brother Leo in Paris, where she lived the rest of her
life.
Her father’s legacy had assured her leisure, but what about her privacy?
Early in her college career, Stein realized she had fallen in love with another
young woman. She wrote of this unhappy relationship in a traditional novel Q.E.D.,
which she did not publish. Other works of hers, including the voluminous story
of her family The Making of Americans were published at Stein’s own expense.
Indeed, she had no commercial success until she wrote her own life story through
the persona of her companion Alice B. Toklas. While she might have published
Q.E.D., she chose not to, thus preserving a kind of privacy for herself that
was reinforced by her life as an ex-patriate. While her life as a “Bohemian” was
widely discussed, she did not call attention to herself as a lesbian
or as a Jew, which has been used to explain her survival in occupied
France during
WWII.
Stein became
known for an experimental style which broke abruptly with the traditions
of nineteenth century literature in English. This was
the age
of experimentation,
and writers everywhere came to value The New almost for its own sake.
e.e.cummings dropped conventional capitalization and punctuation,
asking his readers
to treat his lines as something to be heard rather than seen. Ernest
Hemingway threw out
the florid language of the Victorian novel and substituted a vocabulary
which
was terse, exact, and muscular. D. H. Lawrence turned to psychoanalytic
theory to motivate his characters, creating men and women who saved
themselves by
finding their sexuality rather than rejecting it. These qualities
and others, summarized
today under the term Modernism, give Stein’s writing its historical importance.
In the thirties, her inherited income began to fail, and she was
persuaded to write The Autobiography of Alice B.
oklas. Toklas,
by the way,
is a native Californian
whose home in San Francisco was destroyed in the fire following
the earthquake of 1906. She and Stein met in 1907 and considered themselves
married
by the next year. The autobiography tells the story of Stein’s
coming to Paris, meeting the young Picasso with whom she became lifelong
friends, as well as
living through
WWI and its aftermath. The book became a best-seller and Stein was
invited to the United States to lecture and read. (The commercial
success of the book
caused
Stein to feel that her writing had become somehow tainted.) She arrived,
in 1934, and made her way across the United States, speaking to students
and literary
followers in all the major cities. She came, inevitably, to California
where she was met by Gertrude
Atherton.
An outspoken feminist, Atherton, age 77, was the reigning queen
of San Francisco’s literary life. As a younger woman,
her portrait in an off-the-shoulder gown has been included in a mural
celebrating San Francisco in the Clift Hotel. Now she was hosting
Gertrude Stein, age 60,
whose tweeds and short haircut evoked a frank masculinity. On April
12 Stein lectured at Mills College and on the next day visited her
old neighborhood in
Oakland. Reminiscing about her visit, she wrote the line which deeply
wounded every Oaklander to this day, “There is no there, there.”
Of course, what
she meant, as most Oaklanders hasten to explain, is that the Oakland
of her youth no longer existed. Over twelve
years, Stein
had lived
at three locations: the Tubbs Hotel, East 12th Street between
4th and
5th Avenues; a house on ten acres of land at 25th Street and
13th Avenue; and
a residence
on 10th Avenue. But the Tubbs Hotel had burned down, the house
on the ten acres had been razed and the ten acres subdivided.
Only the
house
numbered
1324 and
renumbered 1640 remained. That house is occupied today after
a fearful remodeling that removed every Victorian feature and left
it clad
in deathless yellow
siding. There being no garage, the front yard is paved over to
allow for the parking
of three or four cars. Across the street, elegantly restored
Victorians hint at what the neighborhood once was. Franklin School,
one block
away, has been
rebuilt in the low, rambling model of the 1950s. Only at Mountain
View cemetery, in the Jewish section to the left, can a visitor
find the
original headstone
of her parents, Amelia and Daniel Stein, buried in 1888 and 1891,
respectively.

The death of Stein's parents in Oakland caused Gertrude to leave
the
West Coast.
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While
literary sites connected with Stein are withering in Oakland,
her memory
is green. On a trip to the Oakland Public Library to research
this article, I asked the librarian in the History Room for information.
Before he could get a word out, one of the library’s volunteers
came forward and began to talk about Stein. He knew about her Oakland
past, had visited her apartment in Paris, her gravesite at Pere
Lachaise, and could speak about the impoverished widowhood of her
companion, Alice B. Toklas. Earlier this spring, I had attended
a performance of the Oakland Opera Theater, presenting “Three
Sisters Who Are Not Sisters,” by Ned Rorem, lyrics by Gertrude
Stein. This multiracial cast of young people brought beauty and
wit to the operetta as well as a song cycle which appeared through
out the afternoon. The lyrics were— “I am Rose, my
eyes are blue. I am Rose, and who are you? I am Rose and when I
sing, I am Rose like anything!” In performance, the words
which can seem like nonsense on the printed page were transparent
and playful, capable of many whimsical interpretations.
Finally, a
developer in Oakland who has been going through the downtown
restoring and
renovating older buildings keeps Stein’s memory alive through
his triumphant banners. As each building is completed, he flies a green
flag that states emphatically “There!” |
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