The Seamstress of New Orleans Quotes

“Her amazement was compounded as she approached the primary entrance, two stories high. At its apex were the extraordinary sculptures of the goddesses of industry and agriculture, who stood amid the draped folds of their gowns, each flanked by the symbols of her domain. Alice, unlike her uneducated brothers, had grown up with the luxury of reading with her mother. She recognized Ceres instantly, sheaves of grain on her left, her right hand atop an abundant cornucopia. This was the mother who had sacrificed all else to bring her missing daughter home. She thought about how her own mother had sacrificed to send Alice out into what she had envisioned as a better life.”
― Diane C. McPhail, The Seamstress of New Orleans

“In the glass, Constance saw not herself but a resonant symbol of who she might be. Indeed, of who she authentically was, if only she allowed herself. I am the dove, she thought, holding all the converging lines of my strength and possibility. I am the light for my children, as they are the light for me. I am the one beckoning to the one in myself yearning to be free.”
― Diane C. McPhail, The Seamstress of New Orleans

“If nothing else, Alice, you will have sight of one of the grandest buildings in the city, one of the grandest ever built, in fact. That florid thing cost three hundred eighty thousand dollars to erect! It is as ornate as a cathedral. But, oh so mixed up. A bit of everything thrown in---Second Empire, Renaissance, Italian, with Corinthian columns, no less. Gold ceiling medallions, frescoes, murals, sculptures--- even a fountain, where the futures are sold. Well, not in the fountain.” Constance laughed uncertainly. “And an ornate steam elevator… Well, just don’t bid on the cotton futures.”
― Diane C. McPhail, The Seamstress of New Orleans

“performed on them. The shirtwaist was becoming tight, not only at the waist”
― Diane C. McPhail, The Seamstress of New Orleans

“No, you can’t see your own twinkle. Not even when you are grown up.” Isn’t that the truth? she thought. “Only someone who loves you can see it. That’s the real magic.” She joggled Maggie”
― Diane C. McPhail, The Seamstress of New Orleans

“February gave way to March, with its bursting colors of a too-early spring. Such warm weather was a welcome contrast to the near freezes of the previous year, as if this newborn century was impatient to exhibit its glory and all the unforeseen changes it would bring. Alice’s heart expanded at the sight of white snowdrops in lieu of absent snow; the vivid purples of wild petunias, pincushion flowers, and irises laced with the varying hues of tulips; and the glorious flowering shrubs---azaleas and camellias---lighting up the shade, covered entirely in blossoms as if they nurtured blooms but no leaves. She had seen the prairie carpeted in wildflowers, but this display was unlike that wild one of nature, somehow singularly intimate and welcoming, whereas the prairie engulfed and dwarfed her. There is not one thing that humankind has done on earth that is equal to one square inch of this, she thought.”
― Diane C. McPhail, The Seamstress of New Orleans

“There was Brunhilde, a star shining high above the hillside behind her, dark, rippling hair hanging below her waist, standing in full command, spear in hand. Constance could not help thinking the star so large and bright might have shone over Bethlehem. She was momentarily grateful for her veil, not only for the concealment of her identity but also of her amused response to the scene before her.
She struggled to contain herself as her eyes moved to the second vignette: here was fair Juliet, standing beneath rather than on her balcony, garbed in simple lines, her head wreathed in flowers, a cross of stars high above her. Ah, those star-crossed lovers, thought Constance. Again, she was glad that she could hide her amusement. How clever these women, she thought. The third was Semiramis, a quarter moon low above the exotic turrets behind her crowned head, a long-handled fan in her hand, like the fan of a servant. How should Constance interpret this? At once she noticed the replication of the shape of Brunhilde’s spear, but it was enlarged. Semiramis, the queen who had served for her son yet had conquered her foes and enlarged her kingdom. And was this moon waxing or waning? Rising or setting? Or perhaps the enigma of a waxing moon rising. Ah, somehow that was comfort. Last, before a rising sun, framed by trees that reached out to touch one another, stood Pocahontas, her costume appearing authentic, a feather in her headdress, the emblematizing dawn of a new age, a new woman in a new world. May it be so, thought Constance.”
― Diane C. McPhail, The Seamstress of New Orleans

“This ball, this gown constituted a new endeavor for women, and she was one of them, wearing these symbols that marked a new life: these pearlized lines of strength, this dove of peace, this poppy in all its complexity, this flame, this bridge. The impossible bridge across impossible obstacles. She would be wearing that bridge. No, she thought, I am my own bridge.”
― Diane C. McPhail, The Seamstress of New Orleans

“The graceful lines of pearl on the bodice transported her to her father’s study, to the newspaper photo of the Brooklyn Bridge. Today, tonight, she was crossing a bridge into another sense of self, an unknown, unexplored woman, a woman incognito, even to herself. And holding those lines of strength was the dove, Analee’s handiwork, the strength of peace holding everything, there on the gown, there at her heart, again on her face, beneath her eyes, allowing her a new vision, though she herself would not be seen. Constance fingered the smooth finish of the silk, this fine fabric given to her by someone who believed in her, who mentored and cared for her, whoever she was as a woman, without the constraints of convention. She turned the gown and gazed at its train, centered with the Gothic arch of the bridge, now converted into a torch of liberty. Everything in this gown spoke of strength and transformation, nothing left behind. There were her children, the girls as shimmering fish swimming freely, even her dead son transformed into light, the light of the bridge into the unknown.”
― Diane C. McPhail, The Seamstress of New Orleans

“Now, do you want a poppy?”
“A poppy? Whatever for?”
“I’ve noticed it on your cards. Is it important?”
“Oh, the poppy. It’s quite a mixed symbol---a symbol of silence, you see. How strange. And yes, it is the symbol for the ball motif. It seems that women have grown tired of the silent, subservient role. So, they have taken that very symbol to flaunt the reversal of roles for this event.”
“Would you like to flaunt it?”
Constance froze for a moment. “I think not, Alice. I am choosing to remain silent, incognito. I don't wish to call attention to myself.” She waited while Alice seemed to puzzle over her answer.
“Perhaps all the more reason,” Alice said. “Your silence is chosen, not imposed.”
“But it would draw such attention. A bright red poppy?”
“Perhaps not. What if it were not bright red?”
“Not red?”
“There is a white poppy, with an almost black center. I noticed some once in the window of a florist in Chicago. I was mesmerized. I turned around and went in to see them. The florist was a bit outdone with me that I did not buy even one.” Alice laughed. “But it could have all sorts of meanings for you.”
“Yes, and what would those be?”
“You’ve already explained why the ladies chose it for their motif. But the white poppy with the black center would be even more meaningful. All the things you’ve said---I believe I remember this correctly---plus peace.”
― Diane C. McPhail, The Seamstress of New Orleans

“Isn’t that momentous? Women! A krewe of women. Turning the tide on men! We are making history here. Yes, this moment! Making history.” The woman had barely taken a breath. She tapped Constance on the arm and picked up her fork to begin her hors d’oeuvre of boudin-stuffed mushrooms.
Constance leaned toward the woman as if wishing to speak more directly. In truth, she wanted to see the name on the place card. She had time to make out only the first name: Marianne. “Ah, yes, Marianne,” she said. “It is history, isn’t it? You are so very right.”
“It is time that women spoke up for themselves, did for themselves, and we are part of that wave that will surely come to shore when we get the vote. But for now, having our own ball will have to suffice.”
The woman turned to her neighbor on the other side.
“Indeed.” Constance finished the last bit of mushroom, speaking to the air. Her fork clanged on the plate as the uniformed server whisked it away. It was replaced immediately with a sumptuous, but unpretentious luncheon plate of shrimp and asparagus, with a decorative sprig of green grapes.”
― Diane C. McPhail, The Seamstress of New Orleans

“Beauty had emerged from her mother’s fingertips, her nimble use of needle and bright-colored thread. Beauty had lain in what sort of stitch could marry two scraps on a quilt and what other stitch mirrored a rose or a thorn or the seeded center of a sunflower.”
― Diane C. McPhail, The Seamstress of New Orleans

“Two glistening fish appeared on each side of the beaded rectangle, symbolic of the Gothic arched tower of the Brooklyn Bridge, just as they had mutually planned the design. But above that rectangle there was now a third shimmering, pointed oval, shaped the same as the fish but minus the tail. This pointed oval glimmered with delicate iridescence as the fabric moved. Visually, the shape was a subtle repetition of the Gothic arch and finished off the rectangular shape so that the impression became that of a lighted flame at the center of the design, a light reminiscent of Liberty’s torch. At a deeper, hidden level in Alice’s mind, the shape completed an allusion to Constance’s three children. This she had done for both of them, for their dead sons, regardless of whether Constance ever fathomed that aspect of Alice’s addition to the design. Every stitch in that simple shape had given Alice comfort.”
― Diane C. McPhail, The Seamstress of New Orleans

“She picked up the wide sleeve and studied the beading: imitation pearls and small rhinestones interspersed with a few of glistening colors: watery blue and aqua, palest rose and coral.”
― Diane C. McPhail, The Seamstress of New Orleans

“Constance was interested only in the actual history of the real woman Semiramis. The wild mythologies and legends that had grown up around her over the centuries bit too deeply into Constance’s own uncertainty and guilty fear. She could not bear the legendary, magical figure featured in multiple, sometimes conflicting embellishments, certainly not the damned creature of Dante—-consigned to Hell in the Circle of Lust—-or the tragic figure of Voltaire or Rossini’s opera. But the real woman Semiramis, who had taken the throne at her husband’s death and remained there until her son came of age, who had ruled, expanded, and stabilized the Assyrian Empire, here was a woman who could lend her hope. Aside from history, the only myth of Semiramis that touched her was that of an abandoned girl raised by doves.”
― Diane C. McPhail, The Seamstress of New Orleans

“On past Jackson Square, the car rolled over the rough cobblestones until they reached the farmers market. The melee of sounds now combined with an assault of smells on the senses: the enticing aroma of fresh baguettes and croissants, followed instantly by the terrible reek of the fish market, then the bloody odor of the butcher’s market, and finally, at the end, the soothing, enticing chocolaty scent of ground chicory. And a hint of pralines, all sugary, with a waft of pecans.”
― Diane C. McPhail, The Seamstress of New Orleans

“Constance leaned over the parchment and ostensibly studied in detail all the complex symbols worked into the design: the compass with four needles, each needle a scepter; the red poppies worked into the gold-embellished borders; the mythical figures, each veiled face a woman’s.”
― Diane C. McPhail, The Seamstress of New Orleans

“Just as this female krewe had turned the table on men, now they turned the table on convention. Not one queen, they agreed. No. Why should there be only one? “Let us have four, one for each point of the compass, to include the whole of womanhood. One each of the various symbols of female identity—-Semiramis, Pocahontas, Juliet, and Brunhilde. All womanhood included in royalty!” they declared.”
― Diane C. McPhail, The Seamstress of New Orleans