WOMEN: Where Was Bertha?

All Chicagoans, most excursionists to their World's Fair, recall with mingled emotions the turreted and crenellated brownstone "castle" abutting on lower Lake Shore Drive. The two acres of pleasaunce surrounding it confirm the impression of burlesque medievalism, of an architect strong in his delusion that a parapet here, a battlement there, comprise the ancient dignity of Kenilworth, Warwick, Elsinore, Tintagel.

Despite its atrocious style, its incongruity in a bracket of sheer apartment houses, those familiar with the castle's tradition regard it affectionately, reverently. For here live the Potter Palmers.

With a horse, Ulysses loosed destruction over Troy. In 1871, Mrs. O'Leary did the same for Chicago with a petulant cow, which shattered an oil lantern in its straw-lined stall. Flames ran amuck, ravaged the straggling town, left it blackened, hollow, crisp. Disconsolate, penniless, young Potter Palmer stood in the ashes of his home. Suddenly, where was Bertha? Bertha had borrowed a buggy, careened into a nearby village, wired New York for an extension of credit. New York agreed, and—phoenix-like—Chicago and the Potter Palmers soared together.

The Palmer House Hotel was built, the castle was built in 1885. Thence Mrs. Palmer ruled as absolute empress of society; her invitations an accolade, a command. At the World's Fair, she was hostess to the Infanta Eulalie of Spain; Duke and Duchess d'Aragona, descendants of Columbus; Princess Schahovska, Prince Cernoski, and Prince Isenberg of Russia. Mrs. Palmer summoned, too, Prince Henry of Prussia. Prince Henry was disdainful. "Is royalty to be guest of an innkeeper's wife?" Royalty was. Prince Henry came.

Encouraged by this signal triumph, Mrs. Palmer sought other worlds to conquer. London beckoned. Forthwith she purchased a house on Carlton Terrace; flung down the gauntlet to Mrs. John W. Mackay for King Edward's favor, and the social leadership it carried. The tourney was magnificent. For one Arabian night's entertainment in 1909, Mrs. Palmer spent $10,000; for one season, $200,000. Discreet King Edward refused to discriminate; shared his attendance equally.

Mrs. Palmer returned to the U. S.; rested on her laurels. In 1918, she died at Sarasota, Fla., bequeathing her collection of Corot, Bissavis, Whistler, Monet, Millet, to the Chicago Art Institute; her castle and fortune to Potter Palmer, Jr.

Many an imperial legend clusters about her name. One is traced to American-girl-glorifier Ziegfeld. Then managing strong man Sandow's tour, he boldly invited Mrs. Palmer to the dressing-room. Pantie-clad, Sandow's bulging thews, barrel chest, excited her admiration. "What marvelous muscles!" Sandow tautened his biceps. "Feel them," he said. Mrs. Palmer did. Precedent was established. Thenceforward, claims Ziegfeld, thirty women appeared after each performance, prodded and pinched the chuckling Sandow.