1876 (20 page)

“Not the easiest man to talk to.”

“A little chilly?”

“No. A passionate nature, I should think.”

“That is not the impression I got, or anyone else.”

“Well, there are all sorts of passions, aren’t there? Like my mother-in-law’s passion for money ...”

“Don’t mention her! I can feel the blood pounding in my ears.”

“Or that charming Senator Conkling’s passion for Kate Sprague.”

“You liked him?”

“I saw him only that one time when we exchanged ten words.”

“I remember. And you said you found him vain.”

“Oh, as a peacock! With that ridiculous curl in the middle of his forehead ...”

“The hyacinthine curl. I suppose he’s imitating Disraeli ...”

“But when he looked at Kate, one felt
here
is a passionate man.”

“Well, he had come halfway round the world to see her, incognito he thought. I don’t think he fancied meeting us. Anyway, now you’ve met both party leaders. Which will it be? Who will be the president? Tilden or Conkling?”

“Who cares? It’s only a game they play, Papa. It’s not important.”

I detected in her voice an echo, a variation on a theme of Sanford’s. “Game or not, the result is important.”

“But it is hardly like being the emperor, is it?” Emma continues to regard the United States as an overgrown Mexico.

“I admit that our presidents have very little to do. The Congress governs—and does most of the stealing. But the president has many jobs to give, particularly to deserving old writers.”

“Then,
vive
Tilden!” Emma was in a good mood. “As for his passion ...”

“Yes, how did you discover what no one has ever before noticed?”

“By listening to him talk about canals.”

“Canals?”

“And railroads. And—oh, yes, justice.” Emma was like a schoolgirl, recalling her lessons. “He said that he was appalled by the inequality of the American system of justice. The courts are for the rich, he said.”

“He should know. He made his fortune representing the rich, particularly the railroads.”

“Then, perhaps, he wants to atone for his sins. He is a good man, Papa, if absurd.”

“I don’t find him absurd, and doubt if he is good.”

“Because you are a man. And an American. I only wish that he was less flatulent.”

“A thunderer, like Prince Metternich?”

“No, a whistler like Prince Napoleon.”

We laughed at the old joke. I said that I thought his real and only passion is ill health.

“No matter. I am sure that he will make a most amusing president, if such a thing is possible. Does he have a mistress?”

“You tell me.”

“I think not. He is like an old capon.” Thus we discussed the next president, and the restorer of our—my—fortunes.

Emma went to bed, and I worked for a time on Cavour. Not easy work. I dread the prospect of writing a campaign biography, but if I must I must. Besides, I am sure that some ambitious young man in Mr. Dutton’s offices will be able to take the actual task in hand, with a grace note or two from me.

NEW YEAR’S DAY, 1876. The Year of the Centennial, as every newspaper proclaims. I must say that if this new year continues at the same pace as the last month of the old year, I shall not survive until 1877.

Emma and I continue to go round and round if not up and up. We attended a Patriarchs’ Ball at Delmonico’s, in the Blue Ballroom: “So difficult to decorate,” complained McAllister, who rules society whilst Mrs. Astor reigns. Earlier that evening we had sat with the Mystic Rose in her box at the Academy of Music and actually heard a few snatches of Verdi during those rare moments when the gentry were silent. The ball afterwards was of no great interest.

The Belmonts’ gala proved to be much livelier than the Astor levee, and in a way more grand, for not only were there more Europeans but the women were far better-looking than those to be found at Mrs. Astor’s. Obviously it is Ward McAllister’s ambition to be the Prince Albert of New York, creating for his Victoria a sumptuous, self-satisfied and pre-eminently dull court. In contrast, the rival court of the Belmonts is to the Astors’ Windsor a sort of Tuileries: brilliant, amusing, a bit vulgar and entirely delightful. Right off, in front of Mrs. Belmont, August Belmont declared his admiration for Emma; and his wife only sighed. “Now,” she said to Emma, “he will never cease to plague you. Too boring!”

But today, of course, was the day of days in Apgar-land, for there, in the cold dull living rooms of the Third Brother, the Nine Brothers with their hundreds of family connections lauded Emma on her engagement, on her translation from
French
widow to serious Apgar-ish niceness.

John was charming and awkward and rather appealing—to me. I suspect that Emma does not like him much but she has been trained like all members of her class to do what must be done gracefully and without complaint. Since there is no alternative to this marriage, Emma has accepted her r
ô
le with every outward sign of enjoyment.

Sister Faith was scarlet with pleasure, and kept hugging Emma, speechless at their new relationship. Emma soothed Faith, charmed the rest.

Toasts were prosed in the dining room, where we dined
à
la fourchette
. I was tactful. The Nine Apgars were heavy. The relatives were fascinated by this unlikely glamourous new connection.

I had forgotten, of course (why, of course? my memory is still
very
good) the old New York Dutch custom of paying calls on New Year’s Day. To my surprise, it is still observed. And so not only did we enjoy the official gathering of the entire Apgar clan but we were also able to accept the congratulations of every “nice” person in the city who came to call, and if Mrs. Apgar is to be believed, only the bedridden remained at home.

“That’s why we picked New Year’s Day for the announcement,” she told me as we stood side by side receiving an endless line of callers, most of them smelling of whisky punch. “You see, they all would be coming here anyway, so we are killing two birds with one stone.”

Amongst the birds who arrived to be killed was Jamie Bennett. A majority of the Nine Brothers was noticeably cool to the proprietor of the scandalous
Herald
but Jamie carried it off well; he was only slightly drunk.

“Poor Emma!” I heard him mutter in her ear. Fortunately no one but Emma and I heard him. She gave him her Medusa gaze, causing him to turn if not to stone to me.

“Mr. Schuyler.” At least Jamie recalled some of his manners in that forbidding parlour with its dark walnut panelling, with its once-vivid rose-design rugs now faded to a suitable Apgar-ish rust.

“Mr. Bennett.” I played to the hilt jovial father of the bride-to-be. “A pleasant surprise.”

“But still a surprise?” Jamie leered. “Not exactly one of the houses I normally visit New Year’s Day, but this time I had to, for Emma.”

“The gesture is much appreciated.”

“When do they get married?”

The question is still moot. There has been a good deal of talk of a Grace Church June wedding (favoured for a time by me), but we had just learned that the house that John has bought in Eleventh Street (or did the Third Brother buy it for him? Must find out) won’t be habitable until October. As a result, the family is divided between the two dates. So far Emma has not expressed herself; and John will not state his own preference until she has declared hers. He did say last week that if they were married in June, they could spend the summer at his family’s place in Maine ... mosquitoes, juniper bushes, sand flies. Maine makes a very definite picture for me.

Emma will opt for October, I think. Instinctively, she postpones putting such a definite end to what once was a most beautiful life. Earlier, driving down to the Third Brother’s house, she said, “We should hold a funeral for the Princess d’Agrigente.”

I misunderstood her. “No such luck. That old woman will outlive us all.” The old woman, incidentally, has now demanded more money than was initially agreed upon for the support of Emma’s children.

“No, I meant for me. When I become Mrs. Apgar.”

“Delay!” I was vehement, altogether too vehement. In fact, I have been so overwrought all day that now I pay the price and feel most unwell. I write this in bed.

“I don’t think I dare.”

“But you are reluctant?”

“I like John.” She answered in her own fashion; and left me nothing further to say.

John took me aside after the family toasts and we stood in an alcove, sharing the cramped space with a life-size bronze deer. “I want you to know, sir, that I will do everything in my power to make Emma happy.”

“Of course you will, dear boy.” I was on the verge of tears, not from sentiment but from one of those premonitory signals that herald the approaching stroke. I must rest more. See fewer people. Lose weight.

“It’s amazing how she fits in! Why, it’s as if she’d always lived here.” This was John’s highest praise.

I dried my eyes. “She is not unused to society.”

John did not hear; he was staring raptly at Emma. “I thought we might go to Canada on the honeymoon,
if
we are married in June, of course.” Mosquitoes the size of quails filled my inner eye, not to mention gnats as big as rooks, circling carrion—if rooks eat flesh. Poor Emma. But now it is all out of my hands. I am simply an onlooker.

In fact, so passive have I become that I allowed myself to be taken in hand by Jamie, who had mysteriously sobered up at the Apgar buffet table; he insisted on taking me to pay “a very special New Year’s Day call.”

Since Emma was now lost to the Apgars for the rest of the day, including supper, I was able to excuse myself, pleading age and fatigue, “and perfect boredom, Papa.” Emma whispered in French as she kissed my check and sent me off with Jamie.

Fifth Avenue was crowded with carriages. Despite the truly arctic cold, the whole town was busy paying calls.

“Where are we going?” I asked as we lurched slowly through the confusion of carriages in Madison Square.

“You’ll see. I’ve got more news from Washington for you.”

“About Babcock?”

“About a member of the President’s official family who has been selling federal offices. When do you go to Washington?”

“February fifteenth.”

“Well, you’ll be there in time. Fireworks, I should say. How do you put up with all those Apgars?”

“The same way I endured my wife’s family.” But this was an exaggeration, since the Traxlers are noted for their charm as well as for their Swiss rectitude.

Approaching the spireless raw-looking St. Patrick’s Cathedral, our carriage slowed down. “Are we to go to mass, Jamie? I know that your father died in the arms of mother church but ...”

“We go to other arms, Charlie. The most amusing in New York.”

Somewhat to my horror, as well as secret delight, the carriage stopped in front of the brownstone and pink Parian marble mansion of Madame Restell, the wickedest woman in New York.

I knew the house of course. Not a single hackdriver has neglected to point out to me the mansion where for twenty years has lived in splendour the city’s most celebrated abortionist. It is said that some of the very grandest ladies have visited the mansion, entering through a side door in Fifty-second Street. Most of Madame’s clients, however, are catered for in her Chambers Street clinic. For thirty years the pulpits and the newspaper press have denounced this fiend, but so far she managed, luxuriously, to survive everything and everyone by the usual expedient of buying the police and the politicians. Those she cannot buy she is usually able to intimidate, since, sooner or later, most families in New York have at least one member who requires Madame’s services as “midwife,” which is how she describes herself in the advertisements she places in the
Herald
, and, technically speaking, she
is
a midwife: much of her work is discreetly delivering unwanted babies and then selling them to childless families.

“I cannot imagine you ever setting foot in this house, Jamie.”

“Father always said, ‘Keep in good with your advertisers.’ Anyway she’s a rare sort.”

Madame Restell indeed proved to be a rare sort. She is about my age, very richly got up in diamonds and black lace. La Restell’s drawing room is as pretentious as that of Mrs. Astor except that her pictures are better and the furniture not as good. The guests are almost interchangeable. By that I mean the twenty or thirty gentlemen I met are no different in kind from Ward McAllister’s chosen few; the same mixture of railroad tycoons, rich lawyers, idle clubmen. The ladies, on the other hand, are bolder and far more glittering than the ones to be seen acting as ferns and thorns to the Mystic Rose.

Madame greeted me warmly. “So good of Jamie to bring you. I’ve known him since he was a young lad.”

“She was married to one of our compositors at the
Herald
.”
Jamie meant to put her in her place, but she is very much in place at all times, and that is on high.

“My husband thought the world of your dear father. In fact, when Mr. Bennett was horsewhipped in the street by that politician, what’s his name?” She turned to me. “This was years ago, Mr. Schuyler. My Charlie was the first to come to old Mr. Bennett’s aid.”

Brava
, Madame Restell, I thought to myself. Jamie glowered; then wandered off to a small parlour where a number of gentlemen were at cards. The effect of Madame Restell’s rooms is not unlike that of an excellent men’s club.

I spoke to her in French. She laughed. “I’m no more French than you, Mr. Schuyler. My mother was called Restell, and when I set myself up in business I took her name, not wanting to embarrass others. Actually, I’m born and bred a Gloucestershire woman.” And she does still retain the accent of her country as well as of her class, which was, I should think, quite as low as now it is elevated. But she is not one for pretenses.

“Let’s sit down. I’ve been on my feet since noon.”

I sat beside her on a sofa; and took a whisky punch from a waiter in black, with a white tie like an usher at a wedding. I seem full of Hymenal images this evening, not to mention Venereal.