Parrot and Olivier in America (51 page)

Huzzah! I cried, wishing my new wife at my side.

The conversations about the ink were astonishingly civil. No one would accept a sou. Then my future father waited for me at the table with the bright eyes of an uncle, one of those imaginary chaps who arrive with splendid surprises on your birthday.

"Eat, eat," he cried.

It was a short while after dawn but there was already a crowd trampling the grass on the square, eager, I thought, to find a good position for the parade. I was slow in understanding that this
was
the parade and these were the dignitaries. And what were they doing, do you imagine? Why, they were deciding who had precedence in the parade.

How extraordinary, I thought. "Is not your precedence set?"

"It will be soon," said Godefroy.

"But this is not the first Independence Day."

"Oh no," said he, "but the precedence is different every year."

If I had been myself I would have laughed, but I was the guest of a great nation. I ordered a chop as was suggested, but had little time to eat it as Godefroy's friends Mr. Azariah Flagg and the lieutenant governor arrived and I was required to join them as a dignitary in the procession.

"But I am a foreigner," I said. "I have no right to march with the citizens."

"You are one with us," they cried.

I was most excited, I confessed, and what a very peculiar and blessed feeling it was to stand safely inside the Revolution, so to speak, to be on the unquestioned side of good.

The great day was in no way what I had anticipated as we toiled here through the mud. The gold thread was nowhere in evidence. There was nothing grander than a small militia escort, that is, quite rightly, the national guard of a country in which the military spirit is absolutely unknown.

And yet I did not laugh at this lack of martial splendor, and not merely from good manners or my own private commitment to America, but because there was such a spirit of gravitas and I was very moved to see the plain uncultured people in their pride--the deputations of all the trades and associations of the city, triumphantly turned out, bearing aloft the emblems of their professions.

Good Lord, I thought, my mother would die. But in this world my mother did not live.

It was completely original, without precedent. First came the fire department, all nine companies of men. At the front were twelve of the straightest and strongest. They carried on their shoulders, like pallbearers, and just as solemnly, a miniature fire engine which was at once the most magnificent toy and also the Virgin Mary being carried through a village on Assumption Day.

Next came the association of printers carrying a carmine silk banner with letters in gold font worthy of a prophecy.

Next was the Albany Typographical Society which boasted a float as big as an opera stage and on it a printing press and a bust of Franklin, whom I mentioned in connection with his rocking chair.

Dear Blacqueville, you were a dreadful giggler. How comic, you would have thought, to see this solemn participation of the industries and trades. There was no king or parliament, no nobles of the sword or robe, instead an Association of Butchers and an Association of Apprentices, and you must allow that these emblems are very natural to a people who owe their prosperity to commerce and industry.

Mechanics' Benefit Society. Carpenters' Architectural and Benevolent Association. Some fifty societies with their various badges, banners and implements of art.

"How splendid!" I declared, ashamed of my own insincerity, poleaxed, in spite of my wiser self, by the absence of splendor, imperium,
gloire
. Where one might naturally expect imperial guards there were red-faced Carmelites, about fifty, in snow-white frocks tied at the neck and wrist with green ribbon.

The foreign visitor was looking for the past and there it was, before my very nose--Godefroy and the comptroller, their eyes shining as they saluted an old American flag, bullet-torn, a brave survivor of the War of Independence. It flew from a wagon occupied by four ancient soldiers who fought with Washington. I am told they are honored and preserved like holy relics, so why does no one think to darn their trousers? Such was the confusion of my response to Independence Day, my feelings flying back and forth like blackbirds trapped inside a church. Here the dust and dirt, here the gold. There the beggars, here the lords, here the merchants giving change. Who are you, Olivier de Garmont, to drive them from the temple?

Oh for a bicycle of gold to race you up and down the streets, for in my privileged position, much of the parade was hidden from my view. So let me escort you on foot to a Methodist church which had the appearance of a drill hall in a Catholic country. Here a magistrate, who in America performs functions analogous to the
procureur du Roi
, read the Declaration of Independence.

Here then. A truly fine spectacle. A profound silence reigned. Thus the magistrate's voice became the voice of the Congress as it reviewed the injustices and the tyranny of England with great warmth and dignity. You could hear and
feel
the murmur of indignation and anger circulate about the auditorium. When the magistrate proclaimed the justice of the cause and expressed the founders' resolution to either succumb or free America, it seemed that an electric current made all our hearts vibrate.

Here one could feel, to one's very bones, the return of an entire people to the moment of their birth. In this union of the present generation with that which is no longer, and sharing for the moment all its generous passion, there was something deeply felt and truly great.

Oh that it had stopped there.

Alas, a lawyer next stepped up to deliver a harangue, and thus the great day turned to farce as
The Great Bore of Albany
was obliged to mention every single country in the history of the world. Thus he evoked everything boastful, uncertain, uncultured, and boorish that might mark the ascent of the majority. If he had an idea--and I suppose we must admit he did--it was that all countries are coming back or will return to liberty. How could I not compare this fool with the great Guizot. How might I not, against my own emotional resistance, recall the wit and learning of Paris, and when the speaker--in order to impress the crowd with the greatness of America--referred to me, the French commissioner, as some sort of proof of his nation's prestige, I was as ashamed of myself as I was revolted by his presumption.

I had come to Albany as a convert to an altar of liberty, yearning for my perfect union with its great historic soul. I had believed it might be possible to live my life completely careless of how democracy might harm me. I aspired to become one of the rivulets--nay, streams--that make the river of the people roar, to lend my gifts and privileges to the highest idea of civilization the world had ever seen. When I had stood at Godefroy's side and heard the Declaration read, my heart had raced, hair raised on my neck.

But then the
awful
lawyer. I had entered the church a convert. I emerged as the son of the Comtesse de Garmont.

It is not always wise to tell the truth, but now I will tell it--I was not at all moved to see the float with national banners of France, Belgium, Poland and Columbia. I did not like the silly platform with its working press and a boy in leather apron handing out the Declaration of Independence.

It is a painful thing to think that which you do not wish to think. Thus: a float with a Clymer printing press over which soared an eagle and in its beak a scroll, with the motto
verite sans peur
--truth without fear.

What pride they showed, those members of the New York Association of Morning and Evening Journals. And what made those men so righteous? Why, it must be all the coarse insults, the small vilifications, the impudent calumnies which fill their papers every day.

On the right was the Goddess of Liberty, supporting the American flag, on the left a full-sized figure of a slave, bound in chains, who having burst the shackles from one arm was reaching toward the printing press for emancipation.

But only reach! For how many years?

I had become a corrupted actor, a kind of cad. I placed my hand at Godefroy's back and shouted that the scene was charming. My breath was very difficult. Amelia awaited me. These people, I reminded myself, are the heroes of the world. They have not yet finished what they will achieve. And I am with them, of their number, aroused to feel their shoulders touch my own. What makes a democracy bearable? I asked myself, wondering if I had sufficient ink left in my bottle for my evening's work.

II

BEING TOO IMPATIENT to wait for the maid and very eager to abandon Albany, I bathed in cold water and was refreshed. Alas it was some hours before Godefroy emerged and I saw he was in no hurry to reach Wethersfield. On the contrary, he had already planned a diversion that would take us to a waterfall.

It was only then I finally grasped what the attentive reader will have understood already--that this elder of the Puritan community did not like to be at home. He would prefer to spend his days sharing wine or ale with councillors and aldermen in as many towns as there were along the Hudson, all down the Mississippi to the sea. Why, even here in Albany, it seemed there was much that could occupy us for the remainder of the week. The governor's room, the golden corridor, the senate staircase, the senate chamber, the assembly chamber, the court of appeals room, the new state library with 150,000 volumes and the Clinton papers--the Clinton papers, sir! He had already arranged for me to handle a sword once belonging to General Washington!

In explaining why I must rush to Wethersfield, I painted myself, not incorrectly, as the lovesick fool. This flattered his paternal vanity to such an extent that he must hide his pleasure behind his table napkin.

"You would depart without inspecting the Museum of Military Records and Relics?"

"Alas."

"Sir, it contains eight hundred battle flags of state regiments, with several ensigns captured from the enemy."

"Sir, there is no battle flag can compete with your daughter's charms."

"You will not be kept from her too long," he said, "for we can take the steamer down to the town of Hudson. Tomorrow we will see one of the great wonders of the world, then home. We will have some bad roads, but nothing worse than you have had en route."

"We can take the steamer?"

"Indeed," he cried.

"Might we not have saved ourselves a lot of mud to come here in that way?"

"If we had wished. Of course."

"Then pray, why not?"

"Because," replied Philip Godefroy. "You are an American now, and you must take the rough with the smooth."

I did an excellent job of disguising my feelings. Sometimes I think it is the sole talent of the aristocracy.

Much later I came to understand that we had traveled by land so that my future father-in-law could avoid passing Sing Sing prison. The steamer to Albany would have berthed there, and the French commissioner would have been compelled to make an inspection of that fabled place of incarceration. As to why Philip Godefroy wished to prevent this meeting, it is now well known that the governor of Sing Sing sat on the commission to investigate Wethersfield Prison, and that the results of this investigation were the cause of Mr. Godefroy's fall from grace.

The steamer was raucous, filled with mechanics and other celebrants of the national day, all in their cups by noon. I recorded the scenery--the pleasant residences and villas on the riverbank, the early signs of unregulated greed and devastation. This was to be my new country, and I observed it was profitable all the way to Hudson.

Once landed, I took to my bed, pleading a stomach ailment, although the disturbed organ was in fact the heart. All night I dreamed I was still on the steamer, pressed in by mechanics and their wives who were roasting a cow on the deck. I got in a great rage with them for this stupidity, swinging an oar about my head and striking them so hard they flew into the river, which they possessed like a great mass of poisoned fish floating on their backs.

In the morning we went by coach to Kaaterskill Falls, a journey which gave Godefroy a new excuse to praise Thomas Cole, the same one who had bored me at the Godefroy table and whose
Autumn on the Hudson
contaminated the natural simplicity of the Godefroy home.

On the subject of the falls, I am told Mr. Cole has written volumes. I have only a steep climb, a scramble, the wild prospect of dense dark laurel pines slashed by brilliant birch and, through this screen, the stream--olive-green water, soft as velvet. There was a hawk or eagle circling at one stage. The sky was blue, the rising breeze crisp for the time of year. We crossed a small wooden bridge on which was nailed a rusty kind of money box in which Godefroy deposited some coins. In a moment I saw four wild streams descend from a glistening shelf. With what power and weight they leaped into the abyss. I heard Godefroy shout, saw his eyes wide with pleasure and astonishment.

Both Godefroy and the trail insisted that I continue, across a landscape of flat rocks, blueberry bushes, and dwarfish pitch pine.

And there were the Kaaterskill Falls: a great sheet, plunging to the depths, immediately provoking thoughts of suicide. My host would not dream of stopping. What choice did I have? I would not be a coward before this man. My chest was tight. My throat closed. Great Phobos, my blood spills across your altar stone.

Kaaterskill is from the Dutch word
kaater
, which means
lynx
. The first pitch is two hundred feet. Then the creature gathers itself for a new leap: Its living blood surges across fifty flat feet, plummets for another hundred, jumps about from shelf to shelf. God save me, why had I come here? Godefroy and I lay side by side.

"What fun," he cried.

It was fun enough for anybody, but then the father of my bride insisted we should get ourselves
behind
the falls, all the while crying to me that in summer it was usually "not like this," when of course it was exactly
like this
, or worse than
like this
, for now the wind rose so violently it almost blew me to my death. We crept out across a bridge of rock and then, already soaking wet and shivering, stood in a place unimaginable in waking life, behind the falls, our faces assaulted by a choking spray.