FOR SOME TIME, God took mercy on the fretting young woman: and the very worst of the rumors subsided.
Alas, then sprang to life again!
Yet, again, ebbed: and Prudence again enjoyed John Quincy’s company and, summoning forth all her Kiddemaster pride, gave every indication of not knowing how idle tongues wagged.
“I shall not concern myself with anything save the present moment,” Prudence wisely counseled her heart, “nor shall I give way to vexations arising out of mere emotion, and particularities. For, as Mr. Emerson teaches, ‘I live now: I am a transparent eyeball opened to nature.’ ”
So John Quincy was invited to tea, and to dinner, at the Kiddemasters’ Cobbett Square home; and they went together to one or more of the milder Abolitionist speakers; and to Thursday afternoons at the Arcadia Club; and to the Philadelphia Academy of Art, there to gaze with especial delight upon a watercolor exhibit, of “Autumnal Blossoms.” They attended the opening night of that production of Macbeth, at the new Varieties Theatre, in which Miss Charlotte Cushman gave an historic performance (for thus the reviewers claimed, in their rhapsodies of praise): tho’ Prudence believed that the actress’s Lady Macbeth was somewhat too impassioned, and John Quincy expressed some philosophical doubt, less pertaining to the performances themselves, than to the general violence, and gloom, and deficiency of beauty, of the great tragedy itself.
“It may be,” the handsome young man allowed, “that, in less enlightened times than ours, and in climes differing substantially from ours, such a spectacle of human nature did not arouse skepticism, amongst persons of intelligence: but we here in America, in our more advanced civilization, have come to believe otherwise, concerning human nature.”
Prudence’s heart so swelled, as, by John Quincy’s side, she heard these forthright words, that she could not speak, save to assent. How judicious his insights, how measured his words!—and how she adored him!
AT THIS STRATEGIC time, Miss Rachel Triem was said to be visiting relatives in Richmond, there to remain for some six or more weeks; the ivory-complected beauty, Miss Honora LeBeau, was being assiduously courted by René Du Pont de Nemours (the uncle of Cheyney, at this time but an infant of some six months of age); Miss Evangeline Ferris, accompanied by her mother, had sailed off to London on a line-of-packet ship; and poor Parthenope Brownrrigg, tho’ absurdly enamored of John Quincy Zinn, sought to disguise her futile passion by absenting herself from meetings of the Arcadia Club.
Mr. Zinn had of late declared himself somewhat o’ertaxed, as a consequence of his numerous social obligations, and new-arisen difficulties at the Brownrrigg Academy. (For, it seemed, certain dissatisfied parents had complained to Mr. Brownrrigg, that the Socratic method, whilst pristine in itself, seemed to be leading their children into remarkable areas of knowledge, not excluding the agnostical, and the biological. And there was some small flurry of concern, that the anatomical lessons, whilst conducted with but dry skeletons—of squirrels, weasels, cats, and similar small creatures—nonetheless could not fail to suggest, in the impressionable mind, the grosser private organs, of the human body.)
“I do not care in the least, Mr. Zinn, what rumors are whisper’d about you,” Prudence forthrightly declared, “for I know, from having closely perused your manuscript, and from our numerous intimate discussions, the degree of your seriousness as an educator; and I cannot be dissuaded—nay, not even by the priggish Miss Brownrrigg—of your high moral worth.”
“You are very kind, Miss Kiddemaster,” the young man said, with a somewhat distracted air; and smiled a smile that quite bewitched Prudence’s heart, it spoke so much of affection, and weariness.
He loves me, Prudence inwardly exclaimed, and yet, will he not speak?
To her sorrow, and protracted mortification, the pricks of jealousy did not abate, tho’ certain of her rivals had withdrawn from the field; for there were other regions of John Quincy Zinn’s life—obscure and murky indeed—which Prudence but dimly understood, and could not altogether countenance.
For, in the humble boardinghouse, in which he continued to reside (stubbornly resisting his friends’ offers of more luxurious housing), John Quincy had evidently made the acquaintance of a number of personages: these being distinctive “characters,” it seemed, for whom he felt some puzzling fondness. There was a retired physician, and self-styled phrenologist, by the name of Butler (who, having examined John Quincy’s leonine head, fingering the bumps, declivities, and ridges, with a practic’d hand, came to the shocking conclusion that “a God and a Demon warred for his soul”); an unemployed railroad man, of Irish, Scotch, German, and Mohawk blood, who diverted his fellow boarders, at the dining room table, with fantastical tales of gross outrages and crimes to come, with the “triumph of the railroad barons, o’er the hapless maiden, the United States”; and a very young man, by the name of Charles Guiteau, who called himself an artist, but had also worked as a pamphleteer, a printer’s assistant, and a dockhand—this person being, according to Mr. Zinn’s testimony, an appealing young man, and ofttimes amusing, tho’ prone to excitability.
“It is quite touching, how lonely Charles is,” Mr. Zinn said, “for simple comradeship, I believe; and for wisdom.”
Prudence held her tongue, and said not a word; but she could not keep from wondering, whether, on those frequent nights John Quincy absented himself from the drawing rooms of the Philadelphians, he was consorting with such low creatures. I despise myself for my jealousy, Prudence took note, yet find it near impossible to o’ercome this dread emotion. And her feeling grew the more problematic, as, laughingly, John Quincy came to speak of young Guiteau as his “hopeful disciple.”
So it happened that, against her better judgment, Prudence invited John Quincy and his friend Charles to tea; and arranged for them to attend the theater together; and to go for some pleasant Sunday excursions, in one of the Kiddemaster carriages; and for some picturesque strolls, along the Delaware. The three of them attended a lyceum talk by the controversial “Sacred Socialist” Cyrus Feucht, and a most disreputable public debate, betwixt an Anti-Nebraskan, a Pro-Slaver, and a Popular Sovereignty man, that ended with so lurid a free-for-all, that the police swarmed into the building, and made arrests!
Young Charles Guiteau was a good twelve inches shorter than John Quincy, and made a most comical, tho’ touching figure, with his pretense of a military bearing, and his high-held head. Prudence could not guess his age, which might have been anywhere betwixt eighteen and thirty: his frame was undersized, his head o’erlarge, and his eyes somewhat beady, and too moist. His dark, thinning hair reeked of brilliantine, and was fashioned into a curious style, with hooklike curls on either temple, and an unwavering center part. He looked ahead, he said, to the day when he would own his own printing press, and might enter politics; then again, perhaps it was his destiny, to leave the city and settle in far-off California, there to organize a Utopian community, which might implement John Quincy Zinn’s ideas in the flesh. “Ah, how he makes everything clear, that has long been obscured in vile murk! Do you not agree, Miss Kiddemaster?”—thus the strange creature addressed her, with no perspicacity, as to how the sound of Prudence’s name, in his squeaking voice, gave offense.
An eccentric trio, I am bound to say: Miss Prudence Kiddemaster in a long, full, black sealskin cloak, that may have emphasized, rather than disguised, the Amazonian stolidity of her figure; Mr. John Quincy Zinn in his ill-fitting preacher’s coat, and his bell-shaped hat, the which gave to his healthsome appearance a certain bucolic air; and the diminutive Mr. Guiteau, hurrying alongside them, fairly hopping, that he might keep pace with this handsome couple, whom he plainly admired, and did not scruple to pester with his attentions. (Poor Mr. Guiteau! Prudence thought his overcoat, which fell unevenly to his ankles, was a most piteous sight; and his greasy bowler hat, now much the worse for wear, was somewhat comical; and his high ungainly boots, which flopped, and sighed, and squished, as he hurried along! It was difficult to believe, a
s Charles Guiteau oft asserted, that his father was a banker, and his mother “of good stock”; tho’ Prudence thought it quite likely, that, as Charles said, he and his father had “grievously quarreled,” and he had been “expelled” from the home of his childhood, preferring to wander about America, dwelling now in one city, and now in another, in order that he might become acquainted with “all that was most wondrous.”)
“Many a young American wanders, that he might seek his material fortune,” John Quincy averred, “but my friend Charles wanders in search of his spiritual fortune.”
When the two young men had first become acquainted, Guiteau was a staunch believer in militant Abolitionism, and red meat, and Christian determinism: the damn’d were damn’d, the saved saved, and naught further might be said. After a scant three or four months, however, as Guiteau joyously reiterated, to Prudence, he deemed himself a total convert to John Quincy Zinn’s wisdom—and wished only to have the opportunity, to put Mr. Zinn’s ideas into practice.
All eagerly the young man had seized upon John Quincy’s theory of the “sacred employment of machinery,” in the enhancement of human life; he was wonderfully enthusiastic about the perpetual-motion machine, though, as he laughingly said, he “could not claim to understand a whit about it, or about anything, pertaining to Science.” Since Mr. Zinn shared in certain Abolitionist beliefs, that the Negro slaves should be freed, and property belonging to the great plantations redistributed, and that pacifism, vegetarianism, and Spirit would one day harmonize, to bring this about, this was young Charles Guiteau’s fervent belief as well: tho’ he did not entirely see (thus he confessed, with an abash’d smile) how such things would happen, the slaveowners being wicked men, and little given to quiet argument. “It would seem to me,” Guiteau murmured, with knitted brow, and a childish blush, in cognizance of his daring to speak in such wise, “that the great cause of pacifism itself, for instance, might be better advanced, if one were armed.”
AN ECCENTRIC TRIO, indeed: yet I have no choice, Prudence lamented in her secret diary, no choice & no shame.
IT WAS SOMETIMES not unpleasant to share Mr. Zinn’s company with his impetuous young friend: for Mr. Zinn seemed to enjoy speaking—nay, lecturing—to Mr. Guiteau, whose boyish countenance so readily revealed his thoughts. Prudence did not shrink from stating her opinions. Was it not contemptible, was it not shameful, that President Pierce now wanted to annex Cuba?—as a new slave state! All politicians, whether Democrats, or Whigs, or a half-dozen others, were motivated by self-interest, and not by morality: was it not unspeakable, to be in their hands?
Led by John Quincy, they discussed, for long impassioned hours, the profanity of public life, and the sanctity of private life; the evil of material interests, and the blessing of Spirit. Prudence visibly shuddered, at the recollected thought of certain personages, in her own family, who so craved money, by way of inheritances, that they fawned over their presumed benefactors, and could think of little else. “I had rather be a pauper, and a pauper’s wife,” Prudence brashly declared, “than so eaten up with covetousness, as I have seen many an inheritrix, of Philadelphia and Bloodsmoor both.”
The three young persons talked of the necessity for a dramatic confrontation, with the slaveholding South; yet they talked also, with especial warmth, of the impending World Synthesis, and the ubiquitous Love Spirit (this being the discovery of the Englishman James Pierrepont Greaves, not many years previous), and the problem of whether Humankind’s birth in time was intrinsically evil (because Spirit had thus laps’d from Eternity), or, in itself, neutral (because part of the evolutionary process of Unifying Spirit).
A vexing problem, indeed! (Which, I am somewhat ashamed to confess, I have never been able to grasp in its particulars, still less in its conclusion.)
“And yet,” John Quincy Zinn spoke suddenly, with an expansiveness to his voice, “I see no problem before us: for only look.”
Whereupon, in one of those impulsive gestures, which Prudence had come to admire, and perhaps even to adore, the forthright young gentleman grasped both his companions by the arms, and sternly bade them gaze out upon the splendid scene before them: for they had been tramping about the birch woods, above the Bloodsmoor River, on a chill and gusty Sunday afternoon in early spring—Mr. Zinn and Mr. Guiteau being, for that weekend, guests of the country estate, Kiddemaster Hall. (For some decades the family divided their time, with a fair degree of constancy, betwixt the city, and the country; gradually retiring, as it were, to the country, with the advent of Judge Kiddemaster’s decline as a jurist, and his increased loathing of his fellows.)
“Nay, my dear friends, I see no problem,” John Quincy said, in a bold and tremulous voice, “in this heavenly landscape, this living Utopia, in which, all undeserving, we find ourselves placed.”
Ah, and it was true! It was true!
Prudence gaped, and stared, and saw that it was true!
That this world, this earth, was Heaven: and that they were placed upon it, all undeserving: and that, and that— (But she was in danger, of a sudden, of bursting into tears, of raw exultation: and dared do no more than murmur an assent.)
Little Charles Guiteau, however, suffered no such restraint, but, with an outcry of sheer childish delight, broke away from his companions, and, not unlike a prankish monkey, given to the immediate expression of high spirits, actually dared to run, and hop, and perform a cartwheel on the grass!—a cartwheel, in his o’ersized coat, and silly bowler hat, and flopping boots.
HOW VERY CURIOUS he was, this Charles Guiteau!—of whom more will be said, at a later date.
Yet I cannot resist o’erleaping my narrative, to a chill spring day in 1865, after poor Mr. Zinn had at last returned home, from the dread conflict (being wounded in the Battle of Richmond, and made gravely ill, by divers circumstances of spoiled meat, infectious diseases, and unspeakable sanitary conditions): a quite unremarkable morning, in itself, when little Octavia asked, of a sudden, her brown eyes brightly aglow, Where had Pip come from?
The seven-year-old child, a plump, sweet, and rarely fretful little miss, was busying herself, at the moment, in sewing yet another charming outfit, for Mr. Zinn’s prized pet: this being a miniature vest carefully made over from the green sateen material of an old dressing gown, of Grandmother Sarah’s, to which would be added scarlet embroidered flowers, and black velvet trim, and tiny brass buttons. For all the girls loved Pip, and Octavia most of all. (Throughout the war years this spider monkey, gifted with a most remarkable intuition, and some rudimentary intelligence, had pined away for his endangered master, as if he knew very well—indeed, better—than Mr. Zinn’s daughters, how grave the situation was. Naturally, he did not shrink from playing his usual tricks, and was shrill, and jabbering, and naughty, at times, as if wishing punishment from Mrs. Zinn, or one of the servants; but you could tell, everyone said, that he had lost his spirit—his joy in life. As if, it may have been, the creature’s soul were elsewhere! “A most pragmatical time, I am given to say, to rid ourselves of the nuisance,” Grandfather Kiddemaster observed, but was o’erruled, fortunately, by the others.)
Dear little Octavia had begun sewing on the very day she learned to thread a needle, in but her third year; and, with wondrous precocity, she busied herself with numerous little tasks, that ranged from the simple darning of stockings and towels and handkerchiefs, to the creation of smocks for her sisters, and some three or four charming costumes for Pip.
With the return of Mr. Zinn from Richmond, and his honorable discharge from the Union Army, little Pip brightened: and spent many an hour stretched out beside his ailing master, who, convalescent, was forced to lie abed, or in a reclining chair (of his own invention), in the healthsome sunshine. Ah, it was a near-miracle to see how the melancholy monkey regained his spirit, and his energy, and was transformed, it would seem, into a very young monkey again!—all sweet, and frolicksome, yet docile, and, for long periods of time, quite tractable. And wasn’t Mrs. Zinn embarrassed when per
t little Malvinia loudly observed: “How very fortunate, Momma, that Grandfather did not get rid of Pip!—for he is quite settled down now, and quite tolerable.”
And one day Octavia paused in her sewing, and inquired, Where did Pip come from?—and the other little girls looked up laughing, with incredulous countenances, for naturally it had never occurred to them beforehand that Pip, dear Pip, had come from anywhere at all!—just as they themselves had not come from anywhere, but had dwelt here, in the Octagonal House, from all time.
Whereupon Mrs. Zinn turned a somewhat reproving face upon Octavia, for it was hardly a delicate question, and might lead to yet more unseemly questions, pertaining to the origins of the girls themselves; yet bethought herself, with some hesitation. For it had always been a tacit understanding, within the family, that the spider monkey had been a prankish wedding present, to both the bride and the groom, from one of the several young Philadelphia ladies who had been gravely wounded by John Quincy Zinn’s engagement to Prudence Kiddemaster—whether Miss Evangeline Ferris, or Miss Rachel Triem, or Miss Honora LeBeau, or (and this seemed most likely, to Prudence’s way of thinking) poor Miss Parthenope Brownrrigg, who was fated never to marry. What a commotion Pip had caused, delivered to Kiddemaster Hall on the very morning of the wedding, a spider monkey outfitted in a miniature bridegroom’s frock coat, with a spray of orange blossom in his lapel! The gift was accompanied by a card that read From an Anonymous Well-Wisher; and so merry were the spirits, of both bride and groom alike, that they had chosen not to take offense at the prank, and not to interpret it, as some did, as a malicious trick, but as a felicitous omen—little Pip being at that time hardly more than a baby, and very appealing indeed.