“It’s nothing,” he said with exaggerated magnanimity. “I’ll take you to a real matinee if you can ever get out of the house long enough to—”
They stopped, face-to-face with the dark-haired young man with the broom. He’d evidently followed Eleanor and now, grinning at her, he said in the most beautiful baritone voice she’d ever heard, “Thought Signor Salvini was pretty handsome, did you? Well, I work here, and I can tell you for a fact, around the middle he’s big as a whale. He wears a corset.”
“See here!” Charlie said, inadvertently wriggling his eyebrows. “No one asked you for any comments.”
“No, but I thought the young lady might be interested.” The boy hardly took his eyes off of her. That queer, tingling sensation started in her hands, then in her legs. She found herself thinking, He’s as good-looking as Salvini.
A panicked knot formed in her throat even as her breasts began to feel tight inside her clothing. These reactions were dangerous. Dangerous. She need only remember the quarrels heard through closed doors at home.
Charlie gripped her elbow and said in a pompous way, “Eleanor, come along.”
“Eleanor?” the older boy repeated. “That’s a pretty name. But then you’re a pretty girl. My name’s Leo Goldman. Do you like the theater?”
“Very much.”
“So do I. That’s why I took a job at the Academy. I’ve decided acting is the fastest and easiest way to make a fortune in this country. I hear managers are clamoring for actors with nice features and good elocution.”
“They’re not clamoring for anyone as conceited as you, sir!” Charlie huffed. He walked away very quickly in case the dark-haired boy took offense.
He didn’t. Eleanor reluctantly followed her friend. She was unexpectedly sorry to have the conversation end. She glanced back and saw Leo Goldman walking toward the theater entrance. His face was glum.
“He was only trying to be friendly, Charlie—”
“With you, not me.”
“Don’t be silly. Why did you take such a dislike to him?”
“I don’t trust anyone that good looking.”
“But he seemed very nice.”
“Too cocky, Eleanor. A slum type. I can tell them every time. His pretensions to an acting career are lamentable.”
“I wouldn’t say so. He has a lovely voice.”
“But he’s a Jew.”
“I don’t see what difference that makes.” She was growing annoyed.
Charlie compressed his lips. “You’re impossible. A naive child. His kind would never be admitted to a club like the Booth Association. I say amen. Let’s forget about him. Got your list?”
“Oh my.” Panic set in. The boy named Leo had completely driven the shopping from her mind. “Yes, and we’d better hurry. I must buy linens, and oodles of thread—if I don’t get it all before Stewart’s closes, Mama will have my hide.”
“I said I’d help, didn’t I?”
Charlie led the way through the traffic on Irving Place, jerking Eleanor somewhat roughly as a brewer’s wagon bore down on them. She suspected Charlie was irked by her interest in the other young man.
Well, jealousy was ridiculous. She’d never see the boy again. Besides, that sort of interest only led to trouble.
Still, her feelings had been delicious when—
No.
The brewer’s wagon veered. Charlie had to give her a second tug to get them safely to the curb. The wagon went by, rumbling toward another couple a half block up Irving. The object of quite a few Manhattan drivers, it seemed to Eleanor, was to crush as many pedestrians as possible.
When they were on the sidewalk and moving at a brisk pace, Charlie begged for more applause. “I trust seeing such a famous actor was a tonic and an inspiration for you.”
“Oh, yes. Thank you again for bringing me. I couldn’t have come alone.”
“No, that’s right,” Charlie declared with that ponderous air which came so easily. “Wouldn’t be safe. Now I know you love and respect your mother—”
Don’t say that word, she thought. I don’t love anyone, and I mustn’t.
“—but I do hope you can find a way to visit the Booth Association as soon as I’m settled in.”
“I’ll be there, I promise.”
“Good, good. An amateur acting society is the only place a respectable young woman can learn the fundamentals of the profession.”
“I’ll find a way to visit you, Charlie,” she said with sudden fervency. “Believe me, I will.”
Chapter XI
The Man in Machinery Hall
i
PHILADELPHIA WAS PACKED with visitors and dignitaries who’d come for the opening ceremonies in Fairmount Park beside the Schuylkill River. Hotel space was at a premium, but Gideon had made an advance reservation for two rooms, on separate floors. Julia confessed in a letter that she didn’t think the subterfuge would fool a boy as old as Carter, but at least she was trying to maintain the illusion of propriety.
On the night before the exposition opened, she stole down to Gideon’s room and they satisfied the intense physical hunger a separation always produced. Afterward, as they lay in each other’s arms, she said in a quiet way, “Will you tell me what’s bothering you?”
“What do you mean, bothering me?”
“There, you see? You’re snapping again. You’ve been doing it ever since you met us at the depot. What on earth’s happened?”
“Nothing.”
Silence followed the vehement denial. It lasted five or six minutes. Several times Julia was tempted to speak, but thought it wiser to be patient and wait for him to continue. She was virtually certain he would.
Sure enough, he began to pour it out in a halting monologue. Things were not well at home. Margaret was not only hostile, but beginning to behave in a way that made him worry about her sanity. Even his two children seemed to be turning against him. He feared his son was growing up spineless, and his daughter becoming a partisan of his wife.
Julia stroked his chest lightly. “It’s good that you got all of that out. Now that you’ve identified the problems, the next thing to do is to look for the causes.”
“In Margaret’s case I needn’t look any further than the liquor cabinet or the wine racks in the cellar. She turned me out years ago—at least figuratively. That doesn’t mean I want to see her suffer. I’ve begged her to see a doctor about the drinking. She absolutely refuses.”
His voice had grown agitated again. Julia kept her hand moving on his skin in a soothing way as she said, “Perhaps she can’t do anything else. We all find our own ways to cure pain. If I hadn’t found Lucy Stone after I left Louis, I might have picked up a bottle of whiskey instead. I was hurting. I’m sure your wife is too.”
“Well, there seems to be no real remedy for it. I’ve given up. I’m about to give up on my children, too.”
“Oh, Gideon, no—”
“Yes. I’m losing them, Julia. I don’t know why. I give them every advantage. Everything they want—within reason, anyway.”
Softly: “How much of yourself do you give?”
“What?” He thought a moment. “I see them whenever I can”—a pause—“although I admit that isn’t very often. Since Margaret started acting peculiar, I think I’ve invented excuses to stay away from home.”
“There, you’ve found the heart of the problem. Think back. When did you last talk to your children at any great length? Or look in to wish them good night?”
His voice was faint all at once. “It’s been longer than I care to remember.”
He turned on his side. Laid his palm against her cheek gently. “You’re an astonishing person—do you know that? Most women in your position would be scheming to break my ties with my family, not trying to help me repair them.”
“I must admit there are times when the former would be more to my liking. To the liking of the old Julia, anyway. She’s still present from time to time, I’m sorry to say. But contrary to what that poor murde
red miner said in Deadwood, I really don’t want to be a home-wrecking harlot. I don’t think I am. What—damage there is in your marriage began to occur long before you and I met in Chicago. Still, I can’t stand by and see you run so far from your wife that you also lose what you care about most—your children. Think about trying to give them more of your time, Gideon. More of yourself.” She kissed the corner of his eye. “I know what a wonderful gift that is.”
He was quiet again. Then, at last, he grew a bit more cheerful.
“Yes, I think you’ve seen what I couldn’t. I’ve been neglecting them. I’ll start doing something about it the moment I get back to New York.”
“Good.”
He planted a kiss on her lips. “You’re a wise and loving woman. Thank you.”
“Think nothing of it. It’s merely a part of the complete service provided by your surrogate wife”—she touched him, and her voice grew husky—“who craves you shamelessly again.”
ii
Few material things moved Gideon Kent any longer; he had become a lover of intangibles. Words. Ideas. But he was moved to awe and admiration by the scope of the Centennial Exhibition whose gates opened to waiting thousands at nine the next morning.
He had an admission card for a roped enclosure near the Main Hall, a section set aside for reporters. He’d gotten tickets for Julia and Carter in an area of special guest seats. And a good thing, too. By ten past nine, every unreserved inch of ground near the Main Hall and the equally mammoth Machinery Hall adjacent to it was packed with people eager to see the President of the United States and the Emperor of Brazil.
Because their places would be held, he and Julia felt free to walk a while. She took his arm as they strolled. It’s simply marvelous, isn’t it?”
“It is. I wish I’d found some way for the Union or Kent and Son to contribute to the celebration.”
In a sympathetic way, she asked, “Oh, dear, are you still fretting about that, too?”
“Endlessly. I haven’t had a single good idea.”
“Well, sometimes good ideas pop up when and where you least expect them.”
“That’s true.” But he didn’t sound hopeful.
As they walked on, Julia said, “My, this is a huge exhibition.”
Gideon was ready with the facts; Payne had put one man to work assembling them for the benefit of all Union reporters who would be writing stories in Philadelphia during the summer.
“Four hundred and fifty acres. Almost two hundred buildings. The exhibition was funded by capital stock issued by the Centennial Board of Finance. Other contributions came from Congress, the states and territories, the—Julia, why the devil are you laughing?”
“I’m sorry. It’s just that I made a remark and you launched into a lecture. Mr. Payne has really infused you with a passion for spreading knowledge.”
Gideon turned pink. “Evidently he has. I didn’t mean to rattle on.”
“Where’s the Corliss engine, sir?” Carter asked.
“In Machinery Hall. We’ll see it right after the opening, ceremony.”
The boy’s question reminded Gideon that on several occasions his own son had asked about the engine, the exhibit which thus far had generated the greatest interest among press and public. Will had also asked when Gideon would take him to see it. Julia had been absolutely right last night. Because he wanted to avoid Margaret, he’d also been neglecting the children. He’d start putting that to rights the moment he got home. He’d arrange a family outing to Philadelphia.
“I’m anxious to see your brother’s painting,” Julia said, clinging tightly to Gideon’s arm so as not to be buffeted by the crowds on the footpaths. Most of the opening day visitors were Americans, but Gideon also saw some whose faces or accents clearly identified them as representatives of foreign governments. Nearly every major nation had built a pavilion. For an admission price of fifty cents, a visitor could sample not only a century of American culture, but the cultures of Europe and Asia as well.
“It’s in the Art Hall,” Gideon said, leafing through a guidebook he’d purchased in advance. “That direction—no, wait. I believe Matt wrote that his picture would be in the Art Annex. The Art Hall is that pseudo-Renaissance palace. It will stay here after everything else comes down. American artists aren’t being shown there, however. They’ve been relegated to the Annex. Matt was sore about it.”
Gideon was intensely proud of his brother’s growing reputation. He had never seen Matt’s immense painting, which had been crated and shipped directly from London. He did know the picture was titled Wilmington. Another letter from Matt had said that the nature of the teeming dockside scene, the uniforms on some of the figures, and the fog gray funnel of a steamship towering in the dark background would make it clear to any spectator that a slightly different title would have been more accurate:
“Wilmington—War Time” would be better but Im told this exposition is suposed to unite not divide the contry so I’ll leave the tittle what it is. I dont care one way or another whether I serve the cause of the “Union” no Pun meant there Gideon, I have no strong feelings for the contry. I take that back I have strong feelings of dislike. Let “Union” go hang. I submited the Wilmington picture because it came out well. Its a war scene but I can only paint what I remember of America, and I remember that dam wasteful war a lot better than I care to, almost as much as I remember Dolly god bless her. She made the picture posible. She made all of them posible, she is in evry one of them. Someday I will explain what I mean, but I cant take time now, a very handsome creatur the Duchess of T. is waiting for me.
iii
The three visitors were soon caught up in the exciting sights and sounds of the exhibition. The colorful pavilions were encircled by a special narrow-gauge railroad on the perimeter of Fairmount Park. Visitors could ride around the entire exhibition for only five cents. The Pennsylvania line had built the narrow-gauge. Gideon sourly supposed that Tom Scott, the bandit who presided over the Pennsylvania, would somehow find a way to make his exposition railroad pay just as handsomely as his regular one did.
“Isn’t there a woman’s building on the grounds?” Gideon said as they started back toward the Main Hall. Julia put the tip of her tongue in her cheek.
“Oh, you remembered. Indeed there is. After you go back to New York, I plan to spend a week working there. The pavilion has its own printing office. A newspaper for women will be written and published right on the premises all summer.”
Carter’s handsome face broke into a grin. “How soon are we going to the woman’s building? Right after we look at the Corliss engine? I want to see the butter statues.”
Gideon pulled a face. “Surely you’re not serious.”
“Don’t snicker so!” Julia said. “The head of a milkmaid done in butter might be quite attractive.”
“And if it isn’t, think of the people it will feed.” She pretended to hit him with her gloved hand. He laughed and went on, “Butter sculpture. Matt doesn’t know the meaning of avant-garde.”
The opening ceremonies began at ten fifteen, near the lagoon in front of the Main Hall. First the orchestra ran through a short program of airs. During one of the numbers Gideon scribbled a reminder. He needed to locate and look at the portion of the huge copper-clad statue which was being paid for by the French people as a gesture of friendship. The statue was the work of the sculptor Bartholdi. Liberty’s forearm, hand and upraised torch had been rushed to completion and shipped to America for the exposition, although it would be years before the entire 151-foot-high work would be finished. Where it would finally be erected, no one yet knew.
Wild cheering broke out. Gideon looked up. A reporter near him sneered, “The grand panjandrum himself. Or should I say the chief thief?”
Stocky, plain-faced President Grant had just appeared on the platform. From all the applause and shouting, no one would have guessed he had a tarnished reputation.
Soon the formal program started. The orchestra played a spec
ial march composed for the Centennial by Richard Wagner. Then came a new hymn by John Greenleaf Whittier and John Paine. This was followed by speeches, and then a cantata by Southern poet Sidney Lanier and Northern composer Dudley Buck—nice symbolic touch, Gideon thought. Finally the President delivered a brief, banal address which concluded, “I declare the international exhibition now open.”
A gigantic flag was unfurled on the front of the Main Hall. And when the choir began the “Hallelujah Chorus,” even the cynical professionals around Gideon grew quiet. At the end of the chorus, the artillery boomed and the spring breeze caught the flag and Gideon felt tears in his eye and a prickling along his spine. It was a strong and good country. It had survived a devastating internal war and all the other calamities of the past, and come through to show its strength and pride by means of this grand, glorious—and occasionally gauche—festival. It was a strong and good country despite the scoundrels who tried to pervert its principles and take advantage of the freedom it offered.
If only he could think of some tangible way—some project or piece of writing—to express his convictions. But his mind remained a blank.
iv
Machinery Hall was designed to display American technology, from small sewing machines to huge howitzers. The featured exhibit was a gigantic, 1500-horsepower steam engine with two vertical walking beams standing parallel.
At the conclusion of the outdoor ceremonies, people began to stampede toward Machinery Hall. They ignored the hundreds of police and militiamen who attempted to funnel them to the doorways in an orderly way. Shortly the police and militia cordons were disrupted. Gideon found himself fighting as hard as the next person to jam through an entrance in order to be present for the start-up of the Corliss engine. He searched for Julia and Carter but couldn’t locate them. They’d agreed to meet immediately after the indoor ceremony.