Ah, it is so good to laugh!
_____ . And now, a new gentleman in Princeton.
Count English von Gneist is an abbreviation of the man’s name, I am told; he is a guest at Drumthwacket, on Stockton Road, near the seminary; he is in fact a distinguished theologian, from Heidelberg, Germany, who presented himself to the Moses Taylor Pyne family with a letter of introduction, & quite impressed Mr. Pyne with his bearing and conversation. Evidently, the Count is a widower; his entire family was lost in a tragic accident on the Rhine River; but no one should speak of this loss, it is warned.
“Is the Count an attractive man?” I asked Johanna van Dyck, who had met him at Drumthwacket, & Johanna said, with a shivery sort of smile, “Ah, yes! Very.” & Clarice Biddle volunteered that she had never seen so unusual an individual in her life, so “well-bred”—“noble of features & figure”—“quite the social catch of the season!” (Clarice Biddle! How has it happened, Clarice Biddle who lives with her dour judge-husband in a pokey little stone house on Hibben Road has been invited to Drumthwacket to meet the Count, & not Horace or me?) Unfortunately the Pynes are not so very social, Johanna & Clarice agree, & have done little to introduce Count von Gneist to their neighbors . . . At which moment the sonorous bell of Old North sounded & I know not why, a sensation of faintness swept over me; & I heard myself inquire in a most nonchalant way, “What is the Count’s age, do you think?”—& Johanna said, “Fairly young: no more than forty” & Clarice Biddle said, “Or, if fifty, a very virile fifty.”
_____ . Sluggish this morning after yesterday afternoon’s excitement—can it be the virulent Laotian sleeping sickness—at last?
& Hannah calling “Mrs. Burr? Mrs. Burr” from a great distance; for it seemed I was in another land, in a castle overlooking the Rhine; in which I was not “Mrs. Burr” nor even “Adelaide”—or “Puss.” The appellation the Count bestowed on me was crude & blunt & brooked no resistance: Woman he commanded in a heavily accented baritone come here.
_____ . Only Dr. Wheeler’s ingenious mechanism soothes me, its blades turning & turning & stirring a voluptuous breeze against my fever’d face.
_____ . “How am I cruel, Adelaide,” Horace demanded of me impatiently, “—no man possessed of his wits would wish to provoke such a response!” (For in settling the tray on my lap he deliberately pressed against my left bosom, that is uncorseted; I would swear to it.
(Cunningly with the edge of the tray & his thumb. Causing me to flinch & shriek & all went tumbling—teapot & hot water & cream & sugar & spoons & he did not apologize afterward.)
_____ . Bored & tearful. So very weak, my Bible slipped from my fingers & struck the floor with a thud. Though uncorseted on my divan it seems that an iron bar encircles my ribs & stomach & hips; I cannot breathe; I shall faint. For Horace has ceased to love & respect me & naught but the grave awaits.
_____ . The new issue of Vanity Fair is the talk of Princeton as it features an article on John Singer Sargent; his portrait of Mandy—(“Mrs. Edgerstoune FitzRandolph of Mora House, Princeton”)—a splendid reproduction—I am wildly jealous!—no, I am truly pleased, for Mandy is my dear friend, & worthy of attention. (But why has she stayed away so long? It has been told to me, the Count has been a dinner guest at Mora House; & Horace & Adelaide not invited.) (Why does she not bring the Count to visit us? Does she expect me to beg?) Mandy is a handsome woman if not beautiful; what is called “strapping”—a sort of “Gibson Girl”—& not petite like me, if I may say so. Is it foolish of me to wish that my portrait might be painted by Sargent? Or is it—too late?
_____ . (Ah, how my heart leaps! But it is nothing—no one—the door blown gently ajar & then pausing—as if someone waited, breath inheld, in the hall. “Yes? Hello? Hannah?—Mrs. Joris?—Minnie? Is it you, Horace?” (But no, Horace has taken the train to Philadelphia, where he has a business meeting, he has said; & will not return until Friday.) It is no one; & Puss is being foolish again, to take such alarm over a trifle.)
_____ . The true founder of Anarchy was Jesus Christ & the first Anarchist society the Apostles. For the weak will rise up against their oppressors, & the last shall be first, & the first last; the Proletariat shall prevail against its class enemies, & the Bourgeoisie & all Government wither away. Until such time, we teach the Propaganda of the Deed, & Individual Reappropriation.
Reading thus in Revolutionary Thoughts of Mikhail Bakunin which I have sent for, in the mail; unknown to Horace, who would soundly disapprove, as to my simpering lady friends; & a thrill rushes through my body, at such stirring words!
By Propaganda of the Deed is meant destruction: anarchic bombings, assassinations. By Individual Reappropriation is meant bold & fearless acts of theft against the bourgeoisie.
Would that an anarchist revolutionary stormed Maidstone House, to reappropriate poor Puss! The first house I would lead him to would be Drumthwacket, if not Crosswicks: for each is far too “palatial” for good taste; each deserves fire-bombing & looting at the grubby hands of the Proletariat.
_____ . “There is at least one saint among us: Winslow Slade.”
These surprising words Horace said to me this evening; for it turns out that my husband has sought counsel recently, on an issue not known to me. “Dearest Puss, I would not trouble you with the subject, for it is inconsequential”—so Horace says smilingly; leaning to kiss my brow, & I am amazed to sense the new calm that lifts from him, & the spiritual equanimity of old, absent these many weeks. My handsome gentleman-husband, returned to me: freshly barbered on Witherspoon St. with a faint but pleasing scent of lemon-pomade; his curly mustache flecked with gray, but distinguished; his strong teeth displayed in a smile so broad, his cheeks are creased; eyes brimming with love for his Puss, whom he has slighted of late. Ah, I am loved; I will not doubt Horace again.
(Though it is strange, & worrisome: Horace refuses to tell me what counsel he has sought from our former Reverend Slade* as if I am a silly little goose to be concerned with anything beyond the boudoir, or the drawing room. Is it a Wall Street matter? Is it our mutual investments? (For my inheritance & trust fund have been freely mingled with Horace’s, in acknowledgment of his comprehension of such matters.) Tiresome Mr. Lodge who urges Horace to buy & sell & buy & sell again: Northern Securities Co.—Northern Pacific—Great Northern—Colorado Smelting & Mining—Panama Canal Co. of America—Pennsylvania Railroad—Standard Oil—so very boring! I shall not even trouble to lift the receiver & overhear when Horace next confers with Mr. Lodge etc.
The world passes me by, it seems. For Dr. Boudinot has cautioned Horace—I am not to be over-stimulated & must keep to my couch; & must not “incite” my thoughts by a rough or promiscuous sort of reading. For this reason I have missed the performance of Count English von Gneist at the Pahaquarra Valley Hunt yesterday, about which everyone is marveling. For it seems that this well-born gentleman rides a superb stallion, starkly black, of the Arabian Thoroughbred breed; his posture is noble, but agile; his riding manners impeccable; when most swiftly galloping across a field, the Count & his steed seem scarcely to be hurrying. & his English-tailored riding costume, so gracefully fitting his figure, it is said to have put our local men to shame—so my eager informant Johanna van Dyck has told me.
“His face, Adelaide, is both bold & poetical: the forehead high, & the iron-gray hair retreating from it, yet giving the impression of unusual thickness,” Johanna says in a slow voice, “which adds to the Count’s look of nobility, yet melancholy. For he reminds me of no one so much as Lord Rochester, of Jane Eyre.” The von Gneists are said to have descended from an ancient noble family in a region of central Europe called Wallachia, a former principality of Romania; the warrior blood of Magyars, Saxons, Lombards, Bulgars, and even the infidel Turk flows in their veins. Yet the von Gneists are sadly depleted in number, & their once-enormous fortune has been much reduced; Count von Gneist calls himself “The Sole Living Heir of Nothingness” & has spent his adult life in travel from one capital city to another.
Though a graduate of the distinguished Munich Theological Seminary, the Count did not become a Protestant minister, but rather a writer of “theological texts”; in addition, he is poet, playwright, novelist and composer. And an exceptional horseman, and hunter. By nature prone to melancholy, the Count thinks of himself as “essentially without a home”—“an exile”—not unlike the legendary Flying Dutchman; except he is not an immortal, but decidedly mortal.
“And he is a widower, totally without a family.”
Johanna’s voice quavers imparting such news.
_____ . I think that I shall meet him at last: Count von Gneist.
For Amanda has invited Horace & me to dine at Mora next week; & I am optimistic that I shall prove strong enough to venture forth, if Horace will allow.
_____ . A strange incident, reported to me second-hand: in the train depot, Horace was snubbed by Mrs. Cleveland; that there could be no mistake on his part, Horace attempted courteously to address the woman, provoking her to turn her back on him, most rudely. Even her footman blushed for the woman’s rudeness, Horace says.
I will not defend Mrs. Cleveland: I do not like her, & she is not my friend. Nor is the obese guzzler Grover Cleveland an individual to be admired.
Yet, Horace gazes oddly at me stroking his mustache—“The mysteries of the female sex! We men can never hope to fathom your depths, but only try not to drown in them.”
_____ . A strange itching & burning sensation between my eyes—and I am wakened from sleep startled, like one who has eased out of her mortal body just slightly, in sleep; the etheric body comprises us, who are enlightened, it is said; & sometimes in sleep this body becomes dislodged from the moral body. (Mrs. Blavatsky teaches.) But oh!—this so queer sensation between my eyes, in my lower forehead—is it the third eye, of enlightenment? Opening, at last?
THE SEARCH CONT’D
It was months after the “abduction” that Josiah learned of at least one of the ways in which his sister and her seducer had cultivated their illicit relationship.
On a chilly October morning when Josiah was walking in the jardin anglais behind Crosswicks, tormented by thoughts of where he might search next for Annabel, for all his attempts to find her had come to naught, he was approached, hesitantly, by the head gardener—an older man who’d been in the employ of the Slades for decades, and had known each of the Slade grandchildren from infancy.
The gardener confessed to Josiah, in a voice of chagrin and regret, that he hoped he had not failed to prevent the tragedy of Josiah’s sister’s disappearance by remaining silent when he might have spoken out to Mr. Slade, or Annabel’s parents, or Josiah himself.
For, it seemed, he had “many times” observed Miss Annabel leaving sealed letters in the rotted hollow of an enormous, ancient wych elm in the lower garden, through much of April and all of May; and though he kept watch a dozen times, in secrecy, he’d never so much as glimpsed the person who came for Annabel’s letter, and left another in its place addressed, in a firm hand miss annabel slade. (All that he was certain of, the man said, with an attempt at wit, was that whoever took away Miss Annabel’s letters was not Lieutenant Bayard.) Upon three distinct occasions, in that uncertain twilit hour before dawn, he had, from his greenhouse, happened to see a man and a woman gliding swiftly along the dewy grass in the direction of Crosswicks Forest—“With such little weight to their bodies, their feet seemed to leave no impression at all.”
Josiah was so astonished by this revelation, he quite forgot to be angry at the gardener; nor would anger, so belatedly, have made much difference.
“ ‘A man and a woman’—but was the woman Annabel?”
Somberly the gardener shook his head: he did not know, the figures were too distant.
“How were they dressed?”
Again, the gardener didn’t know. Though he believed their clothing wasn’t new, or fashionable—“Like the clothes of some other time, when I’d been a boy, maybe.”
Josiah said, frowning: “It seems strange, Hendrick, you wouldn’t have recognized my sister, even at a distance.”
Quickly the gardener agreed: yet, it was so, he couldn’t have identified the man and the woman except to think, at the time, that they were not familiar to him, but strangers.
“But I did find cigarettes in the grass, that should not have been there. Some kind of foreign cigarette it looked like, not much smoked, only a little part burnt away.”
“Cigarettes! But Annabel doesn’t smoke, of course.”
Still, the smoker was very likely the man. Was this Axson Mayte?
“And when did they stop appearing here? Was it after the wedding?”
Gravely the gardener nodded yes. He believed so.
He hoped, he said, that Josiah would forgive him. For he wished now, so very badly, he’d said something to someone, that the tragedy might have been prevented.
Josiah said there was nothing to forgive—of course he wasn’t to blame.
“No more than any of us, Hendrick. For it seems we hardly knew my sister, though imagining that we did.”
AND SO MAYBE this was her escape from us—from Crosswicks Manse, and the Slades. And maybe she does smoke, and did—and none of us knew.
AT ABOUT THIS TIME, Josiah received a curious note from Woodrow Wilson asking him, in the most humble terms, if he would be free to drop by Prospect sometime soon, to discuss a “private matter.”
A time was arranged; yet, when Josiah arrived, and was let into the house by Mrs. Wilson herself, he was disappointed to learn that Woodrow was “feeling unwell” and could not see him after all.
Josiah expressed concern, and asked if Mr. Wilson was seriously ill; and Mrs. Wilson said, in an outburst of emotion, “Why yes of course he is seriously ill; he would not shirk his responsibilities otherwise.”
Josiah apologized for the interruption, and was about to leave, when Mrs. Wilson said, in a softer voice, yet not without an air of reproach, “Woodrow has been in a perpetual state of nerves since—since that terrible day. He fears you all blame him, at the Manse; no matter that he scarcely knew this creature ‘Mayte,’ and certainly hadn’t involved the university in any business dealings with him.”
Josiah assured Mrs. Wilson that no one in his family blamed anyone for the episode, except Mayte himself; and that his conversation with Mr. Wilson would be along other lines. He added that he might want to speak with Jessie, too, since Jessie and Annabel had been close friends, and perhaps Annabel had confided in Jessie, or at least hinted of her situation . . .
At this Mrs. Wilson became visibly upset, and said it was not possible—as Jessie, too, had suffered a nervous collapse, and couldn’t come downstairs; and, in any case, Josiah could be sure that she herself had closely questioned her daughter on the subject of the “abduction,” and was satisfied that Jessie knew nothing, and was absolutely innocent.
As Annabel was innocent, once. As we wished to believe.
Josiah apologized again to the agitated woman, and went away; but was summoned back the next day by a telephone call from Woodrow Wilson himself, asking Josiah to meet him in the late afternoon, when he would be returned from Nassau Hall to Prospect; and would be working in his “tower”—which turned out to be hardly more than an attic room sparely fashioned into a study, with excellent views from several windows looking out onto the university campus through a thicket of evergreens and elms.
This was the “tower” of which Josiah had heard: the president’s hideaway from his all-female household about which he sometimes joked rather awkwardly.
Josiah thought that Woodrow Wilson was looking rather more ashen-faced than usual, though Wilson was not a man to ever look “hale and hearty”—the very antithesis of his nemesis Andrew West, a burly Falstaff of a fellow with ruddy cheeks and an ebullient, infectious laugh. Out of politeness Josiah inquired after the older man’s health, as he knew he was expected to do, and was presented with a grimly comical recitation of maladies, a number of which, Wilson said, he’d been endu
ring in stoic silence, not wanting to alarm those around him; or to “give hope to” those who stood apart from him.
Dyspepsia, and chronic nervous spasms in his upper torso, and an intermittent tremor of his hands, and occasional “occlusions” of vision—this particularly alarming to him, for he had numerous important speeches to write and articles to prepare. (Mr. Harvey, editor of Harper’s, had requested an article from him, and he was anxious to oblige.) These ailments, Wilson told Josiah, before even he thought to ask Josiah to be seated, were the result of intense pressure put upon him by the university “situation”—about which, he was sure, Josiah knew? “The latest outrage is, Dean West has gone to the board of trustees to inveigle their support of him, for the Graduate College—the man has been offered the presidency of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, in Cambridge, Mass.—at a salary rumored to be higher than that of the president of Princeton University.” Wilson paused, that Josiah might absorb this revelation.
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