And then there was the shop-girl widow Maria Halpin, the child she bore him, and the whole sad, sordid tale I knew so well, of how she expected marriage and began drinking to console her shame; how Cleveland arranged to have their son taken from her by force and adopted by a well-regarded family; and how she was committed to an asylum until she accepted the separation.
What is the measure of a man?
Was he an incorruptible reformer, or profligate philanderer? An apostle of rectitude, or an inveterate roisterer? Was he moral or immoral? Honorable or dishonorable? Or was he simply a man, a prism of good and bad?
In 1888, President Cleveland was defeated in his bid for reelection by Benjamin Harrison; Cleveland won the popular vote but lost in the electoral college. He had refused to campaign, considering it beneath the dignity of the presidency to beg for support. In his final message to Congress, he gave the speech that I’d quoted to Franklin Fiske; that I quoted so often to myself as if I could gain strength from the fact that he had once harbored such notions: that he had noticed that trusts and corporations were becoming “the people’s masters,” that fortunes were being built “upon undue exactions from the masses.”
But no changes resulted from his words, and soon he himself seemed to have forgotten them.
Out of office, Cleveland refused to move back to Buffalo. He was bitter. When he had won the presidency, the most aggressive office seekers had been from Buffalo, self-serving acquaintances and even friends pressuring him for bounty, for a share in the spoils. He refused to give that bounty; after all, he had run on a platform of reform. As a result, these supposed friends neglected to invite him to their homes during his first summer vacation as president. This wounded and offended him. Of course he had other reasons for refusing to move back to his hometown. He hated the city now, hated it with an unforgiving passion because in Buffalo his enemies had unearthed the stories of Mrs. Halpin and her child, of his draft avoidance and his easy living. He blamed the city when his own deeds came back to haunt him.
So the former president and First Lady settled in New York City, where Cleveland became “of counsel” to the firm of Bangs, Stetson, Tracy, and MacVeagh. The “Stetson” was Francis Lynde Stetson, J. P. Morgan’s legal counsel, and Cleveland and Stetson were close friends. Each morning Cleveland rode the omnibus to work while quietly, far in the background, his supporters laid the plans for another run for the presidency.
In May of 1891, after much effort, Cleveland’s true Buffalo friends, among them the men of my board, especially Milburn, Urban, and Wilcox—those who had no need to share in any spoils—finally persuaded him to visit his hometown. They would ensure that the city redeemed itself for its overly aggressive seekers of personal gain. Now the city would make amends for the rumors that his political opponents hadn’t allowed to be forgotten. The city would show him its true, selfless adoration—and prepare a golden place for itself in the second Cleveland administration that people assumed was at hand.
The former president traveled to Buffalo by train with a few assistants and friends but without his wife, who reportedly awaited the birth of their first child. A boisterous contingent of well-wishers met him at the station and brought him in pomp to the new, elegant Iroquois Hotel. While in the city, Cleveland visited old cronies, gave speeches, made time for a fishing expedition to one of the forested islands in the Niagara River. And he attended an evening reception and buffet dinner at the Cary residence at 184 Delaware Avenue. At this reception I made his acquaintance.
The Cary residence: a rambling, ivy-encrusted Gothic pile presided over by the widowed Julia Love Cary and her younger sister, Miss Maria Love. Although the house truly belonged to Mrs. Cary (having been built by her now-deceased husband), somehow it had come to be known as “Miss Love’s house.” Throughout the wide hallways, Cary and Love ancestors smiled wistfully at one another from oil portraits and from marble busts placed atop heavy pedestals; so weary were their expressions that I often thought the ancestors would have been happier locked in the attic. The appurtenances of wealth filled the house: carved fireplaces, mahogany wainscoting, high ceilings with intricate plasterwork, a colonnaded music room.
But there was nothing staid about “184.” Indeed any approach to the front door was greeted by squealing children and barking dogs. Julia Cary had seven children, who by 1891 were beginning to marry (they married Rumseys, mostly) and have children of their own. All these children knew other children, and one and all they came to “184,” creating an atmosphere of barely contained chaos. They adored their aunt Maria. Miss Love permitted excesses among her own young that she would never tolerate among the needy souls at the Fitch Crêche.
The reception. I see the scene once more. I see Julia Love Cary, a haglike woman who too often wears a tiara. I see Maria Love, behaving as if she were the president. And I see you, Stephen Grover Cleveland, standing on the receiving line. You are more handsome than I expected. You are charming. Jovial. Polished and glowing, with a joke or a quip for everyone. Yes, you are justly renowned for your fine sense of humor, for your good-natured teasing. Your voice is deep and strong. You reach out to shake my hand. You place your left hand atop our linked hands, rubbing my knuckles. Your skin is soft. Your eyes—cliché that it is—twinkle with friendliness. Power surrounds you like an aura, and you take pleasure in treating the aura lightly. Your associates stand ready to fulfill any wish. They call you “Mr. President.” Everyone stares at you, even as they pretend to gaze at their companions. Everyone pauses to overhear your jokes. Everyone says how well you look. You’re in your fifties now, but you look better than ever, or so they say. Married life must agree with you, they say—and there’s a secret pride in this because you married Frances Folsom, one of our local princesses, and now her vibrant glamour is mixed with your power.
After shaking your hand, I circulate among the guests. As a relative newcomer to the city, surrounded by people who’ve known one another for years, I feel a twinge of nervousness. I’m still simply a teacher; Miss Love was kind to invite me. I wear what I think of as modified exotic garb, a nearly off-the-shoulder dress of claret-colored silk and a fringed embroidered shawl. I’m grateful when Dexter Rumsey (even then on the Macaulay board) comes to my side and offers me his companionship, publicly displaying his approval. Maria Love’s grandnieces and nephews, known for their mischief, live up to their reputation and let the birds out of the cages in the conservatory. Canaries circle overhead, diving down to steal crumbs off our plates, adding to the general mirth.
After completing your duty on the receiving line, you wander from group to group. All in the room are alert to where you are at every moment. Suddenly Dexter Rumsey, beside me, says in his fatherly way, “You should have your chance to chat with the president, Louisa. Young people do enjoy such things, I’ve observed.” He sighs with mock weariness. “I myself am feeling a bit beyond presidents. But come along, then.”
How kind he is to me. He leads me to a group that includes attorney John Milburn and his wife, Patty—and you. He explains to you that I am a teacher, come to Buffalo from Wellesley College. You focus on this for a moment, and then the conversation moves on.
Standing there listening, at first I notice only Patty, with her dark eyes, fine clothes, and an unexpected look of apprehension that now and again flickers across her face. Patty once taught school in Batavia, a village about forty miles east of Buffalo; now she gives money to the Free Kindergarten Association, which provides schooling for poor children. I met Patty when I first moved to Buffalo, and I thought she would be a natural ally for me, a friend even. But instead she seems always to focus her eyes just slightly away from mine. She befriends only the upper echelon, the wives of her husband’s clients. Her home is celebrated for its gracious hospitality; for fine food, warm fires, and scintillating conversation. The poet Matthew Arnold once stayed with the Milburns, at the suggestion of the city fathers.
Perhaps Patty will not meet my gaze because I remind her of her altern
ate fate, of what she could too easily have become: a spinster schoolteacher like me, one step away from poverty. Patty has no trouble, however, focusing on your eyes, Stephen Grover Cleveland. You relate for her benefit the story of how in years past her husband always carried law books beneath his arm when walking on the street. “I used to wonder if he was trying to absorb law through his armpits!” you jest, your voice booming. We laugh heartily; your laugh is the most hearty of all. No doubt you are remembering that John Milburn was your most staunch local defender during the Mrs. Halpin crisis. Others join our group. You step away to greet a new arrival. Many guests move into the dining room to partake of the buffet. Groups form and reform until the moment comes—Dexter Rumsey turning aside to consult his brother—when all at once you and I are alone.
Possibly you noticed when you clasped my hand on the receiving line, or when we stood with the Milburns, that I wore no wedding band. Francesca Coatsworth is one of the few other young women here without a wedding band, and already most people assume that she and I maintain a ménage. You, however, know nothing of these local assumptions. You speak of education for women. Of civil service reform and tenement house reform, of settlement houses, education for the poor, milk carts outside public schools, a gradual end to child labor. Bit by bit you use my own passions to lure me until, in the most gracious phrases imaginable, you invite me to your suite at the Iroquois Hotel. To continue our discussion without the pressure of your public responsibilities. You are formulating policies on these issues; you are looking ahead; you need knowledgeable assistance, private advice.
I have often wondered: If I’d had other passions, would you have discovered them just as quickly and used them against me? If I’d been a woman of society, would you have professed a passion for fox hunting? Had I been an artist, would an analysis of the latest Saint-Gaudens monument been your means of seduction? If Francesca had been your quarry, would you have shared your excitement for the Home Insurance Building in Chicago, or the new Wainwright Building in St. Louis? Was every step that you took with me a false one? Or can I cling to the idea that you admired me just a bit? That in some way I was special?
At that moment I certainly felt special. More special than I had ever felt in my life. You thought that I could help you. Around us, everyone glanced your way, as if you were the sun.
What is the measure of a woman?
I was in my midtwenties then, without family, without private means, dependent on my own work for my support; college educated, which in itself pegged me as unmarriageable (despite the fact that your beautiful Frances Folsom had been a college girl). Already I was called a bluestocking.
And I was an innocent. As a girl I’d always been told that men would attempt to take advantage of me—but you had been the president, you were married, you were much older than I; I trusted you as if you were my father. I didn’t hear the code words you used, I heard only that you wanted to fulfill the promise of your own best instincts. You wanted to do good for the country—and I would help you. Even Patty Milburn, she of the fine clothes and warm hospitality, even she you did not ask for help.
You glanced around the room with a touch of suspicion. “Don’t tell anyone,” you said lightly. “I don’t want any jealousies. Or anyone trying to tag along.”
This last was said jokingly, but I knew what you meant: You still harbored bitterness over the press of office seekers among your Buffalo acquaintances; of people thinking only of themselves and of the spoils you could dispense.
“I should be allowed some privacy.” Warmly, you laughed.
Of course you should be allowed privacy; how else could you formulate new policy?
“Don’t worry, I’ll manage this.” How pleasant you were. “Go off now and talk to your friends. I’ll send someone for you later.”
You spoke as if I were a child.
The former president traveled in the company of his close friend Richard Watson Gilder, the editor of the Century magazine. Gilder was a far different type from Cleveland: slight, cultivated, effete. In addition to his editorial skills, Gilder was the prolific author of endlessly praised, pretentious poetry. He nurtured a concern for the body politic. He and Cleveland had crusaded together for civil service reform. Gilder hungered after Cleveland’s every word.
Toward the end of the reception, just after the president had said his farewells (of course no one would leave until he left), Mr. Gilder came to me. With a slight bow and a gaze that went over my left shoulder, he told me that he would be delighted to escort me to my next appointment. He would meet me outside. His carriage driver wore a white carnation—I should look for that.
I had no trouble finding the proper carriage. We took a roundabout route to the Iroquois, I assumed to give the president time to return to the hotel. During the drive, I attempted to converse with Gilder. Enthusiastically I said, “Mr. Cleveland is concerned about tenement house reform.”
“Oh, I dare say,” Gilder replied indifferently. With deep absorption he stared out the carriage window, discouraging further conversation. Part of me realized even then that his indifference was toward me, not toward the issue that he himself vehemently endorsed in his writings. I understood even then that he would extend himself only to someone who mattered. But I easily dismissed Richard Watson Gilder; after all, he was not the one invited to consult privately with the president. Most likely he feigned indifference to conceal his jealousy.
At a certain moment best comprehended by himself, Gilder gave a signal to the driver. Several minutes later the carriage pulled up to the back entrance of the Iroquois Hotel, far from the Beaux-Arts flourishes and lurking journalists at the front.
“If I were you, I’d place your shawl over your head,” he said before getting out of the carriage. And that was the last he said. I assumed he had an overdeveloped sense of propriety. Nonetheless I draped the shawl stylishly around my head and shoulders as if I were protecting myself from a rainstorm. I followed Gilder into the hotel and along a circuitous route that took us past ironing rooms and pantries. We walked three flights up the back stairs and entered a long hall punctuated by imposing doorways. Gilder hurried along the hall, checking the numbers. Finally he knocked at a certain door, opened it without waiting for a response, and motioned me inside. Quietly he shut the door behind him.
I was in an unlit entryway.
“Come along then,” I heard the president say from a room at the end of the entry gallery, and I walked toward his voice.
The suite’s opulent sitting room was decorated with heavy curtains and hand-painted wallpaper, feathery forest scenes in the style of Fragonard. The former president looked up from a newspaper. He had changed, taking off his shoes and his jacket and tie. He wore a silk paisley dressing gown over his trousers and open shirt. This surprised me. But then I realized he would want to relax after his day’s full schedule. There was a glass of brandy on the well-polished table beside him. He smoked a cigar. The night was warm and humid. The air in the room was oppressive. I felt pressure in my chest from breathing the cigar smoke. Not knowing else what to do, I stayed near the door.
“Well,” he said, looking me up and down, evaluating me. From the look that came into his face, he seemed to relish what he saw. “Good evening.” He stretched out the words meaningfully—although for what meaning I had no idea. Stubbing out the cigar in the crystal ashtray, he got up, lumbering, and padded toward me across the thick carpet, the silk of his dressing gown rustling.
I stepped back, to the wall beside the door.
“You’re certainly a beauty,” he said.
“Oh. Thank you.” I flushed in embarrassment. I felt pleased by the compliment but startled that he would notice my appearance. I still didn’t understand. My bewilderment seemed to please him.
“First-timer, are we?” he asked, smiling. I didn’t know what he meant. I was unprepared when he took my shoulders and pulled me close and kissed me, filling my mouth with the acrid taste of cigars. There was a line of perspirat
ion along the top of his mustache, and it dampened my cheeks.
I tried to push him away. “What are you doing?” I choked.
But my pushing only made him tighten his grip on my shoulders. “Playful, are we?” he asked, not displeased.
“I’d better go,” I blurted. “This isn’t—I didn’t—I’d better go.” He pressed me hard against the wall. He was big, so big—Big Steve, his friends had called him when he was young—and I struggled but couldn’t escape. His body surrounded me like a supple barrier, present wherever I turned.
“What lovely eyes you have.” Holding my chin, he moved my head slightly back and forth. “Dark blue, eh?”
I couldn’t respond.
He gazed at me indulgently. “Now, now, my dear. Don’t be like that.” He touched his forehead against mine, rubbing for a moment. “And besides, wouldn’t you like to know what it’s like? What the poets sing about?” He nuzzled my neck, whispering in limpid tones. “Haven’t you ever wondered?” He kissed along the line where my cheek met my hair. “Any girl as pretty as you deserves to know everything life can offer, eh?”
“Please. Let me go,” I begged.
He patted my hair. “Go where?” His touch was gentle. “Mmmm? Where exactly is it that you want to go?” His voice was tender. “Do you want to go running down the hall and into the lobby where everyone will see you? It’s very late, for a young lady like yourself to be out alone. And in a hotel, of all places.” He rubbed his private self against my leg. “What would the reporters think? And I’m sure the reporters are still there—they always keep a close eye on me when I travel. The local reporters, I mean. The ones who’d have no trouble determining your identity.” I felt myself about to cry. Tears caught in my throat. “And even if you escape the lobby unscathed, how will you get home?” He rubbed his private self harder, adjusting his body so that his bulky middle didn’t interfere. “How would you find a hansom driver who wouldn’t talk? Or will you walk home, do you think, miles and miles through the streets?” Again I struggled against him, and he grabbed my wrists, hard. “No, no. You stay now, and I’ll make sure you get home safely. And secretly.” Letting go of my wrists, he put his arms around me and pulled me tighter against him. His breath was warm upon my ear. “And really, my dear”—now his forearms pressed against my back to hold me while his fingers pulled down my hair—“I think it’ll do you good. No one will ever know. I promise you. You’ll never be put to shame. It’s too late to change your mind, anyway.” He rubbed harder, his legs entrapping me. “Too late.”
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