City of Light

by Lauren Belfer

  After everyone heard the front door slam behind the retreating Larkin, Elbert called to me across the crowded drawing room: “Miss Louie! A pleasure to see you, as always. And a pleasure to see how popular you’ve become!” Elbert beamed as staid businessmen excused themselves from conversations with several artists who’d come to Buffalo to work on the exposition and gathered round him instead, patting him on the back and asking after his health. The artists responded with stiff, chilled smiles. They knew Elbert was not of their ken. He was a master salesman who’d decided to put his talents to the cause of “art” as he defined it. They doubted the quality of the work produced by the Roycroft shops; more important, they could never forgive Elbert the work’s mass appeal. But businessmen adored Elbert, and he basked in their adulation. To date, Elbert’s greatest commercial achievement had been the publication of a little story called A Message to Garcia, a paean to the loyal and unquestioning worker (he who was becoming so rare in these days of labor unrest and unionism). This little story had sold millions of copies, especially in bulk orders from railroads and other industries, which passed it out among workers and clients alike as a kind of management-approved “inspiration.” It had even made its way into the military, where generals ordered it distributed to their troops.

  “I am here to discuss the role of the Roycrofters at the Pan-American!” Elbert proclaimed to one and all. “We have much to offer the Pan-American, but—does the Pan-American have anything to offer us? Who will be the first to tell me?” He didn’t have to wait long for a response: John Milburn was already at his side.

  Elbert’s community in East Aurora included a printing press and bookbindery, a furniture-making shop, and leather and metalworks. The colony was based on William Morris’s Arts and Crafts movement in England, which fostered individual craftsmanship as an antidote to industrial mass production. To the Arts and Crafts ideal, Hubbard added what he might have called a good dose of American ingenuity—i.e., commercialism. The Roycrofters sold their work far and wide, aided by a variety of bonus offers.

  After his conversation with Milburn about possible Roycroft exhibition space at the Pan-Am, Elbert sought me out.

  “Your ‘saloon’ is the best place in town to do business, Miss Louie, and I’m indebted to you,” he said loudly, giving me a welcome public endorsement. “Gentlemen, I’m off to a lecture at Lyric Hall on the evils of hydroelectric power development at the Falls. Anyone wish to join me?”

  If Elbert was going, then of course everyone (except the artists) did wish to join him, myself included. Only a half hour before, my guests had been deriding this lecture, but Elbert was sure to make it fun and probably create some fireworks along the way.

  There was a pleasant, misty drizzle outside. Several of the men had carriages, offering enough room for all of us. After everyone was settled, Elbert and I found ourselves in his carriage alone. As we set off—two misfits, unbound by the conventions that trapped our peers—a plan occurred to me.

  About ten years earlier, Elbert had carried on a love affair with a schoolteacher in East Aurora named Alice Moore. This was a close-kept secret. Alice had moved to Boston and given birth to a daughter. Although there was talk of divorce, Elbert and his wife, Bertha, who had four children, patched things up. Bertha was a gifted miniaturist and took an active role in the artistic production at Roycroft, decorating books and porcelain; I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that Elbert had avoided divorce because he didn’t want to lose Bertha’s talents.

  At any rate, this was the matter that had caused the rift between Elbert and his brother-in-law John Larkin. I knew the details because Elbert’s sister had confessed the story to me one day in a torrent of tears when she was in my office discussing the spring fund-raising fete. She and her husband sided with Bertha, she told me; her brother was selfish and self-indulgent. She and Mr. Larkin no longer wanted anything to do with him.

  I liked Elbert and he liked me, and I saw no reason to change my opinion. I’d met Alice Moore once at a teachers’ conference before I knew of her relationship with Elbert, and I remembered her as being straitlaced and puritanical, even within the context of schoolmarms. She seemed an odd choice for Elbert, but who was I to say? I believed Elbert maintained some degree of contact with her; Alice had recently gone out West to teach after settling her daughter with her relatives in Buffalo (how different my life might have been, if only I’d had some family, somewhere, to help me). In his writings Elbert spoke in favor of equal rights for women, and he touted the virtue of following one’s heart—topics undoubtedly designed to please Alice, wherever she was reading them.

  “Elbert,” I said, sidestepping into my plan, “you know how you’re always lauding the virtues of ‘free love’?”

  “Why, Miss Barrett, is this a proposition? I always thought you went quite the other way. Won’t Miss Coatsworth be shocked? However, now that you mention it, I must say you have a radiance about you that I’ve always admired. Quite artistic. I do admire women of intensity. Of thoughtful intensity. Of probing intelligence. In short, I’ve always admired you, Louisa. Therefore your wish, my dear, is my command.” He placed a hand upon my knee.

  Laughing, I returned his hand to his own knee, squeezing it to keep it there. “Thank you, Elbert, for your admiration. I must assure you that I do not ‘go the other way,’ as you so elegantly describe it, but Miss Coatsworth is an excellent foil, don’t you think? Her mere existence seems to answer so many questions about me, without answering them at all.”

  “You’re a sly one, Louisa.” He regarded me with renewed respect. “Almost as sly as me.”

  “Oh, that I could never be,” I assured him.

  “Is there no chance for me, then?” he asked with mock regret.

  Patting his leg, I said, “Not today, Elbert, dear,” although it was difficult for me to understand why, since he was most attractive, with his pouting brown eyes and smooth skin. He smelled pleasantly of woods and grass—undoubtedly a special scent he was developing to compete with his brother-in-law’s perfumed soaps. He was gentle, easygoing, and comforting. In short, he was everything against which my girls had no defense. Around him I felt none of the fear that beset me with other men. Loving him would be much too easy, and for that reason, probably, I felt no inclination to do so.

  “May I inquire as to the origin of your unexpected though not unwelcome question?”

  “One of my students has found herself …”—I searched for the words—“in an awkward position.” I raised my eyebrows meaningfully. “One of the results of free love that its proponents seldom address.”

  “Yes, indeed,” he admitted wearily.

  “At any rate, she’s a shy girl who stumbled into her difficulty more out of innocence than wickedness.”

  “Or so she would have you believe.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” I acknowledged. “But no matter. The family has asked me to try to find some … solution for her. It occurs to me that Macaulay could sponsor a summer apprenticeship with the Roycrofters, and this girl could be the recipient of the first scholarship.”

  “An interesting idea. Where would the money come from to support this apprenticeship?”

  “At the moment I have some discretionary funds at my disposal.” I planned to ask the Rushmans to donate the money anonymously.

  “Is the girl artistic?”

  “Not that I’ve seen.”

  “A fine opportunity, then, Louie, to instill some artistry in her. What makes you think her secret will be safe with us?”

  “Because it will please your sense of righteous rebellion to keep it safe.”

  “True enough.”

  “She must live in your own house. Bertha will not object?”

  “Bertha will understand the—uh—social significance of our action. The girl would be expected to work, however. Bertha could assign her various tasks in her room. Watercoloring borders, that kind of thing.”

  “She is the type of girl who is only too happy
to help.”

  “Mmm,” he pondered, “I’ve met that type before. Quite irresistible.”

  “In this case you’ll steel yourself against temptation.”

  “Yes, yes, all right.” He gave me one of his bad-boy looks.

  “Now then, this girl has a special love of butterflies; one might even say that butterflies have contributed to her current condition.” I regarded him wryly. “Perhaps Bertha could set her to painting butterflies. She understands them in all their permutations.”

  He looked at me with bemusement. “Are you implying something?”

  “Oh, yes, indeed,” I said, enjoying his confusion. “At any rate, she travels with her grandmother.”

  “An immigrant grandmother?”

  “Yes, in fact. German. From a farm, I believe.”

  “Can she cook? Strudel? Sausage? How I love immigrant grandmothers.”

  “I thought you would.”

  “With the addition of the grandmother, I shall be more than happy to help you—I shall be grateful to help you!” With relish he rubbed his hands together. “Well, then, I leave the details to you. Just keep me informed.”

  And with that he took the liberty of kissing me hard on the forehead, to seal our agreement.

  Lyric Hall was already crowded when we arrived, for lectures were fashionable. Buffalo was a city that attracted lecturers: Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, Lucy Stone, Matthew Arnold, all had graced Lyric Hall. Tonight we would hear Daniel Henry Bates, the man who’d led the protest at the power station on the day I visited with my seniors.

  I knew Tom wouldn’t be there; he and Margaret had never attended public lectures. Over the weekend I’d seen him briefly at home when I’d dropped off Grace after having lunch with her at the club. He’d tacitly ignored the import of our conversation in the sleigh outside school—he’d made his point, of course, and didn’t need to repeat it. With some embarrassment I’d taken him aside and told him Albright’s message about the finger in the dike. I was completely disconcerted when he burst out laughing. “My friend certainly has his own inimitable sense of humor, doesn’t he?” Tom observed.

  “But what does he mean?”

  “Oh, he doesn’t mean anything.”

  “But then why—”

  “Albright likes to make little jokes. Please don’t give the matter another thought. Now then,” he said abruptly, “what am I to do with Grace this afternoon? There’s a problem that needs solving.”

  Even as we resolved that they would play tennis, I couldn’t quite convince myself that Albright’s words were meaningless. Albright might be eccentric and his remark about the dike odd, but he wasn’t a fool—far from it: He was one of the city’s commercial geniuses, and he, like the other members of my board, undoubtedly had a strong monetary interest in the power station.

  Tonight, as our group looked for seats at Lyric Hall, this remained a conundrum in my mind; but I had delivered the message and now Tom had to resolve the issue. Finally we sat three quarters of the way back, taking up a row opposite an oversized portrait of the Marquis de Lafayette, who had visited Buffalo in 1825. The marquis stood awkwardly on a grassy knoll, holding a top hat and walking stick and wearing what looked like extremely high-heeled boots. Such were our heroes.

  Because of the rain, the gaslit hall smelled dank. Looking around, I spotted Francesca near the front. My student Maddie Fronczyk and her brother, Peter, sat halfway back. Franklin Fiske was near them, and he gave me a surreptitious salute. On the side aisle sat Frederick Krakauer, looking unusually awake (for him). When he saw me, he stood and waved, causing me intense embarrassment. I wanted him as an ally—or at least not an enemy—but I didn’t want him waving to me in public as if we were friends. Mercifully, no one seemed to notice or if they did, assumed Krakauer was waving at my companion: For here as everywhere, Elbert was the center of attention, people turning to stare at him, friends calling out their greetings, strangers coming to shake his hand, to all of which he responded with a never-flagging grin.

  Finally everyone was seated. Glancing through the program, Elbert whispered, “I’m suspicious of anyone who uses three names, aren’t you? Horrible affectation.”

  “You are never guilty of affectations,” I responded.

  He beamed. “At least not that affectation.”

  Bates entered the hall from backstage, accompanied by a small group of supporters. They seemed a dull, conservative lot, but among them was Susannah Riley, who stood out because she was much younger than the others. Bates held her arm, at one point gripping it hard for support as he grimaced in pain. Mostly likely he suffered from arthritis and was too proud to use a cane. He was thinner than I remembered, almost gaunt. His white beard and long hair were uncombed and wild; his eyes flashed.

  “Ah,” said Elbert appreciatively, “I see he’s cultivating the Old Testament prophet look. A smart move, in this context.”

  Susannah’s presence surprised me only in that it was so public, such a forthright statement of allegiance. She’d do well to be more cautious, I thought, or the men in my row would think twice before allowing their wives and daughters to indulge in art lessons taught by a woman they would consider a radical. Looking graceful tonight in a simple dark-blue silk dress, Susannah helped Bates to his chair beside the podium. He whispered to her for several seconds, and she nodded in agreement. The others in the group had already proceeded to their seats in the reserved front row, so she was alone with him, evidently a close confidante. Finally she took her seat.

  Courtesy of the newspapers, I now knew more about Bates than I had when I saw him at the power station. He had become involved in the nature preservation movement after an outbreak of typhoid in Harrisburg, his hometown, was traced to the Susquehanna River’s polluted waters. He traveled the country crusading for nature-related causes. When he wasn’t crusading, he tended his rose garden and wrote books on roses.

  Miss Elizabeth Letson, the director of the museum of the Society of Natural Sciences, gave the introduction. With her prim shirtwaist, severely pulled-back hair, and glasses perched at the end of her nose, she aggressively proclaimed herself to be one of us: one of our happy band of unmarried professional ladies who were considered past their prime before they reached their midtwenties, taking on a perpetual middle age that stretched from roughly twenty-five to fifty-five.

  When Bates took the stage, grasping the lectern, he studied the crowd for a long moment before beginning in a strong yet measured tone. “What are we talking about, when we talk about Niagara?” He paused, looking from face to face. “It is this: transcendence. Sublimity. The divine. Yes, when we talk about Niagara, we talk about the Lord God. We talk about how the Lord God, millenniums ago, fashioned a great monument to himself. And that monument is the miracle of Niagara. As Ralph Waldo Emerson has rightly told us, nature is a manifestation of the divine. The contemplation of nature leads us to the divine. And so when we stare into the green waters of Niagara …”—once more he paused—“we are staring into the face of God.”

  “Hogwash,” Elbert whispered.

  “Now, what is it that the power company wishes to do with this manifestation of God?” Bates gazed around, waiting for an answer. Abruptly his intonation turned harsh: “The leaders of the power company intend to take God’s miracle and turn it into bits of steel and aluminum and electric light.” He spat out the words. “They tell us they’ll only take a teeny, weeny, insy, binsy bit of water,” he said like a child, pressing his fingers together to show the small amount, squinting to see it.

  He pounded his fist on the podium, jolting me. “But we know them, don’t we? We know that their ‘tiny bit’ is anyone else’s ocean. We know they won’t be happy until not one drop of water flows across Niagara’s precipice. Has not their own prophet declared this policy? Their own ‘President of the International Niagara Commission,’ their prophet of darkness—Lord Kelvin.”

  William Thomson, Lord Kelvin, was a renowned British physicist with an expertise in electri
city.

  “Listen to what ‘Lord’ Kelvin says: ‘I look forward to the time,’ he tells us, ‘when the whole body of water from Lake Erie will find its way to the lower level of Lake Ontario through machinery. I do not hope that our children’s children will ever see the Niagara cataract’! So speaks ‘Lord’ Kelvin,” Bates said derisively.

  On and on he went. My mind began to wander. An image came to me, of how pleased my father would have been to see Niagara without water. To climb the Falls like any other rock face, simply to study what was there.

  “People think me an impractical man,” Bates said, shifting tone and regaining my attention. “An unscientific man. An uncompromising man. And I admit it: I will not compromise my faith. But to you who would find it easy to dismiss me as a fool, know that I too have a practical side. I know what will happen—I see it happening already: The American Falls are shrinking, becoming narrower and narrower in their channel. Soon the American Falls will be nonexistent. Dry rock from the shore to Goat Island. Then the broad Horseshoe Falls will begin to shrink, narrower and narrower and so to nothing.

  “Hear it now!” he cried. “As the power company in its greed takes more and more of our God-given heritage, Lake Erie itself will become unnavigable—this is fact, not faith. The water level will sink—even in the great harbor of Buffalo ships will run aground. This is fact, not faith. More than ten million gallons a minute, they’re taking now: Isn’t it enough? Over a foot off the depth, they’re taking now: Isn’t it enough?

  “I have even heard it said”—here his voice dropped, letting us in on a secret—“that at night, when no one is watching, they take thirty-four thousand cubic feet per second to feed their foul industries! When will it be enough?”