Pride's Folly

by Fiona Harrowe

  Until I met Sabrina.

  Strange, when I look back, to consider that she was still a child, only twelve, at the time—but a beautiful child with dark glossy hair and enormous black-fringed, violet-blue eyes that seemed to dominate her heart-shaped face. When I spoke she had a way of listening, her large eyes riveted on my face, head cocked, intent, sober, as if every word I uttered was of great importance. No one, not even my adoring mother had ever given me quite that sort of attention or taken me quite so seriously.

  When I told my mother that I intended to marry Sabrina someday, she said “Impossible. You are cousins.”

  “Once removed,” I reminded her.

  “Cousins, nevertheless.”

  I remember her indulgent smile when she said that, as if my resolve were simply a passing adolescent whim (and her great surprise when she later discovered it was not).

  Except that Sabrina was there I didn’t like San Francisco. To a lad arriving from the serene green-lawned, oak-shaded walks of Latin Hall, the city appeared noisy and dirty, awash with a teeming, polyglot humanity. My stepfather’s elegant house on Nob Hill looked down on the Second Street Cut, through which ran the Central Pacific Railway. Around it on the flatlands there rose the belching chimneys of flour mills, iron foundries, sugar refineries, and shoe factories. When I commented on all that crass ugliness, Sabrina said, “But isn’t the bay beautiful, Cousin?’’

  She had a breathy way of speaking I found adorable, and I might have agreed with her even if the bay’s vista and the magnificent lilac and crimson sunsets on the Pacific beyond had not been such a sight to behold.

  My stepfather, because he came of the nobility, had immediately been taken to society’s bosom. The city’s social arbiters were a self-made elite of Johnny-come-latelies who fairly worshipped anything or anyone connected with European aristocracy. The fact that my mother was a Virginia Falconer only added to Ian’s luster. Thus our family had entrée into the homes and estates of railroad magnates and silver millionaires whose Italianate palazzos vied with the huge, grandiose Spanish haciendas in the suburbs of Milbrae and Menlo Park. The first time I was a guest at the Black Hawk Estate, a 1,500-acre spread belonging to Ansel Easton of the Pacific Mail Steamship Company, I literally gawked. He had his own racetrack, Shell Park, built to accommodate the thoroughbred racing stock he had imported from Kentucky. And such horses!

  I had gone there with my stepfather, Uncle Miles, and Sabrina. (Mama had remained at home with the new baby, James, and Aunt Carmella had stayed to keep her company).

  “This one with the white blaze is exactly the kind of horse I will have someday,’’ I told Sabrina as we paused before a stall in Easton’s commodious and well-appointed stable.

  She patted the proferred muzzle. “It is a beautiful animal. You know, I’ve always considered horses just something to pull the carriage or gig.”

  “What a shame! Don’t you ride?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know how.’’

  “We’ll have to remedy that.” I offered to start teaching her the following Monday as soon as we got back to the city.

  “I’ll have to ask Papa,” she said.

  Of course. Papa. For some reason I never could fathom, Uncle Miles’s attitude toward me was less than warm. He was courteous, even friendly at times, but his friendliness held a distance. Though he never put it into words, I don’t think he looked with favor upon my seeing Sabrina too often. Perhaps he mistrusted me. Perhaps he thought my interest in her had sinister overtones, that I had some dark designs upon her honor. Nothing could have been farther from the truth.

  As present owner of Wildoak, Uncle Miles had long ago promised Mama that when I came of age he would arrange for me to acquire it. According to Mama, he had refused Ian’s offer to buy the plantation and put it in my name. Miles said he wanted to be sure I intended to work Wildoak myself, not lease or sell it. “Don’t fret about it,” Mama told me. “Uncle Miles will not go back on his word.”

  But now there was Christian.

  He had his father’s dark hair and hazel eyes. But there the resemblance stopped, for Miles’s features were irregular, Christian’s stamped from a Roman coin. His handsomeness, however, was marred, already at ten, by a sullen expression around his thin-lipped mouth. That he had a rebellious, volatile nature was no secret, but I think part of his trouble, unknown perhaps even to himself, was his resentment of Sabrina. The first and favored child, she took precedence in her parents’ affections, although to do them justice, they tried not to show it. But favored or not, Christian was still Miles’s son, a Falconer. It haunted me that someday he might decide he wanted Wildoak.

  I made a great effort not to think about it, not to let it come between Christian and myself. To no purpose. He seemed to like me even less than his father did.

  Miles did give Sabrina permission to have the riding lessons but only with the provision that I also take on Christian and Arthur, younger than his brother by a year. They were a contentious pair, constantly arguing with one another, twice resorting to fisticuffs. The only time they came together in brotherly agreement was when I threatened one of them with a wallop. Then they closed ranks.

  The boys had owned ponies since the time they could walk.

  Consequently they thought they knew all about riding and smarted under my instruction. They spoiled what would have been a pleasant afternoon by their constant bickering and hostility, stirring my temper to a seething froth. Sabrina, on the other hand, bore their squabbles with patient detachment. She had a warm, gentle disposition and an unruffled poise even as a child that I, with my hot-and-cold explosive tendencies, tried to emulate. I suppose I was too much like my mother, who liked the world to think of her as cool and self-possessed but who, when provoked, could go off like a firecracker. Perhaps that’s why I found Sabrina’s calm so appealing.

  In those days Sabrina and I almost always saw each other in the company of our families. The Montgomerys and Falconers enjoyed going on outings together, sometimes to Cliff House, above the tumbled rocks of the seashore where seals came to feed, or to the Mission Dolores. The latter, originally the Mission of San Francisco de Assisi, dated back to the advent of the Spanish padres in the eighteenth century. Built of adobe with four-foot-thick walls, a red-tiled roof, and arched doorway, it was one of San Francisco’s few historical landmarks. A little wizened friar would take us around, pointing out the hand-carved altars, wooden statues, and bleached crosses that had been trundled up from Mexico, asking us to observe the cracked mosaic and obscure ceiling paintings.

  I found Dolores, both inside and out, a total bore.

  “But you haven’t seen the cemetery,’’ Sabrina said the first time we came. “Come along.’’ And taking my hand, she led me out through a heavy wooden door to a walled garden where junglelike vegetation ran riot. There, amidst climbing bougainvillea, creeping holly, tall pampas grass, spiky yews, and drooping willows, a crowd of lichened tombstones reared their heads. One marked the grave of Don Louis Antonio Arguello, a former governor of California when it still belonged to Mexico, while lesser folk—like Mary Reagan, from Dublin, Maria Ruiz from Santiago, Chile; Henry Valley from lower Canada; and various Smiths, Applebys, and Ortegas— lay buried around him.

  “I don’t see anything interesting about cemeteries,’’ I complained. “I’d rather be riding.’’

  She said nothing but stooped to pick a wild rose and stuck it in my buttonhole with a smile. It was a reprimand, a gentle one, but it made me feel gauche and rude.

  In the fall of ’80 she was sent to a girls’ academy near Sacramento. I took it as a personal rebuff.

  “Uncle Miles wants to get Sabrina as far away from me as he can,’’ I told my mother.

  “Nonsense.’’

  “Why else would he be packing her off to school?’’

  “So she can have a good education. He wants her to become a lady.’’

  “She is a lady now.’’

  Mama smiled. “Has s
he objected?’’

  “No. But she wouldn’t. She does whatever her father tells her.’’

  “She loves him. But I think it’s more than that. And more than the embroidery, the good manners, and the few tunes she might learn on the piano. Sabrina has an inquisitive mind. In fact, her mother complains she always has her nose in a book.’’

  Though Aunt Carmella exaggerated, it was true that Sabrina was fond of reading, not only novels and poetry, but stories of travel and history. Whereas I never opened a book if I could help it.

  “Speaking of schools,’’ Mama went on, “we’ve been thinking of a college for you.’’

  “Whatever for?’’

  “Don’t you want to go?’’

  “Not particularly.’’

  She gave a long, speculative look. “That sort of remark tells me exactly why you should go.’’ She paused, catching her lip between her teeth. Then she went on. “If you are ever to be master of Wildoak you must learn to be a gentleman. And I don’t mean how to drink, gamble, and ... so on. I want you to become a man of some culture and learning, not remain an illiterate stable boy.’’

  That wounded. “I don’t consider myself either illiterate or a stable boy. Just because I like horses—’’

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake! I’ve nothing against horses. Didn’t they teach you anything at Latin Hall except snobbery?’’

  Like the lacerated bull who’s taken one banderilla too many in its hide, I wanted to roar in blind rage. But I wasn’t a bull; I was Page Falconer Morse and I had learned something at Latin Hall. I had learned that one does not shout at one’s parents, that one learns to take their blows with an aristocratic imperturbability. “Grace under pressure” was the motto our headmaster drummed into us. Only street sweepers and hucksters screamed at their betters.

  So I said nothing, hiding the anger inside.

  My mother remained silent too, observing me with a speculative look in her eyes, which I found as unsettling as her calling me illiterate and a snob. Finally, a small smile curved her lips. “We’ll not talk about it for the present. But Page, do keep college in mind.”

  I fervently hoped she would forget all about it.

  Sabrina came home for the Christmas holidays. A young girl of fifteen now, she had grown taller, thinner, and wore her hair up. We were not shy with each other, as I’d feared. After the first cousinly hug and kiss we took up exactly where we had left off. She was full of talk about her school. I must confess it made me jealous to hear her speak of friends she had met, teachers she liked, the new world she had found away from me.

  In contrast I had little to say. Things hadn’t changed very much for me. I had taken to visiting Shell Park quite frequently, working with Mr. Easton’s fine bred horses; but other than that, life had gone on the same.

  Yet Sabrina did not seem to find me uninteresting, did not compare me to her new friends or give me advice, but simply accepted me as I was. And I loved her more than ever for it.

  We attended the usual spate of parties, tree trimmings, carol singings. Yule lightings, gatherings in which all the children of our parents’ friends participated. Only once did Sabrina and I go out alone. The Gwins of South Park had invited the adults of our two families, including Sabrina and me, to a “kettledrum party,” and at the last moment Jamie and Arthur came down with the measles. Our parents elected to remain at home but saw no reason for either of us to miss out on the fun.

  Kettledrum parties were all the rage then. They had originated from the practice of military officers using kettledrums as dining tables when the latter were unavailable. Featuring dancing and refreshments, these affairs were usually impromptu galas rather than formal balls. But it was Sabrina’s and my first venture into the purely adult world, and that alone gave the whole thing an aura of excitement. I remember dressing with care that evening, mindful of my appearance for once. The new frock coat, courtesy of Ian’s tailor, fitted a little too snugly over newly muscled shoulders, the result of lifting bales of hay in Shell Park. But if I took care not to flail my arms or stretch them too strenuously, no one would notice.

  Mama surveyed me from patent boots to gray stock and pearl stickpin and decided I would do.

  “You are a little too brown in the face, and your hair is much too sunbleached for a gentleman’s,” she said. “But I suppose it can’t be helped. You should wear a hat out of doors, you know.”

  Ian said, “Splendid! You look splendid, my boy!”

  And Mother’s parting words were: “Remember—bring Sabrina home at a decent hour. She is in your care.”

  Ah, Sabrina! What a vision she was in hyacinth blue. How tantalizingly that taffeta bustle swayed in back and how the blue-frilled underskirt molded and flowed as she walked. And the Dolly Varden hat with its saucy pink roses and mauve ties, how it set off her lovely face! No wonder I felt seven feet tall when I entered the Gwins’ ballroom with Sabrina on my arm.

  Carrying the kettledrum motif into their decorations, the Gwins had placed flower-decked drums along the walls, each bearing a cornucopia of red and white roses. Sheaves of crimson and white gladioluses graced alabaster vases, and paper drums intertwined with ivy hung in streamers from the balcony where the orchestra played.

  Sabrina danced the promised first waltz with me. But I had to vie with a covey of young bucks for the other dances. Pretty, fresh, with a touching innocence that did not (or could not) hide her obvious enjoyment, she drew the envious eyes of other women just as she drew partners. I hadn’t the heart to be jealous, to scold.

  I retreated, hovering over the refreshment table, one eye cocked to follow Sabrina, drinking more champagne than was good for me, filling and refilling my glass. As the evening wore on, my open-hearted, well-meaning generosity in sharing Sabrina began to sour, and I found myself grumbling into my glass. Sabrina must have noticed the disgruntled look on my face, however, for she came to me after dismissing another would-be partner. Taking my arm, she coaxed me onto the floor. And once she was in my arms, smiling up at me, I couldn’t help but forgive her.

  On the drive back, Sabrina was full of sighs and exclamations: “Oh, what a lovely evening! How charming everyone was!” Another sigh. “I’m tired, but I can’t remember when I’ve had such an enjoyable time. And you, Page?’’ She squeezed my arm.

  “Great fun.’’

  She squeezed my arm again. It was a gesture she must have made dozens of times before, one that punctuated a sentence or drew my attention to something she wanted me to see. But tonight it had a strange effect. The pressure of her hand sent a physical thrill through my body that surprised and embarrassed me. My thoughts of Sabrina had always been pure. I deliberately kept them that way. It would have been blasphemy, wicked, to think of her loveliness with anything but worship. But now she was close to me, her dress flounces burning my ankles, her perfume filling the cabriolet with a faint rose fragrance. And I had drunk all that champagne. I wanted her with a sudden fierce desire that brought an embarrassing swelling to my crotch.

  I couldn’t speak.

  “You’re not angry?’’ she said after asking a question and getting only a grunt in reply.

  “No. A little too much to eat and drink,’’ I said. I would die rather than tell her.

  Once at her door, I suffered her kiss on my cheek, fighting the urge to take her in my arms, to crush her mouth under mine.

  “Good night, Page. And thanks for a wonderful evening.’’

  Afterward, I got back into the carriage, my hands trembling as I took up the reins. I didn’t feel like going home to face Mama and Ian’s inquiries about the Gwins’ party: who was there, what was served, how did so and so look? I felt tense, my whole body wound up so tightly I was sure the seams of my frock coat (not to mention my trousers) would burst open if I let out my breath.

  With wheels clattering I drove through the silent, darkened streets, one leading into another, not really knowing or caring where I was going, just wanting to keep on the move. When we reach
ed Pacific Street, more lively with passersby than the others, I turned the horse and we slowly trotted down it. On the curb an old woman tended a fire over which she cooked hot pork pies, while a few feet away a thin, ragged boy hawked, “Sweed taffeeee! Sweed taffy!” Saloons, beer halls, and chili parlors lined the sidewalks, and from them came the sounds of tinny music, the scrape of a fiddle, the thump of a piano. Through swinging lattice doors I caught a glimpse of a swirling red skirt and black-stockinged legs that stamped and kicked to the accompaniment of laughter, shouts, and the clapping of hands. Standing under a lamp, a prostitute beckoned to me, her white face framed by a flower-bedecked straw bonnet. Another smiled from a doorway.

  Seeing the street women planted a seed in my mind. At Shell Park the stable boys’ one topic of conversation, aside from horses, had been women, mostly tarts they’d bedded. The young bloods who came to visit the estate, though of higher strata, also found the subject of great interest. They would sit in the library and over a glass of after-dinner port discuss by the hour their adventures among the city’s demimonde. These sessions always embarrassed me, not for their graphic detail but for the occasional solicitation of my opinion. I would give it in an offhand knowledgeable manner, inwardly terrified my carnal companions would see through the made-up stories and poke fun at my virginity.

  Now, I thought, the idea growing, and blossoming in my mind, was as good a time as any to make true my boasts. I remembered that the young bloods were always cautioning one another not to pick up a prostitute on the street. “Diseased, you know.” But a particular house on Burgundy Street was often mentioned—a Mrs. McAllister’s. “Beautiful women, and selective,” a senator’s son claimed.