by John Pipkin
“Mr. Mahoney, please do not think me impertinent for saying so, but I see no reason that I should not hope to sustain your daughter's happiness on my own until I achieve fortune on the stage.”
Mr. Mahoney regarded Eliot with the cold stare of a man accustomed to negotiating other men out of their money.
“This is your final offer, Calvert?”
“I was unaware that an offer was being made.”
The large man rolled his eyes toward the ceiling and broke into laughter.
“Ho! You are a good one, Calvert. It has taken me a lifetime to acquire this wealth. How can I expect the same from a young man like yourself? No one has ever dissembled so well under my stare, and I have broken tougher nuts.”
“I am not dissembling, sir.”
“Enough! Ho! You have won. And I cannot say that I do not deserve the abuse. Margaret must have told you something of my plan already. I cannot trust the girl to keep a secret. Oh, you will make her a fine husband indeed.”
Mr. Mahoney shifted his bulk and the sofa creaked beneath him, while Eliot wondered if a proposal of marriage had just been made and accepted on his behalf.
“We can work out the details later,” Mr. Mahoney said, “but it should suffice to say that I have excess capital that I must put to work.”
Eliot was not sure if Mr. Mahoney was referring to his daughter or to his money.
“I have decided to invest in a bookshop, Calvert. Timothy Carter and Charles Hendee will soon be out of the game. William Davis Ticknor is a formidable businessman, but he shows no interest in literary stuff. That leaves us with little competition.”
“Competition?” Eliot had never met Mr. Ticknor, but he knew that the man had arranged for considerable backing to support his venture.
Mr. Mahoney paid Eliot's reluctance no heed. “I know opportunity, but I know nothing of the publishing world. You understand the people who read and buy books, but you have not the means to put your understanding into action. We shall wed our advantages each to each. I shall buy a bookstore, and you shall have the running of it.”
“I am flattered, truly,” Eliot said, hoping to slow the advance of what seemed to him an utterly absurd scheme. “But I fear your investment would be at risk.”
Mr. Mahoney dispelled Eliot's doubt with a sweep of his thick arm.
“Have you heard of the Sovereign of the Seas?”
Eliot shook his head.
“No reason you should have. Norwegian ship. It was said to be a good investment—well built, valuable cargo, certain profit—but I had a bad feeling, and I always follow my gut.” Mr. Mahoney respectfully patted his stomach. “And what happened? The doomed ship exploded in Boston Harbor. No survivors, a terrible loss of capital.”
“Remarkable instincts,” Eliot said, only slightly reassured by the man's confidence.
“I never doubt them. And now my instincts tell me that a bookshop is the thing.”
Eliot rubbed his jaw. He felt numbed by the possibilities suddenly opening before him. “I have never given any thought to running a bookstore.”
“You'll learn how to balance the accounts in time, easiest thing in the world.”
“I… well, I am without words.”
“Ha! Without words! That wit! Soon you'll have plenty to sell, at great profit. Margaret has convinced me that you are the perfect man for the job, and my gut agrees.”
“Margaret knows of this?”
“Well, certainly! It is practically her idea.”
Eliot could not have felt less certain how to respond. Margaret had never hinted at the possibility of such an arrangement. He felt it discomfiting to think of the two of them, father and daughter, discussing his future as if it wanted planning. But he did his best to summon a weak smile, and nodded slowly without actually meaning to.
“When do you require an answer?” Eliot asked.
“Your expression has already given your answer,” Mr. Mahoney observed. “Ha! Besides, you really have no choice in the matter. How else could you expect to afford the wedding gift I have in mind for my daughter?”
Eliot Calvert's bookstore opened for business a year and a half before Margaret Mahoney became Mrs. Eliot Calvert. Once the sign was hung and the books displayed, Eliot found that running a bookshop had far less to do with books than it did with ledgers and receipts. Patrick Mahoney promised not to intervene, provided that the shop turned a profit, and he was true to his word.
Eliot was free to fill the shelves as he saw fit, and he sent orders to publishers and printing houses with the avarice of a nouveau riche collector. Books that he longed to read appeared by the cartload; writing instruments and exquisite papers arrived in carefully packed crates. He became the temporary caretaker of expensive folios that he could never have hoped to afford. He looked forward to the possibility of slow afternoons when he might sit on the high stool in the front window, reading the books in his trust, a living advertisement for the pleasures offered by his shop.
The wooden sign that swung above Boylston Street glittered with twelve-inch gold letters crowned with a pair of reading spectacles, “Eliot Calvert, Purveyor of Fine Books.” The sign was visible to clear-eyed readers from all the way across the new Public Gardens. Eliot thought of the tiny handprinted block letters on the white card tacked to the door of the cramped basement office that his father was sometimes permitted to use at Harvard. He brought his father and mother to the shop on the first day of business, and as they walked side by side beneath the sign he observed their reflections, multiplied across the checkerboard panes of glass at the shop front. No longer a timid observer of other men's accomplishments, Eliot stood square-shouldered to show that he had as much right to walk the streets as any man, an owner and shaper of the world in which he lived. Eliot's father walked stooped, hands clutched behind his back, and his mother clung to her husband's arm for support. Edna Calvert suffered from grievous bunions that forced her to take quick, short, painful steps, which made her appear as though she were forever running downhill.
“Faust,” Ambrose Calvert said appreciatively, as he rubbed the leather cover of the book Eliot had purposely left on the counter.
Edna ventured between the closely set bookcases, marveling at the packed shelves. “How do you afford so many fine books?” she called out to her son.
“They belong to the shop,” Eliot answered. “That is how a business works.”
His father looked around thoughtfully. “Still, I should think a man must first own what he intends to sell.”
“Mr. Mahoney has been most generous in his support.”
Eliot's father tapped the cover of the big book on the counter. “And does Mr. Mahoney support your other efforts?” he asked.
Eliot picked up the volume of Goethe and placed it on the empty stand in the window. “If you are referring to my plays, Father, Mr. Mahoney has shown great interest, but my writing requires little in the way of capital.” Eliot spotted his mother on the other side of the shop, running a finger along the shelves, checking for dust.
“Capital?” His father chuckled. “That is not a word I ever expected you to employ.” He placed a hand on Eliot's shoulder, and it struck Eliot that his father's jacket and waistcoat were identical to his own—gray and black, the cut and color of apology. “I suppose you'll have no choice now but to marry this man's daughter,” Ambrose said.
Eliot smiled. “Only if she'll have me.”
His father looked out the window at the immense sign creaking heavily above the street.
“It would appear that she already does,” he said.
The next morning, Eliot promptly bought six new coats and waistcoats in contrasting colors. Never again would he stare at the ground as he walked. The years that he had spent with downcast eyes, ruminating on plots and characters, had done little to advance his success as a playwright. He could see no reason to adhere to that public performance of introspection, as long as he remained faithful to the exercise of writing itself. He considered moving to new accommo
dations, but then decided against it, unwilling to alter the circumstances of his creative life. He would be a successful businessman by day and a struggling playwright by night.
Eliot harbored a loyal affection for his simple room near Mount Vernon, Boston's westernmost hill, once dubbed “Mount Whoredom” by British soldiers, for obvious reasons. Eliot's room was furnished with all that he had ever needed in his pursuit of fame: books, a desk, a chair, and a bed. Most important, the room's location on the top floor, with one narrow window overlooking a small garden instead of the busy street opposite, provided him with solitude and silence. There were few places in the modern world, he thought, with its emphasis on speed and efficiency, where a man could sit undisturbed and undistracted, accompanied by nothing more than his own thoughts.
After they announced their engagement, Margaret insisted that he at last show her something he had written, and Eliot reluctantly allowed her to read the incomplete draft of The House of Many Windows. It lacked not only a conclusion, he explained to her, but a beginning as well, and some of the middle parts were in need of attention, but he was confident that he had produced some spirited dialogue. He sat across from her in the Mahoneys' parlor and watched her turn the pages of the manuscript as she sat on the same sofa where Mr. Mahoney had made his business proposition. Eliot studied her shifting expressions, and he fought the urge to snatch the pages away before she finished.
ACT V, SCENE 2
[At center stage, a house, engulfed in flames.]
DEMONTE: He is lost!
REYNALD: There is hope still.
DEMONTE: Here sit my wife and daughter, forlorn, lately pulled from the inferno by daring, reckless hands. The boy is lost.
REYNALD: My young friend, you might yet act! Were it not for these aged limbs, I myself would fly into the flames to save your newborn son instead of sacrificing the innocent one to hesitating discourse.
DEMONTE: Oh, my son! My infant son, asleep above encroaching flames!
REYNALD: Have faith. He lives yet, and yet might he be rescued.
DEMONTE: What fool charges into the conflagration to save what is already lost?
REYNALD: One who willingly risks all to preserve what he holds dear.
DEMONTE: You speak of demigods and simpletons.
REYNALD: No. I speak of men!
“What do you think?” he asked as soon as Margaret looked up from the last lines. “It is not, as you can see, complete.”
“Will this end well?”
“I have not yet decided my hero's end. But do you like it, thus far?”
“Well, yes, certainly, but…”
Eliot's heart sank. “But what? You would like something with more coherence, no doubt, but I should remind you that this is only a draft. And you should know that I do intend to provide something more in the way of action in future drafts.”
“No, no. That is not it. I… well… I think you should consider leaving your dreary rooms at Mount Vernon. A brighter prospect might fill you with thoughts less … gloomy.”
Eliot found no cause for disappointment in Margaret's critique. He did not expect her to comprehend that his writing was explorative of man's graver humors. Nor did he think she would appreciate the conditions he found conducive to summoning inspiration.
“I understand your concern, my darling. But I can assure you that my rooms are not so gloomy as you think.” He took her hand. “Not when they are brightened by my thoughts of you.”
“Oh, Eliot,” Margaret said, laughing. “The things you say.”
Eliot had forgotten Patrick Mahoney's allusion to his wedding gift until the day he asked Eliot and Margaret to meet him at an address on Beacon Hill. Identical redbrick façades, bowed fronts in the Bulfinch style, stretched before them, their purple-flushed windows glowing brilliantly in the reflected sunlight. Patrick Mahoney stood at the foot of a short flight of steps, and his bulk seemed to fill the entire street. He welcomed his daughter with open arms, and the gesture made Eliot fear that Margaret might disappear beneath the immense curtain of his open coat. Margaret ran to her father—like a child, Eliot thought—and for a second he wondered why she did not rush so breathlessly into his embrace. Mr. Mahoney handed his daughter a key tied with a bit of ribbon.
“Father, you are far too generous,” she said happily.
Mr. Mahoney nodded and pointed to the door. “Shall we go in?”
He took hold of the iron railing and began pulling himself up the steps hand over hand. Eliot did not move. Margaret turned to the street and grabbed Eliot by the arm.
“What are you waiting for?” she asked.
“Who lives here?”
From halfway up the steps, Patrick Mahoney overheard him and wheezed. “Ha! That wit. I am always unprepared for it. Please, I am already winded.”
Margaret understood what her father did not. She lowered her voice and squeezed Eliot's arm firmly. “We do, Eliot. This will be our home as soon as we are wed.”
“This?” Eliot drew back, as if stung, and he saw his mistake in Margaret's eyes.
“Isn't it wonderful?” she said, without smiling.
“It is … unexpected.”
She tugged his arm, but Eliot remained rooted in the street while her father unlocked the door and entered the house.
“The wedding is but three months away,” she said. “Where did you think we would go afterward?”
“I have given it some consideration,” Eliot said quietly, once he was sure that her father was out of earshot. “Honestly I have, though I did not think the need quite so pressing. There are only two of us and—”
“You did not expect me to share your dismal, cramped rooms at Mount Vernon, did you?”
“We might have moved into rooms at Alexina Fisher's until—”
“Fisher's? The boardinghouse? With the actors? You cannot be serious.”
“I would have found us a place, Margaret. Certainly nothing so grand as this, but do we really need something this large? Two or three rooms would have sufficed.”
“Eliot, please! Where would I receive guests? Where would we entertain? How would you write amid the chaos of a household? Here you can have your own study, a whole room to sit with your books.” She leaned closer. “And if you get lonely you can refresh yourself with the knowledge that I am always just beyond your door.”
Eliot craned his neck and cast his eyes up to the roof; he thought he could already hear the deafening echo of so many large, empty rooms.
“Do we own all three floors?”
“Eliot, really,” she chided. “What use would we have for half a home?”
Eliot's mouth was dry, and the back of his throat felt as if it were covered with a layer of grit. He tried to swallow but could not draw enough saliva.
“Of course, of course.” He forced himself to laugh at his own misunderstanding. “It is only … well, I cannot imagine how we will ever begin to furnish such a place.”
“I am sure Father has taken care of everything.”
Eliot felt like an intruder when he stepped through the front door. Carpets of red and blue covered the floors, filling the close air with a heavy musk. The rooms were already stuffed with maple furniture in the American Empire style, and the walls held paintings of hunting scenes and sea voyages. Eliot turned and found himself staring into a large pier glass.
“Eliot! Do come here!” Margaret's excited voice reached him from somewhere above.
“I believe the master of the house is needed,” Mr. Mahoney said.
Eliot hurried up the stairs. His father-in-law-to-be watched him take the risers two at a time with an expression Eliot judged to be a mixture of longing and recollection. When he reached the second floor, he looked into two fully furnished rooms before realizing that Margaret was calling from above. He bounded up two more flights, ignoring the dark paintings that hung at the landing. On the third floor, Margaret motioned excitedly. She stood in a bright doorway, and from the hallway Eliot could hear the noise of people and
carriages in the street below.
Margaret walked to the middle of the room, her dark silhouette surrounded by a nimbus of bright light alive with swirling dust motes.
“Oh, Eliot, look. Here is your study.”
Eliot remained in the doorway, stunned by the room's brightness. A green carpet filled the expanse, and two armchairs sat before bookcases that covered the walls from floor to ceiling. The shelves were already crammed with books; the dark leather of their spines swallowed their titles.
“And here, look.” Margaret pointed to an empty bottom shelf. “Father has left a space for you to put your books. He really is too kind. Oh, Father!” She ran from the room, and Eliot heard her soft footfalls on the carpeted stairs.
A scalding torrent of light poured in through the huge windows, and from below the din of the street intruded with impunity. Eliot felt dizzy. He stepped uncertainly toward the enormous mahogany desk that perched on heavy, pointed legs and braced himself against its corner. The noise in the street seemed to grow louder. He held his hand at his brow to shield his eyes from the glare, but it did no good. It was too bright to see, too loud to think. Eliot closed his eyes, felt the room spin, and winced as a loud pain pierced his temples like the sharp clap of a slamming door.
Eliot's first child was born in the third-floor bedroom one year after he and Margaret moved into their new home as husband and wife. The child was a boy, and they named him Josiah Edward. Eliot acknowledged that a firstborn son was the wish of nearly every man since Adam, and yet, despite his gratitude toward whatever forces of nature or heaven were responsible for fulfilling this most fundamental yearning, he nevertheless felt a concentrated hollowness beneath his heart. He tried to fill this space with the language assigned to the presumptions of fatherhood, but no matter how solidly he attempted to pack the heavy void with simple words like pride and duty they seemed only to pass through the space, slip away, as if carried off by the coursing of his blood. What he felt along the circumference of the hollowness seemed more closely related to some sense of remorse—a nameless, illogical sorrow for having forced this child into a world that he himself had not yet mastered.
