—What is it you are not telling me, son?
—Nothing, papa!
Another few seconds of that frightful gaze upon him, and poor Julius wished only to be lifted bodily by a team of angels and spirited off to some remote place. Then Noah pushed back his chair, rose to his feet and, plucking the starched white napkin from his throat, flung it onto the table. Still regarding Julius, with an expression now of hurt, as though the boy had insulted him, he left the room.
No sooner had the door closed than Julius burst into tears and laid his head on his arms on the table. His sisters rushed to him and with their arms about his heaving shoulders begged him not to cry, it was all right, everything was all right—
—It’s not all right! cried Julius, lifting his head and turning to them, and as he did so the last of the evening sunlight fell full upon him, and his cheeks shone with tears, his hair gleamed like gold.
—It’s not all right, he said more quietly, but with a desperate throb of sorrow in his voice. I have told papa a lie!
—Not a lie, said Hester, stroking his head.
—I must tell him about her, he whispered, his damp eyes fierce now.
—Not yet, I beg you, dear brother.
I think this may have been the first time Julius properly understood the necessity of behaving in the world with less than utter transparency. Never before had he had to conceal his feelings, though I remind myself of what he must surely have concealed as a small boy, when his papa had beaten him until he bled.
Noah meanwhile sat in his library upstairs and pondered what had just occurred. There are versions of Julius’ story in which Noah assumes the appearance of a one-dimensional figure whose sole function it was to punish and constrict, but I am not so sure. I believe he had come to regard with deep remorse the man he had once been, and recognized that his own grief and loneliness after the death of his wife were responsible for the rage which was discharged at Julius; or even, in his blindness, that he had blamed Julius for the death of his wife. And the fact that the boy had grown up with no apparent residue of bitterness disturbed him now, for he was too honest with himself to believe that his violence had had no consequence.
All this I imagine going on behind the grimly frowning façade of the bearded man who padded about the large house on Waverley Place during the fraught summer of 1859. Nor could he take any comfort from his daughters. He knew them to be entirely partial to Julius, and none of them wise enough quietly to seek their father’s counsel save, perhaps, Charlotte. But Charlotte lived now with her husband, with Rinder, and was only rarely in the house on Waverley Place. So Noah decided that he would try to find common ground with his son without Charlotte’s mediation, and break down the barrier of silence which had arisen between them. After dinner one evening he asked Julius to walk with him in Washington Square while he smoked a cigar.
This was a pleasure Noah had for many years indulged during the summer months, although perhaps pleasure is not the right word. For those strolls around Washington Square had once been taken in the company of his wife, and very delightful it must have been, I am sure, for this driven man to speak quietly of his day and be assured of an intelligent feminine sympathy. But since Ann’s death the evening stroll had become a thing of sorrow and nostalgia, and beneath those ancient sycamores he often allowed his grief to rise to the surface, and the occasional fugitive tear to fall—“nor did all the Pacific contain such wealth as that one wee drop,” as Herman Melville had written a few years earlier about another troubled American. When Noah returned to the house and put his key in the front door, he was not at peace, as once he had been, but was, rather, almost overwhelmed at the loss of the woman who had once brought meaning to all he did.
So one evening he took Julius with him. The boy was nervous, of course. For almost two weeks he had been trying to conceal from his father the fact that he was in love, and the strain was acute. He longed to burst forth with all he felt, pour it out and lay it before him, have his father nod and grunt and then perhaps say something wise, as had so often happened in his childhood after the dreadful early years. How important his papa’s sympathy had been to Julius! And now he had deprived himself of it. How he longed to make things right and clear between them once more, but had not his sisters warned him that his father would forbid him to see Annie Kelly, should he come to hear of their friendship?
It was a sultry evening early in July. They left the house together and were watched from the parlor window by Hester and Sarah, who of course understood the implications of this walk in Washington Square. Noah paused on the sidewalk as was his habit, and took some moments to light his cigar. He considered talking to Julius about Havana, where he had just opened an office. But on reflection he decided that silence would more quickly loose the stream of the boy’s mind.
And so they walked in silence, and as his father expected, Julius soon became agitated, and then could hold back no longer.
—Father.
Noah inclined his head. The heat of the day had passed off a couple of hours before, and the warmth of the evening was pleasant, the air thick with the fragrance of foliage and flowers, and as they followed the path around the square they bowed to other well-to-do New Yorkers who had come out of houses not unlike their own to enjoy the evening.
—Father, is it ever wrong to love?
Familiar though he was with the naivety of his son, Noah could not restrain a bark of laughter.
—Is it wrong? How could it be wrong to love? he said.
Then all at once Noah understood that he had given away the first point in the game by admitting the absolute value of love. Poor Julius, he did not even know he was playing a game, nor that he had seized the advantage effortlessly by failing to employ a stratagem. He agreed with some alacrity that no, of course it could not be wrong to love, how could it be? And more in this vein. When his outburst was over his father allowed a few seconds of silence and then spoke again.
—And who is it you love, son? You love your sisters, I know. I may hope you love your father.
Now this was a stratagem. Julius at once plunged into the trap.
—Of course I do, papa, but this is not the same.
—What is not the same?
There. They were at the crux of the thing already.
—Why, it is different!
—That is surely what we mean by “not the same,” said Noah, dryly.
Julius made an inarticulate sound. He was encouraged. He could hold it back no longer.
—I love a girl, papa!
—Ah. That is different.
—It is different, papa!
—To love a girl is certainly different from loving your sisters.
—It is not the same at all, papa!
—I think we have established it. Who is she?
This was the moment, the boy knew, about which his sisters had warned him.
—You will be angry with me.
—But why?
—Her name is Annie Kelly.
Here was the first realization on Noah van Horn’s part that Julius had not chosen a girl of his own class. He knew no Kellys. He did not doubt, however, that the human cargo of the Atlantic packets, discharged daily at the southern tip of the island, contained many a Kelly.
—And what do her people do, son?
—Her mother keeps a boarding-house on Nassau Street.
Another silence, as father and son turned at the end of the square. The father walked slowly with his hands behind his back, his head lowered, the cigar between his teeth. Julius, beside him, seemed all arms and legs, his face alive with shifting emotions, now biting his lip in acute agitation, now grinning at the branches overhead. He twisted like a fish on a line which leaps from the water when the line is jerked.
—I should like to meet her. Will you bring her to the house?
Would he? For this his sisters had not prepared him. He was alarmed but did not know why. He had no guile and he could think of no reason to refuse his father
. But all the same it was, I am sure, with some anxiety, some foreboding, even, that he agreed to bring Annie Kelly to the house. They walked home in silence. When they reached the front door Noah turned to his son. He saw how impressionable the boy was, how innocent. How gullible. He was aware of a distinct surge of anger, its object the Kelly women. He grew cold. He would crush them if he had to. But he showed Julius nothing of this. He opened the front door and ushered his son into the warm gloom of the hall. Julius’ sisters appeared in the parlor doorway.
—Here he is, said Noah. You may have him back now.
It had become Julius’ habit after the life class to wait for Annie under an awning on the south side of Tenth Street, and sometimes they would wander downtown together, or perhaps take a horse-car, pausing in City Hall Park to sit by the Croton Fountain before Annie went to her chores in the boarding-house. I believe Annie had no delusions about her feelings for Julius. He was far less worldly than she was but he amused her, this laughing boy, and with him she could shed her tough skin. He was like a brother, and she was, I think, genuinely fond of him. One day shortly after his conversation with his father she saw him waiting for her as usual and ran across the street to him, heedless of the cry of a cartman high on a wagon piled with barrels. She pushed back the brim of his hat and pulled loose his cravat. Their affection for each other was largely expressed in pullings and pushings, little kicks and slaps and such. Julius being a transparent youth, that day his mood was evident in the pull of his mouth, the sag of his shoulders, his whole sorry aspect.
—What is it? cried Annie. You are ill!
He shook his head, and as they set off along the street she turned toward him, concerned to discover what ailed her friend.
—What did he say to you? she said.
He did not have to ask her who she meant. “He” was always Jerome Brook Franklin.
—He did not say anything to me, said Julius.
—What then? Tell me!
She was fierce and urgent, clutching his arm as he shambled along the street, people surging past them, all in far too much of a hurry to take in the spectacle of this tall disheveled youth and the lovely girl hanging onto his arm and peering into his face, demanding that he tell her what was wrong.
—Tell me, Julius, or I shall cry!
The effect was immediate. Oh, but to make her cry—! Julius was horrified. He stopped dead and stared at her. The crowds streaming along the sidewalk now began to take notice of them, for they had become an obstacle and had to be steered round.
—No, don’t cry!
—Then tell me.
So he told her that his father wanted him to bring her to the house.
—To the house?
She thought about this a moment.
—Well, why not? she said.
Bold girl, she did not think the prospect so bad. She wanted to meet his father, she said, and his sisters too. Why should she not? What had she to fear? Julius said he did not know.
—Then why so blue?
Then he told her that Charlotte had said that their father would try to break up their friendship. Annie was indignant. Why would he want to do that? she said, though I think she knew the answer. They walked on in silence and turned down Broadway. They became aware of the roar of the great thoroughfare.
—I don’t know, said Julius at last.
—Then stop it. It will be alright. Never mind what Charlotte says.
This was new. It had not occurred to Julius to never mind what Charlotte said, and the idea that Annie might possess an authority equal to his sister’s came upon him with some force. Always he had deferred to Charlotte, assuming in her a wisdom he would never possess. To think that Annie Kelly also partook of that mysterious female knowledge, and that he could turn to her now—to Julius this had the impact of divine revelation. In that instant he abandoned all dread at the prospect of her coming to the house. He remembered his father’s affection, and knew that papa would see what he, Julius, saw in her. Charlotte was wrong! He said this to Annie, but now the girl would say not a word against this sister she had not yet met.
I have given some thought to Annie Kelly’s reaction to this proposed meeting with Julius’ father. There are those who believe that the girl was motivated simply by avarice, and recognized in the invitation an opportunity to move closer to what really interested her, that is, the van Horn money. But I do not think she was so mercenary as that. I believe she was simply curious, and thought she had nothing to lose. She may have wondered idly whether something to her advantage would come of it, but I do not think she had any sort of a plan. It would be wrong to be too cynical about the girl.
The sisters greeted her at the front door. It seems they took a liking to each other at once, and if Annie had started to feel at all apprehensive about the evening, her worries were quickly put to rest. The three girls hurried her into their parlor and made her welcome. They hung up her bonnet and admired her dress, a homemade garment of green velvet. Charlotte sat with her on the little sofa by the window, and as Annie looked about her, impressed by all the books and paintings, and the open piano with pages of music loosely stacked on top, she gave her a cigarette.
—You smoke, of course, she said.
—Charlotte says we must all smoke, cried Sarah, but you don’t have to!
Worldly though she was, Annie had never smoked a cigarette, but it seemed a good time to start. Hester and Sarah clapped with delight as she took her first puff and of course spluttered and coughed and turned red in the face.
—It isn’t easy, said Charlotte. You must practise.
—It’s horrid! shouted Hester. You see, Charlotte, she hates it!
—I don’t hate it, said Annie, recovering, but I have not the gift.
But she tried again, with more success.
—Charlotte told Julius he may not join us, said Sarah, because we wanted to have you to ourselves. Do you mind?
—I do not, said Annie. It’s nice, us all girls together. Is it your own room?
—We sometimes allow Julius in here, said Charlotte, if we want to be entertained.
—Well, he’s a grand entertainer, said Annie—and so it went on. Soon they were asking her the question uppermost in their minds, which was how she could go in front of men without any clothes on, and she told them she was sure that God didn’t object, for hadn’t He made her body in the first place?
—But you mustn’t tell father, said Hester, because he wouldn’t understand.
—What am I to say then? said Annie.
—Say nothing, said Charlotte, and I will do the talking.
A little later there came a knock at the door.
—Go away, Julius, they shouted, and hooted with laughter. But he came in anyway, wreathed in large grins because his sisters approved of his friend. By the time they heard the dinner gong they were all quite delighted with one another.
They passed into the hall. Coming down the stairs from his library was Noah, dressed for dinner, and behind him came Rinder. Both men paused, and Annie gazed up at them. The hilarity which had followed them out of the parlor dissipated. Noah was grave. Not for a moment did he betray his feelings. He already disapproved of her, in a sense he feared her. It was impossible for him to think of a girl called Kelly without the taint of her race upon her, and in the New York of those days that taint bespoke lives of squalor and drunkenness in the crowded tenements of the Points and the Hook. This was the burden of prejudice with which Noah regarded his son’s friend from the staircase of his home that evening, and her slim, straight figure and flawless skin served only to sharpen his suspicion, for now he understood that the threat she posed was greater than he had first imagined.
He continued down the staircase and gave the girl his hand. Annie showed proper respect, the father’s stiff formality being exactly what she expected of a man of his station, and as the sisters filled the air with chatter so as to steer them through the first fraught phase of the encounter she took Noah’s proffered arm
and together they walked into the dining room. Julius grinned at the ceiling and bit his lip, and as for Rinder, he had given little thought to this Irish girl whom Charlotte was so eager to meet. But all that changed when he saw the girl. For he was at once strongly attracted to her, and for the rest of the evening kept a furtive eye on her.
Noah showed nothing of his feelings. He was surprised to discover that the girl was not frightened of him, and found himself after a while feeling almost affectionate toward her. In other circumstances he might have made much of her, for she lacked what he regarded as the peculiar foolishness of his own sheltered daughters. At one point he scanned the table and realized that other than himself and Rinder she was the only real adult present, for even Charlotte knew little more than theaters and picture galleries and drawing rooms. But he knew that her confidence came of a greater level of contact with men, and this disturbed him. He did not know that the girl modeled for artists but he sensed her lack of proper feminine modesty. No, she would not do, not for his son, and it was with some distaste that he recognized how unpleasant it was going to be to break the thing up. He did not want to hurt Julius but it could not go on, this he had known since the boy told him in Washington Square who she was. His touch would have to be sure and subtle, and he was irritated by the prospect.
None of which was apparent to his children. Was it apparent to Annie? I think not. I do not believe she had encountered a man like Noah van Horn before. She did not know how such men felt with regard to the assimilation into their established world of the immigrant masses. Noah employed Irishmen on his wharves, his ships, his building sites and in his warehouses, and while he knew many who were sober and industrious men, nonetheless he believed them at root to be a shiftless, dishonest people. He would employ them, but allow one of their women to draw close to his children, to befriend his daughters and walk out with his son—it must be stopped, and the sooner the better. None of this, as I say, was apparent to the young people who sat at his table that night, and when dinner ended and Noah retired once more to his library with Rinder, they decided with joy and relief that the thing had gone off splendidly.
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