In the staunch Miss Gibbens, William perceived the classic embodiment of the once-born soul, which he feared might never be able to empathize with the frailties and flights of his own. Just as Jesse James had vibrated sympathetically to the “unconformities” that he and “Miss Phoenix” had experienced in the course of their disrupted teen years, so William had come to consider his patient something of a soul mate by virtue of the breakdowns they had both suffered in their twenties. Less philosophically, he had been finding that he simply missed her—or, at the very least, his lively correspondence with her, around which he had come to shape his days while she was abroad.
As their eyes met across the parlor, Elena approached William with a twinge of trepidation. After all, she could not have been certain that Alice and Henry James had refrained from tattling to their older brother about her liaison with Gustave Flaubert. But neither of William’s siblings had seen fit to let that fraught cat out of the bag, if only because to have done so would have been to acknowledge an egregious lapse of oversight on their own parts. Thus, nothing in William’s expression or demeanor gave Elena the slightest suggestion of anything other than an unmitigated delight at beholding her.
“Bonsoir, cher docteur,” she said, smiling, daintily offering him her kid-gloved hand.
William took it and brought it to his lips with a courtly bow. “Enchanté, comme toujours, chère mademoiselle.”
The doctor and his former patient leaned toward each other, barely suppressing—or so it seemed to Pinkerton from his vantage point at the back of the room—a mutual inclination to fall into an embrace. But this unclinical urge, if it existed, was quickly squelched by Asa Hite, who stepped forward and clapped William heartily on the back. “Some shindig, eh, Bill?” he boomed, employing the monstrosity of nominal overfamiliarity with which he had taken the liberty of addressing his correspondent during their months of exchanging letters. William shuddered inwardly to hear it, but, having failed to nip the thing in the epistolary bud, he felt helplessly obliged to abide it spoken aloud.
“I’ll say, Asa!” he gamely returned.
Billy Pinkerton, who had left his post by the bullion chest to prowl his way through the crowd for a closer inspection of the suspect professor, caught the attention of Mr. Hite, who called the detective over to introduce him to his daughter and his favorite psychologist.
Elena and Pinkerton eyed each other warily, each fearing that the other might let slip some telltale intimation of their contentious prior acquaintance. But upon being informed that the young lady had recently returned from Paris, the detective made a mighty show of averring that he had never had the pleasure of visiting the storied French capital.
“Oh, you really must go sometime, Mr. Pinkerton,” Elena teased him gaily. “It’s such an intriguing city.”
“Yes, that’s what I hear.”
Mr. Hite then introduced William James, whom he presented to the detective as “the man of the hour.”
“To say nothing of being the most brilliant doctor!” Elena gushed.
“So your father has told me.”
“And did he tell you about Dr. James’s brother Henry? I had the pleasure of meeting him in Paris. He’s such a talented writer!” she prattled on, enjoying watching Pinkerton squirm. “They’re a most extraordinary family, really.”
“Exceptional, yes, so I gather,” the detective deadpanned. He shook William’s hand, noting the evil doctor’s grip to be unexpectedly firm for so slight and cerebral an individual.
“Seems to me you fellows are pretty much in the same game,” Mr. Hite ventured by way of establishing common conversational ground between the detective and the psychologist.
“Is that so?” replied William. “And what game might that be, Asa?”
“You know,” Hite answered, tapping a stubby finger to his temple with a conspiratorial wink. “The human mind and all that.”
Fixing William with a penetrating regard, Pinkerton remarked that his own investigations were focused exclusively on the criminal mind.
“Ah, fascinating. And what have you learned?” asked William.
“Not nearly so much as I’d like, Professor,” the detective replied, cagily appending, “Although I have observed that criminal proclivities often tend to run in families.”
William, having no reason to imagine that his interlocutor was cognizant of his relationship to the western Jameses, nor that he himself was an object of the detective’s darkest suspicions, breezily conceded that certain degenerate tendencies did indeed appear to be hereditary—like others, such as artistic talent and scientific genius—but at present the data were far from sufficient to disentangle the social from the biological threads of influence.
“And are those the sorts of experiments you’re proposing to conduct in this new laboratory of yours?” asked Pinkerton.
William gave a modest chuckle. “I’m afraid we’re a long way from being able to address such complex questions at the moment,” he explained. “What we’ll primarily be looking into are simple nervous responses in the so-called lower animals.”
“Well, some of the criminal animals I’ve been studying get pretty low,” Pinkerton commented wryly. “And sometimes mighty nervous, too.”
William responded to the detective’s gibe with such a natural-sounding chortle that Pinkerton was forced to conclude that if the psychologist was also a master criminal, he was certainly one smooth customer.
“Now, I’m sure you boys could jabber on about this all evening,” Mr. Hite broke in, laying a fleshy hand on William’s shoulder, “but what say we go pay our respects to the high muck-a-muck?”
William begged his leave of the detective, assuring him what a pleasure it had been to make his acquaintance, then dutifully escorted the guest of honor and his daughter off toward the center of the parlor, where President Eliot and his wife were surrounded by a gaggle of guests, among them Mrs. Agassiz and her stepson, Alexander. As they crossed the room, the psychologist took the precaution of warning Elena about Eliot’s disfigurement, yet she was nonetheless startled by her initial view of the president’s furious red splotch, which, as she whispered to William, would thenceforth be forever conflated in her mind with the notion of “Harvard crimson.”
Upon greeting the Hites, Eliot referred to William James as “this proud son of Harvard” and pronounced the occasion “a splendid moment for the university, and for the advancement of human knowledge.”
“And shall Harvard someday also boast of its proud daughters?” Elena asked brightly.
Mrs. Agassiz, studying the forward younger woman with an attitude that was at once appalled, amused, and admiring, gave a mock-conspiratorial nod to Mrs. Eliot. “Oh, we’ve been hounding our poor President Eliot about that for years, Miss Hite,” she said, sighing theatrically.
“All in good time, ladies. All in good time,” Eliot responded with a hint of pique and an apologetic glance toward Asa Hite. “But this evening, let us not forget, we are gathered to celebrate a more immediately imminent milestone in our university’s history.”
“You bet!” concurred Mr. Hite, and as he and President Eliot launched into a volley of mutual congratulations, William offered Elena his arm and guided her off around the parlor to meet some of the other guests. The first they encountered was Alice Gibbens, to whom William introduced Elena as “the daughter of our generous benefactor, Mr. Asa Hite,” presenting Miss Gibbens as “my dear friend,” a designation that Alice greeted with a microscopic moue, apparently finding it insufficiently intimate to impress the special nature of their relationship upon the beautiful young woman draped on her near-fiancé’s arm, a woman whom she undoubtedly recognized, if only subconsciously, as a contender for his affections.
William must have found the contrast between the two women striking—and not merely according to the measure of how often each had been “born.” Alice Gibbens was decked out for the occasion in an ensemble comprising a somber brownish hoopskirt and a high-collared, ruffled b
eige silk blouse topped off by a broad grosgrain choker—a dowdy getup that did little either to obscure her stoutness or to evidence an even marginally keen sense of style. Indeed, William could hardly have conjured up a more vivid realization of his formulation of the drab brood hen and the dazzling bird of paradise than Alice and Elena standing face-to-face.
“Ah yes, Dr. James has spoken of you as the young lady who was recently traveling with his sister,” Miss Gibbens intoned with an overly brilliant smile. “I do hope that you’re feeling better now.”
“Oh, infinitely so, thank you,” Elena replied, scrutinizing her rival with an equally insincere exercise of her own facial musculature and insinuating her hand even more deeply into the crook of William’s elbow. “Dr. James knew just what I needed.”
“I daresay he must have,” Alice answered icily. “But of course one can never be too careful, can one?” she added. “I understand that it’s imperative for those in your condition to avoid becoming overly stimulated.”
“I shall certainly try my best,” Elena assured her with a brittle smile.
William was casting anxiously about the room for anyone or anything that might distract the two women from their increasingly sticky encounter. Succor, such as it would prove, arrived in the form of Jesse James, who, wielding a glass of punch in each hand with the same aplomb with which he had once toted a pair of six-shooters, came weaving his way toward them.
William seized upon his brother’s appearance as an opportunity to defuse the ladies’ potentially incendiary confrontation, ingenuously presenting Jesse as “my distinguished colleague Professor Robert Jessup.”
The outlaw was momentarily flummoxed, never having seen Elena so splendidly dolled up, and still laboring under the misapprehension that the young woman with whom he had shared such delightful intimacies the previous summer was named Elena Phoenix. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss …Hite?” he responded quizzically, addressing his remark as much to her half-exposed bosom as to her face.
Elena executed a crisp curtsy and a tight smile. “Likewise, I’m sure, Professor. And where, pray tell, might be the lovely Mrs. Jessup this evening?”
This, to William, must have seemed a strange and overly familiar query to be putting to a gentleman to whom one had just been introduced. (Perhaps he speculated that his patient wasn’t quite so far out of the psychiatric woods as he had been encouraged to believe.) He looked askance at Elena, who responded with an inscrutable smirk.
“I’m afraid that my wife is presently indisposed,” Jesse replied coolly. Then, directing a nod over at Henry James, who was skulking about the sideboard stuffing his face with a slice of mince pie, the outlaw mischievously said, “As I was just informing your husband.”
Elena was astonished to discover Henry among the company. Knowing nothing of the violent episode in the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, she had assumed that after cleansing Paris of her embarrassing presence, he would have been content to have remained there forever, keeping Flaubert and the entire city to himself. Henry sensed the knot of curious guests gazing over at him and, not wanting to draw any further attention to himself, gave them an anemic bow and turned back to the buffet table, with Elena glowering sourly after him.
“I wasn’t aware that Miss Hite had a husband,” Alice Gibbens interjected tartly. “Or have I been misinformed, dear?”
“Not at all,” Elena replied. “I fear that it’s Professor Jessup who is misinformed. Perhaps he’s confusing me with some other Elena of his acquaintance. After all, having a spouse is hardly something one simply forgets, now, is it? Why, that would be virtually criminal.”
It was apparent to William James that his quondam patient was amusing herself immensely with these arch remarks, although he was utterly perplexed by what they all meant. He had been prepared, naturally, to negotiate the necessary deceptions surrounding the identities of Frank and Jesse that evening; but in the face of all these odd looks and veiled references, he could only have been experiencing a disquieting sense of having become enmeshed in a far denser web of dissimulation than he had bargained for. Mercifully, the thickening tension was broken by President Eliot, who tinkled a wineglass to obtain the attention of the company. After offering a few perfunctory words of greeting, this unlikely master of the revels announced: “We have a sterling program of entertainment this evening, commencing with Professors Francis Child and Will Franklin, who will grace us with a selection of the old ballads that Professor Child has been so assiduously collecting.”
To a polite pitter-patter of applause, Professors Child and Franklin took their places in front of the grand piano and announced their opening number. Of the 305 ballads and their variants in Francis Child’s collection, an impressive thirty-eight of them were devoted to the exploits of Robin Hood and his merry men, vastly more than to any other subject. The specimen with which Will Franklin and Francis Child chose to kick off their serenade to the assembled academics was the one known as Child Ballad no. 136, “Robin Hood’s Delight.” “Stubby” Child’s quavering tenor and Will Franklin’s light baritone blended in pleasant close harmonies as they sang:
There is some will talk of lord and knights,
Doun a doun a doun a doun
And some of yeoman good,
But I will tell you of Will Scarlock,
Little John and Robin Hood.
Doun a doun a doun a doun
They were outlaws, as ’tis well known,
And men of a noble blood;
And many a time was their valour shown
In the forrest of merry Sheerwood….
Billy Pinkerton, happily tapping his toes to the ancient air, failed to recognize the younger vocalist as the notorious Frank James. The only visual record he had of the bandit was the Civil War–era tintype he had laid out on the hotel bed in St. Louis for Elena to peruse, an image to which the wiry troubadour by the piano no longer bore much of a resemblance. Thus the irony of the infamous Missouri outlaw musically apotheosizing a fellow fabled miscreant was entirely lost upon the detective, as it was upon practically everyone else in the room, with the notable exceptions of Jesse and Henry James. Had Pinkerton been paying closer attention, he would have observed Professor Jessup sidling over to his furtive brother to share the joke. At first Jesse was all wry smiles, but his demeanor abruptly darkened when Henry surreptitiously pointed out the presence of the detective in the back of the room. At the sight of his archenemy, the outlaw’s steel-blue eyes narrowed to reptilian slits, his jaw tightened, and he scowled into his tumbler of punch, which he aggressively downed in a single swig. William James and Elena Hite—the only other individuals in the room who might have appreciated the sardonic aptness of Frank’s song selection—were far too deeply engrossed in each other to take much notice of the background music to their increasingly immoderate flirtation. With their arms still intertwined, they drifted moonily off to the fringes of the parlor, exchanging reminiscences of their earlier psychiatric encounters and the prolific international correspondence those consultations had spawned.
Back at the piano, Will Franklin and Professor Child now moved on to a rendition of the “A” variant of Child Ballad no. 74, “Fair Margaret and Sweet William,” a tragic tale of star-crossed lovers:
As it fell out on a long summer’s day,
Two lovers they sat on a hill;
They sat together that long summer’s day,
And could not talk their fill.
“I see no harm by you, Margaret,
Nor you see none by me;
Before tomorrow eight a clock
A rich wedding shall you see.”
Fair Margaret sat in her bower-window,
A-combing of her hair,
And there she spy’d Sweet William and his bride,
As they were riding near.
Down she layd her ivory comb,
And up she bound her hair;
She went her way forth of her bower,
But never more did come there.
>
When day was gone, and night was come,
And all men fast asleep,
Then came the spirit of Fair Margaret,
And stood at William’s feet.
“God give you joy, you two true lovers,
In bride-bed fast asleep;
Loe I am going to my green grass grave,
And am in my winding-sheet….”
Despite its archaic diction and convoluted syntax, the hoary medieval folk song still had the power to move even a gathering of sophisticated nineteenth-century academics. The familiar rose-and-briar ending of the tune was greeted by a poignant hush, followed by an enthusiastic round of applause; but as he and Francis Child left the piano, Frank was immediately accosted by a highly agitated Professor Jessup, who urgently pulled him aside to alert him to the presence of William Pinkerton at the back of the parlor. Frank, still basking in the approbation of the audience (which he later reported having found “so much sweeter than being blasted away at by an angry lynch mob”), was initially slow to apprehend the full implication of his brother’s admonition, until Jesse reminded him that the trial of the Youngers out in Minnesota had recently concluded with Cole, Bob, and Jim pleading guilty to all charges and receiving life sentences in the state penitentiary at Stillwater rather than the trips to the gallows that most observers believed should have been their due. Who was to say, Jesse asked, what sort of secret deal their former comrades may have cut with the authorities in order to spare their own precious hides, perhaps even having gone so far as to finger Frank as the triggerman in Joseph Heywood’s murder? And while the crowd was turning its attention to President Eliot’s introduction of the next performer on the program—Miss Alice Gibbens—Jesse, who, even as Professor Jessup, never ventured out without packing at least two pistols on his person and a bowie knife strapped to his calf, stealthily handed off one of his guns to his brother before returning to his station by the punch bowl. Though Frank was in no frame of mind to be dragged back into the vicissitudes of his outlaw past, the prospect of being collared by Pinkerton and hauled in to face charges of killing the Northfield bookkeeper must have served as a powerful incentive for him to accept Jesse’s weapon and all that went with it. He reluctantly pocketed the pistol.
The James Boys Page 24
