Railroad Page 4

‘Well, that’s right, sir. But all this Dred Scott business is unsettling the dollar, isn’t it, and it hardly buys a decent meal these days.’

  Collis’s father stared at his son apoplectically. He spoke in a whispering hiss, so that his mother wouldn’t hear. ‘You dare to ask me for more money because the Supreme Court has done what it should have done years ago, and said that a slave’s a slave, and always will be? You dare to invoke the name of that darky Dred Scott to panhandle me for more allowance? You’re more than flesh and blood can possibly stand!’

  From within the drawing-room came a high, imperious voice. ‘Is that you, Makepeace? Why are you muttering so?Come in, for pity’s sake.’

  Collis’s father jerked up his head as if somebody had tugged his shirt-tail. ‘Yes, my dear, I’m coming!’ he called, reaching into his coat and handing Collis eighty-five dollars in paper and silver. ‘Dred Scott,’ he said under his breath, as he opened the doors and went in for his tea. Collis counted the money, then pushed it into the slant-cut pocket of his grey coat.

  His mother was waiting. She did not like to wait. She was sitting upright in her accustomed chair, a stiff Louis XIV piece of exquisite fluted lines but uncompromising rigidity, her jewelled and liver-spotted hands clasped in her lap, her long neck elevated like that of an inquiring egret, her hooped skirt of coffee-coloured silks spread around her as if it were a voluminous nest on which she was hatching eggs. It was late in the year for her to have remained in the city; usually she was out in the country by now, at their farm upstate. But there had been two late parties which she had wanted to attend, and a long-running scandal which she could hardly bear to leave until fall.

  ‘You must not mutter outside the door, Makepeace,’ she said, pulling the crimson cord for the servants. ‘It irritates.’

  Makepeace flapped up his tails and sat down opposite her, in a rococo chair with a padded tapestry seat. ‘No more irritating for you, my dear, than it was for me. Collis insisted on having a political argument in the hallway which I did not wish to bring past the door.’

  Ida Edmonds peered severely at her only son, who was still standing, one hand resting on the crochet cover of the grand piano. He bowed a fraction, smiled, and said: ‘Mother.’ Then he went across to the gilded mirror on the opposite wall and adjusted his flamboyant grey silk necktie. She followed him with her eyes as if he had brought in something offensive on his shoe.

  There was an awkward silence, but then Ida was at home with awkward silences. She thrived on the discomfiture of others, and to that end she sang in church in a high, relentless screech; gave dinner parties of crushing formality, at which the faces of the guests were usually as doleful as those of the trout; decorated the family home as if it were the Palace of Versailles, with ormolu clocks and bulging commodes and tapestry-draped tester beds and things that tinkled and chimed and whirred; and most of all held domineering court in her drawing-room, either to her fluttering lady friends in New York society, or to bored politicians, or to the occasional waxen-faced young men who came to court Maude, her daughter, and who had to sit drinking tepid tea and listening to a numbing litany of Maude’s mother’s virtues. ‘Gaze upon the mother today,’ she used to say, arching her neck, ‘and you will see how the girl may flower.’

  Makepeace had met Ida in Boston, at one of the Shottons’ parties at Louisburg Square, in 1827, in the days when he was trying to make his fortune as a wholesaler of lobster, and as a financier of fishing fleets. She was the eighth (though not the last) daughter of a Nantucket shipping family, haughty Episcopalians, and she stood an inch taller than Makepeace and had the imperious Roman-nosed face of a daughter of the Revolution. She had demanded that he waltz with her all evening, and by the spring of 1828, to his genuine surprise, they were married.

  On the invitation of a friend of Ida’s father’s, Makepeace liquidated his fishing interests in Boston and joined a merchant bank on Wall Street, I. P. Wolmer’s. The Edmondses then bought a massive granite-faced townhouse and while Makepeace settled down to make money, Ida settled down to socialising and child-bearing. In 1832, during a hot August of cholera and dust and garbage in the streets, Collis was born, and while he lay red-faced and wrapped in baby blue in his crib, coal fires were kept constantly alight in his room to cleanse it of possible disease.

  Makepeace’s bank survived the Panic of 1837 with scarcely a tremble, and prospered. The Edmondses became friends with Philip Hone, the mayor; with Albert Gallatin, the Secretary of the Treasury; and with William Douglass and his daughters; and although they were never socially celestial, they were, at the very least, doughty and indispensable. It would have been unthinkable to hold a déjeuner à la fourchette without asking Ida.

  Meanwhile little Collis was hardly an asset to the Edmondses’ social aspirations. He was a tyrannical baby, crying for hours for no obvious reason, and a worse toddler. They hired a private tutor and a governess, but his pranks wore both of these worthy people down, and they resigned. They sent him to Colonel Wagstaff’s Military Academy on St John’s Park until he was ten years old, but he never buttoned up his tunic properly and never kept his boots clean, and on the academy’s Fourth of July parade (twenty little toy soldiers strutting around the gardens with wooden rifles for the delight of their overindulgent parents) Collis wore a face of thunder and marched resolutely out of step. At the Lincoln Academy, in his adolescent years, he did no better, and played truant three or four times each month. By the time he was seventeen, his parents had despaired of him. Ida declared that he was ‘God’s most obstreperous creature’, and Makepeace, to keep him occupied, took him into the bank.

  With his own salary, and a substantial allowance to supplement it, Collis began to explore all the temptations that New York could offer him. He went to concert saloons along Broadway and drank beer and whisky until he was sick. With a crowd of young dogs from similarly wealthy families, he visited brothels on Greene Street and Mercer Street, losing his virginity the day before his eighteenth birthday to one of the ‘noctivagous strumpetocracy’, a hazel-eyed, well-endowed Czech girl with an extraordinary accent. He became a Broadway dandy himself, gambling on the slightest whim, smoking long cheroots, drinking at the Gem Saloon on Broadway and Worth Street, and having himself regularly shaved and barbered at Phalon’s hair-cutting establishment. On the weekends, he cantered his dappled pony. Dollar, up the soft earth verges of Third Avenue, sometimes as far uptown as Fifty-seventh Street, where he would sit for a while and talk to his friends and look out over the shantytowns and rocky hills of northern Manhattan, and then he would race back downtown, sometimes tickling the horses of the street railroads with his crop for the fun of frightening the passengers. Later, he would change and take lunch at the Union Club, the only premises on which Makepeace had ever known him to behave.

  ‘You must not persist in contradicting your father, Collis,’ Ida said, stretching her neck. ‘You know nothing of politics, and still less about finance. It is your own fault. You have thrown everything that I gave you to the wild winds, without a hint of gratitude.’

  ‘Yes, Mother,’ said Collis, turning around and tugging his cuffs straight. He smiled at her benignly, mainly because he knew that she couldn’t abide being smiled at when she was in one of her matriarchal moods, but also because he found it hard to take her seriously.

  Ida pulled a sour face, and a kind of shiver ran down her neck, but she said nothing. Instead, she pulled the cord for the servants, and within a moment or two, Lettice and Margaret appeared with silver birdcage trays set with silver teapots and Minton cups, and plates of hot raisin buns covered with fresh linen napkins. Lettice, a stout girl with red cheeks and a rolling gait like a cowboy, poured out tea and handed around the cups.

  ‘I wanted you here, Collis, for a special reason,’ said Ida at length, setting down her tea.

  ‘Oh?’ Collis glanced up at his father and saw at once that his father knew what was coming. Whatever his mother wanted to say, they must have discussed it last night, befo
re retiring to their separate bedrooms. His father coughed and almost choked on a raisin.

  ‘I believe it is high time that you sought a bride,’ Ida announced. ‘Your father and I have talked the matter over at some length, and we are both of the opinion that a good woman may do something to curb your behaviour and rehabilitate you into a useful and respectable member of the polite society.’

  ‘A bride?’ asked Collis, incredulously.

  ‘There would be incentives,’ put in his father.

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘The incentive of the constant love of a well-brought-up young lady, for one,’ answered Ida, in acid tones. ‘The incentive of being socially acceptable, for another.’

  ‘I’m perfectly acceptable,’ declared Collis. ‘In fact, I’m so acceptable that I’m almost growing impatient with myself. Even A. T. Stewart can’t get into the Union Club, for all his wonderful department store, and now they want to make me a member of the Yacht Club, too.’

  Ida touched her brow with her fingertips as if much more of this conversation would give her a headache. Then she said quietly, ‘Whether you want to take this seriously or not, the fact remains that one day, and the sooner the better, you must learn to cope for yourself. New York has enough idlers, enough half-pay officers, enough rich bachelors, and enough waiters on Providence. It is no longer fashionable to behave like a mad dog, Collis, if it ever was. And your first step must be to marry.’

  ‘Is it impossible to be a respectable bachelor?’ asked Collis.

  There was a silence. The afternoon sunshine suddenly faded from the red-and-blue curlicued carpet, from the gilded occasional tables with their marble tops and their lion’s-claw feet, from the tapestry tuffets and sideboards, and from the tall mournful mirrors with their gas brackets and reflected vases of dried flowers. Although it was summer, Ida did not believe in letting the common air of the street into her home, and the room was stagnant and still.

  ‘It appears to be impossible for you,’ Ida said, at length. ‘Although you make no mention of it, I have understood for some years that you have been a frequenter of certain types of house off Broadway, and even of casual women who walk the streets. I must confess it makes me ill even to speak of it.’

  Makepeace leaned forward in his chair. ‘Collis,’ he said, softly but earnestly, ‘we are making a considerable effort on your behalf. I will go so far as to say that if you marry by the spring, I will buy you a house as a wedding gift. There are lots for sale on Park Avenue, at Thirty-sixth Street, and if you say the word I shall bid for one.’

  Collis made a steeple of his fingers. ‘That’s your incentive, is it?’

  ‘That, and I shall consider taking you back into the bank.’

  ‘So what’s the catch? Surely marriage alone won’t be enough to satisfy you. I might marry one of the casual women of the streets, and then where would we be?’

  Ida made a faint sound like a church hassock being knelt upon by someone stout.

  ‘There’s no catch at all,’ said Collis’s father, keeping his voice and his temper under reasonable control. There were bun crumbs in his whiskers. ‘All I would say is that we have already made some preliminary inquiries of the young lady in question.’

  Collis stared at him, then at his mother.

  ‘You’ve already selected my bride?’

  Makepeace flushed slightly.

  ‘You’ve already gone out, like two drovers, and roped me in a cow?’

  ‘She is not a cow!’ Ida said breathlessly. ‘She does not resemble a cow in the slightest!’

  ‘We considered it best,’ Makepeace added. ‘Since your behaviour didn’t appear to be conducive to choosing a respectable young lady by yourself, we took the liberty of doing it for you. And, I must say, she is quite charming.’

  Collis buried his face in his hands for a few moments, then let out a loud smothered laugh, sitting up straight in his chair.

  ‘What wonderful parents!’ he told them, looking from Ida to Makepeace and back again. ‘All my life you have begrudged me affection and understanding, and now, without warning, you are conscientiously taking it upon yourselves to direct the future course of my personal happiness.’

  Ida, with hooded eyes, glared back at her son in displeasure. ‘You will not lower yourself by employing such cheap sarcasm,’ she said. ‘It offends.’

  ‘Haven’t you considered that your interference into my personal affairs also offends? Haven’t you considered that I might care to choose a bride of my own? A girl I love, and actually know?’

  ‘Collis!’ bellowed his father. ‘This is quite enough!’

  He realised how loudly he’d shouted, and was flustered for a second, knowing that the servants would be listening raptly at the doors; but then he raised his whiskery face and glared at Collis with his one controllable eye.

  ‘The girl I wish you to marry is Delphine Spooner.’

  ‘Delphine Spooner? Four feet eleven, with arms like salamis?’

  ‘Don’t be so damned impertinent! I wish you to marry her!’ snapped Makepeace. ‘I wish it!’

  Collis stared at his father, and then his mother, and stood up. ‘Sir,’ he said to his father, ‘I find you transparent. I know what Delphine Spooner is, and that is the daughter of George Spooner, of the Ohio Life and Mutual Trust Company. I also happen to know that you have been trying for nearly six months to ally your own interests with those of Ohio Life.’

  Makepeace’s moustaches twitched. ‘What of it?’ he demanded.

  ‘What of it?’ said Collis. ‘I’ll tell you what of it! I refuse to be married off to an ugly dumpling for the convenience of your business and for the preservation of Mother’s social sensitivities! Not for a hundred partnerships in your seedy bank, and not for all the vacant lots of any avenue you care to mention! As for you, Mother! “The constant love of a well-brought-up young lady, indeed!” All you ever think about, my dear, is your constant love of yourself!’

  Makepeace jumped to his feet, all five feet four of him. ‘Apologise!’ he roared. ‘Apologise, or so help me I’ll pay you one penny and kick you out in the street!’

  Collis stood there rigidly, his jaw clenched tight and his fingers digging into the palms of his hands. His mother was white, white as her Brussels lace cap or the globes of the gaslights. His father’s furious panting was the only sound in the room, apart from the chatty ticking of a gilded clock.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Collis said eventually. ‘I lost my temper. That was unforgivable. Please accept my apologies.’

  Ida patted at her eyes with her handkerchief, as if she had been mortally grieved.

  ‘I suggest you withdraw to your rooms, Collis, and think about what we’ve discussed,’ Makepeace said. ‘I also suggest that you consider your future carefully, because if you fail to marry, I shall have to withdraw your allowances. I am not prepared to keep you for very much longer, especially in the style in which you care to live.’

  Collis looked at him. ‘I see,’ he replied gently.

  ‘I trust you do. Now, I think it best if you leave your mother and myself alone.’

  Collis gave his mother a small bow and nodded to his father. Then he quickly crossed the room, opening the double doors so smartly that he surprised Lettice and Margaret in the middle of their eavesdropping. Both girls stared at him as he passed by and strode along the hallway to the stairs. His face was engraved with anger.

  It was later that evening, not long before he went out, that his father came to his rooms and they talked, fatefully, of lobsters.

  Collis had three rooms on the second floor of the house, facing south. One was a bedroom, with a carved light-oak bed, and pale-blue wallpaper. The second was a private bathroom, with a white enamelled tub in a walnut surround, a marble washbasin, and a tubular shower, one of three recently installed and connected to the Croton Reservoir, despite Ida’s initial fears that the water was teeming with tadpoles and that after she had bathed in it bullfrogs would grow in her womb. The third room was a
study of sorts, with a leather settee, and a leather armchair, and a writing desk, and it was here that Collis was sitting, in his black vest and shirtsleeves, idly smoking and reading a copy of the Evening Post, when his father knocked and diffidently stepped in through the door.

  ‘Collis,’ he said in his hoarse voice.

  Collis turned the page of his newspaper. The smoke from his cheroot rose lazily up to the gas-light, and then swirled around in the heat from the incandescent mantles.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. I’m just going out for the evening. Urgent appointments.’

  Makepeace came across the room and stood over his son, his hands on his hips. He was wearing a blue silk smoking robe, tied around his portly waist, and a matching blue silk hat, like a fez, with a black tassel dangling from it. It was going to be an evening at home, playing checkers with Maude, and listening to Ida’s ceaseless tides of self-exaltation.

  ‘Collis, in spite of our disagreements, I want you to know that I still regard you fondly.’

  Collis looked up. His father smelled slightly of brandy, and he suspected that the old man must have had a quiet nip before coming upstairs. ‘Did Mother send you?’ he asked.

  A muscle tightened in his father’s whiskery cheek. Then Makepeace shook his head and said indistinctly, ‘No.’

  ‘Why don’t you sit down?’ asked Collis. ‘It’s your house, after all. I’m just the temporary lodger.’

  ‘You mustn’t take it to heart, Collis.’

  ‘Why not? It appears that my tenancy lasts only as long as my willingness to marry a short fat girl, and what else does that make me, if not a lodger?’

  Makepeace sat heavily down in the leather armchair and regarded his son with what Collis could see was a considerable measure of sadness. It was nine o’clock now, and it was growing dusky outside, and Makepeace was tired after his day on Wall Street, and less inclined to bluster. He took off his blue fez. The gaslight gleamed on his bald patch, and shadows masked his eyes.

  ‘I suppose you think I’m an unscrupulous old man,’ he said.