Ceremony of the Innocent (27 page)

“The only understanding and acceptance is with the Gross Gott, madam! Let Him be your comfort. He is the one Refuge.”

“My husband is my refuge,” she replied, and smiled with tenderness and joy.

“He is only mortal, madam.”

“And so am I.” Her cheek dimpled. “I don’t aspire to anything, Herr Solzer, except pleasing him.”

He looked at her intently, and turned away. What a waste it was to give women talent or genius! They submerged these things in a dedication to a man. But did not St. Paul and Bismarck urge such an attitude for women? Herr Solzer did not agree either with St. Paul or Bismarck. He believed that gifted women should never marry, though they should have lovers. This lady—how beautiful, how gifted! She should live in a gilded palace and not in a brownstone house in New York. She should be adulated by multitudes both for her loveliness and for her perceptions. Instead she was only a wife. Herr Solzer might be German, with a Prussian’s rigidity, but he worshipped art, which was also a German trait.

He suspected that Ellen was pregnant. What a waste, too! Genius never bestowed its brilliance on offspring. It was a great mystery. Physical attributes and characteristic features—yes. But never genius, never talent. He had known many geniuses in the sciences and arts and philosophy, but their children were drab and unendowed, if envious and resentful of their parents, and sometimes alarmingly dangerous out of their jealousy. Many a genius had been exploited and defamed by his children, and even murdered. Humanity was something to be feared more than a tiger, or even governments.

He said with severity to conceal his agitation, “Madam, you will now practice Debussy’s
Nocturne
, and you will not play by the ear but the music. Tomorrow, I expect much better than today.”

“I will try,” said Ellen, and he was more despairing than ever. “I never touched a piano, Herr Solzer, until four months ago, and you must be patient with me.”

He kissed her hand and left, shaking his head.

Ellen looked at her piano in the great dim music room, which was all brown and gold and ivory paneling with large arched windows suffocated with lace and pale blue velvet, and Aubusson rugs and mirrors. She was tired. She had spent hours with her tutor this morning, and he was very rigorous and had left her considerable work to be done tonight. If he found her naturally gifted in the matter of French and German, and swift of mind in other subjects, he never praised her. “Mrs. Porter,” he had said once, and ponderously, “there are vast discrepancies in your education.”

“I know,” she said with regret. “I know very little. But I am really trying. I must be a proper wife for my husband.”

Sometimes she felt hopeless. She was so stupid, no matter her efforts. Jeremy praised her and was delighted with her, but she believed that was so because he loved her. She lived in a constant tension of hoping to gratify him and when he fondled her and found her delicious she was afraid that he was only being patient with her out of natural charity. He was even tolerant of her “condition,” no matter her morning sickness, and she could not be thankful enough for his solicitude. When he told her he was overjoyed at the thought of a child she wanted to cry; he was so good.

She went listlessly to one of the windows and looked down at the street, which was swirling with gray snow and the winter wind. There were few carriages about, and fewer pedestrians, and they scurried quickly along the pavement. It was twilight, and the gaslighter was scuttling up and down lighting the streetlamps, which burst into blowing golden light. Then her volatile spirits rose; she loved New York for all she had never known a city before. There was something infinitely exciting here, something always in movement, and electric. The tall ebony clock on the upper landing boomed five in silver notes, and she ran downstairs to the basement kitchen, which was warm and bright and huge, with walls of red brick and brick underfoot. The kitchen was full of fascinating odors and steam. Cuthbert was poised over the iron-and-brick stove, with a fluttering housemaid in attendance; she was peeling vegetables under Cuthbert’s stern surveillance.

He looked at Ellen and his grave elderly face became suffused with pleasure and affection. “Mrs. Porter,” he said, “do you not think it is time to put on the roast beef?”

“Yes, of course,” she said, in that tone of apology which always touched him with its poignancy. “And the roast onions, sliced, underneath, a thick layer of them, and lots of butter and thyme and a little garlic rubbed on all sides.”

“No one,” said Cuthbert, “can roast beef as you do, Mrs. Porter. I think the oven is hot enough now, and I will turn down the gas a little.”

“Yes,” said Ellen, examining the beef seriously and touching it lightly with one finger. “It is very tender, isn’t it? Do you think it is enough for eight people, and the rest of the household? I think, three hours?”

Cuthbert looked judicious. “Only twelve pounds. Two hours and a half, Mrs. Porter. That should do. And no salt or pepper until half roasted?”

“Yes,” said Ellen. She looked about the kitchen and sighed blissfully. “Mr. Walter Porter is coming for dinner, as you know, Cuthbert. Why do gentlemen always like roast beef so much? I prefer lamb or chicken. Are the oysters good? And”—she looked apologetic again—“would you please put a dash of powdered cloves in the tomato bisque—just a dash?”

“Very good, Mrs. Porter. And the oysters? How do you prefer them?”

“Just with lemon juice, on a bed of ice, Cuthbert. But you must select the wines. I know so little. Are the lobsters very fresh? Good. And the melons from Florida? Imagine, fruit in the winter in New York! What will there be for dessert?”

“A chocolate mousse, an angel cake, a chestnut glace” parfait, and assorted pastries. A little austere, perhaps, but you prefer simple dinners, do you not, Mrs. Porter? Yes. I have prepared the sauce, green and pungent, for the lobsters, according to your suggestion. They are rather small, only three pounds apiece, but after the appetizers of oysters and the bisque with the sour cream and sherry, and the salad, the lobsters should be enough before the rest of the dinner, the meat and roasted potatoes and brussels sprouts and asparagus and artichokes and hot rolls and gravy. Perhaps we should have had some cold shrimp, too? They are in the icebox.”

Ellen considered. She was always fearful that her dinners were too restricted, too plain. “Perhaps the shrimp with the lobsters? Yes, I think so. Gentlemen are always so hungry.”

“And the ladies, too,” said Cuthbert with a smile. “They all want to resemble Miss Lillian Russell, who is somewhat plushy.” He looked at Ellen’s slim figure with approval. She wore an afternoon tea gown of apricot velvet, which matched and enhanced her cheeks and lips, and it flowed about her, glistening, revealing glimpses of delicate lace at the throat and wrists.

Ellen became depressed again at the thought of the ladies. Gentlemen were much kinder to her, but ladies were wary and had sharp critical eyes which were not deluded by her. She knew that they considered her vulgar in appearance, even tawdry and garish. No matter how much French powder she patted on her face her color intruded, like a peasant’s. Her hair was deplorable, too, always rioting out from her pompadour into little curls and tendrils, in spite of her maid’s efforts. Jeremy would frequently and teasingly pull those curls and tendrils, even at the table. It was evident, to her, that he considered them childish and unsophisticated.

Seeing her downcast face, Cuthbert said, “Mr. Diamond Jim Brady would enjoy this dinner, Mrs. Porter.”

All at once Ellen was nauseated and bile rose in her throat, and she caught at Cuthbert’s arm, while the housemaid stared curiously. “I think I am a little dizzy,” said Ellen. Cuthbert led her to a kitchen chair and watched her with sincere concern. He motioned to the housemaid. “A little brandy, Mabel,” he said. He returned to Ellen; he knew she was pregnant. “To settle the stomach, Mrs. Porter. You study and work too hard, perhaps.”

“But I accomplish nothing,” Ellen gulped in a dismal voice. “I am such a disappointment to Mr. Porter.”

Cuthbert raised his eyebrows. “You are a joy to him, madam, a joy. I have known him a long time, and I perceive what he thinks.”

Ellen accepted the brandy, which she loathed, and sipped at it holding it in a shaking hand. But it warmed her and the nausea began to retreat. She thought, distressfully, of the coming child. Would it be as unattractive as she was, and as stupid? She could not endure the thought of Jeremy’s dismay. She hoped for a son who would resemble his father. “You are very kind, Cuthbert,” she said. She stood up, somewhat weakly. “And now I must visit my aunt. Did she eat her supper?”

“Yes, Mrs. Porter. It was only a small cup of broth and a broiled fish and browned potatoes and a salad, and some mashed turnips and cold ham and tea and some pound cake with the caraway seeds she likes. A small supper, but she seemed to enjoy it.”

“Thank you, Cuthbert. You are so kind.” Ellen moved towards the kitchen door with an anxious expression, thinking of her aunt. The doctor visited May every week and was very comforting to Ellen. “One must remember her pain,” he had told her. “But that new Aspirin is very helpful. One must not listen too much to the complaints of women her age; it is too melancholy. We can only console, endure—” But his comfort invariably disappeared when Ellen entered the tiny elevator which would lift her to the fourth floor, where May had a warm and pleasant suite of her own, with a nurse in attendance day and night, and a fireplace always filled with crackling red embers, and a fine view. There was even a phonograph with wax cylinders of ballads, wistful and sentimental and sorrowful—May’s favorites.

By the time the elevator had creaked to a halt on the fourth floor Ellen was guilty again, and despondent. She had caused Aunt May so much unhappiness, so much discontent, by marrying Jeremy. Nothing pleased her; nothing assuaged her misery. She felt deprived of her normal estate, which was suffering and labor and meek acceptance of fate. In that estate she had experienced a kind of exaltation, even if it had sometimes been touched by angry rebelliousness. In her class she had been important in wretchedness. Now she was not important at all, and had no genuine status. She was only the dependent of a man she still feared and distrusted and disliked; she believed he considered her a nuisance. Her memories of Mrs. Eccles’ house were her only pleasure. Oh, if Ellen had been sensible! But Ellen was as heedless and flighty as had been Mary, and May never doubted that the girl had a disastrous future which might descend at any moment, bringing calamity to both of them. It just wasn’t “natural” for Ellen to pretend to be a great lady in this house. Half with terror, half with anticipation, May awaited the day of rout, when she could say, with tears, “I told you so, Ellen, I told you so!” The girl’s obvious bliss did not delude her or disperse the terror. In fact, May resented that bliss. She felt robbed, and frustrated. Each morning she thought forebodingly, “Perhaps this will be the day.” When the “day” passed serenely, she was chagrined, and even more foreboding. She would sometimes hear Jeremy’s distant laugh and she thought it derisive of Ellen. She would hear the murmur of men’s genial voices as they spoke to Ellen and she was convinced they were mocking. Ellen, in that great dining room all glittering crystal and elegant mahogany and silken rugs and silver and enormous chandelier and glowing velvet and lace—May cringed for Ellen. She would often whimper in sympathy. When Ellen could not understand her aunt’s remarks May was angered at the girl’s obtuseness. After all, Ellen was eighteen and a woman, and she should not be so dense! But then, Mary had been a fool, too: and had dreamed of being a fine lady.

When Ellen would appear, for her aunt’s approval, in some gorgeous creation of Worth’s, May would say, “It’s not for you, dear, not for you. You’re, not gentlefolk, Ellen. And that diamond necklace! It looks like paste on you, really it does. It needs good blood to set such things off, and you don’t have it.” When she would see that Ellen became melancholy under this criticism she would feel, not self-reproach, but sadness. She dreaded, if hoped for, the day when Ellen would “realize, and come to her senses.” She never relinquished the happy thought of returning, chastened, to Mrs. Eccles’ house.

At times she would say to her niece, “Have you and Mr. Jeremy been quarreling? I thought I heard him speaking real mean to you last night on your way to bed.” Ellen had replied, “Oh, Jeremy was speaking about one of our guests; an odious woman. He had overheard her say to another woman that I looked like a chorus girl.” Ellen had laughed but May had said with significance, “You see?”

“Her husband, though, was very kind and attentive and the other gentlemen persuaded me to play a little Chopin and Jeremy was very proud. I made only one mistake.”

“I heard you bellowing last night while you played on that piano.”

“I know my voice isn’t very good, though my teacher says it is; he is very nice. But the gentlemen applauded. I’m sorry I disturbed you, Auntie. You should tell the nurse to keep the door shut.”

May did not know that she was attempting to destroy Ellen. She truly believed she was rescuing her, or “hardening” her for the inevitable catastrophe. Then she also deplored Ellen’s “looking for the limelight.” It wasn’t “proper” for a girl like Ellen, who was only a servant, no matter the draped Worth gowns and the jewels and the perfumes and the scented soap and the beaded slippers, not to speak of the gemmed combs and earrings and bracelets. It was even less “proper” for Ellen to have servants of her own, Cuthbert and the housekeeper and two housemaids, and a carriage with two splendid black horses. When Ellen appeared in a long sable coat May had shuddered and had said, “That would keep us for years, Ellen, years. You’d better be careful of it; one never knows.”

“Oh, I don’t think Jeremy will ever go bankrupt,” Ellen had said, smiling. She never suspected her aunt’s pathetic motives, though Jeremy did, with an anger he did not express to Ellen. Ellen often repeated these conversations to him, with her gentle humor, explaining that “dear Aunt May just cannot accustom herself to all these dazzling things. We must be patient with her, my darling.” Jeremy usually understood, for he was subtle and was aware of human nature, and did not, even to himself, accuse May of a malice she did not honestly feel. He knew that it was only fear for Ellen that impelled her, and he often, obliquely, tried to reassure the poor woman. That only made her mistrust him more. “He’s trying to pull the wool over my eyes,” she would tell herself. “But I’m not dippy, as he thinks.” She would stare at him with sullen suspicion as he spoke.