Shadows of Glory

by Ralph Peters

  A minute later I was in my bedroom, with a flyer in my hand. I had to think a moment to remember the date that morning, for the February days had grown identical.

  If Kildare would not come to me, I would go to him. To the last grand performance of their tour, in the famed metropolis of Rochester. The show was still a night away, and the trains were steady.

  I would observe Kildare from a safe distance and examine his tricks. This time, I would be the one in command, the scientist observer. I knew the course was right the instant I decided upon it. Suddenly, I was as confident as I had been despondent not a quarter hour before. Oh, a Welshman is a tenacious thing when you spin him up. I was ready to take on the world.

  And I would see Nellie.

  MAGNIFICENT ROCHESTER! What does it lack? Canals and railroads converge upon its fine harbor, while across the lake lies the Canadian shore of Britain’s trading empire. Great mills adorn the falls of the Genesee, where a host of chimneys strive Heavenward. The city is even the center of telegraphic communication, with its Western Union company. Here the wealth of America’s East embraces the harvests of its West in fruitful marriage. Arcades of multiple stories, shielded from nature’s moods by vasty skylights, hold shops that would not disgrace old London town. There are more paved streets by thrice than in poor Washington, and the handsome boulevards and avenues are regularly cleansed of snow. A regiment of steeples and cupolas stands guard above the town’s good Northern bricks, and Greek columns set a high tone, as though Ulysses had founded his final kingdom on the strand of Lake Ontario. Gaslamps brighten all.

  I am told a man must see Venice before he dies—but I say let him see Rochester while he lives! With my first steps from the New York Central station, I felt invigorated—although one young rascal did try, unsuccessfully, to pick my pocket, for we are a race to despoil Eden.

  I predict that Rochester will be among the greatest of America’s cities in days to come, surpassing weary Philadelphia and even New York City in its glory. It is a very confluence of blessings.

  Mr. Douglass lived at the edge of the city, where the farms retreated before the advance of progress. The native-born American is a curious fellow in his willingness to travel great distances to and from his work so that he may have his space and greenery about him in his hours of rest. It took me over an hour to make the walk.

  The noble moor welcomed me, and I do believe his pleasure was heartfelt in that first instant. Yet, more than the usual sadness come up in his eyes then. Some uncertainty, some untold embarrassment marred the air. I could not figure the contradiction, for I saw no cause for shame. His house was decent, if not grand. Though not an abode of mirth, it was clean as a barracks just before the colonel’s inspection, and who would not choose cleanliness and order over sloven levity? But as he introduced his wife to me, hesitation made him stumble. I did not understand that at all, for the woman appeared devoted and an enviable housekeep. I wondered if they had been fussing before my arrival.

  Twas only over dinner that I grasped it.

  His poor wife was, indeed, the cause of his dismay. She was a woman of sound domesticity, but not of intellect or cultivation. Her speech wanted correction, and even her gentleness could not disguise the coarseness of her manners. Her husband had risen beyond her. She could not keep the pace his life had set, and was no partner to the great man’s soul.

  And a great man Douglass was. Alarmed by my ignorance, my Mary Myfanwy had given me a fine scolding for my lack of respect in his presence, although I had done naught to give offense. I simply had not known of his achievements. Now that towering figure sat embarrassed by his mate’s simplicity. For he was proud. And proud men see only what is lacking.

  If it is better to marry than to burn, I am not convinced it is better to marry with too much youth. Look you. Who has not seen couples age out of symmetry, and passionate attachment wane to disappointment? I am blessed to have my wife a friend, and would wish such a blessing on all others. But there is no speaking to the young, for energy is their gift, not judgement. Too often, the beauty of form that sears the novice heart leaves naught but ashes in the aging breast.

  I slept well, for mashed potatoes always make me settle. Following a morning tour of Mr. Douglass’s printing office—a humble source of great affairs—I set myself to see Rochester properly. For we never know what knowledge may prove useful, and diligence is rewarded.

  Of fine hotels there was a plenty, led by the Blossom and the Waverly. The latter establishment was grander than Willard’s in Washington. I looked in to get the beauty of it, but took my midday meal at a farmer’s hotel, where the portions were sound and the prices sensible. I would have liked to sit warm in the common room all afternoon, for it was cold outside, with a fierce wind off the lake, and my leg was a bother. But the fever, at least, was long behind me, and time must not be squandered. I roused myself and scouted all I could, from the great aqueduct to the last boatyard.

  “There is prosperity,” I thought. Even the Irish seemed busily employed, and sober at their ropes and saws and lifting.

  I ended the afternoon at the farmhouse where Miss Anthony lived with her family. The land had been sold off as lots for new dwellings, but a residue of country charm remained. Apple trees held birds awaiting spring, and the air tasted lovely after the city’s smoke. Too, my visitor’s task was a happy one. My beloved wished Miss Anthony’s signature to paste in our album. It seemed Miss Anthony was a figure of some fame, as well.

  There is, I must say, a great deal of famousness in America. Mr. Douglass had presented me with a signed copy of his own life story—such printed confessions have become a national habit of late, arousing fear for our modesty. Why should we tell our secrets to the world? There is foolishness enough without addition. Of course, Mr. Douglass’s reminiscences are meant to edify.

  It makes a fellow think, though, to find a Negro has authored a book. How can we not regard such like as welcome among us? Reg’lar John Brent, master of horse and sleigh, might have said that the more books the African authored, the less of a welcome he would find. For he sees in us all a greater desire to look down than to look up. But I will believe better of my fellow man. We only need familiarity, see. Then brotherhood will come.

  Miss Anthony was everybody’s maiden aunt, stern of visage behind those tin spectacle frames, but soft in her doings. Her family kept a proper Christian household—Quakers, though we never talked devotions. Twas a home where there is enough for all, but never extra for any—though a portion will be found for one in need. That makes a goodly life. For Satan loves waste, while the Lord would have us value every morsel.

  I set down my cup of coffee, into which I had introduced one sugar, though I wanted two.

  “Miss Anthony,” I said, “there is a thing I do not understand.”

  Her eyes rose behind the glass ovals.

  “Mr. Douglass engaged in a seance with Kildare in Penn Yan,” I continued, “but will not go to see his show in Rochester. I thought that he might join us. Embarrassment is it? At being associated with such matters in the public eye?”

  She moved to pour more coffee, but I held up my hand to decline. For I had marked the thinning of the stream when last she poured, and would not shame her with an empty pot.

  “Yes,” she said, “Mr. Douglass is embarrassed. That he is. Although it has nothing to do with Spiritualism.” She settled the pot on stained lace. “We have made progress, Major Jones. And we shall make far more. But progress is . . . uneven by its nature.”

  Her eyes glinted, but her voice avoided anger. She had the patience born of lengthy struggles.

  “You see, Mr. Douglass is welcome upon the speaker’s platform. But he’s not . . . a colored man is not yet so welcome in the audience. Except at abolitionist meetings, of course. Certain rules still pertain in our dear Rochester. And they are ignorant, silly rules, when not repulsive. If he went with us tonight, he would be expected to sit at the back of the hall, where the benches are set high. �
�Nigger heaven,’ it’s called. And even such seating becomes unavailable when sufficient white men purchase tickets.” She sighed. “He takes such things to heart. If only he saw more clearly what women must endure.”

  I thought of proud Douglass, of his lovely cadences and lordly voice, of his newspaper and book. And of his needless shame over his wife. Reg’lar John Brent had called him “unhappy.” Let us settle on that mild word. For we will never understand such wounds as his.

  MISS ANTHONY DROVE US into town in a pony cart, which a boy minded for a nickel. A fog had risen from the lake, muting the gaslamps. You heard footsteps, but saw nothing. Until a human shape appeared a step away, only to vanish with another step. The wind was down and the night clung to the skin. A stranger never would have found his way. But Miss Anthony’s course was sure.

  From down the street, the Corinthian Hall was but a glow in the murk. We heard the hubbub of the crowd before we could reckon the edifice. Then, as we hurried across Exchange Place between the crush of carriages, the great building emerged. Tiers of windows shone golden through the fog and Roman symmetries made the hall appear grand as an opera house. Although I would not ascribe the wickedness of the French to the honest citizens of Rochester, this was how we might imagine Paris!

  Now you will say, “Hypocrite yet again! This Jones would claim to be an honest Methodist, but here he goes frequenting a theater to gawk at a young woman.” But I will tell you: Corinthian Hall was home to edifying programs and noble sentiments, and not the sad domain of scrambling players. And my concerns for Nellie were chaste. My visit to the hall was first a duty.

  A rough crowd marred the entrance, composed of the penniless sort who hope for trouble.

  Miss Anthony pulled her shawl tighter and leaned forward, a soldier on the march. I had to work my cane hard to keep pace with her.

  As we approached the slot for paying customers, the hooting began. A fellow who had tied his cap to his head with a scarf hallooed, “There’s the one wants to set women up on top of men. With the little soldier feller.”

  A second voice answered, “Well, I sure wouldn’t get on top of her.”

  They laughed. Calling Miss Anthony names as unjustified as they were miserable. For she was moral as a martyr, if extreme in her expectations.

  “Just thinka them two going at it,” a boy with half his teeth gone lisped. “Just thinka it.”

  Such was not to be tolerated. I turned on them, wielding my cane. But Miss Anthony seized my arm and drew me along.

  “It’s worse when we meet for women’s rights,” she said. “Or for the Negro.”

  “Bet that little feller fits right up under her skirts,” a last voice yelled. “Peeyoo!”

  Inside, the hall was brilliant as a summer noon. I paid for seats toward the front. Twas not an extravagance, for I felt I had to see what could be seen. And I will tell you, the audience was a revelation to me! If ruffians lurked without, the cream of Rochester’s society had gathered within. I even saw a lady wearing diamonds! And plenty of parson’s collars there were, with parson’s necks behind them. On winter leave, officers glittered, their ladies graceful swans upon their arms. Bewhiskered husbands in their prime napped beside matrons whose hair had been gathered back tightly with ribbons and lace and splendid ornament. The younger members of the feminine division wore ringlets in rows or gleaming hair put up in the Roman fashion. Zouave jackets and garibaldis were the rage among the unmarried girls, and the new magenta satins shone between Genoa velvets of emerald green or havannah. My Mary Myfanwy, a born mistress of needle and cloth, could have sewn no finer garments. The dress put Washington society to shame, although I am not certain shame is felt in our poor capital.

  Miss Anthony was welcomed by a few and known to many, but she made short work of social frivolities and remained a sturdy Quaker in her dress. As soon as we sat down, she nudged up her spectacles and readied pencil and paper.

  The evening began with a lecture on Assyrian mysteries and the hierarchies of Babylon by a famous doctor of whom I had not heard. He claimed affiliation with a university in France, though his accent was flinty American. Now I take an interest in self-improvement and appreciate an elevated speech or sermon, but that fellow was dull enough to put a man into a snoring trance before the evening’s mesmeric show began. Silly he was, too. But the crowd devoured every dusty word.

  I snapped to life at the sight of Nellie. She did not come out with her father at first, but stood waiting back of the curtains. I could just see her.

  Standing there, she looked pale unto death. Slender to disappearing. Yet she wore a greater beauty on her brow than all the splendid ladies in that hall. I thought that the man who married her might do naught but stare for a lifetime. Then I recalled she was not like to marry.

  I do not understand why the Good Lord would create such beauty only to treat it so. But faith is our lot, not understanding.

  Kildare himself seemed darker than ever, his midnight beard a veil to hide the man. He hypnotized a pair of fellows from the audience, chosen from the less expensive seats. He made them quack like ducks and waddle about the stage. Then the lankier lad stretched out between two chairs. Stiff as death, he was, with only his heels on one chair and the back of his head on the other. The stockier fellow sat upon his middle, feet in the air, without lessening the rigidity of the human plank. Next, Kildare convinced the bulkier subject that the other was his beloved. The poor oaf knelt and blubbered for the favors of his mustachioed companion.

  Twas nothing to the least fakir of India. Naught but shabby circus doings. It played well with the rear rows, though. Kildare knew that he had to please them all.

  He called for the dimming of the lamps. The flames flickered down in the chandeliers and sconces. Gloom settled in where the gas pipes ended and shadows quivered at the back of the hall. The stage alone remained a realm of gold.

  Deepening his voice again, Kildare spoke of distant Arabia, of lost cities and secrets whose possession meant death to the uninitiated. His speech had a slow rhythm that put me in mind of tides. I don’t know how he did it, but he kept deacon and dowager on the edge of their seats.

  Soon the hall was his.

  And then he brought out Nellie, leading her by a white hand held high. She was already in her other world. The bell of her sleeve hung down between her and her father.

  She stood facing the audience, red hair free over satin. It was the very opposite of fashion to appear with hair undone, yet many a female heart must have filled with jealousy at the sight of her. In the odd light, I could not tell if her dress was gray or lavender, but no matter. She might have come in rags and looked a queen. A fairy queen, who needed no adornment. I read no hint of madness on her now. She cast a spell of peace and boundless distance.

  Gently, as if he feared waking her, her father placed a chair behind her skirts then bid her sit.

  The audience hushed. Breathless.

  Kildare looked out upon them with those eyes.

  “Who is in love?” he asked. “Who waits and longs? Who yearns?”

  He paused, staring into the rear of the hall, as if he could not see the rising hands.

  “Who would know the secrets of the future?” he called.

  A hundred hands went high. Young men cried out, their voices half a plea and half demand. The fairer sex demurely volunteered.

  Kildare stepped up to the lip of the stage, scanning the turbulent rows. Tormenting them with his hesitation. Letting them ache for attention, for a glimpse into eternity. He might have played the devil in a drawing room.

  At last he called on two men of the cloth.

  “Reverend gentlemen, I beg your assistance. To maintain the highest level of morality and decorum, as well as to confirm the veracity of the experiment, your humble servant requests that you select our volunteers. They must total ten, chosen alike from those formed after Eve and from the sons of Adam. If any be known to you and of good character, choose them first, so that the world may see there
is no fraud.”

  Shameless, I call it still. Two white-haired vicars jumping at Kildare’s bidding. Amid squeals of delight and groans of disappointment, they shepherded six young men and four young ladies to the stage.

  A handy fellow produced a stool of the sort that does not interfere with a lady’s crinolines, if I may be so blunt. Kildare adjusted it before Nellie, then turned to the audience again. Across the stage, three of the girls looked as though they already regretted their participation, while the fourth was flirting with the boys who had come up.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Kildare declaimed, “in the interests of delicacy, the conversations between my daughter and this young nobility of feminine beauty must remain private. But after each conference, I will ask the affected party to report to you the accuracy of our mystic intelligences.” He folded his arms, flashing teeth amid his wilderness of beard. “The gentlemen . . . may expect no such mercies.”

  The audience laughed, but softly. With the grace of a Maharajee’s servant, Kildare led a fretful missy to the stool. He whispered a last assurance to her and the young lady sat down facing Nellie, arranging her skirts about her. Back to us, the girl was a very hourglass, waist tiny and posture prim. Rows of brown ringlets flanked the pedestal of her neck.

  Nellie leaned toward her. Curtains of red hair closed around the girl, until I could see but a sliver of her cheek. She began to fall, slowly, toward the prophetess, as if drawn by invisible ribbons. Then her chin rose and she paused in her swoon. She might have been offering her throat for a kiss.

  Nellie’s head began to sway, queerly, as I have seen the cobra do in rising from its basket. Slowing time to never-ending moments.

  The girl jerked back. As if bitten. We all heard her gasp. Raising her hand to her mouth.

  The audience jumped with the girl. We had become a single creature.