My Heart Laid Bare

by Joyce Carol Oates

  In narrow panels amid the glass there are gold-flecked mirrors in which the dancers may observe themselves swaying, and turning, and dipping, if they so wish, one might count as many as ninety-eight dancers if one so wishes, an equal number of attractive ladies and an equal number of attractive gentlemen, now the orchestra is playing a medley from Babes in Toyland, a smashing success of a bygone season, and now there are gleaming silver trays brandished aloft by liveried Negro servants (all male: but Matilde never looks), there are Venetian glasses glittering with French champagne, one may as well accept what one is offered.

  Naughty Mina, who would tease by downing her glass in one great mouthful: assuredly forbidden here.

  And Moira taps a high-heeled white-kidskin foot, the prettiest little foot imaginable, and allows her escort a glimpse, a fleeting glance, a mere soupçon, of silky ankle to flash: also forbidden.

  And Marguerite the tease puckers her lovely lips as if . . . to kiss? . . . to whistle? . . . no, merely to whisper in the gentleman’s ear something vague and melodic about being tired, being weary, of the foxtrot, which, it very often seems, she has been dancing since the onset of Time.

  Poor sensitive creature! for it has become well known in Philadelphia society among the younger set in particular, that the mysterious daughter Matilde of the mysterious gentleman Albert St. Goar is so high-strung, a single ill-considered word or gesture tears against her nerves like a nail against raw silk.

  Millie, not minding that her new Japanese kimono has slipped open, screams at the maid because the bathwater is too hot, too damned hot, too hot too hot too hot!—and another five minutes will be required for it to be adjusted.

  Millie, silky pale hair falling in her face, cigarette slanted in the corner of her lips, paces about, barefoot, while the frightened girl allows water to run out of the enormous tub in approximately the same proportion as water (cold) rushes in.

  And where are the newspapers?—the New York City papers in particular?

  BUT IS THE orchestra still playing Victor Herbert tunes?—Matilde has heard them all innumerable times, Matilde has danced to them all innumerable times, she must be excused if she drifts off to the ladies’ reception room . . . to do something delicious but very very forbidden in mixed company.

  3.

  Mina who is daughterly and jealous can’t resist observing by way of a mirror-panel how that much-discussed couple Albert St. Goer and Eva Clement-Stoddard dance in the midst of the other dancers, as light on their feet, as graceful, yet far more stately than most. The gentleman is handsome if rather too flushed (is his tie too tight? his starched collar? does he wear a corset?—there is something painfully tight-to-bursting about the man’s figure); his silvery hair neatly brushed; a white rosebud in his buttonhole; his smile serene. The lady too is smiling, even rather coquettish for a woman of her age, tilting her head, sparkling, glittering, scintillating, enchanted as any young girl in love, not minding, evidently, if the world now sees: for the engagement is no longer a secret and what matters the gaping world? Eva is a handsome woman, even sharp-eyed Matilde can’t deny it.

  What is love except the intoxication of being wholly deceived?

  Millicent orders the maid out of her sight and with trembling fingers arranges the newspapers on a table beside the tub. Lights up another cigarette—she hates it when they burn down to stubs. Throws off the kimono.

  No man has looked upon her, no man has touched her. Since.

  Her happiest time: sinking into a warm bath, sweet fragrant soap bubbling and winking and popping around her like champagne.

  MATILDE’S MOTHER LONG ago taught her her catechism. That madonna of stern blond beauty. Kneel beside me, Millie. Pray with me. Deliver us of this bondage of love. Deliver us of this earthly delusion. Pray to Our Lord constantly and you will be saved.

  “THE GAME IS our only happiness,” Matilde observed the other evening to her manicured nails, “—but The Game isn’t happy, is it?”

  OF COURSE THE engagement has been informally announced to the couple’s many friends; but on the evening of 21 December 1916, the winter solstice, it’s to be formally announced by Eva’s great-uncle Admiral Cyrus P. Clement at a party at his estate, Langhorne Hall.

  Clearly the stellar social event of the Philadelphia season.

  And when will be the wedding?—in May.

  And what will Matilde St. Goar do, when her father becomes a bridegroom?—why, marry someone herself; or swallow a bottle of laudanum.

  Matilde tries not to pity Eva Clement-Stoddard. Eva wants no female sympathy with her father’s bride-to-be.

  Taking offense that, lately, Albert St. Goar has become sentimental, speaking of a wish to have a son; a son “who might please me as much as my Matilde.” A son to continue the St. Goar name and tradition? Matilde shakes her head perplexed, for—is Eva in agreement with this mad hope? This folly? (Might a woman of her age bear children? Matilde has made inquiries and has been told to her surprise and disapproval that if nature cooperates, a woman can bear children into her forty-fifth or -sixth year. And Eva Clement-Stoddard is said to be thirty-seven.)

  That slightly sallow face . . . that air of vivacity . . . a splendid new Empire-style gown of robin’s-egg blue . . . and looped around her throat, at the request of her fiancé, the fabled Cartier necklace of twelve perfect emeralds spaced along a rope of numerous diamonds.

  For St. Goar has said he doesn’t find such riches vulgar, exactly; it’s within the scope of his democratic principles to find such riches . . . rather jolly.

  4.

  Talk is of Bucharest, which the invincible German army has just captured; and talk is of Admiral Clement’s grand party—with what anxiety, what fainting eagerness, invitations are being awaited! But Millicent, in her bath, indifferent to the fact that her just-curled hair is getting wet, is reading avidly of Harlem’s Prince Elihu, Prophet of the World Negro Betterment & Liberation Union.

  Prince Elihu, born in Jamaica, West Indies. Prince Elihu in spotless white linen caftans in summer and spotless white woollen (and sometimes fur-trimmed) caftans in winter.

  Prince Elihu in gold braid and crimson velvet with a ceremonial ruby-studded sword at his hip, preaching of the inevitable downfall of the white race—the Race of Cannibal-Devils—and the inevitable rise of the black race—Allah’s Chosen People. Tens of thousands cheer Prince Elihu, Prince Elihu is the revolutionary new Negro leader who has alarmed and outraged white officials from the mayor of New York City to the President of the United States with his exotic, tireless preaching: Prince Elihu has set a record for nonstop preaching, at seven unflagging hours. I bring not peace but a sword. I am he who am come to you who await me. I ask only that you give me your love. In return I will give you back your souls. Your souls the cannibal-devils have stolen.

  Matilde laughs, splashing her toes in the bath. Oh, delicious!

  Matilde laughs, chokes . . . a sharp pain in her eyes.

  In Harper’s Weekly she reads of the controversial “prince” who rose suddenly to prominence in the past several months, out of agitation in Harlem among Negro leaders unable to agree upon the most politic attitude for their people to take regarding the War in Europe. The most prominent Negro spokesmen, friendly to whites, argue that the United States, and as Woodrow Wilson repeatedly insists, Democracy, must be defended at all costs; issues of race must be set temporarily aside. Others, younger, more marginal, more rebellious, argue that the War is “a white man’s war” fought not for Democracy but for the sake of racist imperialism in Africa and elsewhere. Prince Elihu, Prophet of the World Negro Betterment & Liberation Union, is the fiercest of these new leaders, having become famous, or notorious, virtually overnight, after a rally in Central Park in which he spoke contemptuously of certain of his brothers as “white men’s black men”; accusing such men of preaching subservience to whites out of cowardice and expediency. But Prince Elihu preaches rebellion: the world unification of all Negroes: a collective refusal, tantamount to treason,
to enlist in the United States Army or even to register for the draft.

  Death Before Humility is Prince Elihu’s command to his followers.

  For some time in secret Millicent has been reading of this exotic Prince. Soon, she will go to Harlem to see him with her own eyes; she will disguise herself; or, better yet, she will not disguise herself; boldly attending one of his rallies in which, it’s said, gospel music is mixed with electrifying speeches and thousands upon thousands of black men, women, adolescents and children are moved to a single thunderous wave of affirmation. Prince Elihu preaches a Black Africa; Prince Elihu preaches a Black Elysium Colony, to be established in North Africa by 1919; Prince Elihu preaches an absolute end to slavery—including wage slavery; Prince Elihu warns that the Negro God is the Absolute God, All-Conquering Allah, and that the white God is but a pagan remnant.

  As far as Jesus Christ is concerned—“If he was crucified, he had got to be black,” Prince Elihu declares.

  Harper’s Weekly repeats what Millicent has read in the New York papers: that this charismatic young Negro leader is so gifted, so hypnotic a speaker, he has the demonstrated power of persuading thousands of men and women with little money to contribute considerable sums to the World Negro Betterment & Liberation Union of which he is Prophet, Regent and Exchequer.

  Yes. Millicent, or rather Matilde St. Goar will soon make the journey from Philadelphia to Harlem, to see the remarkable Prince Elihu with her own eyes.

  And if he spits in my face as a white devil, that will be his privilege.

  5.

  The orchestra is playing a melody with a lively syncopated beat. The younger set is energetically dancing the half-in-half—or the lame duck—or the newest jazz version of the waltz. Out of breath, her color high, Matilde St. Goar flies across the floor in her partner’s arms, never seeming to lock eyes with Albert St. Goar, who glances in her direction. He’s seen the papers, too—of course. The New York papers with their two-inch headlines PRINCE ELIHU DEFIES “WHITE DEVILS” he’d hoped to hide from his daughter for as long as possible.

  As the dancers spin and dip, their heels making a staccato music against the gleaming floor, two dozen brightly colored Australian finches have been released from white wicker cages to fly panicked against the glass skylight in an effort to escape, in vain. Champagne is being served—again. Matilde St. Goar’s escort in black tie and tails, a smooth-chinned, thick-nosed, frank-faced young man with hopeful eyes, goes to fetch her fan but, returning, can’t find her . . . she’s sequestered in a grotto in the northeast corner of the grand ballroom (the theme of the Admiral’s party appears to be Roman gardens) in the company of Roland Shrikesdale III. The convalescent young heir has never learned to dance but has been urged by his mother to request a slow, undemanding waltz from St. Goar’s charming daughter Matilde, for Anna Emery has got it into her head that her only son must marry; must fall in love as young men do with a sweet young girl of the proper sort, and marry; and should God so grant, present her with a grandchild—“That I may embark upon eternity with a smile.”

  So there’s shy, bashful Roland approaching the rather arch, high-strung beauty Matilde. Though he’s large enough to hulk over the girl’s slender figure, he has the ability to make himself shrink and cringe; you’d believe him a tongue-tied lad of fourteen, hardly an adult man in his mid-thirties. “Excuse me, Miss Matilde—would you be so kind as to join me in this dance?” Roland asks in a cracked voice, his face mottled with embarrassment; and Matilde murmurs with a cool, poised smile, “Why, Roland, thank you. But I’m rather warm, I believe I’d like to wait this one out.” Roland heaves an audible sigh, relieved. He and Matilde are both facing forward, and seem to have nothing to say to each other. Until Roland mutters in a lowered voice, for Matilde’s ears only, “A pity, isn’t it, the finches don’t sing. All they’ve done so far is shit on a number of us.”

  Matilde smiles half in anger. Whispering, “But not, dear Roland, I hope, on you.”

  “Nor on you, dear Matilde.”

  Matilde St. Goar in her airy chiffon gown with its layers of mauve and white flounces glances down at her voluminous skirts with a look of trepidation. A number of observers watch: will Roland, dare Roland, can Roland overcome his fatal shyness, and succeed in getting the girl to dance with him? Poor Roland! A virgin at the age of—is it thirty-five? And he’d survived, if only barely, an adventure in the West that few if any of his Philadelphia acquaintances could have survived. The heir to so many millions, it makes one’s head spin to calculate the mere interest rate per annum.

  Yet St. Goar’s daughter scarcely seems to tolerate him. So very different from the father, who’d cut to the chase within weeks, capturing one of the prizes of Philadelphia, Eva Clement-Stoddard, who’d vowed (it was said) she would never, never marry again, her heart having been broken past repair.

  Matilde walks swiftly away, to an outer alcove where, on the sly, she can smoke one of her bitter little cigarettes under the pretext of needing to breathe fresh air. Roland surprises his sympathetic observers by following in her wake, limping only just slightly. Mrs. Anna Emery, seeing the “young lovers” moving off the dance floor, feels a thrill of excitement. Nothing would thrill the old woman more, despite her failing eyes, kidneys and bones, than to cradle in her arms little Roland Shrikesdale IV.

  Matilde, snatching up a half-filled glass of champagne from a table, drinks it down and says to Roland puffing up behind her, “I wonder you can stand it—you. For it’s a prison here, isn’t it? It’s death.”

  Roland assumes a suitor’s gaping, besotted look. In case anyone should be watching; and surely someone is. He says, slitting his eyes at her, and lighting up a cigarette of his own, “You’re wrong. Death is dirt in the mouth, and never any music.”

  “Is that where ‘Roland Shrikesdale III’ is?—in the dirt?”

  “Shut up.”

  “Why?—no one can hear. Not even Father.”

  Roland begins to speak in Harwood’s gravelly voice. Smoking his cigarette in short, quick puffs as if he wanted to get it out of his hand. “He’s worried they’ve hired a detective. Evidence is being unearthed.” There’s a pause, Roland laughs, chokes off his laughter with a fist against his mouth, says soberly, “—Not that evidence, I hope.”

  “The actual corpse? Of the actual heir?”

  Matilde, that’s to say Millicent, is trembling with emotion; whether hatred of her brute brother, or terror of him, or the simple exhilaration of her own daring she couldn’t have said. She would flee him now and return to the ballroom din of music and laughter except, daringly, he grasps her thin wrist between forefinger and thumb and retains her. Saying, again in Harwood’s voice, “I have Father’s permission. His blessing. You’re in with us. And there’s a kind of . . . I wouldn’t have guessed . . . sport in it. Such as a man feels on the back of a bucking steer. So long as you don’t get thrown and trampled, you’d think you were the steer; the steer, and you, can trample anyone in your path. This, I wouldn’t have guessed.”

  Millicent wishes she didn’t understand her brother and for a moment pretends she doesn’t. Then says, “It’s a trap, Harwood. Even for you it’s death.”

  But Harwood, that’s to say Roland, only laughs, a high-pitched giggle. “Who’s ‘Harwood’? Never met him.”

  Millicent stares at her brute brother in black tie and tails, starched white shirt, his coarse hair trimmed and brushed and oiled and half his face disfigured by a vertical scar like lacework; his mica-glinty eyes are smiling; he exudes an air of . . . sincerity? Innocence? For what if he isn’t Harwood any longer, exactly; but under the influence of the man he murdered? Millie feels the blood drain out of her face. Millie would seek a place to sit, to overcome this spell of faintness, but Harwood, that’s to say Roland Shrikesdale, continues to grasp her wrist between his forefinger and thumb strong as an iron ring.

  YES, A TRAP. And, yes, sport. The Game.

  And God saw that it was good.

  And all t
hese are the beginning of sorrow.

  6.

  On the subject of Prince Elihu, the scandal-subject of this Sunday’s New York Herald Tribune‘s front page, Abraham Licht declares in a voice to preclude discussion, “He is no one we know, or have ever known. You’re being irrational, Millie—too much champagne last night, as I’ve warned you.” And Millie says calmly, “Father, I hardly need be ‘rational’ to recognize Elisha when I see him.” And Abraham Licht says, bringing his fist down softly upon the breakfast table like a Broadway actor for whom each gesture, beneath lights, has become so stylized it need not be completed, “Millie. My dear. You have not seen this ‘Prince Elihu’—you have only seen his photograph in the papers.”

  ON THE SUBJECT of “Roland Shrikesdale III”—Millie would like to speak with Abraham Licht seriously, for is it true that a private detective has been hired? And what is this, Anna Emery Shrikesdale is urging Roland and Matilde to . . . become a romantic couple?

  Initially, Abraham Licht refuses to discuss the matter.

  Not for Matilde to worry about, he says.

  Nor even for overly inquisitive Millicent.

  Then, next day, in an ebullient mood following a seemingly profitable game of poker at the most exclusive gentlemen’s club in Philadelphia, to which Albert St. Goar has recently been admitted, Abraham Licht confides to Millie that, yes, there was a detective making inquiries after St. Goar some months ago; and after Harwood as well; and no doubt after her. “But as my own informants have assured me, this man, ‘Gaston Bullock Means’ of the Burns Detective Agency, has given up the case as hopeless. He is of no threat.”

  “No threat! If old Stafford Shrikesdale and his sons suspect Harwood, they suspect him; and they suspect us. We may be in danger.”

  “Danger, Millie? Never.”