The New Colossus

by Marshall Goldberg

  Where the shy moonbeams scarce dared light our bliss.

  The air was dank with dew, between the trees

  The hidden glow-worms kindled and were spent.

  Cheek pressed to cheek, the cool, the hot night-breeze

  Mingled our hair, our breath, and came and went,

  As sporting with our passion, Low and deep

  Spake in mine ear her voice: “And didst thou dream,

  This could be buried? This could be asleep?

  And love be thrall to death? Nay, whatso seem,

  Have faith, dear heart; this is the thing that is!”

  Thereon I woke, and on my lips her kiss.

  At first it seemed an ode to a lesbian lover, no doubt Helena, but Nellie knew “her kiss” meant much more than that. The poem expressed a yearning for love that lay deep inside her and had remained there all her life. Now that she was dying it would stay buried forever. That the one who left the kiss on her lips and aroused the passion was female was beside the point. That was Emma the poet. Love and sexual fulfillment were female traits. Emma had such bravery, thought Nellie. Helena had used her, betrayed her, yet Emma still revered the fire of love.

  The poem made her think about Ingram.

  And didst thou dream,

  This could be buried? This could be asleep?

  And love be thrall to death? Nay, whatso seem,

  Have faith, dear heart; this is the thing that is!”

  Truly that was how she felt about him. Her love could not be buried or asleep. What better description for her love for him than “the thing that is!”

  The kettle whistled with boiled water. Wiley grabbed two dark mugs and a can of coffee grounds.

  “I hope you like it strong,” he said. He set the mugs down on her desk. Nellie made a face of distaste.

  “I don’t mind it strong, but I would like my mug clean.” The mug was a sickening dark brown color, almost black.

  “It is clean.”

  He spooned out some of the coffee grounds and put them directly into the mugs. Then he poured in the kettle water. “Sugar?”

  “Please. Lots of it.”

  He put sugar into their mugs. The coffee had foamed at the surface. She stirred her mug. Thick coffee sediment had settled at the bottom.

  “What color were these mugs before?” she asked.

  “I think gray. Or maybe beige.”

  He stirred his coffee grounds and sipped. Nellie watched, and suddenly an idea hit her. Not a normal idea, but one that moved in and utterly seized her imagination. She leapt to her feet.

  “You only drink coffee from these mugs?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What about porcelain cups?”

  “They would be ruined in no time,” he scoffed. “The coffee eats away at these clay mugs as it is.”

  “Mr. Wiley, would you mind if I left you? I need to check on something.”

  “What about our story? Cockerill wants it for the morning edition.”

  “It will be fine in your hands. We both know that. You can remove my name if you like.”

  She grabbed her purse and hurried out, her skirts becoming soiled from the tobacco juice on the floor. But she didn’t give that another thought.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Richard Gilder

  It was impossible to overstate the stench that constantly pervaded New York City. That was what Nellie hated most about the city. Everyone, including those in the brownstones along Fifth Avenue, dumped their garbage into the streets or back alleys. Stoops in brownstones were elevated not for design purposes but so that people could stand above the dung and dead animals. Many a street urchin made his living with a broom sweeping away filth to clear a path for passersby.

  Although some government money was set aside for the collection of garbage, the bulk of those funds always found their way into the pockets of Tammany “middlemen,” and so garbage collection became mostly a private undertaking. One of the entrepreneurial opportunities for immigrants, in fact, was to remove the garbage from large wooden boxes outside residences and dump them in sewer drains or directly into the East River. When Nellie realized she needed to speak with Sarah immediately, she went straight to the Lazarus family garbage collector as the conduit.

  The Lazarus family, like many along Fifth Avenue, had their garbage picked up every night. It was a relatively inexpensive way of keeping the stench to a minimum. In trying to contact Sarah weeks before, Nellie had taken note of the comings and goings of the Lazarus household. Every night, the hired help would eat in the kitchen, at the rear of the house, while the family members took dessert. When the staff finished their dinner, the cook would set the garbage outside in large wooden crates. The garbage man would then transfer the contents into burlap sacks and haul them down the back steps and onto a horse-drawn wagon waiting in the alley.

  The garbage man was a Russian immigrant in his mid-thirties who spoke very little English, but Nellie managed to communicate her request. A gold dollar coin no doubt helped him catch on. When the man knocked on the kitchen door to check on the last of the garbage, he handed the note to the cook and pointed to the name on the envelope. (The hired help frequently got notes from suitors or family members, so no one took notice when the garbage man handed a note to the cook with Sarah’s name on the envelope.) The cook nodded, pointed to more mess for him to take out, then handed the envelope to Sarah. Hidden in the darkness below near the basement, Nellie watched Sarah read the note and suddenly turn serious. Sarah muttered something to the cook and headed down the back stairs.

  She was extremely agitated as Nellie emerged from the shadows. “I shouldn’t be seen with you.”

  “I need you to get something for me.”

  “Please, Miss Bly. I’ve done enough.”

  “Just one more item, Sarah. I promise. It’s very important. It will help me expose the person who killed Miss Emma.”

  Sarah struggled to calm down.

  “You said nothing has changed from Miss Emma’s room?” said Nellie. “Nothing at all?”

  “That’s right,” said Sarah. “It’s the same way it was the day she died.”

  “I need you to bring me something from the room.”

  “Tomorrow morning?”

  “No. I need it now.”

  Sarah became nervous all over again.

  “It may take some time. The sisters are having tea in the parlor.”

  “That’s all right. I’ll wait all night for it if I have to. Take as long as you need.”

  Martha, admiring the way her magenta skirt picked up the cranberry pinstripes in her cream-colored blouse, was behind the desk at the Century magazine reception area when Nellie walked in the next morning.

  “Mrs. Gilder is not in,” preempted Martha coolly before Nellie could even extend a greeting or state her business.

  Helena must keep this girl around to look at when she has nothing better to do, thought Nellie. There could be no other reason.

  “I am not here to see Mrs. Gilder. I am here to see Mr. Gilder.”

  “Is he expecting you?”

  “No. Please tell him I’m here.”

  “Mr. Gilder is extremely busy.”

  “Please tell him I’m here!” she snapped. Nellie had put up with this girl long enough. Martha bristled, but something in Nellie’s tone told her not to fight it. Without a word Martha glided down the corridor to one of the back rooms. Nellie’s heart was racing. She ordered herself to calm down. She touched the coffee mug in her purse as a talisman.

  “Miss Bly.”

  It was Richard himself, looking very put-upon. “What can I do for you?”

  “I would like a private word with you.”

  “I’m sorry, our magazine is due at the printer this afternoon.”

  “I think it is very much in your interest to see me.”

  He caught the edge in her vo
ice.

  “All right,” he allowed with an impatient sigh. “Come with me.”

  He led her down a hallway to his office, the living room of the house. It was a spacious room, with a Persian rug, oak floor, and high ceiling. Several of Molly Foote’s illustrations decorated the walls, along with a photograph of a young Richard Gilder in a Civil War uniform, musket erect by his side. The bookshelves were lined with back issues of Scribner’s and Century. The couch and desk were covered with manuscripts. He cleared a chair by his desk for her to sit down.

  “Would you like some coffee?” he said.

  “Actually, I would. Thank you.”

  He walked over to a table by the fireplace and spooned out some coffee from a can into a mug. He started to put a spoonful into another.

  “I brought my own mug,” she said.

  She produced a dark mug from her purse. His eyes fixed on it.

  “Look familiar?” she asked.

  “Vaguely.”

  “It was the mug Miss Lazarus used when you were cataloguing her poems right before her death.”

  “Ah. So it is.”

  She handed him the mug. He put in a spoonful of coffee, then poured in some hot water from a kettle over the fire.

  “I assume it’s been washed?” he asked.

  “Yes. Several times. I even washed it myself.”

  He handed the filled mug back to her.

  “But that still didn’t remove the arsenic,” she said.

  “Arsenic? What are you talking about?”

  He sat down behind his desk and stirred his coffee, focusing intently on the dark brew.

  “It was very clever of you,” said Nellie. “Emma insisted on the two of you working alone. She was racing to arrange her poems in a proper order with her editor before she died. That presented you with an irresistible opportunity. There was no one else in the room to see you poison her. And with the dark mug, there would be no stains, so no one would ever notice.”

  “Miss Bly, I realize you are in the business of selling newspapers, but that would be far-fetched even for the New York World. I would never harm Emma. She was a monumental talent—and a genuine asset to this magazine. She had been a close family friend for years, and tragically she was going to die in a few months as it was. Why would I possibly want to accelerate her death?”

  “You thought your wife was in love with her.”

  Gilder scoffed. “Helena had no romantic longings for Emma. And vice versa. It was her brother whom Emma loved—though the feelings were not requited.”

  “That was the public arrangement, yes. And for years you believed it. When you found out the truth, you must have been furious. You thought you were done with Helena straying. Oh, she might have an occasional tryst with a friend or secretary but nothing of real concern. She had been in love with Molly Foote, of course, and promised to put all of that behind her when you married, but then she couldn’t. She kept up a correspondence, and the two of them would disappear for days at a time when Molly was in town. You finally put a stop to it by using Molly’s ambition against her. You wrote to her and said you would publish anything she wrote or drew, but she had to stop seeing Helena. And Molly accepted the offer because she lived thousands of miles away and knew she wouldn’t be published elsewhere. You were her lifeline to legitimacy as an artist and a member of New York society. But you had no such hold over Emma.”

  She sipped her coffee.

  “Once Molly moved west,” she went on, “you thought you would finally have Helena all to yourself, but she didn’t love you. She wanted nothing to do with you. She was lonely and needed companionship, and she sought out her friend Emma. They grew close and managed to hide it from you for years, but you saw the real truth after Emma returned from Europe. Emma was upset with her and scolded her for not publishing the manuscript. That’s when you realized the depth of their intimacy. You must have searched Emma’s room while she was sleeping and come across letters Helena had written, which confirmed your suspicions.”

  Gilder didn’t bother to deny it. He sipped his coffee in silence.

  “Three months at the most is what the doctors said,” said Nellie in disgust. “Three months to live. And you couldn’t even wait that long to abide your jealousy.”

  “Helena is the mother of my children. The hostess of our home. The betrothed of our marital vows. She is my wife!”

  “And anyone who transgresses with her must be punished.”

  “Absolutely!” He was unabashed in his indignation.

  Nellie had the confession she had come for. But she could not leave just yet. This man, who killed Emma Lazarus solely because his wife did not love him, revolted her.

  “When you compiled Emma’s poems as an anthology, I noticed that you left out ‘Assurance,’ her last poem. ‘Thereon I woke, and on my lips her kiss.’ Those words must have enraged you.”

  “They did. And happily I was able to put a stop to their ever being published. More coffee?” He was remarkably unflappable. He took her mug and walked over to the table with the coffee can and kettle.

  “Sadly, Miss Bly, there is nothing for you to write about. Any story you put forth would be dismissed as wild conjecture.” He poured hot water into the mug.

  “Oh, but there is a story, Mr. Gilder. One that will run for days and days. You used the arsenic in a dark coffee mug so it would not be detected as it would with a white porcelain cup. But the same arsenic that stains the cup remains with the cup.”

  “The mugs were washed every night.”

  “Yes. But arsenic does not dissolve in water. That is why the stains are so hard to remove. Traces of arsenic were found on the mug this morning.”

  For the first time, his composure cracked. “That’s impossible.”

  “Emma’s sisters kept the room exactly as it was the day she died. Nothing has been moved or added. The mug is exactly as it was a year ago.”

  “How do you know someone else didn’t put arsenic in it?”

  “With everyone else she drank tea. The only time Emma used the coffee mug was when she went over her writings with you. Her family, her maids, her visitors will all attest to that.”

  His hand tightened around the mug. A dark look came over his face. He glanced at the fireplace. Nellie read his mind.

  “Don’t bother, Mr. Gilder. That is the mug you drank from. The one you used to poison Emma is in a safe place.”

  He saw that he was boxed in.

  “If you knew all this, why are you here? Why not simply write your story?”

  “I needed to understand what kind of man could not wait for a woman with cancer to die on her own. Why you would make her last weeks on Earth ones of unbearable suffering. Someone who trusted you and who had done so much for your success.”

  “Have you ever loved someone, Miss Bly?”

  She thought of Ingram. “Yes.”

  “It is difficult to watch them deceive you and give their love to another. I could not bear witness to that for another day.”

  She was suddenly tired. She stood up. “Thank you for the coffee.”

  “Are you going to the police?”

  “I don’t trust the police. Not when you are so close with Judge Hilton. The story will be justice enough.”

  She walked to the door, eager to be out of his presence. But then she stopped.

  “You misunderstood the poem, you know. Helena and Emma did not love one another.”

  Richard looked confused, uncertain. “They were lovers,” he said insistently.

  “Maybe. At one point.”

  “Then why go to the trouble of having Charles pose as her suitor for ten years?”

  “Your wife was lonely. She needed someone with whom she could share her thoughts. That was not you; you could provide none of what she needed. You had forbidden her to see Molly, so she turned to Emma, who was no doubt infatuated for a while but must have realized your wife’s limitations. That was the point
of the poem. She simply chose to be a good friend all those years, to someone who didn’t deserve it, while her own longings went unmet.”

  She opened the door.

  “You see, theirs was a friendship borne not of love but of loneliness.”

  She walked out.

  Chapter Thirty

  She had been thinking about the story for days, ever since the pieces began coming together, and finally decided to write it in as straightforward a way as possible. The facts of the story were sensational enough. She didn’t need to embellish them with the writing.

  EMMA LAZARUS MURDERED, EVIDENCE SHOWS

  Death Attributed to Cancer Was Due to Poison

  By Nellie Bly

  The World has learned that the death of Emma Lazarus, the revered poet and social reformer, was caused by arsenic poisoning rather than a cancer, as originally believed, and that the person who administered the poison was Miss Lazarus’s editor at the Century Magazine, Richard Gilder.

  A highly respected physician and chemist utilized by the World has examined samples of Miss Lazarus’s clothing and handwritten letters, which have revealed the presence of fatal levels of arsenic in her system in the weeks immediately prior to her death. Although arsenic can be useful in the early stages of cancer, all of the doctors providing care for Miss Lazarus had ordered arsenic treatments stopped six months before her death. Yet according to our physician’s tests, the arsenic levels in Miss Lazarus continued to rise until her demise.

  Further investigation by the World revealed that arsenic was given to Miss Lazarus almost daily and without her knowledge by Mr. Gilder, her longtime editor at Scribner’s and the Century. The two met every afternoon during the last three months of her life to catalogue her writings before her death. It was during those meetings that Mr. Gilder administered the poison to Miss Lazarus through a coffee cup. The World has obtained the mug in question and turned it over to the New York City Police Department.

  When questioned by a World reporter, Mr. Gilder acknowledged making coffee for Miss Lazarus daily and providing the cup to her that contained the arsenic. According to the staff at the Lazarus home, no one besides Miss Lazarus ever drank from the cup, and no one besides Mr. Gilder ever poured coffee into it.