The lines in Lincoln’s clean-shaven face were so deep that they were like chasms. From under his shaggy eyebrows, his gray eyes surveyed the crowd gravely and, it seemed, without hope. Frank thought it was the saddest face he’d ever seen. Placing his hands behind his back, Lincoln continued to look at them for a moment or two longer. Then he began to speak.
And now Frank winced. He couldn’t help it. From this tall, angular man came forth a sound so high, so harsh and so unpleasing that it grated upon the ear and made the hearer wish he’d stop. This was the man the Chicago newspaper said should be president? However, as there was nothing else to do, he listened. And after a short while, he noticed several things.
In the first place, Lincoln made no attempt at high-flown rhetoric, indulged in no emotion. Simply and plainly, in a careful, lawyer-like manner, he put his first argument to them. And it was this.
His opponents, boosted by the strange Dred Scott decision, had argued that the Founding Fathers who framed the Constitution had never intended that Congress should have the right to forbid or legislate at all on slavery in any territory. So Lincoln had researched the subject, and had found evidence for twenty-one of the thirty-nine Founding Fathers—and discovered that every one of them had, in fact, legislated on precisely that question. And Washington himself had signed measures forbidding slavery in territories into law. So either the founders were denying their own Constitution, or the Constitution did indeed give Congress the right to make such decisions.
Of course, Lincoln could have simply pointed this out as a statistical and legislative fact, and added some high-flown phrases, to make his point well enough. But his rhetorical genius lay in being painstaking. Slowly, deliberately, giving the date, naming the Founding Fathers concerned, and explaining the circumstances of the case, Lincoln picked apart each vote. Again and again he did it. And each time he did so, he drew the same conclusion in almost identical words: “that nothing in their understanding, no dividing local from Federal authority, nor anything else in the Constitution, forbade the Federal government to control as to slavery in Federal Territory.” And as the words were repeated, not with a hammer blow, not triumphantly, but quietly and reasonably, as one man to another, the effect was devastating.
He made no other claim. He just showed, beyond all reasonable doubt, that the Congress had the right to decide the issue. By his appeal to their reason, he held his audience’s attention completely. They were enraptured.
And as he warmed to his theme a strange transformation seemed to take place in the speaker too. Lincoln’s face relaxed. He appeared to be inspired with an inner light. He would raise his right hand from time to time, as he became animated, even jabbing his long finger in the air to emphasize a point. Most remarkable of all, Frank suddenly realized that he no longer even noticed Lincoln’s voice. All he knew was that the man before him possessed a remarkable authority.
Having dealt with the Republican stance on slavery in the territories, Lincoln had two other points to make. The first was that his party believed in the Constitution, and the South’s threat of secession if a Republican president were elected was like putting a gun to the head of the Northern voters. But he also had words of caution for his own Republicans. They must do all they could, he told them, to reassure the South that Republicans might not like slavery, but they had no designs against the existing slave states. In order to reassure the South, they must support the runaway slave laws and return slaves to their Southern owners.
Having said these words of political caution, he ended with a brief summary of his party’s moral position. Let slavery alone in the South, because it is already there and necessity demands it, but Republicans still stand by what they believe. And he rounded off with a brief but ringing peroration.
“Let us have faith that Right is Might, and in that faith, let us, to the end, dare to do our duty as we understand it.”
He was given thunderous applause. And Frank was no less impressed than most of the audience. He had seen a brilliant speaker, a politician who was moral but also a realist. Behind Lincoln’s words, he thought he sensed a certain puritan contempt for the South, but if so, that was hardly surprising.
As they started home Hetty turned to him and asked: “Well, Frank, tell me honestly, what did you think of him?”
“Impressive.”
“I thought so too.” She gave him a smile. “I’m glad we can agree on that.”
“So am I,” he responded kindly.
“I believe he will be president, Frank.”
“Could be.” He nodded, and offered her his arm as he had done before. As she took the arm, she gave it a little squeeze.
So he did not add what was really on his mind: that if Lincoln became president, he viewed the future with dread.
The Draft
1863
IT WAS A lovely day in July. Not a cloud in the sky. Mary was so excited that she hugged Gretchen, as they sat in Mrs. Master’s handsome open carriage and were driven round the park.
“I have a surprise for you,” said Gretchen.
“What?”
“Before we take the ferry. Wait and you’ll see.”
You’d hardly guess that the city was at war at all. Not a soldier in sight, and the park looking so splendid and so green.
Two weeks earlier, it had been a different story. At the end of June, when General Lee and his Confederates had crossed the Potomac River and pushed into Pennsylvania, New York had been in a ferment. Every regiment in the city had been sent southward to bolster the Union army. “But if Lee defeats them, or gives them the slip,” Master had pointed out, “he could be here in days.”
By the start of July, a big battle had begun down at Gettysburg. At first no one knew who was winning. But on the fourth, last Saturday, news came up the wires that the Union had gained a great victory. And by Thursday, Mrs. Master had told her: “I think, Mary dear, that it’s safe for you to go on your holiday now.”
Free at last. The holiday had been planned the month before. Gretchen’s husband had insisted that she needed a week of rest. He’d continue to mind the store, while their three children would stay nearby with Gretchen’s parents. It had also been agreed that Mary should go with her, so that Gretchen could travel with safety and propriety, and the two friends keep each other company. A respectable hotel had been booked out on Long Island. Before they took the ferry that afternoon, Mrs. Master had kindly told them to use her carriage as they liked, and so they had begun with a whirl through Central Park.
What with Gretchen’s children and a store to run, it wasn’t possible for the two friends to see each other as they had in the old days—though they always kept in regular touch, and Mary was godmother to one of the children. They were both delighted, therefore, with this chance to spend a week away at the beach together, and already they were laughing like a pair of girls.
“Look at us fashionable ladies going round the park,” cried Mary.
She loved Central Park. It was only a few years since the great, two-and-a-half-mile rectangle had been laid out to the inspired design of Olmstead and Vaux, to provide a much needed breathing space, the “lungs” in the middle of what would clearly, one day, be the city’s completed grid. Swamps had been drained, a couple of ragged hamlets swept away, hills leveled. And already its lawns and ponds, woods and avenues provided landscapes quite as elegant as London’s Hyde Park or the Bois de Boulogne beside Paris. Why, the contractors had even done their work without any graft. No one had ever seen anything like it.
And the two women were certainly well dressed. Gretchen could afford it, but Mary had some nice clothes too. Servants in New York made twice as much as a factory worker, with room and board besides, and most sent money back to their families. In the fourteen years she’d been with the Masters, without any family to support, Mary had saved a tidy sum.
Of course, if ever she’d needed money, Sean would have helped her. Her brother was becoming quite a wealthy man. Eight years ago, he’d
taken over Nolan’s saloon down on Beekman Street. When she’d asked him what had happened to Nolan, he’d been evasive.
“He wasn’t getting along with some of the boys,” he’d said vaguely. “He may have gone to California, I believe.”
To tell the truth, she didn’t care what had happened to Nolan. But one thing was certain: Sean was making a fortune out of the saloon. He’d married and had a family now, and was quite the respectable man.
“You don’t have to work as a servant, you know,” he told her. “I’ve a place for you any time you want.”
But she preferred to keep her independence. And by now, in any case, the Masters’ house had become her home. If little Sally Master was in any kind of trouble, it wouldn’t be long before she was knocking on Mary’s door. When young Tom Master returned from Harvard for the summer, Mary felt the same thrill of pleasure as if he’d been her own.
Did she still think of getting married? Perhaps. It wasn’t too late, if the right man came along. But somehow he never seemed to. If Hans had asked her, she supposed she would have said yes. But Hans had been happily married for many years. Time had passed, and she never thought of him nowadays. Well, hardly ever.
“Down Fifth, James,” Gretchen called to the coachman, and a minute later they passed out of the bottom corner of the park and onto the carriage thoroughfare.
“Where are we going?” said Mary. But her friend didn’t answer.
If Broadway had dominated the social scene for generations, the upstart Fifth Avenue was bidding for prominence now. And though fashionable Central Park was still waiting for the city to reach it, isolated mansions on Fifth were already getting close.
The first house of note, seven streets down from the park, was a palatial mansion nearing completion on an empty site. “That’s Madame Restell’s,” Gretchen remarked. “Doesn’t she live fine?” Having made a fortune with her husband procuring abortions for the good people of the city, Madame Restell had recently decided to build herself a house on Fifth where she could enjoy her retirement in state. And if Mary looked at that house with some horror, it was only another block before she reverently crossed herself.
Fifth at Fiftieth. St. Patrick’s Cathedral. A decade had passed since Cardinal Hughes had laid the cornerstone of the great church which the city’s huge new population of Irish Catholics so obviously deserved. And there was no doubt about its message. If Trinity’s claims on the Gothic style had seemed impressive for a while, the vast new Catholic cathedral rising on Fifth would put the Protestant Episcopalians in their place—and provide a mighty reminder that honor was due to the Irish Catholics too.
Mary was proud of St. Patrick’s. Increasingly, as time went by, the Church had been a comfort to her. The religion of her childhood, and of her people. At least you knew that it would always be there. She went to Mass every Sunday, confessing her few, small sins to a priest who gave her kindly dispensation and renewal of life. She prayed in the chapel, where the shadows comprehended all human tears, the candles promised love, and the silence, she knew, was the stillness of the eternal Church. With this spiritual nourishment her life was, almost, complete.
They swept on down Fifth, past the orphanage for poor Negro children at Forty-third, past the fortress-like splendor of the reservoir, all the way down to Union Square, where they picked up the Bowery.
“Have you guessed where we’re going?” asked Gretchen.
Theodore Keller’s photographic studio was well equipped, and divided into two sections. In the smaller section, there was a camera set in position opposite a single chair placed in front of a curtain. For like the other photographers on the Bowery, his bread-and-butter business in recent years had been taking quick portraits of young men standing proudly, or sheepishly, in their unaccustomed uniforms, before they went off to fight against the South. Quicker than the old daguerreotype to take, easy to reproduce on paper, he’d get thirty a day sometimes. It paid the rent. At first, these small “carte-de-visite”-size portraits had seemed jolly enough, like taking someone’s picture at the seaside. Gradually, however, as the terrible casualties of the Civil War had mounted, he had realized that the dull little portraits he was taking were more like tombstones, last mementoes before some poor fellow vanished from his family forever. And if he tried to make each humble one as splendid as he could, he did not tell his customers the reason.
The larger section was a more elaborate affair. Here there was a sofa, rich velvet curtains, numerous backdrops and props for grander pictures. When not working, this was the part of the studio where he relaxed, and to the discerning eye, there were hints to suggest that he privately considered himself not only a professional, but an artist and even, perhaps, something of a bohemian. In one corner, in a case, there was a violin which he liked to play. On a small round table against the wall, he would often drop any books that he happened to be reading. Today, besides a well-thumbed edition of the tales of Edgar Allan Poe, there were two slim books of poetry. One of them, the Fleurs du Mal of Baudelaire, was safely in French. But the other poems were by an American, and if it hadn’t been his own sister that was coming to visit, he’d have put those verses safely out of sight in a drawer.
As he prepared for Gretchen’s arrival, he still hadn’t decided which backdrop to use. If there was time, he liked to look at his subjects, decide the scenery and arrange them on the inspiration of the moment. He saw his sister and her family frequently, of course, but he hadn’t seen Mary in quite a while. And besides, he wanted to see the two of them together, see how they looked and what they were wearing, before he decided on the best tableau.
His sister’s idea of giving Mary a portrait of herself as a present had struck the young man as an admirable idea, and he’d offered to do it for nothing.
When the two women arrived at his studio, he welcomed them. Mary, he could see, was both pleased and a little self-conscious. The first thing he did, therefore, was to show her some of the better portraits he had done. She supposed that this was so that she might admire his work, but his real purpose was different; and it was not long before, by watching her expression and listening to her comments, he knew exactly how she would like to look herself.
For the art of the commercial photographer, he’d found, was surprisingly close to that of the painter. Your subject had to sit still, of course—depending on conditions the exposure might be more than thirty seconds. Then there was the color of the lights he used—often he found a blue light gave a better result—and also the direction of the light. By placing his lights well—that is to say, by letting his subject’s face cast shadows—he could show the true volumes of the head, the structure and stress lines of the face, the character of the sitter. Sometimes he was able to do this; but usually, a revealing picture was the last thing people wanted. They were hoping for something quite different, something fashionable, something conventional, something entirely uninteresting. And he was used to obliging them, hoping that, with luck, the session might present enough of a technical challenge to amuse him.
Mary’s hopes were simple. She just wanted to look like a lady, and a little younger than she was. And in twenty minutes he was able to make a portrait of her, sitting on an upholstered chair, before a velvet curtain and a table supporting a placid urn—a picture which, he was sure, would give her great joy, and be given to her family so that, one day long hence, someone could say: “See, that was how your Aunt Mary looked when she was young. Quite a handsome lady.”
Gretchen’s case was different—she already had the portraits she needed. In recent years, though, he had observed some subtle changes in his sister. Partly, of course, it was because she had listened to him talk about his work, and she had begun to understand the difference between the interesting and the humdrum. But there was something more than that. He’d detected it several times lately: a mischievous humor, a sense of adventure, even a trace of anarchy, perhaps, under her well-ordered exterior. Could it be that Gretchen had secret depths?
“It’s time,” she announced, “for our tableau.”
He wasn’t sure why, but Theodore knew what he wanted, now. It was a backdrop he hadn’t used for some time. Most people would have felt it was out of date. He went to the back of the studio, found what he was looking for and hoisted it up.
It was a flowery, eighteenth-century garden scene, rococo and sensuous. It might have been painted by Watteau or Boucher, for the French court. In front of it he placed a swing with a wide seat. Deftly, he tied a few ribbons to the ropes of the swing, to match the spirit of the painted scene behind. Then he produced a pair of broad-rimmed straw hats and told the two of them to put them on.
“Mary, sit on the swing,” he commanded. “Gretchen, stand behind.”
It worked rather well. Humorous, yet charming. He told Gretchen to pretend she was in the act of pushing Mary on the swing. It took a minute or two to get the tableau right, but in the end it really did seem as if the swing was on the very point of motion and, telling the girls to hold their positions, he took his picture.
“One more,” said Gretchen.
He didn’t argue, set up the camera, went under the black cloth. And just as he did so, Gretchen reached forward and knocked off Mary’s hat. Mary burst out laughing, shook her head back so that her dark hair fell loose. And with a flash of inspiration, Theodore took the picture.
As he emerged from under the cloth, he gazed at the two women, at his sister mischievously grinning, and at Mary with her loosened hair. And to himself he thought: How did I not see before how beautiful she is?
He offered them lemonade and seed cake. They chatted pleasantly about their families and the coming holiday. He made himself agreeable to Mary, while Gretchen glanced cheerfully round the studio. Suddenly her eyes alighted on the book of verse.
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