by Gore Vidal
By the time we were seated in the bower, listening to the band play marches, Helen had grown very quiet, even sullen. “What’s the good of coming out like this when I must go back to-night?”
I suppose from the beginning I knew what I was doing. It was not possible to show freedom to that unchained dog and expect it to want to be leashed again to the gate. Was I deliberately cruel in showing her this much of the world beyond her room in Thomas Street? Or simply stupid? Both, I suppose.
“I thought you—well, didn’t dislike it, where you are.”
“I hate it.” She crumbled cake disagreeably. I hoped I would not have to touch her hand and feel the stickiness of sugar. Once I got honey on my neck as a child. My mother said that I screamed for an hour.
“There is never hot water.” Helen frowned. “The Negro woman doesn’t like me. The others get hot water twice a day. Most days I get this barely warm water, only once. And in the winter it’s ice cold. I tell Mrs. Townsend this is no way to live. She speaks to me of moral courage and promises to tell the Negro woman but it’s the same thing the next day, and the woman—she just smiles at me when I say where is my hot water? Just smiles and looks happy and shoves the tin at me, slopping water on the floor.” Helen swept the fragments of the cake onto the ground. “You see? I have nothing to talk to you about.”
I told her I liked her whether or not she talked. I was sincere. She was indifferent. The evening was going all wrong. “What do you talk to the others about?”
Helen shrugged. “Everything. Nothing. We talk about the customers. They say shocking things—the girls.”
“Such as?”
“Shocking, I said.” She would not indulge me. What, I wonder, do they say of me? “Then we talk about clothes, and I like that best. I sew for them. I like sewing. Do people come here every night?” She looked about her, eyes dazzled by the pink and yellow of lanterns. The music was slow now; a single fiddle played a mournful solo off-key. Yet the whole effect was ravishing: hyacinths, coloured lights, the half-shadowed sullen pretty face of a prisoner made free for a single evening by me. It was like a fairy-tale, particularly the ending when she must return at midnight to Thomas Street and its guardian witch Rosanna Townsend, nevermore free again. Though why should I not set her free permanently? I could, with some effort, rent a room for her. And she could earn money by sewing. I proposed the matter to her.
Helen smiled at last, looked happy. “Oh, good!”
I was alarmed. It is one thing to talk like this during a fiddler’s off-key aria, and another to wake up in the morning and find another person lying beside you forever, and no more choice.
Either Helen sensed my fear or she is truly unusual. “But that would be wrong. I could never live with a man I wasn’t married to.” This was breath-taking but she meant it. “I’m not like that.”
“What about—what you do at Mrs. Townsend’s?”
“That’s different.” Helen was firm. “You wouldn’t want to marry me, would you?” She laughed before I could think of anything to say. “No, you wouldn’t. Besides, I’d be a bad wife. I’m not good with children. They frighten me. That’s why living at Mrs. Townsend’s is really not bad, most of the time. If there were a different maid …” The face became heavy with resentment, an ugly expression which made her all the more appealing to me. “But you will remember to find me work where I can be paid as much as I get now and start a business of my own, though where I shall get a hundred dollars I don’t know. I try to save but it all goes. I don’t know where. My mother said I would die in the poorhouse which is where she is, poor thing.”
“What about your father?”
The first warm laugh, not heard by me since one of Mrs. Townsend’s customers vaulted the back fence and landed in the neighbour’s piggery. “What about my father? You tell me. I never knew him. Neither did my mother, I should think. She drank a lot when she was young, and worked as a dress-maker. Only cutting—which is all she did—not really sewing. Her eyes were too weak. She lacked the touch. You can tell me about your people, if you like.”
At last a personal exchange; the first in our seventeen encounters. I keep count, being on a strict budget.
“My father kept a bar in Greenwich Village. My mother worked there, too. I suppose he’s as much a drunkard as your mother.”
“They were rich.” A long sigh.
“No. But the bar did well.”
“Brothers, sisters?”
“All dead. Five, I think, there were. I was the only one to grow up.”
“That must’ve been hard on your mother.”
“It was. She hated my father. That was harder still.” I told Helen everything—or almost everything. She listened like a child being read a story. Ever since I was born there had been quarrels between my father and mother. He drunk, abusive; she tearful, frightened. One November night he locked her out of the house. Too proud to go to a neighbour’s, she slept in the shed at the back, got a chill, a fever, a pleurisy, a coffin and a grave. Since I was living in the city, going to classes at Columbia College, I did not know for a week that she was dead. “When I came home, we fought in the yard, my father and I. I bloodied him. And to this day I’ve not set foot in Greenwich.” Telling this story, I felt strong, masterful, a king out of legend; and what I told her was true though I did not mention that my father nearly put out one of my eyes with a stool.
“You’ve never seen him since?” There was—I shivered with pleasure —awe in her voice.
“Recently. In the street. We were polite.” Murderer, murderer, murderer, a drum beats in my head when I think of him, write of him, look at the miniature of my mother, painted on ivory by Vanderlyn—she was a pretty woman, never happy.
Together Helen and I strolled through the gardens and Helen took careful note of every dress. “See those mutton sleeves? They took days and days to sew! And the material! French watered silk. And look at that fichu! Belgian lace.” She gave me a carefully detailed report on the cut and cost of every lady’s clothes.
As we rounded a small pavilion, we nearly stepped into a pair of figures—who leapt apart. One was William de la Touche Clancey. The other was a well-made boy of perhaps sixteen, carefully got up to resemble a swell; only the red blunt hands betrayed the fact that he was a workie.
“So!” Clancey gave his accusing goose-like hiss.
The boy looked embarrassed, as well he should. There are some things that the poor ought not to do even for money.
“So how is your friend the radical Mr. Leggett?” Yes, Clancey remembered me from the Five Points.
“Very well. And how is your friend Mr. Edwin Forrest?” I was bland.
“I’ve seen you before, Miss.” The boy looked at Helen who stared at him with a blankness that would have done credit to an Assembly matron. “I work for Joseph Hoxie, Miss. You must know him. He’s a friend of Mrs. Townsend.”
Helen did not blink. “I think,” she said to me, “it’s time to meet our friends.”
But Clancey was eager to balance an account. “Townsend? Townsend? Surely you don’t mean the Townsends who live in Gramercy Park?”
“No, Mr. Clancey. The lady we know lives in Thomas Street.” The boy was obviously set on preparing a defence for himself if Helen was ever tempted to put it about that he, too, was a prostitute.
“I fear that I know not a soul in that colourful part of town, except for my old friend the estimable Mr. Hoxie for whom young Richard works.”
“Part-time?” I could not resist the final thrust. In the lamplight the boy’s face went dark with rage.
“I did not hear your name …” began Clancey to Helen but by then we were gone.
To my surprise, Helen began to laugh. “I can’t wait to tell the others. Do let’s get a carriage. Quickly! I always suspected something was wrong with Mr. Hoxie. Now I know. Those handsome apprentices! And it’s true, what the boy said, I have seen him before. Sometimes he stops and stares up at the house for the longest time. I guess he hasn
’t the money or the courage to come inside or—or he doesn’t want to, that’s it! To come in and visit us. Oh, what a day! You are sweet, Charlie!” She kissed my cheek like a sister.
I was shocked by her response. Although I have spent many pleasant hours in establishments like Mrs. Townsend’s, I must, at heart, be very innocent or perhaps simple is the word. There is so much going on that I know nothing of. This was not the magic sad ending I had in mind for our evening.
Six
I HAVE READ several hundred pages of M. L. Davis’s memoirs of Aaron Burr and have learned almost nothing that I did not know. He might have outlined the material as follows:
After the British left New York City, the Tory lawyers were disbarred, leaving an opening for Whig lawyers, particularly heroes of the Revolution. But the rule in New York state is that one must have read law three years before being admitted to the bar. Burr was in a hurry. He went to Albany, presented himself to the three justices of the state supreme court, got them to bend the rule for him (particularly helpful was Justice Robert Yates) and on January 19, 1782, he was admitted to the bar. Among his first clients were his old commander, Colonel Malcolm, the dePeysters of Albany, and Robert Livingston.
April 12, 1782, he became a counsellor-at-law.
July 6, 1782, he married Theodosia Prevost at Paramus, New Jersey. He was twenty-six. She was thirty-six.
June 21, 1783, their daughter Theodosia was born at Albany. In November the Burrs moved to New York City, arriving just as the British army departed.
The Burrs lived first at the Verplanck house two doors from City Hall. Then they moved to the corner of Maiden Lane and Nassau Street (their back yard was famous for its grape-vines and arbours, their household for a drunken maid named Hannah). In 1791 they moved to 4 Broadway. As a summer house, the Colonel took a lease on the mansion at Richmond Hill.
From the beginning Colonel Burr was a successful lawyer. With his first partner, William T. Broome, he began to make and spend the first of several fortunes. As a lawyer he was—is—meticulous. Yet he has a certain contempt for the whole business. “The law,” he likes to say, “is simply whatever is boldly asserted and plausibly maintained.”
Burr’s rivalry with Hamilton began in those days. It was inevitable. Both were heroes, both were ambitious, both were lawyers. Of the two Hamilton was considered to be the more profound philosophically as well as the more long-winded, with a tendency to undo his own brief by taking it past the point of successful advocacy.
Burr was the more effective in a court-room because his mind was swifter than Hamilton’s; also, of an entire generation of public men, Burr was free of cant: he never moralized unless to demonstrate a paradox. As a result the passionate believers thought him evil on the ground that the man who refuses to preach Goodness must be Bad. Yet juries are often grateful to the Colonel for not preaching at them. Neither Burr nor Hamilton was a natural orator like Clay or Webster. They could not move multitudes; on the other hand, they were effective with juries and with their peers.
Despite their rivalry, Burr and Hamilton sometimes worked together. On one case, the vain and edgy Hamilton insisted that Burr precede him and give the first argument. Without protest, Burr took the inferior position. Then, blandly, he used all the arguments that he knew Hamilton was going to make. Hamilton was furious—and uncharacteristically short and to the point when it came time for him to speak.
These are the facts for those years and Mr. Davis simply puts them all down, pasting an occasional platitude over the Colonel’s wax-like effigy. I have just sent him back the manuscript with a grateful letter. Now I must begin the real work: finding out what is true, if possible, or if not true useful to my purpose.
One important detail from the Davis manuscript. He reproduces a letter Colonel Burr wrote from the Columbia county estate of the Van Ness family. The text of the letter (to a Colonel Claypoole) is of no particular interest. But the date and the place are vital.
The Van Ness house in which Burr was staying is only a few miles from Kinderhook where Martin Van Buren was born December 5, 1782.
The date of the letter is March 11, 1782. (Yes, I have ticked off the months on my fingers.)
Burr’s last line is cryptic. “I disport myself as best I can in this wooded valley, and you know what I mean by that.”
Seven
LEGGETT TOLD ME the latest Van Buren story. One senator bet another senator that he could get Van Buren to commit himself publicly on a public issue. “Matt,” said the senator, “there’s been some talk that the sun rises in the east. What do you think?”
“I have heard the same rumour, Senator, but since I never get up until after dawn, I have no useful opinion in the matter.”
Eight
COLONEL BURR and I watched with child-like pleasure the demolition of a whole block of houses on Broadway just across from the Park Theatre. We were not alone. What looked to be half the town had turned out to watch as a huge iron ball attached to a crane smashed in the wall of the first house. Mr. Astor intends to build on the site a hotel that will eclipse the City Hotel. No doubt he will succeed. He always does.
“Splendid!” The Colonel clapped his hands as the narrow Dutch building buckled in upon itself with a hollow cascading sound. But then as a thick cloud of gray dust slowly began to rise, the audience fled.
The Colonel and I crossed to the City Hall Park. Although we had an appointment at the Register’s Office, the Colonel was in no mood for work. Instead we sat on a bench beside a purple lilac hedge.
Burr breathed contentedly; looked about the well-kept park. “This used to be called the Fields.” He pointed to a high place on a line with the City Hall. “And over there were the gallows. But not just an ordinary commonplace gallows. Oh, no! New Yorkers have always liked their pleasures exotic. So our gallows was designed to resemble a Chinese pagoda. Very pretty it was, too. And what a lot of poor wretches they used to hang there. In the first year of the federal government, when New York was the capital, there were five hangings in a single afternoon, one right after the other. The town was thrilled. President Washington was no doubt impressed.”
“Were there as many murderers then as now?”
“Murderers? Hardly! We hanged only burglars in those days. Murder was practically unknown.”
“There is so much I’d like to know about that time.”
“Yes, I know you would.” With a stick, Burr drew suns and stars in the dust at his feet. Emblems of his Mexican empire?
“I’ve read some of Mr. Davis’s book.”
“Don’t tell me.”
“I won’t.”
“Must I do it myself?”
“I see no choice.”
The Colonel gave a soft moan. “You know, Charlie, I made a great error—that is, of the many great errors I have made in my life, the worst was supposing that one could not be hurt by a lie. As a result, I never corrected a slander. I simply assumed that since there were so many honourable men in the world who knew my character, matters would be set straight in time. Well, I was wrong. Friends drop away, die. While the slanders never cease, never!” Burr spoke with a stoic wonder. No bitterness that I could detect.
“When my daughter was alive, I was intent upon clearing my name for her, for my grandson. Then …” He removed his hat, as if at grave-side—no, water-side. “… for a good many years I have been perfectly indifferent. But now your interest …” He looked at me (he must know!) and smiled. “Well, I do enjoy teaching though I would prefer a subject other than my career, despite its cautionary aspects. Very well. We shall talk and you may write down, if it amuses you, what I say in your short hand, which is so much more dextrous than my long.”
Thus it was agreed.
I have now begun to drive the Colonel a bit hard but there is not much time to assemble all the details. Leggett wants the Van Buren connection made explicit, with as much documentation as possible for an anonymous pamphlet. Later, under my own name, I will write the whole life
, anticipating Mr. Davis. A prospect that excites me though Leggett is full of foreboding. “You will be favourable to Burr, and so must fail because the American reader cannot bear a surprise. He knows that this is the greatest country on earth, Washington the greatest man that ever lived, Burr the wickedest, and evidence to the contrary is not admissible. That means no inconvenient facts, no new information. If you really want the reader’s attention, you must flatter him. Make his prejudices your own. Tell him things he already knows. He will love your soundness.”
“Then explain your success at the Evening Post. Every day you attack your advertisers’ prejudices …”
“And every day we lose another advertiser because of what Bryant calls my fierceness. I am also in constant danger of a knife in the ribs. Be warned by my ‘success.’ ” I shall be.
Nine
IT TOOK THE COLONEL and me several days to learn how to work together. He is not used to dictation; he also refuses to rely on memory. “After all, I am a lawyer. Therefore I need evidence—books, letters, newspapers: things I can refute!”
Our first attempts were simply fragments. The Colonel could not connect episodes. He tended to wander from the point. But now (the middle of May) we are working well and what began as a series of random anecdotes is becoming such a full narrative that as we sweep down the years I am at last able to detect, here and there, a glimpse of my quarry, and I am certain now that once I have thoroughly mapped the jungle it ought not to be too difficult to find whatever beast I want, no matter how hidden the lair!
Ten
THE COLONEL is unusually nervous today. “I feel like an actor who does not know his lines.” He has been sitting with a packet of letters and some old newspaper cuttings on the table in front of him. Also, an open much-marked copy of The Life of Alexander Hamilton, recently published by Hamilton’s son, John.