Boston a novel
Rupert was summoned to help his wife revise the list of the guests to
be notified of the funeral; and Cornelia wandered into the music-room,
where the services would be held. But she could not stand those four
life-size governors, each with the same lean face and tightly shut
lips and nose tapering to a point. She went into the conservatory,
where there were beautiful plants and flowers, and benches for young
lovers listening to music--even in the suburbs of Boston they did that.
Cornelia’s children had been young here and now her grandchildren were
at the age of love, yet she had never felt at ease in the house; she
had never been able to have her way, it always had to be the Thornwell
way. A public career had not been enough for Josiah; he had insisted
upon managing his household and had had the support of brothers and
sisters, a whole phalanx of righteous people. Great-aunt Deborah had
lived in the home until her death, quite recently, and had been the
real mistress of the family, with the duty of teaching the daughters
what Thornwell daughters ought to know and think.
For Cornelia there had been a little music and a little painting, a
rose garden and some books, a few friends, a play now and then and
symphony concerts. Gradually the family got used to the fact that
they could expect no more of her than this--that she should conceal
from them the fact that she found any element of fun in their sober
traditions. They did not understand her smile, and it never occurred
to them to want to understand it; what made them “Boston” was the fact
that never by any possibility would it cross their minds that they
had anything to learn from what was “not Boston.” Cornelia’s father
had been a professor in a small college, which was decent enough, but
his father had been a common immigrant; and three generations from
now at Boston dinner-tables people would still be whispering to their
neighbors, “Oh, yes, but, my dear, her grandfather came over in the
steerage; they say he was a bog-trotter--the name was Irish, anyhow.”
Nor had there been any fun in being the wife of a governor. Let those
who wanted fame and prominence help themselves to Cornelia’s share! It
had meant long speeches to listen to, bores to talk to, indigestible
dinners to eat. It had meant never speaking a natural word, never
laughing a merry laugh; everything calculated, everything a matter of
policy, to enhance a career which loyalty required a wife to believe
in. Cornelia put her hands to her ears to drown out the roaring of
crowds shouting victory on election night. She could hear a nasal,
drawling voice pledging zeal for the public interest. “Fellow-citizens
of the Commonwealth, upon this solemn occasion when you have summoned
me by your suffrages--” and so on. Nowhere any charm, or humor, or
touch of simplicity! Nothing but heavy pageantry and play-acting, from
the cradle to the coffin!
Even now, when in the darkened bedroom the psychological Mr. Hobson
had charge of Josiah’s affairs. Said the assistant, “How shall I get
this old buster’s wig to stay in place? Can I ask one of the servants
for some glue?” Said the psychologist, “No, you can’t ask for glue in
a house like this--what would they think? Look on that bureau for a
couple of safety-pins.”
VII
The news had spread, the telephone was ringing, messages of condolence
were arriving--a constant coming and going and whispering in the house
of death. The dressmaker to consult Cornelia about her costume; also
the old lady who sold bonnets in the town and was patronized as a
matter of charity. Cornelia was willing to be charitable--but Clara was
using this old lady to persuade Cornelia to don a veil. A dozen other
questions: who was to provide the flowers, and what kind? What was to
be the music, and who was to play it? Should the mill-hands be given an
opportunity to look upon the features of their employer and just how
was that to be managed? Two keys of the organ failed to sound and must
be seen to. Such details served to break the monotony of mourning.
Also there were relatives arriving: Quincy Thornwell, Great-uncle
Abner’s son, a clubman of fifty or so, prematurely white-haired, his
wizened face full of gossip; he had the reputation of a ladies’ man,
in a decorous Boston way, and Cornelia liked him because he was not
so proper as the others and would tell her funny stories about the
city. Quincy had grown rich by using the family information on the
stock-market. He spent his days in board rooms, watching the prices
of stocks chalked upon a wall; and in the evening, when he was not
visiting the ladies, he was playing chess with his deaf old father.
They talked about poor Josiah for a while, and then Abner could not
keep off his hobby. He tried unsuccessfully to whisper: “The fellow
that won the last round is a Jew, but they say he’s French--kind of
funny, ain’t it?”
And then Priscilla and Elizabeth, the daughters of Deborah. Priscilla,
the elder, was a perfect replica of her mother and planning at the age
of twenty-one to devote herself to settlement work. Betty, the younger
one, gave Cornelia thrills; a little round face, a nose trying its best
to turn up, soft brown eyes that shone with tenderness, and little
puckers when she laughed. She sat in the councils of the women, demure
and silent, as became a miss of seventeen, whose right of entrance
might be challenged. Later, when Cornelia left the room, she followed.
“Oh, Grannie, I wish they didn’t have to quarrel so!”
“So do I, Betty.”
“Sister is just beside herself over that old Shah of Persia’s rug.
Of course it’s interesting to know that your grandfather traveled in
Persia and had the Shah give him presents; but after all, there are
plenty of rugs you can buy. But Mother says if Aunt Clara doesn’t let
us have it, she’ll never speak to her again. Do you suppose she means
that?”
“Such things have happened, dear. Your Great-uncle Abner has not spoken
to your Great-uncle Ahab for fifty years.”
“Oh, Grannie! What extraordinary things in a family! Will Great-uncle
Ahab come to the funeral?”
“Of course.”
“And he won’t speak to Great-uncle Abner?”
“In public he will, but not otherwise. Abner married the girl that Ahab
was engaged to, so Ahab has stayed a bachelor all his life. Don’t you
remember that big house down at the shore that they sawed in half?”
“Oh, was that it?”
“They quarreled and divided it exactly, and Ahab moved his half to
another part of the town.”
Said Betty, “I’m so glad you’re not going to cover yourself with a
horrid black veil. It wouldn’t become you a bit. And I’m glad you’re
not crying when you don’t feel like it. I say for you to do what you
want to.”
“Thank you, Betty dear.”
“It’s a fact that Grandfather never felt the need of personal
affection--or at least he never showed it--so why should other people
show it?” Betty stopped for a moment, and then caught the old lady’s
hand. “Oh, Grannie, you’re crying now! I’ve hurt your feelings!”
“No, dear, not that! It’s just that I was thinking how much unhappiness
I’d have saved if it had been the fashion for people to say what they
mean.”
“Well, Mother is cross with me; she says I’m an unnatural child, and
she can’t understand me. Do you find me so?”
“No, dear.” And Cornelia smiled through her tears. “Don’t mind me, I
was really looking for a chance to cry. It’s a great strain when you
break the habits of forty years, no matter what they are.”
“Oh, Grannie dear. I wish you’d come and live with us, and wake up the
family. I wish Mother wasn’t so terribly strict with me. I wish I had a
car of my own. Dear me,” said Miss Betty, “what a lot of things I wish!”
VIII
There came Henry Winters, husband of Alice; later than the others,
because he had had to appear in court. It is not customary to adjourn
court for the death of fathers-in-law, but when it was Governor
Thornwell the case was different. Henry had been conscious of doing
a distinguished thing when he asked for adjournment and the judge of
doing a distinguished thing when he granted it, with a gracious little
tribute to the eminent departed.
As Alice Thornwell Winters was a model of social elegance, so Henry
Cabot Winters was a model of legal insouciance; a lawyer who was also
a man of the world and of fashion. Four years in Harvard and three in
the law-school had not sufficed to suppress his sense of humor and
for this reason he was the nearest to Cornelia of her sons-in-law. He
was a slender and rather dark man, fastidious, dressed in the pink of
fashion, his graying hair combed in a picturesque wave. He commanded
enormous fees for his inside knowledge of the financial affairs of
New England; and after business hours he became the man of pleasure,
yachtsman, fox-hunter, favorite in the ballrooms. He knew the right
people and brought in the business; and left it for his partners to do
the tiresome work of looking up the law and winning cases.
Henry now had need of all his urbanity. First he had to listen to
his wife raging in whispers on the subject of the Mayflower cradle;
and immediately afterwards he was trapped in the drawing-room by his
sister-in-law, Deborah. “Henry, there is something that some member of
the family simply has to speak to you about. I hope you understand that
I have no wish to intrude upon your private affairs, but I have spoken
to Alice and it seems that I can accomplish nothing--she absolutely
insists that she will let Joyce Edgerton attend the funeral if he
wishes.”
“Why shouldn’t she, Deborah?”
“Henry, the way you and your wife work out your marital problems is no
affair of mine--”
“Exactly, Deborah!”
“--until it threatens to become a public scandal. Don’t misunderstand
me, I am not casting any doubts upon my sister’s virtue--she assures
me that her relationship to Joyce Edgerton is innocent and maybe
it is--but there is a limit to what you can expect the world to
believe--and when Alice continues to have some young man tagging after
her everywhere she goes--and when she changes them so frequently--and
they all go to the devil afterwards--you know what I mean, Henry!
And of course it may be true that Joyce Edgerton is a great poet--or
that he is going to be some day, and all that--nevertheless it seems
to me that this is one time when the family has some rights and when
the sacredness of our grief ought to be respected--and I really
think we have a right to ask you to use your authority and see to it
that Joyce Edgerton finds some other way to amuse himself on Friday
afternoon--surely he can find an unmarried woman to go somewhere with
him--just this one day, that’s all I am asking--”
And so on; until Henry Cabot Winters got up and excused himself and
went up to his mother-in-law’s sunny rooms, where none of the curtains
had been drawn, and he could sink into an easy chair and laugh.
Cornelia knew about it, of course; Deborah had not failed to put the
problem up to her. They discussed it for a while and Henry remarked
that Alice deserved much more admiration than any one man could
supply. Later on he made the same little speech as the others, offering
Cornelia a home and assuring her that everything they had would be at
her disposal. The Winters had a great deal: a town house and a suburban
estate and a camp on a lake up in New Hampshire. They had only one son,
a lad who was preparing to enter St. Mark’s school, so there would be
plenty of space and freedom for Cornelia. She could laugh about life
with Henry; but what would she do about Joyce Edgerton and about the
young man who had preceded him and the one who would follow him?
Alice had her side, of course; it was pretty generally known that
Henry was keeping a woman in an apartment in the Fenway. Also, Alice