My Heart Laid Bare (43 page)

Suddenly, Darian has had enough. He ceases playing. Rises from the beautiful piano. He isn't rude, but he hasn't time to be courteous. Must escape. These strangers with their glittering jewels and eyes pressing near. Can't breathe, must escape. They draw back as he plunges past them not seeing them.
Smile and any fool . . . Play piano to please the ear of any fool . . .
“But no. No. I don't want to play for fools. I will not.”

Darian makes his way blindly through the crowded, festive rooms. Finds himself in a corridor, walking swiftly. A maze of a house. How can one escape? And how many miles is he from the Academy? Can he find his way back alone, in the harsh damp December wind, in the night? His eyes adjust to the dim light of the corridor and he finds himself studying what must be Frick family portraits; he's staring at a portrait of . . . his mother? The name on the gilt plaque is
SOPHIA ELIZABETH FRICK
, the dates are 1862–1892. This young woman died eight years before Darian was born.

“It's her.”

His lost mother not quite as he remembers her, of course. Though this is certainly the woman in the Muirkirk portrait locked away in Father's room. Darian would know those large, lovely eyes anywhere that fix him with an expression of mock sobriety. Her dark hair is arranged in a fussier, more feminine style than in the Muirkirk portrait; here, instead of a smart riding habit, she's wearing a white silk gown with a feather-fringed cape gracefully draped over her shoulders. Strands of pearls, white gloves to the elbow. Ivory-pale skin. Eyes given an eerie glisten by the artist—two tiny dots of white on the irises. Are you my son? Am I your mother? Who has told you so? What do such things mean—“son,” “mother”? Sophia Elizabeth Frick who died in 1892 regards Darian Licht born in 1900 with love, pity, recognition.

It must have been, Darian thinks, that they'd disowned her. Their daughter. She'd eloped with Abraham Licht, she'd repudiated their world, they disowned and declared her dead.

“My daughter.”

So mesmerized is Darian by the portrait on the wall, by this woman who is his mother yet unknown to him, he hasn't noticed Mrs. Frick beside him until the elderly woman speaks. “Isn't she lovely? My daughter Sophie. Lost to me.” Mrs. Frick tells Darian that her daughter died of typhus traveling in the Greek Isles with her married sister and her family, what a tragedy! what waste!—“Sophie was an extraordinary girl, so sweet, warm, quick-witted, intelligent; a devout Christian; a lover of horses since girl
hood; gifted at the piano—though nothing, of course, like
you.
She'd been courted by a dozen outstanding young men yet she was determined, she said, to remain independent. And then . . . ”

Darian is expected to speak, he supposes; yet can't speak.

Darian hears the woman's voice through a roaring in his ears.

Darian is being led . . . to another portrait of Sophia Frick, a smaller, more intimate painting of a girl of perhaps sixteen in a blue velvet riding jacket, a plumed hat on her head, and a riding crop held in her gloved right hand.
Darian. My love. If I'd but known you when I was thus, and you as you are.
Darian tries to listen to his hostess's voice but the roaring and rushing in his ears overwhelms him. His legs are weak, his senses go out like a candle flame, he falls heavily to the floor at the feet of the astonished Mrs. Frick, who stares down at him, the brilliant young pianist she'd been so eager to invite to her home, too shocked at first to cry for help.

MUSIC IS SPEECH
for those for whom speech is inadequate.

The silence surrounding music is the secret soul of music.

L
ovely Millicent prepares for yet another dinner dance, beautiful Matilde fusses over her gleaming silk-blond bobbed hair, and there is Mina,
cunning Mina, who adjusts the bodice (snug!) of the pretty flounced dress; and Marguerite (Mr. Anson's beloved daughter, sweet, simpering, who nonetheless learned to smoke cigarettes on the sly) sees to the charming arch of the eyebrow and the near-imperceptible blush of the ceramic cheek; and Moira (born in New Orleans, honey-soft and feline but a shameless liar) . . . Moira sings “It Is Better to Be Laughing Than Crying” (as indeed it
is
) while regarding herself in profile in the mirror . . . in the mirrors reflecting mirrors . . . and declares the vision, or visions, complete.

And God saw that it was good.

And all these are the beginning of sorrows.

“Meet Me Tonight in Dreamland” is being played in the glass-enclosed poinsettia-bedecked ballroom, Matilde St. Goar may be observed consenting to dance with a handsome young gentleman in white tie and tails, the graceful circling, the near-weightless sweep, of a long flounced skirt, chiffon in filmy floating layers (white upon black upon white upon black), near-transparent sleeves falling loose to the elbow, the poreless doll's face, the small measured flawless smile not quite covering the white, white teeth: just as Millicent, lazy sullen Millicent, stretches and yawns and rings for the maid to draw her bath (the
purple
bubble-soap this afternoon, smelling of plums, please), and lights up the first cigarette of the day, holding her sleep-stale breath for the pleasant little jolt, that agreeable sensual little
zing
, when the powerful smoke hits her pink-tender lungs. (Has Father breakfasted already?—but what time
is
it?—and has he, yes of course he has, the perfect brute, hidden away the newspapers?—so of course Millicent must send out for more on the sly, the New York City papers in particular, being greedy, quite shamelessly greedy—sweet Millie, yawning in the midst of a childish smile—greedy for news of history.)

In narrow panels amid the glass there are gold-flecked mirrors in which the dancers may observe themselves swaying, and turning, and dip
ping, 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.

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.

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.

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.”