The American Chronicle 1 - Burr (20 page)

“ ‘Will those children ... that lived and died insensible of their misery, until they feel it in Hell, ever thank parents for not letting them know what they were in danger of?’ ”

“Dreadful stuff,” said Leggett. “The sort of thing that would make a traitor to God and man of any child brought up on it.”

“The Colonel is hardly a traitor to either God or man.” I came to Burr’s defence.

But Mrs. Townsend was not finished with Jonathan Edwards. She had opened a larger volume, blew dust from a page, reducing Leggett to a fit of coughing as, inexorably, she read, “ ‘Let it be considered that if our lives be not a journey towards Heaven, they will be a journey to Hell.’ ” She gave Leggett a long look. “It’s not the dust,” she whispered stagily, “but
the dust to dust
.”
That stopped his coughing. “ ‘The two great receptacles of all that depart out of this world; the one is Heaven, whither a few, a small number in comparison, travel.’ Ah, Mr. Leggett, contemplate those
few
!”

“I would rather contemplate Black Bess.”

“It is her time of the month. We have something even better, twenty years old, from Ohio.” The voice was matter-of-fact. She returned to her page. “ ‘And the other is Hell, whither the bulk ... the bulk ... the bulk of mankind do throng. And one or the other of these must be our journey’s end; the issue of our course in this world.’ ”

Her voice fell silent; the book shut softly; dust motes spiralled in the lamplight. “I have been told, Mr. Leggett, Mr. Schuyler, too” (I was also Hellward bound), “that on his death-bed John Randolph of Roanoke suddenly sat up, a top hat on his head, and said, over and over again, ‘Remorse, remorse!’ ”

“Randolph was mad and a eunuch. I am neither, dear Mrs. Townsend.” Leggett was irritable. I was restive. Mrs. Townsend gave us her yellow-fanged, dry-lipped smile and rang for the maid. “We have new delights, gentlemen.”

Then she remembered. “But for you, Mr. Schuyler, there is an ‘old’ new delight. So enjoy yourselves—in this world.” Mrs. Townsend opened a copy of Jonathan Edwards’
The Freedom of the Will
(apparently, he does not believe in it) as the maid arrived to show us to Hell’s ante-room.

Helen was loving but hates the winter. Talks of spring. Of leaving Mrs. Townsend. I promise—before—to help her find work; and mean what I say because—after—I tell her that I will ask friends who know about dress-makers. She told me that she has yet to see the Vauxhall Gardens. I promise to take her there the first good day in spring.

Why is it no girl I meet in the usual way appeals to me the way she does? even though I know she appeals in exactly the same way (no, that is not possible,
not
the same) to anyone who pays the price.

Since there is no Heaven, how can there be Hell?

Leggett and I left Thomas Street together. He was pleased; not ill as before. He walked me part way to my lodgings. The apple-jack and the girls had warmed us up; and the north wind had dropped. “I had not expected the Colonel to be so youthful.”

“He is extraordinary!”

“You are fond of him.” This was almost a reproach.

“Well, yes. I suppose I am. He takes an interest. How many people do in someone younger—in
anyone
for that matter?”

“What have you discovered?”

I confessed to very little. I did not tell him about the notes on the Revolution.

“What about Mr. Irving?”

“Not informative, I’m afraid. He’s very cautious, particularly on the subject of Van Buren.”

“Sly old tabby-cat! I do hate those comfortable stories of his.”

I was shocked. “He is the best we have ...”

“That’s not saying much. You know, we’ve just made an arrangement with Cooper to write for the
Evening Post
,
under a pseudonym.” Last month James Fenimore Cooper returned to New York after many years abroad. His arrival was hardly noticed; unlike that of Irving, who took the town by storm. But then Irving is tactful while Cooper enjoys pointing out to his countrymen their shortcomings. He is too prickly for our flag-waving patriots.

“You know,” said Leggett, “after studying as carefully as I could Colonel Burr’s head, I am more than ever convinced that he is the father of Van Buren.”

Leggett is fascinated by the new science of phrenology. Apparently all the secrets of character are revealed by the bumps on the head. He has even suggested that I write something about phrenology for the
Evening Post
.

For the moment, however, he had given me the last word. “I prefer looking carefully
inside
the Colonel’s head. That’s the only way of finding out who he is, and what he is to Van Buren.”

“There is a contagion to the Colonel’s style.” That was the best he could do. “I hope
your
hands don’t shake.”

As Leggett galloped down the street, the false beard slipped from his pocket and fell onto the icy cobbles where it lay like a dead kitten.

IT IS APRIL. I have not had time—no, I have had the time but not the will—to continue this record.

The Colonel lives either at Jersey City or in the office. There has been, as far as I can tell, no communication from Madame. Nelson Chase has gone to another law firm. I don’t know which. Some say he is working for Alexander Hamilton, Junior. That would be, as the Colonel would say, most neat.

The Colonel is in fine spirits. He has taken on several new cases. He has also become somewhat absent of mind. Recently a client paid him fifty dollars. When she left, he put the money in a dictionary. As he was about to leave the office, he started to go through his pockets. “Charlie, I have no money. Not a cent. And the bank is closed. Do you have ten dollars?”

“No, Sir. But
you
have fifty dollars in the dictionary.”

Startled, he opened the book and took out the money he had only just hidden there. “You are my benefactor. It is a gift from Heaven.” But light as the manner was, I saw his distress: Burr without the splendid mind is nothing at all.

But the Colonel’s memory of the past is as sharp as ever. Shortly after New Year (1834 according to the gypsy woman will be the best year of my life; but then she said that about 1833), the Colonel asked me my opinion of his notes on the Revolution.

“What is ‘the mule story’?”

Burr looked blank. “ ‘Mule story’? Oh,” he laughed. “I tell it only to children. You are much too big a boy. It’s a very long story about the mule I rode from West Point to Newburgh. I wanted to go south. The mule wanted to go north. We ended up in a westerly direction, through a coal-mine. If you were younger, I would add many, many details, with appropriate sounds.”

Then he spoke of the possibility of dictating to me his recollections. “While they are still lodged in what is left of my mind.”

I encourage him; am eager. But he is reluctant to begin; delays.

LEGGETT INVITED ME for lunch at the Washington Hall Hotel. At our table were Washington Irving, the literary congressman Gulian C. Verplanck (currently the anti-Tammany candidate for mayor), and Fitz-Greene Halleck. Mr. Cooper and Mr. Bryant were supposed to join us but sent regrets. “Cooper detests Irving,” Leggett whispered in my ear as we sat down. But Irving detests no one or, if he does, is a capital actor.

“I had looked forward to seeing my old friend Cooper.” Irving seemed most sincere. “He is not only a great man, he is a good man.” A waiter carrying beef brushed Irving’s shoulder: drops of gravy fell onto his sleeve.

“It’s not Holland House,” said Halleck, meaning I suppose some noble English house.

“The food is excellent.” Irving glumly mopped up the gravy.

Then Verplanck mentioned an attack on Irving in the
North American Review
.
Irving affected not to have read it.

“They say that you denigrate America, praise only things British. Imagine! When you alone gave America a literature. Somewhat at the expense of us poor Dutch ...” In his gruff way, Verplanck is not without malice.

“I shall have a glass of claret.” Irving had finally caught a waiter’s attention, and leaned nervously to one side as wine was slopped into a dusty glass.

Verplanck detailed, with obvious delight, the terrible charges the reviewer had made against Irving. But our lion of literature merely smiled and nodded and murmured for the historic record, “I never ceased to represent my country abroad. And now that I am home—see the changes—all things ongoing—happy—represent—fulfillment.” First the verbs began to drop from his sentences; then the nouns. Finally, silence, as he drank his wine, cut turkey deftly, looked somewhat sleepy.

Leggett questioned Verplanck about the election next week. Because Verplanck opposed Jackson who wants to replace the Bank of the United States with a number of local banks, he has been purged by Tammany but taken up by the Whigs (the new name for those who are not Jacksonian Democrats). Verplanck expects to be elected mayor though he is happy in Congress.

Leggett treats Irving deferentially but with a certain edge. “The
Evening Post
is printing Mr. Cooper soon. When will you write for us?”

Irving blinked his eyes rapidly. Cleared his throat. “Mr. Bryant’s poetry seems to me to be unique. Superior to Wordsworth’s, don’t you think? Without Byron’s vulgarity or Coleridge’s opacity.” I gather most famous men are like this. They answer the same question so many times a day that sometimes, absently, they answer the wrong question.

But Leggett pressed him. “We suspect you, Mr. Irving, of democracy.”

Irving responded with his crooked smile. At heart he is very much a Tory. One can see that in his manner, in his love of the past, of the quaint and the traditional; not to mention in the company he keeps: he is friends with all the rich merchants of the city. But the sweep of the times is toward democracy, if Leggett is to be believed. Secretly I think Irving must hate what is happening; yet, “I spent the winter at Washington City. Haunted the Capitol. Heard every debate, good and bad. What great orators we have! Clay, Webster, Calhoun!”

“All Tories.” Leggett was relentless.

“All brilliant men. But”—Irving looked to left and right to make sure that the other diners could not hear him, as if anyone could hear anything through the crash of plates, the shouts of waiters, the muffled bellowing of cooks in the far-off kitchen—“but mistaken, I think.” Cautiously, Irving came out against the Nullifiers. “The southerners are, you know, once you observe them in the Congress and talk to them in private, not entirely without—well, a degree of justice.” Irving is incapable of offending any part of his audience. “Yet,” he spoke before Leggett, “it is plain to me that if they have their way our general union will dissolve.”

“A bad thing or not?” Although Halleck has the reputation for brilliance, today he was somewhat subdued; stared at me when he thought I was not looking. Obviously puzzled to see me there.

“I should think it a bad thing.” Irving was dry. “But the south might be happier without us.”

Leggett tried to question him about Van Buren but Irving affected to know nothing of the Vice-President’s plans.

In a low voice Fitz-Greene Halleck asked me what I did. “I am in a law office.”

“Everyone is. But are you ... literary or political?”

“I hate politics!” Why not jump in with both feet?

Halleck smiled. “Good. So do I. But then I am an enemy of the people, and regard the ship of state like any other ship: for the captain to sail it safely he must never ever consult the crew. That is why I am for a king, any king, the more tyrannical the better. I also incline to the Roman Church because it saves you such a lot of bother. Your salvation is entirely taken care of by priests who are paid to do nothing else.” And so on. I found Halleck refreshing, and though he seems to be making jokes I think he is probably quite serious.

As we rose from table, Halleck said something to Irving who turned and looked at me, and nodded. At the door to the dining-room, I stood back for the lions to pass. But Irving took my arm and led me out into the hall.

“You have made a most vivid impression on poor Halleck.”

“Oh?” was the best I could do, wondering why Halleck was “poor.”

“You look so like his friend Joseph Rodman Drake. He was Halleck’s closest friend, lived with him, worked with him. Then the boy quite suddenly died. That was nearly fifteen years ago, and Halleck has not recovered to this day. Lake Damon and Pythias. Jonathan and David ...” We were outside in the street. Brusquely Halleck shook my hand; hurried away.

As Verplanck and Leggett argued politics, Irving turned to me. “I have not forgotten your interest in Colonel Burr. Would it amuse you to go and see Richmond Hill?”

I said that I would be most amused. Colonel Burr is at Albany and Mr. Craft can always do without me for an afternoon.

I got into Irving’s open carriage. Leggett and the others waved good-bye and Leggett gave me a schoolboy’s wink, as though I was truckling to a teacher. Feeling rather conspicuous, I sat back in the carriage. The great man at my side nodded to gentlemen, lifted his hat to ladies, as we jolted along Wall Street.

“I have not seen Richmond Hill in twenty years. But I believe ... Driver, stop! Stop!” Irving’s voice can be loud when he wants. The coachman pulled over to the side just as the carriage in front of ours disgorged the stout slow ermine-clad Mr. Astor, just returned from Europe to find his wife dead. He looks half-dead himself but, apparently, business goes on as usual. Irving leapt with singular grace from the carriage, leaving me to decide whether or not to follow or stay. I stayed.

The two stood in the doorway of the Merchants’ Bank, heads together, a family of piglets racing around their legs. Mr. Astor is reputed to like literature, to help artists. According to Leggett, he also wants to be thought well of as he buys up our city; to that end he has hired Fitz-Greene Halleck to be his secretary-companion and live with him at the Hell Gate mansion. Halleck’s job is to see that Mr. Astor is treated with respect in the newspapers.

Interview done with, Irving returned to the carriage, moving slowly now, as befits a great and heavy man. “I need advice in financial matters.” He sat back in the seat, and sighed. “I am prone to speculation. Usually with disastrous results. Poor—no,
rich
Mr. Astor tries to be helpful. You know, he took over Richmond Hill, after Colonel Burr lost it. In fact, breaking up that estate into lots was the beginning of the Astor fortune in New York. It seems so simple, doesn’t it? To make a fortune.”