The Americans (73 page)

inadequacy. Soon he turned away from the painting. Eleanor would be home for Christmas too, along with her husband. The remodeling of their theater, which Eleanor had proudly named the Goldman, was going well. She was starting to plan her opening cycle of plays. Ibsen, mostly. She'd come in for a lot of criticism because of that choice. She seemed to be thriving on it. be The change in Eleanor was a distinct one. He'd realized it the last time he'd spent a few days in New York. His gamble that afternoon following the disastrous luncheon with the vice president had come out in his favor; Eleanor certainly wasn't locking out the world any longer. She'd joined the women's movement, and started organizing producers and performers to fight a threatened theatrical monopoly scheme. Gideon was overjoyed to see a new, thoughtful, and militant Eleanor emerging. Her only setback of late was a happy one. Just a few days ago, in a letter bubbling with good cheer, she'd revealed that she was expecting a baby-and eagerly looking forward to it, even though the pregnancy would keep her from performing on her own stage in the fall. Gideon felt confident of the family's future now. Carter might not be a trustworthy steward of the Kent traditions, but Eleanor would be, and so would W. At long last, both young people were developing an understanding and appreciation of those traditions. That turn of events would help make it a fine Christmas. Only one thing might taint the holiday- Make a mark. Not many days hence, it would be 1891. The year in which he would turn forty-eight; the start of a new decade. Tune was rushing on. The industrial nation was expanding and changing at a furious rate. The changes, the swift passage of time, and the certainty that his health was failing all heightened the gloomy feelings which had tormented him of late. Inevitably, his eye was drawn back to the mementoes- those symbols of the family's strength, and the source of his desperate discontent. He studied the tea bottle. What could he leave that was truly his own contribution? The splinter from the mast of Old Ironsides was someone else's; he had merely rediscovered it. Matt could leave his paintings, and the Renoir cartoon. But everything Gideon thought of-a copy of the Union; a book from Kent and Son-struck htm as too ordinary. The problem still unsolved, he turned to the work which had brought him to the office. He reached for the old Bi- tggle-his father's pulpit Bible-which he kept on the corner of his desk. He opened to the New Testament. For his editorial he planned to write a few paragraphs on the decade just ahead, taking as his text Acts 2, the nineteenth verse, in which God said, And 1 will shew wonders in heaven above, and signs in the earth beneath. The signs referred to were dire ones. Blood; smoke and fire; the signs of the last days of mankind. Gideon meant to use the text in a more positive way,, to characterize his vision of the coming ten-year period and the new century just beyond. Of course his pessimism had not been removed overnight by the happy changes in the family. He still saw too much materialism in America; a materialism that threatened to corrupt too many of its citizens, as it had corrupted the Fennels. Last summer the patriarch of the Fennel family had been found hanging from a bedroom chandelier in his We/chester mansion. A day or two later it had become evident why he'd taken his own life. A shopgirl had gone to a West Side abortionist, been irreparably hurt, and had dragged herself to a charity hospital. Before she bled to death, she had summoned a reporter and named Thurman Fennel as the man who'd paid her to destroy his child. Fennel's daughter was currently living in St. Louis. Hester Davis of the Union had told Gideon that after Will had jilted her, the girl had been unable to find another suitor of quality. So she'd married a man of considerable wealth but no social standing; a Midwestern hardware merchant twice her age. Presumably she was now a ruler of whatever passed for Society in St. Louis. Mrs. Fennel was reportedly bedridden in a Long Island sanitarium for the nervously disturbed. Gideon felt sorry for the Fennels now. Yet compassion didn't eradicate his feeling that they were worthless, venal people. People unmoved by principle, indifferent to corruption, driven by greed and concerned only with whether or not others admired and envied them. In Gideon's opinion there were too many people like the Fennels in America. Perhaps it was merely part of a cycle which would reverse itself if the electorate again turned to leaders of substance; men who put principle above the kind of conventional thinking typical of party hacks. Among the Republicans, Gideon considered young Roosevelt such a man; a potential leader able to inspire people to heed their highest impulses instead of their lowest. On the other side of the political fence there was an impressive though rather shy professor of jurisprudence and political economy at Princeton. Gideon had met him recently. His name was Wilson. Other things contributed to Gideon's hope. One was the country's incredible productivity. Year after year, America was setting records for industrial output-and doing it despite depression and political infighting. Another strong point was the wondrous flood of inventions for which the American system provided a strong material incentive. A week earlier, he'd taken one of his infrequent forays as a working journalist and had visited the expanded West Orange, New Jersey laboratories of Thomas Edison. Edison had showed off the machine with which he was currently tinkering. It was a device for rapidly projecting a series of still photographs so as to create the illusion of motion. Amazed and impressed, Gideon went on to New York with a valise full of notes which he turned into a report on the current activities of America's foremost mechanical genius. Signs and wonders. He glanced up, pen in hand, but the first word of his editorial was still unwritten. A dozen carolers" had stopped beneath the office window. He listened to their song. "Ad- este Fidelis," the old, familiar hymn of praise and faith. He caret found himself softly singing a phrase or two. Inspired by the song, a sudden insight flashed into mind. Faith was not only the essence of the great Christian holiday soon to be celebrated-the essence, indeed, of all the world's religions comx was the essence of America as well. What but faith in the goodness and uniqueness of its essential principles could unite and sustain a country as diverse as America? What but faith could have enabled the country to survive the trials of the Revolution, the chaos and grief of a civil war-or the rapacity of a small class of men such as Louis Kent and Thurman Fennel? Faith was the essence of the family, too. Faith-its other name was hope-had brought young Philip from Auvergne to Boston. And now that the family was becoming diverse just like the nation, faith in commonly shared principles was all that could hold it together in the coming years. Other Kents before him had left tangible symbols to show their faith in the family and in its future. That was what bothered Gideon most. For months, he'd been trying to think of what he could leave. He didn't know. He looked from the potrait of Philip to the little bottle containing the thin layer of dried tea. He examined the other mementoes one by one, feeling a stab of jealousy when his eye came to rest on the box of earth from the Union Pacific. Even the Irishman Michael Boyle had contributed something, and he hadn't been born a Kent- "Gideon?" "Oh-Julia." He hadn't heard the door open. Smiling, she glided toward him, her skirts rustling. She bent over the desk: "What are you writing, dear?" With a rueful look, he held up the blank sheet. "Nothing. It was to be an editorial, but I can't even get started." Her faint frown showed she knew something was wrong. She walked to the window, gazing out at the snow- covered Common. As he followed, she said, "I'm so looking forward to the children coming home. Even if Will and Carter find it hard to get along any more, I'll be glad to have them here. Sometimes I feel so-*-oh, so decrepit and worthless without them-was She turned, her lovely dark eyes tinged with melancholy. She put her hands on his shoulders. "We're old, you and I." He smiled. "Getting there. Getting there. But the family's in good hands." "A little over a year ago, you didn't believe that." "True. But things are working out." She leaned back against him and gazed at the snow. "How beautiful it is." She heard him draw a quick, sharp breath, and turned. "What's wrong? Is it the pain in your chest again?" "No, there's nothing-was "Gideon Kent, don't try to deceive me. This has gone on far too long. You must see someone! Your own son, preferably. He knows about the pain, by the way." "He does? How?" "I should say he suspects. He told me so." "How did he find out, Julia?" With a smile that didn't hide her concern, she said, "Why, I suppose it has something to do with his being a doctor. He claims he's been aware of certain symptoms you've been exhibiting for months. I want you to speak to him the moment he arrives, Gideon. I won't hear of you saying no this time." Gideon laughed. "Well-I know better than to argue with a determined woman. Ill let him look me over. But I assure you there's nothing wrong. I won't permit anything to be wrong." He slipped his arms around her from behind and pulled her gently against him as the fire crackled and filled the room with warmth. In his mind he heard bugles blowing; Stuart singing; cannon roaring. Quickly the sounds began to fade, just as the song of the carolers was fading- "I'll be around ten years more at least," he promised. "I want to see the Kents safely into the twentieth century." "Spoken like a father. You forget your children are grown." "Yes, I do, don't I? Constantly." "They really don't need your protection any longer. They can get along very well on their own." "I know." The sadness in those words was relieved by a smile. "I will, however, fight to the end to keep them from guessing that I know." He pivoted slowly to the mantel, the feelings of inadequacy overwhelming. "I wonder what they'll add to that collection? I've added nothing." She turned to face him. "Is that what you've been thinking about lately? At times you've seemed very troubled." He answered with a nod. "But you've given the family a great deal, Gideon. Most particularly, three children to carry the Kents well into the next century. Even Carter will make his mark, though it probably won't be a spotless one. Your accomplishment is as real as any of those objects on the mantel. Don't you see that?" "No." "A few years ago, you doubted there was anyone in the family to carry it on as you thought it should be carried on. You admit you've changed your mind-was "Yes. Because the children have changed." "Changed and grown. With your guidance! They're strong, capable people. That's what you've put into this family. It may not be as visible as Philip's sword and gun, or the piece of mast you found. But it's every bit as substantial." He thought about that. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps she'd identified the best-the only thing-he could leave behind; the best that could be left behind by any man. Children who had been brought up to behave responsibly, and to believe in something beyond their own self- gratification. A bit reassured, he squeezed her arm. A moment later he said: "Would you mind if we walked a little?" "It's very cold, dear." "We can bundle up. I'd like to go to the waterfront. I always feel closest to old Philip down there. A dock was the first piece of America he felt under his feet. I don't know whether you understand-was "Certainly I do. But are you sure you're feeling up to it?" "I'm perfectly fit. I tell you I intend to be around for a good many years yet. Count on it." "Oh, Gideon-I will. I love you so much." "I love you, Julia." They kissed, long and ardently, while the fire popped and a log broke and fell. Then the tall, bearded man and the lovely dark-haired woman left the room, and the watching eyes of the family's founder. They donned old coats, scarves and gloves and overshoes, and stepped into a bright winter night that was surprisingly windless. Arm in arm, they strolled slowly through the melting snow, listening to sounds of Christmas merrymaking behind brightly lit windows, or catching the occasional music of carolers. Soon they reached the piers where dark vessels lay creaking in the cold. The harbor was not yet frozen. A rising moon glittered on the water that had been witness to so much history. During the walk, Gideon had been turning Julia's remarks over and over in his mind. His children-and her son-were the legacy the two of them would leave behind. Will's idealism, and Eleanor's-and whatever conscience he and Julia had managed to instill to temper Carter's opportunism com^th were the mementoes they would add to the family's heritage. It had taken Julia to make him see that. Lord, how he loved her. She was the one who always pulled him through the hardest times, and made him perceive light in the darkness. His sense of inadequacy began to fade, and he was able to fix his attention on the quiet sea stretching away eastward into moon-silvered darkness. Out there lay Europe. Philip Kent's beginnings. The beginnings of the family. A feeling of tranquility and confidence slowly fell over Gideon as he stared at the sea. The family was secure. It would go on, and it would thrive despite the inevitable reversals that were a part of life. Eleanor was already carrying still another generation. What signs and wonders would that child see? Many, dishe was sure. How wisely old Philip had chosen. How wisely and how well. The Kents had grown up in a good land, and they had contributed in a small way to that growth and that goodness, Gideon thought as he gazed at the ocean separating the creaking pier from the great unseen land mass of Europe. All at once he was absolutely certain of one thing Julia had said. He was no longer necessary to the family's survival. There was a touch of sadness in knowing that, but there was also a release, and peace. All at once a worm of pain began to gnaw the center of his chest. He sat down on a bollard; drew a labored breath. Then: "You know, Julia, I never thought I'd live beyond my forty-seventh year, and now I've nearly made it. Only a few more days to go." "Forgive me, darling, but what's so special about forty- seven?" He spoke with difficulty, the pain more intense all at once. But he wasn't alarmed; it had been almost as intense many times before. "That's an average man's lifetime. Ten years longer than it was the year I was born." "And you didn't think you'd make it?" "No." "Well, I'm glad you did. But you should have known you would." The pain was crushing. He sat perfectly still.