The Eighth Day (43 page)

Lansing was proud of his wife—more than that, he had fallen obscurely in love with her; but he was afraid of her. She managed the house and his income in exemplary fashion. She dispensed with a “hired girl” and employed an occasional cleaning woman. This was much to her husband's indignation; a self-respecting householder provided his wife with “help.” Eustacia's reason was that she did not wish the often stormy scenes at “St. Kitts” to be reported to Coaltown. She invested his money; she advised him in many matters; she wrote his speeches for lodge meetings and for Fourth of July celebrations. He was the foremost man in town. It was hard enough for him that Eustacia was always right; it was harder that she never alluded to her endowments; she never crowed. He loved her, but he shrank from seeing himself reflected in her eyes. On her part, she learned to endure everything in him except the failings of her father. There are few things so conducive to despair as seeing the recurrence of weaknesses in those close to you; it enables you to read the future. Her father had been indolent. She begged Breckenridge to return to the New York office; she offered him the store in Basseterre. She never descended to vituperation. The violent quarrels did not begin until she saw the way in which Breckenridge chose to bring up their son George.

The John Ashleys arrived in Coaltown in 1885. They bought the house that was thought to be haunted by the long tragedy of the Airlee MacGregors.

The Lansings lived rent free, in the house assigned to the managing director of the mines. It was of blackened red brick, without verandahs, and stood among mournful yews and cedars. Behind it a wide lawn, edged with great butternut trees, led down to the pond. Until Lansing christened it “St. Kitts,” it was known in town after the name of his predecessor as the “Cayley Debevoise” house. The Debevoises, philoprogenitive and childlike themselves, lived in the happy tumult of their eleven children—six of their own and five nephews and nieces they had adopted The rugs were in tatters, the chairs unsteady; some of the windows were sealed with brown paper for there was indoor catchball on rainy days. There was no dining room at all. Since they ate in the kitchen, the dining table was in the way of perpetual games and had been moved outdoors under the grape arbor. The clocks had broken down. The railings on the front and back porches were left unmended. Why mend them when there are always at least three children between nine and twelve? Little Nicholas and little Philippina were dressed in clothes that had been successively worn by at least three brothers or sisters or cousins. Happy Debevoises, where are you now?

From the first, Lansing admired John Ashley and imitated him, stumblingly. He went so far as to pretend that he, too, was a happily married man. Society would have got nowhere without those imitations of order and decorum that pass under the names of snobbery and hypocrisy. Ashley converted his Rainy Day House into a laboratory for experiment and invention. Lansing built a Rainy Day House behind “St. Kitts” and revived his interest in “snake oils.” Perhaps it was the influence of the Debevoises, perhaps the example of the Ashleys, that enabled Eustacia to bear a child that lived, then another, then a third. The Lansings were older than the Ashleys, but their children were closely of an age: Félicité Marjolaine Dupuy Lansing (she was born on St. Felix's Day; the Iowa Lansing names had been carried to Heaven by the dead infants) and Lily Scolastica Ashley; George Sims Lansing and Roger Berwyn Ashley; then Sophia alone; then Anne Lansing and Constance Ashley. Eustacia Lansing carried well her torch of hypocrisy or whatever it was. In public—at the Mayor's picnic, on the front bench at the Memorial Day exercises—she played the proud and devoted wife. Creole beauty is short-lived. By the time the Ashleys arrived in Coaltown Eustacia's tea-colored complexion had turned a less delicate hue; her features had lost much of their doelike softness; she was decidedly plump. Nevertheless, everyone in Coaltown, from Dr. Gillies to the boy who shined shoes at the Tavern, knew that the town could boast two handsome and unusual women. Mrs. Ashley was tall and fair; Mrs. Lansing was short and dark. Mrs. Ashley—child of the ear as a German—had no talent for dress, but a magical speaking voice, and she moved like a queen; Mrs. Lansing—child of the eye as a Latin—was mistress of color and design, though her voice cut like a parrot's and her gait lacked grace. Mrs. Ashley was serene and slow to speak; Mrs. Lansing was abrupt and voluble. Mrs. Ashley had little humor and less wit; Mrs. Lansing ransacked two languages and a dialect for brilliant and pungent
mots
and was a devastating mimic. For almost twenty years these ladies were in and out of one another's house, as were their children. They got on well together without one vibration of sympathy. Beata Ashley lacked the imagination or freedom of attention to penetrate the older woman's misery. (John Ashley was well aware of it, but did not speak.) One art they shared in common: both were incomparable cooks; one condition: both were far removed from the environment that had shaped their early lives.

For these two families the first ten years went by without remarkable event: pregnancies, diapers, and croup; measles and falling out of trees; birthday parties, dolls, stamp collections, and whooping cough. George was caught stealing Roger's three-sen stamp; Roger had his mouth washed out with soap and water for saying “hell.” Félicité, who aspired to be a nun, was discovered sleeping on the floor in emulation of some saint; Constance refused to speak to her best friend Anne for a week. You know all that.

In Coaltown the principal meal, weekdays, was at noon. Supper was at six and consisted of “leftovers.” No one invited friends in to a meal, with one exception: church members, in turn, invited their minister and his family to Sunday dinner. Relatives from out of town were scarcely considered to be guests; the women helped cook the dinner and wash the dishes. Beata Ashley astonished the town by inviting friends to a late meal by candlelight from which the children were absent. The Lansings were always present, occasionally Dr. Gillies and his wife, or a retired judge who had known city life, and some others. Mrs. Lansing returned the invitations. Twice a year members of the mine's Pittsburgh directorate descended on the town on a tour of inspection. They put up at the Illinois Tavern, but were invited to “St. Kitts” and “The Elms” for dinner. They received the surprise of their lives—a surprise which did not abate on repeated visits: Beata Ashley's tranquil distinction; Eustacia's wit and beauty, together with the flamboyance of her clothes and that
grain de beauté
which nature had planted with the most calculated art on her right cheekbone; the variety of subjects discussed and the quality and the originality of the food. (Their wives had to pay for it: “Isn't there anything else in the world to eat except roast beef and stewed chicken?” “Do you have to talk about the servants all the time?”) At these dinners John Ashley spoke little, yet all eyes were constantly turned toward him. It was for him that the men were judicious, but easy; the women charming, and Lansing discreet. The visitors expressed to him their gratification at the improvement in the mine's returns. Casually, all but unobtrusively, he directed the commendation to Breckenridge Lansing.

One thing of remark happened during those first ten years. Eustacia Lansing fell consumedly in love with John Ashley.

As we know, John Ashley saved no money. He had married an accomplished housekeeper and had bought an orchard, kitchen garden, and henhouse. From time to time he suppressed in himself the concern as to how he would provide a better education for his children. He had a vague notion that he would be able to make some money out of the “inventions” that he was evolving in the Rainy Day House. He had become engrossed in locks. He bought up old safes collected from the ashes of buildings that had burned to the ground. He studied timepieces and firearms. Lansing, imitating him sedulously in his Rainy Day House, dropped his interests in lotions and cosmetics and tried his hand at mechanics. Ashley encouraged him warmly in these interests. The younger man followed with great concern Lansing's dissipation on the River Road, his sloth, and his neglect of Eustacia. They launched out on projects together; Ashley kept up the pretense that Lansing was an invaluable co-worker. Lansing brought to these projects his vision of their success, of the enormous amounts of money they would bring. But year after year Ashley delayed forwarding his designs to the Patent Office; to himself, he seemed always on the point of improving them. To maintain Lansing's enthusiasm he wrote their combined names, beautifully, on the various folders that contained the mechanical drawings. But tinkering with coils and springs and bits of steel was not sufficient to distract Breckenridge Lansing long from the fields where he was second to none.

Breckenridge Lansing's father treated his wife and children with contempt; his son tried to. This view was not universal in those States, but frequent. At the end of the last century the patriarchal age was drawing to a close; its majesty was cracking. We may assume that when a patriarchal order is at its height—or a matriarchal order, also—it has a certain grandeur. It contributes to the even running of society and to harmony in the home. Everyone knows his place. The head of the family is always right. Fatherhood invests him with a more than personal wisdom. His position resembles that of the king who throughout thousands of years of unquestioned and even divine sanction, receives in the cradle the capacities that make for leadership. The doctrine was so deeply instilled that the people regarded the errors, vices, and imbecilities of kings as expressions of God's will: bad kings were sent for the punishment, instruction, and edification of men. Wives and subjects perpetuated these dispensations. It is when the patriarchal order is undergoing transition—the pendulum swings in eternal oscillation between the male and female poles—that havoc descends upon the state and on the family. Fathers feel the pavement cracking beneath them. For a time they shout, argue, boast, and pour scorn upon the wife of their bosom and the pledges of their love. Abraham did not raise his voice. Women armored themselves as best they could during the transition. Guile is the shield and spear of the oppressed. Slaves cannot revolt without leaders, but slavery is a poor school for leadership. Breckenridge Lansing's mother was an example of a woman in an age of crumbling patriarchy. Her sons knew no other patterns than a bullying father and a cowed mother.

Eustacia Lansing had been brought up in a matriarchy. She was unable to comprehend the tacit assumptions that shaped family life in Coaltown. She was saved by her gift of humor. A crumbling patriarchy is tragic and very funny.

It is the growing sons who suffer most in the age of transition.

Even in the best of homes, at the best of times, a boy is always in the wrong. Boys are filled with exhausting energies; they enjoy noise; they are (or where would we be?) adventurous and inquiring. They creep out onto ledges and fall into caves and two hundred men spend nights searching for them. They must hurl objects. They particularly cherish small animals and must have them near. A respect for cleanliness is as slowly and painfully acquired as mastery of the violin. They are perpetually famished and can barely be taught to eat decorously (the fork was late appearing in society). They are unable to sit still for more than ten minutes unless they are being told a story about mayhem and sudden death (or where would we be?). They receive several hundred rebukes a day. They rage at the humiliation of being male and not men. They strain to hasten the calendar. They must smoke and swear. Dark warnings are thrown out to them about “impurity” and “filthiness”—interesting occupations which seem to be reserved to adults. They peer into mirrors for the first promise of a beard. No wonder they are happy only among their coevals; they return from their unending games (that resemble warfare) puffed up, it may be, with triumph—late, dirty, or bloody. Few records have reached us of the early years of Richard the Lion-Hearted; the story about George Washington and the cherry tree is not widely believed. Achilles and Jason were brought up by a tutor who was half-man, half-horse. Their education was all in the open air; there must have been a good deal of running involved and very little mystery surrounding the natural functions.

Breckenridge Lansing brought up his son according to a method widely advocated at the time. Its purpose was to “make a man” of him. It consisted of ridiculing the child in public and private on every occasion of his falling short in manly exercise. At five he was thrown into the water and commanded to swim. At six he was invited to play catch with his father (“the best father in the world,” but all fathers are wonderful) on the lawn behind the house. Coordination of hand and eye is not fully developed at six and is further troubled by the boy's passionate and despairing attempts to be adequate. The genial games ended in tears. At seven he was given a pony; when he had fallen off it for the third time his father sold it. At nine he was introduced to the rifle. At each new trial he was overwhelmed with sneers and his failures were recounted to neighbors and postmen and delivery boys. Eustacia attempted to intervene only to be covered with similar sarcasms. Little Anne endeared herself to her father by shrieking “Sissy! Sissy!” Woeful scenes took place. Félicité paled but did not speak. When George was elected vice-captain of his school's baseball team—only vice-captain; Roger Ashley was everywhere captain—his father refused to speak to him for three days. Nature came to George's aid too late. At sixteen he was as tall as his father and far stronger. He was given to murderous rages. The day came when he advanced on his tormentor, holding a chair which he slowly broke in mid-air. From that hour his father loudly washed his hands of him. George was the product of his mother's mollycoddling. He would never be a Lansing.

His father was right. George was a Sims and a Dutellier and a Creusot. He had his mother's dark complexion. His schoolmates called him “Nig” until he thrashed it out of them. Miss Dobrey, of the high school, said that he had the “face of an angry lynx.” He collected about him a gang of his friends and called them the “Mohicans.” They became the terror of the town. They altered the signposts on the roads. They set the church bells jangling. They even climbed Herkomer's Knob and tried to spy on the Sunday-evening services at the Church of the Covenant. They took large allowance of the license accorded at Halloween. Chief Constable Leyendecker called several times at “St. Kitts.” George never finished high school. He was sent away, briefly, to several military academies and preparatory schools.