1876 (38 page)

“It is really the loveliest river in the world,” was Emma’s sincere verdict, and I must say I, too, was overwhelmed by the sight of my natal river, viewed like a diorama from our moving dinner table.

By the time lunch was comfortably digested, our car was detached at the Rhinecliff depot. Waiting for us on the siding were Ward McAllister and a pair of grooms from the Astor household. In frock coat and silk hat, McAllister looked remarkably out of place in that green rustic setting.

Like an ambassador from one sovereign to another, he came aboard, full of compliments. “What a handsomely appointed car! Such good taste, Mrs. Sanford. Truly good taste.”

McAllister touched the Brussels-lace antimacassars approvingly. I half expected him to examine the silver coffeepot for its markings. Then he told us that Mrs. Astor was “pleased” that we had made the arduous journey to stay with her at Ferncliff. “You will find a number of most charming people in the house. All friends, I am sure.”

On that note, we climbed a great many steps (the town of Rhinecliff is indeed built on a cliff) to where the Astor carriage was waiting for us.

In solemn state we drove along a charming country lane lined with stone houses from our Dutch period as well as with the frame houses of our English successors. But “successor” is not the right word, since we Dutch are still a majority in this county. Our English
conquerors
is more like what they were—and still continue to be, though their predominance is now being threatened by the Irish and by the Italians.

At the end of a driveway lined with splendid elm trees was Ferncliff, a large new mansion of
wood
!
Emma was as surprised as I. No doubt the Astors thought to save money, since wood is in such ample supply. Even so, the effect is very odd.

As we approached the main entrance a sudden warm wind overpowered us with the scent of lilies-of-the-valley. For the first time Emma is beginning to feel—if not at home—at ease in this country, which until now she has regarded as, at best, exotic; at worst, provincial.

We were shown to comfortable rooms, each with a splendid vista through trees of the bright river far below, not to mention the railroad. The sound of the trains carries eerily well, and all the magnates who have built houses along this high cliff are forced to listen to the trains just the way the humble folk who live beneath the Sixth Avenue Elevated Railway are deafened at regular intervals all through the day. Unfortunately, Commodore Vanderbilt’s trains continue through the night as well as the day and, perversely (at his orders?), they blow their whistles just as they pass beneath Ferncliff. But saving the trains, this is an idyllic house and setting. The guests are somewhat less idyllic and our hostess least of all. (I should have a padlock made for this book, but somehow I cannot see Mrs. Astor turning the pages, looking for references to herself). Yet she does her best—such as it is—to be agreeable, if not entertaining.

There are a dozen other guests in the house. I think we have met all of them before and I certainly know all of their names, but fitting names to faces is no easy task. Stuyvesant, who
ought
to be the plump, pink snub-nosed man, turns out to be the slender Italianate old man, and so on. Ward McAllister does all that he can to make things go easily and as a result, they do not, really, go at all. But the food is good and the neighbours who join us from time to time (all named Chanler or Livingston) are considerably more amusing than the house guests, not to mention the Mystic Rose herself, on whose left I sat on the first night.

“I cannot think how it all began.”
She
began
in medias res
.
“I like and have always liked James Van Alen.” She fixed me with a stern look over the plate of pale hothouse asparagus that the footman was holding between us. I helped myself and quite agreed that James Van Alen is likeable, though I had not a clue as to what she was talking about.

“People make such trouble.”

“That has been my experience.”

“They
will
gossip.”

“True.”

“They will tell untruths, Mr. Schermerhorn Schuyler.”

“I have heard them tell untruths, Mrs. Astor, and quite gratuitously, too.”

She frowned, not liking, I suspect, the long word which no doubt made her think of overtipping.

“There was and has never been trouble between my husband and the Van Alen family.”

“I should think not.”

“We favoured the marriage.”

“Naturally.”

“Not ‘naturally’!” She looked unusually roseate about the gills—to which were attached enormous pendant rubies. “Our Emily should have remained free a little while longer.”

“Ah, Emily, yes.” A newspaper account of the recent wedding of an Astor daughter surfaced through the miles of newsprint that my poor head contains.

“But she fell in love. Girls fall in love, Mr. Schermerhorn Schuyler.”

“Boys, too.” I wished to keep my side of the conversation as witty and vivacious as possible.

“I don’t think they really do. Men are different. But we were pleased when James Van Alen became our son-in-law. And the rest is a tissue of lies.”

“Envy, Mrs. Astor.” I murmured sadly, easily resisting an impulse to pat her large heavily jewelled hand.

“My husband
never
said he did not want our daughter to marry into the Van Alen family.”

“How could he? They are most distinguished.”

This was the wrong response. The rose showed me a thorn. “There are those who might disagree. But”—the large hand resting on the highly polished mahogany table made itself into a very dangerous-looking fist—“not only did Mr. Astor
not
make the remark in question but old General Van Alen did
not
...”

At this high point in the drama a train passed beneath the house causing the crystals in the chandeliers to chatter. Those guests from elsewhere stopped speaking, while those native to the region continued to talk right through the long, mournful, deafening whistle, as did Mrs. Astor, thus leaving me in perfect suspense about what General Van Alen did or did not do, for by the time the train was gone she had turned to address her other partner at table.

After dinner, Ward McAllister (who had acted as host, once again
in loco Astoris
)
explained to me what a scandal there had been in March, when General Van Alen was told that Mr. Astor had allegedly said, “No daughter of mine is going to marry into
that
family!”

When McAllister was out of range, a wild-eyed Chanler lady told me, “Of course Bill Astor said it. He was drunk. He’s always drunk. And General Van Alen challenged him to a duel. But then, at the last moment, the duel was called off. Too exasperating!”

The wedding took place in Grace Church without incident. During the reception afterward Mr. Astor fled the city. So we amuse ourselves at Ferncliff.

A WEEK OF HEAVY EATING and, I fear, heavier, company made bearable by the fine weather and the girls. Now it is time to go.

“So soon?” asked the Mystic Rose. She seemed genuinely displeased when I showed her the telegram from Jamie:
“Blaine to go before Committee They have got the goods You must go to Washington.”

“Who is this Mr. Blaine” asked Mrs. Astor.

I told her. I could not determine if she is really ignorant or if she simply prefers not to acknowledge that politicians exist. I should note that not one member of the house party admits to having read my articles for the
Herald
.
But then, of course, the
Herald
is not really a respectable newspaper and perhaps they mean to do me a kindness by not mentioning my shameful connection with it. The talk is of food, clothes, horses, servants, children, arrivals and departures. Like money, the arts are never mentioned. Unlike money, the arts are never thought of.

Mrs. Astor has taken to Emma and they have long grave conversations under the elm trees. But when I ask Emma what they talk about, she just laughs and says, “I have no idea. She declares things and I agree to her declarations.”

Although Mrs. Astor does not go visiting in the neighbourhood except on state occasions, we are encouraged to drive about, visiting Chanlers and Livingstons and the rest of the gentry whose estates adjoin one another on a forested bluff high above the river and the railroad. Some of these county seats date back to the eighteenth century and are very fine—like Clermont, the principal Livingston house. Most, however, are new, and in the heavy, gloomy Gothic style made popular hereabouts by the novels of Sir Walter Scott. Thank God, Scott is unknown in France and we have no Gothic revival, only the Gothic itself (I’m beginning to sound like Flaubert’s idiot: it is the company I keep).

After lunch, McAllister, the girls and I drove north along the river road to a charming estate owned by some people called Donaldson; their house is a fine example of the Greek style that was so popular in my youth. Six tall columns form a portico that overlooks a sweep of lawn ending in willow trees and the Hudson River. The house is beautifully proportioned, with a north wing consisting of a single octagonal room two storeys high and lit by a glass cupola that must make it unpleasantly hot in the summer and impossible to heat in the winter but entirely suitable, I was told, for wedding ceremonies.

But none of this now matters to the owners. “We are simply camping out, that’s all,” said our hostess a vigorous middle-aged woman who had greeted us in front of the house. “We’re never here any more. We’ve given up. What’s the use—” She was interrupted by a noise rather like an explosion close by, then a deafening shrill whistle.

We looked and saw just back of the house one of Commodore Vanderbilt’s monsters: some thirty freight cars jerked and rattled past as smoke and burning cinders erupted from the locomotive, making a huge cloud that obscured half the sky.

During this visitation even the natives did not speak. We stood mute, motionless, as ashes fell about us like a dark rain.

“It is Vesuvian,” said Emma, for once tactless in her surprise.

“Would that it were!” said our hostess. “Then the place would be covered with lava and we’d never have to come back. It’s all the fault of my husband’s father. He said, ‘Oh, how marvellous!’ when they wanted to put the railroad through. ‘It’ll stop and pick us up whenever we want!’ Well!”

Poor woman, another fine place blighted by this railway age. But between trains the prospect was delicious, and we strolled contentedly about the lawn in the company of a most sensitive, wide-eyed, rather plump young man from, I think, Boston. “I read you faithfully, Mr. Schuyler.” We were standing beneath a willow tree at the river’s edge. The smell of rank river mud mingled most agreeably with the scent of lilies. Across the silvery water the delicately irregular line of the pale-blue Catskills was like the flourish beneath Washington Irving’s signature.

“You are the first reader I’ve met, my dear sir, in this valley.” I did not mean to sound petulant, but I fear that was the impression I gave. Quickly I modified my tone. “But then one cannot expect the gentry to read the
Herald
.”

“I fear the
Herald
is perfectly beyond me, too, if I may say so.” The young man’s manners were exquisite. “No, I have read you on Turgenev, on Flaubert; read you with passion, let me herewith confess.”

“Well, I am pleased ...” But I got no further. A torrent of praise for me and for the French writers quite engulfed me and I was ravished by so much understanding. The young man is a writer—of course! Who else would find Turgenev interesting in this awful age—and country—of Mark Twain and Mrs. Southworth? My young admirer writes for the
Atlantic Monthly
;
he will send me his newly published first novel before he goes “to live in Paris, the sort of life
you
have led, Mr. Schuyler.”

“I am hardly a worthwhile model.” He made so bold as to contradict me, and in an ecstasy of communality we crossed the lawn to the hostess (she is in some way his relative) and a group of valley neighbours.

Everything was most casual, and there was to be, I soon saw, no shape to our visit. I did notice a servant setting up the apparatus for tea on a table beneath a small sort of hut.

When my young admirer was detached from me by the hostess, Emma and I strolled through a grove of locust trees, of all trees my favourite, particularly now when they are in bloom and their white petals are everywhere, causing me—this spring at least—to sneeze constantly. I am only able to get through the meals at Ferncliff with the aid of smelling salts. I must say that between the sneezing and the smelling salts, I have yet to taste anything that I’ve eaten.

“Denise wants me to go on from here to Newport.”

“We are getting to be true New Yorkers of ‘tong.’ We discuss only travel plans.”

But Emma was thoughtful. “I don’t think John likes the idea.”

“He will come, too, won’t he?”

“Not until the end of June. I think he’d rather I stayed in New York.”

“I give no advice.” I have often said, and always believed, that my success as a parent is based entirely on this indolent rule.

“Then there are the children. Should they come over before or after the wedding.” This is a subject that we have both been avoiding. When I last saw my eldest grandchild he was not only taller than I but had the beginnings of a precocious moustache. At fourteen he looks a man; fortunately, his eight-year-old brother will look more suitable in the rôle of putative ring bearer or cherub-in-attendance at Grace Church. Yet I have been somewhat disturbed at the prospective tableau of Apgars in serried ranks, staring at Emma, the magnificent young bride, as she is attended by a young Frenchman who looks to be more than half the groom’s age. It is a delicate matter.

“Would the Sanfords take the children?”

“Oh, yes. Denise insists, in fact. But then ...”

“But then ...” We think alike, as always.

We now found ourselves on a retaining wall at the river’s edge. In the shadow of a willow tree stood a gazebo so divided into four sections that a couple seated in one section would not be observed by those in the other three. Slowly we walked around the gazebo. In the section that faced the river two figures were entwined most lovingly.