Chapter Six
On the carriage ride to Chelsea, Alan Dale described what awaited Nellie that night, both at the opera and with Charles DeKay.
“Five years ago, New York City society underwent a grand metamorphosis. Some considered the shift to be monumental, but others”—indicating himself—“viewed it as simply a new wave of pests infesting the land.
“Ever since the Civil War, Mrs. William Astor—Lina to her friends—ruled New York society like an iron-willed Victoria. With her sycophantic ferret from Savannah, she developed ‘Mrs. Astor’s 400,’ a list of the families blessed enough to be invited to her annual ball at her mansion at Thirty-Fourth Street and Fifth Avenue. Mrs. Astor and her four hundred had no use for lowlifes such as the Vanderbilts, the Morgans, the Rockefellers, and anyone else who made their fortunes in the messy world of business.
“The industrial millionaires and their wives, as you can imagine, smarted from the rejection. They felt entitled to the respectability that goes along with enormous wealth.
“And while they did build massive mansions that dwarfed the brownstones of the four hundred, Mrs. Astor and her list preserved the one bastion that the nouveau riche craved above all others: the boxes at the Academy of Music Opera House. The Academy hall had eighteen carefully guarded boxes strictly reserved for the city’s aristocracy. Only those on the list of four hundred could enter the eighteen Academy boxes or attend the balls afterward.
“The wives of the industrialists refused to stand for this. Mrs. Alva Vanderbilt arranged for seventy shareholders to put up $1.7 million to acquire land and erect a new opera house at Thirty-Ninth and Broadway—mere blocks from Mrs. Astor’s home. A glittering new theater—four times the size of the Academy of Music, with 122 boxes and 3,615 seats spread among three tiers—debuted one year later with a performance of Faust. All of New York rushed to see the new building and attend the operas, and with unlimited wealth at its disposal, the Metropolitan Opera attracted the finest performers in the world—on an exclusive basis, of course. Within two years, the old Academy of Music was forced to close. It is now a vaudeville house for sailors on shore leave.”
Dale chuckled. Americans and their craving of respectability amused him no end.
“This is not to say that the atmosphere at the new opera house is any less stifling. As with the old Academy, the program at the Met is secondary to the company one keeps. And no one at the new opera house is more aware of his company than Charles DeKay.”
“But DeKay has all the pedigree he needs. A Yale education, an arts critic for a newspaper, family in the literary world—”
“DeKay was born into an old New York family, yes. But when he was a young boy, his father lost the family fortune on a business venture and then drank himself to death. The mother took the three children to Europe—partly out of shame, partly out of economic necessity. With the help of friends, the family eventually made it back to America, but DeKay never forgot the humiliation of being looked upon with pity.”
“ ‘The help of friends,’ ” thought Nellie with resentment. The kind of friends who were unavailable to her mother when they were tossed out of their house. Already she had no use for Charles DeKay.
“DeKay has a certain unctuous charm,” said Dale, “and through family connections, he was admitted to Yale, where he concentrated on fencing and plagiarizing poetry. After leaving Yale, he was eager to make a mark and submitted a poem to The Atlantic that, it turned out, Longfellow had written for Scribner’s forty years earlier. Because his sister and brother-in-law, Helena and Richard Gilder, were editors at Harper’s, the matter was quietly dropped, apologies given and accepted. A year later, through Helena’s intercession, The Times took him on as its arts critic.”
“The political desk must have been filled,” she said acerbically. Of all the papers Nellie had interviewed for her initial story, the Times had been the most adamant about not hiring women.
“It was his treatment of Emma that was truly vile. You see, DeKay stayed inseparably close to her in literary circles, to catch the reflected light of her brilliance, but in social circles he kept his distance because she was a Jew. Within months of Emma’s death, DeKay announced an engagement to Lucy Edwaline Coffey, the daughter of a wealthy importer and the granddaughter of Robert E. Lee.”
“But Lee was a traitor!” she said. Nellie’s father had despised Lee. He would go on and on about it when she was a little girl. “Lee was the superintendent of West Point,” her father would say when someone made the mistake of speaking favorably of the Confederate general, “and then he fought against the United States. Of the ten battles in the war with the most casualties, Lee led the Confederacy in six of them. Two hundred thousand soldiers died in those battles. He should be hung!”
“And when did DeKay meet Miss Coffey?” asked Nellie, sensing the answer.
“Well before Emma became ill. He remained with Emma so as to avoid her wrath and retain whatever access he had to the literary elite. The courtship of Miss Coffey was not made public until after the funeral—about the same time that DeKay suddenly began spending on extravagant items beyond his means.”
“What a loathsome human being.”
“Now you see why I was reluctant to talk about him,” he went on. “If you were halfhearted about reporting the story, I had no interest in helping you.”
“But why would Miss Lazarus be involved with such a man?”
“That, I am sorry to say, remains a mystery.”
The hansom pulled up to a theater in Madison Square. It was shortly before six.
“Why are we stopping here?”
“You wanted to speak to Mr. DeKay, didn’t you? You will be seated two boxes away from him at tonight’s opera.”
“But that’s in just a few hours,” she sputtered, glancing at the late afternoon sun.
“Is there a problem?”
“Of course there’s a problem. For one thing, I have no escort.” Nellie was an independent woman, but no woman went to an opera by herself, especially if she wanted to be inconspicuous.
“I’m sure you can think of someone.” He snapped his fingers, and a boy—there were dozens on every Midtown street corner—came hurrying over. Dale took a paper and pen from the boy and offered it to her. Nellie hesitated. She and Ingram kept their relationship private. But she had no idea whom else to ask.
“Miss Bly,” Dale said impatiently. “This is no time for propriety—especially one I suspect you don’t subscribe to anyhow.”
“All right.” She took the piece of paper and pen and wrote out a short message, then folded it up and wrote an address on top. Dale handed it to the courier and gave him a coin.
“Be quick about it,” he said to the boy. “Wait for a reply and bring it back to us. We’ll be in there,” he said, indicating the theater across the street.
The boy scampered off. “What else?” asked Dale.
“What do I wear to this opera?”
“My dear. That is why we’re here.”
He took her inside the Winter Garden Theater, where the crew was preparing for that night’s show, a melodrama called A Moral Crime. He seemed to know everyone by name, and suddenly Nellie understood why Dale always made a point of mentioning the production side in all his reviews. It gave him unparalleled access to behind-the-scenes scuttlebutt, which his readers craved and which kept him as New York’s best-read critic.
Dale walked over to the wardrobe director, a man in his late forties arranging last-minute adjustments to the costumes for the evening. The two greeted one another with a familiarity that Nellie instantly recognized as former lovers. Dale whispered something to the man, who dropped what he was doing and returned a moment later with a resplendent maroon velvet dress with matching arm-length gloves, a low neckline, and a tight bodice. With twenty minutes of tailoring, it fit Nellie perfectly. The director also chose a smashing hat and dazzling jewelry that looked beyond anything Nellie could ever afford. Ten minutes with the makeup and hair stylist, plus the right shoes and wrap, and she was ready for the opera. Dale, who’d tried to remain quiet during the fitting and jewelry selection, finally couldn’t help himself and approvingly pronounced her “the envy of Alva Vanderbilt herself.”
Nellie did not have time to go home or even eat before the performance; she barely was able to meet Ingram at the entrance as it was. She hurried (as best as one could hurry in a full-length opera gown) through the dozens and dozens of hansoms and formally dressed couples making their way inside. Ingram was waiting for her outside the eight-story opera house wearing a full tuxedo with tails and white tie. His eyes widened when he saw her.
“You are a vision, Miss Bly.” She put her arm through his.
“Thank you, Dr. Ingram. And you look so handsome that if I were not working, I would whisk you off to your examining room.”
“I have arranged to make it available for later tonight.”
She handed him the tickets, and they started inside. At the door, Ingram showed the tickets to an usher in a long tuxedo coat who did not even bother to check the authenticity or the dates. The opera society crowd did not sneak into places.
“Third tier to your right, sir. Your box is fifth in from the stairwell.”
“Thank you.”
They walked inside, to a lobby with shiny oak floors, massive Oriental rugs forty feet long, and glittering crystal chandeliers that hung from a ceiling four-stories high. But the furnishings were mere backdrop. It was the most expensively tailored crowd Nellie had ever been near. All the men wore tails and white ties; all the women, long gowns and expensive jewels. And every woman over the age of twenty-seven adorned herself with wide diamond chokers to hide the wrinkles.
It was a warm evening. The women were fanning themselves, and the men were sweating profusely through their tuxedos. Nellie looked around in the stifling atmosphere and felt generations of ostracism and ridicule welling through her body. She had been raised to loathe these people. The resentment became so overwhelming that she stopped in her tracks.
“What’s wrong?” asked Ingram.
“I don’t belong here.”
“What are you talking about?” She felt the urge to flee.
“I’ve never been to an opera before. I have no idea what’s going on.”
“My dear, don’t you understand? No one is here for the opera.”
He took her arm and tried to resume walking through the lobby, but she was frozen.
“We should leave.”
“Nellie.” He looked at her sternly, like a scolding parent. “You have a story to write. Besides, it took me two hours to get dressed.”
That was what she needed: a firm hand to remind her of her purpose for being there. She took his arm, and they walked up the blood red carpeted stairs, past French Academy tapestries and royal blue curtains with braided gold tassels. She wanted to be at her seat, away from these people, but the going was slow as the women in their floor-length gowns and full slips could go up only one laborious step at a time. Stumbles were common, not so much from the challenge of making it up the stairs while weighted down with twenty pounds of slips and jewelry, but because everyone kept looking around to see who else was in attendance.
Something else was causing heads to turn.
“Why are they staring at us?” Nellie asked. She was getting uncomfortable again, fighting the lifelong fear that she would be pointed out as an intruder and forcibly removed. She didn’t realize how striking she was and that people were trying to place her. Was she visiting royalty? A star of an upcoming performance? The daughter of a railroad tycoon?
“They know you’re an impostor.”
“Ingram—”
“My dear, you are the most beautiful woman here. The men are desirous and the women envious. If you weren’t on my arm, I’d be staring at you, too.”
He clasped her hand and resumed walking. She felt better—Ingram had that effect on her. She squeezed his arm in gratitude and kept her hand there. Ingram, as always, did his duty, nodding at the curious onlookers and smiling back inscrutably.
They finally made it to their box and beheld the new Manhattan Opera House. Above the main orchestra floor were five balconies, with boxes on the bottom three tiers. The stage was surrounded by a giant square arch with gold carvings and two statues of sentries on each side. An enormous red curtain with intricate gold embroidery hung over the stage. It was by far the largest and most plush theater Nellie had ever seen, and as she sat back to take it all in, she almost forgot why she was there. She looked over at the Times box, which Dale had said was two over from theirs. It was empty and remained so as the lights dimmed.
The opera that evening was Verdi’s newest, Otello, based on the Shakespeare play. Nellie and Ingram both loved the spectacle and the music, and she had always enjoyed Shakespeare’s tale of jealousy and deceit, but she could tell that the audience didn’t know what to think. People were looking around for someone to tell them how to respond. But those who attended the opera primarily for social reasons had not arrived yet, and no one else’s opinion much mattered. As the first act wore on, and the players poured themselves into their parts with heart and soul, Nellie could feel the audience’s anxiety building. She realized for the first time the power of Dale and other critics. Not only did they tell people what to see, they also told them what to think.
The Times box remained empty until just before the first act curtain, when an immaculately tailored man in his late thirties, accompanied by an expensively coutured young woman in her early twenties, slipped into their seats. Charles DeKay was more striking than Nellie expected, dashingly handsome with an undeniable charisma that would overpower most women. He made no attempt to hide his tardiness; if anything, his manner suggested irritation that the show had not waited an hour for him to begin.
Nevertheless, as the house lights came up, signaling the end of the act, DeKay stood and applauded thunderously. Those around him, equally shallow though far less charismatic, took their cues and joined in. The standing and applauding spread outward, like a bad concussion.
Finally, after a two-minute ovation, the musicians began to leave the orchestra pit, while DeKay sat down and surveyed the concert hall to arrange his social agenda for the intermission. He glanced casually toward the World box, almost as an afterthought, but stopped when he saw Nellie. His eyes locked on hers, and he nodded firmly that he approved and would like to see more. She answered his nod with a smile that thanked him for his compliment and returned the expression of interest even more so. Suddenly the woman with DeKay, her fan flapping like a hummingbird, tapped him gently on the arm, signaling that she wanted some air. He helped her to her feet, glanced once more at Nellie, motioned his head ever so slightly toward the corridor, and escorted her out.
“Shall we?” said Nellie to Ingram.
“We mustn’t keep the man waiting.” He offered his arm, and they walked out the narrow entrance together to the crowded hallway. It was filled with people trying to see, or be seen by, those around them. Some of the staring was directed at Nellie and Ingram, a smashing couple with a prized box, but Nellie barely noticed. Her interest was in DeKay. She saw him making light conversation with some important-looking patrons, but when he spotted her, he preened, excused himself, took his companion by the elbow, and glided over for his conquest.
“Don’t tell me Alan Dale is no longer with the World,” he said to Ingram.
“No, Mr. Dale is ill, I’m afraid,” said Ingram.
“I’m sorry to hear that. Are you reviewing the performance for him?”
“No,” spoke up Nellie. “I am.”
That surprised and pleased DeKay, giving him the opportunity to converse with her directly.
“Well, then. Welcome to a fellow critic. I am Charles DeKay from the Times. And may I present my fiancée, Lucy Coffey.”
“It is very gracious of you to come over,” she said. “My name is Nellie Bly. And this is my escort, Dr. Ingram.”
The two men shook hands, though neither could hide his distaste for the other.
“I admired your pieces on the Bellevue asylum, Miss Bly,” allowed DeKay. “Very bold. Congratulations.” Flattery came easily to him. He used it to disarm and to dominate. But when it came to dealing with detestable men, Nellie was in her element.
“Thank you. A most valued compliment.”
“You saw the articles, didn’t you, darling?” DeKay commented to his fiancée.
“I’m sorry, I don’t believe I did,” said Lucy in a vaguely Southern accent. Lucy was a poor liar, and it was clear she had read the articles closely and even talked about them but was not about to offer praise to a woman as attractive as Nellie. “But I’m sure they were most engaging.”
“I hope Mr. Dale’s illness is not serious,” said DeKay.
“It is not. He should be fine for his next review.”
“Ah. The actors in New York will be disappointed with his speedy recovery.”
“As well as the other critics.”
“Oh, there is no competition between us, Miss Bly. Mr. Dale and I address our reviews to different readers. I write for those steeped in the arts. Mr. Dale writes more for those touring the arts.”
Lucy chuckled at DeKay’s show of wit.
“But some of the finest minds in New York are among Mr. Dale’s readers,” said Nellie. “I’m told that Emma Lazarus read Mr. Dale’s articles religiously.”
His eyes didn’t even flicker at the mention of Emma’s name. He was a cool one, thought Nellie.
“I wouldn’t know,” he said.
“Oh?” said Nellie. “I was given to understand otherwise.”
Suddenly it dawned on him that Nellie was there as a reporter, not a critic. The walls shot up, though DeKay was too smooth and intent on impressing to retreat behind them completely.
“And what is your newest assignment for the World, Miss Bly?” asked DeKay, deftly changing the subject.
“The death of Miss Lazarus.”
“But she died six months ago,” he said evenly. “And of a difficult cancer. I’m not sure what story there is to tell. Unless Mr. Pulitzer is simply looking to keep you busy.”
“No, Mr. Pulitzer is convinced the true facts of her death, once uncovered, will make compelling reading. He wants me to devote all of my energies to the task. In fact, I was wondering if I might speak with you at greater length, since you knew Miss Lazarus well.”
“Not that well.” He stole an involuntary look at his fiancée. “We shared interests in poetry for a time but then drifted apart.”
“Still, may I call on you at the Times, tomorrow perhaps? Around eleven midday?”
“Certainly,” he said tentatively.
“Thank you—”
“Charles! There you are.”
To Nellie’s dismay, none other than Nathaniel Barker, the doctor she had seen with her mother a few days before, walked up to them in a formal tux.
“I’ve been looking for you. Agnes and I are entertaining at Delmonico’s later tonight. You and Lucy simply have to attend—”
He glanced at the lovely woman with DeKay and recognized her immediately.
“Miss Cochran!” he said with surprise.
“Hello, doctor.”
“You two know one another?” asked DeKay.
“Miss Cochran came to see me with her mother only two days ago. What an interesting coincidence.”
“Yes,” said DeKay. “It is. Do you know Miss Cochran’s companion, Dr. Ingram?”
Barker, well acquainted with Ingram’s low opinion of him, regarded him with hostility.
“Only by reputation.” He turned to Nellie. “How is your mother feeling?”
“Much better, thank you.”
“Barker, ‘Miss Cochran’ is Nellie Bly. The reporter who wrote the story on the women’s prison at Bellevue.”
Barker’s attitude suddenly darkened.
“You said your name was Cochran,” he snapped angrily.
“Cochran is my real name. Bly is my professional name.”
“You should have told me.”
“Or perhaps,” blurted out Ingram, “you should have told her that your breast examination was completely beyond medical propriety. You should be thrashed.”
The atmosphere had become tense. Both doctors’ fists clenched.
“Perhaps we should return to our seats now,” interposed DeKay.
“I agree,” said Nellie. “I will see you tomorrow?”
“If you wish.”
“Good evening, then.”
She turned to go, but DeKay squeezed her arm and dropped his voice.
“Miss Bly. Or Miss Cochran. Whatever you want to call yourself. Be advised, you are treading on dangerous ground.”
“But you said there is no story here.”
Not amused by her challenge, his voice took on an even more ominous tone. “Just be careful. I will not warn you again.”
Without another word, DeKay and his companions walked away.
“I am sorry I spoke out of turn,” Ingram said to Nellie. “Forgive me.”
“You did nothing wrong. But now that Barker knows who I am, I have lost the element of surprise.”
“Not entirely. They don’t know what you know and what you do not know.”
“Nevertheless, I wish he had not seen us.”
They returned to their seats. The lights dimmed. As the orchestra began the introduction for the second act, Nellie watched DeKay return to his box with Miss Coffey. As they sat down, he nodded curtly to Nellie, a small smile playing on his lips.
“He’s a smug one, isn’t he?” she whispered to Ingram.
“He certainly is.”
But something didn’t make sense.
“He should be worried,” she said. “Yet he acts as if he hasn’t a care in the world.”
“The pomposity of the—”
They both realized it at the same time.
“We need to leave,” she said.
“Immediately,” he said. They got up from their seats and hurried out to the narrow hallway.
But they feared it was too late.