“Edith, dear, how lovely to see you!”
“Mrs. Wharton, such a surprise…”
“Darling Edith, how we’ve missed you.”
“Do give our love to Teddy…”
“What are these dreadful rumors that you’re leaving us?”
To everyone in Edith’s New York, the opera was the buzzing center of the winter season. The city’s elite families gathered at the Metropolitan Opera House, ostensibly to hear music, but in truth to make matches and do battle. The boxholders in the Diamond Horseshoe enjoyed lengthy intermissions that allowed them to pay calls on one another, going from box to box just as they would from home to home to pay their respects. Careers were promoted, reputations enhanced or destroyed. The Metropolitan Opera had been founded in a fit of pique when Alva Vanderbilt was denied one of the eighteen boxes at the old Academy of Music, and Edith often wondered where American cultural life would be without New Yorkers’ thin skin. Someone was always starting something because they had been snubbed and wished to keep someone else out.
As Edith and Walter made their way into the house from the private carriage entrances reserved for the patrons and their guests, she found it difficult to breathe and she was not sure whether it was the sheer number of people or the people themselves. They were all here. The Vanderbilts, the Belmonts, the Harrimans, the Fishes, the Clewses, the Wilsons. She reminded herself that the person who unnerved her the most was probably not in the crowd. The Depews would come with Alice, and she never arrived until the first aria was underway, and she departed halfway through the finale. But the Depews would stay for the gala. The thought of confronting the hulking, dull-eyed junior Depew set her heart pounding and she wondered: Would she be relieved if he did not come?
No. She would not. Guilt over having blabbed about Susan Lenox weighed on her. If she was in any way responsible for provoking Depew into an act of violence against David Graham Phillips, it felt imperative to expose him. At least it felt imperative that she try.
Her plan, inspired by Hamlet, was to raise the subject of the murder and watch the son’s reaction. He did not possess his father’s gift for evasion. If he had a violent disposition, it would be easy enough to bait him into an outburst. Even now she was not entirely sure what she meant to say to him. When she imagined it, she had a vision of throwing David Graham Phillips in his face as you would a glass of water and watching him sputter into some sort of confession.
“Why did you change your mind?” Walter asked as they climbed the stairs.
“Did I?”
“I distinctly recall a reference to wild horses and their inability to drag you within a hundred feet of an American opera.”
“Clearly the horses had more oomph than I realized.”
As they entered the parterre, Edith steadied her nerves by noting the superficial things. Walter, magnificent in white tie. The new color scheme of the house—gold and maroon to replace the old ivory decor, which had been deemed unflattering to the ladies. Partridges were a popular motif for fans. Opera coats were gold and black, with touches of peacock. She put her ear to the buzz of conversation around her. Most of the opera’s patrons were intensely preoccupied by the genuine stars of the evening, which were not the singers but the patrons themselves. They had managed to be in the most important place on this most important evening, when the most important event in the city was taking place: the debut of Natoma! People were keen to show off their knowledge of the evening’s entertainment. One matron resplendent in emeralds looked forward to the “Dagger Dance.” Her companion had heard that the production featured a papoose. Also vaqueros, although he was unclear as to what those were.
Escorted to the salon area of the Goelet box, Edith surrendered her wrap, then took a deep breath as she prepared to pass through the red velvet curtains into the heart of the house. As she did, she was assaulted by the thrumming excitement of more than three thousand people. Also the vast stage curtain of dazzling gold and the sight of Mrs. Robert Goelet. Barely thirty, Elsie Goelet was ravishing, with crystalline eyes, dramatic brows, and luxurious masses of dark hair. She made Edith feel approximately a hundred and nine years old.
Edith had heard that the enchanting Elsie was dallying with Henry Clews, who was here this evening with his wife. Watching Elsie simper in Walter’s direction, Edith told herself perhaps she had heard wrong. But she inquired after Mr. Clews nonetheless. Just to be polite.
They arranged themselves in the usual manner on the seats of dark mahogany and black rattan: Edith and Elsie in the front, Walter seated behind Elsie. While he made gallant and Elsie charmed with her fan, Edith resented her assigned role as duenna. She had been asked not for her company, but to give the appearance of propriety. My dear, I saw Walter Berry with Mrs. Goelet at the opera!—And you saw Mrs. Wharton right there next to him, don’t dramatize! That she had used HJ in exactly the same way when traveling with Fullerton mollified her not at all.
She looked toward Alice Vanderbilt’s box. The chairs stood empty, the curtains still.
Then there was a storm of applause as the conductor took the podium. The lights dimmed and the magnificent gold curtain rose. Natoma was about to begin. As the overture played, she recalled a performance of La Figlia di Iorio. Fullerton had quietly joined her in the darkness mid-act. They said nothing, and yet she felt suffused by him, their minds and sensibilities so attuned they did not need words. This, she had thought, must be what happy women felt. What a gift to be found and rescued—late in life, to be sure, but rescued nonetheless.
Thoughts of rescue stayed with her as the first act got underway. Edith considered herself receptive to the “new.” At the very least, she had disdain for people who weren’t and a determination not to be counted among them. She had attended Stravinsky’s L’Oiseau de Feu, admired Diaghilev, and thought Cocteau delightful. Her tastes were in no way hidebound.
So she felt quite confident in her opinion that Natoma was terrible. The first time one heard the tunes, they had some freshness and charm. By the second act, they began to bore. By the twentieth repetition, Edith strongly considered snatching the baton from the conductor’s hand and thrusting it through his eyeball.
Restless, she looked about the darkened theater and saw that Alice had finally arrived. Dressed in her customary black, strands of pearls around her neck, she sat, a grand immobile totem, impervious to the lesser beings around her. Senator Depew, his old eyes large and brilliant, sat with his liver-spotted hands resting hard on the silver handle of a cane. Beside him, his son, gargantuan and gangly in his ill-fitting white tie, did not watch the action on the stage. From his expression, she judged that the young man was acutely unhappy to be at the opera.
Of course there, he was not alone. The rapturous applause that erupted when the last notes faded was the sound of a people liberated from torment. Huzzahs and bravos resounded throughout the house, although Edith heard a distinct menace in the bravos. The prima donna was pelted with orchids and violets. Then she brought on the composer, who, had the audience had offal on hand, might have been pelted as well. Afterwards, the crowds trailed out, wide-eyed in shock, aware that the gala reception—and reviews—lay ahead. The rush to the bar was so speedy it might have been the bell at Belmont racetrack.
Edith could see Senator Depew, waving and cheerful as he made his way through the crowd. To him, the opera itself was merely the overture. Now the real star would take the stage. Retiring or not, he still wished to show he was beloved in the hearts of New Yorkers, at least the ones who truly mattered.
Behind her, Walter whispered, “Do you want to stay? I think we’ve suffered enough.”
“All that despair and recrimination? The descent into gloom when the reviews are read? I wouldn’t miss it for the world. But if it is past Mrs. Goelet’s bedtime, you may pop her into her cradle whenever you see fit.”
The reception was held in the grand foyer of the opera house. Buffet tables laden with hams, lobsters, oysters, roasts, as well as acres of vegetables and every sort of bread and roll imaginable, surrounded fifteen tables, each of which sat ten prominent guests. At the center of each table was a basket of spring flowers. A vast American flag hung overhead, flanked by the flags of New York and California. The hall’s columns were decorated with tiger lilies and crowned with forsythia. Enormous bay trees stood on either side of the entrance. The walls and ceilings were adorned with Southern smilax woven with pink and white azaleas and pink electric lights. American Beauty roses emphasized the national triumph of the occasion.
As did the guests themselves. Thomas Edison was in attendance, as were Mr. and Mrs. Charles Dana Gibson. The mayor and his wife were present. (“Is that the one who was shot in New Jersey?” Edith whispered to Walter.) Yet another wing of the Vanderbilt clan was represented by William K. and his new wife. As was her habit, Alice had departed during the last aria. But her daughter-in-law was reeling in every personage in the room, all of whom seemed to have dined at her home at one time or another. “I feel deeply for poor dear Marie Antoinette,” Grace said to Prince Paul Trubetskoy. “If revolution came to America, I should be the first to go!”
Walter, who had found it prudent to separate from Mrs. Goelet for a time, chatted with Mrs. Schuyler Van Rensselaer. Edith greeted an obscure member of the Astor clan and a minor Stuyvesant. As she worked her way into the senator’s orbit, her surroundings grew notably more masculine, with black wool replacing an array of silks and lace. Doleful, she took in wizened necks, pouched eyes, and flapping arm flesh. There was no denying it: They were an aging group.
“A pessimist,” boomed Senator Depew to his admirers, “is a man who thinks all women are bad. An optimist is a man who hopes they are.” The younger Depew lurked at a distance behind his father, as if he were one of the waiters attempting to seat people so the dinner service might start. As Edith inserted herself into the circle of sycophants, she drew on her full display of regal entitlement. She was a Jones, a Schermerhorn, cousin to the Astors. She was not going to be intimidated by a Depew.
The senator greeted her with equanimity; he had spent enough time with people like her to know when to stand down. But he was canny, asking, “And where is your fine husband this evening, Mrs. Wharton?”
“Toothache, I’m afraid. But preferable, I daresay, to the evening’s entertainment.”
A round of masculine chuckles. The senator returned, “Ah, but we must embrace the new!”
“The new, by all means,” she said. “The dreadful and earsplitting, perhaps not.”
“Progress is often seen as disruption, Mrs. Wharton. Change is inevitable.”
So it is, she thought. In a matter of months, you may be out on your ear.
Borrowing Alice Vanderbilt’s stern tone and furrowed brow, she said, “Ah, but is change always desirable? If, for example, we were to rid New York of all that awful brownstone, I would rejoice. The city is now so crowded. And the level of crime shocking.” Turning her gaze on the son, she added, “Just the other day, a colleague of mine was murdered in broad daylight.”
The senator smiled benevolently; if women were not shocked by the world, his role as a gentleman able to navigate it on their behalf would disappear.
“It is regrettable,” he said, “but so many women now insist on walking unescorted in the streets, there are bound to be difficulties.”
A woman who leaves her home is neither pure not protected, thought Edith. One of the senator’s witty aphorisms? That his son would have heard repeatedly?
“But it wasn’t a woman,” she said. “He was a writer. Shot dead in the street. David Graham Phillips. You must have seen it in the newspapers.”
Turning, she addressed the son directly. “You remember, we spoke of Mr. Phillips at dinner the other evening. I’ve been reading his new book. It is indeed revelatory…”
“I assure you,” said the senator solemnly, cutting her off, “that I shall make the safety of New York’s citizens a priority should I return to the Senate. Now, if you will excuse me, gentlemen”—he glittered at Edith—“and Mrs. Wharton, I believe I am expected on the dais.”
He was too good, she thought, watching him slip away. Too experienced in evasion. So intent was she on watching the senator, she only belatedly noticed that the son did not follow him to the dais but headed in the opposite direction. She tried to follow him, but Walter arrived to escort her to their table.
By happy surprise, Edith found Minnie seated near her. Once her sister-in-law, now one of her dearest friends, Minnie had taken the astonishing step of parting with Edith’s brother after catching him in flagrante with another woman. To her mother’s horror, Edith had sided with Minnie—as had many others. Such was Minnie’s quality, her reputation had not suffered. When asked if she enjoyed the opera, Edith made a face of a silent scream. Minnie put her hands to her cheeks in feigned horror.
“But when the reviews are read,” said Minnie, “you must say, ‘Well, they didn’t understand it.’” Then, unfurling her napkin onto her lap, she said, “Henry has come to stay with me. He said he found it difficult to rest at the Belmont.”
“I was not such a menace, I assure you, that he needed to flee to Washington Square.”
“Well, it is where he grew up,” said Minnie. “He feels at ease there.”
But Edith was not in the mood to discuss Henry’s fragility. Glancing toward the dais where Senator Depew was seated at a long table at the head of the room with the soprano Miss Garden, the composer Mr. Herbert, and various other luminaries, Edith asked, “Is it your opinion that Senator Depew will return to Washington?”
“Heavens, how should I know?” Then, having made a proper display of ignorance about politics, Minnie added, “I understand he means to retire.” She leaned in to be heard below the conversation. “Apparently, the levels of greed became ostentatious. Or perhaps he was pushed from the trough by younger, more robust swine.”
Or by one writer, thought Edith, who is now dead. She saw that the younger Depew had landed at a table close to the doors. His fellow diners were mostly single men, with one couple she did not recognize. None of them greeted him as he sat down. It was what Edith called an odds-and-ends table, a place to seat people who had no friends nor people who wished to be their friend.
“And his son?” she inquired. “Does he seek a place at the trough?”
“Does he have a son?” asked Minnie. Edith cast a discreet glance in that gentleman’s direction. “I know nothing of him. You often see it, dazzling father, dud son drawn along on his papa’s coattails. Oh, speak of the devil—the senator has risen. The first review must have come in.”
The tinkling sound of sterling on crystal brought the room to silence. Glass in hand, the senator said, “Ladies and gentlemen, we are gathered here to celebrate the premiere of Natoma, the first truly American opera!”
This was greeted by bellows of “Hear, hear” and the thumping of hands upon the tables.
“I think it appropriate at this time”—here Depew held up a sheaf of paper—“to read some reviews.”
An apprehensive hush fell over the room.
The senator cleared his throat, then read: “‘What happened last night in the opera house was neither opera nor drama. It was certainly not related to music in any way.’”
Glances ranging from shocked to gleeful darted around Edith’s table. Every word was true, obviously, but to say so out loud?
The senator moved on to the next clipping. “‘The performance last night at the opera was disgraceful and should not have been allowed.’”
The murmurs rose, became hostile. Everyone knew they had endured a travesty; why rub their noses in it?
Serene, the senator continued. “Ah, and here we have, ‘The composer of the new opera may have talent for some things, but writing opera is obviously not one of them.’”
Then he grinned at the aghast assemblage.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I have just read to you the actual reviews of Bizet’s Carmen.”
A roar of relief was followed by a storm of clapping. Miss Garden and Mr. Herbert swooned. Crowds swarmed the senator, demanding to shake his hand. Cries of “Well done, sir, well done!” were everywhere. A call of Depew for president went up—Edith felt sure it had started at his table, but it lasted a surprisingly long time. Edith looked at William K. Vanderbilt, applauding vigorously, and thought, Hail, thou good and faithful servant.
She looked to the younger Depew’s table. The commotion that greeted the senator’s speech had given young Chauncey’s dining companions an excuse to desert him. While everyone else was on their feet, he remained seated, scraping and scrabbling at his meal as if it were his last. Edith thought he looked morose. Which was a suitable aspect for someone at this ridiculous occasion. Also, what one might expect to see in a man who had shot another man only five days ago.
Excusing herself, she made her way to his table, inventing, as she went, a tale of a nephew who desired a position with a political personage. What would the work entail? How much travel? Depew Jr.—what did his day look like? Did he, by any chance, travel to Gramercy Park often? Taking a deep breath, she reminded herself that the mayor was present, which meant a number of policemen were also present.
“Mr. Depew.”
He looked up, startled.
“A fine speech,” she began.
His grip remained tight on his fork. It took him a moment to frame the correct response; when he did, it was almost a question. “Thank you.”
On impulse, she discarded her story of a nephew who sought a position in politics. Hoping candor might unsettle the young man, she said, “I hope I did not offend you earlier with my remarks about Mr. Phillips.”
“You didn’t. But I would be grateful if you did not raise the subject again. It is not a happy one for my family. He wrote inflammatory and unjust things about my father. We are sorry, of course, that the man is dead.”
“Are you sorry, Mr. Depew?”
He looked pained, as if she were twisting his ear. “… Of course.”
“Where were you on that day?”
“I was in Albany.”
“Why Albany? Your father is a senator, surely his business is in Washington.”
The smallest smile at her ignorance. “Albany is where the real decisions are made, Mrs. Wharton.”
Remembering the senator’s joke about strange doings in that place, she said, “But it seems they have decided that they no longer require your father in the Senate.”
“My father is retiring after many decades of service to the people of New York. As you can see, he is beloved.” He nodded around the room. “That is all the payment he has ever asked.”
That and three houses and who knows what else, thought Edith.
“And what will you do when your father retires?”
“I?” He seemed surprised. Clearly an inquiry as to his plans or feelings was a novel experience.
“Yes.”
For a long moment, he considered. “I shall feel the greatest relief imaginable, Mrs. Wharton.”
It was not the answer she had expected, and she took it for a lie. “You have no concern for your own future?”
“Oh, I expect something will be found for me.”
His tone was complacent, almost bored. She looked about the room, the happy chattering crowd that swirled past their odds-and-ends table. There the mayor, there Thomas Edison, Walter and Minnie, and everywhere, everywhere, Vanderbilts. In short, everyone who mattered in New York.
Skeptical, she said, “But it will not be this.”
“No, and it will not be a musicale at One West Fifty-Seventh Street. Or Christmas at Biltmore. Or tennis at Newport. But I shall miss none of it.”
Intrigued despite herself, she said, “Really? You feel you can simply … walk away? Live a different life entirely? You won’t miss telling people ‘I dined at Alice Vanderbilt’s the other evening. I had the most fascinating conversation with her son Reginald’?”
Depew Jr. looked toward that young man who had stumbled into a waiter and was now laughing his head off. “Has anyone ever had a fascinating conversation with Reggie Vanderbilt?”
Why, that was an attempt at humor, she thought. And not wholly terrible either.
Then she heard him say, “Did you know that he’s killed three people?”
Amazed, she could only repeat the number. “Three?”
“Driving. He killed two men in New York City, one in Cannes. He’s hit many more, of course. In Cannes, he was particularly put out because the ambulance blocked the road, making him late to the casino.”
Had she known this? She knew Reggie had accidents; she knew he drove badly. And yes, now that she thought of it, she had heard of people being hurt. But somehow the words killed or dead had never been used. She almost said, But poor driving isn’t murder, when she remembered Anna Walling’s remark about careless young fellows.
“He knocked over a messenger boy in Harlem. Injured him badly.”
That she did know and she corrected him, saying, “No, but that was the chauffeur’s fault.” She remembered feeling rather smug about her own driver and thinking the Vanderbilts sloppy in their hiring practices.
“Yes, because the chauffeur was paid handsomely to say he was driving the car at the time.”
She had known Reginald Vanderbilt his entire life. Inordinately fond of brandy milk punch, he was often drunk when she saw him and always quite stupid. She had thought he bumbled through life, as many youngest sons do. She had read about his wedding, his triumphs in carriage racing, a dinner with his sister, the Countess Széchenyi. Privately, she had heard about his gambling debts and his mistresses.
But she had never seen him as a killer.
“None of this has been in the papers,” she said stupidly.
“No, none of it has been,” he said. “Neither has the fact that Mr. and Mrs. Cornelius Vanderbilt”—he nodded to Grace and Neily—“own almost nothing. The Newport house, the jewels, the Chinese vases, the linens, even the grand piano—all rented to create the illusion of wealth. Nor has it been in the papers that your friend George Vanderbilt has spent a significant portion of his capital on that palace in North Carolina. He is also in debt. You will notice that Alice never opens the Breakers and her New York home in the same year. She cannot afford to. Perhaps you can understand why I shall be relieved when my father leaves office. Soon, all that will be left is the auction block and the wrecking ball.”
Edith thought to assure him that he exaggerated. Then she remembered the Princeton Club. Which had once been Stanford White’s house. Which might one day be known as the place David Graham Phillips, America’s leading novelist, had been shot. Before that too was forgotten.
She thought back to the first time she had seen father and son. The senator using his awkward child like a prop to change the subject. The son cringing under his father’s hand. Yet he had not shrugged him off.
“But you admire your father.”
He considered. “Did you enjoy Natoma, Mrs. Wharton?”
“Not in the slightest.”
“And yet my father found a way to make it seem just fine. Almost as good as Carmen! So rather than feel embarrassed or awkward”—he gestured at the room—“everyone is happy. They know it was terrible, but they’ve saved face. My father is a gifted flatterer. He makes Americans feel good about themselves. Do you know he gave the oration at the unveiling of the Statue of Liberty? I was eight years old. I remember being confused, as if my father and the enormous copper lady were somehow getting married.”
He looked up at the dais. “When my father worked with old Cornelius Vanderbilt, they united New York through ferries and railroads.” He looked to William K. and Reggie. “Now they buy things. Gamble. Build palaces no one needs. I do admire my father. But I know what he has become.”
His disdain reminded her of the murdered man’s loathing for those who lived to consume. “Then you don’t blame David Graham Phillips for your father’s…” She thought fall, said instead, “… retirement.”
“Why would I blame David Graham Phillips?”
“Because he wrote Treason of the Senate.”
“Oh, that.” To her surprise, he looked apologetic. “Writers aren’t all that important, Mrs. Wharton. People don’t really care about books. If you’ll forgive me for saying so.”
Mildly piqued, she said, “The House of Mirth sold one hundred and forty thousand copies, Mr. Depew.”
“Yes, and the population of the United States is ninety-two million people.”
The calm assertion that books did not matter was such heresy to her that she had no idea how to refute it. As she tried to muster an argument, Depew gazed around the room as if taking a last look, then said, “Do you know? I should like to go to Paris.”
Stunned, she said, “Oh. Well, you must. Everyone should.” And stopped herself just in time from saying he must call on her.
Walter wished to go. Mrs. Goelet insisted they join her in her motor. Looking at Walter—lighter and livelier than she had seen him since his return from Egypt—the magnificent Mrs. Goelet beside him, Edith realized she was de trop and said she would go with Minnie.
“What on earth did you have to say to young Depew?” asked Minnie when she had given instructions to the driver.
She thought to say, We discussed books. But said instead, “Did you know Reggie Vanderbilt has killed three people?”
Minnie tugged at the edge of her glove. “I’m surprised it’s so few.”
And yet none of us have ever said anything about it. She remembered her fear when she considered the prospect of being in the same room as the man who had killed David Graham Phillips. Yet she had been in rooms—and cars—with Reggie Vanderbilt and thought nothing of it. It was not the same, she told herself. But why wasn’t it?
Minnie said, “Henry says there has been much tension and excitement. That you are flying here, there, and everywhere about this man who was murdered.”
“He died on my birthday,” she said. “Of course I take an interest.”
“He also says you asked him if you should part with Teddy.”
“Yes.”
Minnie put a strong hand over hers. She would not give advice; they had known each other too long for that. But the press of her fingers said, I am here. I will always be here. Edith squeezed her hand back to say, I know. And thank you.
Thinking again of Depew, she tried to cheer herself with self-congratulation. Anna Walling and Carolyn Frevert had been wrong. The person who shot David Graham Phillips had not been an agent of Depew or the Vanderbilts.
It did not cheer her. The man was still out there, twisted and stunted and ill. And he was not, she thought, as remarkable as she might wish. Unhappy young men, it seemed, were everywhere. Young Depew was disappointed and apathetic. Alice’s worthless Reginald. She wanted to say to her sister-in-law, These men who have had everything our world has to offer, these men who should be our future—what is wrong with them? Something has gone sour.
“When do you return to Europe?” Minnie asked.
“As soon as Dr. Kinnicutt delivers me. I pray it is soon. New York seems so appalling to me now. It has lost all sense of its history and tradition.”
They were approaching the Belmont. Minnie said, “I have come to the conclusion that New York is always appalling. That is its history and tradition. We all have our ‘New York.’ None of us gets to keep it. If we’re lucky, we hold fast to our little bit as long as we need it.”
She kissed her cheek. “Goodbye, Edith dear.”