Of Prophets, Saints and Sinners - 3. Chapter 3: In the Middle

Chapter 3: In the Middle

The brass instruments returned with a stirring melody. They soared brightly over a repeated pulsation on the bass strings, and it struck Jordan as prelude to a dance number. His program confirmed it.

Friends gather at a Christmas Eve party for merrymaking, where they celebrate the festivities with nostalgia, song and hope.

And indeed, such sentiments seemed to sum up a great deal of the holiday season on the whole.

The music put him in mind of his late wife, and the few festive occasions they had hosted of this nature. Their daughter Emily was always slipping downstairs in her robe and nightshirt to peek at the proceedings, until Mama reminded her that Santa could not and would not visit her stocking until happy dreams were flitting through her head.

'My, so long ago now….'

However, Jacob Jordan had his clever and beautiful granddaughter in sight, and he knew he was a lucky old man. He surmised 'Blessed' was the more fitting expression.

The melody line continued until a key-shift brought a middle portion – a 'development section,' he thought the proper term was called.

Children were a blessing, and yet it seemed so many of the city's unfortunates had but little love around them. Were children a blessing to poor parents as much as to rich ones? It was a silly question, because every child deserves to know he or she is loved for simply being themselves, and yet modern societal pressures on both parents and offspring forced them to separate from the domestic bosom as soon as possible.

Recently, Mr. Barr and he had had a meeting in the store's printing office. Their in-house presses were able to turn out magazine-sized editions of many types of materials, but they lacked the expertise for offset color lithography. Advertising cards were the rage now, and for the last five or so years – since lithography became affordable for commercial houses to give away to clients – Barr's was no different. The store used these collector items to boast of its automatic cash registers, its fine Ladies' Restaurant, its Easter millinery collections, and many more particulars.

The day of the meeting, all the new sample cards were in for selection and the awarding of a new contract. Jordan had written some advertising copy about the impending move, and sent it around to all the color print houses in town. These firms maintained ready stocks of pre-printed cards, upon the backs of which they overprint a message. The request for proposal stated to use the text and submit samples to be reviewed and approved by the store.

The day Mr. Barr and he spread them out on the conference room table had been revealing. They quickly discerned the new trend in advertising was to use children. Show them as adults, in fact.

One printing house presented a series with a little girl on a stone balcony. She was blond and heavily made-up and costumed in 17th century finery. Her plump little arms and cherubic face made it instantly clear that she was a youngster of about five or six. The first card of the set showed her on the balcony with a blue jay bringing her a heart-sealed envelope. The printers had overprinted on the white expanse of the letter: "A Message from Barr's. See Other Side." The next in the series showed a little boy in Don Juan costume climbing a vine up to the girl, while the final card showed them in an oddly passionate embrace. Again, these young children were shown as adults, in adult situations, and exhibiting 'grown-up' behavior.

A rival lithographer offered a single submittal, but the printing was excellent. Similar in theme, a small girl propped elbows on an open window. She wore elaborate 18th century clothes along the lines of a chambermaid. Her rapt attention was on a little boy on the sidewalk. His arm was raised in salutation to her, and his attire was one of a French chef. He was equipped with a fine white hat and an enormous butchering cleaver tucked into the folds of his apron. Rosy cheeks and stubby limbs made it clear these images were meant to portray small children.

It all reminded him of a framed print. He'd noticed it the last time he strolled to his corner tavern, where Jordan goes to fill his bucket of beer when dinner guests are coming. Practically every corner in the city had a gathering spot where the locals could imbibe, and even the native ladies who eschewed liqueurs and soda waters enjoyed the city's rightly famous selection of lagers. While Jordan's family bucket was being filled, he stepped to a large frame. Black with a gold outline surrounding the image, it housed a print saying:

Best wishes of the

Wm. J. Lemp Brewing Co.,

Saint Louis. U.S.A.

The image showed an autumnal or early winter scene; the colors were soft and earth-toned, which seemed to stand in sharp contrast to the gritty picture they painted. Five Saint Louis newsboys – two older ones in long pants; three younger in knickers and knee socks – were gathered in an alley. The stuccoed wall behind them was cracked and chipped and exposed large patches of bare brick. The stone cobbles of the street were soiled, and rubbish lay round about, including broken glass.

The centerpiece of the tableau was a wooden case of 'Extra Pale Lager.' The pint-sized bottles were each luxuriously wrapped in pale peach-colored paper. Two larger crates provided seating for a pair of the boys, including a roughish one with his shoes on the beer box. All of the lads were drinking: one pouring his beer in what looked oddly like a coconut; another had smashed off the top of his bottle and was pouring the contents into a dirty tin can; and a third was drinking straight from the bottle. The smallest, most rosy-cheeked and youngest boy was kneeling by the case, where he seemed to be acting as servant, or lowly grunt, to the others. He pulled out the bottles and unwrapped them for opening.

What was the total message of the scene Jordan wondered? Dirty-faced, realistically under-fed, lowly boys who could not pool all of their daily incomes to buy even one bottle of Lemp's premium, export-grade beer, here sat intending to get drunk on a case of it. The picture-story must be that the boys stole it from someplace, and were thus grinning 'criminals.'[1]

It appeared to Jordan to be part of the same message, that kids these days are used to sell products by placing them in non-innocent positions. Show them as grown-up with adult problems and temptations.

Suddenly, the tone poem altered. A dramatic crescendo and a long, trilling cadenza for the clarinet announced the mood of the composition was about to be drastically different.

He held up his program again.

The adults watch the assembled children engage in juvenile dancing and song before bedtime.

The tune at the end of the cadenza was lilting and waltz-like. Led at first by the clarinet, by the time the full orchestra engaged the melody, Jordan witnessed Mina's face come alive. Several of the children, including her, bobbed and swayed where they stood in their choir robes.

It would have been such a charming feature if the children's performances included their coming down and acting out the scene portrayed in Fry's tone poem.

Seeing their lovely, open faces made Jordan grasp the falseness of the current advertising trend of using children. The one thing none of the images showed were kids being kids. Kids at play, kids doing the things they find natural and fulfilling. No, this society seems to have a need that productivity, usefulness, and above all else, control be maintained at the cost of 'childhood' itself. Why were children seen as such a threat to the social order? Perhaps it was the lingering Puritanical notion that kids are closer to Nature, wild, untutored and 'un-Christian' in their very constitutions, and thus easier for the demons and devil of worldliness to temp into malicious behavior.

Thankfully, much of the 19th century had been geared to science dispelling religious superstition, but still children were looked upon with deep, fearful apprehension.

The music he was listening to now painted children as fun-loving and free; the visual material he had been thinking about showed them as beings who needed to be disciplined with work and rigid instruction.

He considered wistfully how he was very near to the end of his personal work career – his own youth a distant memory – but he clearly remembered the preparations to move into the new building a few months ago, and Mr. Barr's unexpected surprise….

˚˚˚˚˚

Monk McDonough trailed Jacob Jordan on their tour of the Julia Building.

Jordan prattled: "Completed in 1869, this was the world's largest permanent commercial structure at the time. Five acres of usable space under one roof."

Monk made notes, but thought perhaps the old gentleman forgot he had already relayed that bit of intelligence the first time they met.

"It covers half of an entire city block: two hundred twenty-five feet by one thirty-five. The building has no central light courts, so all of it is suitable for displays and merchandizing."

Someone dropped a pan in the neighboring room. It rattled noisily amid shouts of 'Be careful!' from the kitchen staff.

Mr. Jordan had led the reporter to the top floor – first touting the newly installed bank of hydraulic elevators – to this spot: the Ladies' Restaurant.

It was a columned space with walnut paneling and enough potted ferns to make the wilds of New Zealand feel tame. 'Tea-takers' of the female variety apparently preferred to snack on their crustless cucumber sandwiches in a jungle setting.

"Shall we?" Jordan led the way with a blossoming arm gesture, and the men moved into the restaurant's foyer. Beyond it was the corridor and elevators.

McDonough wrote as the older gentleman explained: "The store is split into thirty-two separate departments, each operated like a discrete business unit with their own budgets and quarterly goals – this Barr 'department store' model is now being emulated across the country."[2]

"Department store, you say?" Monk noted the unfamiliar term.

"Yes, indeed."

They entered another anteroom, this one done in fine, feminine rococo taste with gilded swirls, mirrored panels, and plaster cherubim frolicking on the ceiling. Half a dozen double doors stood open, and workmen installed carpeting in equally fancy salons. "These are the ladies' private fitting rooms. Parties of clients will be shown in and seated with refreshments while store models parade the latest fashions from France."

"Very elegant," Monk intoned reverently.

As Mr. Jordan led the way to the grand staircase, Monk inquired, "How long have you worked here, sir?"

"Me? Oh, since the beginning." They started to go down to the Third Floor. "I'm from Philadelphia originally, but came out here in '39 to explore the dry goods business. By the time Mr. Barr's firm opened a Saint Louis branch, I was in a good position to help make the new venture a success."

"You have succeeded wonderfully, sir."

Jordan laughed warmly. Having landed on the new level, the Barr's employee gestured to his right. "Shall we see Furniture, Draperies and Housegoods?"

"If it's all the same with you, Mr. Jordan, perhaps we can see the back-of-house facilities."

"Certainly." He led the way to a non-descript door and entered. "In addition to the workrooms for the upholsters and drapers, this level houses our in-house printing shop. Here we not only produce mail-order catalogues, but all the store advertising, promotional material, monthly fashion magazines, advertising cards, and giveaways branded with the store's name – which includes sheet music of popular tunes. It's a unique and robust enterprise, and one not even imagined by Wannamaker's."

They peered into a huge space where men in white overalls were busy with paintbrushes. A huge machine was draped with sheets in one corner.

Jordan chuckled again. "We had to remove one of the windows and hire a crane to lift the printing press into position. I'm relieved this part of the move is accomplished."

"I bet."

"Are you from Saint Louis, Mr. Monk?"

"Yes, born and bred."

"I could tell."

"How…?"

"There is such a thing as a Saint Louis accent, you know."

"Is there?"

"Indeed. It's rather on the French and Irish side of things I fancy. For example, the word 'forty' is more often pronounced 'faaty' around these parts."

"I suppose so. My parents and extended family came here from Canada; New Brunswick to be exact. They say things like 'boo-e' for boy. But my father is a typesetter, so I grew up with proper English too. One must be precise to be a typesetter."

"Yes, I can see that."

Jordan led the way again, back to the stairs.

"So," Monk asked, "you've seen the retail world expand dramatically in your career, have you not?"

"Oh, yes indeed."

"What in your opinion has led to the post-war explosion?"

"Banking, sir."

Monk stopped dead in his tracks. "Banking?"

"Yes, that and the employment of female clerks in the stores."

"I do not follow."

"Well, for the clerks, our rival, Scruggs, Vandervoort and Barney, was the first in the nation to employ women behind the counter in 1870. It may have only been a decade ago, but the practice is common now, especially where lady customers may wish to see more 'delicate' apparel."[3]

Monk noted it in his book; it made a great deal of sense. "And the banks?"

"Women's political and economic independence has grown exponentially since the conclusion of the war. Boatmen's Bank here in the city was the first in North America to give women autonomous accounts, and the right to wait in line for a teller like any common man."[4]

"It is still a jarring sight, I will admit, to see a woman banking, but you say this has affected retail?"

"Oh, my dear sir, yes. Ladies may now purchase discreetly with cash at department stores like Barr's and not have to 'explain' it to their spouses or fathers. It's led to a boom in sales, and made the retail market the fastest growing segment in the post-war economy, despite what Mr. Carnegie says about his steel."

"Yes. It all makes sense, and it explains the environment here."

"We have many competitors in the Saint Louis market, but they all agree Barr's stands unrivaled, and our possibilities cannot be approximated."[5] He seemed to wait, apparently expecting Monk to dutifully note that catchy little sales pitch.

Down on the Second Floor, Monk again eschewed touring the departments – men's and boys' clothing, the trunks, as well as the sporting goods – to see the behind the scenes facilities.

"You mentioned when last we met how the store expects to employ six hundred people by year's end."

"Yes."

"That's a large expenditure. Might the readers of the Globe learn what the company's income is?"

Before he answered, Jordan showed Monk a large office with tables down the center and card files lining several walls. "This is our mail-order division." He turned to hold the reporter's gaze. "As far as staff versus income, we compare well to some of the city's other major employers. Lemp – arguably the best-known international enterprise here, with beer distributors radiating out from Saint Louis to Yokohama in one direction, and Moscow in the other – grossed $1.5 million in sales last year; Anheuser-Busch, $1 million; and William P. Barr and Company – $2 million. And, I might remind you, 1878-79 was a year of economic depression in the retail world generally."[6]

"You'll excuse me, but I do find it – "

"Hard to believe we sold that much?"

"Yes."

"Barr's remarkable sales volume is due to the activity that will happen in this room. Our retail mail-order division was launched immediately after the Railway Mail Service Act of 1869 went into effect, which allows parcels to be sent by train. Now goods are shipped from Saint Louis to every address in the West, and the money flows in."[7]

On the First Floor the men walked the marble floors and Monk noted the finery on display: ladies' notions, small items of clothing, bolts of fabrics and many dress forms exhibiting the latest fashions.

"This is a beautiful store, Mr. Jordan. I have read that your competition scoffs at the idea of Barr's moving all the way to Sixth Street, when the retail world is lined up so cozily along Fourth."

"The crowds will follow us, and I predict our competitors will too, and in short order." Jordan pulled out an advertising card from his breast pocket; he placed it in Monk's hand.

On it, a perspective drawing of the building, already bearing the store's red pennant flapping proudly on top of the rounded corner, had the words "Barr's Great Central Store." The street traffic included elegant carriages pulling up to the overhanging marquees, a throng of passersby window-shopping, and several streetcars rolling past.

"You see…." Jordan pointed to the advertising copy. "I've turned a perceived weakness of location into a desirable feature. But, it's one that's true: half a dozen private streetcar lines pass along Sixth, Seventh, Locust and Olive."

"Ah, the 'central' part of the advertising."

"Precisely. But never boast about something that's not grounded in veracity."

Monk laughed. "A lesson, sir, most politicians never learn."

"No, it's sadly true. But we merchants are more reliable and trustworthy simply because we both respect and need our clientele. Political leaders on the other hand often treat the voting populace as beneath their interest."

"Well, I cannot find an angle to argue against that perception."

"Yes; the office-seekers offer no examples themselves." He smiled and moved them along with their tour.

They descended another impressive staircase into a high basement level. "This floor, Mr. Monk, will be for seasonal displays. First for a Veiled Prophet exhibition during the opening week of October, and then for the largest Xmas Bazaar the West – or possibly the country – has ever seen."

"The VP festivities planned for this year seem to be grander than ever."

"The store's float will be very impressive, I assure you." A smile flashed.

Monk had always been uncomfortable on parade night, as the sounds and crowds foisted unpleasant sensations of trauma on him.

For a reason unknown, he thought of his cousin, his problems, and the remarkable firebrand of a woman in the middle of them. He halted his host in the center of the wide-open space.

"By any chance, Mr. Jordan, do you know Elizabeth Waverly? I assume her parentage is good."

"It is indeed, sir, and yes, I know her quite well. We attend the same church, and Miss Waverly teaches my granddaughter in Sunday School. In fact, Mina loves the bible stories Miss Waverly tells them; although mild with the children, she's quite a forceful young woman for us adults."

"It's my turn to say 'indeed,' for I've recently had the pleasure of meeting her."

"Oh. For an interview?"

"It's more like she was interviewing me, but yes."

"I know the feeling. Miss Waverly not infrequently asks William P. Barr and Company for charitable donations – supplies for her less fortunate students. We always find extra stock of chalk or notepads for her; whatever she needs to continue in her good endeavors."

"Yes. They are good, aren’t they?"

"Are you married, Mr. McDonough?"

"No, sir. And you?"

"I had a wife, but lost her in the cholera wave of '51. We had one daughter, who is happily settled on her own now, and given me one golden-haired angel – Mina. I dote on my grandchild, and look forward to my upcoming retirement."

"Oh?"

"Yes. This move is it for me. Thirty-one years at Barr's – time to focus on relaxation."

"It's quite an accomplishment."

"What about you, Mr. Monk. Has there never been a young lady you were sweet on?"

"There was one." Monk did not want to talk about it.

Apparently, Mr. Jordan picked up on the signal. He continued in a calm, nostalgic tone: "You see, after the loss of my wife, I threw myself into my work. I feel blessed my daughter has forgiven all the time she spent with nannies and tutors. She allows me to make it up with Mina. I am a lucky man, Mr. Monk, very lucky."

"I…I know about loss, Mr. Jordan. I once had a special woman. She was sweet and polite – a little lady to make the heart of any man swell with pride."

Jordan chuckled. "How does that compare with Miss Waverly?"

Monk was taken aback. "I'm sure there is no comparison to be made a'tall. My girl was blushing and sweet; Waverly is…well, a hoyden, I believe is the best term."

"A tomboy? Well, to some I'm sure she is." Jordan's hand landed reassuringly on Monk's shoulder. "Cheer up. You are young. A life with wife and family are yours if you want it."

Monk was not sure how to reply; the truth was, he did not ever want to replace 'her.'

They were suddenly interrupted by loud voices. A party of stogie-smoking gentlemen emerged from a door of what looked like a private conference room.

Monk recognized the mayor, the governor, and one of the state's senators being led by a bearded man in his early fifties. He presumed this gentleman was none other than William P. Barr himself.

Barr excused himself and strode up to Monk and Jordan.

"Sir," said Mr. Jordan, "may I present Monk McDonough, color man for the Globe-Democrat."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Barr."

They shook hands.

"Likewise. I'm glad Jordan here can show you all of our efforts."

The retailer's voice was pleasant to Monk's ears; a faint roll of the r's might be the only trace of the smiling man's origins in Scotland.

Barr lowered his voice and gestured with his head to the party of bigwigs. A German accent smoothly appeared as he said, "Mayor Overstolz ist vorried about his re-election…so, you at the Democrat vill please to be kind unto a Republican like him…. Yeaah?"

There was incredible mirth in the man's sparkling blue eyes; it made Monk smile uncontrollably. "And Senator Cockrell?"

"Ohhh." Suddenly a bright Irish brogue rang out. "Surein' I'm sure his party lads will be-a lookin' after him, aw-reet."

Jordan smiled and explained, "Our fearless commercial leader is a master mimic. I'd be careful, Mr. Monk, or he'll be studying the art of sounding like a New Brunswicker from you."

"Oh?" Barr asked brightly.

"My parents, sir, are from Moncton. In fact, they named me as a reminder of 'home.'"

"How charming, Mr. McDonough." He turned his attention to Jacob Jordan. "Have you shown the gentleman the store?"

"Yes, sir. We're ending down here, speaking about the Veiled Prophet display, and the upcoming Christmas Bazaar."

Barr appeared to grow sentimental a moment as he told Monk, "I'm not sure what I'll do without him, Mr. McDonough. Everything about the store is system and prosperity, thanks to this capable gentleman. As my right hand man, he's streamlined the firm based on railroad models of efficiency, and thereby sped the internal flow of goods and information. I owe him a lot…but…if you'll excuse me, I had better attend to my own duties. It was a pleasure to meet you, sir." [8]

"Likewise." They shook hands again, and Barr departed to rejoin his important political guests.

Alone again, Jordan told him, "See? A remarkable man. He's kind too; a charitable soul. It's I who owe him a great deal."

"Teamwork, sir, is what I see."

"You are kind." His own sentimental look washed over the old gent's face. "And, by way of courtesy, I invite you to attend services with me some Sunday. Mina is a chorister at Christ Church Cathedral. You should come down to see her, and I suppose a certain Sunday School teacher will be there as well."

Color rose beneath Monk's collar, and his hand stroked his beard. All of this family-talk had a sudden impact on him. The contrast of considering 'good,' well-fed, well-protected children, against the city's many abandoned and hapless ones, made him resolve to go see how the inmates at the House of Refuge lived, including his own flesh and blood cousin.