Of Prophets, Saints and Sinners - 10. Chapter 10: Some Secondhand Tennyson

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Chapter 10: Some Secondhand Tennyson

We have so far, dear readers, visited some of the shadier spiffs and damsels of our fair city, so now let us pause and regard a few of the more serious Belles and Beaux to be met with in church aisle or salon setting.

Among well-off young ladies one frequently encounters a bookish and somewhat sincere type. The 'Literary Belle,' if she is very rich, freely adopts a classical costume, designed to illustrate some character in history she is currently reading – be it from Chaucer, Sophocles, or Cervantes – and about whom she talks a great deal. However, no matter how extravagant her chosen manner of dress, she insists the body and its adornment is merely a worthless casket to hold the jewel of her cultivated intellect. She is quite free with her quoting of the Poets, talking about the state of Art these days, and the troublesome advance of 'science.' She never condescends to read novelists of lesser note than George Eliot, and is quick to assure she truly enjoys Ruskin, Emerson, and Carlyle. Her remarks about these writers are very vague at best, and she adroitly avoids discussions with any likely to know aught about them; but she has an immense reputation for learning, and manages to keep it up with a tact known only to her own sex. The Literary Belle is not particularly popular with the gentlemen, as she talks too much for the savant, and not enough for the dilettante, but remains an intellectual notch above the average male biped. This situation usually suits her just fine, as being of the inferior sex as men are, her time is better spent in the company of other Literary Belles, with whom she not infrequently establishes the most content and un-asunderable 'Boston Marriage.'

Of a differing complexion completely is the 'Devotional Belle.' You will know her by her front-row pew location, directly before the lectern, where the handsomest of young deacons may be distracted by her during his sermons. True, as far as her dress is concerned, you will not be able to distinguish this pious devotee from the gayest worldling out there. Her diamonds sparkle just as brilliantly, and her silks and velvets trail just as grandly in the sanctuary as over the parquet of the ballroom. Also, it is sometimes that these delicates are soiled by the hands of begging urchins in the streets on her way to church, however, no miser she, Devotional Belle always makes sure to leave them with a 'Bless you' trailing after her silks, but safeguards the diamonds for herself.

This charming religieuse is an adept at embroidering stoles and slippers for young, unmarried clerical necks and feet. And indeed she has such a rapt attention for young ministers that she never fails to be the last one out of church so she may monopolize the man, alone, for a few minutes. It's then that she regales with enthusiastic warmth that his words fell on her like inspired droppings, and did her "So much good."

Devotional Belle seldom fails to wed the Doctor of Divinity she's set her sights on, but if she does, she bides her time and keeps inventory of a particular type of fellow parishioner.

For amongst the Beaux must be listed the 'Nice Young Man.' You will know him on street corner, church stoop, or shop aisle by always being with the "rest of the girls." He was generally brought up with his sisters, and told in his youth he was delicate. So when other boys were having snowball fights, he was upon his mother's knee next to the fire learning how to darn his socks. Consequently he shuns rough company today, and does not smoke, chaw, or drink anything more potent than lemonade. Swearing is off limits in his company, and he'll quickly step out of the way at the first mention of a fight.

More often than not, he's quite a lonely and isolated fellow, and if he can escape the wandering clutches of a Devotional Belle long enough, he'll eventually meet another Nice Young Man. At that point, one or the other is bound to move in with the first's 'Ma' and establish a durably happy home for the long run.[1]

To leave you with a bit of secondhand Tennyson, I'm reminded the poet once wrote:

Every heart is lonely,

All the poets of old have said,

But that state is only

When the tenderest tears are shed.

˚˚˚˚˚

Monk sat alone, a book clutched in his hand.

A guard entered the visitor's room leading Felix and Hampden. After delivering the boys to the table, he left.

The reporter stood.

"Cousin, this is Hampden Cox. Hampy, this is my Cousin Monk."

"Nice to meet you," Monk said, shaking the young man's hand.

They all sat, the youth together on one side, the adult on the other.

If he compared the two, Hampden appeared the more anxiously resolved to the reporter's eyes.

Felix leaned forward a bit, and asked in a soft voice: "Well?"

Monk instinctively reacted by searching out the warder's location. The man had moved back to the door and seemed not too concerned about their conference. Nevertheless, the correspondent leaned back on his chair and said, "Look at ease, boys. Come on, seem relaxed."

They blinked at one another a brief moment and slouched down a bit on their seats.

"Now…" McDonough sighed. "I brought you a little present."

He arranged the book so it was title-up, and slowly slid it to a position in front of Felix.

The boy showed his confusion.

Monk explained: "It's Alfred Tennyson's new book – Ballads and Other Poems."

Felix acted like he did not want to touch it.

"The publisher sent a few copies to the Globe-Democrat so we could do reviews and print excerpts."

Hampden nudged his stunned partner with his elbow. "Thank you, Cousin Monk. Right, Felix?"

The older boy finally picked it up and appeared to examine the green cloth cover by not really seeing it at all. "Yes. Thank you."

Monk slightly craned his head again; the guard was sitting and staring out the window. Satisfied, the reporter placed elbows on the table and drew himself closer to his young cousin. "I think you and I like basically the same literature, and this is good material to read. I believe Miss Waverly told me how much you enjoy reading to one another, so I hope you enjoy."

Hampden spoke up. "Thank you, sir."

It was clear both boys were puzzled.

Monk asked, "Do you know the lines: 'Tis better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all'?"

They nodded.

"Did you know it's Tennyson talking about his dead love, a young man named Harry?"

They shook their heads; neither boy had any idea.

"In my opinion, you might want to read this book. There is more about Harry in here, and I think the poems can be an inspiration to the two of you. He's world-famous, and famous for having loved a boy so well; he's a source of bravery to be untroubled by one's affections, and unconcerned who knows. Perhaps, it needs to be celebrated, he says, and I for one will not argue against him."

Though sallow and wan, a small smile shone on both boyish faces.

"Anyway," the reporter concluded, "that's your copy now."

Silence followed; long, pregnant silence. Hampy broke it. "Yes, or no, Cousin Monk, about that other matter. We're dying to know."

"The plan is all set."

Their expressions said they wanted details, and appeared about to burst for them.

While it was still firmly rooted on the tabletop, Monk held up and wagged a single index finger. "I can't say anything. Other ears might be listening."

The boys slumped again, this time in dejection.

The reporter felt a wry smile come to his lips. His elevated finger lifted and landed squarely on the cover of the book; he tapped. "You should read this."

"Now…?" Felix asked.

"Well, at least take a look." He withdrew his finger, allowing his adolescent cousin to pick it up.

Felix thumbed through it, and paused. He flipped again, and held the book discretely open for Hampden to see the small fold of paper tucked within.

Monk's cousin closed the book and leaned elbows on it, a radiant smile beaming.

The newspaper color man recited an excerpt from memory:

"Often I seemed unhappy,

and often as happy too,

For I heard it abroad in the fields

"I’ll never love any but you;"

the morning song of the lark –

"I’ll never love any but you" –

the nightingale’s hymn in the dark.[2]

"Be careful with that," Monk told them. "Memorize the instructions in private, and then burn the message tonight. Understood?"

"Yes, Cousin," Felix said, tamping down his grin – or at least trying to.

The young men were clearly jubilant, but had to hide it. Nevertheless, Felix's arm came around and latched onto the side of the younger lad's head. An instant later they drew one another in, with eyes locked, for a tender touching of foreheads.

It was only for a moment, but it was enough to restore the jaded reporter's faith in love and human kindness.

When Felix returned his attention to him, Monk said, "God help us, but I think we can make this plan work."

"You helped," said Felix. "You and Miss Waverly, and that's more than God ever did for us. Thank you."

˚˚˚˚˚

Monk felt like he could breathe again. He had parted with the boys in the visitation room, and while the newspaperman moved through the darkened sally port of the House of Refuge, he entertained optimistic thoughts. A literal light at the end of the tunnel led him on.

Emerged into the gloriously warm late-afternoon sun, he paused to drink it in. Monk took a step to the left and started to walk towards Broadway. Having only gotten a few paces away, he heard a "Yoo-hoo!" and turned to see Miss Waverly coming through the ironclad portal herself. She was again hatless, but carried a briefcase and her chatelaine jangled vigorously as she strode up to him.

"Going back into town?" she asked with a restrained smile.

"Yes, indeed."

"Good. Let us ride together."

She led the way, barely glancing behind to see if Monk was complying.

˚˚˚˚˚

The Broadway Cable Car Company operated the most extensive single line in the city. Rumbling along this mighty thoroughfare, which followed the naturally smooth D-shaped course of the river defining the eastern edge of the city, it operated thirty-five cable cars, plowing a double set of tracks for roughly fifty miles north to south.

Monk McDonough and Elizabeth Waverly sat in one of these very cars as it glided along at nine-and-a-half miles per hour towards downtown. The angled sun entered the windows along the western side – the side the man and woman sat against – and raked across the dry wooden floor. From their position near the center of the conveyance they could watch the cityscape grow denser and denser through the windows along the opposite side. The car was not too crowded this time of day, although a group of rowdy school kids in uniforms had encamped at one end, where they played noisily.

It was a fairly smooth ride, but occasionally the Brakeman on the rear platform engaged or disengaged the constantly-moving cable a little too cavalierly, driving Miss Waverly's shoulder into the newspaper color man.

After having done that one more time, Monk regarded her embarrassed grin and decided to break their self-appointed embargo on conversation.

"I have high hopes that our plans will succeed."

"There are parts that need to come off without a hitch, but I have hope too."

"Does Jordan, the kind old gentleman, know the details of our scheme?"

"Heavens, no. He does not know to even think of it as a scheme. But, Barr's contributions of clothing are well in hand."

"Good. You decided not to tell him?"

"Indeed. He's in the dark for his own safety. If this goes awry, there's no need to pull him down with us."

The car rolled to a smooth stop. Up front, the bell rang out sharply, and the Brakeman from the rear called out: "All on, please!"

As he held Miss Waverly's light-brown eyes, noticing how attractively the sunlight played with loose strands of her hair, he hoped his own face did not show the fear in his heart. It had been a few years since he'd stuck his neck out for the benefit of righting a wrong, but with Felix asking so plainly, and the lads having been unjustly detained in the first place, he knew he had to step in.

"If this goes wrong, Miss Waverly, I will bear all the consequences. You merely say, if questioned, that you passed the note along to me without knowing the content; simply say you solicited the clothing from Jordan because I asked you to."

Her teacherly expression spoke for her before her words. "Fiddlesticks, sir. First, have a little faith: things will not 'go wrong,' and secondly, if they do – God forbid – you shall not face the outcome alone. That I can guarantee."

The bell rang again, and instantly, Waverly was in his arms; the conveyance had jerked to a start and brought them together. He assisted her to sit straight, while a blush rose on her cheeks, and a hand was dispatched to muss strands of sun-kissed hair back into place.

As Monk watched, he acknowledged his evolving feelings towards this remarkable woman. The implicit threat of legal jeopardy surrounding what they were doing suddenly seemed to hit both of them at the same time. It lent a conspiratorial intimacy to their dealings, and without even asking, neither appeared to have doubts they acted from the noblest of motivations.

She said, "It's a fortuitous thing you are correspondent for several papers around the country."

He knew she was referring to 'a place' he'd found for the boys, if and when they effectuated an escape. "After the horror of the Strike, I decided…I decided we needed a clear-headed voice reporting to the world at large what goes on locally. I may not be socially active here anymore, but there, I am and free to criticize local policy."

"Well, thank you for tackling this assignment with the boys, Mr. Monk."

"You are welcome…." He heard the railway spine creaking from his own voice.[3]

The woman's visage turned sagacious; that and caring too. "You're a very sharp wit with words, so I wonder how you'd describe yourself."

His hand rubbed his now-smiling beard. "I should think eyes are evidence enough in this case."

"That's not quite what I meant, sir."

"No?"

"No. I mean, how would you describe your inner life – what I cannot necessarily see with my own eyes."

"Well, one attribute about which you may have already guessed – I'm partial to fine food and Cook's Imperial."[4]

She chuckles: "A true son of our burnished age."

"And you are partial to sea food?"

"I am."

"All is in order then. Perhaps also not evident by the trim of my beard is how I admire my home city's variety. German, French, Italian, Irish, Anglo-American – Southern; Northern; Western and Eastern – it's all here, like the corners of our nation folded in one place. Such diversity shows in our palate. We're the largest inland market for Gulf Coast and Maryland oysters, shrimp and crab. It's appropriate we get the pick of the lot, as we're the world's largest inland port."

"Yes, the Customs House is the busiest address on Third Street." She chuckled. "Although 'liking food' is hardly worthy disclosure of the personal kind."

Monk saw through her words; she knew his tactics of diverting the subject away from him was subterfuge, but her schoolmarm eyes let him off the hook – or so he thought.

"Explain to me just one thing then?"

"All right."

"Tell me what is the origin of your obvious love of poetry."

"Ah, yes. My father, without a doubt. He's a typesetter, and quite frankly displeased I have taken my education and exposure to literature and 'squandered' it to become a newspaperman. I periodically remind him how papers like the Globe-Democrat exert a certain political leverage for social advancement."

"Yes, that's very true."

Monk's words appeared to upset her. He doubled back to her initial query. "But poetry, yes. My father would read it to us in the evening. Especially the works touting our Scotts-Irish background – Robbie Burns particularly."

She still seemed upset. It pinged him unexpectedly. He decided to quote some for her.

"My heart still melts at human wretchedness;

And with sincere but unavailing sighs

I view the helpless children of distress

Whose un-submitting hearts were all their crime –

Whom the seeming-good think a sin to pity."[5]

By the end, Monk regretted his choice of verse; it wound up reminding him of 'her.'

The cable car rolled to a stop. Several children exited with loud farewells.

"What is it, Miss Waverly? I feel I've misspoken somehow."

"No, not at all. It's simply that your words about social justice and the pages of the Globe made me want to ask you why you turned from socially relevant themes to…entertainment pieces. The change was – abrupt."

"Oh."

"What happened?" Her inquiry was soft-spoken and plain. The appeal of it reminded Monk of his cousin's asking for his help.

"It was the General Strike."

She seemed to understand. "I am rude, sir. My father would thoroughly rebuke me at the moment. So perhaps I can make amends with a bit of my own biography, if you'd like to hear it."

"Yes, I would."

The car started to roll again, but this time the sounding bell readied her and she braced herself. "I'm twenty-five, and a native-born Saint Louisan. My parents are active in the Lucas Place social and church communities.

"My father is from Glencoe, Missouri, where he founded a brick kiln. There is precious clay there – the right kind of clay. In a few years, he expanded and moved operations to the North Saint Louis riverfront. Now his raw material is steam-boated from his clay fields, and the finished bricks sold by the ton to Saint Louis real estate developers. His prosperity is literally built on the city rising around us."

"How did you become interested in education?"

"I know Susan Blow socially, in fact we have been friends since an early age, and she's the one who sensed my latent passion to do good and recruited me to work with the Board."

Monk knew of the reputation of the woman referenced: near-hero status. She was another firebrand whose passionate advocacy about a decade ago led to the establishment of the first Kindergarten anywhere outside of Germany. Now the Public School system in this city had fifty-three up and running, free of charge, of course. "That's very interesting, but how is it you became so 'radical' in the first place? If you don’t mind me asking."[6]

She considered it for a moment. "I was a ten-year-old girl when Lincoln was murdered; an adolescent when high-minded Republicans passed the 13th and 14th Amendments.[7] The answer to your question is, I grew up in radical times, times of great social advancement in the United States. It was engrained in me long before I got my degree in Education from Washington University."

Monk realized his former assessment of her had been too narrow-minded. She was nothing like the bookworm or church-girl social climber he had written about in Belles and Beaux. She was generous of herself, and would be appalled to learn Monk had ever harbored doubts about her. What's more, she might even be more offended to discover the reporter had lumped her into the goodie-two-shoes bucket with all the other moral – but act-less – social busybodies.

He had to make amends and tell her something real. "You asked me 'what happened,' why I switched to color pieces. As I say, it was the General Strike." He smelled phantom smoke, felt the streetcar's rumble as distant explosions. "They were four nights that changed the direction of my life, culminating in hundreds and hundreds of men and women marching through downtown singing the Marseillaise."[8]

"Monk – I heard them. My father locked us in the house, but, how could we not hear them in Lucas Place…? The union organizers rallied night after night at Lucas Market, only a few doors down…."

"I was in the thick of it all. First to merely document the rail workers' grievances; to talk to them and record the story. But then I was out there with them, a participant to bring about change, not simply witness it. On the final night, that's when she…she – " He halted himself, abruptly altering course. "So, I understand Felix and Hampden getting caught up in the middle. It was exciting – the world was teetering on the cliff of change, and they wanted to see it unfold. I can't blame them."

Waverly was confused, to judge by her expression. "Nor I, Monk. I don’t blame them. Who's to say which among us are the true sinners, when we all are."

The car slowed to a stop. Monk regarded her; she was so lovely. The sun from behind them gilded the edge of the woman's eye and lashes, and highlighted her brown hair with streaks of gold. But, his emotions were blank. "For the most part, Miss Waverly, I can take that 'we're all sinners' allowance, but for you, sinner will not fit as a moniker."

The car lurched forward, and the woman was again pressed against him. She righted herself on her own, and said softly: "Elizabeth. You must call me Elizabeth, please."

"All right, Elizabeth."

"And your – personal life…?" She appeared coy all of a sudden.

"What of it?"

"Do you…are you – "

"You mean – "

"It's indelicate of me to ask. Forgive me."

"I have no current 'sweetheart,' if that's what you mean."

She blushed, nodding and fiddling with a key on her chatelaine.

"And, and, you? Elizabeth."

She shook her head, refusing to meet his stare.

He swallowed the lump in his throat and admitted: "I was engaged, once. To the sweetest, most selfless woman I had ever known." Phantom booms sounded in the distance of his memory.

"Oh, I see," Miss Waverly said calmly. "But the engagement ended."

"She's dead. She died in the Strike, Elizabeth."

Her hand slipped into his. When he glanced up, the radiant shimmer of sympathy in her expression offered unexpectedly deep comfort.

"I am sorry, Monk. She sounds wonderful."

She extracted her handkerchief from her sleeve for him; Monk hadn't even realized he'd started crying.

He dabbed his tears, saying with deep breaths, "Rich or poor, young or old, we all deserve our full chance at life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness."

"Yes, Monk. We do. We can help Felix and Hampden achieve that basic goal. I know we can."

Another refrain from Burns appeared. He recited it for her:

"My Sandy gave to me a ring,

Was all beset with diamonds fine;

But I gave him a far better thing –

I gave my heart in pledge of his ring.

My bonnie, bonnie Sandy O;

Though the love that I owe

To thee I dare not show,

Yet I love my love in secret, my Sandy O.

My Sandy broke a piece of gold,

While down his cheeks the salt tears rowed;

He took a half, and gave it to me –

And I'll keep it till the hour I die.

My bonnie, bonnie Sandy O;

Though the love that I owe

To thee I dare not show,

Yet I love my love in secret, my Sandy O."[9]

After a cleansing breath, he concluded, "Our plan will be put to the test in less than a week now, Elizabeth."

She squeezed his hand, saying soberly: "It will prove to be an exciting night."