Of Prophets, Saints and Sinners - 1. Chapter 1: Foisted Upon

...lol, this story has nothing to do with the Church of Latter Day Saints (the Mormons), in case you were wondering...  
 

Of Prophets,

Saints and Sinners

Christmas at Famous-Barr 1880

A Novella

By

AC Benus

Contents

Chapter 1: Foisted Upon

Chapter 2: House of Refuge

Chapter 3: In the Middle

Chapter 4: Dust-up Boys

Chapter 5: Into the Fray

Chapter 6: A Flour-Sack Kiss and the Grand Opening

Chapter 7: "All Very Operatic"

Chapter 8: collige puer rosas

Chapter 9: Sinners All

Chapter 10: Some Secondhand Tennyson

Chapter 11: Trapped in History

Chapter 12: The Beau of the Ball

Chapter 13: Meeting the Saint

Cover Art: Barr's 1882 advertising card announcing the third year they'd have a department store Santa Claus to visit.

Chapter 1: Foisted Upon

A possibly grander venue could not have existed for a holiday concert, charity or otherwise.

As the initial fanfare of brass and timpani soared, Jacob Jordan glanced up. The trading floor of the Merchants' Exchange was the largest unobstructed space in North America. It featured perfect acoustics, had been the site of national party conventions, and for tonight – Christmas Eve, 1880 – it was bedecked in fragrant swags of evergreen garland. Provided with sixty-two massive windows, each one now sported a wreath with a candle flickering a shadowy, magical reflection on the glass. Precious electric bulbs hung around the perimeter and utilized delicate glass diffusers to cast a warm glow down onto the floor.[1]

The Santa Claus Symphony settled into a slower, more contemplative movement, and Jordan used it as opportunity to relax himself and look around the hall. His fellow audience members were mostly bright-eyed and attentive children, plus a gaggle of rowdier chaperones from various church and civic groups.

This event was the culmination of weeks of stress and planning, but Mr. Barr and he had not only planned this performance, but a luscious surprise for later. The notion made the sixty-three-year-old Jordan as giddy as every one of these children would be, later on this night as they climbed into bed to await Saint Nick. He chuckled internally at the aptness of the analogy.

For now he leaned back and allowed the slow movement to seep in. Maestro Fry's tone poem had been an American holiday tradition at least since his daughter was young, and it felt good to both venerate and renew a longstanding custom. Many in the young audience tonight would remember this as their 'first,' and such a notion filled Jordan with a justifiable sense of pride.[2]

He held up his program, raking it slightly to the light.

The work opens in the celestial spheres of Heaven. The bands of angels and seraphim rejoice with glad tidings to announce the arrival of the Christ child on earth.

As he lowered his printed guide, the beauty of the setting overtook him all over again. At one narrow end of the massive hall, a stage with three tiers had been set up. The uppermost, and smallest, supported a twenty-foot-tall Christmas tree. Small tapers lit the end of every branch, and children had made colorful paper chains and hearts for the decorations. The store had also provided glass ornaments in the shapes of grapes, pears and oranges from clever glassblowers along the New Jersey and Pennsylvania border.[3]

On the second tier patiently stood nearly seventy-five children, waiting their moment to perform in various parts of the symphony.

The lowest tier was also the largest, and seated about a hundred twenty musicians.

But Jordan's eyes skipped over them and returned to the children, where his lingering look settled on Mina. He instantly became the gloating grandfather. She had pride of place in the front, and looked every bit an angel in her white choir robes. Her long blonde hair was tied simply in the back.

All the little girls and boys looked angelic. They were indeed a wholesome sight to behold, and it caused Jordan to indulge in a moment of reflection.

Children in this modern age were caught in a slowly changing world. One part – the traditional part – still regarded childhood itself as a precarious time; and they looked upon children as unpredictable and needing of relentless discipline. The other current, a faster moving one, regarded children as pure and innocent. The first school of thought demanded productivity and usefulness, while the second only wished for kids to run and play.

Jordan was not proud of the fact that he had been a rather remote father to Mina's mother, but he was gratified in the extreme to see Emily allowed Mina a great deal more freedom than she ever had growing up.

Tradition and change, they worked together and at odds on various occasions, and rarely, with occasionally perfect harmony.

Such was the case with the 'the boys,' whom he had unwittingly helped a couple of months ago, but he was glad in his heart to know they were in a better place.

Jacob Jordan contemplated how this night came about in the first place.

'It was heady to say the least,' he thought. 'But I suppose it all started when Mr. Barr foisted that reporter fellow onto me….'

˚˚˚˚˚

Monk McDonough's hand had a way of massaging his dark beard whenever he was deep in concentration. That is what it was doing now.

The early morning bustle of Fourth Street – the commercial heart of the city – came through the large front window of Landon's Café, but Monk ignored it. Instead his hearing's acumen was trained on a pair of adolescent schoolgirls seated across the way, and easily excluded the chatter coming from all of the many other coffee-takers.

To heighten his incognito spying, his morning Globe-Democrat was splayed flat across the marble-top table, next to his coffee and toast, and he stood leaning over the newspaper to pretend a better engrossment in it.

"OH, Jennie! He was on the omnibus again this morning," the blonder and prettier of the two relayed to her companion.

"Oh." Jennie feigned disinterest. "Mr. Fine Black Ulsterette…?"

"Indeed. The very same one."

"You're a perfect little fool, Kate Rodgers. A handsome young man – "

"Draws your attention just as swiftly as mine, Jennie Browne."

The girls glanced around, and Monk sat. Inspired, he immediately extracted his notebook and pencil and started to write.

Dear readers, a fresh concept has entered my head. Come with me as we begin a survey of the Belles and Beaux of Saint Louis. These young women and men come from the well-off pools of our citizenry, and whose current concerns revolve mainly around preparation for the start of The Season, and who the Veiled Prophet will choose as his consort and attendants.

Starting with the Belles, we must first consider those teetering on the cusp. Perhaps this will be their coming out year, but in any event, they must remain the rich, vapid, pretty and haughty 'Schoolgirls' of a type to us.

Kate pulled up a bag and extracted a book, which went rattling dishes as she slammed it with miffed indignation on the table.

"Oh, Jennie – for heaven's sake – let me see your notes on this horrid History assignment."

"And if I do not…?"

"If you don’t, I shan't speak to you ever, ever again!" Kate's little arms folded; an evil smirk appeared with a head-toss.

"Do not, dear friend…" Jennie broke into a smile "…make promises you have not the will to keep."

"I see History isn't the only perfectly horrid thing this morning."

"Don’t panic. It's so unbecoming." Jennie pulled out her notebook, turned to a page and handed it over to a grateful Kate. The blonde one sat back and read.

As he wrote, Monk realized the school year had only reconvened about a week ago, so the girls exhibited an intriguing lack of interest and malaise about their studies early on.

Now, do not, dear reader, let the moniker of Schoolgirl fool you into thinking education has much presence of mind for these Belle-ish young ladies. Always 'sweet sixteen,' and attired in handsomely tailored uniforms of the very trendiest styles from Barr's or Crawford's, she ornaments that forced plainness with fluttering ribbons, and gold bangles to state her status. Whatever the latest vagaries of fashions, you can be sure this young female Socrates will have it strapped, pinned or belted to her uniform.

As for the wisdom of the sages, which is supposed to be taking root in her cranium, it apparently finds but poor soil there. The seedlings of knowledge encounter a ready stream of other concerns to dislodge them. Thoughts of Julius Caesar, Andrew Jackson, or an old Greek like Euclid are vacated at regular intervals for gossip concerning 'Missy,' 'Janet,' or 'Penelope.'

Still reading notes, Kate heaved a page-flip with a sigh. "Oh, Jennie. I don’t see the point."

"The point of what?"

"Filling our heads," she relayed in a singsong manner. "Dry; dry; dry! Dates – births, deaths; wars started, wars ended; councils convened, councils failed; monarchies deposed; presidents elected – ugh!"

"Well, it may be useful down the line."

"Down the line. Listen to you, Jennie Browne, siding with the geezers."

"Well!"

The notebook came slamming down on top of the book; Monk dared a glance.

"It's not for I, Jennie. This needless foppery over old duffers who are dead and gone, and whom not a soul truly cares about anymore. They might as well be dust, for as much as they live on in our memory."

"Well, I do not mind History as much as you, but I see your point concerning Algebra. I don’t discern any sense to it, and always get my brother Tom to do mine for me. He doesn't mind."

As for their emotional life, dear reader, do not be misled into thinking it's reserved for silver rings and golden ear bobs. No, it includes some of Saint Louis' other types—the rich boys and sons of the elite, the ones who come in varieties just as diverse as the Belles, and whom we shall call the 'Beaux.'

Now Monk spotted a table with a pair of wealthy young men, impeccability dressed. One sat cross-legged, a saucer and cup in his hands, over the brim of which he ruthlessly used his considerable good looks to ogle Kate Rodgers.

He saw the girl was not immune to his charms. She sweetly retrieved her book and pretended to return to her 'studies.'

"See that dandie fellow over there, Jennie?"

"Yes."

"He tries to flirt with me every morning, but I've decided to pay him no nevermind."

"He's the son of Winston Williams, a board member of The Mercantile Bank."

"Oh. Well – "

"Well, one must wait for a proper introduction. It's only 'quite right,' I'm sure."

Kate suddenly became enamored with the little gold tassels dangling from the bottom of Jennie's brooch. She reached out and cupped it from behind. "OH, Jennie! It's divine; it's perfect LOVE!"

Just sixteen, dear readers, so off-limits for the most part, unless you happen to be one of the apathetic, unmarried rich below the age of thirty. These 'Dawdy Dandies'—the pretty boys of Saint Louis—draw Schoolgirl attention as naturally as moth to a flame. With these boys in their sights, they are counting down the minutes to their coming out ball.

As for the object of these girls' enamoration, a chary bit of caution should be imparted to them from older and wiser souls, such as mine.

Dawdy Dandies are, quite frankly—if you are listening, girls—useless outgrowths of our modern social conditions. He may be seen in groups and companies any fine afternoon in the most fashionable cafés and restaurants of our fair city. Here he regales the innocence of girlhood, and the intent interest of Bellehood, with ogling most blatant. While doing so, his usual employment consists of picking his teeth with a fine gold bauble suspended around his pasty neck for such occasions, and proclaiming to the lesser classes that, yes, he has indeed just partaken of a particularly delectable meal.

Rich and shiftless, you shall know him of an evening promenading the city streets by his extreme attire. Pants of the greatest latitude flap indolently as he ambles along, while his white collar and cuffs are so prodigious, one wonders if a shrewd laundress charges him by the square yard. An eyeglass dangles upon his vest-front, when it is not daintily poised on the end of his nose by one hand. The other set of digits carries a delicate little cane, with which in moments of leisure—and they are numerous—he gently taps his boot as he leans against some convenient pillar or post.

From such a position, a passing young woman may or may not perceive by his killing glances and graceful poses, that his only object is to 'mash' frail female hearts.

Monk glanced up from his notebook and saw Kate Rodgers returning his stare in a most intense and intrigued manner. The girls with their books, and the young men with their coffee and pastry, may not have been the only ones under close scrutiny.

Monk drew up his pencil and jotted down a conclusion for his premier "Belles and Beaux" entry.

So, dear reader, we have seen our first 'types,' and they perhaps have seen us as well.

The lines of the immortal Robbie Burns come to mind:

Ant to the sweet,

and fly to the sour.

Each a path to desire beat,

led under persuasion's power. [4]

In Monk's mind he admitted an attraction to the girl, but got hit by a pang of guilt. His thoughts slackened and took him drifting back to booming sounds, faint clouds of gun smoke, the feel of hundreds of people running on the steers; that horrible night in July three years ago.

The sound of a chair being pulled out opposite him stirred Monk to look up pettishly from his writing.

A distinguished older gentleman sat himself down, folded hands upon his knees and stared. He had gray hair, was clean-shaven, and wore oddly old-fashioned, pre-war clothes, which however were immaculate.

"Mr. Monk McDonough?"

"Yes."

"The Globe-Democrat's 'newspaper color man,' covering everything from – "

"Hangings to society engagements; from the Woman's Hospital of Social Diseases to the Veiled Prophet Ball. And you are, sir?"

"Jacob Jordan, from William P. Barr and Company."

"Oh." Monk felt an instant wave of hostility. His editor had told him in passing yesterday that someone from the store would be wanting to talk to him; Monk was not too keen on commercial advertising for free in the Globe. "Ah, yes. I was expecting to see you this morning. What exactly is it you think I should be writing about, sir? A new linen sale; a special shipment of crystal from France?" There was no hiding the dismissive sarcasm from his tone.

"What is it you know about Barr's, Mr. Monk?"

"Well, I know the assignment has to do with your impending move from one building to another."

"William Barr was born in Lanarkshire, Scotland, in 1827. At the age of thirteen he crossed the Atlantic alone and landed in New York. In less than a year he was working for the retail house of Ubsdell, Pierson and Company, and only eight years after that was a full partner. That's when they sent him west to manage their Saint Louis branch. In another eight years, he had bought out the New York interests, and Barr's was firmly the largest retailer in the West. With our 'impending move,' as you so call it, we are poised to surpass Wannamaker's in Philadelphia."

During the relay of information, Monk had unconsciously flipped a page on his pad and began taking notes. He glanced up when he realized Mr. Jordan had stopped speaking.

The older gentleman's eyes twinkled as he leaned forward and lowered his voice. "Is that not an interesting tale? A self-made man, an Horatio Alger type figure, landed on these shores with nothing and no one to rely upon except himself, and now he's a multi-millionaire, at the top of a highly competitive industry?"

"Tell me more about this new place to which your firm is moving."

"I suppose the Julia Building is well-known in this city. A massive structure, five levels of usable floor space, covering half an entire city block. When it was completed in 1869, it was the world's largest commercial structure."

"I thought it was full of lawyers."

"And AT&T; it was. But Barr's has leased the entire structure and the gentlemen of The Bar, and men of the telephone wire, have been handsomely compensated by my boss for the trouble of finding new digs."

"How much of it are you taking?"

"All of it."

"But that must be approaching – "

"Five acres of showroom floor."

"Yes…." He jotted it down.

"Perhaps that is why, Mr. Monk, you are covering this story. Barr's will, in a matter of weeks, become the world's largest and most profitable retailer."

"Yes, I see." He scribbled, his hand massaging his beard. "I will have to tour the site."

"Before it's outfitted fully?"

"Indeed. I'm nothing if not a 'process' man." McDonough felt his eyebrows lift, and a wry grin blossom as he lifted his eyes to the older gentleman.

Jordan rose to his feet, scraping his chair loudly again. "Fair enough. Let's reconvene at the store – our current one – tomorrow morning so I can show you how we operate. Good day."

"Good day to you."

Jordan strolled through the café and made his way out to the bustle of Fourth Street.

In his scanning motion, the reporter caught the blonde girl batting an eyelash at him.

'Watch it, Monk,' he warned himself. 'No more women. They'll only do you in again.'