The Accursed (6 page)

“We shall see. I mean—yes of course. You are quite right.”

More than once, Winslow Slade had caught an unwanted glimpse of his dear granddaughter walking in the garden behind the Manse, with Lieutenant Bayard; a handsome boy, but impetuous, whose hands too frequently made their way onto Annabel’s petite body, at her waist, or lower, at her slender hips . . . It was not a vision the seventy-four-year-old wished to summon, at this awkward time.

Woodrow said, yet still gravely, “Our Margaret, you know, was born in Georgia—not in the North. My dear Ellen took it into her head, near the very end of her pregnancy, that she could not bear for our firstborn to be delivered north of the Mason-Dixon line, and so I—I humored her of course . . . And I think that, in a way, it has made a difference—Margaret is our most gracious daughter, not nearly so—emphatic—
headstrong
—as the younger girls, born here in the North.”

Winslow Slade, whose ancestors did not hail from the American South, but rather from the Puritan north of New England, tactfully made no reply to this peculiar remark, in its way both apologetic and boastful.

“Would you like a cigar, Tommy? I know that you don’t ‘smoke’—at home, certainly. But I have here some very fine Cuban cigars, given to me by a friend.”

“Thank you, Winslow—but no! I think that I have told you, how my dear mother cured me forever of a wish to smoke?”

Winslow Slade inclined his head politely, that Woodrow might again tell this favorite story. For Woodrow was quite practiced at the recitation of certain family tales, as if they were old tales of Aesop.

“I was seven years old when Mother called me, to enlist her in killing the aphids on her roses. It might have been that I had been watching my father and other male relatives smoking cigars, and may have appeared admiring; Mother was quick to take note of such details, and I have inherited her skill. ‘Tommy, come here: I will light one of Father’s cigars, and you will blow smoke on the nasty aphids.’ And so—that is exactly what I did, or tried to do.” Woodrow was laughing, a wheezing sort of laugh, without evident mirth; tears shone in his eyes, of a frantic merriment. “Ah, I was so ill! Violently ill to my stomach, not only repelled by the horrific tobacco smoke, but vomiting for much of a day. And yet, Mother’s wisdom was such: I have never smoked since, nor have I had the slightest inclination. Observing the trustees lighting up their ill-smelling cigars, when we are meant to have a serious meeting, leaves me quite disgusted, though I would never betray my feelings of course.”

“A most thoughtful mother!” Winslow returned the cigars to their brass humidor.

In a corner of Dr. Slade’s library an eighteenth-century German grandfather’s clock chimed a quiet but unmistakable quarter-hour: Winslow Slade was hoping that his young friend would depart soon, for Woodrow was clearly in one of his “nerve” states, and the effect upon Winslow himself was beginning to be felt; of all psychic conditions, anxiety verging upon paranoia/hysteria is perhaps the most contagious, even among men. Yet, Woodrow could not resist reverting to his subject, in an indirect way, to lament that the United States was burdened with “an insufferable buffoon” in the White House: “A self-appointed bully who fancies himself a savior, mucking about now shockingly in Panama, and swaying the jingoists to his side. The presidency of the United States is not an office to be besmirched but to be elevated—it is a sacred trust, for our nation is exceptional in the history of the world. And I, here at home, in ‘idyllic’ Princeton, must contend with Teddy Roosevelt’s twin, as it were—who pretends only to have the interest of the university at heart, while wresting my power from me.”

Winslow sighed, and could not think how to reply. He seemed to know beforehand what his young friend had come to ask of him; and did not want to encourage him; yet, inevitably, Woodrow made his plea, with the blinking simplicity of a small child, his moist eyes gleaming behind his polished eyeglasses: “Dr. Slade, if
you
might indicate your support of me, or rather, your preference: Woodrow Wilson or Andrew West . . . It would be such a relief to me, as to my family.”

Pained, Winslow explained that he thought it a wiser course, for one like himself in retirement from all politics, to remain neutral.

“I am sure that, in the end, wise heads and wisdom will prevail. You will have a vote of the trustees, and that will decide it—soon, I would think?”

“Winslow, that is—that is not—this is not quite the answer I had hoped for, in coming here . . .”

Winslow persisted: “I prescribe for you, my dear friend, the simplest and most fundamental of all Christian remedies—prayer. By which I mean, Woodrow, a deep examination of your soul, your motives, and your ideals.
Prayer
.”

The younger man blinked at Winslow, as a tic in his left cheek seemed to mock his enfeebled smile. “Yes, you are right—of course. You are invariably right, Dr. Slade. But, I’m afraid, you are uninformed—for I have already spent countless hours on my knees, in prayer, since this hellish situation first manifested itself, months ago. Of course, it has been a gathering storm. I have enlisted prayer from the start, yet the results have been disappointing: for West continues his sorties against me, even laughing behind my back, and
God has not seen fit to intervene
.”

So astounded was Winslow Slade by these words, he could think of no adequate reply; and silence uneasily fell between them, as smoldering logs in the fireplace shifted, and darkened; and Woodrow reached out, in a nervous sort of curiosity, to take up a small jade snuffbox on a table, to examine closely. It was an engaging object, though hardly beautiful, covered in a patina of decades, its lid engraved with a miniature yet meticulously wrought serpent that, coiled, looked as if it were about to leap out at the observer. Strikingly, the cobra’s eyes were two inset rubies of the size of pumpkin seeds.

Fascinating to Woodrow, in his somewhat dazed state, how these rubies glittered, with the fantastical potency of an actual serpent’s eyes . . .

Now daringly Woodrow said, as he had been preparing to say, perhaps, this past half hour: “
He
seeks power in a very different way, you know.”

“He?”

“West.”

“Ah yes—West is still our subject?”

“It is not mere rumor, Dr. Slade, it has been whispered everywhere in town, and Ellen was reluctant to upset me by repeating it—but Andrew West has consorted with clairvoyants and mesmerists; in a pretense of ‘scientific inquiry,’ like his Harvard psychologist-friend William James, he has delved into what we must call occult practices—that fly in the face of Christian teaching.”

“ ‘Occult practices’—? Andrew West?”

Winslow Slade laughed, for Andrew West had the solid, burly build of a wrestler; certainly an intelligent man, with degrees from Cambridge (England) as well as Harvard, yet not in any way a sensitive or inwardly-brooding person, of the kind who might take the occult seriously.

“Yes, Dr. Slade, though you may smile at the prospect—‘occult practices.’ By which he hopes to influence ‘powers’—thereby, to influence the more impressionable minds in our community, and among the trustees. I told you, it is a battle—in an undeclared war.”

“You are saying that our colleague and neighbor Andrew West, dean of the graduate school, is an—occultist?”

“Well, I am saying that it is said—it is said by many—that West dabbles in the occult, in a pretense of scientific inquiry; one of his allies is Abraham Sparhawk, in philosophy; but a newfangled sort of philosophy in which
up
is proved to be
down,
and time and history not
fixed points
as we know them to be, but something called—I think the term is—
‘relative.’
What they are cooking up together, to defeat me, I have no way of knowing in any detail.” Woodrow continued to examine the little jade snuffbox, as if the cobra’s glittering eyes had transfixed him. “And d’you know, as a result of his campaigning, Mr. Cleveland scarcely returns my greeting at the Nassau Club—he has become a favored crony of West’s, this past winter.”
*

Winslow said, a little sharply, “It must be the lateness of the hour, Tommy—you are saying things that will have to be consciously ‘forgotten’ by us both, in the light of day. Frankly, I don’t believe for an instant that Andrew West, or anyone else at the university, is ‘delving’ into occult practices; and I ask you to reconsider what you have said.”

So speaking, Winslow lay his hands upon the younger man’s hands, that were visibly trembling; meaning to extract from his fingers, before he dropped it, or crumbled it, the little jade snuffbox, which Woodrow continued half-consciously to grip.

Yet, Woodrow would not surrender his position: for, despite his appearance of neurasthenic intensity, and the watery weakness of his blinking eyes, the man was yet endowed with a most powerful, indeed near-unshakable
will
. Vehemently he said, “Dr. Slade, you of all people should know that some loosening of the tongue is prudent, when Evil appears in our midst. I am not saying—I am not accusing—West of summoning the Devil, but of consorting with those who might, or do. Just last night, in my library, Professor Pearce van Dyck spoke at length with me, defining the principles of ‘mesmerism’ and ‘animal magnetism’ as best he could; for Pearce is, as you know, as much of a rationalist as any Christian might be, and professes an abhorrence of ‘occult practices’ as much as I—including even Spiritualism, which the ladies so extol. According to Pearce, those European scientists and physicians who have advanced such bizarre notions, like Mesmer and Charcot, that make a mockery of Christian free will, are best ranked with alchemists, sorcerers, and witches; and are held in very low esteem by true men of science. Yet, the theory that a ‘magnetic fluid’ might pervade the Universe, including the human body, and that this fluid might somehow be controlled, if one only knew how—this theory is not without plausibility, I think. It is like holding the key to certain chemical processes—like knowing the recipe for gunpowder! And while the ostensible aim of mesmerism is the improvement of mental health, any fool can see that the reverse can be true as well: there being a
diabolical
side to man, more prevalent, in some quarters, than the
angelic
.”

This outburst of speech left Woodrow breathless. His stiff-laundered white cotton collar, that had been spotless that morning when he had arrived in his office in Nassau Hall, was visibly wilted; a faint glisten of perspiration shone on his furrowed brow.

Winslow said, in an even voice, like one who feigns a tactful kind of deafness, “Well! Let me pour you some brandy, Woodrow, to soothe your nerves, and then I will ask Henry to drive you home. I think you’re not quite yourself—and Ellen must be awaiting you.”

Hotly Woodrow said: “Thank you, Dr. Slade, but I do not drink brandy—as you must know. And I am not in any womanish state of ‘nerves.’ My dear wife has not the slightest idea where I am—she has retired to bed by ten p.m. and would assume that I am working in my study as usual. I find it upsetting—and baffling—that you, Winslow Slade, with your thorough grounding in Calvinist theology, and the practical experience of being a Presbyterian minister, should take so lightly the possibility of ‘diabolism’ in our midst . . . I wonder whether West himself hasn’t sought you out, in this very room, to poison you against me, who has long been your devoted friend—and to
influence
your thoughts!”

Woodrow spoke with such adolescent sarcasm, his friend was taken aback.

It was then, the little accident occurred.

Though the men certainly could not have been described as
struggling together,
in any sense of the phrase, it somehow happened that, as Winslow Slade sought to take hold of Woodrow Wilson’s (flailing) arm, to calm him, the younger man shrank from him as if in fright; causing the jade snuffbox to slip from his fingers onto a tabletop, and a cloud of aged snuff was released, of such surprising potency both men began to sneeze; very much as if a malevolent spirit had escaped from the little box.

Unexpectedly then, both Woodrow Wilson and Winslow Slade suffered fits of helpless sneezing, until they could scarcely breathe, and their eyes brimmed with tears, and their hearts pounded with a lurid beat as if eager to burst.

And the austere old grandfather clock against a farther wall softly chimed the surprising hour of
one—
unheard.

POSTSCRIPT: “ASH WEDNESDAY EVE, 1905”

I
t is not generally acknowledged to the reader that much is
left out
of any complex account. A reader must be trusting, and assume that what has been included is all that is necessary; what has been
left out
is extraneous.

But I am troubled, in assembling the previous chapter—for so much has been
left out
that might have been of interest, and might even be essential to a reader’s fullest understanding.

Therefore, I suggest: the reader who wants to know a little more of my chronicle should read this postscript, as well as the others to follow. (I am sure that there will be other postscripts to follow!) Readers who are satisfied that they know enough of Dr. Wilson and Dr. Slade should simply proceed to “Narcissus”—a total change of scene, I promise!

Here is a miscellany of details regarding Woodrow Wilson that could not find their way into the narrative.

—WOODROW’S “WIND-BUFFETED”
walk to Crosswicks Manse was in fact an ordeal for the troubled man, who had not fully recovered from what he would recall as the
unprovoked attack
of his (alleged) kinsman from the hills of rural, western Virginia.

For, in leaving Prospect House, without telling his wife or daughters, all of whom (he assumed) were in bed, Woodrow Wilson was obliged to walk alone across the darkened Princeton University campus, and to pass close by undergraduate residences; though friendly to students by day, smiling his wide grimace of a presidential smile at virtually everyone he encountered, which never failed to enlist boys’ startled smiles and greetings, Woodrow quite dreaded being sighted at such a time; for a nocturnal journey, by foot, on the part of the president of the university, would seem suspicious—would it not?

So, Woodrow walked quickly, and furtively; more than once he ducked into a doorway, or around a corner, to avoid being seen by late-carousing undergraduates, returning from the Alchemist & Barrister pub on Witherspoon, or the rowdy taproom of the Nassau Inn.

The darkened tunnel of evergreens and rhododendron leading from Prospect to the inner campus was fraught with a kind of childish dread, which Woodrow recognized as unwarranted; but the deep, somehow
writhing
shadows behind the most Gothic of buildings, Pyne, gave him pause; nor did his fluttering heartbeat subside, at the rear of Alexander Hall with its fantastical towers, turrets, arches, walkways, and ornamental windows on all floors that, though darkened, seemed to wink with an extra-terrestrial light. (Did a voice faintly cry out from one of these high windows? Did a spectral face appear fleetingly? The hurrying man could not take time to pause, and did not dare to glance back.)

It was a sore point among the Princeton University administrators, that a high percentage of their undergraduate population were inveterate
carousers
for whom “clubs” were of more significance than academic studies, and persons of questionable repute of more significance than their revered professors. Indeed, an alarming number of
carousers
kept mistresses in rented rooms on Witherspoon, Bank, and Chambers streets, an old and seeming inextricable tradition at the university, despite its Presbyterian affiliation; as, at one time, Southern boys from slaveholding families were allowed to keep their personal slaves in the residence halls. (It had come to be a tradition among these boys, at least among the more affluent, that they would “free” their slaves upon graduation: with the result that many ex-slaves lived in the ramshackle neighborhood of lower Witherspoon, and swelled the local workforce with capable workers willing to work at very reasonable wages. Dr. Wilson’s house servants Clytie and Lucinda were descendants of freed slaves.)

Woodrow felt some relief when he left the university campus, and made his way southward along Nassau Street, quite deserted at this hour of the night; and past Bank, and Chambers; taking note of the forlorn cries of nighthawks, that made his skin shiver; and of the gauzy-masked moon overhead, like a face glimpsed out of the past. At the shadowy junction of Nassau and Stockton there came noisily a handsome ebony brougham drawn by a matched team of horses, that swung smartly past Woodrow to continue along Bayard Lane.

Woodrow recognized the carriage as belonging to ex-President Grover Cleveland. Quickly he calculated that the Clevelands had been dining at the palatial home of the Morgans on Hibben Road; they were returning to Westland, their own palatial home on Hodge Road, absurdly named for Andrew Fleming West, who was an intimate friend of Grover Cleveland. (Who can comprehend such perversities? Woodrow would not even try.)

“O God! If I am seen! They will
know
.”

Fortunately, Frances Cleveland was so absorbed with her fretting, elderly and obese husband, who was suffering a bout of dyspepsia following a lavish four-hour dinner, that the usually sharp-eyed woman failed to notice Woodrow Wilson’s shadowy figure on the sidewalk; if she had recognized him, Mrs. Cleveland would have guessed at once that he was on a mission to Crosswicks Manse, and the tale would have spread through the village of Princeton by teatime of the following day.

Note.
As a disinterested and fair-minded historian it isn’t my place to delve into old local feuds and squabbles; to stir up old misunderstandings, slanders, and hatreds, dating back to the turn of the century; to evoke once again a time in our peaceful community in which everyone, not excepting schoolchildren, felt obliged to take sides in the dispute between Woodrow Wilson and Andrew Fleming West; and a good portion of the congregation of the First Presbyterian Church chose not to speak to the remainder.

I hope I won’t compromise my objectivity as an historian, as to whether Woodrow Wilson ought to have been obeyed, as he wished, in every particular concerning major issues at the university; or whether his opponent, the strong-willed dean of the graduate school, ought to have had his way. (My van Dyck relatives were said to favor Woodrow; my Strachan relatives, Andrew West.) In any case the reader should know that Woodrow Wilson’s campaign for complete control over the university, as it parallels his campaign for complete control over the issue of whether the United States would go to war with Germany in 1917, when he was President, is a subordinate issue here, set beside the domestic tragedies to befall the leading Princeton families.

—CROSSWICKS MANSE,
the home of the Slades, has not been properly described; only just the interior of Winslow Slade’s library.

As male readers have a predilection for military history, so female readers have a predilection for learning about houses, furnishings, and ornamentation. Yet I hope that both sexes are intrigued, to some degree, by the Slades’ residence on Elm Road, as fine a house as one could discover in the Princeton vicinity, including even the Henry Morgan estate on Hibben Road and the Carlyle estate on the Great Road.

There was no more splendid example in all of New Jersey of the architectural style of early Georgian, in combination with the newer Palladian, the novelty being that the Manse was built along these lines reflecting classical Renaissance architecture at a time when, in England, the influence was yet very rare. The history of the Manse is most impressive, dating back to the early 1700s when one Bertram Slade of Margate, Massachusetts, purchased a large tract of land from William Penn in a region known as the “wilds of West New Jersey”; and encompassing that time when one of the great battles of the American Revolution was fought in Princeton, in 1777—indeed, scarcely one mile from the Manse itself in open parkland now designated Battle Park.

What must it have been for our young people, Josiah and Annabel Slade, and how subtly and magically did it shape their lives, to have spent their childhood at Crosswicks Manse!—in that house of countless rooms, spacious courtyards, and splendid vistas opening onto terraces, and gardens, and mirror-like ponds. (As a boy, Josiah tried to count the rooms of Crosswicks Manse, but ended with a different number each time—twenty-six, twenty-nine, thirty-one; nor did Annabel, the more patient and exacting of the two, fare much better. “It is like a dream, living here,” Annabel said, “except the dream isn’t my own but another’s.”)

It was in the Manse, for instance, that the fate of the young Republic was determined: for such illustrious men as George Washington, Alexander Hamilton, General Nathanael Greene, Baron Steuben, “Light Horse Harry” Lee, Benedict Arnold, the Chevalier de la Luzerne, Don Juan de Mirailles, and many another figure of history, frequently met. If I had more space I would like nothing better than to dramatize the “unspeakable insult” endured by the Slade family when, in 1777, the British General Cornwallis seized the great house for his private headquarters and proved so little the gentleman that, when at last driven away by patriotic Continentals, he encouraged his soldiers to loot, desecrate, and burn the magnificent house. Ah, if he had only lived
then!
—so Josiah thought, as a boy. He would have sought out the cowardly general himself and demanded satisfaction—that is, insisted upon a duel—for the personal nature of the outrage.

Yes, it is so—Josiah, born in 1881, in the waning years of the nineteenth century, naively yearned for a lost world in which, he believed, his courage and manhood might have been better tested, than at the present time; Josiah’s most impassioned readings were of Sir Walter Scott’s
Waverly Novels,
Tennyson’s
Idylls of the King,
any and all treatments of
King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table,
and such homegrown American romances as Washington Irving’s
Sketch Book
and James Fenimore Cooper’s
Leatherstocking Tales,
his favorite being
The Last of the Mohicans
which he had virtually memorized by the age of twelve; more recently, he had fallen under the spell of Jack London’s
Tales of the Klondike
and
The Call of the Wild,
and Owen Wister’s
The Virginian.

“To be born ‘too late’—is it possible? Or am I born at just the right time, unknowingly?”

Yet, God must have smiled upon the Slades of 1777: for damage to the beautiful house was minimal, in the end. Fires started by Cornwallis’s men soon smoldered out, in a cloudburst of autumnal rain as if indeed, as the Continental army was given to believe,
God was on the rebels’ side.

The Slades took particular pride in the fact that when the Continental Congress met in Princeton, in 1782, under the presidency of Elias Boudinot, it was at Crosswicks Manse that quite a few of the representatives stayed, and all of the representatives dined, before their formal congress in Nassau Hall. So the prized local legend, that Crosswicks Manse was the first “White House” of the Republic.

It cannot be denied that the vision of the luminous Manse, even by partial moonlight, had the force of intimidating Woodrow Wilson, as he made his way up the graveled drive, beneath overarching white oaks; as he approached the side door, to Winslow Slade’s office, the troubled man swallowed hard, and shaped his lips in an inaudible prayer—
Have mercy on me, O God: I am Your humble servant seeking only how best to serve You.

—
TO THE RESPECTFUL
titles in Winslow Slade’s library on the eve of Ash Wednesday, 1905, there should be added others, not alphabetized, but stacked on tables, that failed to capture Woodrow Wilson’s full attention: the unscholarly but much-perused
Phrenological Studies
of Dr. Phineas Lutz;
Beyond the Gates of Consciousness
of Stanislav Zahn;
Heaven and Hell
of Emanuel Swedenborg; and that rare and arresting treatise in quarto Gothic, the manual of a “forgotten church”—the
Vigiliae mortuorum secundum chorum ecclesiae maguntinae
; still more, volumes in French, by the controversial Jean-Martin Charcot, and a recent copy of
The Journal of the American Society for Psychical Research
of Cambridge, Mass., in which an essay by a founding member of the Society, Professor William James of Harvard, appeared under the title “Is There a ‘Natural’ Barrier to Consciousness?”

Yes, the reader is correct in wondering why, when Charcot and James were mentioned by Woodrow Wilson, Winslow Slade remained silent and did not suggest in any way that he was familiar with the work of either man.

—WINSLOW SLADE’S PREOCCUPATION
on the night in question.

It was Dr. Slade’s custom to dine with his family before eight o’clock, then to retire to the bachelor solitude of his library, which few in the family ever visited; nor did Dr. Slade encourage visits from the children who, when young, would have poked and pried amid his special collections, like the (allegedly) Malaysian jade snuffbox, that had been a gift to Winslow Slade by a woman friend, a world-traveler of decades ago, and, of course, the invaluable Gutenberg Bible, one of but forty-eight copies remaining in all of the world, of that first monumental printing. (That Dr. Slade’s copy of the Gutenberg Bible was not complete scarcely diminished its worth, for very few of the original copies remained undamaged by the incursions of centuries.)

Often, Winslow absorbed himself in fireside reading, of newer books (like those listed above); more recently, in the late winter of 1905, he had taken up the task of revising his sermons for a collection which a Philadelphia publisher of theological texts had pressed him into completing. (“Why would anyone want to read my old sermons?” Winslow asked wryly; and the publisher rejoined, “The mere name ‘Winslow Slade’ will assure quite a sale in New Jersey and the Mid-Atlantic states generally.”) When this task proved too boring, Winslow turned with more enthusiasm to his translations of one or another book of the Apocrypha, upon which he’d been laboring for years, with the assistance of a Hebrew scholar at the seminary; his particular interest was “The Epistle of Jeremy” and the Books of Esdra and Tobit, and, in the New Testament, those curious gospels attributed to Thomas, Matthias, and Judas.