The Banished Children of Eve (49 page)

In
the early fall of 1860, Eliza told Mrs. Woods that she would soon be leaving, that she had saved a sum of money. Mrs. Woods said that she was sorry to lose Eliza. “Where do you intend to go?” she asked.

Eliza had no idea. Were the French really without racial attitudes? What would Haiti be like? Or Cuba? Eliza had read in the
Tribune
of a colony of Negroes from the United States that had been established in Montreal.

“I'm going to Canada,” Eliza said.

The last week Eliza was at Mrs. Woods's the Prince of Wales paid a visit to New York, and except for the sullen hostility of the Irish, the event turned into an immense holiday, with businesses closing early the evening he arrived, and spectators lining Broadway from the Battery to the Fifth Avenue Hotel on Twenty-third Street, where the Prince was staying. Like many other homes and shops, Mrs. Woods's establishment had the Union Jack draped out of a window. Mrs. Woods herself went to the ball held in the Prince's honor at the Academy of Music. Her ticket was sent with the compliments of Edwin Morgan, the Governor of New York. Since all of her gentlemen clients were also to be in attendance, Mrs. Woods had given her employees the night off.

Eliza was in her room when she heard Mrs. Woods return from the ball. It was still early, not yet eleven o'clock, and Eliza was surprised that Mrs. Woods hadn't stayed longer. She could hear Mrs. Woods yelling at the servants, something that never happened in the house. Eliza opened her door and stood by the stairwell. “He's coming! He's coming! My God, he's coming!” Mrs. Woods's words echoed through the house. She came flying up the stairs, her gown billowing around her, a crown of flowers tilted off the side of her head.

“How
many of the girls are home?”

“I've no idea,” Eliza said. “I've been in my room all night.”

“Get dressed immediately. The best you have. If you need jewelry, go to my room. There's no time to waste. I'll see who else is here.”

Mrs. Woods ran past Eliza and began banging on doors.

Eliza said, “Who's coming?”

Mrs. Woods turned quickly. She covered her eyes, and with the full force of her voice screamed, “The Prince! My God, the Prince is coming
here!
”

There were six of the girls in the house. Once dressed, they waited in the parlor. They didn't talk. Mrs. Woods kept fanning herself and pacing near the window. She held on to the drapes. After a few minutes, she told all the women to stand. She inspected each one like an officer at a dress parade, adjusting clothes, straightening shoulders, rearranging hair.

“The city was disgraced tonight,” she said as she went about her inspection. “Absolutely disgraced. It was a riot, not a ball. Half the guests were intruders who forced their way in without an invitation. Rabble, the lot of them. At one point, part of the floor collapsed. I was ashamed to be a New Yorker. Ashamed. But then I found myself squeezed into a corner with this magnificent specimen of a British officer, Captain Grey, one of the royal equerries, and once I was introduced to him, he said, ‘I have a good friend who has spoken very highly of a Mrs. Woods, but I'm sure you couldn't be the lady of his acquaintance.'

“‘Who might that friend be?' said I.

“Says he, ‘Colonel Percy of the Irish Guards. He was posted for a year at the embassy in Washington and managed to spend a good deal of that time in New York.'

“‘Bootsie
Percy?' I asked, and the Captain near jumped out of his skin. We spent the next hour talking about Bootsie and other things until Captain Grey informed me that he had to rejoin the royal party.

“I extended an invitation to him to visit these premises, and he said that he would do everything in his power to see that he did, but would I mind if he, perhaps, brought along another guest?
Would I mind?

“‘Bring along anyone you like,' I said. ‘Why, bring the Prince himself!' I was trying to be humorous, of course. Never did I dream. But he pressed my hand and said, sotto voce, ‘Ah, Mrs. Woods, I shall try. Nobody would benefit as much from what you offer as our young friend.' My God.
Our
young friend. The Prince
here.
Among us. I shan't believe it until it happens, until I see him here in the flesh.”

They sat for another half hour. Mrs. Woods kept getting up to look out the window and fidget with the curtains. The room was warm, and the women began to yawn. They listened to the sounds of approaching wheels on the pavement, wheels that then moved past. At last they heard wheels that stopped. Mrs. Woods ran to the window. Her voice quavered. “The Prince is here,” she said. She smoothed her hands down the front of her dress, and walked toward the door.

Eliza went to the window with the other women. They jostled one another to see out. A landau was pulled up to the curb. The driver was sitting on his raised seat smoking a pipe. The women couldn't see if anyone was inside. Mrs. Woods reappeared with a tall man in a suit of hound's-tooth check. He wore a monocle and had a luxurious mustachio, glistening with wax and twirled at its ends.

Mrs. Woods introduced the women to Captain Grey. He bowed slightly to each one. The madam took him by the arm and they went back to the door. Captain Grey went outside. A servant came in and said that Mrs. Woods wanted to see Eliza upstairs, that she was waiting on the first landing.

“They are
pulling the coach around to the stables in the back,” Mrs. Woods said. “He can't be seen by anyone. Captain Grey impressed the need upon me. He needn't have. I understand, of course.”

For the first time, Eliza felt nervous. Until now, she hadn't taken the Prince's appearance among them very seriously. But now she knew not only that he was there, but that she had been chosen to be his.

Mrs. Woods took a deep breath. “He wants an Indian,” she said. “That's what the Captain insists. Nothing else will do. All other possibilities are available in London and Paris.”

“An Indian?” Eliza asked.

“‘An American aborigine' is how he put it.”

“What did you tell him?”

Mrs. Woods bit her knuckle. “Well, I told him that, well, yes, I had a young woman who was half Indian. Her mother, I said, was a princess of the Montauks. He came in to see for himself. He thought you looked splendid.” Mrs. Woods was a step above Eliza. She put her hand on Eliza's shoulder. “I shall be eternally indebted to you. Whatever I can do for you, I will.” Her crown of flowers was askew again.

“What is my name to be?”

Mrs. Woods let go of her shoulder. “Running Deer. Princess Running Deer.”

They went to Mrs. Woods's room. Mrs. Woods took a length of red ribbon and tied it around Eliza's forehead, like a headband. “Remember one thing. You must not speak unless spoken to. Captain Grey was adamant about that.” She kissed Eliza on the cheek and left. Eliza sat on the bed and waited. Her heart was racing. After a few moments she heard footsteps outside the door. She stood. Mrs. Woods entered without knocking. A young man stood behind her. He was short and a little plump, with a round face and a receding chin. He reminded Eliza of the many clerks and mechanics she had met at Madame Julia's, nondescript, ungraceful, unable to hide their nervousness.

Mrs. Woods said to him, “This is Running Deer.” Eliza curtsied. Without saying another word, Mrs. Woods turned and left.

The Prince had his
hands in his pant pockets. He walked over to the window and parted the drapes to look down at the street. With his back to Eliza he said, “This is Captain Grey's idea. Military men have trouble thinking of anything else.” He kept looking out the window.

Eliza wasn't sure whether the remark had been directed at her, whether it was something she should respond to, or whether the Prince was merely thinking out loud. She kept silent.

The Prince stepped back from the window. He looked directly at her. “Are you really an Indian?”

“Part.”

“You are part Negro also?”

“Part.”

“Many Americans seem to have Negro or Indian blood, a result, I suppose, of the preponderance of men among the settlers. They took squaws for wives, I'm told, and produced a mixed race. Even when their skin is white, you can see they often have thicker lips than is normal. Many also seem to have a discernible slant to their eyes. The Lord Mayor of New York, whom I met tonight, had a distinctly aboriginal cast to his eyes. There also seems to be a prevalence of brachycephaly among the laboring classes.” He pressed his hands against his skull. “You know, the kind of short, broad heads you find among the non-Teutonic peoples, especially the Irish. And prognathism seems to predominate as well.”

Eliza wanted to say something, but was at a loss. The Prince said, “When I was in Canada last month, I met a number of pureblooded Indians. Ferocious-looking fellows. Chippewas, they were. Turned out that despite all their feathers and war paint, they were the cordial sort. We smoked a pipe together. It's often the case, you know, at least from my experience, that people aren't as bad as they first appear.”

The Prince continued to stand across the room from Eliza. He launched into a description of his visit to Niagara Falls and to the fair in St. Louis, two of the sights along his trip that seemed to impress him most, and as he kept talking, he began to stammer.

“We
toured Mis … Mis … Mister Barnum's today,” he said, “and I saw the most dread … dreadful creature! What-Is-It?”

“Pardon me,” Eliza said, “what is what?”

“No, no. That wa … wa … was its name: ‘What-Is-It?' Mis … Mis … Mister Barnum claims it's the missing link. Claims it was cap … cap … captured on the coast of Africa. Says it's ha … ha … half man, half gorilla. Looked like … looked like a poor deformed nigger to me.”

Eliza didn't say a word. The Prince took his watch out of his vest pocket and glanced at it. Eliza saw there was a tremor in his hand. He walked to the door. “This is not the time,” he said. “I'm fatigued.” And then he left.

Eliza untied the headband and took off her dress. She wrapped herself in the sheet and rumpled the pillows. Several minutes later, Mrs. Woods came in.

“He was quick,” she said.

“Very.”

“But he seemed pleased.”

“I hope he was.”

Mrs. Woods never spoke openly about the Prince's appearance in her establishment. Sometimes, perhaps, she might hint at it in an indirect way, embellishing her invocation of the Empress Theodora with a veiled reference to her intimate familiarity with the amorous instincts of a certain royal person. But she left the rumors that surrounded the Prince's visit to the city's raconteurs, who fabricated an elaborate myth of a princely debauch in Manhattan's lowest dives. Eliza kept silent, too. She had no interest in becoming the object of attention of every man in New York who wanted to share the Prince's pleasures. She knew what she wanted from Mrs. Woods, and concentrated on getting it.

Mrs. Woods often talked about her financial stake in a local theatrical production of
Uncle Tom's Cabin,
which she saw as an investment in the fortunes of the Republican party. Lately, she had been complaining about the return of her investment. Attendance was way down. Eliza had seen a notice in the paper that the management was seeking replacements for most of the major roles.

There was no
precedent for people of color appearing on New York stages, and she expected Mrs. Woods to express shock at her request, but she had been made a promise.
Whatever I can do for you, I will.

She knocked on the door of Mrs. Woods's room in the early evening, before the patrons began to arrive. Mrs. Woods invited her in.

“I have a favor to ask,” Eliza said.

“Anything I can do, I will.”

“I should like to try out for the part of Eliza.”

“Eliza?”

“In
Uncle Tom's Cabin.
”

“You wish to appear on stage?”

“Eliza is a person of color.”

“So is Uncle Tom, in fact of a far deeper color than Eliza, but no one has ever suggested that he be played by a real Negro. It isn't done.”

“I'll say I'm Cuban.”

“I'll have to think it over.”

In the morning, Mrs. Woods gave her decision. “I've considered your request,” she said. “Matter of fact, it kept me awake half the night. I will see what I can do, but you shall say nothing about your race. We'll let, people wonder. The mystery is what draws them, the possibility that they're seeing something they're not supposed to see. In this, the theatre has much in common with
our
business. We'll let them decide for themselves what you really are.”

Mrs. Woods was as good as her word. She took Miss Therese La Plante to see the manager of the theatre. He was resistant. She was insistent. “The wind is gone out of the sails,” she said. “This production is becalmed and is rapidly taking on water. It's in danger of sinking.”

“They'll rip the theatre apart if you put a nigger on stage.”

“Who says Miss La Plante is a Negro? Perhaps she's part Spanish, part Indian, a native of Louisiana, an exotic. The distinction between the races is often blurred. It is not the science some pretend. Let them guess what she might be. People will admire their own daring in going to see such an intriguing figure, a woman who might well be a Negress. Let them believe whatever they want to believe.”

“This is a theatre, not Barnum's Museum. We're not in the business of displaying freaks.”

Mrs. Woods said the issue of race was closed. She had no intention of debating it further. She was exercising her prerogatives as the major investor. The only question left to consider was, Could Miss La Plante act?

“What
is your background?” the manager asked Miss La Plante.

She invoked Mrs. Euphemia Blanchard, and the Fulton Academy: a university education in the theatrics of survival. The manager shrugged. He had her read from the script. “Well, you can act, there's no doubt about that,” he said when she was finished.