A Proposition

He had been there for over an hour before Mr. Booth was ready to receive him.  In the interim he was allowed to take tea in the grand parlor.  Winston, his butler and guy Friday made Richard feel quite at home.  They talked of horse racing especially at the track down near Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn.  It seems Winston had a knack with horses and had a bit of a part time job in the game of chance.  It was little known that Mr. Booth was a silent partner in a business venture with Leonard Jerome anonymously putting up some of the capital needed to create the Coney Island Jockey club.  It was one of the premiere tracks in the country and one of the most fashionable places to be seen in leisure society rivaling Ascot in London. 

“Do you play the horses, Mr. Rhys?”  Winston asked warmly.

“No.  I have not had the opportunity.”  Richard replied.

Winston was silent for a moment and it seemed that the two men had similar past histories separated only by an ocean.

“I know a lot about it…If you would like to go sometime it would be my privilege to introduce you to the sport.”

“That’s very kind of you.”  Richard replied.

“Where are you from, sir, if you don’t mind my inquisitiveness?” Winston asked.

“London.”

“Yes, where in London?” 

Richard was uncomfortable for a moment and shifted a bit in his chair. 

“Near Hyde Park.”  He finally said.

“Ah!  Beautiful area.” Winston said and Richard could tell that Winston knew he was not from Hyde Park but from a place of more common origins.

“I am from Kentucky, myself.” He added. “Lexington.”

“South.” Richard murmured.

“Yes.  Along the Appalachian Mountains.  Stunning scenery.  Do you paint landscapes?”

“No.  Well, that is to say, I’ve not tried my hand at it.”  Richard said.

“Oh you must venture down into the Allegheny and Appalachian areas. It will inspire you beyond your dreams.”  He said.

They sipped their tea quietly and Richard seemed nervous.

“I hope you will pardon me for saying this but…you have ‘tells’.”  Winston said trying to be helpful.

“Pardon?” Richard said and he shifted again.

“See?  What you just did?  That is a tell.” Winston pointed out.  “If you are to weave your way through society here on this side of the ocean you must overcome your ‘tells’.”

Richard’s nervousness liquefied into genuine curiosity.

“Do go on.” He said.

“I know you are from a lower station. I know that your life has been spent trying to overcome your class and the restrictions imposed on it.  Of course you can do that here in America.  You are trying to hide but in hiding you are revealing your limitations.” Winston said softly.  “I only know this because I was exactly the same when I left the woods of Kentucky.”

“What is it exactly that you see?” Richard asked.

“You shift.  You avert your eyes.  You’ve lowered your head slightly about four times since you arrived.  If you play any kind of cards you’ll lose everything.” Winston added.

A bell rung and Richard could hear the uniformed servant shuffle to the front door.

“Would you please excuse me, Mr. Rhys?” He said kindly and then disappeared.

Richard sat in the empty parlor for a few minutes contemplating these ‘tells’.  He  surveyed his hands.  After a moment he noticed a mirror in the far corner.  He got up and inspected his reflection.  He was well groomed.  His eyes piercing and sharp.  When he was with Victoria his nervousness faded away like old worn out clothes. She made him feel worth something.  She saw him as a bright, shiny thing and she unknowingly polished him and buffed him when he had moments of melancholy or gloom.  He had worked so hard all his life that happiness could not be so easy, he thought. And that is when his mood shifted.  He felt like he had to work at it to deserve the kind of affection that she so freely and easily gave him.  It was when he accepted her love that he realized it did not have to be difficult like some kind of achievement.  He noticed an older man in the reflection and then realized that Mr. Booth had entered the room.  The older gentleman seemed surprised.

“Good Morning, Sir.  Mr. Booth, I presume.”  Richard said confidently.

The gentlemen remained motionless and spellbound.

“You were expecting me?” Richard added.

“Yes, yes, of course.”  Booth said.  Winston reappeared and quickly helped the older man into his chair.  Richard resumed his seat.

“I must say it is a pleasure and a great honor for me to meet you.  I know your work and am quite humbled that you have agreed to receive me, Mr. Booth.”  Richard said.

Mr. Booth continued to stare and seemed uncomfortable in Richard’s presence.

“I saw your work at the Art Student’s League---the group show.”  Booth said.

“Oh.  Well, good.  I hope you enjoyed it.”  There was awkwardness and Richard remembered Winston’s advice. “You have quite a collection.” Richard responded.

“Yes.”

There was another uncomfortable pause.  Winston remained just outside the room.

“Pardon me for staring, Mr. Rhys…but…you bear an uncanny resemblance to my brother.”  Booth said gruffly.  Richard was stunned.  He had seen illustrations of John Wilkes Booth and certainly they had common traits but so did ten percent of the population so he thought nothing of it.  To have the great Edwin Booth stare in amazement at his likeness only confirmed that Richard shared more than vague similarities.

“I wanted to ask you about John---“ Richard began.

“I don’t speak of him, ever.” Booth replied. “Ever.”

“I see.  Forgive me, sir.”

“Let me be candid.  I’ve known Victoria for a long time and she is the most kindhearted woman I know. I’ve agreed to meet with you because she asked me to.  I know the type of man you are----” Booth said.

“Let me be quite blunt.  Do you like my work or not, sir?” Richard asked.

“I am…ambivalent.”  Booth answered.

“I am sorry to have wasted your time, Mr. Booth.” Richard got up and began to make his way to the door.  “You cannot presume to know anything about me, sir.  I love my wife more than you can ever know.”

Winston met him at the front entrance with his hat and coat. “Would you be willing to take a ride with me, Mr. Rhys?”  Winston said.  “I must fetch some paperwork for Mr. Booth at the offices on Twenty-third Street.”

The hansom took Richard and Winston around Gramercy Park and up Fifth Avenue.  The street was clogged with people and horse drawn trolleys and hansom cabs and peddler’s wagons.  It was almost impassible and was at a virtual stand-still.  Richard was quiet.  His thoughts drifted to Victoria and the idea of being a father for the first time. It flooded him with a soft truth and profound tenderness. At moments his self-esteem flagged and he thought that he couldn’t possibly offer any good to a new life.  Since he was orphaned he had no point of reference in parenting. Yet what he felt for Victoria was beyond anything he could have ever imagined and her patience and confidence in him gave rise to a part of himself he never knew was there just beneath the surface.  Perhaps the one thing he could offer was insight into how to look at things.  How to see light.  If he could teach a child how to paint a rose and do it with kindness and patience then he would be imparting the greatest facet he could offer.  And although his love for her was boundless he could not conceive the kinds of feelings he would have for their child. All he knew is that it would take him, his spirit, to places he couldn't imagine.

“Mr. Rhys, would you be interested in a business venture.”  Winston said.

“I’m an artist.”  Richard replied.

“Yes, yes.  But are you interested in making money.”

“What is your proposition?” Richard queried.

“You do know that there is immense profit in the lecture circuit.  If I am not mistaken Mrs. Thornton---I mean Mrs. Rhys has utilized the forum.”  Winston said.

“Mrs. Rhys lectures, that is true. And since you know so much about her then you would also know that she does not profit from her speeches.  They are given in the spirit of charity.”  Richard replied. 

The sounds of the street wafted in and the nice warm air made the hansom a bit stuffy.  Richard cracked the glass for ventilation.

“Some say that John Wilkes Booth is not dead.”  Winston said pointedly.

Richard eyed Winston suspiciously.

“Well then, what is the truth?”  Richard said nonchalant wishing he had not accepted the invitation for the ride.

“You tell me.”  Winston said.

“Speak plainly, sir.  Your manner is disagreeable.”  Richard replied and his mood began to grow dark. 

“Some believe that John Booth did not die when that barn was set ablaze.” Winston offered again.

“Is that what you believe?”

“What I believe is of no consequence, it is what the public at large believes.” Winston stopped short for a moment. “Perhaps a little stage gray at the temples and we would have to manicure those whiskers.”

Richard pounded on the hansom frame and the driver leaned in. “I’ll get out here, sir.  Thank you.”  He said impatiently.  But the cab was in the middle lane of traffic and he risked being run down by carriages and carts.

“P. T. Barnum made a fortune from these sorts of shows.  People would flock to see you.”  Winston whispered.

“Yes, and others would gun me down for killing their beloved president.  Do you not think for a moment there would be a bounty on my head---and why would I want to parade about as someone else---leach some other man’s celebrity---I want my own.  And I cannot think how it might wound Mrs. Rhys!  Her reputation is of the utmost importance as is her work and I cannot even fathom putting either in jeopardy for the sake of making money.  I shall have to rely on my wit and my art, sir. I decline your proposition.” Richard said and he jumped out of the cab and darted through the street as quick as lightning.

“Think about it, will you?  Winston yelled.  “My offer for the races still stands.”

But Richard was halfway down the street bumping into people and trying to find a place to sit for a moment and collect himself.  As an actor it would be one of the most coveted roles he could play and so the idea lodged in his mind and he mulled over the prospect.  Americans used to remark on his peculiar likeness of John Booth.  But they were few and far between and as the years went by people were more concerned with current affairs not past assassinations. It was a grift plain and simple.  And he was not going back to any kind of life that had to do with dishonesty and advantage.  His dream was to become a prominent painter---to make his living making art. He wanted to have the notoriety of Whistler and the skill and grace of Sargent. He did not aspire to wealth.  That was not his sole purpose in working but to capture the elusive on canvas and present it to the world.  He had hoped that Mr. Booth liked his work and that he would garner a commission at least.  But the whole morning had been confusing and disappointing. As he made his way up to twenty-fifth street and Madison he gazed up at the sky and could see that perhaps the weather might not be as agreeable as forecast.  People walked by hurriedly with ticker tapes in their hands and others with newspapers or brief cases.  New York was a vibrant city and fast-paced.  There was a different energy here than London.  It seemed that if you could make money you were a success whether you were from the barren fields of Ireland or the horse farms of Kentucky, the backwaters of Louisiana or a born and bred New Yorker through and through.  The dollar was king and if one had enough of them one could buy their station.  Nouveau Riche is what they called it and the robber barrens of the railroad were the finest example of capitalism and the free market.  Richard walked past an old peddler.

“You vant I should make you sausage?”  The old man asked.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?”  Richard said.

“You vant, you vant?” The man pointed to a sign that said sausages a penny.  Richard found a loose coin in his pocket and though he wasn’t terribly hungry he thought he should eat something anyway.

“Big storm.”  The old man said.

“Excuse me?” Richard apologized. “Where are you from?”

“Russia…Big Storm…coming here,”  He repeated.

“A big storm from Russia? I don’t think that is possible.”  Richard chuckled and he bit into the sausage.

“No.  No.  Big storm…comink from dere.”  And the old man pointed west toward New Jersey.  There was a line of clouds on the horizon but it looked like a passing rainstorm.  The wind kicked up and men lost their hats and darted after them like cats after mice. 

“Snow storm.” The old man said.  “You.  You ver my last patron.  I go home now.”  And he wiped his greasy hands on a soiled apron, tipped his cap and kicked the wooden leg from his wagon.  He pulled it out into the street and disappeared into the traffic.  Two gentlemen wandered by talking about stocks and Richard over heard one man say to the other.  “I got a wire from Chicago early this morning and it seems that a huge blizzard has crippled Kansas and Nebraska.  Railroads are out.”  The one man said.

“That means we’re losing money.” The other said and they moved on down the street.  The feathery clouds above seemed to have gotten thicker since Richard left the Player’s Club.  He decided to make his way back down to Twentieth Street to his studio. He knew Victoria was probably reading one of her favorite books next to the fire in the parlor or wandering about in the courtyard garden or writing her next speech.  As he walked the first drops of rain began to fall.  He quickened his pace and tried to hug the buildings dodging the sprinkles from awning to awning.