The Colorless Labyrinth

Dip, dop…dop, dip, dip…dip...dop.  The rain hit the umbrella softly at first and then as she walked further out into the fields it bloomed into a regular spring shower.  Growing up in London Victoria did not mind the rain.  However, the sun helped warm the day and now that it had hidden itself behind the clouds the temperature had fallen.  She brought her woolen cloak with her and as she pulled it on she felt instantly better.  She was in her own world imagining a grand garden that would be planted come May.  She wanted box hedges and roses and hydrangeas, lilies and chrysanthemums, azaleas, camellias, gardenias and daisies.  As she walked out through the yellow grass she could see exactly where she would plant certain flowers and the design of the hedges.  She wanted a labyrinth made of living things.  It had to be five times larger than the one at Chartres Cathedral that her mother introduced her to when she was a small girl. They walked the seven circuits into the center, tiphareth.  Gazing up at the vaulted ceiling of the mystical homage to the great sacred it would be forever burned into her memory as an exalted moment of true presence. “The nature of truth is the absence of contradiction and the agreement of information. The nature of beauty is the absence of discordance and the existence of resonance through the senses. They are one and the same.”  The carved inscription made perfect sense to her even at that young age but she did not understand it on a deeply sensual level until she stood at the altar exchanging vows with Richard nine months before.  He brought out the best in her and he inspired her to greater heights of imagination and creativity.  He was opposite her in every way but like the moon he reflected back her own potency and strength.  She was forever surprised and amazed at the things she learned about herself through her love and compassion for him.

She learned the origins of the labyrinth from Richard one afternoon at tea when he was first introduced to her in London.  It was during an appointment when he was sketching her likeness for her commissioned portrait. The first labyrinth was designed by Daedalus for the King of Crete.  It imprisoned a terrible ferocious creature---half man half bull called a minotaur at the center.  Blood sacrifices in the form of young boys and girls were offered to the monster at certain astrological times.  Concerned about the sacrifice of youth, the king hired Theseus to slay the demon.  In order to navigate his way back through the Labyrinth the king’s daughter, Ariadne, gave him a skein of twine.  Perhaps Victoria was the thread that kept Richard together in those very trying times in London.  When Victoria felt a spell of nervousness come over her just before giving a speech, she would remember that story, that moment and her importance in the machine of life.  In the center she felt calm but some people come face to face with the beast from within.  It was not until she grew older that she fully understood what this entity was and that it is as evident as the shadow self, walking along side one on a sunny day.  She knew that she would have to understand this being on a deeply conscious level in order to render its terror ineffective and to be free enough to create change in the world. It became her mission and mantra since she would be bringing a new life to their family.

 Other than the harmonious architecture and design of the manor this garden would be the spiritual center of her estate.  She could see it in full bloom in her mind’s eye and there, walking the path with her, was Richard donning a linen suit and a smart felt hat.  Her child would be born sometime mid July and she imagined the baby’s first introduction to nature by the brilliant colors of the blooming flowers and the paintings that Richard would create outside.  She wanted fountains and small Japanese pools with red, black and gold fish.  She wanted Cherry blossoms to line the property and she wanted at least two easels for the outside and three for Richard’s studio on the second floor. 

She had met Fredrick Law Olmsted while giving a lecture at Harvard University a few years back.  She admired his work beyond words and he was impressed with her ideas about the psychological effect that landscape has on the culture of a city.  They talked at great length afterward.  He was a landscape designer and not a gardener and so he would not be of help to Victoria in that way.  But he held her rapt attention with his progressive ideas and philosophy of the natural world.  His voice was raspy and kind and he spoke low with an air of humility.  In a way he reminded her of her father.  She only had a handful of memories of him but they were treasured.  She remembered his soft deep voice and his side whiskers. Everything else about him seemed fuzzy like a dream.  He was sent as a commander to fight in the Prussian war. Being of German decent he felt it his duty and obligation and so he left his child and young bride for the front where he contracted Cholera and died.   Sometimes as Victoria was just about to fall asleep she could hear his voice and she would wake again wondering if his spirit was near.

The dark clouds moved in and the rain shower turned into a hard downpour.  She was out about a mile or so in the field in her walking boots.  The soggy ground snagged her heels in the mud.  The drops were cold and again the temperature seemed to fall a few degrees.  When the water hit her bare skin it stung with a wintry chill.  Although she was lost in her visions she thought perhaps it might be prudent to make her way back to the house.  The rain seeped through her leather boots and her feet were wet.  A chill began to overtake her and so she quickened her pace.  She could not afford to catch cold while pregnant.  Her feet sunk into the mud and grass and she remembered her trip to Boston the week before.  It was bitterly cold and she had been given the terrible news that her friend, celebrated writer and pillar of the suffrage movement had passed away unexpectedly.  Louisa May Alcott was fifty-six and in declining health but she was still writing when Victoria had visited her a year before.  Over twelve years ago at the annual Astor ball, Caroline Astor introduced Victoria to Ms. Alcott.  The two became fast friends and Louisa found in Victoria a vibrant formidable fighter in reform for women in particular and she knew that Victoria would carry on with the important work that women of that gilded age set out to do.  Vote.  Victoria cherished the letters she shared with Louisa and kept them in safe place preserved for the next generations.  Her grandmother had given her a copy of Little Women when she was nine and Victoria could not put the novel down.  She was fascinated with that particular time in American History and she wanted to be just like Jo when she got older.  She wanted to be the captain of her own ship and she thought that was what she was doing when she agreed to marry Charles.  He gave her so much freedom that she had want of nothing.  And she loved him for that and she was devoted to their friendship.  It was not until she saw Richard in the wintry street on that fateful night that she realized she was the proverbial bird in the gilded cage.  Not that Charles imprisoned her, no, that would be the last thing he would want as he did not want that for himself.  She had unknowingly fashioned her own prison bars constructed with great care and safety.  But they kept out passion and the kind of love that has no words---that can only be felt in a tender taken silence---in the shared breath of her beloved and the warm touch of a soulmate.

The wind gusts nearly blew her down in the field.  Her skirt was soggy from the blowing rain and a half spill into the grass.  As she straitened herself up she realized that suddenly the rain turned into snow.  Big wet lumpy flakes began to fall sideways to the ground.  She looked toward the house but could not see it.  She was too far away and the white snow and the wind obscured her vision.  A shiver shot through her and she realized that perhaps she was in real danger.  She was unsure what direction she was walking in and if she walked the wrong way a mile then she would surely freeze to death before reaching the house.  And then there was the big empty manor with no fire and no servants.  Not that she couldn’t build a fire for herself, but the time it would take to heat even the small sitting parlor would render her physically exhausted.  Her instincts told her to press on and so she began trying to walk in the snowy clipper.  She wished she had not insisted that Mr. Jones leave.  Certainly he was back at the house by now, she thought.  He must be on his way.  Surely he’s out looking for her.  And where was Richard?  Had he not found her note?  Had he not been back to the house yet?  Or was he trying to make his way to her as well?  All she knew was that she had to do everything she could to ensure the safety of her unborn child.  The fighter deep inside cultivated her resolve.  She would not be found dead in a field in the flatlands of Brooklyn.  Before she knew it two inches had covered the ground.  She was in a whiteout.  The snow was falling so fast she could barely see two feet in front of her.   The wind was so furious that she was blown to the ground twice.  She did not bring gloves and her bare hands stung in the icy, wet snow.  They were red and inflamed and she tried to keep them tucked into her cloak but she needed to shield her eyes.  She stopped for a moment to get her bearings.  There was nothing but silence and the low hum of the wind as it blew across the fields.  Then suddenly out of nowhere a bull appeared.  It lumbered a few feet and it’s grey apparition through the storm brought about terrible thoughts.  Perhaps it was lost as well.  Victoria did not own livestock that she knew of.  Certainly it had broken free from a neighbor’s farm.  It stood there like a statue or an omen.  She thought that maybe if she followed it the beast might lead her to shelter.  Even if it were the neighbor’s barn she would be out of the weather.  It lowed and then began its lumbering pace and for a few moments disappeared in the white gusts.  She could not feel her hands.  The cold had taken her sensation.  And she felt sick and cold.  She tried to keep her eye on the wandering bovine but it disappeared like a dream.  She stopped and vomited furiously.  Not much came up but the convulsion rocked her body.  She had to get home---she had to get some food inside of her.  She thanked god that Mrs. Hopkins had the foresight to pack a picnic basket.  Even though her appetite had vanished she would force the food down to keep her strength.  Another wave of nausea engulfed Victoria and she thought that if she could calm herself down she would be able to follow the animal and not expel what sustenance she might have left.  The grey beast appeared again and walked with purpose.  She kept it in her sights as she moved little by little through the mounting snow.

 

Mrs. Hopkins stood like a sentinel at the front bay window of the townhouse on Grove Street.  She watched the snow come down with fury and the gray sky turn white. 

“Nell.”  She called.  There was a low shuffle on the back staircase and the small Irish lass appeared in the parlor.

“Mum.”  She answered.

“Has Mr. Rhys arrived?”  Mrs. Hopkins asked.

“No, mum.  No one has.” She said.

Mrs. Hopkins pulled a note from her apron.  “I will need for you to go to the Players Club on Twentieth Street and inquire after Mr. Rhys please.”  And she extended her hand with the note.

“And dress warm.  I will need all the help well in this house.”  She added.  “No one can afford to be ill.  There will a lot of work in the coming days.”

Nell went to the ground floor foyer and wrapped herself in a thick wool cape and hat.  She stuffed the note in her pocket and was out the door in a flash.  Mrs. Hopkins stood at the window watching as Nell disappeared into the storm.  Nell was expendable, Mrs. Hopkins thought.  Not that she was hard and uncaring but if Nell did not return it would be upsetting yet she could still conduct the business of the house without too much interruption.  She could hear Margaret in the kitchen preparing for tea and Mr. Watkins, the butler, was quietly adjusting the clocks in the house to reflect the correct time by his Swiss pocket watch.  Mrs. Hopkins steely reserve began to melt.  The color in her face leeched out and she was pale and her concern turned to fright and dread.  As Mr. Watkins quietly entered the parlor Mrs. Hopkins turned to hide her face. 

“Any word?”  He said almost whispering.  Mrs. Hopkins response lodged in her throat and instead of answering with a steadfast ‘no’.  She began to slowly crumble from the inside out.  The tears began to stream down her face and her body slowly reverberated with emotion.  Mr. Watkins quickly moved to her and she fell into his arms.  She could no longer pretend to be as strong as she projected.

“There, there.  There, there, now.  You’ll worry yourself sick.”  He said softly and pulled out a crisp handkerchief to dab away her tears.

“She’s my only child.”  Mrs. Hopkins whispered. 

“Yes.  She’s everyone’s only child.”  He replied. “She’s with Mr. Jones.  He’s a hearty Scotsman as you know. He would not let anything happen to her.  Come now, Miriam.  Let’s have our tea.”  And he escorted her to the large kitchen where Margaret had prepared the servant’s afternoon meal. 

 

The beef stew at the Court Street Inn was hearty and hot and Mr. Jones had almost finished his second bowl while sitting in the back room.  A glass of beer and a basket of butter rolls accompanied the only meal he might get today.

“Will you be needing a room, Mr. Jones?”  Jack the Innkeeper asked.

“Are you daft?  I have to go back to the manor when I finish.”  He said.  He sat in the back windowless room where there was a raging fire on the huge hearth.

“I don’t think you’ll be going anywhere today or even tomorrow.”  Jack said and he wandered into the front of the Inn with Mr. Jones following close behind.

“What the Sam hell?” He murmured.  “When did this start?” He asked anxiously as he quickly gathered his hat and coat.

“About a quarter ago.  It came on fast like a squall.”  Jack replied.

“I have to go!”  Mr. Jones said and he was almost out the door and into the blinding storm when Jack grabbed his arm.

“You’ll freeze!”

“Let go!” Ian said.

“Don’t you have a heavier coat or a scarf?” Jack asked.

“Of course not---it was spring when I woke up this morning.  I have to fetch Mrs. Rhys!”  He snapped and leaned into the blistering cold.  Jack followed close behind with a wool muff and a long tweed coat.

“Don’t be an idiot!  Take these.”  And he handed the extra clothing to Ian and ran back into the Inn.  “Good Luck.”  Ian heard Jack say through the roar of wind.  The livery stable was only a few blocks away and Mr. Jones hoped that the stableman, seeing the state of the weather, would have unhitched the horses from the landau.  He turned the corner and only a few men clutching their thin frock coats scrambled through the streets trying to reach their destinations before freezing.  Mr. Jones was confident that Victoria had found her way back to the kitchen at the house and stoked the small fire for some comfort.  He had stacked a small cord of kindling for that fireplace.  He was angry at himself for not hauling in more wood when he was there earlier.  What wood there was lined the outside of the house and would be frozen and hard to burn.  He knocked on the carriage doors and a teenaged boy poked his head through a window. 

“Let me in.  I need my horse.”  Mr. Jones commanded.  After a moment a large Irishman slid the door open momentarily for Ian to slip inside.  The stablemen had a fire lit in an old barrel at the corner of the barn.

“I need my bay mare.”  Mr. Jones said.  The Irishman, Ned, looked at him aghast.

“You can’t be takin’ that poor animal out into this blizzard.”  He said quietly.

“I have to get to me lady.  She’s alone in the flatlands at the manor.”  Ian pleaded.

“You can’t even see to the corner, man!”  He exclaimed.  “Do ye even know which way to go?”

“”I have to get to her!”  Mr. Jones said.  “She’s alone…with child.”

Ned looked at him long and hard.  Then he turned to the boy, “Saddle her up.”

“But Ned---“ the boy said surprised.

“Do what the man said!  Saddle the mare up!” Ned ordered.  Ian warmed his hands by the lit barrel and in a minute or so the boy led the mare out into the front.  Ian moved close to the horse and patted the animal lovingly.  He shoved a few coins into the boy’s hand.  Then he mounted the mare and signaled for Ned to slide the carriage doors open.  The horse backed itself up and needed to be coaxed into the weather.  Ian handled her and eased her out into the white ‘no man’s land’.  Within seconds Mr. Jones and the mare disappeared.  The boy slid the doors shut and Ned shook his head.

“Hope he makes it.” Was all he could muster.  

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.