The Accursed. Joyce Carol Oates

Gentlemen’s—& badly needed—out of her little crystal snuff bottle, carried concealed in her sleeve & wrapt in a lace handkerchief; a delicious fit of sneezes to clear the head, I might have wept with relief.

      _____ . Horace kisses my brow & says that I am feverish. He says that Dr. Boudinot must be obeyed—no undue excitement in Puss’s life! Warns me against the swirl of local gossip, which resembles a windstorm of dirt, sand, chaff, bits of manure—it is very dangerous to breathe! When I inquired after Lieutenant Bayard, that there has been said something to the effect that, at West Point, the young man was chastised for a violation of—is it the honor code, so-called?—yet not expelled, for his family influence—Horace at once pressed his forefinger to his lips frowning—No, Adelaide! This is nothing of which I have ever heard & it must go no farther.

      _____ . Later assuring me, I am well protected in this house; all of the inhabitants of Hodge Road & vicinity are well protected; it is not after all Camden, New Jersey!—which drew from me a quick response, Why do you speak of Camden?—& Horace seemed confused for just a moment, as if he had misspoke. As if to weary my curiosity then, he went on to speak at length of Mr. Harrison our investment attorney, & matters of Wall Street, & Mr. Depew, & Mr. Hill—& Mr. Roosevelt—(which livened me just a bit for the exploits of “Teddy” are always amusing in the papers). Yet, talk of the unions & strikes continues to weary—no more do I care for such sordid matters as Madame Blavatsky herself might have cared for them—recoiling from talk of rabble-rousers who have begun to plague society with demand for HIGHER WAGES & their crude threat of STRIKES. Horace grows livid, says they are but criminals; Pinkerton’s must be hired, if the U.S. Army will not help our cause; the anarchists must be kept down, that Justice be served. Such craven greed, to wish only HIGHER WAGES, as if there is not a HIGHER CONSCIOUSNESS to which we must all strive.

      Did the rabble & their leaders not ever learn—man must not live by bread alone?

      _____ . B O R E D O M through the week; & on Monday, an ambitious tea, & Puss was feeling strong & gay, & most of the ladies looking very well.

      Frances Cleveland came, a very pleasant surprise; at her dashing best, all plumes & jewels & high-colored complexion—(for it is whispered, the ex–First Lady has a touch of Indian blood, which throws Grover into a fit of fury if the gutter press pursue it); & Cousin Mandy in good spirits, despite her health; & the angelic Annabel Slade, our reigning Princeton debutante & bride-to-be; & her tedious mother Henrietta who is so damned good; & handsome Johanna van Dyck, tho’ dressed just a bit shabbily it seemed to me; & old Mrs. Washington Burr, Horace’s mother whom I did not recall having invited; & little Ellen Wilson in an unfortunate outfit, not at all flattering to her plain horsey features & stolid figure. (I am most angered, “Willy” sent regrets! Her excuse was so feeble, I did not even listen to it uttered by her silly aunt.)

      Poor Ellen Wilson, invited to Maidstone House out of a sense of obligation & courtesy; & because her husband is president of the university, & cannot be avoided. A naïve woman, allowing herself to be drawn out by us in the matter of Dean West & the Graduate College, stammering that the dean & his supporters would “be very regretful if Woodrow’s wrath is finally aroused, & his health threatened”—& we ladies sat startled into silence. Is the woman vulgar, or merely gauche?—is this how the company at Prospect common talks? Cousin Mandy discreetly changed the conversation by inquiring of Lenora Slade her recipe for the coconut meringues she had brought us, which were delicious. Thus, some embarrassment was curtailed, & Mrs. Wilson spared further folly.

      From thence, discussion of the upcoming wedding: Annabel’s gown which will be a “vision,” Mrs. Slade promises, in the new Directoire style, & her maid of honor & bridesmaids so very thrilled; & the many distinguished guests journeying to Crosswicks Manse, from various parts of the country including Washington, D.C.; & the honeymoon trip, to Venice, Florence & Rome; & Josiah’s plan to study German idealist philosophy at Heidelberg, or, it may be, to join a Polar expedition to the Klondike!— & all matter of chattering, pleasing at the time if forgettable a half-hour later. Ladies!—so I wanted to cry, rising from my chaise longue like a Valkyrie—ladies! Does not one of you know that an UNSPEAKABLE crime has been perpetrated here in Princeton, that it involves a female & is very serious & mysterious, & no notice has appeared in the local papers, & the men conspire to know nothing, that they might shield us from evil? But of course Puss said nothing, except to ask if Hannah might serve more tea.

      _____ . Here is a surprise. Amid gales of laughter Frances Cleveland confides in me, the latest development of the Wilson/West feud: each gentleman is courting the 99-yr-old dowager Mrs. Horatio Pyne, of Baltimore; her late husband Horatio Pyne, Class of ’22, having earmarked some 6 or 7 million dollars for Princeton. The nut to crack, as Frances says with a flash of her fine white teeth, is whether the money goes to the university with no specific instruction, or will it go to the canny Dean West, that he might exercise its use and build his Graduate School empire upon a high hill, some distance from campus? (For so it appears, Dean West wishes to establish a counter-campus of his own, to rival that of the president of the university who would preside over undergraduates, from Nassau Hall.) Mrs. Cleveland reports charges to me of “occultism” & “mesmerism” leveled against West by the Wilsons; while the tub-size dean remarks that he has experienced of late “uncanny vibrations of harm & ill-will” emanating from the president’s house at Prospect; which foolishness caused the ex–First Lady & me to fall into fits of laughter. Frances is very handsome; very full-bodied; beside her, Puss feels scarcely female.

      A striking woman who has been young in the eyes of her countrymen for so long, having married at 21 in the White House, Frances Cleveland is at last beginning to show the ravages of time; as a consequence, no doubt, of the bereavement of last year; the sudden death of her daughter Ruth; & the daily & nightly task of wife-ing, as she calls it, the bejowled old 300-lb. Grover.

      Ah, what it must be, Puss wonders suddenly, fearful—to be truly a wife?

      _____ . One of my weak-minded days when I dare not venture downstairs. Scarcely the energy to change from bedclothes to negligee.

      & have Hannah brush out my hair, & arrange my shawls. Already by 11 a.m. quite exhausted.

      Recalling the old, ghastly days as a girl when I was obliged to be corseted-up, that I might gasp for breath, & stagger in mere walking. Those days long past, for Puss does not venture out, & is thus spared the whalebone torture all others of my sex must endure, save the tribe of invalids.

      & this evening Horace knocked softly at my door, as he had heard from Hannah & others that Puss was feeling poorly. & brought me a small vase of bluets & wild columbine & a bowl of blueberries purchased from the Stockton farmers’ market. & so we had a light tea together. & so it seems we have never been happier despite the Tragedy of 14 yrs before. As the windows darkened with rain Horace tried to cheer me singing snatches of nonsense tunes & lullabies & one of the sweet songs of our courtship days:

      Ah! May the red rose live always

      To smile upon earth & sky!

      Why should the beautiful ever weep?

      Why should the beautiful ever die?

      _____ . Poor Puss naively wished a friendship with Mrs. Cleveland & now regrets her folly for it is in very questionable taste, such sudden revelations & unwanted confidences!—I am sick & headachey all this morning, & have swallowed too many of Dr. Boudinot’s chalky white pills, recalling yesterday’s exchange. For the ex–First Lady wrenched our conversation onto the topic of her (exceedingly boring) husband Grover, & asked of me if I had heard of a “collapse” at the Craven House, while they were visiting there two weeks ago this past Sunday; & what had Horace reported to me, & what was being said in town? “Adelaide, I must know what is being said of us. I cannot abide people whispering behind my back.” For the first time I saw a shadowy down on her upper lip. Yet she is no less handsome to me. I assured her that nothing was being said & that no one in