That A Bloodsmoor Romance presents itself, with humility, and hope, as an allegorical—indeed, exemplary—narrative, I should be very foolish to wish to deny; that its numerous personages are instructively enjoined, as to most clearly lend themselves, to moral interpretation, I can but affirm. In so doing, however, I am not conscious of having betrayed the individuals who discover themselves herein—and make my plea to them, that, the capacities of readers, no less than of authors, being resolutely finite, I am obliged to continue with my general favoring of contour.
(Which is to say, that tho’ not one of the personages described herein, would consent to naming himself, let alone interpreting himself, as an allegorical figure, nonetheless it is necessary for me, as the historian of these proceedings, and, it may be, as the judge thereof—to the limited extent to which, of course, a member of my sex may be considered a judge, that position being by hallowed tradition a masculine prerogative!—it is necessary, I fully believe, for me to extract what is exemplary, rather than what is merely idiosyncratic, and eccentric, from these individual lives, in order that a wholesome moral lesson may be drawn.)
Thus, I choose in this brief introductory space, to speak of the contour of the concluding book, which will take us from January 28, 1899, to the very end of that tumultuous year; and from a place in San Francisco, which no lady might wish to enter, even were she allowed entry, back home to Bloodsmoor—the which, I hardly need stress, I have never truly left, in spirit. The reader shall become reacquainted with those Zinn daughters who, it might have been thought, had so violated the customs of propriety, good sense, and daughterly obligation, as to be lost—indeed, damn’d—forever: reacquainted, and, it is hoped, sufficiently stirred, by the compassionate motions of Christian charity, as to rejoice in the numerous reconciliations that Fate saw fit to decree, in these final months of our century. That those Zinn sisters who have abandoned their parents, and the domestic hearth, in order to plunge into the wide world, find their divers ways back home, I take to be a triumphant affirmation of God’s grace—operative, as it is, in ways so o’ersubtle, as to beggar our human comprehension.
SEVENTY
I shrink from the scene, which it is my oppressive task, to now convey: and I beg the reader’s indulgence, both for my timorousness, and for the unwholesome—indeed, loathsome—nature, of what follows.
For we are to be plung’d into the vile, unnatural, and altogether morbid. Nor are the details, of a physiological kind, completely clear.
Indeed, upon rising from a night of troubl’d dreams, yesterday morn, I had fully hoped to plunge at once into this chapter, despite my wanness of countenance, and a deep revulsion of the soul. It had been my authorial strategy to thus introduce, as the very first note in this concluding book, both the central issue (the astonishing Last Will and Testament of Miss Edwina Kiddemaster, and the yet more astonishing “Confession of a Penurious Sinner,” by the selfsame hand), and the issue of “Mr. Philippe Fox,” which has long dismayed me, for reasons soon to be made evident. Yet such was my repugnance for “Mr. Fox,” or, “Constance Philippa Zinn” that was, that, not trusting my enfeebl’d powers, I turned my pen to other, more general concerns, the which I hope have proved instructive to the reader, the while they have allowed me some measure of restorative time. But, “Haste, ere the gathered shades/ Fall on thee from the tomb where none may work,” as Mrs. Sigourney reminds us!—and I must now confront my long-dreaded task.
Indeed, I am bound to confess here that I have, upon several occasions, shrunk from taking up this strand, in my intricate fancywork, out of that timidity of my sex, that has rendered us so generally unfit for the creation of great works, like those by Mr. Dickens and Mr. Balzac, and, in our own clime, Mr. Melville—a timidity that has its unapologetic basis in natural ignorance, and innocence, of the cruder aspects of life: and a gracious wish that naught but “rainbows of unearthly joy” (to quote Mrs. Sigourney once more) irradiate our literary attempts, as, it is devoutly hoped, they irradiate our lives.
THE SCENE, WHICH I hope will not offend your sensibilities, to envision, is the dim-lit and murmurous gentleman’s bar, in the sumptuous Baldwin Hotel of San Francisco: one of those much-priz’d sanctuaries of the confirmed hedonist, to whom it is not uncommon to wish to repair to even by day, in order to partake of those excesses of alcoholic consumption, to which such personages have abandoned themselves. Here, amidst gilded, mirrored, tessellated, polished, and glittering splendor, of the most ostentatious sort, repulsive to the healthful mind, gentlemen of divers backgrounds commingle: imbibing such spirits as bourbon, whisky, gin, vodka, rum, brandy, and liqueurs of every imaginable species, all the while giving license to their gluttonous inclinations, by devouring such delicacies as smoked oysters, and squid, and buttered snails.
As our eyes become accustom’d to the smoke-hued dimness, we observe a lone gentleman standing at the far end of the bar, reading a copy of the San Francisco Ledger, which he has just found, discarded, beside him. It is difficult to judge the gentleman’s age, whether he be fairly youthful, as his manner suggests; or well into his thirties, as the graying hair at his attractive temples would indicate. He is smooth-chinned, and sports not the smallest hint of a mustache: indeed, there is a pleasing softness to his complexion, which not even the sun’s insistent rays, and his own frequent scowls, have been able to mitigate. Tho’ his clothing is not altogether fresh, and might in fact have been worn for several days, it is of evident quality, and not greatly out of place here at the Baldwin, where men of wealth commonly stay: a white linen shirt with ruffled cuffs; a dress-suit of fine dove-gray broadcloth; a waistcoat patterned in gilt arabesques; a black Western string tie; a pearl lapel-pin. At his elbow lies a pair of well-worn pigskin gloves; and he has brought into the bar with him a broad-brimmed white wool hat, redolent of the Southwest. His cowhide boots are custom-made, sporting remarkable two-inch heels (with the desir’d result, that he is agreeably tall, and possesses, despite his lithe frame, an air of swaggering menace).
A snakelike sinuousness informs his being, yet, withal, he is comely enough, and intriguing enough, to both attract and repel the eye of the casual observer. Is he uncommonly handsome, with his marble brow, and his exquisitely sculpted lips, and his sly, deepset, dark-lashed eyes, which move boldly about? Does he give an impression of cunning, rather than of sinewy masculine strength; and of the dandified, rather than the forthright and robust? Is his manner stealthful? Might his fashionable gray coat hide a pistol, carried in secret? Might he be a well-to-do Eastern gentleman, of good breeding; or might he have sprung from the lowest level of society? Is he one of those numerous young men who are “with the government,” or “with the railroads,” or “with the law”? Is he a wandering journalist, a bigamist in flight, a gambler, a cardshark, a gold prospector, a “law enforcement officer,” a bankrupt, an outlaw, a murderer, a “desperado”? When he addresses the bartender he reveals an accent that might well be Eastern, yet o’erlaid with an emphatic Western twang: but whether this be natural, or mere affectation, is not clear.
Despite the gentleman’s evident wish for privacy, and even secrecy, there is something resolutely impudent, and even reckless, about his manner: as he lights a small thin Mexican cigar, and continues to peruse the newspaper, impatiently scanning the columns, the while muttering and laughing contemptuously under his breath.
Until, of a sudden, quite by accident, his eye fell upon this item, the which so startl’d him, the cigar nearly slipped from his fingers, and he murmured aloud: “Her—!”
ESTEEMED AUTHORESS MISS EDWINA KIDDEMASTER DIES
UNUSUAL STIPULATIONS SAID TO COMPLICATE WILL
With great rapidity the slim-bodied gentleman read this news item, which, I am sorry to report, did not receive, from the Ledger, the amount of space so solemn an event surely deserved: nor was its placement, on page 17, in the midst of numerous other obituaries, of unknown persons, sufficiently respectful, in terms of our loss to American letters. But, th
o’ abrupt, and composed in a singularly graceless style, the article contained no distortions; and from it, the increasingly agitated gentleman learned the following facts: that Miss Edwina Kiddemaster had succumbed to a brief illness, and died, at her ancestral home in Bloodsmoor, Pennsylvania, at the age of seventy-eight; that she had authored “upward of seventy works, pertaining to moral, domestic, and religious subjects, the which, sold by subscription, were read and cherished by millions of Americans”; that her “sorrowful passing,” in the words of Mrs. S. T. Martyn, the editress of The Ladies’ Wreath, “is a cause of great mourning, amongst her devoted readership, the more so in that it is unlikely—nay, it is impossible—that our nation will ever see Miss Edwina Kiddemaster’s equal again, in the troubl’d years to come.” There was some unnecessary comment on the curiosity that Miss Kiddemaster had, in recent years, become litiginous, bringing suit not only against “rival etiquettresses” who, she claimed, had “appropriated” her teachings, and “capitalized shamelessly” on them, but against her publisher as well, who, in her opinion, and in the opinion of her legal advisors, “had failed to advertise her most recent book, The Hearthside Guide for Young Christian Wives, and to satisfactorily sell it,” with the consequence that, in the first twelve-month period, the volume had sold only eighty-four thousand copies, a grave disappointment to the authoress.
All this might have been adequate to stir the gentleman’s compassionate distress; but it was the final, and, alas, all too brief paragraph of the obituary, that truly struck him, so that now his slender cigar did slip from his fingers, to roll harmlessly on the bar: this paragraph informing the reader that Miss Edwina Kiddemaster had possessed a “considerable fortune, in properties, businesses, and investments, in the East,” augmented in recent years by several inheritances, and by the continued sales of her popular books; and that, by her decree, the breaking of the seal of her Last Will and Testament, was to be postponed, until such time as her five great-nieces might assemble together, in Bloodsmoor.
“The deuce!—the hell—d—’d Bloodsmoor—never!”—thus spoke—nay, sputtered—the alarmed gentleman, in whom, as we see, all normal sentiments of love, Christian charity, and moral lucidity, were so gravely atrophied, by long residence in the lawless West, and, doubtless, by congenital inclination, as to cause him, at so poignant a moment, to curse!
“Bloodsmoor: never!” And, so saying, indeed, spitting these words, he folded the paper over, and toss’d it down, and signaled for the bartender, that he wished another whisky-and-soda at once.
SEVENTY-ONE
Yes, it is true: the saddening news, that Great-Aunt Edwina, tho’ appearing, in Dr. Moffet’s measured opinion, to “having taken a decided turn for the better,” after some months of convalescence, died one gloom-ridden January day, very early in the morning: to be vociferously mourned by her family, and the devoted household staff, and her Bloodsmoor neighbors, and her wide circle of friends and acquaintances and literary associates, along the Eastern seaboard.
The brief obituary, doubtless toss’d off by a crude-minded male journalist, whose knowledge of Miss Edwina Kiddemaster’s renown, and great worth, was naught but secondhand, was correct in its assertions, in the main: but could not, of course, have hinted that the elderly lady, tho’ industrious as ever, in terms of her authorial labor (she had just completed a new volume, A Compendium of Morals for All, in spirited answer to the rival authoress Mrs. D. E. E. Brownwell’s 101 Most Frequently Ask’d Questions, With Answers: A Handbook for Young Christian Americans, one of the best-sellers of 1898), nonetheless suffered from a certain increasing melancholy, and heaviness of heart, the which her niece Prudence had reason to attribute to the numerous tragic losses sustained in recent years. That Great-Aunt Edwina might weep over the untimely death of Little Godfrey was indeed plausible; that she might, upon occasion, weep over the “defection” of Samantha, and the “heartlessness” of Malvinia, and the “stubbornness” of Constance Philippa, and, even, the “ingratitude” of Deirdre, struck the Zinns as remarkable. In Mrs. Zinn’s words, gravely uttered to her spouse, who gave every show of listening with concentration, this brooding upon their daughters must have been “as much a symptom of her afflict’d health, as an expression of her familial love—which, until these past few months, had been conspicuously absent.”
After a lengthy pause, during which time it was a distinct possibility that J.Q.Z.’s thoughts had flown far from the connubial scene in the bedchamber (husband and wife quietly preparing for bed, as they had done for many a fond decade now), Mrs. Zinn was startl’d by the warmth, and sympathy, of the reply: “But, my dear, you seem not to comprehend, that your aunt is no longer a young woman, nor even a woman of middle age. She must set her thoughts to Eternity, and doubtless regrets that she has no daughter of her own, to love, and to be lov’d by in turn: and to leave her immense fortune to.”
Prudence turned stoutly to look at her husband, who very rarely, in recent years, delivered himself of so forthright, and so pointed, a speech; and almost never, on a subject of domestic interest. Thus, his response took her somewhat aback, and caused an abash’d blush to color her cheeks; and her tone was almost humble, in replying: “You are correct, John Quincy. Would that the wealthy old spinster had one of ours!—for those very same purposes, which you have so reasonably cited.”
NOR DID THE obituary speak of the numerous maladies the esteemed authoress had had to endure, in the final years of her life, which added greatly to her ill-temper, and doubtless stimulated her to bring lawsuits against various persons who, whether in her inflamed imagination or no, had “gravely insulted” her. Amongst these were several rival authoresses, including the o’erprolific Mrs. Brownwell; and Aunt Edwina’s publisher John Twitchell & Sons, of Philadelphia; and the writer William Dean Howells, who, in Aunt Edwina’s opinion, had “savagely lampoon’d and libel’d” her in a “scurrilous” novel of his, titled Indian Summer. She had, for a time, even considered bringing suit against her own attorney, who had dealt with her legal affairs for upward of fifty years!—but finally relented, contenting herself with discharging him, and hiring one of her nephews, Mr. Basil Miller, who had acquired, over the years, a respectable Philadelphia reputation, for both his keen mind and his discretion. “My will must be revised, and revised ab initio—if you recall your Latin,” the stately dowager said. So confidential did she wish the proceedings, she would not hear of conferring with Mr. Miller in even the most private of chambers, in Kiddemaster Hall; but insisted that they repair to the out-of-doors, to the gazebo, where, as they spoke, they might cast their eyes freely about, on all sides, to see that no one crept near: that neither an inquisitive servant, nor an inquisitive relative, might press his ear against a wall or a locked door!
If this lamentable excess of suspicion troubled Mr. Miller, he gave no outward sign, and may even have concurred with his aunt, that her precautions were all to the good; for this estimable gentleman had considerably matured, and gained in the canny wisdom that all lawyers require, since those youthful days, so many years previous, when he had—ah, so irresponsibly!—escorted Malvinia to the theater.
Whether the increasing obsession with legal matters was a consequence of illness, or aging, I cannot say, but it was certainly the case that poor Aunt Edwina suffered a multitude of complaints, in her twilight years. None was precisely “serious”: none should have proved “fatal”: yet the accumulation of polyarthritis, and spondylosis, and spondylarthritis ankylopoietica, and neuotis, and catarrhous inflammation of the female organs, and simple discopathia (the which poor Sarah had suffered as well), and undiagnosable complications of the nerves, and chronic defatigation, surely proved too burdensome, for even that brave constitution to endure. The household was saddened, when Edwina angrily discharged the faithful Dr. Moffet, and betook herself off, in a private carriage, to numerous watering places and sanatoria—amongst them Saratoga Springs, and Margitzpara Spa, in Virginia, and the “Miracle Waters” of Lockport, New Yo
rk: but was relieved when, not many weeks later, the ailing lady returned to Bloodsmoor, and summoned Dr. Moffet back, with the cynical observation that “she might as well die in familiar territory.”
Nonetheless, after the zealous physician had given Edwina one or two new medicines, and bled her substantially (for it was his diagnosis that the invalid suffered “an excessive richness of ‘plasmon’ in the blood”), it seemed clear enough that she was improving: and so regained her old spirit, as to denounce him from her bed, as a “charlatan and sawbones”!
In late December of 1898, however, whether through the therapeutic purification of her blood, or through a gradual instinctive refinement of her being, as her soul drew ever nearer her Maker, the once ruddy-cheek’d dowager grew wondrously pale, until her skin was smooth and waxen, and of a saintly serenity approaching that of Grandmother Sarah Kiddemaster, some years before: until, one sorrowful morning, at the very turn of the year, Dr. Moffet arrived for the seven o’clock bloodletting only to discover—alas!—his renowned and belovèd patient expir’d in the night.
And, on the bedside table, was the very same phonographic machine that Judge Kiddemaster had so earnestly employed, in his final days: tho’ Edwina had not been recording her voice, but only listening to a well-worn disc, of the tenor Guiseppe Luigo singing Schubert’s beauteous song, “Adieu! ’Tis Love’s Last Greeting.” Indeed, the ingenious machine was still working, and the groov’d disc still turning, tho’ silently, when the peaceful corpse was discovered—as loftily tranquil in her high canopied bed, as an angel effigy upon a tomb; with the subtlest, and most aristocratic of smiles, shaping her pallid lips.