Free 1876 by Gore Vidal Page B

Jacquesminot roses; and a note from a Mr. Ward McAllister, asking if he might have the pleasure of our company—should the weather be good—for a tour in his carriage of the Central Park, after church.
    “Whatever time is that?” asked Emma, as pleased with the roses as she was mystified, no, taken aback, no, contemptuous of a stranger putting himself forward so boldly. “Not to mention who is this McAllister?”
    John Day Apgar’s arrival for tea in our suite answered both questions. The services at Grace Church (where everyone goes) would end at eleven-thirty, if the Reverend Dr. Potter did not go on too long. “Should you like to go to church? We have a pew?” John put the question to me but meant it for Emma.
    Emma shook her head most demurely. “Remember. I am Roman Catholic.”
    “Oh, yes. But you, Mr. Schuyler?”
    “I converted to Rome when I married Emma’s mother. The conversion was more practical than serious, since I thought my wife well worth a mass!”
    The reference passed the young man by. But Emma soothed him; remarked that she herself was not rigid in these matters—was indeed like so many of her class at Paris a Roman Catholic pro forma .In other words, if one of the marrying Apgars was to affix himself like ivy to our noble (on Emma’s side) tree with its roots deep in the soil of Unterwalden, then religion need be no bar and she would marry him in the Episcopal Church without a qualm. Actually, my wife’s losing battle with the Jesuits over the deed to a certain property at Feldkirch in the Vorarlberg caused her to turn violently against the Church, and as she turned, Emma was pulled part way round with her. I myself am a deist like Thomas Jefferson—that is, atheist.
    “Now that we know what time Mr. McAllister will come to fetch us, who is Mr. McAllister?” Emma touched one of the silvery pink roses. They are beautiful, particularly on a cold day in winter when the New York sky is like so many tiered layers of lead.
    “Oh, he is famous !”John’s emphasis of the adjective sounded ironic but was not. The Apgar style is entirely literal (in the course of one week we have met eleven Apgars and twice as many of their connections). “I’m surprised you never met him in Europe. He used to spend a lot of time in Paris. In Florence—”
    “We cannot know everyone, dear John.” When I am paternal with John, I remind myself of someone that I used to know years ago and despise myself as I hear the false unction positively bubbling in my throat.
    “Ward McAllister rules our society.” John’s eyes were wide; so the original Prince d’Agrigente used to look when he spoke of the Emperor Napoleon the First.
    “But then,” I said, “we must have met him at your family’s house.” A dash of vinegar added to my oil of unction.
    “Oh, we don’t know him. I mean we do but we move in different circles. Of course he sees Cousin Alice and Uncle Reginald ...” Names of the grandest of the Apgar connections were then invoked; nevertheless, it became clear that the Apgar gens proper do not move in the McAllister high circles, for “he is the closest friend of Mrs. William Astor. And she is everything in New York, or thinks she is.” A rebellious note; quickly modified with “Of course, Cousin Alice Chanler thinks her nice.”
    “But what does the best friend of this marvellous Mrs. Astor do ?”Emma was teasing. She still cannot take seriously any New York society.
    “Oh, he’s rich. From the South, I think. Then he went West when he was very young and made a fortune during the Gold Rush. After that, he lived in Europe. When he came back, he decided to give us an aristocracy or an Astorocracy, as Father says. This was kind of him, since the McAllisters themselves are no one and related to no one except old Sam Ward.” The Apgar concern with family connections asserts itself even negatively.
    “Anyway, Mrs. Astor ‘adores’ him, as they say in those circles, and he helps her with her