The American Chronicle 1 - Burr by Gore Vidal Read Free Book Online Page B

place in Sodom and Gomorrah. Like Milton’s Satan, I would rather reign in Thomas Street than serve in Claverack.”
    “Did you ever hear that Colonel Burr was the father of Martin Van Buren?”
    “One hears everything. But I tend to believe nothing. I do know that Colonel Burr has at least one son born beneath the rose, as they say, a silversmith, who lives in the Bowery. Aaron Columbus Burr he is called. His mother was French and he was conceived while the Colonel was in Paris. A charming youth. He came here once as a customer—and remained to take a dent out of a silver tray that I had, uncharitably, flung at the head of a certain poxy girl. If I were younger and so inclined, I might have served Monsieur Columbus Burr myself for he is a beautiful young man, or was. I haven’t seen him in years either.”
     
    MUFFLED CRIES from upstairs.
    A door slams loudly.
    A man coughs.
    Mrs. Townsend picks up Pilgrim’s Progress .“Go to Miss Jewett,” she commands.
    Miss Jewett stands in front of an open window; behind her I can see by moonlight the bedraggled back yard whose rickety fence keeps in Mrs. Townsend’s cow. I am in the room I like best. In fact, it was in this room that I first enjoyed Mrs. Townsend’s hospitality.
    Helen Jewett shakes hands. She does not seem nervous, only grave ...
     
    I AM IN THE OFFICE making notes; it is the next morning and I am obliged to record that I have never been so well pleased as with this girl. Gray eyes, perfect skin, clean body—none of that drenching in cheap perfume that makes love-making with so many girls seem like a wrestling match in a chemist’s shop.
    We talked for some time. “I should like to be a dressmaker.” She did not have a country accent. “But, you see, there was no place in New Haven. Two Frenchwomen do everything, and very jealous they are of anybody else. So I came here and met a girl who knew Mrs. Townsend, and here I am.” She smiled; she is very straightforward.
    “In a few years I should have enough money saved to open a shop. You don’t need much, you know. And Mrs. Townsend says I can dress her and all the girls here.”
    I did not make the obvious remark that the girls seldom wear more than a shift (they are not often let out of the house) while Rosanna Townsend’s only costume is a rusty, green-black bombasine shroud.
    “Did you enjoy that?” The girl seemed really curious to know.
    “Yes, very much.”
    “I’m glad.”
    “Were you a virgin when you came here?”
    She smiled again, shook her head. “No. But I never kept company with a stranger, like this.”
    “Do you like it?”
    “Well, I don’t exactly know.” Then laughed. “You look sort of like one of those cherubs in the hymnal.” This so aroused me that I was ready to begin all over again but the Negress’s heavy tread outside the door signified that my time was up. I said I would see her soon again. Will I? Yes.
    As I left the room, started toward the stairs, I heard the sound of gagging. A door was flung open and there was Leggett, both hands over his mouth; behind him, on the bed, a startled girl without clothes.
    Outraged, the maid slammed shut the door.
    Leggett gave one last thunderous cough, wiped his lips with the back of his hand, opened his eyes, saw me and said, “Well, that was wasted money. I nearly died —in the non-Elizabethan sense. It’s the dust here. I tell Rosanna, ‘I’d rather have the clap ten times than choke on the dust from your counterpanes’!”
    Shakily, he took my arm and we went downstairs. The doors to the parlour were shut. Mrs. Townsend was at home only to John Bunyan.
    Leggett and I went out into the warm night—morning—and made our way to the Five Points, to the tavern at Cross Street.
    As we entered two pigs were being chased across the sawdust floor by the bar-tender, to the delight of the clientele.
    Leggett was recognised immediately. The workies adore him as much as the rich detest him. Great pats on the shoulder caused