Centennial
Part 4
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Adam stared at his brother’s closed door, pondering what to do. Ordinarily, Joe would have, at least, made an appearance by this time, and if he hadn’t, Adam would have simply barged in and rousted him out. Today, however, he preferred to let Joe take his time, hoping the extra sleep would improve his mood. Still, it was getting late.
Opting to show a little more patience, Adam opened the door to the hall and picked up the newspaper delivered there every morning. He rarely had time to do more than scan the headlines each morning before leaving for a day of activity. Then, later in the day, he’d read the articles that had sparked his interest. Today, it looked as though he might have time to read the entire newspaper. Unrolling the July fifth issue of the Public Ledger, Adam was shocked by the headline blazoned across the page. He quickly read the article below it, horrified by the tragic loss of life.
The door to Joe’s room finally opened, and Joe came out, fully dressed. At first, Adam was surprised, for Joe almost always made his first appearance while still in his nightshirt. Didn’t want to see me before he had to, Adam correctly surmised, saddened by the revelation. All thought of the lead story in the newspaper fled from his mind as he rose to bid his brother good morning and try to smooth over the quarrel between them. “Joe, about last night . . .”
“Never mind,” Joe said sharply. “Let’s just forget it happened, Adam.”
Adam’s dark brows drew together in a straight line. “I’m not sure that’s the best way to handle it.”
“Well, I am. Look, I’m sorry I pushed you to talk about things you just don’t want to talk about. I’ll try not to do it again, so let’s just leave it at that.” He reached for the straw hat he had laid on the desk the previous night. “Can we go downstairs now, please? I didn’t have much to eat last night, and I’m hungry.”
“No guarantees they’ve gotten fresh supplies, you know.”
“Can we just try?” Joe snapped.
Adam threw up his hands, grabbed his black bowler and led the way to the elevator.
When they exited into the lobby, they walked into a caldron of turmoil. The floor was covered with women dabbing at their eyes with lace handkerchiefs and men excitedly flapping open papers while they discussed some calamity. Joe managed to catch a word here and there.
“Massacre!”
“Hundreds dead!”
“Custer’s a fool, didn’t have a chance.”
“Old Sitting Bull caught ‘em napping, sure enough.”
Joe looked up at his brother. “What’s going on? You know?”
Adam nodded soberly. “Yes, I read about it this morning. Apparently, General George Armstrong Custer attacked the Sioux near the Little Big Horn in Wyoming about ten days ago, and his entire force was wiped out. Four hundred men against four thousand—they didn’t have a chance.”
Joe paled and his body swayed. “You don’t think it’ll start a general uprising, do you, Adam?”
Adam noted the sudden pallor, the visibly shaken stance, but not understanding the reason for his younger brother’s evident distress, he simply answered the question factually. “Hard to say, I guess. The Sioux’s success might motivate other attacks.”
Joe swallowed hard, and his eyes were anguished as he asked, “The Paiutes? Would they . . ?”
“Good lands, no!” Adam cried in sudden comprehension. He drew Joe into a quiet corner. “I didn’t mean it could reach that far, boy. Besides, the Paiutes learned long ago what the Sioux soon will, that one victory only leads to later defeat when your foe outnumbers you a thousand to one. Pa and Hoss are just fine, Joe. Don’t worry about them for a minute.”
Joe nervously twirled the hat he was holding. “Could we check? I mean, ten days, Adam—anything could have happened in ten days.”
Adam ran a soothing hand over the boy’s chestnut curls. “Joe, there’s no need. They’re fine.” Then, seeing his brother’s face tighten, he relented. “All right, buddy, if it’ll ease your mind, we’ll send a wire. You should have an answer by tonight.”
Joe exhaled with obvious relief. “Thanks, Adam. I know you think it’s a waste of money, but—”
“No, not at all, Joe,” Adam assured him kindly. “I’m glad to do it for you.” He placed his hands on the boy’s slim shoulders. “Now I want you to do something for me: put the worry aside and come along with me to the Exhibition and enjoy yourself.”
“Don’t seem right, somehow, with all those men dead,” Joe murmured, looking away.
Adam pulled his brother’s face back toward him. “Depriving yourself of pleasure won’t do anything to help them.” He gave the smooth cheek a soft pat. “Come on. Let’s head straight there, and if they aren’t still completely out of food, we’ll sample the pastries at the Vienna Bakery for breakfast.”
It was an enticing offer and, despite his agitation, Joe smiled a little. “You still tryin’ to pretend I’m Hoss, that a good meal will make me forget everything that bothers me?”
“No, although you’ve been doing a pretty good imitation at the table, buddy,” Adam returned drolly in a deliberate attempt to lighten the kid’s spirits. Joe’s broadening grin told him he’d been successful.
“Not as many people out today,” Joe remarked as they rode a horse car toward Fairmount Park. “I guess the ones from out of town probably went home.”
“And the Philadelphians with sense are probably lying in their beds,” Adam chuckled, “as we might well do if we didn’t have such a tight schedule.”
Joe grinned back. “You in bed this late? That I’d like to see.”
“Almost as rare a sight as you awake this early,” Adam retorted with a smirk.
When they reached the Centennial grounds, Adam directed Joe to turn east on Elm Avenue. Joe was a little surprised at that choice of entrance until he recalled that the Vienna Bakery lay on the eastern edge of the enclosed grounds. When Adam moved past the last gate, however, Joe was totally perplexed. Then he saw the circular building of corrugated iron, a hundred yards outside the fence, and flashed a wide grin.
“I didn’t give you a chance to look at this the other day,” Adam said, “so I’d like to make up for that now.” He bought two tickets and walked inside with Joe. They climbed the stairs to the central platform and began to look at the vast panorama painted around the circular interior. The besieged city of Paris was depicted with life-like accuracy, and Joe carefully scrutinized the images of the Seine River and the Arc de Triomphe, as well as every street and lane of the city with which he felt such kinship, even though neither he nor his mother had ever been there.
Adam touched his brother’s arm to get his attention. “I’m through here,” he said, “but you take as much time as you like. I’ll go over to the Main Building and send that telegram to Pa and meet you on the porch of the bakery.” He set no time limit, trusting hunger to insure that Joe didn’t dawdle overlong.
“Thanks!” Joe said and immediately turned back to gaze intently upon the city once more.
Predictably, Adam was already sitting on the porch, which surrounded the building on all sides, when Joe finally walked up the curving path toward the Vienna Bakery.
“What did you think of The Siege of Paris?” Adam asked when Joe joined him.
Joe smiled. “I liked it, except for those Prussian soldiers, trying to get in. That picture at the Colosseum did a better job of making me feel like I was there, though.”
“I agree,” Adam said. “Ready for breakfast?”
“Oh, yeah, starving!”
“Let’s go inside then.” As they entered, Adam said, “It’s not actually representing Austria, you understand. The bakery is really an exhibit of Gaff, Fleischmann and Company, to demonstrate their compressed yeast.”
“So why call it the Vienna Bakery?” Joe asked.
“Because the attached café is supposed to be like those in Vienna, and they bake Vienna bread here. I intend to try the Vienna coffee.”
“Guess I might as well, too,” Joe tittered. “Can’t be worse than that Turkish brew.”
Adam chuckled. “No, I think I can safely predict that we’ll both enjoy this more.”
On inquiry, the Cartwrights learned that a shipment of flour, yeast and other ingredients had been delivered by train in the night, so there were plenty of fresh pastries for the hungry men. Joe declared them perfection and the coffee quite satisfactory, though different from the kind to which he was accustomed. Adam heartily agreed.
“So, where do we start this morning, big brother?” Joe inquired, cutting off another bite of iced coffeecake.
“You won’t like it,” Adam warned with a smile.
Joe groaned. “Oh, don’t tell me— not more educational exhibits.”
“More and still more,” Adam responded dryly, hiding his mirth in his coffee cup.
Joe signaled the waiter. “I’m gonna have to fortify myself with more coffee,” he informed his brother, “and maybe another pastry.”
“Oh, by all means, we wouldn’t want you to leave one empty corner in that greedy belly of yours,” Adam scoffed.
Fortified with pastry and coffee, Joe followed Adam toward the first torture chamber of the day, the Swedish schoolhouse. It turned out not to be torture after all, but an attractive model of a typical public school building, constructed from native woods of Sweden and brought to the United States in sections. Though unpainted, the wood had been polished ‘til it gleamed.
“Beautiful,” Adam whispered.
“Yeah,” Joe agreed. “This is the way a building ought to look, built of warm wood, not the cold stone they use so much back here in the East.”
“Stone can be warm and beautiful, too,” Adam argued. “You can’t tell me some of the buildings in Philadelphia haven’t taken your eye.”
“Yeah, they’re all right,” Joe conceded, “but I still like this better—and the Ponderosa better yet.” A cloud crossed his countenance as the name of the ranch reminded him of his concern for those at home.
Caught up in his admiration of the simple architecture, Adam didn’t notice. “Shall we go in?” he asked after taking in every detail of the structure’s exterior.
“Huh? Oh, yeah, sure, can’t wait,” Joe muttered.
The interior looked much like any schoolroom in any land, rows of desks filing the length of the single room, students’ papers covering all four walls. Joe pointedly ignored them and stood staring out an arched window, his mind three thousand miles away, until Adam was ready to leave.
Their next stop was a single-story Gothic pinewood cottage. Architecturally, it suffered by comparison with the Swedish schoolhouse, but inside was something of far greater charm than the paperwork displayed in the other building. An alcove for spectators was set at the side of the large hall, and Adam and Joe filed in behind other visitors, and each took a seat to watch a demonstration of the teaching techniques of Frederick Froebel, who called his school a kindergarten, a garden for children. Tiny rocking chairs circled a low table in the center of the room, and sixteen little scholars between the ages of three and six were already at work, if it could be called work. Their teacher, Miss Burritt of Boston, was helping them play educational games with cubes, blocks and cylinders, and when that task was completed, she led them in songs.
When the demonstration concluded, Adam and Joe and the other observers went outside to see the children’s gardens. Each had his or her own plot, where vegetables, flowers and even a tree were planted and their growth regularly observed. As the Cartwright brothers turned toward the next building, Adam asked if such a system might have given Joe a better introduction to school.
“Maybe,” Joe said with a shrug. “Have to admit the little tykes looked like they were having fun.”
Fun was definitely not on the agenda at the Pennsylvania Educational Department, although its architecture was interesting, even to Little Joe. The building was circular, with a dome rising from the center of the roof. Entering the south door, he and Adam came into a large central hall, which opened into an outer corridor encircling the building. The corridor was divided into sections, one devoted to each level of schooling available in the state. Starting to their right, the Cartwrights saw another exhibit of Froebel’s kindergarten materials. Though attractively displayed and more complete than what they’d seen in the last building, no rosy-cheeked cherubs graced this exhibit.
Section by section, the Cartwright brothers worked their way through the Sunday school, primary, secondary, grammar, high school, normal school and college displays, ending with the University of Pennsylvania. “Doggone it, Adam,” Joe protested, “I saw the real thing. Why do I have to look at all these blamed papers?”
“You watch your language,” Adam growled ominously.
“Yes, Pa.” Joe’s sarcastic sneer faded as soon as he mentioned his father, and he turned away quickly so Adam wouldn’t see the tears threatening to destroy all pretense of manhood.
Released from educational torment at last, Joe pointed out a soda water stand across the road.
“Running up the food tab again, eh, little brother?” Adam chuckled.
“It’s hot, Adam!” Joe snapped, reaching into his own pocket.
Adam grabbed Joe’s wrist and pulled his hand from his pocket. “I’m just teasing, Joe. I don’t begrudge you fifteen cents worth of refreshment on a hot day, for goodness sakes. Now, which flavor do you want?”
“Root beer,” Joe said curtly.
With a shake of his head, Adam ordered a Hires root beer for Joe and a ginger ale for himself. “Better?” he asked when Joe had quaffed his drink.
“Much,” Joe muttered. “Thanks.”
Adam lifted an eyebrow. He wasn’t used to such laconic responses from his loquacious little brother, but he chalked it up to disgruntlement with educational exhibits and discomfort from another scorching day beneath a sun that gave no respite.
Continuing east along the same path, another building came into view, and when Joe saw its name, he stopped abruptly, folded his arms and refused to budge. “No, absolutely not. I am not looking at a bunch of boxes for dead people!”
Adam laughed and agreed that they could pass up the Burial Casket Building. “I’m not going to pass that one up, though,” he said, nodding toward the Public Comfort station at the end of the path.
“Me, either,” Joe agreed with a grin, and they went inside briefly to relieve themselves. “End of the road,” Joe said when Adam rejoined him outside. “Where now, big brother?”
“Let’s take a look at the hunter’s camp, down in the ravine,” Adam suggested.
Joe perked up immediately. “That sounds fun.”
“Yeah, I thought you might approve,” Adam snickered, grasping Joe by the nape of the neck and heading him toward the path that led down into Lansdowne Valley. Each step seemed to take them away from the bustle above them into a world more familiar, a realm of woods and streams like that in which the Cartwright brothers had grown up.
Finally, they came to the camp erected by Forest and Stream Publishing Company of New York, where professional hunters stood before log and bark huts, explaining techniques of hunting and fishing to people who had lived in cities all their lives. It was all the Cartwright brothers could do to keep from laughing out loud at the foolish questions some of the visitors asked, which each of them could have answered by the time he entered grammar school. They went inside the hut for a few minutes to see the hides, horns and stuffed poultry, but there wasn’t anything they hadn’t seen before, except the snow-white coat of an albino skunk, the only one known in America. After a brief look at the collection of firearms, rods and lines, specimens of game birds and kennels of sporting dogs, the Cartwrights, both feeling a bit nostalgic, were ready to climb out of the ravine.
They paused a few minutes at the edge of the camp, where a stream had been developed into a little lake and stocked with fish for the angling demonstrations being performed for an ignorant public. “Either one of us could teach those professionals a thing or two,” Adam chuckled. “Still, it was a nice touch of home.”
“Yeah, home,” Joe murmured wistfully, with a trace of tension underlying the words.
As they arrived back in “civilization,” the Cartwright brothers came to a music stand, where musicians were just tuning up to begin a concert. “Why don’t we sit down and listen for a while,” Adam suggested. “As much as we’ve been on our feet the last couple of days, I can use the rest.”
“Sure, that’s fine,” Joe agreed.
The music was pleasant, and the trees in the valley provided enough shade to make the benches surrounding the stand a cool place to relax for half an hour, the duration of the concert. The interlude was so soothing, in fact, that Adam almost drifted off to dreamland, and Joe had to nudge him when everyone else stood up to leave.
Making their way further up to the main Exposition grounds, the boys moved toward Agricultural Avenue, stopping before a state building on the side path. “Delaware?” Joe inquired. “What does that have to do with you? Have you been everywhere?”
Throwing back his head, Adam laughed. “Scarcely everywhere. No, little brother, this time my interest is purely architectural. I just want to look at the building a minute or two; then we’ll move on.”
“Okay. It is kind of nice. Umm, Gothic?”
“Norman Gothic,” Adam replied, pleased that Joe had recognized the style.
“I like the way the front porch pushes out and has the same shape as the tower over it,” Joe observed. “Makes it look like a castle.”
“Yes, it definitely adds interest to the plain walls,” Adam agreed. He walked toward the building down a central path divided by a diamond-shaped flowerbed and pointed out other diamond-shaped beds on either side. “Can you guess why they’re shaped that way?”
Joe shrugged. “‘Cause Normans like diamonds?”
“No,” Adam snickered as he turned the boy around to walk back to the main road. “Delaware is the ‘Diamond State.’ It’s in honor of that.”
Joe shook his head in dismay. “You know everything,” he sighed.
“Guidebook,” Adam admitted, eyes twinkling. “I told you to read it each night before we came.”
“Oh, sure,” Joe scoffed. “We had lots of time yesterday to lay around and read.”
Adam clapped his shoulder. “No, I admit it was a full day. You’re excused this time, my boy.”
Joe scowled. “Thanks all to pieces.”
Adam squeezed the boy’s shoulder a couple of times and then released it. “Okay, maybe you’ll feel more genuinely thankful if I offer to feed you. Now, if you want a full meal, we’ll have to walk a ways to find it. If a little light refreshment would suffice for the time being, the Dairy’s just next door.”
“I’m not all that hungry,” Joe admitted. “I know it’s past noon, but breakfast was sort of late this morning.”
Adam nodded. “Just what I was thinking. So, how about a glass of milk or a dish of ice cream?”
“Or both,” Joe suggested with a grin.
Adam rolled his eyes. “Or both.”
The Dairy was housed in a lightly framed pavilion, open on all sides, with only a striped awning to shield its guests from the bright noonday sun. Bounding up the short flight of wooden steps, Joe took a seat and promptly ordered a dish of vanilla ice cream and a tall glass of fresh milk. Adam, sliding into the seat opposite him, chose just a glass of buttermilk, and both brothers soon felt cooler, inside and out, for a soft breeze blew through the open framework and across their sweat-beaded brows.
The conversation trickling from surrounding tables was less refreshing. Most of it concerned the massacre of Custer’s Seventh Cavalry at the hands of the “savage Sioux,” as most of the anxious voices termed the Lakota. A few people alleged that the reports were false, that the United States Cavalry couldn’t possibly have been caught off guard so badly, General Sheridan’s name being mentioned as one who discounted the early reports. Most, however, considered the “red menace” all too real and advocated that stern measures be taken to punish the savage beasts who had killed—and most likely scalped and mutilated—the Civil War hero’s cavalry unit.
Little Joe jerked his chair back. “I’m finished if you are,” he said sharply.
Adam’s eyebrows knit together with concern. “Yes, I’m finished. Joe . . .”
Joe stood up and moved briskly toward the exit, and Adam followed at once. “Are you all right?” he asked solicitously. “Maybe we should have gone for a real meal, instead of more sweets. Pastry, coffee and ice cream—I haven’t done too well by you today.”
“No, the food’s fine,” Joe said. “I’m just ready to see something else.”
The words didn’t match the strained tone with which they were uttered, but Adam decided to take them at face value. After all, Little Joe had always been a kid who couldn’t sit still and even now, as a young man, he seemed to crave constant activity.
Leaving the Dairy, Adam led Joe across Agricultural Avenue to a knoll on which stood the government building of Brazil, pleasingly painted in shades of brown, yellow and red. “Oh, magnificent!” Adam cried when he saw the octagonal building, whose spacious porch and bay windows on all sides except the front kept the structure from a strict mathematical precision that would have diminished its charm. A smaller turret of roughly the same shape rose from the center, the broad roof of the porch below serving as an attractive, railed promenade. “I’d like to go inside this one,” he announced.
“Sure,” Joe agreed with a shrug.
They walked through a garden landscaped with Brazilian plants, up the short stairway and across the wide front porch to enter a long central hallway, running the length of the building. The hallway opened onto two rooms, one on either side. Adam and Joe went into the one set aside for visitors and found a pleasant reception hall, its walls covered with gold paper, embellished with vines and flowers, and its floor covered with plain, but tasteful furniture. At the rear of the room, a stairway led to the turret, which contained four rooms.
While Adam examined the finer details of the turret’s interior, Little Joe walked out onto the promenade. It offered a fine view of the Exposition grounds, but with his thoughts far away, Joe couldn’t enjoy it today.
Adam came to his side as he stood leaning on the low rail surrounding the promenade. “I’m ready to see the German Building now,” Adam said.
Joe straightened up, though his shoulders still slumped forward. “Okay,” he sighed.
Catching sight of Joe’s drawn face, Adam reached out to touch his arm. “You look tired.”
Joe merely nodded, but as he scrutinized the boy’s face more closely, Adam realized that more than simple weariness was etched across that taut countenance. “What’s wrong, Joe? And don’t put me off, as you did back at the Dairy.”
Joe shrugged, not comfortable admitting what was tugging at him so strongly he could think of little else, a concern he was certain Adam would only belittle for its childishness. “Just tired, I guess. I don’t suppose you’d hear of me going back to the hotel by myself.”
“Not on your life!” Adam hooted; then he sobered as he saw Joe blinking back the moisture in his eyes. “Now, if you’ll tell me what the real problem is,” he said gently, “maybe I can help.”
Licking his lips nervously, Joe took a deep breath and murmured, “I guess I’d just like to see if Pa answered that telegram.”
Suddenly, Adam understood; suddenly, he realized that his little brother had been carrying this worry all day, letting it eat away at him through each passing hour. “I thought we agreed that you would put that out of your mind and enjoy yourself,” he said, laying a supportive hand on the boy’s slim shoulder.
Joe’s face contorted as he fought for self-control. “Well, I tried, Adam, I really did, but, doggone it, there’s not much to enjoy in more architecture and more educational exhibits, and my mind just keeps drifting back to . . .”
Adam tightened his grip on the boy’s shoulder. “Okay, I understand. Let’s go back to the hotel.”
Facial muscles tight, Joe shook his head. “Look, Adam, I don’t want to spoil your good time. You can stay here; I promise I’ll go straight back to the hotel and that’s all.”
“No,” Adam said firmly. “We stay together.” Seeing Joe’s eyes flare with anger, he made an attempt at reconciliation. “Look, we’ve had a full schedule the last few days, and I’m feeling tired, as well. We’ll check on the telegram, rest up awhile and maybe take in a play or concert tonight. How does that sound?”
Joe looked up, his eyes warm with appreciation. “Great, real great, Adam. I know you think I’m actin’ like a fool kid, but—”
“No, just a worried one,” Adam said kindly. “Let’s get out of here.”
Joe nodded gratefully and set a lively pace toward the main entrance. As far as he was concerned, they couldn’t get back downtown fast enough, and the horse car seemed inordinately slow today, although it took its accustomed half hour to make the drive. When they finally got off, Joe jogged down Chestnut Street and ran to the hotel desk. “Any telegrams for Cartwright?” he asked, gripping the edge of the counter.
The desk clerk checked the cubbyholes behind him. “No, sir, but there are two letters, one each to you and your brother.”
Joe stared at them, but made no move to take them. “Just letters, no telegram?”
“No, sir.” The spectacled young man gazed with concern at the hotel guest’s agitated face. “No trouble, I trust, sir?”
“No, no trouble,” Adam assured him, taking the letters. “Come on upstairs now, Joe.” He steered his brother into the elevator, where he rubbed the back of the boy’s neck. “You know how long it takes to ride out to the Ponderosa,” he consoled. “There just hasn’t been time for the message to get there and for an answer to return here.”
“Maybe the wires are down,” Joe fretted. “Maybe the Indians chopped down the poles.”
“Don’t borrow trouble, boy,” Adam said firmly. The elevator opened, and they walked down the hall to their suite. Unlocking the door, Adam guided his brother inside. “Now try to relax,” he urged. “I’m sure that telegram will be here by suppertime. Look, here’s a letter from Hoss, addressed to you. Sit down and read it.”
Joe smiled, weakly, but opened the letter and read his other older brother’s description of activities taking place on the ranch. Much as he enjoyed what Hoss had to say, however, he couldn’t escape a morbid fear that he was reading his best friend’s final words. When he’d finished the letter, he folded it carefully and tucked in into his shirt, close to his heart. Then he reached for that morning’s issue of the Public Ledger.
Adam grabbed it first, holding it out of Joe’s reach. “Unh-uh, not ‘til you’ve heard from Pa.”
“Aw, come on, Adam. Ain’t like everybody at the Centennial today wasn’t talkin’ about it.”
“No,” Adam dictated firmly. “You are not going to spend the afternoon working yourself into a deeper and deeper depression. Go read the guidebook to the Centennial. We’ll be going to Memorial Hall tomorrow, so prepare yourself for that.”
“Aw, Adam!”
“Do it!” Adam snapped his fingers for emphasis.
Joe snatched the guidebook from the desk in the corner and, taking it into his bedroom, flopped down on the bed and tried to concentrate on the facts and figures about Memorial Hall.
About an hour later Adam heard a tap on the door and went to answer it. “Telegram, sir,” said the uniformed messenger boy.
“Thank you,” Adam said, handing a coin to the youngster. Shutting the door, he glanced up to see Joe standing in the doorway to his room. “You want to open it?” he asked, holding out the telegram.
Joe shook his head. “You read it.”
Nodding, Adam tore open the envelope and scanned the brief message. He smiled across the room at his brother and began to read:
ASSURE JOSEPH ALL WELL STOP
RELAX STOP
HAVE FUN STOP
MISS YOU BOTH STOP
PA FULL STOP
“Satisfied?” Adam asked.
Joe was beaming, and his relieved smile spread from ear to ear. “Yeah—and starved. Can we eat early?”
“May we eat early?” Adam corrected with a teasing wink. “Yes, we may. Since we didn’t actually eat dinner, I can just imagine the dent you’re going to put in my pocketbook tonight!”
“How’d you guess?” Joe snickered, heading for the door.
Adam took hold of his brother’s neck as he passed and gave him a light shake. “Oh, I have great faith in you, little brother, great faith. Just don’t overdo it, because we’ll probably want to catch a bite after the theater, too.”
“Oh, no doubt about it.” Joe tossed his brother an impish grin. “Which theater we going to?”
“Fox’s American, just up the street,” Adam replied as they walked toward the elevator. “It’s the closest, and I’m too tired to walk further than I have to.”
They rode the elevator down and entered the dining room, where Joe made good his promise to drain his brother’s pocketbook. Then, with satisfied stomachs, they walked three blocks north to the theater to enjoy a light-hearted comedy. Over dessert and coffee, they laughed at the funnier lines of the play and afterwards walked back to the hotel in happy-hearted companionship.
It was the last such walk they would share for weeks to come, for the storm clouds that had been building in the distance were rushing closer. They would begin to break the next day, and by the day after that, the Cartwright brothers would find themselves caught in a tempest whose fury threatened to sunder their companionship forever.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Little Joe awoke with a groan and a general feeling of uneasiness. The room was almost black, though had he been outside, in an area whose view was not obscured by tall buildings, he might have seen the first tentative touch of a rosy dawn on the eastern horizon. Inching up on the mattress, he hunched over his knees and bit his lower lip to stifle another groan, his face relaxing into a relieved smile as soon as the spasm passed.
He’d been dreaming, a dark nightmare in which he rode at the side of the famous yellow-haired general of the Seventh Cavalry toward a suspiciously familiar trio of men hopelessly surrounded by Sitting Bull’s painted warriors. As he charged through a hail of sharp-tipped shafts, one had struck him in the gut, and it came as a comfort to wake and discover that he was not the victim of a Sioux arrow, but merely of a garden-variety bellyache.
Joe sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and leaned his head into his hands. Well, looks like older brother was right, though I’ll never hear the end of it if I tell him. Better watch what I eat a little closer from now on. He sighed, thinking it a shame that he’d have to curtail the sheer pleasure of sampling all the new and unfamiliar foods of Philadelphia, but he had to admit he’d probably been overdoing it, especially yesterday. After having little but sweets during the day, he’d eaten a supper far heavier than usual and after the theater had capped that with a dessert so rich it was almost sickening. While Joe had always had a healthy appetite at home, here it had been—what was that word Adam kept using?—prodigious?—yeah, that’s what it had become, and now he was paying the price of his intemperate exploration of culinary diversity.
Joe stumbled over to the open window, hoping a breath of air would make him feel better. It did, slightly, so he crawled back into bed and curled up on his side, finally falling into a restless sleep. It seemed like only minutes later, though the sun was well up, when Adam shook him roughly and roused him with the usual barb about Sleeping Beauty. The groan that passed Joe’s lips was so typical of his normal reaction to being awakened from a sound sleep that Adam never gave it a second thought, and that’s just the way Joe wanted it. The last thing he needed was another lecture from his older brother, so he just staggered out of bed, washed and dressed and followed Adam down to the dining hall, trying to look ready to face the day.
Ordering only a bowl of oatmeal for breakfast, Joe reacted grumpily to the skeptically arched eyebrow with which his brother greeted the selection. “What’s your problem?” he demanded. “It’s one of the cheaper things on the menu.”
Shaking his head, Adam chuckled. “Which is precisely what makes me wonder why you’re choosing it.”
Joe grunted and gave up all hope of avoiding a lecture. “Ate too much last night, I guess. Just not hungry this morning.”
Adam sported an I-told-you-so grin. “Well, it’s about time your appetite returned to normal. Any chance this salutary behavior will last the full day?”
Joe’s upper lip curled, almost into a snarl. “Yeah, I’ll try to go easy on your pocketbook today, okay?”
Adam continued to smile. “My pocketbook thanks you.”
Eager to change the subject, Joe said, “We’re visiting Memorial Hall today, you said.”
“And I don’t want to hear a single complaint from you,” Adam admonished.
“What makes you think . . . oh, never mind.”
Breakfast arrived, and Adam heartily dug into his ham and eggs, while Joe found that he didn’t have much appetite, even for oatmeal, leaving nearly half of the cereal in his bowl.
Noticing, Adam merely said, “I don’t want you asking me for popcorn balls halfway through the morning.”
“I won’t ask you for anything,” Joe growled, lurching to his feet. “Let’s go, all right?”
As they walked toward the streetcar stop, Adam observed that Joe wasn’t his usual perky self, but he attributed it to the weariness of packing so much into each day or, more likely, disinterest in the artistic offerings scheduled for this particular day. He assured himself, however, that the uncultured boy had to be exposed to fine art, even against his will. It’s for his own good, and in the long run, he’ll thank me for it, especially, he added with a grin, when we reach the French gallery.
When the streetcar careened around a corner, Joe touched his hand to his stomach, wondering whether he’d be able to keep the oatmeal down. He was feeling just a touch queasy, but his stomach seemed to settle down again as soon as he left the moving car at the main entrance to the Centennial grounds. After Adam handed the gatekeeper their tickets, Joe made a beeline for the Bartholdi fountain and washed the sensation of bile from his mouth, while his brother waited, bemused. Though the day promised to be another hot one, the temperature wasn’t high enough yet to account for Joe’s apparently urgent thirst, but Adam just shrugged off the inconsequential mystery.
Turning to the right, the brothers walked down the broad Avenue of the Republic, past the Carriage Annex to the building directly north of the Main Exhibition Hall. Adam took Joe’s arm to halt him before they entered. “I know you’re probably tired of hearing my lectures on architecture, but I do want you to take special note of this building, Joe. Unlike the temporary structures here only for the Exhibition, it’s intended to be a permanent memorial to the Centennial.”
Joe nodded. “It’s about the prettiest one on the grounds, so I can see why they’d want to keep it.”
“It’s one of Schwarzmann’s personal designs,” Adam said, his admiration obvious. “The style is Modern Renaissance.” He sang at length the praises of the building overlooking the Schuylkill River a hundred feet below, pointing out the square pavilions at each corner, the arches and columns of the entrances and the four-sided dome, with a zinc statue of Columbia rising from its center. In fact, some figure, either soaring eagle or classical symbol, graced every corner of each of the building’s projections. At the base of the dome, four seated forms represented the four corners of the globe, while standing statues honored Industry and Commerce on the south front, which the Cartwright brothers were viewing. “There are similar figures on the north side, representing Agriculture and Mining,” Adam informed his brother. “We’ll see them later.”
“Uh-huh,” Joe muttered perfunctorily.
Adam’s brow wrinkled. “Don’t you think Memorial Hall is a superb work of art in itself and a suitable backdrop for the masterpieces it exhibits?”
“Uh-huh.”
Adam shook his head at the plain hopelessness of instilling an appreciation of architectural beauty in his brother, not realizing that the real distraction was the nagging ache in Joe’s belly.
As they mounted the wide steps, with shrubbery-lined banks on either side, Joe pointed to one of the two bronze sculptures flanking the top step. “I do like those, Adam,” he said, trying hard to demonstrate interest.
Adam took one look at the statues of Pegasus, being held in check by the Muses Erato and Calliope and laughed. “Oh, you would! Females and fillies always catch your eye. What’s the matter, little fellow, missing Cochise?”
“Oh, shut up,” Joe growled, in no mood for teasing, especially when the joke was one he’d heard before.
“They are impressive pieces,” Adam stated, choosing to ignore Joe’s ill temper. “They were originally intended for the Imperial Opera House in Vienna, but were considered out of scale for that building. A Philadelphia man, who happened to be traveling in Austria at the time, saved them from the melting pot and bought them for Fairmount Park.”
“Uh-huh.”
Adam threw up his hands and with a shake of his head moved toward the iron doors, which were decorated with bronze panels showing the coats of arms of all the states and territories. Hand gingerly touching his side, Joe followed him into the vestibule, where a crystal chandelier shone down on a setting of classic beauty, as open and airy as the piazza of a Roman villa. Above a wainscoting of colored marble stretched walls of pure white, with bronze and marble statues set against them. The Cartwrights dutifully stopped to examine each one, although Little Joe seemed to barely glance at most of the pieces. Guess I was wrong about his having artistic flair, Adam mused. Not displaying a drop of it today.
At the east and west sides, doors led into the gardens, but Adam moved through one of the three arches on the north, which led into the central gallery. Sales stands surrounded the sides of the large room, and he stopped at one to purchase a catalog of the exhibits. He saw no need to buy opera glasses and didn’t want to take time to look at the photographs for sale until he’d seen the original works. “We’ll probably buy some later,” he told Joe. “That would be the best way to share the art gallery with Pa and Hoss, don’t you think?”
“I guess so,” Joe murmured; then seeing Adam’s frown, he lifted his head and responded more brightly, “I mean, yes, that’s a good idea.”
Adam nodded and moved toward the center of the room. “I wish they had painted the walls something other than plain white,” he commented. “It doesn’t make the best background for marble statuary.”
“No, it kind of blends right in,” Joe agreed.
“This one stands out, at least,” Adam said, leading the way toward the centerpiece of the main gallery. Flooded by light from the overhead dome, a terra cotta group represented America as a woman crowned with eagle feathers, on the back of a buffalo. She was attended by four figures, depicting the major sections of the New World. A virgin wearing a belt of stars personified the United States, while Canada’s representative was dressed in furs and pressed the rose of England to her heart. An Aztec chief symbolized Mexico, and South America was embodied in a man wearing poncho and sombrero.
“Not bad,” Joe said, since Adam appeared to be waiting for some kind of comment.
Adam chuckled. “Good enough for the Albert Memorial in Hyde Park, London! This is a copy of the sculpture there.”
Feeling criticized, Joe flushed. “I like real folks best, like that one.” He pointed to a group of statues on the south side of the hall.
Remembering all the classical figures on the porcelain and pottery Joe had admired in the Main Building, Adam raised an eyebrow. Of course, those had been nudes, which might explain Joe’s adolescent interest. Though amused, Adam decided he would have to start where the kid was, artistically, and see if he couldn’t, somehow, pull him a step closer to fine art later on. With a sweep of his hand, he directed Joe toward the statues he had indicated.
The first was a life-size figure of Samuel Morse in the act of sending the first telegram, and beside it stood a bronze of statesman Robert R. Livingston of New York. For all his professed preference for “real folks,” however, Little Joe gave the statues scant attention, soon wandering over to a gigantic one of Prince Bismarck, which stood at the portal to the German gallery. “You wanna start here?” he asked, though seemingly without any particular interest.
“Let’s see the American exhibits first, shall we?” Adam suggested.
The knowing smile on his brother’s face irritated Joe. “Oh, ‘cause you think other places are better and you’re savin’ them ‘til last?”
Adam folded his arms and stared at the petulant face before him. “Was I wrong about the Main Building?”
Joe shrugged. “Guess not.”
“Then let’s do this my way, shall we?”
Though formed as a question, it was obviously meant to be a rhetorical one, yet Joe responded anyway, with another rhetorical question. “Is there ever a choice?”
Adam rolled his eyes and led the way, trying to figure out what was bothering his younger brother. The kid was obviously in a sour mood today, but Adam could see no reason for it. Although he’d known Pa and Hoss were in no danger, he had understood the concern Joe felt yesterday. Surely, that wasn’t still worrying him. No, Joe had been fine at the theater the night before—laughing, light-hearted, truly himself again. Well, sometimes there was just no understanding Joe; he could swing from light-hearted laughter to volatile anger to soft sentiment, all in the space of half an hour.
Deciding patience was the best way to handle Joe’s unaccountably touchy attitude, Adam explained his reason for viewing the American section first. “I’m starting here because this exhibit is the largest and probably treats subjects of greater familiarity to you.”
Joe shrugged one shoulder. “Okay.” Suddenly, his eyes fell on the mammoth painting covering the entire end of the American gallery. “Hey! Look at that.”
Adam groaned when he saw what had grabbed his younger brother’s attention, Rothermel’s painting of the Battle of Gettysburg. Naturally, Little Joe would be drawn like a magnet to the one piece of art Adam had no interest whatsoever in viewing. Art? No, the painting was not worthy of the name, not in the eyes of any critic with reasonably good taste. The public, however, apparently loved the canvas, which was little more than a mass of bloody bodies of dead and wounded soldiers. People were crowded around it, and pushing through them, Joe studied it intently, as if searching for his brother in the battlefield scene. “Where were you, Adam?”
Adam slumped. More questions. Would the kid never let it drop? “I didn’t pose for this atrocity,” he muttered dryly.
There was pain in Joe’s eyes, the same pain Adam had seen before when he’d tried to evade his brother’s unending questions. “No, I meant when you were there,” Joe said.
“I know what you meant,” Adam said, his voice hushed. He brushed his hand toward the canvas. “Somewhere to the left; I can’t pinpoint the exact spot, especially not from a painting this bad. Now, may we move on to less gruesome subjects?”
Joe nodded, tight-lipped, upset with himself for having violated his vow to avoid this subject so painful to his older brother. Besides, although the pain in his belly had subsided to a dull ache, he didn’t really have the energy to do battle with Adam this morning. He moved toward another historic canvas, this one called Miles Standish and the Indians, and forcing a cheerful grin, he asked, “You got anything against this one?”
Adam chuckled. “Only that it’s another large, bad painting. See how coarse the colors are, how wooden the figures.” Seeing Joe’s blank expression, he started to think that he should have started with the best art in the world, instead of the literal, almost photographic representations the American artists seemed to favor, so his brother would have something with which to compare these remarkably poor pieces.
He revised that opinion when he saw Joe gaze, enrapt, at two excellent marine views by Edward Moran. “The colors are better in these, don’t you think?” Joe asked, almost timidly.
So he had been listening! “Yes, these are well done,” Adam agreed.
“Makes me think of Pa,” Joe whispered wistfully.
Ah, so that’s it, Adam decided. The kid’s suffering a severe attack of homesickness, probably because he spent so much time thinking about Pa yesterday.
“I guess you remember scenes like this from when you lived back on the coast, huh?”
Certain he’d diagnosed the cause of his little brother’s dispirited mood, Adam draped a supportive arm across the boy’s shoulders as they viewed The Coming Storm over New York Bay. Waxing a bit nostalgic, he said, “Yes, I’ve seen a storm rush in over the same bay, and this painting captures the essence of that moment well. You’re developing a better eye already, little brother!”
Joe shrugged out from under Adam’s arm. “I know I don’t have your education in such things, but I’m trying, Adam, and I wish you wouldn’t twit me so much.”
The words hit Adam with the force of a blow to the breastbone. “You’re right,” he admitted with genuine contrition. “This is a new experience for you, and I should let you take it in at whatever level you can. I apologize.”
Joe smiled warmly at the words he almost never heard from his older brother. He realized Adam only made an apology when he meant it, and Joe treasured such words all the more for their rarity.
Adam again placed his arm across his brother’s shoulders, and this time Joe let it stay. “You’ll probably enjoy the work of this artist’s younger brother, too,” Adam said, turning Joe toward a nearby set of paintings.
“Oh, wow,” Joe gasped as he caught sight of Thomas Moran’s Mountain of the Holy Cross. “That has got to be about the most beautiful picture I’ve ever seen! It’s so—so grand.”
“Yes, a splendid capture of mountain grandeur,” Adam agreed. “An exquisite work.”
Joe’s gaze kept swinging from the paintings of one Moran brother to the other, as though he were making a futile attempt to decide which he preferred. “Wish we could take them home,” he said finally. “I could stare at them for hours.”
“Good art has that effect on a person.” Adam patted his brother’s shoulder. “Like to indulge you—and myself—little buddy, but the price would be rather steep, I fear. Besides, marvelous works like these should be in a museum, where hundreds can appreciate them.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Joe said, hand resting against his right side. “It would be selfish to hog something like that all to yourself.”
Adam chuckled, giving the boy’s neck an affectionate stroke. “Come on, kid. There’s plenty more to see.”
“Nothing I’ll like better; I can tell you that now!”
Adam started to rebuke the narrow interest, but caught himself just in time. No sense apologizing and then turning right around and committing the same offense. Besides, the kid was probably right; nothing else was likely to touch Joe as forcefully as these scenes reminiscent of home.
The next painting evoked the first laughter of the day from Little Joe. Eastman Johnson’s The Old Stagecoach portrayed a group of children hard at play with a red stage that had lost its wheels. Every role, from driver to passenger to the team of four horses, was filled by energetic children, and Joe had obviously identified with their spirit of frolic. “Hoss and I used to play stagecoach when we were kids, while you were back east. Wish we’d had a real stage like this, though. Just a worn out old buckboard for us.”
“Ah, but I would guess the power of imagination transformed it into the finest Concord ever built,” Adam suggested with a smile.
Joe grinned, trying to picture Adam letting his imagination run wild like that, but he just couldn’t. To say what he did, Adam must have had that capacity somewhere inside, at least as a child, but Joe just couldn’t hold such an incongruous image in his mind. Adam and play just didn’t go together—had never gone together. No, Adam, in his younger brother’s view, was always linked with work. Maybe it wasn’t a fair picture. Maybe it wasn’t just war secrets Adam hadn’t shared, but better times, as well. Before Joe could pursue that thought, however, another wave of discomfort hit his stomach, and his attention riveted on keeping a secret of his own. He didn’t even object when Adam pulled him away from Johnson’s other painting, Old Kentucky Home, whose scene of Negro life in the South clearly evoked for Adam more memories he preferred not to relive.
Both brothers were more comfortable again, Joe physically and Adam emotionally, when they viewed a painting by Martin Heade. On the California Coast suggested a scene with which both were familiar, but the artist’s extraordinary use of light created a landscape of eerie allure, giving the familiar a feel totally new. “I suppose you’d like to hang this one on your wall, too,” Adam teased, wanting to bring the smile back to his brother’s face.
Joe shook his head. “No, I like it, but not as much as those sea scenes by Moran.”
Adam nodded. “More grandeur, more power.”
Just when Adam had begun to believe that only nostalgic landscapes could hold his brother’s attention, Joe surprised him by looking with delight at the portrait of a mother and son called Tantalizing. It caught the image of a charming child, arms and head impatiently stretched forward, as he strained to grasp a bunch of grapes held just out of reach. For a moment the scene reminded Adam vividly of Marie’s struggles with a very young—and very inquisitive—Joe, and Adam wondered if a similar childhood memory lay behind his younger brother’s appreciation. He seems to need an emotional tie to truly enjoy art.
Adam’s conclusion seemed demonstrated by the next painting that caught his little brother’s eye, for Elaine surely stirred the memory of a favorite childhood tale. Adam could remember reading to Joe about the Knights of the Round Table and the Lady of Shallot, depicted here on her death barge, holding against her heart a letter to her love, Sir Lancelot. Evidently, the passion of that story still resided within the youngest Cartwright and increased his enjoyment of the canvas.
“Nice?” Joe asked hesitantly.
“Nice,” Adam affirmed. “I saw this painting when it was exhibited in San Francisco in April of last year, and I thought then that it would create a lot of interest.”
Joe’s interest, however, appeared to be waning. What is it with this kid? Adam pondered. One minute he’s completely enthralled with some majestic scene and the next it’s like he’s not even in the building. But, then, Joe had always been quixotic in temperament, so Adam shrugged off the impression, especially when the six landscapes by Albert Bierstadt again lit a spark in his brother’s eye. Adam had to laugh when Joe’s dreamy gaze lingered long on Spring in California, a bucolic landscape, complete with cows grazing on a grassy knoll bestrewn with red, purple and yellow wildflowers.
Hearing the laughter, Joe glanced up at his brother. “You don’t think it’s good?”
“No, it’s wonderful,” Adam said quickly. “It’s you that amuses me, kid. I’m afraid if I don’t get you out of the American department soon you’ll develop an overwhelming case of homesickness.”
Joe smiled softly. Home—Adam had no idea how good that sounded right now. Home—where Pa would set all things right, including a persistently irritable stomach. He followed Adam without really seeing the next several paintings until he felt his brother touch his arm.
“This might be you and your friends in the schoolyard,” Adam commented lightly.
Joe looked up and smiled at the painting by Winslow Homer. Snap the Whip, with its chain of barefoot boys running, hand in hand, across a grassy lawn, did, indeed, remind him of schoolyard games.
“You’ve seen this artist’s work before, of course,” Adam commented. Smiling at Joe’s puzzled expression, he continued, “In the pages of Harper’s Weekly. He’s one of their chief illustrators.”
Joe smiled then, for like all the Cartwrights, he had always looked forward to the arrival of the weekly paper with its well-drawn woodcuts of topical events, although the news was usually a couple of weeks old by the time Harper’s Weekly reached Nevada. He’d be sure to check the illustrators’ names in future copies to see if he could spot a familiar one.
Since Joe had enjoyed seeing historic sights around the city, Adam thought that his younger brother would savor the patriotic portraits displayed nearby, but Joe only nodded absently when shown several of Washington, along with others of John Adams and Andrew Jackson. And when the painting of General George Meade did not inspire a single query about the Civil War, Adam shook his head in wonder, though he was secretly relieved. The Spirit of ’76 by Archibald Willard, with its stirring scene of drum and fife against the Stars and Stripes in a cloudy background, inspired a little more interest. When Adam expressed the opinion that he didn’t think the painting well enough done to generate much enduring attraction, though, the comment brought only a token nod from Little Joe.
When they reached the end of the American department, Joe surprised his brother with a request to go out into the garden for a while. “You’re not tired already, are you?” Adam inquired. “We have a long way to go, just in this building.”
Joe glanced away and muttered defensively, “Like you said, we’ve been keeping a full schedule.”
“All right, all right,” Adam responded with a conciliatory tone. “I don’t have any objection—just surprised, that’s all. Guess your youthful exuberance doesn’t include fine art, eh?”
“No, I like the pictures just fine,” Joe said, as they walked into the courtyard. “Just wanna sit a few minutes. No need to make something of it, Adam.” He wasn’t being entirely truthful. Though he was tired, Joe mainly hoped that some fresh air would make him feel a little less queasy. He was feeling better than he had earlier that morning, but every now and then a flutter of nausea would ripple through his stomach.
“Be my guest, little brother,” Adam chuckled, gesturing toward a bench. He sat down next to Joe, and for a few minutes both brothers enjoyed the floral fragrance of the garden and the small collection of statuary and vases scattered amongst the greenery.
“Now to see some of the best paintings in the exhibition,” Adam observed when they walked back inside.
“Hmm?”
“The British gallery,” Adam explained. “Not to dampen your patriotic zeal, little brother, but I’m afraid what you’ve seen thus far will simply not rise to the standard of what lies ahead.” When Joe made no response, Adam cocked his head and said with a taunting grin, “What? Can’t I even get a rise out of you today in defense of your country?”
“That why you said it, to get a rise out of me?” Joe grunted. “Don’t you ever get tired of pickin’ at me?”
“Sorry, guess I was doing that again,” Adam admitted, “but you’re just not yourself today, buddy. Not still worried about Indians attacking the Ponderosa, are you?”
Joe gave his lower lip a nervous nibble. Letting Adam think that was definitely preferable to admitting the truth, but he didn’t want to lie. “No, I reckon they’re fine.”
The slight hesitation that preceded the statement, however, was enough to convince Adam that his little brother was still feeling concern, but trying to hide it. Better go easy on him the rest of the day, he concluded, and he was careful to avoid any hint of teasing as he said, “We’ll start first with the more modern English painters.”
“Okay,” Joe murmured in reply, but neither the works of Sir John Gilbert, Frederick Layton, Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema or a wall full of portraits by various other British artists induced a single comment from him.
Arriving at a painting by William Powell Frith, Adam made a deliberate attempt to stimulate some interest in the boy at his side. “The Railway Station is supposed to depict the arrest of a notorious forger at the moment the continental train is departing,” he said, but as he’d done with all the previous paintings in the English department, Joe merely nodded. Just a hopelessly provincial little American boy, Adam concluded.
Not until the brothers stood before a full-length portrait of George Washington by Gilbert Stuart did Joe make any comment. “Funny, but I do like this one better than the ones by the American painters. You’d think we’d know more what our first president looked like than the redcoats.”
“Hush,” Adam hissed, looking around to see if any British visitors had overheard the ill-conceived word. “Don’t use labels like that.”
“Okay, okay, no offense meant,” Joe said with a quick touch to his side. “I was just saying this one makes old George look more—well, statesman-like, I guess—than the American ones.”
To Joe’s surprise, the serious observation was met by laughter from his older brother. “Well, I didn’t think I said anything that stupid,” Joe mumbled.
“No, not at all,” Adam assured him, resting his hand lightly on the boy’s shoulder. “I was just remembering something Inger said once when Pa called Washington ‘old George.’ She didn’t think it was respectful to refer to the father of our country that way!”
A wistful smile touched Joe’s lips, for he always felt privileged when Adam shared anything about his childhood. “You’re lucky, you know, knowing her. All me and Hoss know is what you and Pa tell us—and that’s not an awful lot, especially for Hoss.”
Adam’s face grew still in reflection. “I used to do that some when he was small. Maybe you’re right; maybe I should talk to Hoss more about his mother, share those simple memories of childhood.”
“Yeah,” Joe said, the pain fading as he put his thoughts on someone else. “I mean, I’ve got some memory of my mother, but Hoss doesn’t have any.” He stopped in sudden realization. “Well, I guess you don’t, either—of yours, I mean.”
“No, none at all,” Adam admitted with a touch of bitterness. Although he said no more, he couldn’t help thinking that his memories of his other mothers were, at best, bittersweet. Marvelous memories, but so many feelings of loss tied up with them. Joe, who had known only the one great loss in his life, couldn’t possibly understand, Adam told himself, so, as always, he kept the memories and their associated feelings to himself. Probably the real reason I haven’t shared more with Hoss—or Joe, either—about their mothers. Like all those other memories of ‘back then’ that Joe keeps pressing for, the good ones come laced with pain.
Between the two English rooms the Cartwright brothers passed through a corridor, which was largely devoted to watercolors. Adam gazed a long time at a painting called Interior of the Sistine Chapel. “Now, that’s something I’d like to see in person.” Turning, he saw a frown on his younger brother’s face. Assuming it arose from the fear, expressed before, that his older brother might leave home again, Adam hurriedly added, “Just another dream, I suppose. I don’t have any real plans for traveling aboard.”
Joe, who had quickly dropped the hand touching his stomach when Adam turned toward him, made no response but a forced smile.
With a shake of his head, Adam turned into the northwest gallery, which housed the works of Britain’s deceased artists. “Now, here’s a literary scene you should be familiar with,” he said, pausing before a painting by Daniel Maclise.
Joe blinked. “Hmm?”
Adam took a deep breath and made another attempt. “It’s the banquet scene from Macbeth. I know you’ve seen that staged. Lady Macbeth is encouraging her husband to murder Duncan, and you can see how Macbeth cowers back from the ghost of Banquo in the forefront.”
“Uh-huh.”
Adam rolled his eyes. Was the kid being deliberately obtuse today, for some reason known only to himself, or was instilling an appreciation of culture in Joe simply as hopeless an effort as persuading him to attend college? Spotting a painting crowded by Centennial visitors, Adam moved toward it. Perhaps a work with such popular appeal would interest his unpredictable little brother, too. The painting turned out to be another by Frith, this one The Marriage of the Prince of Wales. “Here’s another by the artist who did The Railway Station, Joe.”
Joe looked up, for he had admired the energy of Frith’s other painting. This one was just as populated with well-drawn figures, but the setting in the great cathedral was one of pomp and splendor, in contrast to that of the bustling railway station.
“Queen Victoria herself loaned this painting to the Exhibition,” Adam said, “a good example of the generosity of many who have entrusted these great works to our keeping.”
“Yeah, it really was nice of her,” Joe replied. “I can see how she’d hate to lose that, it bein’ her boy and all.”
“A family treasure—and a national one,” Adam agreed.
Leaving the British department, the Cartwright brothers moved into a long gallery on the west side of the building. Spain, one of the two countries exhibiting in that hall had sent only a few paintings, several of them with Christopher Columbus as their subject. Joe gave them the briefest of glances, but he did try, for Hoss’s sake, to pay more attention to the paintings from Sweden, which shared the gallery. The most prominent painting displayed there was Hockert’s Burning of the Royal Palace at Stockholm.
Adam felt some concern as they viewed a couple of paintings whose subjects were drawn from Viking legend. The Viking Fleet, for instance, could not help but recall memories of Hoss’s Uncle Gunnar once again, though perhaps more for Adam than for Joe. Come to think of it, Adam reflected, Pa probably never told Joe about Gunnar’s dream of a Viking ship sailing off into the sunset. All of us kind of skirt around mentioning anything about Gunnar to the boy. Probably for the best.
That same protective impulse made Adam direct his younger brother toward safer ground with the paintings of Baron Otto Hermelin, the Swedish Commissioner in charge of the Art Department. “What do you think of this, Joe?” he asked, indicating a scene called Winter Day in the Neighborhood of Stockholm.
“I like it,” Joe said with a smile, “and this one, too.” He pointed to a work entitled The First Snow.
“You always did look forward to the first snow of the season,” Adam recalled fondly. “The rest of us would have been content to bundle up by the fire, but not you. You just had to throw snowballs and build snowmen and drag your sled out of the barn the first time the ground was covered.”