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Esther By: Henry Adams (1838-1918) |
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A Novel
Published in 1884 by Henry Holt and Company
Chapter I
The new church of St. John's, on Fifth Avenue, was thronged the morning
of the last Sunday of October, in the year 1880. Sitting in the gallery,
beneath the unfinished frescoes, and looking down the nave, one caught
an effect of autumn gardens, a suggestion of chrysanthemums and
geraniums, or of October woods, dashed with scarlet oaks and yellow
maples. As a display of austerity the show was a failure, but if
cheerful content and innocent adornment please the Author of the lilies
and roses, there was reason to hope that this first service at St.
John's found favor in his sight, even though it showed no victory over
the world or the flesh in this part of the United States. The sun came
in through the figure of St. John in his crimson and green garments of
glass, and scattered more color where colors already rivaled the flowers
of a prize show; while huge prophets and evangelists in flowing robes
looked down from the red walls on a display of human vanities that would
have called out a vehement Lamentation of Jeremiah or Song of Solomon,
had these poets been present in flesh as they were in figure. Solomon was a brilliant but not an accurate observer; he looked at the
world from the narrow stand point of his own temple. Here in New York he
could not have truthfully said that all was vanity, for even a more
ill natured satirist than he must have confessed that there was in this
new temple to day a perceptible interest in religion. One might almost
have said that religion seemed to be a matter of concern. The audience
wore a look of interest, and, even after their first gaze of admiration
and whispered criticism at the splendors of their new church, when at
length the clergyman entered to begin the service, a ripple of
excitement swept across the field of bonnets until there was almost a
murmur as of rustling cornfields within the many colored walls of St.
John's. In a remote pew, hidden under a gallery of the transept, two persons
looked on with especial interest. The number of strangers who crowded in
after them forced them to sit closely together, and their low whispers
of comment were unheard by their neighbors. Before the service began
they talked in a secular tone. "Wharton's window is too high toned," said the man. "You all said it would be like Aladdin's," murmured the woman. "Yes, but he throws away his jewels," rejoined the man. "See the big
prophet over the arch; he looks as though he wanted to come down and I
think he ought." "Did Michael Angelo ever take lessons of Mr. Wharton?" asked the woman
seriously, looking up at the figures high above the pulpit. "He was only a prophet," answered her companion, and, looking in another
direction, next asked: "Who is the angel of Paradise, in the dove colored wings, sliding up the
main aisle?" "That! O, you know her! It is Miss Leonard. She is lovely, but she is
only an angel of Paris." "I never saw her before in my life," he replied; "but I know her bonnet
was put on in the Lord's honor for the first time this morning." "Women should take their bonnets off at the church door, as Mussulmen do
their shoes," she answered. "Don't turn Mahommedan, Esther. To be a Puritan is bad enough. The
bonnets match the decorations." "Pity the transepts are not finished!" she continued, gazing up at the
bare scaffolding opposite. "You are lucky to have any thing finished," he rejoined. "Since Hazard
got here every thing is turned upside down; all the plans are changed.
He and Wharton have taken the bit in their teeth, and the church
committee have got to pay for whatever damage is done." "Has Mr. Hazard voice enough to fill the church?" she asked. "Watch him, and see how well he'll do it. Here he comes, and he will hit
the right pitch on his first word." The organ stopped, the clergyman appeared, and the talkers were silent
until the litany ended and the organ began again. Under the prolonged
rustle of settling for the sermon, more whispers passed... Continue reading book >>
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