Avram Davidson - The Avram Davidson Treasury - a tribute collection

And, “is this all there is?” Theo asked the faded, quiet lady at the Historical Society. She thought for a moment. “Well, there is this,” she said, removing a manila envelope from a file. Within lay something between translucent sheets; removed, this appeared to be a page from an old, old letter, so stained with time and water and God- knows what, that only a few words were, theoretically, legible. And Theo could not have read even them, had not the letter-page been accompanied by a conjectured reading of those words, typed on even-now-yellowing paper by an old-time typewriter. As follows:

……cadet of [the] fam[ly?]………addlepa[te?] or drunkar[d?]………strong[ly] defen[ded?] himself, but cou[ld?] or [wou?]ld produ[ce?] no [evi?]dence………but never shewed any Signs of [ac?]crued Wealth, so………alOthoug[?] tis true that a Fool and his money are soon……

Also in the old-fashioned typewriting:

This paper was certainly manufactured between 1820 and 1829 or 30, but the Penmanship is of the late 18th century, Mr. Stuyvesant believes it relates somehow to the Patriot Patroon. —G. D.

“Mr. Stuyvesant, of course, has been dead for some years,” said the faded, quiet lady; “and so has Mr. Gilbert Dawes, our former Director. Our budget,” she concluded, “does not allow us to submit the paper to any of the later scientific tests.”

That was that.

And, last and last of all, was this , from a letter of Phillip Hone, Mayor of a then-much-smaller New York City, both in population and in area, say a million years ago, give or take a quarter of a million; addressed to a Mr. Gansevoort, Officer aboard the Ship Nepera, care of the Office of the Seamens’ Chapel, Honolulu, Sandwich Islands: skip most of it; stop at this: “Yesterday was the funeral of Aurelius De Brooke, son of the Patroon, last of the old Indian Traders, of whom I recall my Gt. Aunt Maria used to say, That he knew more of the ways of the Pow-whaw Men than was lawful for a Christian to know, I cd not go, having a bad cold.”

Did the old Patroon learn how to cast the always at least semisacred tobacco into a not very flourishing fire and cry Skah -ootch?

Useless to ask. Useless even to wonder.

And, just as no young and handsome and famously-De Brooks-grinning distant cousin had ever appeared to invite poor Theo to tennis and tea, just so no unknown figure had ever appeared out of the dusk to hand him the map and the key to the traveling-chest made of cedar and black bull’s-hide.

And the years rolled on and he had rolled on with them, explaining endlessly to anyone who would listen why their family needed that extra protection which only the Special Indemnity Policy offered; and to collect the rents for Miss Whittier and a few other ancients who still thought that he went annually to Parkill Ridge or Muskrat Sump for Thanksgiving Dinner to be made privy to the secrets of America’s almost-royal family. Whereas actually he went over to his mother’s folks, where he was loudly and cheerfully greeted as Pres-i-dent-De-Brooks! (once: then the annual joke was over), and cheerfully squeezed into a place at the crowded table where the only political philosophy expressed was that fingers were made before forks; and lavishly poured many glasses of whatever beer the Pucklemans were currently contracted to deliver

Once, out of the mists, an elderly man in a high-crowned fedora such as Warren G. Harding might have worn at the Convention of 1912 (the sweat-band was very sweaty, though; even its sweat-stains) and a once-elegant suit with matching vest — that is, the spots on it matched those on the jacket and pants — had visited TDD in his office. The visitor glanced carefully at him, glanced carefully at the two framed photographs, made him a ponderous nod. “Yep!” said he. “You’re a De Brooks for sure!” His faded blue eyes had a sort of film over them and there were little traces of yellow gum at the corners and his complexion was as grey as his suit.

“I…am…a Hammerson! Augustus Hammerson, Minister of Marine under John Adams? [Was this the face to launch a thousand ships and — ] Great-uncle, four times removed, in the di-rect line!” And he leaned back, awaiting the effect. “Can call me Gus,” he said.

“Gus,” said Theo, obediently. And, after a moment, added, “Well. well. well.”

“Wrong side of the tracks! ” exclaimed his visitor, suddenly and bitterly. “Won’t even give me the time of day! — Suppose it’s sort of the same with you, I guess,” he concluded, in a not-quite questioning tone. “All of those fancydancy De Brookses, hand in glove with the Big Bankers, hey.”

Theo said, slowly, “Well…”

And Gus Hammerson, after expressing his own grievances, which were many, went on to invite TDD to attend an informal get-together of a group of Real Americans interested in purifying the political system and restoring things the way they used to be and the way they ought to be: “‘No Irish need apply,’” said he. And gave another ponderous nod. “Apply our united strength, ” said he. “Get some of those good political plums for our selves! ” said he. And, after some more such talk, asked TDD if he had a cigar, then borrowed a dollar to get one, then took his leave, still nodding deeply.

TDD, after a lifetime of ungratified hopes and increasingly entrenched disappointments, was no longer really sure of what he really wanted. But he was sure that it was not to become a part of a would-be cabal of unpensioned former railroad telegraphers, retired secretaries of down at the heel institutions, bankrupted salesmen of the bonds of obscure municipalities: seeking to revive the ghost of the Know Nothings and secure for themselves a share of the openings for U.S. vice-consulates and inspectorates of intestate properties, to which their descents from militia officers of the War of 1812 obviously entitled them. He opened his office door to let a little air in, and wrote the dollar off as charity.

— Was that how he seemed to others? he wondered — and the wondering of it gave him a very sharp pain whenever he thought about it: and, after that, he thought about it often.

Not very many months after that Old Miss Whittier died, leaving him — surprisingly — a $1,000 Liberty Bond. Her nephew and niece, it was very plain, deeply begrudged him this trifle; but, inasmuch as Miss Whittier’s will had specified that if any of the heirs contested the will, such contestants were to receive the sum of $25 each and nothing more, decided to let him carry it away as spoil. As then, one hoped they neither of them broke a leg in their haste, sold all the Whittier properties to a syndicate with offices in Zurich and Hong Kong. The syndics sent TDD a nicely-worded letter expressing appreciation for his long services, for which their plans however…

Having lost his apartment in Miss Whittier’s West Elm building, and not feeling quite ripe for yet another major move, Theobald Delafont De Brooks sold some of the furniture, gave some away to an eleemosynary organization whose bands had, now and then, briefly brightened his boyhood; and moved a very few items (such as, for example, a folding screen and an army cot and some blankets and sheets) into his office. He considered that what he would henceforth save on house rent would, if he were lucky, outweigh the increasing costs of dry-cleaning and finished shirts, and so on. It also came to pass that a morning meal consisting of a little orange juice and a little vodka not only cost less than a heavy greasy breakfast however traditional (and what had tradition ever done for Theobald Delafont De Brooks?) but that he felt rather better afterwards. Slowly going over these matters in his mind one night as preparation for unfolding the cot, he gazed — as one engaged in a religious ritual which no longer greatly attached him but which was very much a part of his routine — at the large framed oval photographs: President Theobald De Brooks, the Hero of the Pampas War; President Grosvenor Delafont De Brooks, who presided over the nation during more perilous times (happy era! whose major enemy was Spain! )—