New York_ The Novel - Edward Rutherfurd [206]
It was something more dangerous.
Frank didn’t see her at first. But then there were so many other things to catch the eye. The tallest was the Latting Observatory, a conical latticework of wood and iron that rose three hundred and fifty feet to a viewing platform high over Forty-second Street. You could go up the first two stages of the tower in a wonderful new machine they were calling an elevator. Master was eager to try that. But the Observatory was still a sideshow to the main event—which lay just behind the reservoir, its upper parts clearly visible as Frank approached.
The Crystal Palace.
Two years ago, when the British had staged their Great Exhibition in a huge crystal palace of glass and iron in the middle of London, six million people had come to see this world’s fair of culture and industrial design. The palace in Hyde Park, like a vast greenhouse, was over six hundred yards long, and covered nearly seven acres. So New York had decided to have one of their own. And though the Crystal Palace at Fortieth Street might not match the vast scale to be found in the capital of the British Empire, it was still a mighty handsome building, with a splendid dome, a hundred and twenty-three feet high. It had just opened the day before, and Frank Master couldn’t wait to see what was inside it.
Then he saw his wife. And inwardly groaned. She was reading that damn book again.
“Put the book aside now,” he said gently, as he took her arm, “and let’s see the exhibition.”
The main entrance on Sixth was splendid. With its ornate classical portico and dome, it looked like a Venetian cathedral, made of glass. The French and British flags flew to left and right, and a huge Stars and Stripes over the center.
Frank knew most of the organizers, especially William Cullen Bryant and August Belmont. They had promised an exhibition of the industry of all nations, and it seemed to Frank they had done a pretty good job. As he conducted Hetty round, they saw scientific instruments and guns, water pumps and ice-cream makers, equipment for taking photographs and for sending telegrams—not to mention the huge statue of George Washington riding a horse. It was the machinery of the new industrial age, and he loved it.
“Look at this clock,” he’d prompt Hetty. “We should have one of these.” And she’d smile and nod. “Or what about this sewing machine?” he’d try. “Yes dear,” she’d say.
But though they went round together for an hour, and she dutifully inspected everything, he knew that she wasn’t really paying attention. “Let’s go to the observation tower,” he said.
The view from the top of the Observatory was very fine. Eastward, one could see over Queens, westward, across the Hudson to New Jersey, and northward, over the miles of rural Manhattan into which, like columns of infantry, the grid lines of avenues were gradually making their way. They both enjoyed the elevator which served the tower’s lower platforms. But when they emerged, another exhibit nearby caught Frank’s eye. Hetty wanted to sit down for a while, so he went in alone.
“It’s the damnedest thing,” he reported back. “Fellow by the name of Otis. He’s designed an elevator like the one we just rode in, but he’s added a system of safety catches so that if the cable breaks, it won’t fall. I reckon you could install something like that in a big store, or even a house.” He nodded. “He’s setting up in business. Might make an interesting investment, I’d say.”
“Yes, dear,” said Hetty.
“Let’s go home,” he said at last, with a sigh.
He knew what she was going to talk about. She didn’t start at once, but waited a whole block, then began at Thirty-ninth Street.
“Frank,” she said, “something’s got to be done. I want you to read this book.”
“Goddammit, Hetty,” he said, “I’m not going to.” And then, to hide his irritation, he smiled. “No need to, when you’ve already told me all that’s in it.”
The author, Harriet Beecher Stowe, was no