New York_ The Novel - Edward Rutherfurd [258]
“You’ll ruin everything!” he cried to Master in exasperation.
“I’m telling you,” said Master firmly, “it’s what you need to do.”
They’d already had one disagreement. Theodore had made no objection when Master suggested that one of the portrait photographs he’d taken of Lily de Chantal be included. But when his patron had warned him not to include the picture of Madame Restell, Theodore had been furious.
“It’s one of the best pictures I ever took,” he’d protested.
The portrait of Madame Restell had been a masterpiece. He’d gone to her house, found a huge, ornate armchair, and placed her in it, like Cleopatra on her throne. With her great bull-like face, she’d stared belligerently at the camera, as terrifying as a minotaur. Placed beside even General Grant, her portrait would have knocked his off the wall.
“Theo,” Frank Master had told him, “that woman is now so notorious, they can’t even sell the plot next to her house—on Fifth Avenue, if you please! No one will live there. If you put her portrait up, you’ll never get another commission.” Even Hetty Master had reluctantly agreed. When Madame Restell discovered she wouldn’t be in the show, she had been furious.
And there were other aspects of the exhibition that had worried Master: the political pieces.
“Be careful, Theo,” he’d said. “I don’t want you to do yourself harm.” His counsel was possibly wise, but Theodore didn’t give a damn, and he’d refused to budge.
“I’m telling the truth,” he’d said. “That’s what artists do.”
In this he’d had one unexpected ally. Hetty Master. “He’s quite right,” she’d told her husband. “He should include any photographs he likes. Except Madame Restell, perhaps,” she’d added, a little reluctantly.
But the sudden message from Master that day, when the whole exhibition had already been hung, had driven Theodore into a fury. Nor had the arrival of his patron at the gallery to argue his case made matters any better. Quite the contrary.
“Think of it,” Frank cried enthusiastically. “Put the three together on one wall. Boss Tweed on the left, Thomas Nast on the right, and that shot you took of the city courthouse just below them. Or above, if you prefer,” he added obligingly.
“But the work isn’t interesting,” Theodore expostulated. The three photographs, from the thousands in his collection, were perfectly adequate, but nothing more.
“Theodore,” said Frank Master as patiently as if he were addressing a child, “Boss Tweed was arrested today.”
If Tammany Hall knew how to make money out of New York City, it had to be said that Boss Tweed had taken the gentle art of the padded contract to heights never dreamed of before. It wasn’t that he did anything complicated. Together with Sweeny the Park Commissioner, Connolly the Controller and Mayor Oakey Hall, he formed a ring for the awarding of city contracts. But where in the past a contract worth ten thousand dollars might have had a thousand or two added, the ring, since they controlled everything, felt free to do much better. For more than a decade now, the amount on a contract might be multiplied five, ten, even a hundred times. The contractor was then paid, with a large bonus on top, and the huge remaining amount split between the ring.
His noblest enterprise had been the courthouse, behind City Hall. It had been under construction for ten years now, with no end in sight. When eventually it was completed, there was no doubt that it would be one of the noblest buildings in the city—a regular palace, in the best neoclassical style. But the ring was in no hurry to finish it, since this splendid architectural receptacle was also a trough of liquid gold. Everyone benefited—at least, all the ring’s many friends. Modest craftsmen with contracts for work there had already emerged from it as rich men. No one knew how many millions had flowed into this one building, but this was certain: the courthouse had already cost more than the recent purchase of Alaska.
Yet