disappoint each other.”
“Oh. Dad’s not disappointed in Mike though,” David blurted. “I mean, they’re always arguing about something, but you can see they like each other. And Dad’s forgotten he was ever ashamed of fathering Mike, he’s so proud to have a son who followed in his footsteps.”
“Not every son turns out the way his father hoped.”
“I suppose not.” David picked up his fork and pushed his food around his plate.
Zachary watched him a moment. “Perhaps it’s none of my business, but I am your friend. Why worry what your father thinks now? You’re not a boy, after all.”
David flushed. “That’s just what Dad’s always saying.”
“Well, he’s right. About that.” Zach smiled. “But far as I can see, you’ve turned out fine. You needn’t doubt yourself.”
David smiled back, warmed by his friend’s regard. “I try not to. Anyway, thanks for saying so.” He looked down at his plate again, in mingled pleasure and embarrassment.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
By the time a year had passed, David was surprised how much at home he felt in the chaotic, noisy metropolis. Lodging with friends helped, and agreeable evenings drinking with Elliot and Zach. He spent more hours with Zach alone, attending theater or wandering through one of the many art galleries that lined lower Broadway.
An exhibit at the National Academy of Design, early in 1857, attracted all three men. As usual they ended up at Pfaff’s. The smoke-filled cellar was crowded with hard-drinking, argumentative newsmen, tired doctors from New York Hospital, the clique of Bohemian artists and writers that out-of-towners flocked to see.
“I thoroughly enjoyed the exhibit,” Zach said, hoisting his tankard, “especially the Hudson River landscapes. They put me in mind of the country upstate, when I was a boy.”
David voiced his admiration of William Mount’s rural Long Island scenes. Then, his tongue loosened by the beer and companionship, he blurted, “When I was a boy I used to dream of seeing my drawings hanging in a gallery.”
Elliot snorted. “We’re a damn sight better off with steady jobs. For every artist whose work’s in the Academy, there’s twenty sleeping in their studios because they can’t afford a boardinghouse.”
“Still, it would be good to have our drawings last longer than yesterday’s newspaper.”
Zach touched his arm. “More people read the daily papers than ever set foot in an art gallery, David.”
“I suppose.”
“And our work has an influence on the public. Yours more so than mine: one picture’s worth a thousand words. Take your drawing of those new immigrants just landed at Castle Garden.”
David nodded, pleased that Zach remembered his sketch of the sweating, stoic immigrant women, nursing their infants under the furtive privacy of a woolen shawl, keeping anxious watch over frightened, eager children while their menfolk went in search of ticket agents and information bureau.
“Even the Know-Nothings among Leslie’s subscribers were bound to see they’re just families no different than their own. And at least a few will see immigrants as being a little more their fellow men as a result. Just as Greeley’s efforts at hammering away at the institution of slavery will change our readers’ sensibilities on that score.”
“Huh!” Elliot scoffed. “Nine out of ten of those immigrants are ignorant, Pope-ridden scum! Is there anything that isn’t a mission with you, Zach? You don’t even have the excuse of being a churchgoer like Dick.”
“You don’t have to sit in church to feel the sufferings of your fellow men! I learned my zeal at my mother’s knee. More than one occasion, she fed some poor runaway at our table, and rested uneasy till she knew him safe.”
Elliot snorted again. “Anyhow, drawing’s just a trade like any other. And a damn sight easier way to make a living than most. There’s no need to make more of it.”
“I doubt you’d find many at
“Oh. Dad’s not disappointed in Mike though,” David blurted. “I mean, they’re always arguing about something, but you can see they like each other. And Dad’s forgotten he was ever ashamed of fathering Mike, he’s so proud to have a son who followed in his footsteps.”
“Not every son turns out the way his father hoped.”
“I suppose not.” David picked up his fork and pushed his food around his plate.
Zachary watched him a moment. “Perhaps it’s none of my business, but I am your friend. Why worry what your father thinks now? You’re not a boy, after all.”
David flushed. “That’s just what Dad’s always saying.”
“Well, he’s right. About that.” Zach smiled. “But far as I can see, you’ve turned out fine. You needn’t doubt yourself.”
David smiled back, warmed by his friend’s regard. “I try not to. Anyway, thanks for saying so.” He looked down at his plate again, in mingled pleasure and embarrassment.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
By the time a year had passed, David was surprised how much at home he felt in the chaotic, noisy metropolis. Lodging with friends helped, and agreeable evenings drinking with Elliot and Zach. He spent more hours with Zach alone, attending theater or wandering through one of the many art galleries that lined lower Broadway.
An exhibit at the National Academy of Design, early in 1857, attracted all three men. As usual they ended up at Pfaff’s. The smoke-filled cellar was crowded with hard-drinking, argumentative newsmen, tired doctors from New York Hospital, the clique of Bohemian artists and writers that out-of-towners flocked to see.
“I thoroughly enjoyed the exhibit,” Zach said, hoisting his tankard, “especially the Hudson River landscapes. They put me in mind of the country upstate, when I was a boy.”
David voiced his admiration of William Mount’s rural Long Island scenes. Then, his tongue loosened by the beer and companionship, he blurted, “When I was a boy I used to dream of seeing my drawings hanging in a gallery.”
Elliot snorted. “We’re a damn sight better off with steady jobs. For every artist whose work’s in the Academy, there’s twenty sleeping in their studios because they can’t afford a boardinghouse.”
“Still, it would be good to have our drawings last longer than yesterday’s newspaper.”
Zach touched his arm. “More people read the daily papers than ever set foot in an art gallery, David.”
“I suppose.”
“And our work has an influence on the public. Yours more so than mine: one picture’s worth a thousand words. Take your drawing of those new immigrants just landed at Castle Garden.”
David nodded, pleased that Zach remembered his sketch of the sweating, stoic immigrant women, nursing their infants under the furtive privacy of a woolen shawl, keeping anxious watch over frightened, eager children while their menfolk went in search of ticket agents and information bureau.
“Even the Know-Nothings among Leslie’s subscribers were bound to see they’re just families no different than their own. And at least a few will see immigrants as being a little more their fellow men as a result. Just as Greeley’s efforts at hammering away at the institution of slavery will change our readers’ sensibilities on that score.”
“Huh!” Elliot scoffed. “Nine out of ten of those immigrants are ignorant, Pope-ridden scum! Is there anything that isn’t a mission with you, Zach? You don’t even have the excuse of being a churchgoer like Dick.”
“You don’t have to sit in church to feel the sufferings of your fellow men! I learned my zeal at my mother’s knee. More than one occasion, she fed some poor runaway at our table, and rested uneasy till she knew him safe.”
Elliot snorted again. “Anyhow, drawing’s just a trade like any other. And a damn sight easier way to make a living than most. There’s no need to make more of it.”
“I doubt you’d find many at
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