Part 2

In the days of our modesty my wife used to plan that we would retire when we had twenty thousand a year--enough, she then thought, to provide for every want, reasonable or unreasonable, that we and the children could have. Now, she would have scorned the idea of retiring as contemptuously as I would. She was eager to do her part in the process of expansion and aggrandisement, was eager to see us socially established, to put our children in the position to make advantageous marriages. We would be outshone in New York by none!

To win a million is to taste blood. The million-mania--for, in a sense, I’ll admit it is a mania--is roused and put upon the scent, and it never sleeps again, nor is its appetite ever satisfied or even made less ravenous.

A few years, and I left dry-goods for finance, where the pursuit of my passion was more direct and more rapidly successful. Every day I fixed my thoughts upon another million; and, as all who know anything about the million-mania will tell you, the act of fixing the thought upon a million, when one has earned the right to acquire millions, makes that million yours, makes all who stand between you and it aggressors to be clawed down and torn to pieces. As I grew my rights were respected more and more deferentially. Men now bow before me. They understand that I can administer great wealth to the best advantage, that I belong to one of that small class of beings created to possess the earth and to command the improvident and idealess inhabitants thereof how and where and when to work.

My family?

I confess they have not risen to my level or to the opportunities I have made for them. Naturally, with great wealth, the old simple family relationship was broken up. That was to be expected--the duties of people in our position do not permit indulgence in the simple emotions and pastimes of the family life of the masses. But neither, on the other hand, was it necessary that my wife should become a cold and calculating social figure, full of vanity and superciliousness, instead of maintaining the proud dignity of her position as my wife. Nor was it necessary that my children should become selfish, heartless, pleasure-seekers, caring nothing for me except as a source of money.

I suppose I am in part responsible--my great enterprises have left me little time for the small details of life, such as the training of children. They were admirably educated, too. I provided the best governesses and masters, and saw to it that they learned all that a lady or a gentleman should know; and in respect of dress and manners I admit that they do very well, indeed. Possibly, the complete breaking up of the family, except as it is held together by my money, is due to the fact that we see so little of one another, each having his or her separate establishment. Possibly I am a little old-fashioned, a little too exacting, in my idea of wife and children. Certainly they are aristocratic enough.

My son James is the thorn in my side. And, whenever I have a moment’s rest from my affairs, I find myself thinking of him, worrying over him. The latest development in his character is certainly disquieting.

He was twenty-five years old yesterday. He was educated at our most aristocratic university here, and at one in Europe of the same kind. It was his mother’s dream that he should be “brought up as a gentleman”; and that fell in with my ideas, for I did not wish him to be a money-maker, but the head of the family I purposed to found upon my millions, which are already numerous enough to secure it for many generations. “There is no call for him to struggle and toil as I have,” I said to myself. “The sort of financial ability I possess is born in a man and can’t be taught or transmitted by birth. He would make a small showing, at best, as a business man. As a gentleman he will shine. He only needs just enough business training to enable him to supervise those who will take care of his fortune and that of the rich woman he will marry.” I was determined that he should marry in his own class--and, indeed, he is not a sentimentalist, and, therefore, is not likely to disregard my wishes in that matter.

When he was eighteen I caught him in a fashionable gambling-house one night when I thought he was at his college. I could not but admire the coolness with which he made the best of it: stood beside me as I sat playing faro, then went over to a roulette table and lost several hundred dollars on a few spins of the ball. But the next day I took him sharply to task--it was one thing for me to play, at my age and with my fortune, I explained, but not the same for him, at his age, and with nothing but an allowance.

He shrugged his shoulders indifferently. “Really, governor,” he said, “a man must do as the other fellows in his set do. Didn’t you see whom I was with? If you wish me to travel with those people I must go their gait.”

That was not unreasonable, so I dismissed him with a cautioning. At twenty he went abroad, and, a year after he had returned, his bills and drafts were still coming. I sent for him. “Why don’t you pay your debts, sir?” I demanded, angrily, for such conduct was directly contrary to my teaching and example.

He gave me his grandest look--he is a handsome, aristocratic-looking fellow, away ahead of what Judson must have been at his age. “But, my dear governor,” he said, “a gentleman pays his debts when he feels like it.”

“No, he don’t,” I answered, furiously, for my instinct of commercial promptness was roused. “A scoundrel pays his debts when he feels like it. A gentleman pays ’em when they’re due.”

His reply was a smile of approval, and “Excellent! The best epigram I’ve heard since I left Paris. You’re as great a genius at making phrases as you are at making money.”

I caught him speculating in Wall Street--“One must amuse one’s self,” he said, cheerfully. But I was not to be put off this time. I had had some reports on his life--many wild escapades, many fantastic extravagances. The terrible downfall of two young men of his set made me feel that the time for discipline was at hand. But, as I was very busy, I had only time to read him a brief lecture on speculation and to exact from him a promise that he would keep out of Wall Street. He gave the promise so reluctantly that I felt confident he meant to keep it.

A week ago yesterday morning he came into my bedroom, before I was up, and said to my valet, Pigott: “Just take yourself off, Piggy!” And, when we were alone, he began: “Mother said I was to come straight to you.”

“What is it?” I demanded, my anger rising--experience has taught me that the more offhand his manner, the more serious the offence I should have to repair.

“I broke my promise to you about speculating, sir,” he replied, much as if he were apologising for having jostled me in a crowd.

I sat up in bed, feeling as if I were afire. “And does a gentleman keep his promises only when he feels like it?” I asked.

“But that isn’t all,” he went on. “My pool’s gone smash--you were on the other side and I never suspected it. And I’ve got a million to pay, besides----”

He took out his cigarette case, and lighted a cigarette with great deliberation.

“Besides--what?” I said, wishing to know all before I began upon him.

“I wrote your name across the back of a bit of paper,” he answered, hiding his face in a big cloud of smoke.

I fell back in the bed, feeling as if I had been struck on the head with a heavy weight. “You scoundrel!” I gasped.

“Sour grapes,” he muttered, his cheeks aflame and his eyes blazing at me.

“What do you mean?” I said, my mind in confusion.

“The fathers have eaten sour grapes,” he quoted, “and the children’s teeth are set on edge.”

I half sprang from the bed at this insolence. “Don’t get apoplectic,” he said, calmly; “you know you stole your start.”

At this infamous calumny I leaped upon him and flung him bodily out of the room. It was several hours before I was calm enough to dismiss the incident sufficiently to take up my affairs.

This has come at a particularly unfortunate time for me, as I am in the midst of several delicate, vast, and intricate negotiations, involving many millions and demanding all my thought. He has gone down on Long Island in care of his mother. It will be at least ten days before I can take up his case and dispose of it. I am undecided whether to give him another trial under severe conditions or to cast him off and make his younger brother my principal heir and successor. I confess to a weakness for him--possibly because he is so audacious and fearless. His younger brother is entirely too smooth and diplomatic with me; if I should elevate him, he would fancy that he had deceived me with his transparent tricks.

However, we shall see.

II

About a month after I sent James to my place on Long Island to be in the custody of his mother, I was dining in my Fifth Avenue house with only Burridge, my secretary, and Jack Ridley, who calls himself my “court fool.”

Although my mind was crowded with large affairs involving great properties and millions of capital, hardly a day had passed without my thinking of James and of his infamous conduct toward me. But without neglecting the duties which my position as a financial leader impose upon me, it was impossible for me to take time to do my duty as a parent. The duty which particularly pressed and absolutely prevented me from attending to my son was that of overcoming difficulties I had encountered in consolidating the three railways which I control in the State. To achieve my purpose it was necessary that a somewhat radical change be made in a certain law. I sent my agent to Boss ---- to arrange the matter. I learned that he refused to order the change unless I would pay him three hundred thousand dollars in cash and would give him the opportunity to buy to a like amount of the new stock at par. He pleaded that the change would cause a tremendous outcry if it were discovered, as it almost certainly would be, and that he must be in a position to provide a correspondingly large campaign fund to “carry the party” successfully through the next campaign. He said his past favours to me had brought him to the verge of political ruin. In a sentence, the miserable old blackmailer was trying to drive as hard a bargain with me as if I had not been making stiff contributions to what he calls his “campaign fund” for years with only trifling favours in return. I was willing to pay what the change was worth, but I would not be bled. I brought pressure to bear from the national organisation of his party, and he came round--apparently.

Just as my bill was slipping quietly through the State Senate, having passed the Lower House unobserved, the other boss raised a terrific hullabaloo. Boss ---- denied to my people that he had “tipped off” what was doing in order to revenge himself and get his blood-money in another way; but I knew at once that the sanctimonious old thief had outwitted me.

It looked as if I would have to yield. Of course I should have done so in the last straits, for only a fool holds out for a principle when holding out means no gain and a senseless and costly loss. But the knowledge that a defeat would cost me dear in future transactions of this kind made me struggle desperately. I sent for my lawyer, Stratton--an able fellow, as lawyers go, but, like most of this stupid, lazy human race, always ready to say “impossible” because saying so saves labour. “Stratton,” I said, “there must be a way round--there always is. Can’t I get what I want by an amendment to some other law that can be slipped through by the lobby of some other corporation as if for its benefit only? Take a week. Paw over the books and rake that brain of yours! There’s a hundred and fifty thousand in it for you if you find me the way round.”

“But the law--” he began.

I lost my temper--I always do when one of my men begins his reply to an order I’ve given him with the word “But.” “Don’t ‘but’ me, damn you,” said I. “I’m getting sick and tired of your eternal opposition. Crawford”--Crawford was my lawyer until I put him into the Senate--“used always to tell me how I could do what I wanted to do. You’re always telling me that I can’t do what I want to do.”

“I’m sorry to displease you, sir, but----”

“‘But’ again!” I exclaimed, sarcastically.

“Then, however,” he went on, with a conciliatory smile, “I’m not a legislator; I’m a lawyer.”

“Precisely,” said I. “And the only use I have for a lawyer is to show me how to do as I please, in spite of these wretched demagogues and blackmailers that control the statute-books. If you are as intelligent as Crawford led me to believe and as my own observation of you suggests, you’ll profit by this little talk we’ve had. Look round you at the men who are making the big successes in your profession nowadays--look at your predecessor, Crawford. Imitate them and stop casting about for ways of interpreting the law against your employer’s interest.”

Two days later he came to me in triumph. He had found the “way round.” I had my law slipped through, signed by the Governor, and safely put on the statute-book, the two bosses as unsuspicious as were the newspapers and the public. Then I came out in a public disavowal of my original purpose, denounced it as a crime against the people, and deplored that my railroad corporation should be unjustly accused of promoting it. You must fight the devil with fire.

Those two bosses--and the sensational newspapers that had been attacking them and my corporations--were astounded, and haven’t recovered yet. It will be six months before they realise that I have accomplished my purpose; even then they won’t be sure that I planned it, but will half believe it was my “luck.”

In passing, I may note that Stratton tells me I ought to pay him two hundred and fifty thousand dollars instead of one hundred and fifty thousand--for pulling me out of the hole! He has wholly forgotten having said “can’t be done” and “impossible” to me so many times that I finally had to stop him by cursing him violently. With their own vanity and their women-folks’ flattery for ever conspiring to destroy their judgment, it’s a wonder to me that men are able to get on at all. Indeed, they wouldn’t if they didn’t have masters like me over them.

After I had got my little joke on the bosses and the impertinent public safely on the statute-book, there remained the problem of how to take advantage of it without stirring up the sensational newspapers and the politicians, always ready to pander to the spirit of demagogy. I had my rights safely embodied in the law; but in this lawless time that is not enough. Instead of being respectful to the great natural leaders and deferential to their larger vision and larger knowledge, the people regard us with suspicion and overlook our services in their envy of the trifling commissions we get--for, what is the wealth we reserve for ourselves in comparison with the benefits we confer upon the country?

At this dinner which I have mentioned, both Burridge and Ridley were silent, and so my thoughts had no distraction. As I know that it is bad for my digestion to use my brain as I eat, I tried to start a conversation.

“Have you seen Aurora to-day?” I asked Burridge. She is my eldest daughter, just turned eighteen.

“She and Walter”--he is my second son, within a month or so of twenty-two--“are dining out this evening; she at Carnarvon’s, he at Longview’s. I think they meet at Mrs. Hollister’s dance and come home together.”

This was agreeable news. The names told me that my wife was at last succeeding in her social campaign, thanks to the irresistible temptation to the narrow aristocrats of the inner circle in the prospective fortunes of my children. While this social campaign of ours has its vanity side--and I here admit that I am not insensible to certain higher kinds of vanity--it also has a substantial business side. The greatest disadvantage I have laboured under--and at times it was serious--has been a certain suspicion of me as a newcomer and an adventurer. Naturally this has not been lessened by the boldness and swiftness of my operations. When I and my family are admitted on terms of intimacy and perfect equality among the people of large and old-established fortune, I shall be absolutely trusted in the financial world and shall be secure in the position of leadership which my brains have won for me and which I now maintain only by steady fighting.

“And Helen?” I went on. Helen is my other daughter, not yet twelve.

“She’s dining in her own sitting-room with her companion,” replied Burridge.

“I haven’t seen her for a day or two,” I said.

“Two weeks to-morrow,” answered Burridge.

Jack Ridley laughed, and I frowned. It irritates me for Ridley to note it whenever I am caught in seeming neglect of my children. He pretends not to believe that it is my sense of duty that makes me deprive myself of the family happiness of ordinary men for the sake of my larger duties. But he must know at the bottom that all my self-sacrifice is for my children, for my family, ultimately. I have the thankless, misunderstood toil; they have the enjoyment.

“Two weeks!” I protested; “it can’t be!”

“She came to me for her allowance this morning,” he said, “and she asked after you. She said your valet had told her you were staying here and were well. She said she’d like to see you some time--if you ever got round to it.”

This little picture of my domestic life did not tend to cheer me. Naturally, I went on to think of Jim. Ridley interrupted my thoughts by saying: “Have you been down on Long Island yet?”

This was going too far even for a “court fool”--his name for himself, not mine. Ridley is my pensioner, confidant, listening machine, and talking machine. He is of an old New York family, an honest, intelligent fellow, with an extravagant stomach and back. My wife engaged him, originally, to help her in her social campaigns. I saw that I could use him to better advantage, and he has gradually grown into my confidence.

In my lesser days, one of the things that most irritated me against the very rich was their habit of buying human beings, body and soul, to do all kinds of unmanly work, and I especially abhorred the “parasites”--so I called them--who hung about rich men, entertaining them, submitting to their humours, and bearing degradations and humiliations in exchange for the privileges of eating at luxurious tables, living in the colder corners of palaces, driving in the carriages of their patrons, and being received nominally as their social equals. But now I understand these matters better. It isn’t given to many men to be independent. As for the “parasites,” how should I do without Jack Ridley?

I can’t have friends. Friends take one’s time--they must be treated with consideration, or they become dangerous enemies. Friends impose upon one’s friendship--they demand inconvenient or improper, or, at any rate, costly favours which it is difficult to refuse. I must have companionship, and fate compels that my companion shall be my dependant, one completely under my control--a Jack Ridley. I look after his expensive stomach and back; he amuses me and keeps me informed as to the trifling matters of art, literature, gossip, and so forth, which I have no time to look up, yet must know if I am to make any sort of appearance in company. Really, next to my gymnasium, I regard poor old Jack as my most useful belonging, so far as my health and spirits are concerned.

To his impertinent reminder of my neglected duty I made no reply beyond a heavy frown. The rest of the dinner was eaten in oppressive silence, I brooding over the absence of cheerfulness in my life. They say it is my fault, but I know it is simply their stupidity in being unable to understand how to deal with a superior personality. It is my fate to be misunderstood, publicly and privately. The public grudgingly praises, often even derides, my philanthropies; the members of my family laugh at my generosities and self-sacrifices for them.

As I was going to my apartment and to bed, Ridley waylaid me. “You’re offended with me, old man?” he asked, his eyes moist and his lips trembling under his grey moustache. He weeps easily: at a glass of especially fine wine; over a sentimental story in a paper or magazine; if a grouse is cooked just right; when I am cross with him. And I think all his emotions, whether of heart or of stomach, are genuine--and probably about as valuable as most emotions.

“Not at all, not at all, Jack,” I said, reassuringly; “but you ought to be careful when you see I’m low in my mind.”

“Do go down to see the boy,” he went on, earnestly. “He’s a good boy at heart, as good as he is handsome and clever. Give him a little of your precious time and he’ll be worth more to you than all your millions.”

“He’s a young scalawag,” said I, pretending to harden. “I’m almost convinced that it’s my duty to drive him out and cut him off altogether. After all I’ve done for him! After all the pains I’ve taken with him!”

Ridley looked at me timidly, but found courage to say: “He told me he’d never talked with you so much as sixty consecutive minutes in his whole life!”

This touched me at the moment. I’m soft at times, where my family is concerned. “I’ll see; I’ll see,” I said. “Perhaps I can go down to him Sunday. But don’t annoy me about it again, Jack!” There’s a limit to my good-nature, even with poor old well-meaning Ridley.

But other matters pressed in, and it was the following Monday and then the following Saturday before I knew it. Then came the first Sunday in the month, and Burridge, as usual, brought in the preceding month’s domestic accounts as soon as I had settled myself at breakfast after my run and swim and rubdown in my “gym” in the basement. As a rule, at that time I’m in my best possible humour. My wife and children know it and lie in wait then with any particularly impudent requests for favours or particularly outrageous confessions that must be made. But on the first Sunday in the month even my “gym” can’t put me in good-humour. I am a liberal man. My large gifts to education and charity and my generosity with my family prove it beyond a doubt. My wife looks scornful when I speak of this. Her theory is that my public gifts are an exhibition of my vanity, and that my establishments, my yacht, etc., etc., are partly vanity, and partly my selfish passion for my own comfort. She, however, never attributes a good motive or instinct to me, or to any one else, nowadays. Really, the change in her since our modest days is incredible. It is amazing how arrogant affluence makes women.

But, as I was saying, my monthly bill-day is too much for my good-humour. It is not the money going out that I mind so much, though I’m not ashamed to admit that it is not so agreeable to me to see money going out as it is to see money coming in. The real irritation is the waste--the wanton, wicked, dangerous waste.

I can’t attend to details. I can’t visit kitchens, do marketing, superintend housekeepers and butlers, oversee stables, and buy all the various supplies. I can’t shop for furniture and clothing, and look after the entertainments. All those things are my wife’s business and duty. And she has a secretary, and a housekeeper, and Burridge, and Ridley, to assist her. Yet the bills mount and mount; the waste grows and grows. Extravagance for herself, extravagance for her children, thousands thrown away with nothing whatever to show for it! The money runs away like water at a left-on faucet.