The Lion and the Mouse; a Story of an American Life, Page 3

  CHAPTER III

  Of all the spots on this fair, broad earth where the jaded globewanderer, surfeited with hackneyed sight-seeing, may sit in perfectpeace and watch the world go by, there is none more fascinating nor onepresenting a more brilliant panorama of cosmopolitan life than thatfamous corner on the Paris boulevards, formed by the angle of theBoulevard des Capucines and the Place de l'Opera. Here, on the"terrace" of the Cafe de la Paix, with its white and gold facade andlong French windows, and its innumerable little marble-topped tablesand rattan chairs, one may sit for hours at the trifling expense of afew sous, undisturbed even by the tip-seeking garcon, and, if onehappens to be a student of human nature, find keen enjoyment inobserving the world-types, representing every race and nationalityunder the sun, that pass and re-pass in a steady, never ceasing,exhaustless stream. The crowd surges to and fro, past the littletables, occasionally toppling over a chair or two in the crush, movingup or down the great boulevards, one procession going to the right, inthe direction of the Church of the Madeleine, the other to the leftheading toward the historic Bastille, both really going nowhere inparticular, but ambling gently and good humouredly along enjoying thesights--and life!

  Paris, queen of cities! Light-hearted, joyous, radiant Paris--theplayground of the nations, the Mecca of the pleasure-seekers, the citybeautiful! Paris--the siren, frankly immoral, always seductive, evercaressing! City of a thousand political convulsions, city of a millioncrimes--her streets have run with human blood, horrors unspeakable havestained her history, civil strife has scarred her monuments, the Germanconqueror insolently has bivouaced within her walls. Yet, like a virginundefiled, she shows no sign of storm and stress, she offers herdimpled cheek to the rising sun, and when fall the shadows of night anda billion electric bulbs flash in the siren's crown, her resplendent,matchless beauty dazzles the world!

  As the supreme reward of virtue, the good American is promised a visitto Paris when he dies. Those, however, of our sagacious fellowcountrymen who can afford to make the trip, usually manage to seeLutetia before crossing the river Styx. Most Americans like Paris--somelike it so well that they have made it their permanent home--althoughit must be added that in their admiration they rarely include theFrenchman. For that matter, we are not as a nation particularly fond ofany foreigner, largely because we do not understand him, while theforeigner for his part is quite willing to return the compliment. Hegives the Yankee credit for commercial smartness, which has built upAmerica's great material prosperity; but he has the utmost contempt forour acquaintance with art, and no profound respect for us as scientists.

  Is it not indeed fortunate that every nation finds itself superior toits neighbour? If this were not so each would be jealous of the other,and would cry with envy like a spoiled child who cannot have the moonto play with. Happily, therefore, for the harmony of the world, eachnation cordially detests the other and the much exploited "brotherhoodof man" is only a figure of speech. The Englishman, confident that heis the last word of creation, despises the Frenchman, who, in turn,laughs at the German, who shows open contempt for the Italian, whilethe American, conscious of his superiority to the whole family ofnations, secretly pities them all.

  The most serious fault which the American--whose one god is Mammon andchief characteristic hustle--has to find with his French brother isthat he enjoys life too much, is never in a hurry and, what to theYankee mind is hardly respectable, has a habit of playing dominoesduring business hours. The Frenchman retorts that his American brother,clever person though he be, has one or two things still to learn. Hehas, he declares, no philosophy of life. It is true that he has learnedthe trick of making money, but in the things which go to satisfy thesoul he is still strangely lacking. He thinks he is enjoying life, whenreally he is ignorant of what life is. He admits it is not theAmerican's fault, for he has never been taught how to enjoy life. Onemust be educated to that as everything else. All the American is taughtis to be in a perpetual hurry and to make money no matter how. In thismad daily race for wealth, he bolts his food, not stopping to masticateit properly, and consequently suffers all his life from dyspepsia. Sohe rushes from the cradle to the grave, and what's the good, since hemust one day die like all the rest?

  And what, asks the foreigner, has the American hustler accomplishedthat his slower-going Continental brother has not done as well? Arefiner cities to be found in America than in Europe, do Americans paintmore beautiful pictures, or write more learned or more entertainingbooks, has America made greater progress in science? Is it not a factthat the greatest inventors and scientists of our time--Marconi, whogave to the world wireless telegraphy, Professor Curie, who discoveredradium, Pasteur, who found a cure for rabies, Santos-Dumont, who hasalmost succeeded in navigating the air, Professor Rontgen whodiscovered the X-ray--are not all these immortals Europeans? And thosetwo greatest mechanical inventions of our day, the automobile and thesubmarine boat, were they not first introduced and perfected in Francebefore we in America woke up to appreciate their use? Is it, therefore,not possible to take life easily and still achieve?

  The logic of these arguments, set forth in Le Soir in an article on theNew World, appealed strongly to Jefferson Ryder as he sat in front ofthe Cafe de la Paix, sipping a sugared Vermouth. It was five o'clock,the magic hour of the aperitif, when the glutton taxes his wits todeceive his stomach and work up an appetite for renewed gorging. Thelittle tables were all occupied with the usual before-dinner crowd.There were a good many foreigners, mostly English and Americans and afew Frenchmen, obviously from the provinces, with only a sprinkling ofreal Parisians.

  Jefferson's acquaintance with the French language was none tooprofound, and he had to guess at half the words in the article, but heunderstood enough to follow the writer's arguments. Yes, it was quitetrue, he thought, the American idea of life was all wrong. What was thesense of slaving all one's life, piling up a mass of money one cannotpossibly spend, when there is only one life to live? How much saner theman who is content with enough and enjoys life while he is able to.These Frenchmen, and indeed all the Continental nations, had solved theproblem. The gaiety of their cities, and this exuberant joy of lifethey communicated to all about them, were sufficient proofs of it.

  Fascinated by the gay scene around him Jefferson laid the newspaperaside. To the young American, fresh from prosaic money-mad New York,the City of Pleasure presented indeed a novel and beautiful spectacle.How different, he mused, from his own city with its one fashionablethoroughfare--Fifth Avenue--monotonously lined for miles with hideousbrownstone residences, and showing little real animation except duringthe Saturday afternoon parade when the activities of the smart set,male and female, centred chiefly in such exciting diversions as goingto Huyler's for soda, taking tea at the Waldorf, and trying to outdoeach other in dress and show. New York certainly was a dull place withall its boasted cosmopolitanism. There was no denying that. Destituteof any natural beauty, handicapped by its cramped geographical positionbetween two rivers, made unsightly by gigantic sky-scrapers and thatnoisy monstrosity the Elevated Railroad, having no intellectualinterests, no art interests, no interest in anything not immediatelyconnected with dollars, it was a city to dwell in and make money in,but hardly a city to LIVE in. The millionaires were buildingwhite-marble palaces, taxing the ingenuity and the originality of thenative architects, and thus to some extent relieving the generalugliness and drab commonplaceness, while the merchant princes had begunto invade the lower end of the avenue with handsome shops. But in spiteof all this, in spite of its pretty girls--and Jefferson insisted thatin this one important particular New York had no peer--in spite of itscomfortable theatres and its wicked Tenderloin, and its Rialto made sobrilliant at night by thousands of elaborate electric signs, New Yorkstill had the subdued air of a provincial town, compared with theexuberant gaiety, the multiple attractions, the beauties, natural andartificial, of cosmopolitan Paris.

  The boulevards were crowded, as usual at that hour, and the crush ofboth vehicles and pedestrians was
so great as to permit of only asnail-like progress. The clumsy three-horseomnibuses--Madeleine-Bastille--crowded inside and out with passengersand with their neatly uniformed drivers and conductors, so different inappearance and manner from our own slovenly street-car rowdies, wereendeavouring to breast a perfect sea of fiacres which, like a swarm ofmosquitoes, appeared to be trying to go in every direction at once,their drivers vociferating torrents of vituperous abuse on every man,woman or beast unfortunate enough to get in their way. As a dispenserof unspeakable profanity, the Paris cocher has no equal. He is unique,no one can approach him. He also enjoys the reputation of being theworst driver in the world. If there is any possible way in which he canrun down a pedestrian or crash into another vehicle he will do it,probably for the only reason that it gives him another opportunity todisplay his choice stock of picturesque expletives.

  But it was a lively, good-natured crowd and the fashionably gownedwomen and the well-dressed men, the fakirs hoarsely crying theircatch-penny devices, the noble boulevards lined as far as the eye couldreach with trees in full foliage, the magnificent Opera House with itsgilded dome glistening in the warm sunshine of a June afternoon, thebroad avenue directly opposite, leading in a splendid straight line tothe famous Palais Royal, the almost dazzling whiteness of the housesand monuments, the remarkable cleanliness and excellent condition ofthe sidewalks and streets, the gaiety and richness of the shops andrestaurants, the picturesque kiosks where they sold newspapers andflowers--all this made up a picture so utterly unlike anything he wasfamiliar with at home that Jefferson sat spellbound, delighted.

  Yes, it was true, he thought, the foreigner had indeed learned thesecret of enjoying life. There was assuredly something else in theworld beyond mere money-getting. His father was a slave to it, but hewould never be. He was resolved on that. Yet, with all his ideas ofemancipation and progress, Jefferson was a thoroughly practical youngman. He fully understood the value of money, and the possession of itwas as sweet to him as to other men. Only he would never soil his soulin acquiring it dishonourably. He was convinced that society as atpresent organized was all wrong and that the feudalism of the middleages had simply given place to a worse form of slavery--capitalisticdriven labour--which had resulted in the actual iniquitous conditions,the enriching of the rich and the impoverishment of the poor. He wasfamiliar with the socialistic doctrines of the day and had taken a keeninterest in this momentous question, this dream of a regeneratedmankind. He had read Karl Marx and other socialistic writers, and whilehis essentially practical mind could hardly approve all their programmefor reorganizing the State, some of which seemed to him utopian,extravagant and even undesirable, he realised that the socialisticmovement was growing rapidly all over the world and the day was not fardistant when in America, as to-day in Germany and France, it would be aformidable factor to reckon with.

  But until the socialistic millennium arrived and society wasreorganized, money, he admitted, would remain the lever of the world,the great stimulus to effort. Money supplied not only the necessitiesof life but also its luxuries, everything the material desire cravedfor, and so long as money had this magic purchasing power, so longwould men lie and cheat and rob and kill for its possession. Was lifeworth living without money? Could one travel and enjoy the gloriousspectacles Nature affords--the rolling ocean, the majestic mountains,the beautiful lakes, the noble rivers--without money? Could thebook-lover buy books, the art-lover purchase pictures? Could one havefine houses to live in, or all sorts of modern conveniences to add toone's comfort, without money? The philosophers declared contentment tobe happiness, arguing that the hod-carrier was likely to be happier inhis hut than the millionaire in his palace; but was not that mereanimal contentment, the happiness which knows no higher state, theignorance of one whose eyes have never been raised to the heights?

  No, Jefferson was no fool. He loved money for what pleasure,intellectual or physical, it could give him, but he would never allowmoney to dominate his life as his father had done. His father, he knewwell, was not a happy man, neither happy himself nor respected by theworld. He had toiled all his life to make his vast fortune and now hetoiled to take care of it. The galley slave led a life of luxuriousease compared with John Burkett Ryder. Baited by the yellow newspapersand magazines, investigated by State committees, dogged byprocess-servers, haunted by beggars, harassed by blackmailers,threatened by kidnappers, frustrated in his attempts to bestow charityby the cry "tainted money"--certainly the lot of the world's richestman was far from being an enviable one.

  That is why Jefferson had resolved to strike out for himself. He hadwarded off the golden yoke which his father proposed to put on hisshoulders, declining the lucrative position made for him in the EmpireTrading Company, and he had gone so far as to refuse also the privateincome his father offered to settle on him. He would earn his ownliving. A man who has his bread buttered for him seldom accomplishesanything he had said, and while his father had appeared to be angry atthis open opposition to his will, he was secretly pleased at his son'sgrit. Jefferson was thoroughly in earnest. If needs be, he would foregothe great fortune that awaited him rather than be forced intoquestionable business methods against which his whole manhood revolted.

  Jefferson Ryder felt strongly about these matters, and gave them morethought than would be expected of most young men with hisopportunities. In fact, he was unusually serious for his age. He wasnot yet thirty, but he had done a great deal of reading, and he took akeen interest in all the political and sociological questions of thehour. In personal appearance, he was the type of man that both men andwomen like--tall and athletic looking, with smooth face and clean-cutfeatures. He had the steel-blue eyes and the fighting jaw of hisfather, and when he smiled he displayed two even rows of very whiteteeth. He was popular with men, being manly, frank and cordial in hisrelations with them, and women admired him greatly, although they weresomewhat intimidated by his grave and serious manner. The truth wasthat he was rather diffident with women, largely owing to lack ofexperience with them.

  He had never felt the slightest inclination for business. He had theartistic temperament strongly developed, and his personal tastes hadlittle in common with Wall Street and its feverish stock manipulating.When he was younger, he had dreamed of a literary or art career. At onetime he had even thought of going on the stage. But it was to art thathe turned finally. From an early age he had shown considerable skill asa draughtsman, and later a two years' course at the Academy of Designconvinced him that this was his true vocation. He had begun byillustrating for the book publishers and for the magazines, meeting atfirst with the usual rebuffs and disappointments, but, refusing to bediscouraged, he had kept on and soon the tide turned. His drawingsbegan to be accepted. They appeared first in one magazine, then inanother, until one day, to his great joy, he received an order from animportant firm of publishers for six washdrawings to be used inillustrating a famous novel. This was the beginning of his realsuccess. His illustrations were talked about almost as much as thebook, and from that time on everything was easy. He was in great demandby the publishers, and very soon the young artist, who had begun hiscareer of independence on nothing a year so to speak, found himself ina handsomely appointed studio in Bryant Park, with more orders comingin than he could possibly fill, and enjoying an income of little lessthan $5,000 a year. The money was all the sweeter to Jefferson in thathe felt he had himself earned every cent of it. This summer he wasgiving himself a well-deserved vacation, and he had come to Europepartly to see Paris and the other art centres about which his fellowstudents at the Academy raved, but principally--although this he didnot acknowledge even to himself--to meet in Paris a young woman in whomhe was more than ordinarily interested--Shirley Rossmore, daughter ofJudge Rossmore, of the United States Supreme Court, who had come abroadto recuperate after the labours on her new novel, "The AmericanOctopus," a book which was then the talk of two hemispheres.

  Jefferson had read half a dozen reviews of it in as many Americanpapers that afternoon at t
he New York Herald's reading room in theAvenue de l'Opera, and he chuckled with glee as he thought howaccurately this young woman had described his father. The book had beenpublished under the pseudonym "Shirley Green," and he alone had beenadmitted into the secret of authorship. The critics all conceded thatit was the book of the year, and that it portrayed with a pitiless penthe personality of the biggest figure in the commercial life ofAmerica. "Although," wrote one reviewer, "the leading character in thebook is given another name, there can be no doubt that the authorintended to give to the world a vivid pen portrait of John BurkettRyder. She has succeeded in presenting a remarkable character-study ofthe most remarkable man of his time."

  He was particularly pleased with the reviews, not only for MissRossmore's sake, but also because his own vanity was gratified. Had henot collaborated on the book to the extent of acquainting the authorwith details of his father's life, and his characteristics, which nooutsider could possibly have learned? There had been no disloyalty tohis father in doing this. Jefferson admired his father's smartness, ifhe could not approve his methods. He did not consider the book anattack on his father, but rather a powerfully written pen picture of anextraordinary man.

  Jefferson had met Shirley Rossmore two years before at a meeting of theSchiller Society, a pseudo-literary organization gotten up by a lot ofold fogies for no useful purpose, and at whose monthly meetings thepoet who gave the society its name was probably the last person to bediscussed. He had gone out of curiosity, anxious to take in all thefreak shows New York had to offer, and he had been introduced to a tallgirl with a pale, thoughtful face and firm mouth. She was a writer,Miss Rossmore told him, and this was her first visit also to theevening receptions of the Schiller Society. Half apologetically sheadded that it was likely to be her last, for, frankly, she was bored todeath. But she explained that she had to go to these affairs, as shefound them useful in gathering material for literary use. She studiedtypes and eccentric characters, and this seemed to her a capitalhunting ground. Jefferson, who, as a rule, was timid with girls andavoided them, found this girl quite unlike the others he had known. Herquiet, forceful demeanour appealed to him strongly, and he lingeredwith her, chatting about his work, which had so many interests incommon with her own, until refreshments were served, when the affairbroke up. This first meeting had been followed by a call at theRossmore residence, and the acquaintance had kept up until Jefferson,for the first time since he came to manhood, was surprised and somewhatalarmed at finding himself strangely and unduly interested in a personof the opposite sex.

  The young artist's courteous manner, his serious outlook on life, hishigh moral principles, so rarely met with nowadays in young men of hisage and class, could hardly fail to appeal to Shirley, whose ideals ofmen had been somewhat rudely shattered by those she had hitherto met.Above all, she demanded in a man the refinement of the true gentleman,together with strength of character and personal courage. ThatJefferson Ryder came up to this standard she was soon convinced. He wascertainly a gentleman: his views on a hundred topics of the hourexpressed in numerous conversations assured her as to his principles,while a glance at his powerful physique left no doubt possible as tohis courage. She rightly guessed that this was no poseur trying to makean impression and gain her confidence. There was an unmistakable ringof sincerity in all his words, and his struggle at home with hisfather, and his subsequent brave and successful fight for his ownindependence and self-respect, more than substantiated all hertheories. And the more Shirley let her mind dwell on Jefferson Ryderand his blue eyes and serious manner, the more conscious she becamethat the artist was encroaching more upon her thoughts and time thanwas good either for her work or for herself.

  So their casual acquaintance grew into a real friendship andcomradeship. Further than that Shirley promised herself it should nevergo. Not that Jefferson had given her the slightest hint that heentertained the idea of making her his wife one day, only she wassophisticated enough to know the direction in which run the minds ofmen who are abnormally interested in one girl, and long before thisShirley had made up her mind that she would never marry. Firstly, shewas devoted to her father and could not bear the thought of everleaving him; secondly, she was fascinated by her literary work and shewas practical enough to know that matrimony, with its visions ofslippers and cradles, would be fatal to any ambition of that kind. Sheliked Jefferson immensely--more, perhaps, than any man she had yetmet--and she did not think any the less of him because of her resolvenot to get entangled in the meshes of Cupid. In any case he had notasked her to marry him--perhaps the idea was far from his thoughts.Meantime, she could enjoy his friendship freely without fear ofembarrassing entanglements.

  When, therefore, she first conceived the idea of portraying in theguise of fiction the personality of John Burkett Ryder, the Colossus offinance whose vast and ever-increasing fortune was fast becoming apublic nuisance, she naturally turned to Jefferson for assistance. Shewanted to write a book that would be talked about, and which at thesame time would open the eyes of the public to this growing peril intheir midst--this monster of insensate and unscrupulous greed who, bysheer weight of his ill-gotten gold, was corrupting legislators andjudges and trying to enslave the nation. The book, she argued, wouldperform a public service in awakening all to the common danger.Jefferson fully entered into her views and had furnished her with theinformation regarding his father that she deemed of value. The book hadproven a success beyond their most sanguine expectations, and Shirleyhad come to Europe for a rest after the many weary months of work thatit took to write it.

  The acquaintance of his son with the daughter of Judge Rossmore had notescaped the eagle eye of Ryder, Sr., and much to the financier'sannoyance, and even consternation, he had ascertained that Jeffersonwas a frequent caller at the Rossmore home. He immediately jumped tothe conclusion that this could mean only one thing, and fearing what hetermed "the consequences of the insanity of immature minds," he hadsummoned Jefferson peremptorily to his presence. He told his son thatall idea of marriage in that quarter was out of the question for tworeasons: One was that Judge Rossmore was his most bitter enemy, theother was that he had hoped to see his son, his destined successor,marry a woman of whom he, Ryder, Sr., could approve. He knew of such awoman, one who would make a far more desirable mate than Miss Rossmore.He alluded, of course, to Kate Roberts, the pretty daughter of his oldfriend, the Senator. The family interests would benefit by thisalliance, which was desirable from every point of view. Jefferson hadlistened respectfully until his father had finished and then grimlyremarked that only one point of view had been overlooked--his own. Hedid not care for Miss Roberts; he did not think she really cared forhim. The marriage was out of the question. Whereupon Ryder, Sr., hadfumed and raged, declaring that Jefferson was opposing his will as healways did, and ending with the threat that if his son married ShirleyRossmore without his consent he would disinherit him.

  Jefferson was cogitating on these incidents of the last few months whensuddenly a feminine voice which he quickly recognised called out inEnglish:

  "Hello! Mr. Ryder."

  He looked up and saw two ladies, one young, the other middle aged,smiling at him from an open fiacre which had drawn up to the curb.Jefferson jumped from his seat, upsetting his chair and startling twonervous Frenchmen in his hurry, and hastened out, hat in hand.

  "Why, Miss Rossmore, what are you doing out driving?" he asked. "Youknow you and Mrs. Blake promised to dine with me to-night. I was cominground to the hotel in a few moments."

  Mrs. Blake was a younger sister of Shirley's mother. Her husband haddied a few years previously, leaving her a small income, and when shehad heard of her niece's contemplated trip to Europe she had decided tocome to Paris to meet her and incidentally to chaperone her. The twowomen were stopping at the Grand Hotel close by, while Jefferson hadfound accommodations at the Athenee.

  Shirley explained. Her aunt wanted to go to the dressmaker's, and sheherself was most anxious to go to the Luxembourg Gardens to hear th
emusic. Would he take her? Then they could meet Mrs. Blake at the hotelat seven o'clock and all go to dinner. Was he willing?

  Was he? Jefferson's face fairly glowed. He ran back to his table on theterrasse to settle for his Vermouth, astonished the waiter by notstopping to notice the short change he gave him, and rushed back to thecarriage.

  A dirty little Italian girl, shrewd enough to note the young man'sattention to the younger of the American women, wheedled up to thecarriage and thrust a bunch of flowers in Jefferson's face.

  "Achetez des fleurs, monsieur, pour la jolie dame?"

  Down went Jefferson's hand in his pocket and, filling the child's handwith small silver, he flung the flowers in the carriage. Then he turnedinquiringly to Shirley for instructions so he could direct the cocher.Mrs. Blake said she would get out here. Her dressmaker was close by, inthe Rue Auber, and she would walk back to the hotel to meet them atseven o'clock. Jefferson assisted her to alight and escorted her as faras the porte-cochere of the modiste's, a couple of doors away. When hereturned to the carriage, Shirley had already told the coachman whereto go. He got in and the fiacre started.

  "Now," said Shirley, "tell me what you have been doing with yourselfall day."

  Jefferson was busily arranging the faded carriage rug about Shirley,spending more time in the task perhaps than was absolutely necessary,and she had to repeat the question.

  "Doing?" he echoed with a smile, "I've been doing two things--waitingimpatiently for seven o'clock and incidentally reading the notices ofyour book."