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Trumps: A Novel, a novel by George William Curtis |
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Chapter 16. Philosophy |
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_ CHAPTER XVI. PHILOSOPHY Abel Newt believed in his lucky star. He had managed Uncle Savory--couldn't he manage the world? "My son," said Mr. Boniface Newt, "you are now about to begin the world." (Begin? thought Abel.) "You are now coming into my house as a merchant. In this world we must do the best we can. It is a great pity that men are not considerate, and all that. But they are not. They are selfish. You must take them as you find them. You, my son, think they are all honest and good."--Do I? quoth son, in his soul.--"It is the bitter task of experience to undeceive youth from its romantic dreams. As a rule, Abel, men are rascals; that is to say, they pursue their own interests. How sad! True; how sad! Where was I? Oh! men are scamps--with some exceptions; but you must go by the rule. Life is a scrub-race--melancholy, Abel, but true. I talk plainly to you, but I do it for your good. If we were all angels, things would be different. If this were the Millennium, every thing would doubtless be agreeable to every body. But it is not--how very sad! True, how very sad! Where was I? Oh! it's all devil take the hindmost. And because your neighbors are dishonest, why should you starve? You see, Abel?" It was in Mr. Boniface Newt's counting-room that he preached this gospel. A boy entered and announced that Mr. Hadley was outside looking at some cases of dry goods. "Now, Abel," said his father, "I'll return in a moment." He stepped out, smiling and rubbing his hands. Mr. Hadley was stooping over a case of calicoes; Blackstone, Hadley, & Merrimack--no safer purchasers in the world. The countenance of Boniface Newt beamed upon the customer as if he saw good notes at six months exuding from every part of his person. "Good-morning, Mr. Hadley. Charming morning, Sir--beautiful day, Sir. What's the word this morning, Sir?" "Nothing, nothing," returned the customer. "Pretty print that. Just what I've been looking for" (renewed rubbing of hands on the part of Mr. Newt)--"very pretty. If it's the right width, it's just the thing. Let me see--that's about seven-eighths." He shook his head negatively. "No, not wide enough. If that print were a yard wide, I should take all you have." "Oh, that's a yard," replied Mr. Newt; "certainly a full yard." He looked around inquiringly, as if for a yard-stick. "Where is the yard-stick?" asked Mr. Hadley. "Timothy!" said Mr. Newt to the boy, with a peculiar look. The boy disappeared and reappeared with a yard-stick, while Mr. Newt's face underwent a series of expressions of subdued anger and disgust. "Now, then," said Mr. Hadley, laying the yard-stick upon the calicoes; "yes, as I thought, seven-eighths; too narrow--sorry." There were thirty cases of those goods in the loft. Boniface Newt groaned in soul. The unconscious small boy, who had not understood the peculiar look, and had brought the yard-stick, stood by. "Mr. Newt," said Hadley, stopping at another case, "that is very handsome." "Very, very; and that is the last case." "You have no other cases?" "No." "Oh! well, send it round at once; for I am sure--" "Mr. Newt," said the unconscious boy, smiling with the satisfaction of one who is able to correct an error, "you are mistaken, Sir. There are a dozen more cases just like that up stairs." "Ah! then I don't care about it," said Mr. Hadley, passing on. The head of the large commission-house of Boniface Newt & Co. looked upon the point of apoplexy. "Good-morning, Mr. Newt; sorry that I see nothing farther," said Mr. Hadley, and he went out. Mr. Newt turned fiercely to the unconscious boy. "What do you mean, Sir, by saying and doing such things?" asked he, sharply. "What things, Sir?" demanded the appalled boy. "Why, getting the yard-stick when I winked to you not to find it, and telling of other cases when I said that one was the last." "Why, Sir, because it wasn't the last," said the boy. "For business purposes it was the last, Sir," replied Mr. Newt. "You don't know the first principles of business. The tongue is always the mischief-maker. Hold your tongue, Sir, hold your tongue, or you'll lose your place, Sir." Mr. Boniface Newt, ruffled and red, went into his office, where he found Abel reading the newspaper and smoking a cigar. The clerks outside were pale at the audacity, of Newt, Jun. The young man was dressed extremely well. He had improved the few weeks of his residence in the city by visits to Frost the tailor, in Maiden Lane; and had sent his measure to Forr, the bootmaker in Paris, artists who turned out the prettiest figures that decorated the Broadway of those days. Mr. Abel Newt, to his father's eyes, had the air of a man of superb leisure; and as he sat reading the paper, with one leg thrown over the arm of the office-chair, and the smoke languidly curling from his lips, Mr. Boniface Newt felt profoundly, but vaguely, uncomfortable, as if he had some slight prescience of a future of indolence for the hope of the house of Newt. As his father entered, Mr. Abel dropped by his side the hand still holding the newspaper, and, without removing the cigar, said, through the cloud of smoke he blew, "Father, you were imparting your philosophy of life." The older gentleman, somewhat discomposed, answered, "Yes, I was saying what a pity it is that men are such d----d rascals, because they force every body else to be so too. But what can you do? It's all very fine to talk, but we've got to live. I sha'n't be such an ass as to run into the street and say, 'I gave ten cents a yard for those goods, but you must pay me twenty.' Not at all. It's other men's business to find that out if they can. It's a great game, business is, and the smartest chap wins. Every body knows we are going to get the largest price we can. People are gouging, and shinning, and sucking all round. It's give and take. I am not here to look out for other men, I'm here to take care of myself--for nobody else will. It's very sad, I know; it's very sad, indeed. It's absolutely melancholy. Ah, yes! where was I? Oh! I was saying that a lie well stuck to is better than the truth wavering. It's perfectly dreadful, my son, from some points of view--Christianity, for instance. But what on earth are you going to do? The only happy people are the rich people, for they don't have this eternal bother how to make money. Don't misunderstand me, my son; I do not say that you must always tell stories. Heaven forbid! But a man is not bound always to tell the whole truth. The very law itself says that no man need give evidence against himself. Besides, business is no worse than every other calling. Do you suppose a lawyer never defends a man whom he knows to be guilty? He says he does it to give the culprit a fair trial. Fiddle-de-dee! He strains every nerve to get the man off. A lawyer is hired to take the side of a company or a corporation in every quarrel. He's paid by the year or by the case. He probably stops to consider whether his company is right, doesn't he? he works for justice, not for victory? Oh, yes! stuff! He works for fees. What's the meaning of a retainer? That if, upon examination, the lawyer finds the retaining party to be in the right, he will undertake the case? Fiddle! no! but that he will undertake the case any how and fight it through. So 'tis all round. I wish I was rich, and I'd be out of it." Mr. Boniface Newt discoursed warmly; Mr. Abel Newt listened with extreme coolness. He whiffed his cigar, and leaned his head on one side as he hearkened to the wisdom of experience; observing that his father put his practice into words and called it philosophy. _ |
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