It was the opinion of a good many people that Charles Millard was
"something of a dude." But such terms are merely relative; every fairly
dressed man is a dude to somebody. There are communities in this free
land of ours in which the wearing of a coat at dinner is a most
disreputable mark of dudism.
That Charles Millard was accounted a dude was partly Nature's fault. If
not handsome, he was at least fine-looking, and what connoisseurs in
human exteriors call stylish. Put him into a shad-bellied drab and he
would still have retained traces of dudishness; a Chatham street outfit
could hardly have unduded him. With eyes so luminous and expressive in a
face so masculine, with shoulders so well carried, a chest so deep, and
legs so perfectly proportioned and so free from any deviation from the
true line of support, Millard had temptations to cultivate natural
gifts.
There was a notion prevalent among Millard's acquaintances that one so
versed in the lore and so deft in the arts of society must belong to a
family of long standing; the opinion was held, indeed, by pretty much
everybody except Millard himself. His acquaintance with people of
distinction, and his ready access to whatever was deemed desirable in
New York, were thought to indicate some hereditary patent to social
privilege. Millard had, indeed, lines of ancestors as long as the
longest, and, so far as they could be traced, his forefathers were
honest and industrious people, mostly farmers. Nor were they without
distinction: one of his grandfathers enjoyed for years the felicity of
writing "J. P." after his name; another is remembered as an elder in the
little Dutch Reformed Church at Hamburg Four Corners. But Charley
Millard did not boast of these lights of his family, who would hardly
have availed him in New York. Nor did he boast of anything, indeed; his
taste was too fastidious for self-assertion of the barefaced sort. But
if people persisted in fitting him out with an imaginary pedigree, just
to please their own sense of congruity, why should he feel obliged to
object to an amusement so harmless?
Charles Millard was the son of a farmer who lived near the village of
Cappadocia in the State of New York. When Charley was but twelve years
old his father sold his farm and then held what was called in the
country a "vendoo," at which he sold "by public outcry" his horses,
cows, plows, and pigs. With his capital thus released he bought a
miscellaneous store in the village, in order that his boys "might have a
better chance in the world." This change was brought about by the
discovery on the part of Charley's father that his brother, a
commission merchant in New York, "made more in a week than a farmer
could make in a year." From this time Charley, when not in school,
busied himself behind the counter, or in sweeping out the store, with no
other feeling than that sweeping store, measuring calico, and drawing
molasses were employments more congenial to his tastes and less hard on
good clothes than hoeing potatoes or picking hops. Two years after his
removal to the village the father of Charley Millard died, and the
store, which had not been very successful, was sold to another. Charley
left the counter to take a course in the high school, doing odd jobs in
the mean while.
When young Millard was eighteen years old he came into what was a great
fortune in village eyes. His father's more fortunate brother, who had
amassed money as a dealer in country produce in Washington street, New
York, died, leaving the profits of all his years of toil over eggs and
butter, Bermuda potatoes and baskets of early tomatoes, to his two
nephews, Charley Millard and Charley's elder brother, Richard. After the
lawyers, the surrogate, the executor, and the others had taken each his
due allowance out of it, there may have been fifty or seventy-five
thousand dollars apiece left for the two young men. Just how much it was
the village people never knew, for Charley was not prone to talk of his
own affairs, and Dick spent his share before he fairly had time to
calculate what it amounted to. When Richard had seen the last of his
money, and found himself troubled by small debts, he simplified matters
by executing a "mysterious disappearance," dropping out of sight of his
old associates as effectually as though he had slipped into some
cosmical crack. Charley, though nominally subject to a guardian, managed
his own affairs, husbanded his money, paid Dick's debts, and contrived
to take up the bank stock and other profitable securities that his
brother had hypothecated. He lived with his mother till she died, and
then he found himself at twenty-one with money enough to keep him at
ease, and with no family duty but that which his mother had laid upon
him of finding the recreant Dick if possible, and helping him to some
reputable employment--again if possible.
In Cappadocia Charley's little fortune made him the beau of the town;
the "great catch," in the slang phrase of the little society of the
village--a society in which there were no events worth reckoning but
betrothals and weddings. In such a place leisure is productive of little
except ennui. To get some relief from the fatigue of moving around a
circle so small, and to look after his investments, Charley made a visit
to New York a month after the death of his mother. His affection for his
mother was too fresh for him to neglect her sister, who was the wife of
a mechanic living in Avenue C. He would have preferred to go to a hotel,
but he took up his abode dutifully in his aunt's half of a floor in
Avenue C, where the family compressed themselves into more than their
usual density to give him a very small room to himself. His Aunt Hannah
did her best to make him comfortable, preparing for him the first day a
clam chowder, which delicacy Charley, being an inlander, could not eat.
His cup of green tea she took pains to serve to him hot from the stove
at his elbow. But he won the affection of the children with little
presents, and made his aunt happy by letting her take him to see Central
Park and the animals.
As seen in the narrow apartment of his Aunt Hannah Martin, life in the
metropolis appeared vastly more pinched and sordid than it did in the
cottages at Cappadocia. How the family contrived to endure living in
relations so constant and intimate with the cooking stove and the
feather beds Charley could not understand. But the spectacle of the
streets brought to him notions of a life greatly broader and more
cultivated and inconceivably more luxurious than the best in Cappadocia.
The third day after his arrival he called at the Bank of Manhadoes, in
which the greater part of his uncle's savings had been invested, to make
the acquaintance of the officers in control, and to have transferred to
his own name the shares which his brother had hypothecated. He was very
cordially received by Farnsworth, the cashier, who took him into the
inner office and introduced him to the president of the bank, Mr.
Masters. The president showed Charley marked attention; he was very
sensible of the voting importance of so considerable a block of stock as
Charley held, now that he had acquired all that was his uncle's. Masters
was sorry that his family was out of town, he would have been pleased to
have Mr. Millard dine with him. Would Mr. Millard be in town long?
Dining with a New York bank president would have been a novel
experience for young Millard, but he felt obliged to go home the last of
the week. Not that there was anything of pleasure or duty to render his
return to Cappadocia imperative or desirable, but the pressure he was
daily putting on his aunt's hospitality was too great to be prolonged,
and the discomfort of his situation in Avenue C was too much for a
fastidious man to endure.
Though his return to Cappadocia made a ripple of talk among the young
women of the village, to whom he was at least a most interesting theme
for gossip, he found the place duller than ever. His mind reverted to
the great, dazzling spectacle of the thronged streets of the metropolis,
with their unceasing processions of eager people. Since he had all the
world to choose from, why not live in New York? But he did not care to
go to the city to be idle. He liked employment, and he preferred to earn
something, though he had no relish for speculation, nor even any desire
to run the risks of trade. But he thought that if he could contrive to
make enough to pay a portion of his own expenses, so as to add the
greater part of each year's dividends to his principal, such cautious
proceeding would entirely suit his prudent temperament and content his
moderate ambition. After taking time to revolve the matter carefully, he
wrote to the obliging Mr. Masters, suggesting that he would like to
secure some position in the bank. The letter came at an opportune
moment. A considerable number of the stockholders were opposed to the
president in regard to the general policy to be pursued. The opposition
was strong enough to give Masters some anxiety. What was known as "the
Millard stock" had been held neutral in consequence of Charley's
minority. If now Masters could attach this young shareholder to himself,
it would be a positive gain to the administration party in the
stockholders' meetings, and indeed it would put the opposition beyond
any chance of doing much mischief.
When Masters got the letter Farnsworth, the cashier, was called into his
room. But Farnsworth could not give him any information about Millard's
character or capacities. That he would not do without special training
for a teller or bookkeeper was too evident to require discussion. All
that could be said of him at first glance was that he wrote a good hand
and composed a letter with intelligence. He might be made of assistance
to the cashier if he should prove to be a man of regular habits and
application. What Masters wrote in reply was: "We should be most happy
to have the nephew and heir of one of our founders in the bank. At
present we have no vacancy suitable to you; for, of course, a man of
your position ought not to be assigned to one of the lowest clerkships.
But if an opportunity to meet your wishes should arise in the future we
will let you know."
It was only after some years' experience in the bank that Millard, in
looking over this letter, was able to conjecture its real significance.
Then he knew that when that letter went out of the bank addressed to him
at Cappadocia another must have gone with it to a certain commercial
agency, requesting that Charles Millard, of Cappadocia, New York, be
carefully looked up. Two weeks later Masters wrote that it had been
found necessary to employ a correspondent to aid the cashier of the
bank. The salary would be two thousand dollars if Mr. Millard would
accept it. The offer, he added, was rather larger than would be made to
any one else, as the officers of the bank preferred to have a
stockholder in a semi-confidential position such as this would be. In
village scales two thousand dollars a year was much, but when Charley
came to foot up the expenses of his first year in New York, this salary
seemed somewhat less munificent.
Millard's relations were directly with the cashier, Farnsworth, an
eager, pushing, asthmatic little man, wholly given to business.
Farnsworth's mind rarely took time to peep over the fence that divided
the universe into two parts--the Bank of Manhadoes and its interests
lying on the one side, and all the rest of creation on the other. Not
that he ignored society; he gave dinner parties in his elegant
housekeeping apartment in the Sebastopol Flats. But the dinner parties
all had reference to the Bank of Manhadoes; the invitations were all
calculated with reference to business relations, and the dinners were
neatly planned to bring new business or to hold the old. But there were
dinners and dinners, in the estimation of Farnsworth. Some were aimed
high, and when these master-strokes of policy were successful they
tended to promote the main purposes of the bank. The second-rate dinners
were meant merely to smooth the way in minor business relations.
It was to one of these less significant entertainments, a dinner of not
more than three horse-power, that he invited his correspondent-clerk,
Mr. Millard. It would make the relations between him and Millard
smoother, and serve to attach Millard to his leadership in the bank
management. Millard, he reasoned, being from the country, would be just
as well pleased with a company made up of nobodies in particular and his
wife's relatives as he could be if he were invited to meet a railway
president and a leather merchant from the swamp turned art connoisseur
in his old age.
Charley found his boarding-house a little "poky," to borrow his own
phrase, and he was pleased with Farnsworth's invitation. He honored the
occasion by the purchase of a new black satin cravat. This he tied with
extreme care, according to the approved formula of "twice around and up
and down." Few men could tie a cravat in better style. He also got out
the new frock-coat, made by the best tailor in Cappadocia, carefully
cherished, and only worn on special occasions--the last being the
evening on which he had taken supper at the house of the Baptist
minister. If there was something slightly rustic about the cut or set of
the coat, Millard did not suspect it. The only indispensable thing about
clothes is that the wearer shall be at peace with them. Poor Richard
ventured the proposition that "our neighbors' eyes" are the costliest
things in life, but Bonhomme Richard may have been a little off the mark
just there. Other people's opinions about my garments are of small
consequence except in so far as they affect my own conceit of them.
Charley Millard issued from his room at half-past six content with
himself, and, what was of much more importance to the peace of his
soul, content with his clothes.
At eleven o'clock Millard is in his room again. The broadcloth Prince
Albert lies in an ignominious heap in the corner of the sofa. The satin
cravat is against the looking-glass on the dressing-case, just as
Charley has thrown it down. Nothing has happened to the coat or the
cravat; both are as immaculate as at their sallying forth. But Millard
does not regard either of them; he sits moodily in his chair by the
grate and postpones to the latest moment the disagreeable task of
putting them away.
No matter what the subject under consideration, we later
nineteenth-century people are pretty sure to be brought face to face
with the intellect that has dominated our age, modified our modes of
thinking, and become the main source of all our metaphysical
discomforts. It is this same inevitable Charles Darwin who says that a
man may be made more unhappy by committing a breach of etiquette than by
falling into sin. If Millard had embezzled a thousand dollars of the
bank's funds, could he have been more remorseful than he is now? And all
for nothing but that he found himself at dinner with more cloth in the
tail of his coat than there was in the coattails of his neighbors, and
that he wore an expensive black cravat while all the rest of the world
had on ghostly white linen ties that cost but a dime or two apiece.
Of course Millard exaggerated the importance of his mistake. Young men
who wear frock-coats to dinner, and men of respectability who do not
possess a dress-coat, are not entirely lacking in New York. If he had
known more of the world he would have known that the world is to be
taken less to heart. People are always more lenient toward a mistake in
etiquette than the perspiring culprit is able to imagine them. In after
years Millard smiled at the remembrance that he had worried over
Farnsworth's company. It was not worth the trouble of a dress-coat.
His first impulse was to forswear society, and to escape mortification
in future, by refusing all invitations. If he had been a weakling such
an outcome would have followed a false start. It is only a man who can
pluck the blossom of success out of the very bramble of disaster.
During that dinner party had come to him a dim conception of a society
complicated and conventional to a degree that the upper circle in
Cappadocia had never dreamed of. He firmly resolved now to know this in
all its ramifications; to get the mastery of it in all its details, so
that no man should understand it better than he. To put it under foot by
superior skill was to be his revenge, the satisfaction he proposed to
make to his wounded vanity. As he could not even faintly conceive what
New York society was like--as he had no notion of its Pelions on Ossas
piled--so he could as yet form no estimate of the magnitude of the
success he was destined to achieve. It is always thus with a man on the
threshold of a great career.
Among the widely varying definitions of genius in vogue, everybody is
permitted to adopt that which flatters his self-love or serves his
immediate purpose. "Great powers accidentally determined in a given
direction" is what some one has called it. Millard was hardly a man of
great powers, but he was a man of no small intelligence. If he had been
sufficiently bedeviled by poverty at the outset who knows that he might
not have hardened into a stock-jobbing prestidigitator, and made the
world the poorer by so much as he was the richer? On the other hand, he
might perhaps have been a poet. Certainly a man of his temperament and
ingenuity might by practice have come to write rondeaus, ballades, and
those other sorts of soap-bubble verse just now in fashion; and if he
had been so lucky as to be disappointed in love at the outset of his
career, it is quite within the limits of possibility that he should have
come to write real poetry, fourteen lines to the piece. But as the first
great reverse of Millard's life was in a matter of dress and etiquette,
the innate force of his nature sent him by mere rebound in the direction
of a man of fashion--that is to say, an artist not in words or pigments,
but in dress and manners.