When I began to build my palace in New York City, in Fifth Avenue near
Fifty-ninth Street, I intended it to be the seat of my family for
many generations. My architect obeyed my orders and planned the most
imposing residence in the city; but, before it was finished--indeed,
before we had any considerable amount of furniture collected for it--no
less than seven palaces were under way, each excelling mine in every
respect--in extent, in costliness of site and structure, in taste, and
in spaciousness of interior arrangement. This was mortifying, for it
warned me that within a few years my palace would be completely, even
absurdly, in eclipse, for it would stand among towering flat-houses
and hotels--a second-class neighbourhood.
But, irritating and expensive though the lesson was, it was of
inestimable value to me with my ability to see and to profit. It taught
me my own ignorance and so set me to educating myself in matters most
important to the dignity of my family line. Also it taught me how I
was underestimating New York and its expansive power, and therefore
the expansive power of the whole country. I began to acquire large
amounts of real estate which have already vindicated my judgment; and
I made bolder and more sweeping moves in my industrial and railway
developments--those moves that have frightened many of my associates.
Naturally, to the short-sighted, the far-sighted seem visionary. A man
may stake his soul, or even his life, on something beyond his vision,
and therefore, to him, visionary; but he won’t stake enough of his
money in it seriously to impair his fortune if he loses. That’s why
large success is only for the far-sighted.
While I was debating the palace problem, along came the craze for
country establishments near New York--palaces set in the midst of
parks. I was suspicious of this apparently serious movement among
the people of my class, for I knew that at bottom we Americans of
all classes are a show-off people--that is, are human. Only the city
can furnish the crowd we want as a background for our prosperity and
as spectators of it; we are not content with the gaping of a few
undiscriminating, dull hayseeds. We like intelligent gaping--the kind
that can come pretty near to putting the price-marks on houses, jewels,
and dresses. We’d put them there ourselves, even the most “refined”
of us, if custom, made, by the way, by the poor people with their
so-called culture, did not forbid it. So, though I was too good a judge
of business matters to have much faith in the country-house movement, I
bought “Ocean Farm” and planned my house there on a vast scale. It is,
as a little study of it will reveal, ingeniously arranged, so that, if
the country-seat fashion shall ever revive, it can be expanded without
upsetting proportions, and splendid improvements can easily be made in
the handsome, five-hundred-acre park which surrounds it.
But just as I was taking up the problem of an establishment for Walter,
the shrewdness of my doubts about the country began to appear. I
had been investing in real estate in and near upper Fifth Avenue; I
determined to build myself a new palace there that would be monumental.
It will never be possible for a private establishment in New York to
cover more surface than a block, so I fixed on and bought the entire
block between ---- and ---- Streets and Fifth and Madison Avenues. Then
I ordered my architect to drop everything else and spend a year abroad
in careful study of the great houses of Europe, both old and new. This
detailing of a distinguished architect for a year might seem to be an
extravagance; in fact, it was one of those wise economies which are
peculiarly characteristic of me.
Money spent upon getting the best possible in the best possible way is
never extravagance. People incapable of thinking in large sums do not
see that to lay out five millions economically one must adopt methods
proportionately broader than those one would use in laying out five
thousand or five hundred thousand to the best advantage. It has cost me
hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions, to learn that lesson.
I sent a man from my office along with my architect to act as an
auditor for his expense accounts, and to see that he did his work
conscientiously and did not use my money and my purchase of his time
in junketing “_au grand prince_.” In addition to planning the palace,
he was to settle upon interior decorations and to buy pictures,
tapestries, carvings, furniture, etc., etc.--of course, making no
important purchases without consulting me by cable. I believe he never
did a harder year’s work in his life--and I’m not easily convinced as
to what I haven’t seen with my own eyes.
When he came home and submitted the results of his tour, I myself took
them abroad and went over them with the authorities on architecture and
decoration in Paris. It was two years before the final plan was ready
for execution. In those two years I had learned much--so much that
my palace near Fifty-ninth Street, which I had imagined the acme of
art and splendour when I accepted its final plans, had become to me an
intolerable flaunting of ignorance and tawdriness. I had intended still
to retain it as the hereditary residence for the heirs-apparent of my
line, and, when they should succeed to the headship of the family,
the so-to-speak dowager-residence. But my education had made this
impossible. I was impatient for the moment to arrive when I could sell
it, or tear it down, and put in place of it a flat-house for people of
moderate wealth, or a first-class hotel.
Three years and a half from the sailing of my architect in quest of
ideas I took possession of the completed palace. First and last I had
spent nearly five millions and a half upon it; I was well content with
the result. Nor has the envious chatter of alleged critics in this
country disturbed me. There will be scores of houses as costly, and
many as imposing, before fifty years have passed; but, until there is a
revolution in the art of building, there will be none more dignified,
more conspicuous, or more creditable. I flatter myself that, as money
is spent, I got at least two dollars of value for every dollar I paid
out. I wished to build for the centuries, and I am confident that I
have accomplished my purpose. Only an earthquake or a rain of ruin from
the sky or a flood of riot can overthrow my handiwork.
But to go back a little. Just as we were about to move, my wife and
Ridley died within a few days of each other. At first these deaths were
a severe shock to me, as, aside from the sad, yet after all inevitable,
parting, there was the prospect of the complete disarrangement of my
domestic plans, and at a highly inconvenient moment. But, thanks to my
unfailing luck, my fears proved groundless. Helen came splendidly to
the rescue and displayed at once an executive ability that more than
filled the gap. My plans for the change of residence, for the expansion
of the establishment, and for my own comfort--everything went forward
smoothly, far more smoothly than I had hoped when my wife and Ridley
were alive and part of my calculation.
At first blush it may seem rather startling, but I missed poor old
Ridley far more than I missed my wife. A moment’s consideration,
however, will show that this was neither strange nor unnatural. For
twenty years he was my constant companion whenever I was not at work
down-town. During those twenty years I had seen little of my wife
except in the presence of others, usually some of them not members of
my family. Whenever we were alone, it was for the despatch of more or
less disagreeable business. She had her staff of servants, I mine; she
had her interests, I mine. Wherever our interests met, they clashed.
I think she was a thoroughly unhappy woman--as every woman must be
who does not keep to the privacy and peace of the home. I looked at
her after she had been dead a few hours, and was impressed by the
unusualness of the tranquillity of her face. It vividly recalled her
in the days when we lived in the little house in the side street away
down-town and talked over our business and domestic affairs every night
before going to sleep. After the first few years and until almost the
end she was a great trial to me. But I have no resentment. Indeed, now
that she is gone I feel inclined to concede that she was not so much to
blame as are these absurd social conditions that tempt women to yield
to their natural folly and give them power to harass and hamper men.
I’m inclined to despair of marriage, at least so far as we of the
upper and dominating, and example-setting, class are concerned. With
us what basis of common interest is there left between husband and
wife? He has his large business affairs which wholly absorb him, which
do not interest her--indeed, which he would on no account permit her
small, uninformed mind to meddle in. With all his energy and all his
intelligence enlisted elsewhere, what time or interest has he for home
and wife? And to her he seems dull, an infliction and a bore. Nor
has she any interest at home--governesses, a housekeeper, an army of
servants do her work for her. So far as I can see, except as a means
whereby a woman may disport herself in mischief-breeding luxury and
laziness, marriage has no rational excuse for persisting.
It was with genuine regret that I was compelled to deny my wife’s last
request. I say “deny,” but I was, of course, far too generous and
considerate to torment her in her last moments. When she made up her
mind that the doctors and nurses were deceiving her and that she wasn’t
to get well, she asked for me. When we were alone, she said: “James, I
wish to see our son--I wish _you_ to send for him.”
I did not pretend to misunderstand her. I knew she meant James. As
she was very feeble, and barely conscious, she was in no condition to
decide for herself. It was a time for me to be gentle; but there is
never a time for weakness. “Yes,” I said, humouring her, “I will have
him sent for.”
“I wish _you_ to send for him, James,” she insisted; “send right away.”
“Very well,” said I, “I’ll send for him.” And I rose as if to obey.
“Don’t go just yet,” she went on; “there’s something more.”
I sat in silence so long that I began to think she was asleep or
unconscious. But finally she spoke: “I got Walter’s permission this
morning. James, if I tell you of a great wrong he has done, a very
great wrong, will you forgive him for my sake?”