Mr. Adolf Reiss, merchant, sits alone on a gloomy December afternoon.
He gazes into the fire with jaundiced eyes reflecting on his grievance
against Life. The room is furnished expensively but arranged without
taste, and it completely lacks home atmosphere. Mr. Reiss’s room is,
like himself, uncomfortable. The walls are covered with pictures, but
their effect is unpleasing; perhaps this is because they were bought
by him as reputed bargains, sometimes at forced sales of bankrupt
acquaintances Making and thinking about money has not left Mr. Reiss
time to consider comfort, but for Art, in the form of pictures and
other saleable commodities, he has a certain respect. Such things if
bought judiciously have been known to increase in value in the most
extraordinary manner, and as this generally happens long after their
creators are dead, he leaves living artists severely alone. The essence
of successful speculation is to limit your liability.
Mr. Reiss is a short, stoutish, ungainly man past seventy, and he suffers
from chronic indigestion. He is one of those people of whom it is
difficult to believe that they ever were young.
But it is not on account of these disadvantages that Mr. Reiss considers
himself ill treated by Fate. It is because since the War he regards
himself as a ruined man. Half his fortune remains; but Mr. Reiss, though
he hates the rich, despises the merely well-off. Of a man whose income
would generally be considered wealth he says, “Bah! He hasn’t a penny.”
Below this level every one is “a pauper”; now he rather envies such
pitiable people because “they’ve got nothing to lose.” His philosophy
of life is simple to grasp, and he can never understand why so many
people refuse to accept it. If they did, he thinks that the world would
not be such an unpleasant place to live in. Life in his opinion is
simply a fight for money. All the trouble in the world is caused by
the want of it, all the happiness man requires can be purchased with
it. Those who think the contrary are fools, and if they go to the length
of professing indifference to money they are “humbugs.”
“Humbug” and “Bunkum” are favourite words of his. He generally dismisses
remarks and stops discussion by the use of either or both. His solitary
term of praise is the word “respectable” and he uses it sparingly,
being as far as he can conscientiously go in approval of any one; he
thus eulogizes those who live within their means and have never been
known to be hard up. People who are hard up are “wasters.” No one has
any business to be hard up; “respectable” men live on what they’ve
got. If any one were to ask him how people are to live within their
means when they’ve not got any, he would reply with the word “bunkum”
and clinch the argument with a grunt. It will be understood that
conversation with Mr. Adolf Reiss is not easy.
* * * * *
A knock on the door. Mr. Reiss’s servant announces some one and
withdraws.
Intuitively Mr. Reiss, who is rather deaf, and has not caught the name,
grasps the paper and hides behind it. From long experience he has
discovered the utility of the newspaper as a sort of parapet
behind which he can better await attack.
A slight figure in khaki advances into the room, observes the newspaper
above the legs and smiles slightly.
“Hello, uncle!” It’s a fresh young voice.
Mr. Reiss grunts, slowly lowers the paper and gazes at the youth over
his eyeglasses.
“Oh, it’s you. When did you come up?”
“Just arrived, uncle. We’re ordered out. I thought I’d look you up
at once as there are one or two things--”
“Eh--what?”
Among Mr. Reiss’s characteristics is a disconcerting habit of making
people repeat their remarks. This is deliberate and its purpose
twofold--to gain time and to embarrass the person addressed.