The home atmosphere which they established when they returned from
their honeymoon was a great improvement in taste over that which had
characterized the earlier life of Mrs. Cowperwood as Mrs. Semple. They
had decided to occupy her house, on North Front Street, for a while at
least. Cowperwood, aggressive in his current artistic mood, had
objected at once after they were engaged to the spirit of the furniture
and decorations, or lack of them, and had suggested that he be allowed
to have it brought more in keeping with his idea of what was
appropriate. During the years in which he had been growing into manhood
he had come instinctively into sound notions of what was artistic and
refined. He had seen so many homes that were more distinguished and
harmonious than his own. One could not walk or drive about Philadelphia
without seeing and being impressed with the general tendency toward a
more cultivated and selective social life. Many excellent and expensive
houses were being erected. The front lawn, with some attempt at floral
gardening, was achieving local popularity. In the homes of the Tighes,
the Leighs, Arthur Rivers, and others, he had noticed art objects of
some distinction—bronzes, marbles, hangings, pictures, clocks, rugs.
It seemed to him now that his comparatively commonplace house could be
made into something charming and for comparatively little money. The
dining-room for instance which, through two plain windows set in a hat
side wall back of the veranda, looked south over a stretch of grass and
several trees and bushes to a dividing fence where the Semple property
ended and a neighbor’s began, could be made so much more attractive.
That fence—sharp-pointed, gray palings—could be torn away and a hedge
put in its place. The wall which divided the dining-room from the
parlor could be knocked through and a hanging of some pleasing
character put in its place. A bay-window could be built to replace the
two present oblong windows—a bay which would come down to the floor and
open out on the lawn via swiveled, diamond-shaped, lead-paned frames.
All this shabby, nondescript furniture, collected from heaven knows
where—partly inherited from the Semples and the Wiggins and partly
bought—could be thrown out or sold and something better and more
harmonious introduced. He knew a young man by the name of Ellsworth, an
architect newly graduated from a local school, with whom he had struck
up an interesting friendship—one of those inexplicable inclinations of
temperament. Wilton Ellsworth was an artist in spirit, quiet,
meditative, refined. From discussing the quality of a certain building
on Chestnut Street which was then being erected, and which Ellsworth
pronounced atrocious, they had fallen to discussing art in general, or
the lack of it, in America. And it occurred to him that Ellsworth was
the man to carry out his decorative views to a nicety. When he
suggested the young man to Lillian, she placidly agreed with him and
also with his own ideas of how the house could be revised.
So while they were gone on their honeymoon Ellsworth began the revision
on an estimated cost of three thousand dollars, including the
furniture. It was not completed for nearly three weeks after their
return; but when finished made a comparatively new house. The
dining-room bay hung low over the grass, as Frank wished, and the
windows were diamond-paned and leaded, swiveled on brass rods. The
parlor and dining-room were separated by sliding doors; but the
intention was to hang in this opening a silk hanging depicting a
wedding scene in Normandy. Old English oak was used in the dining-room,
an American imitation of Chippendale and Sheraton for the sitting-room
and the bedrooms. There were a few simple water-colors hung here and
there, some bronzes of Hosmer and Powers, a marble venus by Potter, a
now forgotten sculptor, and other objects of art—nothing of any
distinction. Pleasing, appropriately colored rugs covered the floor.
Mrs. Cowperwood was shocked by the nudity of the Venus which conveyed
an atmosphere of European freedom not common to America; but she said
nothing. It was all harmonious and soothing, and she did not feel
herself capable to judge. Frank knew about these things so much better
than she did. Then with a maid and a man of all work installed, a
program of entertaining was begun on a small scale.
Those who recall the early years of their married life can best realize
the subtle changes which this new condition brought to Frank, for, like
all who accept the hymeneal yoke, he was influenced to a certain extent
by the things with which he surrounded himself. Primarily, from certain
traits of his character, one would have imagined him called to be a
citizen of eminent respectability and worth. He appeared to be an ideal
home man. He delighted to return to his wife in the evenings, leaving
the crowded downtown section where traffic clamored and men hurried.
Here he could feel that he was well-stationed and physically happy in
life. The thought of the dinner-table with candles upon it (his idea);
the thought of Lillian in a trailing gown of pale-blue or green silk—he
liked her in those colors; the thought of a large fireplace flaming
with solid lengths of cord-wood, and Lillian snuggling in his arms,
gripped his immature imagination. As has been said before, he cared
nothing for books, but life, pictures, trees, physical contact—these,
in spite of his shrewd and already gripping financial calculations,
held him. To live richly, joyously, fully—his whole nature craved that.
And Mrs. Cowperwood, in spite of the difference in their years,
appeared to be a fit mate for him at this time. She was once awakened,
and for the time being, clinging, responsive, dreamy. His mood and hers
was for a baby, and in a little while that happy expectation was
whispered to him by her. She had half fancied that her previous
barrenness was due to herself, and was rather surprised and delighted
at the proof that it was not so. It opened new possibilities—a
seemingly glorious future of which she was not afraid. He liked it, the
idea of self-duplication. It was almost acquisitive, this thought. For
days and weeks and months and years, at least the first four or five,
he took a keen satisfaction in coming home evenings, strolling about
the yard, driving with his wife, having friends in to dinner, talking
over with her in an explanatory way the things he intended to do. She
did not understand his financial abstrusities, and he did not trouble
to make them clear.
But love, her pretty body, her lips, her quiet manner—the lure of all
these combined, and his two children, when they came—two in four
years—held him. He would dandle Frank, Jr., who was the first to
arrive, on his knee, looking at his chubby feet, his kindling eyes, his
almost formless yet bud-like mouth, and wonder at the process by which
children came into the world. There was so much to think of in this
connection—the spermatozoic beginning, the strange period of gestation
in women, the danger of disease and delivery. He had gone through a
real period of strain when Frank, Jr., was born, for Mrs. Cowperwood
was frightened. He feared for the beauty of her body—troubled over the
danger of losing her; and he actually endured his first worry when he
stood outside the door the day the child came. Not much—he was too
self-sufficient, too resourceful; and yet he worried, conjuring up
thoughts of death and the end of their present state. Then word came,
after certain piercing, harrowing cries, that all was well, and he was
permitted to look at the new arrival. The experience broadened his
conception of things, made him more solid in his judgment of life. That
old conviction of tragedy underlying the surface of things, like wood
under its veneer, was emphasized. Little Frank, and later Lillian,
blue-eyed and golden-haired, touched his imagination for a while. There
was a good deal to this home idea, after all. That was the way life was
organized, and properly so—its cornerstone was the home.
It would be impossible to indicate fully how subtle were the material
changes which these years involved—changes so gradual that they were,
like the lap of soft waters, unnoticeable. Considerable—a great deal,
considering how little he had to begin with—wealth was added in the
next five years. He came, in his financial world, to know fairly
intimately, as commercial relationships go, some of the subtlest
characters of the steadily enlarging financial world. In his days at
Tighe’s and on the exchange, many curious figures had been pointed out
to him—State and city officials of one grade and another who were
“making something out of politics,” and some national figures who came
from Washington to Philadelphia at times to see Drexel & Co., Clark &
Co., and even Tighe & Co. These men, as he learned, had tips or advance
news of legislative or economic changes which were sure to affect
certain stocks or trade opportunities. A young clerk had once pulled
his sleeve at Tighe’s.
“See that man going in to see Tighe?”
“Yes.”
“That’s Murtagh, the city treasurer. Say, he don’t do anything but play
a fine game. All that money to invest, and he don’t have to account for
anything except the principal. The interest goes to him.”
Cowperwood understood. All these city and State officials speculated.
They had a habit of depositing city and State funds with certain
bankers and brokers as authorized agents or designated State
depositories. The banks paid no interest—save to the officials
personally. They loaned it to certain brokers on the officials’ secret
order, and the latter invested it in “sure winners.” The bankers got
the free use of the money a part of the time, the brokers another part:
the officials made money, and the brokers received a fat commission.
There was a political ring in Philadelphia in which the mayor, certain
members of the council, the treasurer, the chief of police, the
commissioner of public works, and others shared. It was a case
generally of “You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours.” Cowperwood
thought it rather shabby work at first, but many men were rapidly
getting rich and no one seemed to care. The newspapers were always
talking about civic patriotism and pride but never a word about these
things. And the men who did them were powerful and respected.
There were many houses, a constantly widening circle, that found him a
very trustworthy agent in disposing of note issues or note payment. He
seemed to know so quickly where to go to get the money. From the first
he made it a principle to keep twenty thousand dollars in cash on hand
in order to be able to take up a proposition instantly and without
discussion. So, often he was able to say, “Why, certainly, I can do
that,” when otherwise, on the face of things, he would not have been
able to do so. He was asked if he would not handle certain stock
transactions on ’change. He had no seat, and he intended not to take
any at first; but now he changed his mind, and bought one, not only in
Philadelphia, but in New York also. A certain Joseph Zimmerman, a
dry-goods man for whom he had handled various note issues, suggested
that he undertake operating in street-railway shares for him, and this
was the beginning of his return to the floor.
In the meanwhile his family life was changing—growing, one might have
said, finer and more secure. Mrs. Cowperwood had, for instance, been
compelled from time to time to make a subtle readjustment of her
personal relationship with people, as he had with his. When Mr. Semple
was alive she had been socially connected with tradesmen
principally—retailers and small wholesalers—a very few. Some of the
women of her own church, the First Presbyterian, were friendly with
her. There had been church teas and sociables which she and Mr. Semple
attended, and dull visits to his relatives and hers. The Cowperwoods,
the Watermans, and a few families of that caliber, had been the notable
exceptions. Now all this was changed. Young Cowperwood did not care
very much for her relatives, and the Semples had been alienated by her
second, and to them outrageous, marriage. His own family was closely
interested by ties of affection and mutual prosperity, but, better than
this, he was drawing to himself some really significant personalities.
He brought home with him, socially—not to talk business, for he
disliked that idea—bankers, investors, customers and prospective
customers. Out on the Schuylkill, the Wissahickon, and elsewhere, were
popular dining places where one could drive on Sunday. He and Mrs.
Cowperwood frequently drove out to Mrs. Seneca Davis’s, to Judge
Kitchen’s, to the home of Andrew Sharpless, a lawyer whom he knew, to
the home of Harper Steger, his own lawyer, and others. Cowperwood had
the gift of geniality. None of these men or women suspected the depth
of his nature—he was thinking, thinking, thinking, but enjoyed life as
he went.
One of his earliest and most genuine leanings was toward paintings. He
admired nature, but somehow, without knowing why, he fancied one could
best grasp it through the personality of some interpreter, just as we
gain our ideas of law and politics through individuals. Mrs. Cowperwood
cared not a whit one way or another, but she accompanied him to
exhibitions, thinking all the while that Frank was a little peculiar.
He tried, because he loved her, to interest her in these things
intelligently, but while she pretended slightly, she could not really
see or care, and it was very plain that she could not.
The children took up a great deal of her time. However, Cowperwood was
not troubled about this. It struck him as delightful and exceedingly
worth while that she should be so devoted. At the same time, her
lethargic manner, vague smile and her sometimes seeming indifference,
which sprang largely from a sense of absolute security, attracted him
also. She was so different from him! She took her second marriage quite
as she had taken her first—a solemn fact which contained no possibility
of mental alteration. As for himself, however, he was bustling about in
a world which, financially at least, seemed all alteration—there were
so many sudden and almost unheard-of changes. He began to look at her
at times, with a speculative eye—not very critically, for he liked
her—but with an attempt to weigh her personality. He had known her five
years and more now. What did he know about her? The vigor of
youth—those first years—had made up for so many things, but now that he
had her safely...
There came in this period the slow approach, and finally the
declaration, of war between the North and the South, attended with so
much excitement that almost all current minds were notably colored by
it. It was terrific. Then came meetings, public and stirring, and
riots; the incident of John Brown’s body; the arrival of Lincoln, the
great commoner, on his way from Springfield, Illinois, to Washington
via Philadelphia, to take the oath of office; the battle of Bull Run;
the battle of Vicksburg; the battle of Gettysburg, and so on.
Cowperwood was only twenty-five at the time, a cool, determined youth,
who thought the slave agitation might be well founded in human
rights—no doubt was—but exceedingly dangerous to trade. He hoped the
North would win; but it might go hard with him personally and other
financiers. He did not care to fight. That seemed silly for the
individual man to do. Others might—there were many poor, thin-minded,
half-baked creatures who would put themselves up to be shot; but they
were only fit to be commanded or shot down. As for him, his life was
sacred to himself and his family and his personal interests. He
recalled seeing, one day, in one of the quiet side streets, as the
working-men were coming home from their work, a small enlisting squad
of soldiers in blue marching enthusiastically along, the Union flag
flying, the drummers drumming, the fifes blowing, the idea being, of
course, to so impress the hitherto indifferent or wavering citizen, to
exalt him to such a pitch, that he would lose his sense of proportion,
of self-interest, and, forgetting all—wife, parents, home, and
children—and seeing only the great need of the country, fall in behind
and enlist. He saw one workingman swinging his pail, and evidently not
contemplating any such denouement to his day’s work, pause, listen as
the squad approached, hesitate as it drew close, and as it passed, with
a peculiar look of uncertainty or wonder in his eyes, fall in behind
and march solemnly away to the enlisting quarters. What was it that had
caught this man, Frank asked himself. How was he overcome so easily? He
had not intended to go. His face was streaked with the grease and dirt
of his work—he looked like a foundry man or machinist, say twenty-five
years of age. Frank watched the little squad disappear at the end of
the street round the corner under the trees.
This current war-spirit was strange. The people seemed to him to want
to hear nothing but the sound of the drum and fife, to see nothing but
troops, of which there were thousands now passing through on their way
to the front, carrying cold steel in the shape of guns at their
shoulders, to hear of war and the rumors of war. It was a thrilling
sentiment, no doubt, great but unprofitable. It meant self-sacrifice,
and he could not see that. If he went he might be shot, and what would
his noble emotion amount to then? He would rather make money, regulate
current political, social and financial affairs. The poor fool who fell
in behind the enlisting squad—no, not fool, he would not call him
that—the poor overwrought working-man—well, Heaven pity him! Heaven
pity all of them! They really did not know what they were doing.
One day he saw Lincoln—a tall, shambling man, long, bony, gawky, but
tremendously impressive. It was a raw, slushy morning of a late
February day, and the great war President was just through with his
solemn pronunciamento in regard to the bonds that might have been
strained but must not be broken. As he issued from the doorway of
Independence Hall, that famous birthplace of liberty, his face was set
in a sad, meditative calm. Cowperwood looked at him fixedly as he
issued from the doorway surrounded by chiefs of staff, local
dignitaries, detectives, and the curious, sympathetic faces of the
public. As he studied the strangely rough-hewn countenance a sense of
the great worth and dignity of the man came over him.
“A real man, that,” he thought; “a wonderful temperament.” His every
gesture came upon him with great force. He watched him enter his
carriage, thinking “So that is the railsplitter, the country lawyer.
Well, fate has picked a great man for this crisis.”
For days the face of Lincoln haunted him, and very often during the war
his mind reverted to that singular figure. It seemed to him
unquestionable that fortuitously he had been permitted to look upon one
of the world’s really great men. War and statesmanship were not for
him; but he knew how important those things were—at times.