A few days after George’s return to the university it became evident
that not quite everybody had gazed with complete benevolence upon the
various young collegians at their holiday sports. The Sunday edition of
the principal morning paper even expressed some bitterness under the
heading, “Gilded Youths of the Fin-de-Siècle”—this was considered the
knowing phrase of the time, especially for Sunday supplements—and there
is no doubt that from certain references in this bit of writing some
people drew the conclusion that Mr. George Amberson Minafer had not yet
got his comeuppance, a postponement still irritating. Undeniably, Fanny
Minafer was one of the people who drew this conclusion, for she cut the
article out and enclosed it in a letter to her nephew, having written
on the border of the clipping, “I wonder whom it can mean!”
George read part of it.
We debate sometimes what is to be the future of this nation when
we think that in a few years public affairs may be in the hands
of the _fin-de-siècle_ gilded youths we see about us during the
Christmas holidays. Such foppery, such luxury, such insolence, was
surely never practised by the scented, overbearing patricians of
the Palatine, even in Rome’s most decadent epoch. In all the wild
orgy of wastefulness and luxury with which the nineteenth century
reaches its close, the gilded youth has been surely the worst
symptom. With his airs of young milord, his fast horses, his gold
and silver cigarette-cases, his clothes from a New York tailor, his
recklessness of money showered upon him by indulgent mothers or
doting grandfathers, he respects nothing and nobody. He is blase if
you please. Watch him at a social function, how condescendingly he
deigns to select a partner for the popular waltz or two step, how
carelessly he shoulders older people out of his way, with what a
blank stare he returns the salutation of some old acquaintance whom
he may choose in his royal whim to forget! The unpleasant part of
all this is that the young women he so condescendingly selects as
partners for the dance greet him with seeming rapture, though in
their hearts they must feel humiliated by his languid hauteur, and
many older people beam upon him almost fawningly if he unbends so
far as to throw them a careless, disdainful word! One wonders what
has come over the new generation. Of such as these the Republic was
not made. Let us pray that the future of our country is not in the
hands of these _fin-de-siècle_ gilded youths, but rather in the
calloused palms of young men yet unknown, labouring upon the farms
of the land. When we compare the young manhood of Abraham Lincoln
with the specimens we are now producing, we see too well that it
bodes ill for the twentieth century—
George yawned, and tossed the clipping into his waste-basket, wondering
why his aunt thought such dull nonsense worth the sending. As for
her insinuation, pencilled upon the border, he supposed she meant to
joke—a supposition which neither surprised him nor altered his lifelong
opinion of her wit.
He read her letter with more interest:
... The dinner your mother gave for the Morgans was a lovely
affair. It was last Monday evening, just ten days after you left.
It was peculiarly appropriate that your mother should give this
dinner, because her brother George, your uncle, was Mr. Morgan’s
most intimate friend before he left here a number of years ago, and
it was a pleasant occasion for the formal announcement of some news
which you heard from Lucy Morgan before you returned to college. At
least she told me she had told you the night before you left that
her father had decided to return here to live. It was appropriate
that your mother, herself an old friend, should assemble a
representative selection of Mr. Morgan’s old friends around him
at such a time. He was in great spirits and most entertaining. As
your time was so charmingly taken up during your visit home with a
younger member of his family, you probably overlooked opportunities
of hearing him talk, and do not know what an interesting man he
can be. He will soon begin to build his factory here for the
manufacture of _automobiles_, which he says is a term he prefers
to “horseless carriages.” Your Uncle George told me he would like
to invest in this factory, as George thinks there is a future for
automobiles; perhaps not for general use, but as an interesting
novelty, which people with sufficient means would like to own for
their amusement and the sake of variety. However, he said Mr.
Morgan laughingly declined his offer, as Mr. M. was fully able to
finance this venture, though not starting in a very large way. Your
uncle said other people are manufacturing automobiles in different
parts of the country with success. Your father is not very well,
though he is not actually ill, and the doctor tells him he ought
not to be so much at his office, as the long years of application
indoors with no exercise are beginning to affect him unfavourably,
but I believe your father would die if he had to give up his work,
which is all that has ever interested him outside of his family. I
never could understand it. Mr. Morgan took your mother and me with
Lucy to see Modjeska in “Twelfth Night” yesterday evening, and Lucy
said she thought the Duke looked rather like you, only much more
democratic in his manner. I suppose you will think I have written a
great deal about the Morgans in this letter, but thought you would
be interested because of your interest in a _younger member_ of his
family. Hoping that you are finding college still as attractive as
ever,
Affectionately,
Aunt Fanny.
George read one sentence in this letter several times. Then he dropped
the missive in his wastebasket to join the clipping, and strolled
down the corridor of his dormitory to borrow a copy of “Twelfth
Night.” Having secured one, he returned to his study and refreshed his
memory of the play—but received no enlightenment that enabled him to
comprehend Lucy’s strange remark. However, he found himself impelled
in the direction of correspondence, and presently wrote a letter—not a
reply to his Aunt Fanny.
Dear Lucy:
No doubt you will be surprised at hearing from me so soon again,
especially as this makes two in answer to the one received from
you since getting back to the old place. I hear you have been
making comments about me at the theatre, that some actor was more
democratic in his manners than I am, which I do not understand. You
know my theory of life because I explained it to you on our first
drive together, when I told you I would not talk to everybody about
things I feel like the way I spoke to you of my theory of life. I
believe those who are able should have a true theory of life, and I
developed my theory of life long, long ago.
Well, here I sit smoking my faithful briar pipe, indulging in
the fragrance of my tobacco as I look out on the campus from my
many-paned window, and things are different with me from the way
they were way back in Freshman year. I can see now how boyish in
many ways I was then. I believe what has changed me as much as
anything was my visit home at the time I met you. So I sit here
with my faithful briar and dream the old dreams over as it were,
dreaming of the waltzes we waltzed together and of that last night
before we parted, and you told me the good news you were going to
live there, and I would find my friend waiting for me, when I get
home next summer.
I will be glad my friend will be waiting for me. I am not capable
of friendship except for the very few, and, looking back over my
life, I remember there were times when I doubted if I could feel
a great friendship for anybody—especially girls. I do not take a
great interest in many people, as you know, for I find most of
them shallow. Here in the old place I do not believe in being
hail-fellow-well-met with every Tom, Dick, and Harry just because
he happens to be a classmate, any more than I do at home, where I
have always been careful who I was seen with, largely on account of
the family, but also because my disposition ever since my boyhood
has been to encourage real intimacy from but the few.
What are you reading now? I have finished both “Henry Esmond”
and “The Virginians.” I like Thackeray because he is not trashy,
and because he writes principally of nice people. My theory of
literature is an author who does not indulge in trashiness—writes
about people you could introduce into your own home. I agree with
my Uncle Sydney, as I once heard him say he did not care to read a
book or go to a play about people he would not care to meet at his
own dinner table. I believe we should live by certain standards and
ideals, as you know from my telling you my theory of life.
Well, a letter is no place for deep discussions, so I will not go
into the subject. From several letters from my mother, and one from
Aunt Fanny, I hear you are seeing a good deal of the family since I
left. I hope sometimes you think of the member who is absent. I got
a silver frame for your photograph in New York, and I keep it on my
desk. It is the only girl’s photograph I ever took the trouble to
have framed, though, as I told you frankly, I have had any number
of other girls’ photographs, yet all were only passing fancies, and
oftentimes I have questioned in years past if I was capable of much
friendship toward the feminine sex, which I usually found shallow
until our own friendship began. When I look at your photograph, I
say to myself, “At last, at last here is one that will not prove
shallow.”
My faithful briar has gone out. I will have to rise and fill it,
then once more in the fragrance of My Lady Nicotine, I will sit and
dream the old dreams over, and think, too, of the true friend at
home awaiting my return in June for the summer vacation.
Friend, this is from your friend,
G.A.M.
George’s anticipations were not disappointed. When he came home in
June his friend was awaiting him; at least, she was so pleased to see
him again that for a few minutes after their first encounter she was a
little breathless, and a great deal glowing, and quiet withal. Their
sentimental friendship continued, though sometimes he was irritated by
her making it less sentimental than he did, and sometimes by what he
called her “air of superiority.” Her air was usually, in truth, that
of a fond but amused older sister; and George did not believe such an
attitude was warranted by her eight months of seniority.
Lucy and her father were living at the Amberson Hotel, while Morgan
got his small machine-shops built in a western outskirt of the town;
and George grumbled about the shabbiness and the old-fashioned look of
the hotel, though it was “still the best in the place, of course.” He
remonstrated with his grandfather, declaring that the whole Amberson
Estate would be getting “run-down and out-at-heel, if things weren’t
taken in hand pretty soon.” He urged the general need of rebuilding,
renovating, varnishing, and lawsuits. But the Major, declining to hear
him out, interrupted querulously, saying that he had enough to bother
him without any advice from George; and retired to his library, going
so far as to lock the door audibly.
“Second childhood!” George muttered, shaking his head; and he thought
sadly that the Major had not long to live. However, this surmise
depressed him for only a moment or so. Of course, people couldn’t be
expected to live forever, and it would be a good thing to have someone
in charge of the Estate who wouldn’t let it get to looking so rusty
that riffraff dared to make fun of it. For George had lately undergone
the annoyance of calling upon the Morgans, in the rather stuffy red
velours and gilt parlour of their apartment at the hotel, one evening
when Mr. Frederick Kinney also was a caller, and Mr. Kinney had not
been tactful. In fact, though he adopted a humorous tone of voice, in
expressing his sympathy for people who, through the city’s poverty in
hotels, were obliged to stay at the Amberson, Mr. Kinney’s intention
was interpreted by the other visitor as not at all humorous, but, on
the contrary, personal and offensive.
George rose abruptly, his face the colour of wrath. “Good-night, Miss
Morgan. Good-night, Mr. Morgan,” he said. “I shall take pleasure in
calling at some other time when a more courteous sort of people may be
present.”
“Look here!” the hot-headed Fred burst out. “Don’t you try to make me
out a boor, George Minafer! I wasn’t hinting anything at you; I simply
forgot all about your grandfather owning this old building. Don’t you
try to put me in the light of a boor! I won’t—”
But George walked out in the very course of this vehement protest, and
it was necessarily left unfinished.
Mr. Kinney remained only a few moments after George’s departure; and
as the door closed upon him, the distressed Lucy turned to her father.
She was plaintively surprised to find him in a condition of immoderate
laughter.
“I didn’t—I didn’t think I could hold out!” he gasped, and, after
choking until tears came to his eyes, felt blindly for the chair from
which he had risen to wish Mr. Kinney an indistinct good-night. His
hand found the arm of the chair; he collapsed feebly, and sat uttering
incoherent sounds.
“Papa!”
“It brings things back so!” he managed to explain, “This very Fred
Kinney’s father and young George’s father, Wilbur Minafer, used to do
just such things when they were at that age—and, for that matter, so
did George Amberson and I, and all the rest of us!” And, in spite of
his exhaustion, he began to imitate: “Don’t you try to put me in the
light of a boor!” “I shall take pleasure in calling at some time when a
more courteous sort of people—” He was unable to go on.
There is a mirth for every age, and Lucy failed to comprehend her
father’s, but tolerated it a little ruefully.
“Papa, I think they were shocking. Weren’t they _awful!_”
“Just—just boys!” he moaned, wiping his eyes. But Lucy could not smile
at all; she was beginning to look indignant. “I can forgive that poor
Fred Kinney,” she said. “He’s just blundering—but George—oh, George
behaved outrageously!”
“It’s a difficult age,” her father observed, his calmness somewhat
restored. “Girls don’t seem to have to pass through it quite as boys
do, or their _savoir faire_ is instinctive—or something!” And he gave
away to a return of his convulsion.
She came and sat upon the arm of his chair. “Papa, _why_ should George
behave like that?”
“He’s sensitive.”
“Rather! But why is he? He does anything he likes to, without any
regard for what people think. Then why should he mind so furiously when
the least little thing reflects upon him, or on anything or anybody
connected with him?”
Eugene patted her hand. “That’s one of the greatest puzzles of human
vanity, dear; and I don’t pretend to know the answer. In all my life,
the most arrogant people that I’ve known have been the most sensitive.
The people who have done the most in contempt of other people’s
opinion, and who consider themselves the highest above it, have been
the most furious if it went against them. Arrogant and domineering
people can’t stand the least, lightest, faintest breath of criticism.
It just kills them.”
“Papa, do you think George is _terribly_ arrogant and domineering?”
“Oh, he’s still only a boy,” said Eugene consolingly. “There’s plenty
of fine stuff in him—can’t help but be, because he’s Isabel Amberson’s
son.”
Lucy stroked his hair, which was still almost as dark as her own. “You
liked her pretty well once, I guess, papa.”
“I do still,” he said quietly.
“She’s lovely—lovely! Papa—” she paused, then continued—“I wonder
sometimes—”
“What?”
“I wonder just how she happened to marry Mr. Minafer.”
“Oh, Minafer’s all right,” said Eugene. “He’s a quiet sort of man, but
he’s a good man and a kind man. He always was, and those things count.”
“But in a way—well, I’ve heard people say there wasn’t anything to him
at all except business and saving money. Miss Fanny Minafer herself
told me that everything George and his mother have of their own—that
is, just to spend as they like—she says it has always come from Major
Amberson.”
“Thrift, Horatio!” said Eugene lightly. “Thrift’s an inheritance, and
a common enough one here. The people who settled the country _had_ to
save, so making and saving were taught as virtues, and the people, to
the third generation, haven’t found out that making and saving are
only means to an end. Minafer doesn’t believe in money being spent. He
believes God made it to be invested and saved.”
“But George isn’t saving. He’s reckless, and even if he is arrogant and
conceited and bad-tempered, he’s awfully generous.”
“Oh, he’s an Amberson,” said her father. “The Ambersons aren’t saving.
They’re too much the other way, most of them.”
“I don’t think I should have called George bad-tempered,” Lucy said
thoughtfully. “No. I don’t think he is.”
“Only when he’s cross about something?” Morgan suggested, with a
semblance of sympathetic gravity.
“Yes,” she said brightly, not perceiving that his intention was
humorous. “All the rest of the time he’s really very amiable. Of
course, he’s much more a perfect _child_, the whole time, than he
realizes! He certainly behaved awfully to-night.” She jumped up, her
indignation returning. “He did, indeed, and it won’t do to encourage
him in it. I think he’ll find me pretty cool—for a week or so!”
Whereupon her father suffered a renewal of his attack of uproarious
laughter.