THE MAN WITH THE HOE
In the early years of the eighteenth century, a hardy family lived
frugally and simply on a few, fertile Norman acres. Their home was but
a hut of stone and clay and thatch. It was surrounded by a carefully
attended vineyard and fruit trees which, in the springtime, made the
spot most beautiful. On this May day the passerby would have stopped
that he might carry away this scene of perfect pastoral charm. The
blossoming vines almost hid the house, the blooming trees perfumed the
morning breeze, and it all spoke for simple peace and contentment. But
at this hour neither peace nor contentment could have been found
within. Pierre, the eldest son, was almost fiercely resenting the
quiet counsel of his father and the tearful pleadings of his mother.
Pierre loved Adrienne, their neighbor's daughter. The two had grown up
side by side, each had brought to the other all that their dreams had
wished through the years of waiting. Pierre had long worked extra
hours and they both had saved and now, nearing thirty, there was
enough, and they could marry. But the edict had gone forth that
Huguenot marriages would no longer be recognized by the state; that
the children of such a union would be without civil standing. So
Pierre and Adrienne had decided to leave France, nor did the protests
of their elders delay their going. It was a solemn little ceremony,
their marriage, a ceremony practically illegal in their land. Rarely
are weddings more solemn or bridal trips more sad, for to England they
were starting that same day, never to see their dear France again,
never to prune or to gather in the little vineyard, never again to
look into the faces of their own kin.
It was not a worldly-wise change. Wages in England were very low and
there were no vineyards in that chilly land, and Pierre worked and
died a plain English farm-hand, blessed only with health, remarkable
strength, and a wretched, but happy home. Much of their parents'
sturdiness and independence was passed on into the blood of their four
children, two boys and two girls, for in 1748, after long saving, they
all left England for America, "the promised land," and sailed for New
Amsterdam. Husbandmen they were, and for two generations painfully,
gravely, they tilled the semi-productive soil of their little farm,
west of the Hudson. Land was cheap in the New World. Their vegetables
and fruit grew, the market in the city grew, and the van der Veere
farms grew, and peace and contentment abode there.
After the War of 1812 two healthy, robust van der Veere brothers
tramped into New York City each carrying in his bundle nearly
$1000.00, his share of their father's recently divided farm. They
started a green-grocery shop. One attended the customers, the other,
through the summer months, worked their little truck garden away out
on the country road, a road which is to-day New York's Great White
Way. They prospered. One married, and his two boys founded the van der
Veere firm of importers. From the East this company's ship, later its
ships, brought rare curios, oriental tapestries and fine rugs to make
elegant the brown-stone front drawing-rooms of aristocratic,
residential New York of that generation. The sons of one of these
brothers to-day constitute the honorable van der Veere firm. The other
brother left one son, Clifford, and two daughters, Dora and Henrietta.
It is into the life-history of Clifford van der Veere that we now
intrude. He was a sturdy youth, with no illnesses, save occasional
sore throats which left him when he shed his tonsils. His father was a
reserved, kindly man, a quietly efficient man. His competitors never
understood the sure growth of his success--he was so unpretentious in
all that he did. Clifford's mother was a sensible woman, untouched by
the pride of wealth and the snobbery of station. Their home, facing
Central Park, stood for elegance and restraint. There were no other
children for ten years after the son's birth, then came the two
sisters, which domestic arrangement probably proved an important
factor in deciding the rest of our story. From early boyhood Clifford
was orderly, obedient, studious and quietly industrious. He made no
trouble for parents or teachers--other mothers always spoke of him as
"good." He was thirteen when his only sinful escapade happened. Some
of the Third Avenue boys shared the playgrounds in the park with
Clifford's crowd. They all smoked, some chewed and the more self-
important of them swore, and thereby, one day, our Fifth Avenue young
hopeful was contaminated. It was a savory-smelling wad of fine-cut. It
burned, a little went the wrong way and it strangled, but the joy of
ejecting a series of amber projectiles was Clifford's. Another
mouthful was ready for exhibition purposes when some appreciative
admirer enthusiastically clapped our boy between the shoulder-blades
and most of his mouth's contents, fluid and solid, was swallowed.
Somehow Clifford got home, but landed in a wilted heap on the big
couch, chalk-white, and sick beyond expression. The doctor was called
and, discovering the cause, made him helpfully sicker. The next
morning Clifford's father gravely offered to give him $500.00, when he
was twenty-one, if he would not taste tobacco again until that time.
Either the memory of first-chew sensations or the doctor's ipecac, or
the force of habit, or something, kept him from ever tasting it again.
Later, Clifford went to Columbia and was quietly popular with the
quieter fellows. It would seem that had any little devils not been
strained out of his blood by his long line of Huguenot ancestry, they
had followed the fate of the fine-cut, for no one who knew Clifford
van der Veere was ever anxious about the probity of his conduct. He
did not take to the importing business, while his cousins early showed
a natural capacity for the work of the big firm in all its branches.
Clifford's parents, too, seemed to feel that it was time that there be
a professional member of their honorable family. Moreover the property
was large, and the younger sisters would require a guardian, and the
estate an administrator. So Clifford finished the law-course. Nor was
it many years until the family fortune of approximately one million
dollars in real estate, securities and mortgages was left him to
administer for himself and the two sisters. Thus before thirty the
responsibility of these many thousands swept down upon him. Limited in
practical contact with the world, geographically, politically,
socially, having learned little of the play-side of life, he was by
inheritance, training and inclination a conservative. He had never
practiced law. He never tried a case, but he now opened a downtown
office where he punctually arrived at ten o'clock and methodically
spent the morning, carefully, personally managing all the details of
the entailed estate. He was essentially conscientious and, as the
years passed, there was no lessening of interest in his devotion to
each transaction, large or small. There were no losses, though his
conservatism turned him away from many golden opportunities which
knocked at the door of his wealth, the acceptance of which would have
doubled the estate in any ten-year period of these days of New York's
magnificent expansion. He was nearly forty when he married a quiet,
good woman who added little that was new, who most conscientiously
subtracted nothing of the old, from his now systematic life. They both
realized that their Fifth Avenue home was rapidly growing out of date,
so for nearly five years they spent their spare hours daily, in the,
to Clifford, vital and seemingly unending details of modernizing the
old house. It was during those days when the plans so carefully
considered were being realized in granite and marble and polished
woods, that Mrs. van der Veere felt the first distressing touch of
anxiety. Her husband seemed unduly particular. At times he would be
painfully uncertain about minute and minor details of construction and
on a few occasions unprecedentedly failed to get to the office at all,
delayed by protracted discussions of the advisability of certain
changes, long since decided upon, discussions which shook the
confidence of architect and contractor in both his sagacity and
judgment. Fortunately Mrs. van der Veere proved a wholesome counselor
and her opinions often settled details her husband, alone, apparently
could not have decided. At last the great new house was finished; it
was such a home as the van der Veeres should have. Indecision largely
disappeared for three quite normal years, office details only now and
then ruffling the smooth normality of Mr. van der Veere's life. Then
with the early spring nights came an unexplained insomnia. He would
waken at five, four, even three o 'clock, and, unable to get back to
sleep, would read until morning. The doctor found little to excite his
apprehension, but prescribed golf, so three afternoons a week all
summer and fall two hours were reserved for the links. He was better,
still the doctor insisted on three months, that winter, in Southern
California where he could keep up his play. Here he did eighteen holes
a day for weeks at a time, yet some of the nights were haunted by
scruples about neglecting his administrative duties. They returned
home in the spring, and a moderately comfortable year and a half
followed. Then things went wrong rapidly and badly. Peremptorily he
was ordered away from all "work" to Southern France, later to Italy
for the winter and to Switzerland for the next summer. And as the Alps
have given of their strength to other needing thousands, so they
ministered to him. He began climbing. His wife thought it was a new
interest. Certainly that was a factor, but he became ambitious and
went wherever he could find guides to take him. He returned home very
rugged the fall he was fifty. Still with reason, Mrs. van der Veere
was anxious, an anxiety shared by the family doctor. Between them they
planned for him a sort of model life, truly a circumscribed life, and
for five years wife and associates protected him from any possible
strain, and for five years it worked successfully. Then in less than a
month, almost like a bolt from the blue, all former symptoms returned,
aggravated in form, bringing most unwelcome new ones in their trail.
The family doctor called in a neurologist who, after examining the
nervous man, spoke seriously of serious possibilities, and advised
serious measures.
Mr. van der Veere was now fifty-five years old, short, almost stocky
in build, dark-skinned, with steel-gray hair and mustache. He was
depressed in mien though always well-bred in bearing. He was not
excitable and outwardly showed little of his suffering. Clifford van
der Veere had always taken life and his duties seriously. For years
his fear of making mistakes had been a chronic source of energy
leakage-now it was a nightmare. All he did cost an exhausting price in
the effort of decision. Duty and fear had long made a battle-ground of
his soul, and when he realized that he had broken down again from
"overwork," as they all expressed it, the depression of melancholy was
added to the weight he so quietly bore. Yet this man of many
responsibilities and interests had never truly worked. Since he left
college he had played at work. Effort had been expended never more
conscientiously. He was ever ready to give added hours of attention to
problems referred to him. His intentions were true, but he did not
know how to work. He did not know how to separate the serious from the
unimportant, and he had never added the leaven of humor to the day's
duties. An unusually well-equipped man, physically and mentally, he
should have found the responsibilities of his administratorship but
play. Had he been living right, he could have multiplied his
efficiency three-fold and been the better for the larger doing. His
wife felt he must "rest," and so did the family doctor; he himself was
practically past arguing or disagreeing.
But the rest-cure which the neurologist prescribed was certainly
unique. It may have been wrongly named. Mr. van der Veere was a man of
unusually strong physique. Nature had equipped him with a muscular
system better than nine-tenths of his fellowmen possess, but he had
never utilized it. For many generations his forbears had wrung food
and life and, unconsciously, health from the soil. He was three
generations from touch with mother earth, and back to the soil he was
sent. He was taught to work increasing hours of common, manual labor.
For weeks he did his part of the necessary drudgery of the world. He
shoveled coal, he spaded in the garden, he worked on the public roads,
he transplanted trees, he hoed common weeds with a common hoe, he
tramped, he toiled and he sweat. The need for physical labor was in
his blood. He needed his share of it, as do we all. And his blood
answered exultantly, as good blood always does, to the call of honest
toil. Within a month he realized a keenness for the work of the day.
His fine muscles took on hardness, they seemed to double in size, and
strength came, and with it not only a willingness but an eagerness
which transformed that strength into productive effort. With the
willingness to do what his hands found to do came sleep, for his
nerves--bred as they had been in good stock--rejoiced when they found
him living as they had for years begged him to live. A fifteen-year-
old appetite came to the fifty-five-year-old man, and transformation
wrought happy changes in his face and bearing. Indecision faded,
introspection disappeared, and a decision came which was to forever
put indecision out of his way. A decision which brought the peace and
contentment to the van der Veere Fifth Avenue home, which religious
intolerance had robbed from the van der Veeres in their stone-thatched
hut in far-away Normandy, a simple decision, not requiring brilliance
nor a college education, nor a professional training, nor even a
loving helpmate to accomplish: "Six days shall I labor not only with
my brain but with my hands, and the seventh day shall I rest."