A Fool and His Money

G >> George Barr McCutcheon >> A Fool and His Money

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Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.

A FOOL AND HIS MONEY

BY

GEORGE BARR McCUTCHEON

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. I MAKE NO EFFORT TO DEFEND MYSELF

II. I DEFEND MY PROPERTY

III. I CONVERSE WITH A MYSTERY

IV. I BECOME AN ANCESTOR

V. I MEET THE FOE AND FALL

VI. I DISCUSS MATRIMONY

VII. I RECEIVE VISITORS

VIII. I RESORT TO DIPLOMACY

IX. I AM INVITED OUT TO DINNER

X. I AGREE TO MEET THE ENEMY

XI. I AM INVITED TO LEND MONEY

XII. I AM INFORMED THAT I AM IN LOVE

XIII. I VISIT AND AM VISITED

XIV. I AM FORCED INTO BEING A HERO

XV. I TRAVERSE THE NIGHT

XVI. I INDULGE IN PLAIN LANGUAGE

XVII. I SEE TO THE BOTTOM OF THINGS

XVIII. I SPEED THE PARTING GUEST

XIX. I BURN A FEW BRIDGES

XX. I CHANGE GARDEN SPOTS

XXI. SHE PROPOSES

ILLUSTRATIONS

In the aperture stood my amazing neighbour ... Frontispiece

I found myself staring as if stupefied at the white figure of a woman
who stood in the topmost balcony.

I sat bolt upright and yelled: "Get out!"

We faced each other across the bowl of roses

Up to that moment I had wondered whether I could do it with my left hand

CHAPTER I

I MAKE NO EFFORT TO DEFEND MYSELF

I am quite sure it was my Uncle Rilas who said that I was a fool. If
memory serves me well he relieved himself of that conviction in the
presence of my mother--whose brother he was--at a time when I was
least competent to acknowledge _his_ wisdom and most arrogant in
asserting my own. I was a freshman in college: a fact--or condition,
perhaps,--which should serve as an excuse for both of us. I possessed
another uncle, incidentally, and while I am now convinced that he must
have felt as Uncle Rilas did about it, he was one of those who suffer
in silence. The nearest he ever got to openly resenting me as a freshman
was when he admitted, as if it were a crime, that he too had been in
college and knew less when he came out than when he entered. Which was
a mild way of putting it, I am sure, considering the fact that he
remained there for twenty-three years as a distinguished member of the
faculty.

I assume, therefore, that it was Uncle Rilas who orally convicted me,
an assumption justified to some extent by putting two and two together
after the poor old gentleman was laid away for his long sleep. He had
been very emphatic in his belief that a fool and his money are soon
parted. Up to the time of his death I had been in no way qualified to
dispute this ancient theory. In theory, no doubt, I was the kind of
fool he referred to, but in practice I was quite an untried novice.
It is very hard for even a fool to part with something he hasn't got.
True, I parted with the little I had at college with noteworthy
promptness about the middle of each term, but that could hardly have
been called a fair test for the adage. Not until Uncle Rilas died and
left me all of his money was I able to demonstrate that only dead men
and fools part with it. The distinction lies in the capacity for
enjoyment while the sensation lasts. Dead men part with it because
they have to, fools because they want to.

In any event, Uncle Rilas did not leave me his money until my freshman
days were far behind me, wherein lies the solace that he may have
outgrown an opinion while I was going through the same process. At
twenty-three I confessed that _all_ freshmen were insufferable,
and immediately afterward took my degree and went out into the world
to convince it that seniors are by no means adolescent. Having
successfully passed the age of reason, I too felt myself admirably
qualified to look with scorn upon all creatures employed in the business
of getting an education. There were times when I wondered how on earth
I could have stooped so low as to be a freshman. I still have the
disquieting fear that my uncle did not modify his opinion of me until
I was thoroughly over being a senior. You will note that I do not say
he changed his opinion. Modify is the word.

His original estimate of me, as a freshman, of course,--was uttered
when I, at the age of eighteen, picked out my walk in life, so to
speak. After considering everything, I decided to be a literary man.
A novelist or a playwright, I hadn't much of a choice between the two,
or perhaps a journalist. Being a journalist, of course, was preliminary;
a sort of makeshift. At any rate, I was going to be a writer. My Uncle
Rilas, a hard-headed customer who had read Scott as a boy and the Wall
Street news as a man,--without being misled by either,--was scornful.
He said that I would outgrow it, there was some consolation in that.
He even admitted that when he was seventeen he wanted to be an actor.
There you are, said he! I declared there was a great difference between
being an actor and being a writer. Only handsome men can be actors,
while I--well, by nature I was doomed to be nothing more engaging than
a novelist, who doesn't have to spoil an illusion by showing himself
in public.

Besides, I argued, novelists make a great deal of money, and playwrights
too, for that matter. He said in reply that an ordinarily vigorous
washerwoman could make more money than the average novelist, and she
always had a stocking without a hole to keep it in, which was more to
the point.

Now that I come to think of it, it _was_ Uncle Rilas who oracularly
prejudged me, and not Uncle John, who was by way of being a sort of
literary chap himself and therefore lamentably unqualified to guide
me in any course whatsoever, especially as he had all he could do to
keep his own wolf at bay without encouraging mine, and who, besides
teaching good English, loved it wisely and too well. I think Uncle
Rilas would have held Uncle John up to me as an example,--a scarecrow,
you might say,--if it hadn't been for the fact that he loved him in
spite of his English. He must have loved me in spite of mine.

My mother felt in her heart that I ought to be a doctor or a preacher,
but she wasn't mean: she was positive I could succeed as a writer if
I set my mind to it. She was also sure that I could be President of
the United States or perhaps even a Bishop. We were Episcopalian.

When I was twenty-seven my first short story appeared in a magazine
of considerable weight, due to its advertising pages, but my Uncle
Rilas didn't read it until I had convinced him that the honorarium
amounted to three hundred dollars. Even then I was obliged to promise
him a glimpse of the check when I got it. Somewhat belated, it came
in the course of three or four months with a rather tart letter in
which I was given to understand that it wasn't quite the thing to
pester a great publishing house with queries of the kind I had been
so persistent in propounding. But at last Uncle Rilas saw the check
and was properly impressed. He took back what he said about the
washerwoman, but gave me a little further advice concerning the
stocking.

In course of time my first novel appeared. It was a love story. Uncle
Rilas read the first five chapters and then skipped over to the last
page. Then he began it all over again and sat up nearly all night to
finish it. The next day he called it "trash" but invited me to have
luncheon with him at the Metropolitan Club, and rather noisily
introduced me to a few old cronies of his, who were not sufficiently
interested in me to enquire what my name was--a trifling detail he had
overlooked in presenting me as his nephew--but who _did_ ask me to have
a drink.

A month later, he died. He left me a fortune, which was all the more
staggering in view of the circumstance that had seen me named for my
Uncle John and not for him.

It was not long afterward that I made a perfect fool of myself by
falling in love. It turned out very badly. I can't imagine what got
into me to want to commit bigamy after I had already proclaimed myself
to be irrevocably wedded to my profession. Nevertheless, I deliberately
coveted the experience, and would have attained to it no doubt had it
not been for the young woman in the case. She would have none of me,
but with considerable independence of spirit and, I must say, noteworthy
acumen, elected to wed a splendid looking young fellow who clerked in
a jeweller's shop in Fifth Avenue. They had been engaged for several
years, it seems, and my swollen fortune failed to disturb her sense
of fidelity. Perhaps you will be interested enough in a girl who could
refuse to share a fortune of something like three hundred thousand
dollars--(not counting me, of course)--to let me tell you briefly who
and what she was. She was my typist. That is to say, she did piece-work
for me as I happened to provide substance for her active fingers to
work upon when she wasn't typing law briefs in the regular sort of
grind. Not only was she an able typist, but she was an exceedingly
wholesome, handsome and worthy young woman. I think I came to like her
with genuine resolution when I discovered that she could spell correctly
and had the additional knack of uniting my stray infinitives with
stubborn purposefulness, as well as the ability to administer my grammar
with tact and discretion.

Unfortunately she loved the jeweller's clerk. She tried to convince
me, with a sweetness I shall never forget, that she was infinitely
better suited to be a jeweller's wife than to be a weight upon the
neck of a genius. Moreover, when I foolishly mentioned my snug fortune
as an extra inducement, she put me smartly in my place by remarking
that fortunes like wine are made in a day while really excellent
jeweller's clerks are something like thirty years in the making. Which,
I take it, was as much as to say that there is always room for
improvement in a man. I confess I was somewhat disturbed by one of her
gentlest remarks. She seemed to be repeating my Uncle Rilas, although
I am quite sure she had never heard of him. She argued that the fortune
might take wings and fly away, and then what would be to pay! Of course,
it was perfectly clear to me, stupid as I must have been, that she
preferred the jeweller's clerk to a fortune.

I was loth to lose her as a typist. The exact point where I appear to
have made a fool of myself was when I first took it into my head that
I could make something else of her. I not only lost a competent typist,
but I lost a great deal of sleep, and had to go abroad for awhile, as
men do when they find out unpleasant things about themselves in just
that way.

I gave her as a wedding present a very costly and magnificent
dining-room set, fondly hoping that the jeweller's clerk would
experience a great deal of trouble in living up to it. At first I had
thought of a Marie Antoinette bedroom set, but gave it up when I
contemplated the cost.

If you will pardon me, I shall not go any further into this lamentable
love affair. I submit, in extenuation, that people do not care to be
regaled with the heartaches of past affairs; they are only interested
in those which appear to be in the process of active development or
retrogression. Suffice to say, I was terribly cut up over the way my
first serious affair of the heart turned out, and tried my best to
hate myself for letting it worry me. Somehow I was able to attribute
the fiasco to an inborn sense of shyness that has always made me
faint-hearted, dilatory and unaggressive. No doubt if I had gone about
it roughshod and fiery I could have played hob with the excellent
jeweller's peace of mind, to say the least, but alas! I succeeded only
in approaching at a time when there was nothing left for me to do but
to start him off in life with a mild handicap in the shape of a
dining-room set that would not go with anything else he had in the
apartment.

Still, some men, no matter how shy and procrastinating they may be--or
reluctant, for that matter--are doomed to have love affairs thrust
upon them, as you will perceive if you follow the course of this
narrative to the bitter end.

In order that you may know me when you see me struggling through these
pages, as one might struggle through a morass on a dark night, I shall
take the liberty of describing myself in the best light possible under
the circumstances.

I am a tallish sort of person, moderately homely, and not quite
thirty-five. I am strong but not athletic. Whatever physical development
I possess was acquired through the ancient and honourable game of golf
and in swimming. In both of these sports I am quite proficient. My
nose is rather long and inquisitive, and my chin is considered to be
singularly firm for one who has no ambition to become a hero. My thatch
is abundant and quite black. I understand that my eyes are green when
I affect a green tie, light blue when I put on one of that delicate
hue, and curiously yellow when I wear brown about my neck. Not that
I really need them, but I wear nose glasses when reading: to save my
eyes, of course. I sometimes wear them in public, with a very fetching
and imposing black band draping across my expanse of shirt front. I
find this to be most effective when sitting in a box at the theatre.
My tailor is a good one. I shave myself clean with an old-fashioned
razor and find it to be quite safe and tractable. My habits are
considered rather good, and I sang bass in the glee club. So there you
are. Not quite what yon would call a lady killer, or even a lady's
man, I fancy you'll say.

You will be surprised to learn, however, that secretly I am of a rather
romantic, imaginative turn of mind. Since earliest childhood I have
consorted with princesses and ladies of high degree,--mentally, of
course,--and my bosom companions have been knights of valour and
longevity. Nothing could have suited me better than to have been born
in a feudal castle a few centuries ago, from which I should have sallied
forth in full armour on the slightest provocation and returned in glory
when there was no one left in the neighbourhood to provoke me.

Even now, as I make this astounding statement, I can't help thinking
of that confounded jeweller's clerk. At thirty-five I am still
unattached and, so far as I can tell, unloved. What more could a
sensible, experienced bachelor expect than that? Unless, of course,
he aspired to be a monk or a hermit, in which case he reasonably could
be sure of himself if not of others.

Last winter in London my mother went to a good bit of trouble to set
my cap for a lady who seemed in every way qualified to look after an
only son as he should be looked after from a mother's point of view,
and I declare to you I had a wretchedly close call of it. My poor
mother, thinking it was quite settled, sailed for America, leaving me
entirely unprotected, whereupon I succeeded in making my escape. Heaven
knows I had no desperate longing to visit Palestine at that particular
time, but I journeyed thither without a qualm of regret, and thereby
avoided the surrender without love or honour.

For the past year I have done little or no work. My books are few and
far between, so few in fact that more than once I have felt the sting
of dilettantism inflicting my labours with more or less increasing
sharpness. It is not for me to say that I despise a fortune, but I am
constrained to remark that I believe poverty would have been a fairer
friend to me. At any rate I now pamper myself to an unreasonable extent.
For one thing, I feel that I cannot work,--much less think,--when
opposed by distracting conditions such as women, tea, disputes over
luggage, and things of that sort. They subdue all the romantic
tendencies I am so parsimonious about wasting. My best work is done
when the madding crowd is far from me. Hence I seek out remote, obscure
places when I feel the plot boiling, and grind away for dear life with
nothing to distract me save an unconquerable habit acquired very early
in life which urges me to eat three meals a day and to sleep nine hours
out of twenty-four.

A month ago, in Vienna, I felt the plot breaking out on me, very much
as the measles do, at a most inopportune time for everybody concerned,
and my secretary, more wide-awake than you'd imagine by looking at
him, urged me to coddle the muse while she was willing and not to put
her off till an evil day, as frequently I am in the habit of doing.

It was especially annoying, coming as it did, just as I was about to
set off for a fortnight's motor-boat trip up the Danube with Elsie
Hazzard and her stupid husband, the doctor. I compromised with myself
by deciding to give them a week of my dreamy company, and then dash
off to England where I could work off the story in a sequestered village
I had had in mind for some time past.

The fourth day of our delectable excursion brought us to an ancient
town whose name you would recall in an instant if I were fool enough
to mention it, and where we were to put up for the night. On the crest
of a stupendous crag overhanging the river, almost opposite the town,
which isn't far from Krems, stood the venerable but unvenerated castle
of that highhanded old robber baron, the first of the Rothhoefens. He
has been in his sarcophagus these six centuries, I am advised, but you
wouldn't think so to look at the stronghold. At a glance you can almost
convince yourself that he is still there, with battle-axe and
broad-sword, and an inflamed eye at every window in the grim facade.

We picked up a little of its history while in the town, and the next
morning crossed over to visit the place. Its antiquity was considerably
enhanced by the presence of a caretaker who would never see eighty
again, and whose wife was even older. Their two sons lived with them
in the capacity of loafers and, as things go in these rapid times of
ours, appeared to be even older and more sere than their parents.

It is a winding and tortuous road that leads up to the portals of this
huge old pile, and I couldn't help thinking how stupid I have always
been in execrating the spirit of progress that conceives the funicular
and rack-and-pinion railroads which serve to commercialise grandeur
instead of protecting it. Half way up the hill, we paused to rest, and
I quite clearly remember growling that if the confounded thing belonged
to me I'd build a funicular or install an elevator without delay. Poor
Elsie was too fatigued to say what she ought to have said to me for
suggesting and even insisting on the visit.

The next day, instead of continuing our delightful trip down the river,
we three were scurrying to Saalsburg, urged by a sudden and stupendous
whim on my part, and filled with a new interest in life.

I had made up my mind to buy the castle!

The Hazzards sat up with me nearly the whole of the night, trying to
talk me out of the mad design, but all to no purpose. I was determined
to be the sort of fool that Uncle Rilas referred to when he so
frequently quoted the old adage. My only argument in reply to their
entreaties was that I had to have a quiet, inspirational place in which
to work and besides I was quite sure we could beat the impoverished
owner down considerably in the price, whatever it might turn out to
be. While the ancient caretaker admitted that it was for sale, he
couldn't give me the faintest notion what it was expected to bring,
except that it ought to bring more from an American than from any one
else, and that he would be proud and happy to remain in my service,
he and his wife and his prodigiously capable sons, either of whom if
put to the test could break all the bones in a bullock without half
trying, Moreover, for such strong men, they ate very little and seldom
slept, they were so eager to slave in the interests of the master. We
all agreed that they looked strong enough, but as they were sleeping
with some intensity all the time we were there, and making dreadful
noises in the courtyard, we could only infer that they were making up
for at least a week of insomnia.

I had no difficulty whatever in striking a bargain with the abandoned
wretch who owned the Schloss. He seemed very eager to submit to my
demand that he knock off a thousand pounds sterling, and we hunted up
a notary and all the other officials necessary to the transfer of
property. At the end of three days, I was the sole owner and proprietor
of a feudal stronghold on the Danube, and the joyous Austrian was a
little farther on his way to the dogs, a journey he had been negotiating
with great ardour ever since coming into possession of an estate once
valued at several millions. I am quite sure I have never seen a
spendthrift with more energy than this fellow seems to have displayed
in going through with his patrimony. He was on his uppers, so to speak,
when I came to his rescue, solely because he couldn't find a purchaser
or a tenant for the castle, try as he would. Afterwards I heard that
he had offered the place to a syndicate of Jews for one-third the price
I paid, but luckily for me the Hebraic instinct was not so keen as
mine. They let a very good bargain get away from them. I have not told
my most intimate friends what I paid for the castle, but they are all
generous enough to admit that I could afford it, no matter what it
cost me. Their generosity stops there, however. I have never had so
many unkind things said to me in all my life as have been said about
this purely personal matter.

Well, to make the story short, the Hazzards and I returned to Schloss
Rothhoefen in some haste, primarily for the purpose of inspecting it
from dungeon to battlement. I forgot to mention that, being very tired
after the climb up the steep, we got no further on our first visit
than the great baronial hall, the dining-room and certain other
impressive apartments customarily kept open for the inspection of
visitors. An interesting concession on the part of the late owner (the
gentleman hurrying to catch up with the dogs that had got a bit of a
start on him),--may here be mentioned. He included all of the contents
of the castle for the price paid, and the deed, or whatever you call
it, specifically set forth that I, John Bellamy Smart, was the sole
and undisputed owner of everything the castle held. This made the
bargain all the more desirable, for I have never seen a more beautiful
assortment of antique furniture and tapestry in Fourth Avenue than was
to be found in Schloss Rothhoefen.

Our second and more critical survey of the lower floors of the castle
revealed rather urgent necessity for extensive repairs and refurbishing,
but I was not dismayed. With a blithesome disregard for expenses, I
despatched Rudolph, the elder of the two sons to Linz with instructions
to procure artisans who could be depended upon to undo the ravages of
time to a certain extent and who might even suggest a remedy for leaks.

My friends, abhorring rheumatism and like complaints, refused to sleep
over night in the drafty, almost paneless structure. They came over
to see me on the ensuing day and begged me to return to Vienna with
them. But, full of the project in hand, I would not be moved. With the
house full of carpenters, blacksmiths, masons, locksmiths, tinsmiths,
plumbers, plasterers, glaziers, joiners, scrub-women and chimneysweeps,
I felt that I couldn't go away and leave it without a controlling
influence.

They promised to come and make me a nice short visit, however, after
I'd got the castle primped up a bit: the mould off the walls of the
bedrooms and the great fireplaces thoroughly cleared of obstructive
swallows' nests, the beds aired and the larder stocked. Just as they
were leaving, my secretary and my valet put in an appearance, having
been summoned from Vienna the day before. I confess I was glad to see
them. The thought of spending a second night in that limitless
bed-chamber, with all manner of night-birds trying to get in at the
windows, was rather disturbing, and I welcomed my retainers with open
arms.

My first night had been spent in a huge old bed, carefully prepared
for occupancy by Herr Schmick's frau; and the hours, which never were
so dark, in trying to fathom the infinite space that reached above me
to the vaulted ceiling. I knew there was a ceiling, for I had seen its
beams during the daylight hours, but to save my soul I couldn't imagine
anything so far away as it seemed to be after the candles had been
taken away by the caretaker's wife, who had tucked me away in the bed
with ample propriety and thoroughness combined.

Twice during that interminable night I thought I heard a baby crying.
So it is not unreasonable to suppose that I was _more_ than glad
to see Poopendyke clambering up the path with his typewriter in one
hand and his green baise bag in the other, followed close behind by
Britton and the Gargantuan brothers bearing trunks, bags, boxes and
my golf clubs.

"Whew!" said Poopendyke, dropping wearily upon my doorstep--which, by
the way, happens to be a rough hewn slab some ten feet square surmounted
by a portcullis that has every intention of falling down unexpectedly
one of these days and creating an earthquake. "Whew!" he repeated.

My secretary is a youngish man with thin, stooping shoulders and a
habit of perpetually rubbing his knees together when he walks. I shudder
to think of what would happen to them if he undertook to run. I could
not resist a glance at them now.

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