The Mansion
H >>
Henry van Dyke >> The Mansion
The Mansion
By Henry van Dyke
There was an air of calm and reserved opulence about
the Weightman mansion that spoke not of money squandered,
but of wealth prudently applied. Standing on a corner of
the Avenue no longer fashionable for residence, it looked upon
the swelling tide of business with an expression of complacency
and half-disdain.
The house was not beautiful. There was nothing in its straight
front of
chocolate-colored stone, its heavy cornices, its broad, staring
windows of
plate glass, its carved and bronze-bedecked mahogany doors at the
top of the wide stoop, to charm the eye or fascinate the
imagination.
But it was eminently respectable, and in its way imposing.
It seemed to say that the glittering shops of the jewelers, the
milliners,
the confectioners, the florists, the picture-dealers, the
furriers,
the makers of rare and costly antiquities, retail traders in
luxuries of life, were beneath the notice of a house that had its
foundations in the high finance, and was built literally and
figuratively
in the shadow of St. Petronius' Church.
At the same time there was something self-pleased and
congratulatory in
the way in which the mansion held its own amid the changing
neighborhood.
It almost seemed to be lifted up a little, among the tall
buildings
near at hand, as if it felt the rising value of the land on which
it stood.
John Weightman was like the house into which he had built himself
thirty years ago, and in which his ideals and ambitions were
incrusted.
He was a self-made man. But in making himself he had chosen a
highly esteemed pattern and worked according to the approved
rules.
There was nothing irregular, questionable, flamboyant about him.
He was solid, correct, and justly successful.
His minor tastes, of course, had been carefully kept up to date.
At the proper time, pictures of the Barbizon masters, old English
plate and portraits, bronzes by Barye and marbles by Rodin,
Persian carpets
and Chinese porcelains, had been introduced to the mansion.
It contained a Louis Quinze reception-room, an Empire
drawing-room,
a Jacobean dining-room, and various apartments dimly reminiscent
of
the styles of furniture affected by deceased monarchs. That the
hallways
were too short for the historic perspective did not make much
difference.
American decorative art is capable de tout, it absorbs all
periods.
Of each period Mr. Weightman wished to have something of the
best.
He understood its value, present as a certificate, and
prospective as
an investment.
It was only in the architecture of his town house that he
remained conservative, immovable, one might almost say
Early-Victorian-Christian. His country house at
Dulwich-on-the-Sound
was a palace of the Italian Renaissance. But in town
he adhered to an architecture which had moral associations,
the Nineteenth-Century-Brownstone epoch. It was a symbol of
his social position, his religious doctrine, and even, in a way,
of his business creed.
"A man of fixed principles," he would say, "should express them
in
the looks of his house. New York changes its domestic
architecture
too rapidly. It is like divorce. It is not dignified. I don't
like it.
Extravagance and fickleness are advertised in most of these new
houses.
I wish to be known for different qualities. Dignity and prudence
are
the things that people trust. Every one knows that I can afford
to
live in the house that suits me. It is a guarantee to the
public.
It inspires confidence. It helps my influence. There is a text
in
the Bible about 'a house that hath foundations.' That is the
proper kind of
a mansion for a solid man."
Harold Weightman had often listened to his father discoursing in
this fashion on the fundamental principles of life, and always
with
a divided mind. He admired immensely his father's talents
and the single-minded energy with which he improved them.
But in the paternal philosophy there was something that
disquieted
and oppressed the young man, and made him gasp inwardly for fresh
air
and free action.
At times, during his college course and his years at the law
school,
he had yielded to this impulse and broken away--now toward
extravagance
and dissipation, and then, when the reaction came, toward a
romantic
devotion to work among the poor. He had felt his father's
disapproval
for both of these forms of imprudence; but is was never expressed
in
a harsh or violent way, always with a certain tolerant patience,
such as one might show for the mistakes and vagaries of the very
young.
John Weightman was not hasty, impulsive, inconsiderate, even
toward his
own children. With them, as with the rest of the world, he felt
that he
had a reputation to maintain, a theory to vindicate. He could
afford to
give them time to see that he was absolutely right.
One of his favorite Scripture quotations was, "Wait on the Lord."
He had applied it to real estate and to people, with profitable
results.
But to human persons the sensation of being waited for is not
always agreeable. Sometimes, especially with the young, it
produces
a vague restlessness, a dumb resentment, which is increased by
the fact that one can hardly explain or justify it. Of this
John Weightman was not conscious. It lay beyond his horizon.
He did not take it into account in the plan of life which he made
for
himself and for his family as the sharers and inheritors of his
success.
"Father plays us," said Harold, in a moment of irritation, to his
mother,
"like pieces in a game of chess.
"My dear," said that lady, whose faith in her husband was
religious,
"you ought not to speak so impatiently. At least he wins the
game.
He is one of the most respected men in New York. And he is
very generous, too."
"I wish he would be more generous in letting us be ourselves,"
said the young man. "He always has something in view for us
and expects to move us up to it."
"But isn't it always for our benefit?" replied his mother.
"Look what a position we have. No one can say there is any taint
on
our money. There are no rumors about your father. He has kept
the laws of God and of man. He has never made any mistakes."
Harold got up from his chair and poked the fire. Then he came
back to
the ample, well-gowned, firm-looking lady, and sat beside her on
the sofa.
He took her hand gently and looked at the two rings--a thin band
of
yellow gold, and a small solitaire diamond--which kept their
place on
her third finger in modest dignity, as if not shamed, but rather
justified,
by the splendor of the emerald which glittered beside them.
"Mother," he said, "you have a wonderful hand. And father made
no mistake
when he won you. But are you sure he has always been so
inerrant?"
"Harold," she exclaimed, a little stiffly, "what do you mean?
His life is an open book."
"Oh," he answered, "I don't mean anything bad, mother dear.
I know the governor's life is an open book--a ledger, if you
like,
kept in the best bookkeeping hand, and always ready for
inspection--every page correct, and showing a handsome balance.
But isn't it a mistake not to allow us to make our own mistakes,
to learn for ourselves, to live our own lives? Must we be
always working for 'the balance,' in one thing or another?
I want to be myself--to get outside of this everlasting,
profitable 'plan'--to let myself go, and lose myself for a while
at least--to do the things that I want to do, just because
I want to do them."
"My boy," said his mother, anxiously, "you are not going to do
anything
wrong or foolish? You know the falsehood of that old proverb
about
wild oats."
He threw back his head and laughed. "Yes, mother," he answered,
"I know it well enough. But in California, you know, the wild
oats are
one of the most valuable crops. They grow all over the hillsides
and
keep the cattle and the horses alive. But that wasn't what I
meant--to sow
wild oats. Say to pick wild flowers, if you like, or even to
chase
wild geese--to do something that seems good to me just for its
own sake,
not for the sake of wages of one kind or another. I feel like a
hired man,
in the service of this magnificent mansion--say in training for
father's place as majordomo. I'd like to get out some way,
to feel free--perhaps to do something for others."
The young man's voice hesitated a little. "Yes, it sound like
cant,
I know, but sometimes I feel as if I'd like to do some good in
the world,
if father only wouldn't insist upon God's putting it into the
ledger."
His mother moved uneasily, and a slight look of bewilderment
came into her face.
"Isn't that almost irreverent?" she asked. "Surely the righteous
must have their reward. And your father is good. See how much
he gives to all the established charities, how many things he has
founded.
He's always thinking of others, and planning for them. And
surely,
for us, he does everything. How well he has planned this trip
to Europe for me and the girls--the court-presentation at Berlin,
the season on the Riviera, the visits in England with the
Plumptons and
the Halverstones. He says Lord Halverstone has the finest
old house in Sussex, pure Elizabethan, and all the old customs
are
kept up, too--family prayers every morning for all the domestics.
By-the-way, you know his son Bertie, I believe."
Harold smiled a little to himself as he answered: "Yes, I fished
at
Catalina Island last June with the Honorable Ethelbert;
he's rather a decent chap, in spite of his ingrowing mind.
But you?--mother, you are simply magnificent! You are
father's masterpiece." The young man leaned over to kiss her,
and went up to the Riding Club for his afternoon canter in the
Park.
So it came to pass, early in December, that Mrs. Weightman and
her two daughters sailed for Europe, on their serious pleasure
trip,
even as it had been written in the book of Providence; and John
Weightman,
who had made the entry, was left to pass the rest of the winter
with
his son and heir in the brownstone mansion.
They were comfortable enough. The machinery of the massive
establishment
ran as smoothly as a great electric dynamo. They were busy
enough, too.
John Weightman's plans and enterprises were complicated, though
his
principle of action was always simple--to get good value for
every expenditure and effort. The banking-house of which he was
the chief,
the brain, the will, the absolutely controlling hand, was so
admirably
organized that the details of its direction took but little time.
But the scores of other interests that radiated from it and were
dependent upon it--or perhaps it would be more accurate to say,
that contributed to its solidity and success--the many
investments,
industrial, political, benevolent, reformatory, ecclesiastical,
that had made the name of Weightman well known and potent in
city,
church, and state, demanded much attention and careful steering,
in order that each might produce the desired result. There were
board meetings of corporations and hospitals, conferences in
Wall Street and at Albany, consultations and committee meetings
in
the brownstone mansion.
For a share in all this business and its adjuncts John Weightman
had his son in training in one of the famous law firms of the
city;
for he held that banking itself is a simple affair, the only real
difficulties of finance are on its legal side. Meantime he
wished
the young man to meet and know the men with whom he would have to
deal
when he became a partner in the house. So a couple of dinners
were given in the mansion during December, after which the father
called the son's attention to the fact that over a hundred
million dollars
had sat around the board.
But on Christmas Eve father and son were dining together without
guests,
and their talk across the broad table, glittering with silver and
cut glass, and softly lit by shaded candles, was intimate, though
a little
slow at times. The elder man was in rather a rare mood, more
expansive and
confidential than usual; and, when the coffee was brought in and
they were left alone, he talked more freely of his personal plans
and hopes
than he had ever done before.
"I feel very grateful to-night," said he, at last; "it must be
something in
the air of Christmas that gives me this feeling of thankfulness
for
the many divine mercies that have been bestowed upon me. All the
principles by which I have tried to guide my life have been
justified.
I have never made the value of this salted almond by anything
that
the courts would not uphold, at least in the long run, and
yet--or wouldn't
it be truer to say and therefore?--my affairs have been
wonderfully prospered. There's a great deal in that text
'Honesty is
the best'--but no, that's not from the Bible, after all, is it?
Wait a moment; there is something of that kind, I know."
"May I light a cigar, father," said Harold, turning away to hide
a smile,
"while you are remembering the text?"
"Yes, certainly," answered the elder man, rather shortly; "you
know
I don't dislike the smell. But it is a wasteful, useless habit,
and therefore I have never practised it. Nothing useless is
worth while,
that's my motto--nothing that does not bring the reward.
Oh, now I recall the text, 'Verily I say unto you they have their
reward.'
I shall ask Doctor Snodgrass to preach a sermon on that verse
some day."
"Using you as an illustration?"
"Well, not exactly that; but I could give him some good materials
from
my own experience to prove the truth of Scripture. I can
honestly say that
there is not one of my charities that has not brought me in a
good return,
either in the increase of influence, the building up of credit,
or the association with substantial people. Of course you have
to
be careful how you give, in order to secure the best results--no
indiscriminate giving--no pennies in beggars' hats! It has been
one of my principles always to use the same kind of judgment in
charities
that I use in my other affairs, and they have not disappointed
me."
"Even the check that you put in the plate when you take the
offertory
up the aisle on Sunday morning?"
"Certainly; though there the influence is less direct; and I must
confess
that I have my doubts in regard to the collection for Foreign
Missions.
That always seems to me romantic and wasteful. You never hear
from it in
any definite way. They say the missionaries have done a good
deal
to open the way for trade; perhaps--but they have also gotten us
into
commercial and political difficulties. Yet I give to them--a
little--it is
a matter of conscience with me to identify myself with all the
enterprises
of the Church; it is the mainstay of social order and a
prosperous civilization. But the best forms of benevolence are
the well-established, organized ones here at home, where people
can
see them and know what they are doing."
"You mean the ones that have a local habitation and a name."
"Yes; they offer by far the safest return, though of course there
is
something gained by contributing to general funds. A public man
can't afford to be without public spirit. But on the whole
I prefer a building, or an endowment. There is a mutual
advantage to
a good name and a good institution in their connection in the
public mind.
It helps them both. Remember that, my boy. Of course at the
beginning
you will have to practise it in a small way; later, you will have
larger opportunities. But try to put your gifts where they can
be
identified and do good all around. You'll see the wisdom of it
in
the long run."
"I can see it already, sir, and the way you describe it looks
amazingly wise and prudent. In other words, we must cast our
bread on
the waters in large loaves, carried by sound ships marked with
the owner's name, so that the return freight will be sure to
come back to us."
The father laughed, but his eyes were frowning a little as if
he suspected something irreverent under the respectful reply.
"You put it humorously, but there's sense in what you say. Why
not?
God rules the sea; but He expects us to follow the laws of
navigation and commerce. Why not take good care of your bread,
even when you give it away?"
"It's not for me to say why not--and yet I can think of cases--"
The young man hesitated for a moment. His half-finished cigar
had
gone out. He rose and tossed it into the fire, in front of which
he remained standing--a slender, eager, restless young figure,
with a touch of hunger in the fine face, strangely like and
unlike
the father, at whom he looked with half-wistful curiosity.
"The fact is, sir," he continued, "there is such a case in my
mind now,
and it is a good deal on my heart, too. So I thought of speaking
to you
about it to-night. You remember Tom Rollins, the Junior who was
so good to me when I entered college?"
The father nodded. He remembered very well indeed the annoying
incidents
of his son's first escapade, and how Rollins had stood by him and
helped to
avoid a public disgrace, and how a close friendship had grown
between
the two boys, so different in their fortunes.
"Yes," he said, "I remember him. He was a promising young man.
Has he succeeded?"
"Not exactly--that is not yet. His business has been going
rather badly.
He has a wife and little baby, you know. And now he has broken
down,--
something wrong with his lungs. The doctor says his only chance
is
a year or eighteen months in Colorado. I wish we could help
him."
"How much would it cost?"
"Three or four thousand, perhaps, as a loan."
"Does the doctor say he will get well?"
"A fighting chance--the doctor says."
The face of the older man changed subtly. Not a line was
altered,
but it seemed to have a different substance, as if it were
carved out of some firm, imperishable stuff.
"A fighting chance," he said, "may do for a speculation, but it
is
not a good investment. You owe something to young Rollins.
Your grateful feeling does you credit. But don't overwork it.
Send him three or four hundred, if you like. You'll never
hear from it again, except in the letter of thanks. But for
Heaven's sake
don't be sentimental. Religion is not a matter of sentiment;
it's a matter of principle."
The face of the younger man changed now. But instead of becoming
fixed and graven, it seemed to melt into life by the heat of
an inward fire. His nostrils quivered with quick breath,
his lips were curled. "Principle!" he said. "You mean
principal--and
interest too. Well, sir, you know best whether that is religion
or not.
But if it is, count me out, please. Tom saved me from going to
the devil,
six years ago; and I'll be damned if I don't help him to the best
of
my ability now."
John Weightman looked at his son steadily. "Harold," he said at
last,
"you know I dislike violent language, and it never has any
influence with me. If I could honestly approve of this
proposition of yours, I'd let you have the money; but I can't;
it's extravagant and useless. But you have your Christmas check
for
a thousand dollars coming to you to-morrow. You can use it as
you please.
I never interfere with your private affairs."
"Thank you," said Harold. "Thank you very much! But there's
another
private affair. I want to get away from this life, this town,
this house.
It stifles me. You refused last summer when I asked you to let
me
go up to Grenfell's Mission on the Labrador. I could go now,
at least as far as the Newfoundland Station. Have you changed
your mind?"
"Not at all. I think it is an exceedingly foolish enterprise.
It would interrupt the career that I have marked out for you."
"Well, then, here's a cheaper proposition. Algy Vanderhoof wants
me to
join him on his yacht with--well, with a little party--to cruise
in
the West Indies. Would you prefer that?"
"Certainly not! The Vanderhoof set is wild and godless--I do not
wish to
see you keeping company with fools who walk in the broad and easy
way that
leads to perdition."
"It is rather a hard choice," said the young man, with a short
laugh,
turning toward the door. "According to you there's very little
difference--a fool's paradise or a fool's hell! Well, it's one
or
the other for me, and I'll toss up for it to-night: heads, I
lose;
tails, the devil wins. Anyway, I'm sick of this, and I'm out of
it."
"Harold," said the older man (and there was a slight tremor in
his voice),
"don't let us quarrel on Christmas Eve. All I want is to
persuade you to
think seriously of the duties and responsibilities to which God
has
called you--don't speak lightly of heaven and hell--remember,
there is
another life."
The young man came back and laid his hand upon his father's
shoulder.
"Father," he said, "I want to remember it. I try to believe in
it.
But somehow or other, in this house, it all seems unreal to me.
No doubt all you say is perfectly right and wise. I don't
venture to
argue against it, but I can't feel it--that's all. If I'm to
have a soul,
either to lose or to save, I must really live. Just now neither
the
present nor the future means anything to me. But surely we won't
quarrel.
I'm very grateful to you, and we'll part friends. Good-night,
sir."
The father held out his hand in silence. The heavy portiere
dropped noiselessly behind the son, and he went up the wide,
curving stairway to his own room.
Meantime John Weightman sat in his carved chair in the Jacobean
dining-room. He felt strangely old and dull. The portraits of
beautiful women by Lawrence and Reynolds and Raeburn, which had
often
seemed like real company to him, looked remote and uninteresting.
He fancied something cold and almost unfriendly in their
expression,
as if they were staring through him or beyond him. They cared
nothing for
his principles, his hopes, his disappointments, his successes;
they belonged to another world, in which he had no place. At
this he felt
a vague resentment, a sense of discomfort that he could not have
defined
or explained. He was used to being considered, respected,
appreciated at his full value in every region, even in that of
his own dreams.
Presently he rang for the butler, telling him to close the house
and
not to sit up, and walked with lagging steps into the long
library,
where the shaded lamps were burning. His eye fell upon the low
shelves
full of costly books, but he had no desire to open them. Even
the
carefully chosen pictures that hung above them seemed to have
lost
their attraction. He paused for a moment before an idyll of
Corot--a dance
of nymphs around some forgotten altar in a vaporous glade--and
looked at
it curiously. There was something rapturous and serene about the
picture,
a breath of spring-time in the misty trees, a harmony of joy in
the dancing figures, that wakened in him a feeling of
half-pleasure
and half-envy. It represented something that he had never known
in his
calculated, orderly life. He was dimly mistrustful of it.
"It is certainly very beautiful," he thought, "but it is
distinctly pagan;
that altar is built to some heathen god. It does not fit into
the scheme of a Christian life. I doubt whether it is consistent
with
the tone of my house. I will sell it this winter. It will bring
three or four times what I paid for it. That was a good
purchase,
a very good bargain."
He dropped into the revolving chair before his big library table.
It was covered with pamphlets and reports of the various
enterprises
in which he was interested. There was a pile of newspaper
clippings
in which his name was mentioned with praise for his sustaining
power as
a pillar of finance, for his judicious benevolence, for his
support of
wise and prudent reform movements, for his discretion in making
permanent
public gifts--"the Weightman Charities," one very complaisant
editor
called them, as if they deserved classification as a distinct
species.
He turned he papers over listlessly. There was a description and
a picture of the "Weightman Wing of the Hospital for Cripples,"
of which he was president; and an article on the new professor in
the "Weightman Chair of Political Jurisprudence" in Jackson
University,
of which he was a trustee; and an illustrated account of the
opening of
the "Weightman Grammar-School" at Dulwich-on-the-Sound, where he
had his
legal residence for purposes of taxation.
This last was perhaps the most carefully planned of all the
Weightman Charities. He desired to win the confidence and
support of
his rural neighbors. It had pleased him much when the local
newspaper
had spoken of him as an ideal citizen and the logical candidate
for
the Governorship of the State; but upon the whole it seemed to
him
wiser to keep out of active politics. It would be easier and
better to
put Harold into the running, to have him sent to the Legislature
from
the Dulwich district, then to the national House, then to the
Senate.
Why not? The Weightman interests were large enough to need a
direct
representative and guardian at Washington.