Books: The Lion and the Mouse

C >> Charles Klein >> The Lion and the Mouse

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The directors looked at each other in amazement. Gasps of
astonishment, incredulity, satisfaction were heard all over the
room. The rumours were true, then? Was it possible? Incredible!

Investigation, Ryder went on, had shown that Judge Rossmore was
not only interested in the company in whose favour, as Judge of
the Supreme Court, he had rendered an important decision, but what
was worse, he had accepted from that company a valuable gift--that
is, $50,000 worth of stock--for which he had given absolutely
nothing in return unless, as some claimed, the weight of his
influence on the bench. These facts were very ugly and so
unanswerable that Judge Rossmore did not attempt to answer them,
and the important news which he, the chairman, had to announce to
his fellow-directors that afternoon, was that Judge Rossmore's
conduct would be made the subject of an inquiry by Congress.

This was the spark that was needed to ignite the electrically
charged air. A wild cry of triumph went up from this band of
jackals only too willing to fatten their bellies at the cost of
another man's ruin, and one director, in his enthusiasm, rose
excitedly from his chair and demanded a vote of thanks for John
Ryder.

Ryder coldly opposed the motion. No thanks were due to him, he
said deprecatingly, nor did he think the occasion called for
congratulations of any kind. It was surely a sad spectacle to see
this honoured judge, this devoted father, this blameless citizen
threatened with ruin and disgrace on account of one false step.
Let them rather sympathize with him and his family in their
misfortune. He had little more to tell. The Congressional inquiry
would take place immediately, and in all probability a demand
would be made upon the Senate for Judge Rossmore's impeachment. It
was, he added, almost unnecessary for him to remind the Board
that, in the event of impeachment, the adverse decision in the
Auburndale case would be annulled and the road would be entitled
to a new trial.

Ryder sat down, and pandemonium broke loose, the delighted
directors tumbling over each other in their eagerness to shake
hands with the man who had saved them. Ryder had given no hint
that he had been a factor in the working up of this case against
their common enemy, in fact he had appeared to sympathise with
him, but the directors knew well that he and he alone had been the
master mind which had brought about the happy result.

On a motion to adjourn, the meeting broke up, and everyone began
to troop towards the elevators. Outside the rain was now coming
down in torrents and the lights that everywhere dotted the great
city only paled when every few moments a vivid flash of lightning
rent the enveloping gloom.

Ryder and Senator Roberts went down in the elevator together. When
they reached the street the senator inquired in a low tone:

"Do you think they really believed Rossmore was influenced in his
decision?"

Ryder glanced from the lowering clouds overhead to his electric
brougham which awaited him at the curb and replied indifferently:

"Not they. They don't care. All they want to believe is that he is
to be impeached. The man was dangerous and had to be removed--no
matter by what means. He is our enemy--my enemy--and I never give
quarter to my enemies!"

As he spoke his prognathous jaw snapped to with a click-like
sound, and in his eyes now coal-black were glints of fire. At the
same instant there was a blinding flash, accompanied by a terrific
crash, and the splinters of the flag-pole on the building
opposite, which had been struck by a bolt, fell at their feet.

"A good or a bad omen?" asked the senator with a nervous laugh. He
was secretly afraid of lightning but was ashamed to admit it.

"A bad omen for Judge Rossmore!" rejoined Ryder coolly, as he
slammed to the door of the cab, and the two men drove rapidly off
in the direction of Fifth Avenue.

CHAPTER III

Of all the spots on this fair, broad earth where the jaded globe
wanderer, surfeited with hackneyed sight-seeing, may sit in
perfect peace and watch the world go by, there is none more
fascinating nor one presenting a more brilliant panorama of
cosmopolitan life than that famous corner on the Paris boulevards,
formed by the angle of the Boulevard des Capucines and the Place
de l'Opera. Here, on the "terrace" of the Cafe de la Paix, with
its white and gold facade and long French windows, and its
innumerable little marble-topped tables and rattan chairs, one may
sit for hours at the trifling expense of a few sous, undisturbed
even by the tip-seeking garcon, and, if one happens to be a
student of human nature, find keen enjoyment in observing the
world-types, representing every race and nationality under the
sun, that pass and re-pass in a steady, never ceasing, exhaustless
stream. The crowd surges to and fro, past the little tables,
occasionally toppling over a chair or two in the crush, moving up
or down the great boulevards, one procession going to the right,
in the direction of the Church of the Madeleine, the other to the
left heading toward the historic Bastille, both really going
nowhere in particular, but ambling gently and good humouredly
along enjoying the sights--and life!

Paris, queen of cities! Light-hearted, joyous, radiant Paris--the
playground of the nations, the Mecca of the pleasure-seekers, the
city beautiful! Paris--the siren, frankly immoral, always
seductive, ever caressing! City of a thousand political
convulsions, city of a million crimes--her streets have run with
human blood, horrors unspeakable have stained her history, civil
strife has scarred her monuments, the German conqueror insolently
has bivouaced within her walls. Yet, like a virgin undefiled, she
shows no sign of storm and stress, she offers her dimpled cheek to
the rising sun, and when fall the shadows of night and a billion
electric bulbs flash in the siren's crown, her resplendent,
matchless beauty dazzles the world!

As the supreme reward of virtue, the good American is promised a
visit to Paris when he dies. Those, however, of our sagacious
fellow countrymen who can afford to make the trip, usually manage
to see Lutetia before crossing the river Styx. Most Americans like
Paris--some like it so well that they have made it their permanent
home--although it must be added that in their admiration they
rarely include the Frenchman. For that matter, we are not as a
nation particularly fond of any foreigner, largely because we do
not understand him, while the foreigner for his part is quite
willing to return the compliment. He gives the Yankee credit for
commercial smartness, which has built up America's great material
prosperity; but he has the utmost contempt for our acquaintance
with art, and no profound respect for us as scientists.

Is it not indeed fortunate that every nation finds itself superior
to its neighbour? If this were not so each would be jealous of the
other, and would cry with envy like a spoiled child who cannot
have the moon to play with. Happily, therefore, for the harmony of
the world, each nation cordially detests the other and the much
exploited "brotherhood of man" is only a figure of speech. The
Englishman, confident that he is the last word of creation,
despises the Frenchman, who, in turn, laughs at the German, who
shows open contempt for the Italian, while the American, conscious
of his superiority to the whole family of nations, secretly pities
them all.

The most serious fault which the American--whose one god is Mammon
and chief characteristic hustle--has to find with his French
brother is that he enjoys life too much, is never in a hurry and,
what to the Yankee mind is hardly respectable, has a habit of
playing dominoes during business hours. The Frenchman retorts that
his American brother, clever person though he be, has one or two
things still to learn. He has, he declares, no philosophy of life.
It is true that he has learned the trick of making money, but in
the things which go to satisfy the soul he is still strangely
lacking. He thinks he is enjoying life, when really he is ignorant
of what life is. He admits it is not the American's fault, for he
has never been taught how to enjoy life. One must be educated to
that as everything else. All the American is taught is to be in a
perpetual hurry and to make money no matter how. In this mad daily
race for wealth, he bolts his food, not stopping to masticate it
properly, and consequently suffers all his life from dyspepsia. So
he rushes from the cradle to the grave, and what's the good, since
he must one day die like all the rest?

And what, asks the foreigner, has the American hustler
accomplished that his slower-going Continental brother has not
done as well? Are finer cities to be found in America than in
Europe, do Americans paint more beautiful pictures, or write more
learned or more entertaining books, has America made greater
progress in science? Is it not a fact that the greatest inventors
and scientists of our time--Marconi, who gave to the world
wireless telegraphy, Professor Curie, who discovered radium,
Pasteur, who found a cure for rabies, Santos-Dumont, who has
almost succeeded in navigating the air, Professor Rontgen who
discovered the X-ray--are not all these immortals Europeans? And
those two greatest mechanical inventions of our day, the
automobile and the submarine boat, were they not first introduced
and perfected in France before we in America woke up to appreciate
their use? Is it, therefore, not possible to take life easily and
still achieve?

The logic of these arguments, set forth in Le Soir in an article
on the New World, appealed strongly to Jefferson Ryder as he sat
in front of the Cafe de la Paix, sipping a sugared Vermouth. It
was five o'clock, the magic hour of the aperitif, when the glutton
taxes his wits to deceive his stomach and work up an appetite for
renewed gorging. The little tables were all occupied with the
usual before-dinner crowd. There were a good many foreigners,
mostly English and Americans and a few Frenchmen, obviously from
the provinces, with only a sprinkling of real Parisians.

Jefferson's acquaintance with the French language was none too
profound, and he had to guess at half the words in the article,
but he understood enough to follow the writer's arguments. Yes, it
was quite true, he thought, the American idea of life was all
wrong. What was the sense of slaving all one's life, piling up a
mass of money one cannot possibly spend, when there is only one
life to live? How much saner the man who is content with enough
and enjoys life while he is able to. These Frenchmen, and indeed
all the Continental nations, had solved the problem. The gaiety of
their cities, and this exuberant joy of life they communicated to all
about them, were sufficient proofs of it.

Fascinated by the gay scene around him Jefferson laid the
newspaper aside. To the young American, fresh from prosaic money-
mad New York, the City of Pleasure presented indeed a novel and
beautiful spectacle. How different, he mused, from his own city
with its one fashionable thoroughfare--Fifth Avenue--monotonously
lined for miles with hideous brownstone residences, and showing
little real animation except during the Saturday afternoon parade
when the activities of the smart set, male and female, centred
chiefly in such exciting diversions as going to Huyler's for soda,
taking tea at the Waldorf, and trying to outdo each other in dress
and show. New York certainly was a dull place with all its boasted
cosmopolitanism. There was no denying that. Destitute of any
natural beauty, handicapped by its cramped geographical position
between two rivers, made unsightly by gigantic sky-scrapers and
that noisy monstrosity the Elevated Railroad, having no
intellectual interests, no art interests, no interest in anything
not immediately connected with dollars, it was a city to dwell in
and make money in, but hardly a city to LIVE in. The millionaires
were building white-marble palaces, taxing the ingenuity and the
originality of the native architects, and thus to some extent
relieving the general ugliness and drab commonplaceness, while the
merchant princes had begun to invade the lower end of the avenue
with handsome shops. But in spite of all this, in spite of its
pretty girls--and Jefferson insisted that in this one important
particular New York had no peer--in spite of its comfortable
theatres and its wicked Tenderloin, and its Rialto made so
brilliant at night by thousands of elaborate electric signs, New
York still had the subdued air of a provincial town, compared with
the exuberant gaiety, the multiple attractions, the beauties,
natural and artificial, of cosmopolitan Paris.

The boulevards were crowded, as usual at that hour, and the crush
of both vehicles and pedestrians was so great as to permit of only
a snail-like progress. The clumsy three-horse omnibuses--
Madeleine-Bastille--crowded inside and out with passengers and
with their neatly uniformed drivers and conductors, so different
in appearance and manner from our own slovenly street-car rowdies,
were endeavouring to breast a perfect sea of fiacres which, like a
swarm of mosquitoes, appeared to be trying to go in every
direction at once, their drivers vociferating torrents of
vituperous abuse on every man, woman or beast unfortunate enough
to get in their way. As a dispenser of unspeakable profanity, the
Paris cocher has no equal. He is unique, no one can approach him.
He also enjoys the reputation of being the worst driver in the
world. If there is any possible way in which he can run down a
pedestrian or crash into another vehicle he will do it, probably
for the only reason that it gives him another opportunity to
display his choice stock of picturesque expletives.

But it was a lively, good-natured crowd and the fashionably gowned
women and the well-dressed men, the fakirs hoarsely crying their
catch-penny devices, the noble boulevards lined as far as the eye
could reach with trees in full foliage, the magnificent Opera
House with its gilded dome glistening in the warm sunshine of a
June afternoon, the broad avenue directly opposite, leading in a
splendid straight line to the famous Palais Royal, the almost
dazzling whiteness of the houses and monuments, the remarkable
cleanliness and excellent condition of the sidewalks and streets,
the gaiety and richness of the shops and restaurants, the
picturesque kiosks where they sold newspapers and flowers--all
this made up a picture so utterly unlike anything he was familiar
with at home that Jefferson sat spellbound, delighted.

Yes, it was true, he thought, the foreigner had indeed learned the
secret of enjoying life. There was assuredly something else in the
world beyond mere money-getting. His father was a slave to it, but
he would never be. He was resolved on that. Yet, with all his
ideas of emancipation and progress, Jefferson was a thoroughly
practical young man. He fully understood the value of money, and
the possession of it was as sweet to him as to other men. Only he
would never soil his soul in acquiring it dishonourably. He was
convinced that society as at present organized was all wrong and
that the feudalism of the middle ages had simply given place to a
worse form of slavery--capitalistic driven labour--which had
resulted in the actual iniquitous conditions, the enriching of the
rich and the impoverishment of the poor. He was familiar with the
socialistic doctrines of the day and had taken a keen interest in
this momentous question, this dream of a regenerated mankind. He
had read Karl Marx and other socialistic writers, and while his
essentially practical mind could hardly approve all their
programme for reorganizing the State, some of which seemed to him
utopian, extravagant and even undesirable, he realised that the
socialistic movement was growing rapidly all over the world and
the day was not far distant when in America, as to-day in Germany
and France, it would be a formidable factor to reckon with.

But until the socialistic millennium arrived and society was
reorganized, money, he admitted, would remain the lever of the
world, the great stimulus to effort. Money supplied not only the
necessities of life but also its luxuries, everything the material
desire craved for, and so long as money had this magic purchasing
power, so long would men lie and cheat and rob and kill for its
possession. Was life worth living without money? Could one travel
and enjoy the glorious spectacles Nature affords--the rolling
ocean, the majestic mountains, the beautiful lakes, the noble
rivers--without money? Could the book-lover buy books, the art-
lover purchase pictures? Could one have fine houses to live in, or
all sorts of modern conveniences to add to one's comfort, without
money? The philosophers declared contentment to be happiness,
arguing that the hod-carrier was likely to be happier in his hut
than the millionaire in his palace; but was not that mere animal
contentment, the happiness which knows no higher state, the
ignorance of one whose eyes have never been raised to the heights?

No, Jefferson was no fool. He loved money for what pleasure,
intellectual or physical, it could give him, but he would never
allow money to dominate his life as his father had done. His
father, he knew well, was not a happy man, neither happy himself
nor respected by the world. He had toiled all his life to make his
vast fortune and now he toiled to take care of it. The galley
slave led a life of luxurious ease compared with John Burkett
Ryder. Baited by the yellow newspapers and magazines, investigated
by State committees, dogged by process-servers, haunted by
beggars, harassed by blackmailers, threatened by kidnappers,
frustrated in his attempts to bestow charity by the cry "tainted
money"--certainly the lot of the world's richest man was far from
being an enviable one.

That is why Jefferson had resolved to strike out for himself. He
had warded off the golden yoke which his father proposed to put on
his shoulders, declining the lucrative position made for him in
the Empire Trading Company, and he had gone so far as to refuse
also the private income his father offered to settle on him. He
would earn his own living. A man who has his bread buttered for
him seldom accomplishes anything he had said, and while his father
had appeared to be angry at this open opposition to his will, he
was secretly pleased at his son's grit. Jefferson was thoroughly
in earnest. If needs be, he would forego the great fortune that
awaited him rather than be forced into questionable business
methods against which his whole manhood revolted.

Jefferson Ryder felt strongly about these matters, and gave them
more thought than would be expected of most young men with his
opportunities. In fact, he was unusually serious for his age. He
was not yet thirty, but he had done a great deal of reading, and
he took a keen interest in all the political and sociological
questions of the hour. In personal appearance, he was the type of
man that both men and women like--tall and athletic looking, with
smooth face and clean-cut features. He had the steel-blue eyes and
the fighting jaw of his father, and when he smiled he displayed
two even rows of very white teeth. He was popular with men, being
manly, frank and cordial in his relations with them, and women
admired him greatly, although they were somewhat intimidated by
his grave and serious manner. The truth was that he was rather
diffident with women, largely owing to lack of experience with
them.

He had never felt the slightest inclination for business. He had
the artistic temperament strongly developed, and his personal
tastes had little in common with Wall Street and its feverish
stock manipulating. When he was younger, he had dreamed of a
literary or art career. At one time he had even thought of going
on the stage. But it was to art that he turned finally. From an
early age he had shown considerable skill as a draughtsman, and
later a two years' course at the Academy of Design convinced him
that this was his true vocation. He had begun by illustrating for
the book publishers and for the magazines, meeting at first with
the usual rebuffs and disappointments, but, refusing to be
discouraged, he had kept on and soon the tide turned. His drawings
began to be accepted. They appeared first in one magazine, then in
another, until one day, to his great joy, he received an order
from an important firm of publishers for six washdrawings to be
used in illustrating a famous novel. This was the beginning of his
real success. His illustrations were talked about almost as much
as the book, and from that time on everything was easy. He was in
great demand by the publishers, and very soon the young artist,
who had begun his career of independence on nothing a year so to
speak, found himself in a handsomely appointed studio in Bryant
Park, with more orders coming in than he could possibly fill, and
enjoying an income of little less than $5,000 a year. The money
was all the sweeter to Jefferson in that he felt he had himself
earned every cent of it. This summer he was giving himself a well-
deserved vacation, and he had come to Europe partly to see Paris
and the other art centres about which his fellow students at the
Academy raved, but principally--although this he did not
acknowledge even to himself--to meet in Paris a young woman in
whom he was more than ordinarily interested--Shirley Rossmore,
daughter of Judge Rossmore, of the United States Supreme Court,
who had come abroad to recuperate after the labours on her new
novel, "The American Octopus," a book which was then the talk of
two hemispheres.

Jefferson had read half a dozen reviews of it in as many American
papers that afternoon at the New York Herald's reading room in the
Avenue de l'Opera, and he chuckled with glee as he thought how
accurately this young woman had described his father. The book had
been published under the pseudonym "Shirley Green," and he alone
had been admitted into the secret of authorship. The critics all
conceded that it was the book of the year, and that it portrayed
with a pitiless pen the personality of the biggest figure in the
commercial life of America. "Although," wrote one reviewer, "the
leading character in the book is given another name, there can be
no doubt that the author intended to give to the world a vivid pen
portrait of John Burkett Ryder. She has succeeded in presenting a
remarkable character-study of the most remarkable man of his
time."

He was particularly pleased with the reviews, not only for Miss
Rossmore's sake, but also because his own vanity was gratified.
Had he not collaborated on the book to the extent of acquainting
the author with details of his father's life, and his
characteristics, which no outsider could possibly have learned?
There had been no disloyalty to his father in doing this.
Jefferson admired his father's smartness, if he could not approve
his methods. He did not consider the book an attack on his father,
but rather a powerfully written pen picture of an extraordinary
man.

Jefferson had met Shirley Rossmore two years before at a meeting
of the Schiller Society, a pseudo-literary organization gotten up
by a lot of old fogies for no useful purpose, and at whose monthly
meetings the poet who gave the society its name was probably the
last person to be discussed. He had gone out of curiosity, anxious
to take in all the freak shows New York had to offer, and he had
been introduced to a tall girl with a pale, thoughtful face and
firm mouth. She was a writer, Miss Rossmore told him, and this was
her first visit also to the evening receptions of the Schiller
Society. Half apologetically she added that it was likely to be
her last, for, frankly, she was bored to death. But she explained
that she had to go to these affairs, as she found them useful in
gathering material for literary use. She studied types and
eccentric characters, and this seemed to her a capital hunting
ground. Jefferson, who, as a rule, was timid with girls and
avoided them, found this girl quite unlike the others he had
known. Her quiet, forceful demeanour appealed to him strongly, and
he lingered with her, chatting about his work, which had so many
interests in common with her own, until refreshments were served,
when the affair broke up. This first meeting had been followed by
a call at the Rossmore residence, and the acquaintance had kept up
until Jefferson, for the first time since he came to manhood, was
surprised and somewhat alarmed at finding himself strangely and
unduly interested in a person of the opposite sex.

The young artist's courteous manner, his serious outlook on life,
his high moral principles, so rarely met with nowadays in young
men of his age and class, could hardly fail to appeal to Shirley,
whose ideals of men had been somewhat rudely shattered by those
she had hitherto met. Above all, she demanded in a man the
refinement of the true gentleman, together with strength of
character and personal courage. That Jefferson Ryder came up to
this standard she was soon convinced. He was certainly a
gentleman: his views on a hundred topics of the hour expressed in
numerous conversations assured her as to his principles, while a
glance at his powerful physique left no doubt possible as to his
courage. She rightly guessed that this was no poseur trying to
make an impression and gain her confidence. There was an
unmistakable ring of sincerity in all his words, and his struggle
at home with his father, and his subsequent brave and successful
fight for his own independence and self-respect, more than
substantiated all her theories. And the more Shirley let her mind
dwell on Jefferson Ryder and his blue eyes and serious manner, the
more conscious she became that the artist was encroaching more
upon her thoughts and time than was good either for her work or
for herself.

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