“You don’t regret becoming wealthy, surely?” Douglas challenged.
Carnegie chuckled and shook his head. “I strive to ensure any business venture I’m involved with is profitable. I won’t deny that being successful is hugely satisfying. But I find greater satisfaction in using money for benevolent purposes. Giving back to help others. It was a great thrill for me to revisit Dunfermline, my birthplace. As you might expect, they treated me with high honors. But I didn’t go there just to feed my pride. My mother and I laid the foundation stone for a new library. That library will benefit countless people for years to come. I have funded other public works there as well. None of these charitable projects are overtly a benefit to my ledger book, yet I believe my business prospers because of them. More importantly, though, they add to a greater account. One that is more satisfying to the heart. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Douglas considered Carnegie’s words. He was aware of the steel magnate’s fame as a philanthropist, but he hadn’t thought much about it—at least, not in regard to himself. That was what Carnegie was clearly encouraging him to do. “When I saw you in London, preparing to give your mother a grand tour of England and Scotland, I thought how much I should like to do something like that for my parents.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Always honor your father and mother. But it doesn’t hurt to look a little further afield, as well. To remember one’s fellow man.”
Douglas wasn’t sure whether Carnegie’s advice was meant as just that—advice—or if it was a reproof. He decided it must be the former. After all, Carnegie knew next to nothing about Douglas’s personal life.
Carnegie looked out over the crowded piers bustling with activity. “Do you want to know a dream of mine?”
Douglas, sensing this was a rhetorical question, waited quietly for Carnegie to continue.
“I had to give up school when I was fourteen to work full-time. One day, I would love to spend a few years at Oxford and get a proper and thorough education. Then I would settle in London and purchase a controlling interest in some newspaper, giving the general management of it my attention. The paper would focus on covering public matters, especially those connected with education and improvement of the poorer classes.”
“You mean you would leave the other businesses behind?” Douglas couldn’t imagine walking away from an empire like the one Carnegie had built.
Carnegie shrugged, although he had a happy, far-off look as he thought about his plan. “As I said, it is a dream of mine. I could arrange my affairs to secure a good amount per annum, and use the rest for a project such as the one I just described.”
They were silent for a minute as Douglas digested this information. The air was filled with the cries of sea gulls and the shouts of men calling out orders to those loading or unloading cargo. Douglas took a deep breath of the salty air, tinged with the smell of coal fires and the smoke from the steam engines that powered the cranes lifting heavy crates onto the ships. It was the smell of success for those who were in the right position to profit from it. “I have to say, sir, that I cannot picture a man as successful as you are being willing to walk away from it all.”
“And why not?”
“Respectfully, sir, I have been poor. I was raised in abject, soul-crushing poverty. I’ve had to work ten times harder than the average man for everything I’ve gained. I will never, ever be in that position again. Not while I still have breath and the ability to fight for something better.” Although Douglas kept his voice modulated, he was clenching his fists as he spoke. The resolution was hard as steel in his soul.
Carnegie’s expression sobered. “Mr. Shaw, I would never suggest that you subject yourself to those miseries again. Lord knows I’m thankful to be living comfortably, and I’m especially thankful to be able to provide a good home for my mother. Perhaps it’s more a question of balance and priorities. I know firsthand how hard it is to live hand to mouth, barely subsisting. I hope I never forget it. Yet there is always the danger that it will warp your soul to the end that you pursue money to the detriment of all else. That is what I caution you against.”
“Ah, money. The root of all evil.” Douglas’s voice soured as bitter memories arose of the sermons he’d heard as a child.
“No, Mr. Shaw. The love of money is the root of all evil,” Carnegie corrected. “Why are you acquiring it, and what will you do with it? The Good Book says we are to work heartily so that we may have to give to him that needeth. I strive to ensure that a sizable portion of my money may be used to do good.”
“That is admirable, sir.” Douglas meant it, even if his heart wasn’t entirely on board. There were a lot of things he had to do first, before he could be comfortable with the idea of giving away large swaths of his hard-earned money.
Sensing his reluctance, Carnegie gave him an understanding smile. “You’re young and still making your way in the world. Perhaps one day you’ll comprehend the truth of what I’m saying.”
Douglas nodded, unable to think of any other response. He’d been looking forward to learning from Carnegie, but this wasn’t what he’d expected.
“But you didn’t come all the way to Liverpool to hear a lecture from me,” Carnegie said amiably. “Suppose we get back to discussing that deal.”
Being an experienced negotiator, Carnegie seemed to know when he’d made his point and it was time to move on. Douglas admired him even more for that. He was also glad to return the conversation to more familiar ground.
“Perhaps you’d like to visit Henley and Company’s Liverpool office after all? It’s just a few streets over from here.”
“Excellent idea,” Carnegie said. “Lead the way.”
The next hour was one of the best Douglas could remember. Carnegie was affable and polite, but he also pushed Douglas hard on the facts and details of what they were discussing. This was what Douglas had wanted from him. He felt as though he was sitting at the feet of a master teacher.
They could reach no agreement at this stage, as Douglas would have to take this information to Mr. Henley first. After they’d made plans regarding the timing of future communications, they walked outside together so that Carnegie could find a cab to take him to his hotel.
As they shook hands, Carnegie said, “Thank you, Mr. Shaw, for a very stimulating afternoon.”
“The pleasure was all mine,” Douglas replied sincerely.
“Perhaps you might consider a trip to Glasgow to visit your parents before returning to London? It’s not such a long journey from here by train.”
“That’s a good idea,” Douglas agreed, keeping his answer noncommittal.
Douglas remained at the Liverpool office for another hour, reviewing the paperwork and thinking over all that had happened. The subject Carnegie had raised about the perils of idolizing money had not arisen again, but it had never left Douglas’s mind. Did Carnegie think Douglas was guilty of this? If so, was he correct?
Douglas tried to delve deep into his soul for the answer. He believed in God, although he could not understand his parents’ meek subjection to their impoverished circumstances, as though they had been ordained by the Almighty. Surely God was not an angry overlord whose main goal was to test His followers with hardships and troubles. That was something Douglas could not believe. He didn’t have an answer for why there was so much suffering in the world. He just knew he would do whatever it took to rise to better things.
Carnegie had returned to the subject of his parents. Reluctantly, Douglas decided he should probably take the advice and visit them. After all, Carnegie had been right about so many other things. Douglas had also noticed that the last few letters from his parents sounded different. Less reproachful, somehow. He wasn’t sure if this was really true, or if it just came out filtered that way by whoever was writing on their behalf. Whatever the case, Douglas couldn’t deny that a visit to his parents was overdue.
He wired the London office that the meeting had gone well and requested leave for another week.
Henley sent back his permission, along with a hearty note of “well done.” Douglas was pleased that Alice had transmitted that message. She would know this trip had been a success. He knew she would be proud of her part in it.
With plenty of things on his mind to review and consider, he set off to the railway station.
Douglas checked into the Central Hotel near the railway station in Glasgow. Normally he stayed at a more modest hotel when visiting the city, but the way things were going with Carnegie and his other projects, he decided this time he could spend the money. Besides, he liked the idea of following in Carnegie’s steps. He left his bags in a nicely appointed bedroom that was larger than his parents’ sitting room and headed out. Without his luggage, he was free to walk to his parents’ house. That would at least allow him to economize on cab fare.
He usually dreaded these trips back to Glasgow. The squalid streets in the section of town where he’d grown up always pained him to revisit. He’d been happy to escape and angry at his parents for their refusal to seek something better. In short, he disliked coming face-to-face with the world he’d fought so hard to leave behind.
This time, as he walked the streets toward his old neighborhood, his thoughts took a different turn. He pondered Mr. Carnegie’s statements about the joy he’d gotten from giving back to his hometown. During the train ride from Liverpool the idea had begun to make inroads in his thoughts. But Glasgow was not a small town like Dunfermline. It was a sprawling city with endless problems. What could Douglas do? How would it have any lasting impact? He did not have millions to spend, like Carnegie did.
He turned onto the narrow lane that was deeply etched into his memories. It looked much as it always had, with small children playing in the street and lines of drying laundry hanging overhead. Looking at it through the eyes of an adult, it seemed smaller. More confining.
The door to his parents’ home was open to let in the breeze, as was the narrow window of the sitting room. Douglas stepped through the doorway and paused, looking around. His father was seated at the small table where they ate their meals.
“How are ye, Dad?” Douglas said, a touch of his brogue returning unbidden as he stepped into his childhood home.
His father raised his head. Seeing Douglas, his face widened in a smile. He called out, “Jeannie! Look who’s come to call!”
He pushed back his chair and struggled to stand. A work injury had left him with a bad back that made such movements laborious and painful.
Douglas went over and helped him up. It was an action he’d often performed, but he wasn’t ready to find himself subsequently clasped in a tight embrace. His father was not normally so demonstrative.
“Och, I’ve missed ye, son,” his father murmured.
As his father released him, Douglas glanced down at the table. There were papers on it, along with pen and ink. “What’s this?”
“Now you’ve gone and spoiled the surprise,” was his father’s enigmatic reply.
A clumping on the stairs announced that his mother was coming down. She let out an exclamation of delight when she saw Douglas. She fairly ran down the rest of the steps, and once more Douglas found himself enveloped in a hug.
She pushed back to give him a scolding look. “Why didn’t you tell us you were coming?”
“It was a spur-of-the-moment decision. I didn’t have time to write a letter.”
“Have ye never heard of telegrams, boy?” his father said, smiling.
Douglas blinked, not sure he had heard correctly. His father usually derided telegrams as an unnecessary luxury. In fact, Douglas hadn’t sent a telegram because they’d have to tip the messenger, and they needed every penny. Not to mention they’d have to find someone to read it for them. His parents had grown up before the laws for mandatory education for children had been enacted in Britain, and their reading skills were practically nonexistent.
“You’d best sit down, Richard,” his mother admonished. “You know you can’t stand up for long without bringing on the pains.”
“What a worrier you are,” his father grumbled good-naturedly. But he allowed Douglas to help him to a chair by the tiny fireplace.
“What were you working on at the table, Dad?” Douglas asked, still curious about what he’d seen there.
His father leaned back in his chair, while his mother beamed at them both. “Well, son, as it happens, I was just tryin’ my hand at writing you a letter. It’s slow going, though.”
“You were . . . writing?” Now Douglas knew there was something wrong with his hearing.
“I’ll get us some tea,” his mother said happily, “and your father can tell you all about it.”
CHAPTER
Twenty-Four
Douglas listened with amazement while his father explained how he’d begun learning to read and write. A lay minister named Mr. Johnstone had moved to Glasgow some months ago. He and his wife saw a great need among the working classes who, for various reasons, had never been able to attend school. They opened a free school with classes on Sundays and some evenings that were primarily aimed at helping adults improve literacy and arithmetic skills. They’d had success establishing a few schools for the miners in Newcastle and wanted to do the same in Glasgow.
“They give the lessons at the little meeting hall next to the church,” his father said. “There’s no charge, but they ask those who can afford to bring paper and pencil to do so. I used a bit of the money you so kindly sent us for that.”
“We didn’t think you’d mind,” his mother put in, giving Douglas a knowing smile.
“That is . . .” Douglas searched for the word. Astonishing? Unbelievable? He settled on “. . . admirable.”
“Your father wasn’t so easy to convince, though,” his mother said. “It took a little doing.”
Douglas wasn’t surprised. He knew from experience that it was tough to change his father’s mind about anything. “What finally won you over?”
“I wasn’t sure about this Mr. Johnstone at first, but I guess you could say he grew on me. He said a lot of things I hadn’t heard before, and he was reading it straight from the Bible. And I’ll be honest: as a man gets closer to his judgment day, he starts to care a little more keenly about what may happen at that particular event. I decided I didn’t want to take someone else’s word for it and find out too late that I was depending on the wrong information.”
“And how is your . . . er, research coming along?”
“Well, it’s slow going, as I said. I read from the church Bible that they keep at the school. There’s a lot o’ words in there! But Mrs. Johnstone helps me find verses that are easier to read. I’ve copied a few of them down for practice. Shall I read them to you?”
“I’d like that very much.”
Catching his wife’s eye, his father motioned toward the table. “Bring me those papers, will you, Jeannie?”
She quickly obliged.
Clearing his throat, his father looked down at the pages and began reading. “‘Thy word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path. . . . For the Lord God is a sun and shield: the Lord will give grace and glory: no good thing will he withhold from them that walk uprightly.’”
He read a mix of verses that seemed to come from both the Old and New Testaments. His pronunciation was halting at times, especially on longer words, but was always clear.
Hearing these words from his father’s lips, Douglas was unexpectedly moved. So many verses talked of the goodness and salvation of God. He’d never known his father to take much interest in religion, other than taking the paradoxical stances of railing against it while also accepting the precept that people were born into certain stations in life where they must remain, and that somehow God was responsible for that. Something had clearly changed.
His father continued reading. “‘Charge them that are rich in this world, that they be not highminded, nor trust in uncertain riches . . .’”
Until this point, Douglas had been focusing on the worn carpet a
s his father read, afraid that if he watched, he might be too overcome with emotion. Now he jerked his head up. Money had always been a sensitive topic. Was his father reading this as a rebuke to Douglas’s pursuit of financial success? He took a deep breath, as he often did when about to go head-to-head with his father on something.
“‘. . . but in the living God, who giveth us richly all things to enjoy,’” his father said, finishing the verse. He set down the papers, clearly done with his reading.
“That was wonderful, Richard!” his mother exclaimed, gazing proudly at her husband. She turned to Douglas for confirmation. “Wasn’t that wonderful?”
For the moment, agitation had overcome the pride Douglas had been feeling. “I was just wondering, Dad, why you picked that last verse.”
“I believe the point is pretty clear—that we are not to trust in riches, but in God.”
“I see.” This was an attack on him after all.
“However”—his father lifted the paper again, pointing to the verse—“it also says that God gives us richly all things to enjoy. Perhaps He doesn’t want His people to be destitute. Perhaps He does want us to take some enjoyment in life.”
Douglas thought of the distinction Carnegie had made between having wealth and serving it as an idol. It would seem his father was saying something similar. “Does this mean you’re no longer angry with me for fighting my way out of this place?”
His father shook his head. “I was too hard on you. I think I was angry at myself for not bein’ able to provide better for you.”
They were silent for a few moments to appreciate this newly forged understanding between them.
His mother was the next to speak. “Richard, you’ve told him your main reason for learning to read. But it’s not the only reason, now, is it?”
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