The Lion and The Mouse: A Story Of American Life

by Charles Klein and Arthur Hornblow

  CHAPTER III

  Of all the spots on this fair, broad earth where the jaded globewanderer, surfeited with hackneyed sight-seeing, may sit inperfect peace and watch the world go by, there is none morefascinating nor one presenting a more brilliant panorama ofcosmopolitan life than that famous corner on the Paris boulevards,formed by the angle of the Boulevard des Capucines and the Placede l'Opera. Here, on the "terrace" of the Cafe de la Paix, withits white and gold facade and long French windows, and itsinnumerable little marble-topped tables and rattan chairs, one maysit for hours at the trifling expense of a few _sous_, undisturbedeven by the tip-seeking _garcon_, and, if one happens to be astudent of human nature, find keen enjoyment in observing theworld-types, representing every race and nationality under thesun, that pass and re-pass in a steady, never ceasing, exhaustlessstream. The crowd surges to and fro, past the little tables,occasionally toppling over a chair or two in the crush, moving upor down the great boulevards, one procession going to the right,in the direction of the Church of the Madeleine, the other to theleft heading toward the historic Bastille, both really goingnowhere in particular, but ambling gently and good humouredlyalong enjoying the sights--and life!

  Paris, queen of cities! Light-hearted, joyous, radiant Paris--theplayground of the nations, the Mecca of the pleasure-seekers, thecity beautiful! Paris--the siren, frankly immoral, alwaysseductive, ever caressing! City of a thousand politicalconvulsions, city of a million crimes--her streets have run withhuman blood, horrors unspeakable have stained her history, civilstrife has scarred her monuments, the German conqueror insolentlyhas bivouaced within her walls. Yet, like a virgin undefiled, sheshows no sign of storm and stress, she offers her dimpled cheek tothe rising sun, and when fall the shadows of night and a billionelectric 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 avisit to Paris when he dies. Those, however, of our sagaciousfellow countrymen who can afford to make the trip, usually manageto see Lutetia before crossing the river Styx. Most Americans likeParis--some like it so well that they have made it their permanenthome--although it must be added that in their admiration theyrarely include the Frenchman. For that matter, we are not as anation particularly fond of any foreigner, largely because we donot understand him, while the foreigner for his part is quitewilling to return the compliment. He gives the Yankee credit forcommercial smartness, which has built up America's great materialprosperity; but he has the utmost contempt for our acquaintancewith art, and no profound respect for us as scientists.

  Is it not indeed fortunate that every nation finds itself superiorto its neighbour? If this were not so each would be jealous of theother, and would cry with envy like a spoiled child who cannothave the moon to play with. Happily, therefore, for the harmony ofthe world, each nation cordially detests the other and the muchexploited "brotherhood of man" is only a figure of speech. TheEnglishman, confident that he is the last word of creation,despises the Frenchman, who, in turn, laughs at the German, whoshows open contempt for the Italian, while the American, consciousof his superiority to the whole family of nations, secretly pitiesthem all.

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

  And what, asks the foreigner, has the American hustleraccomplished that his slower-going Continental brother has notdone as well? Are finer cities to be found in America than inEurope, do Americans paint more beautiful pictures, or write morelearned or more entertaining books, has America made greaterprogress in science? Is it not a fact that the greatest inventorsand scientists of our time--Marconi, who gave to the worldwireless telegraphy, Professor Curie, who discovered radium,Pasteur, who found a cure for rabies, Santos-Dumont, who hasalmost succeeded in navigating the air, Professor Roentgen whodiscovered the X-ray--are not all these immortals Europeans? Andthose two greatest mechanical inventions of our day, theautomobile and the submarine boat, were they not first introducedand perfected in France before we in America woke up to appreciatetheir use? Is it, therefore, not possible to take life easily andstill achieve?

  The logic of these arguments, set forth in _Le Soir_ in an articleon the New World, appealed strongly to Jefferson Ryder as he satin front of the Cafe de la Paix, sipping a sugared Vermouth. Itwas five o'clock, the magic hour of the _aperitif_, when theglutton taxes his wits to deceive his stomach and work up anappetite for renewed gorging. The little tables were all occupiedwith the usual before-dinner crowd. There were a good manyforeigners, mostly English and Americans and a few Frenchmen,obviously from the provinces, with only a sprinkling of realParisians.

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

  Fascinated by the gay scene around him Jefferson laid the newspaperaside. To the young American, fresh from prosaic money-mad NewYork, the City of Pleasure presented indeed a novel and beautifulspectacle. How different, he mused, from his own city with its onefashionable thoroughfare--Fifth Avenue--monotonously lined for mileswith hideous brownstone residences, and showing little real animationexcept during the Saturday afternoon parade when the activities ofthe smart set, male and female, centred chiefly in such excitingdiversions as going to Huyler's for soda, taking tea at the Waldorf,and trying to outdo each other in dress and show. New Yorkcertainly 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 monstrositythe Elevated Railroad, having no intellectual interests, no artinterests, no interest in anything not immediately connected withdollars, it was a city to dwell in and make money in, but hardly acity to _live_ in. The millionaires were building white-marblepalaces, taxing the ingenuity and the originality of the nativearchitects, and thus to some extent relieving the general uglinessand drab commonplaceness, while the merchant princes had begun toinvade the lower end of the avenue with handsome shops. But inspite of all this, in spite of its pretty girls--and Jeffersoninsisted that in this one important particular New York had nopeer--in spite of its comfortable theatres and its wickedTenderloin, and its Rialto made so brilliant at night by thousandsof elaborate electric signs, New York still had the subdued air ofa provincial town, compared with the exuberant gaiety, themultiple attractions, the beauties, natural and artificial, ofcosmopolitan Paris.

  The boulevards were crowded, as usual at that hour, and thecrush of both vehicles and pedestrians was
so great as topermit of only a snail-like progress. The clumsy three-horseomnibuses--Madeleine-Bastille--crowded inside and out withpassengers and with their neatly uniformed drivers and conductors,so different in appearance and manner from our own slovenlystreet-car rowdies, were endeavouring to breast a perfect sea of_fiacres_ which, like a swarm of mosquitoes, appeared to be tryingto go in every direction at once, their drivers vociferatingtorrents of vituperous abuse on every man, woman or beastunfortunate enough to get in their way. As a dispenser ofunspeakable profanity, the Paris _cocher_ has no equal. He isunique, no one can approach him. He also enjoys the reputation ofbeing the worst driver in the world. If there is any possible wayin which he can run down a pedestrian or crash into anothervehicle he will do it, probably for the only reason that it giveshim another opportunity to display his choice stock of picturesqueexpletives.

  But it was a lively, good-natured crowd and the fashionably gownedwomen and the well-dressed men, the fakirs hoarsely crying theircatch-penny devices, the noble boulevards lined as far as the eyecould reach with trees in full foliage, the magnificent OperaHouse with its gilded dome glistening in the warm sunshine of aJune afternoon, the broad avenue directly opposite, leading in asplendid straight line to the famous Palais Royal, the almostdazzling whiteness of the houses and monuments, the remarkablecleanliness and excellent condition of the sidewalks and streets,the gaiety and richness of the shops and restaurants, thepicturesque kiosks where they sold newspapers and flowers--allthis made up a picture so utterly unlike anything he was familiarwith at home that Jefferson sat spellbound, delighted.

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

  But until the socialistic millennium arrived and society wasreorganized, money, he admitted, would remain the lever of theworld, the great stimulus to effort. Money supplied not only thenecessities of life but also its luxuries, everything the materialdesire craved for, and so long as money had this magic purchasingpower, so long would men lie and cheat and rob and kill for itspossession. Was life worth living without money? Could one traveland enjoy the glorious spectacles Nature affords--the rollingocean, the majestic mountains, the beautiful lakes, the noblerivers--without money? Could the book-lover buy books, theart-lover purchase pictures? Could one have fine houses to livein, or all sorts of modern conveniences to add to one's comfort,without money? The philosophers declared contentment to behappiness, arguing that the hod-carrier was likely to be happierin his hut than the millionaire in his palace; but was not thatmere animal contentment, the happiness which knows no higherstate, the ignorance of one whose eyes have never been raised tothe heights?

  No, Jefferson was no fool. He loved money for what pleasure,intellectual or physical, it could give him, but he would neverallow money to dominate his life as his father had done. Hisfather, he knew well, was not a happy man, neither happy himselfnor respected by the world. He had toiled all his life to make hisvast fortune and now he toiled to take care of it. The galleyslave led a life of luxurious ease compared with John BurkettRyder. Baited by the yellow newspapers and magazines, investigatedby State committees, dogged by process-servers, haunted bybeggars, harassed by blackmailers, threatened by kidnappers,frustrated in his attempts to bestow charity by the cry "taintedmoney"--certainly the lot of the world's richest man was far frombeing an enviable one.

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

  Jefferson Ryder felt strongly about these matters, and gave themmore thought than would be expected of most young men with hisopportunities. In fact, he was unusually serious for his age. Hewas not yet thirty, but he had done a great deal of reading, andhe took a keen interest in all the political and sociologicalquestions of the hour. In personal appearance, he was the type ofman that both men and women like--tall and athletic looking, withsmooth face and clean-cut features. He had the steel-blue eyes andthe fighting jaw of his father, and when he smiled he displayedtwo even rows of very white teeth. He was popular with men, beingmanly, frank and cordial in his relations with them, and womenadmired him greatly, although they were somewhat intimidated byhis grave and serious manner. The truth was that he was ratherdiffident with women, largely owing to lack of experience withthem.

  He had never felt the slightest inclination for business. He hadthe artistic temperament strongly developed, and his personaltastes had little in common with Wall Street and its feverishstock manipulating. When he was younger, he had dreamed of aliterary or art career. At one time he had even thought of goingon the stage. But it was to art that he turned finally. From anearly age he had shown considerable skill as a draughtsman, andlater a two years' course at the Academy of Design convinced himthat this was his true vocation. He had begun by illustrating forthe book publishers and for the magazines, meeting at first withthe usual rebuffs and disappointments, but, refusing to bediscouraged, he had kept on and soon the tide turned. His drawingsbegan to be accepted. They appeared first in one magazine, then inanother, until one day, to his great joy, he received an orderfrom an important firm of publishers for six wash-drawings to beused in illustrating a famous novel. This was the beginning of hisreal success. His illustrations were talked about almost as muchas the book, and from that time on everything was easy. He was ingreat demand by the publishers, and very soon the young artist,who had begun his career of independence on nothing a year so tospeak, found himself in a handsomely appointed studio in BryantPark, with more orders coming in than he could possibly fill, andenjoying an income of little less than $5,000 a year. The moneywas all the sweeter to Jefferson in that he felt he had himselfearned every cent of it. This summer he was giving himself awell-deserved vacation, and he had come to Europe partly to seeParis and the other art centres about which his fellow students atthe Academy raved, but principally--although this he did notacknowledge even to himself--to meet in Paris a young woman inwhom 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 newnovel, "The American Octopus," a book which was then the talk oftwo hemispheres.

  Jefferson had read half a dozen reviews of it in as many Americanpapers that afternoon at the _New
York Herald's_ reading room inthe Avenue de l'Opera, and he chuckled with glee as he thought howaccurately this young woman had described his father. The book hadbeen published under the pseudonym "Shirley Green," and he alonehad been admitted into the secret of authorship. The critics allconceded that it was the book of the year, and that it portrayedwith a pitiless pen the personality of the biggest figure in thecommercial life of America. "Although," wrote one reviewer, "theleading character in the book is given another name, there can beno doubt that the author intended to give to the world a vivid penportrait of John Burkett Ryder. She has succeeded in presenting aremarkable character-study of the most remarkable man of histime."

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

  Jefferson had met Shirley Rossmore two years before at a meetingof the Schiller Society, a pseudo-literary organization gotten upby a lot of old fogies for no useful purpose, and at whose monthlymeetings the poet who gave the society its name was probably thelast person to be discussed. He had gone out of curiosity, anxiousto take in all the freak shows New York had to offer, and he hadbeen introduced to a tall girl with a pale, thoughtful face andfirm mouth. She was a writer, Miss Rossmore told him, and this washer first visit also to the evening receptions of the SchillerSociety. Half apologetically she added that it was likely to beher last, for, frankly, she was bored to death. But she explainedthat she had to go to these affairs, as she found them useful ingathering material for literary use. She studied types andeccentric characters, and this seemed to her a capital huntingground. Jefferson, who, as a rule, was timid with girls andavoided them, found this girl quite unlike the others he hadknown. Her quiet, forceful demeanour appealed to him strongly, andhe lingered with her, chatting about his work, which had so manyinterests in common with her own, until refreshments were served,when the affair broke up. This first meeting had been followed bya call at the Rossmore residence, and the acquaintance had kept upuntil Jefferson, for the first time since he came to manhood, wassurprised and somewhat alarmed at finding himself strangely andunduly 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 youngmen of his age and class, could hardly fail to appeal to Shirley,whose ideals of men had been somewhat rudely shattered by thoseshe had hitherto met. Above all, she demanded in a man therefinement of the true gentleman, together with strength ofcharacter and personal courage. That Jefferson Ryder came up tothis standard she was soon convinced. He was certainly agentleman: his views on a hundred topics of the hour expressed innumerous conversations assured her as to his principles, while aglance at his powerful physique left no doubt possible as to hiscourage. She rightly guessed that this was no _poseur_ trying tomake an impression and gain her confidence. There was anunmistakable ring of sincerity in all his words, and his struggleat home with his father, and his subsequent brave and successfulfight for his own independence and self-respect, more thansubstantiated all her theories. And the more Shirley let her minddwell on Jefferson Ryder and his blue eyes and serious manner, themore conscious she became that the artist was encroaching moreupon her thoughts and time than was good either for her work orfor herself.

  So their casual acquaintance grew into a real friendship andcomradeship. Further than that Shirley promised herself it shouldnever go. Not that Jefferson had given her the slightest hint thathe entertained the idea of making her his wife one day, only shewas sophisticated enough to know the direction in which run theminds of men who are abnormally interested in one girl, and longbefore this Shirley had made up her mind that she would nevermarry. Firstly, she was devoted to her father and could not bearthe thought of ever leaving him; secondly, she was fascinated byher literary work and she was practical enough to know thatmatrimony, with its visions of slippers and cradles, would befatal to any ambition of that kind. She liked Jeffersonimmensely--more, perhaps, than any man she had yet met--and shedid not think any the less of him because of her resolve not toget entangled in the meshes of Cupid. In any case he had not askedher to marry him--perhaps the idea was far from his thoughts.Meantime, she could enjoy his friendship freely without fear ofembarrassing entanglements.

  When, therefore, she first conceived the idea of portraying in theguise of fiction the personality of John Burkett Ryder, theColossus of finance whose vast and ever-increasing fortune wasfast becoming a public nuisance, she naturally turned to Jeffersonfor assistance. She wanted to write a book that would be talkedabout, and which at the same time would open the eyes of thepublic to this growing peril in their midst--this monster ofinsensate and unscrupulous greed who, by sheer weight of hisill-gotten gold, was corrupting legislators and judges and tryingto enslave the nation. The book, she argued, would perform apublic service in awakening all to the common danger. Jeffersonfully entered into her views and had furnished her with theinformation regarding his father that she deemed of value. Thebook had proven a success beyond their most sanguine expectations,and Shirley had come to Europe for a rest after the many wearymonths of work that it took to write it.

  The acquaintance of his son with the daughter of Judge Rossmorehad not escaped the eagle eye of Ryder, Sr., and much to thefinancier's annoyance, and even consternation, he had ascertainedthat Jefferson was a frequent caller at the Rossmore home. Heimmediately jumped to the conclusion that this could mean only onething, and fearing what he termed "the consequences of the insanityof immature minds," he had summoned Jefferson peremptorily to hispresence. He told his son that all idea of marriage in thatquarter was out of the question for two reasons: One was thatJudge Rossmore was his most bitter enemy, the other was that hehad hoped to see his son, his destined successor, marry a woman ofwhom he, Ryder, Sr., could approve. He knew of such a woman, onewho would make a far more desirable mate than Miss Rossmore. Healluded, of course, to Kate Roberts, the pretty daughter of hisold friend, the Senator. The family interests would benefit bythis alliance, which was desirable from every point of view.Jefferson had listened respectfully until his father had finishedand then grimly remarked that only one point of view had beenoverlooked--his own. He did not care for Miss Roberts; he did notthink she really cared for him. The marriage was out of thequestion. Whereupon Ryder, Sr., had fumed and raged, declaringthat Jefferson was opposing his will as he always did, and endingwith the threat that if his son married Shirley Rossmore withouthis consent he would disinherit him.

  Jefferson was cogitating on these incidents of the last few monthswhen suddenly a feminine voice which he quickly recognised calledout in English:

  "Hello! Mr. Ryder."

  He looked up and saw two ladies, one young, the other middle aged,smiling at him from an open _fiacre_ which had drawn up to thecurb. Jefferson jumped from his seat, upsetting his chair andstartling two nervous Frenchmen in his hurry, and hastened out,hat in hand.

  "Why, Miss Rossmore, what are you doing out driving?" he asked."You know you and Mrs. Blake promised to dine with me to-night. Iwas coming round to the hotel in a few moments."

  Mrs. Blake was a younger sister of Shirley's mother. Her husbandhad died a few years previously, leaving her a small income, andwhen she had heard of her niece's contemplated trip to Europe shehad decided to come to Paris to meet her and incidentally tochaperone her. The two women were stopping at the Grand Hotelclose by, while Jefferson had found accommodations at the Athenee.

  Shirley explained. Her aunt wanted to go to the dressmaker's, andshe herself was most anxious to go to the Luxembourg Gardens tohear the music. Wo
uld he take her? Then they could meet Mrs. Blakeat the hotel at seven o'clock and all go to dinner. Was hewilling?

  Was he? Jefferson's face fairly glowed. He ran back to his tableon the _terrasse_ to settle for his Vermouth, astonished thewaiter by not stopping to notice the short change he gave him, andrushed back to the carriage.

  A dirty little Italian girl, shrewd enough to note the young man'sattention to the younger of the American women, wheedled up to thecarriage and thrust a bunch of flowers in Jefferson's face.

  "_Achetez des fleurs, monsieur, pour la jolie dame?_"

  Down went Jefferson's hand in his pocket and, filling the child'shand with small silver, he flung the flowers in the carriage. Thenhe turned inquiringly to Shirley for instructions so he coulddirect the _cocher_. Mrs. Blake said she would get out here. Herdressmaker was close by, in the Rue Auber, and she would walk backto the hotel to meet them at seven o'clock. Jefferson assisted herto alight and escorted her as far as the _porte-cochere_ of themodiste's, a couple of doors away. When he returned to thecarriage, Shirley had already told the coachman where to go. Hegot in and the _fiacre_ started.

  "Now," said Shirley, "tell me what you have been doing withyourself all day."

  Jefferson was busily arranging the faded carriage rug aboutShirley, spending more time in the task perhaps than wasabsolutely necessary, and she had to repeat the question.

  "Doing?" he echoed with a smile, "I've been doing twothings--waiting impatiently for seven o'clock and incidentallyreading the notices of your book."