But to all these he was more or less adamant. By hook or by crook, by special arrangements with friends or agents in nearby towns and the principal showy resorts of New York, he managed to know, providing they did leave the grounds, either with or without his consent, about where they were and what they had done, and in case any of his rules or their agreements were broken their privileges were thereafter cut off or they were promptly ejected, their trunks being set out on the roadway in front of the estate and they being left to make their way to shelter elsewhere as best they might.
On one occasion, however, Blake had been allowed to go to New York over Saturday and Sunday to attend to some urgent business, as he said, he on his honor having promised to avoid the white lights. Nevertheless he did not manage so to do but instead, in some comfortable section of that region, was seen drinking enough to last him until perhaps he should have another opportunity to return to the city.
On his return to the “shop” on Monday morning or late Sunday night, Culhane pretended not to see him until noonday lunch, when, his jog over the long block done with and his bath taken, he came dapperly into the dining-room, wishing to look as innocent and fit as possible. But Culhane was there before him at his little table in the center of the room, and patting the head of one of the two pure-blooded collies that always followed him about on the grounds or in the house, began as follows:
“A dog,” he said very distinctly and in his most cynical tone and apparently apropos of nothing, which usually augured that the lightning of his criticism was about to strike somewhere, “is so much better than the average man that it’s an insult to the dog to compare them. The dog’s really decent. He has no sloppy vices. You set a plate of food before a regularly-fed, blooded dog, and he won’t think of gorging himself sick or silly. He eats what he needs, and then stops. So does a cat” (which is of course by no means true, but still—). “A dog doesn’t get a red nose from drinking too much.” By now all eyes were turning in the direction of Blake, whose nose was faintly tinged. “He doesn’t get gonorrhea or syphilis.” The united glances veered in the direction of three or four young scapegraces of wealth, all of whom were suspected of these diseases. “He doesn’t hang around hotel bars and swill and get his tongue thick and talk about how rich he is or how old his family is.” (This augured that Blake did such things, which I doubt, but once more all eyes were shifted to him.) “He doesn’t break his word. Within the limits of his poor little brain he’s faithful. He does what he thinks he’s called upon to do.
“But you take a man—more especially a gentleman—one of these fellows who is always very pointed in emphasizing that he is a gentleman” (which Blake never did). “Let him inherit eight or ten millions, give him a college education, let him be socially well connected, and what does he do? Not a damned thing if he can help it except contract vices—run from one saloon to another, one gambling house to another, one girl to another, one meal to another. He doesn’t need to know anything necessarily. He may be the lowest dog physically and in every other way, and still he’s a gentleman—because he has money, wears spats and a high hat. Why I’ve seen fifty poor boob prize fighters in my time who could put it all over most of the so-called gentlemen I have ever seen. They kept their word. They tried to be physically fit. They tried to stand up in the world and earn their own living and be somebody.” (He was probably thinking of himself.) “But a gentleman wants to boast of his past and his family, to tell you that he must go to the city on business—his lawyers or some directors want to see him. Then he swills around at hotel bars, stays with some of his lady whores, and then comes back here and expects me to pull him into shape again, to make his nose a little less red. He thinks he can use my place to fall back on when he can’t go any longer, to fix him up to do some more swilling later on.
“Well, I want to serve notice on all so-called gentlemen here, and one gentleman in particular” (and he heavily and sardonically emphasized the words), “that it won’t do. This isn’t a hospital attached to a whorehouse or a saloon. And as for the trashy little six hundred paid here, I don’t need it. I’ve turned away more men who have been here once or twice and have shown me that they were just using this place and me as something to help them go on with their lousy drinking and carousing, than would fill this building. Sensible men know it. They don’t try to use me. It’s only the wastrels, or their mothers or fathers who bring their boys and husbands and cry, who try to use me, and I take ‘em once or twice, but not oftener. When a man goes out of here cured, I know he is cured. I never want to see him again. I want him to go out in the world and stand up. I don’t want him to come back here in six months sniveling to be put in shape again. He disgusts me. He makes me sick. I feel like ordering him off the place, and I do, and that’s the end of him. Let him go and bamboozle somebody else. I’ve shown him all I know. There’s no mystery. He can do as much for himself, once he’s been here, as I can. If he won’t, well and good. And I’m saying one thing more: There’s one man here to whom this particularly applies today. This is his last call. He’s been here twice. When he goes out this time he can’t come back. Now see if some of you can remember some of the things I’ve been telling you.”
He subsided and opened his little pint of wine.
Another day while I was there he began as follows:
“If there’s one class of men that needs to be improved in this country, it’s lawyers. I don’t know why it is, but there’s something in the very nature of the work of a lawyer which appears to make him cynical and to want to wear a know-it-all look. Most lawyers are little more than sharper crooks than the crooks they have to deal with. They’re always trying to get in on some case or other where they have to outwit the law, save some one from getting what he justly deserves, and then they are supposed to be honest and high-minded! Think of it! To judge by some of the specimens I get up here,” and then some lawyer in the place would turn a shrewd inquiring glance in his direction or steadfastly gaze at his plate or out the window, while the others stared at him, “you would think they were the salt of the earth or that they were following a really noble profession or that they were above or better than other men in their abilities. Well, if being conniving and tricky are fine traits, I suppose they are, but personally I can’t see it. Generally speaking, they’re physically the poorest fish I get here. They’re slow and meditative and sallow, mostly because they get too little exercise, I presume. And they’re never direct and enthusiastic in an argument. A lawyer always wants to stick in an ‘if’ or a ‘but,’ to get around you in some way. He’s never willing to answer you quickly or directly. I’ve watched ‘em now for nearly fifteen years, and they’re all more or less alike. They think they’re very individual and different, but they’re not. Most of them don’t know nearly as much about life as a good, all-around business or society man,” this in the absence of any desire to discuss these two breeds for the time being. “For the life of me I could never see why a really attractive woman would ever want to marry a lawyer”—and so he would talk on, revealing one little unsatisfactory trait after another in connection with the tribe, sand-papering their raw places as it were, until you would about conclude, supposing you had never heard him talk concerning any other profession, that lawyers were the most ignoble, the pettiest, the most inefficient physically and mentally, of all the men he had ever encountered; and in his noble savage state there would not be one to disagree with him, for he had such an animal, tiger-like mien that you had the feeling that instead of an argument you would get a physical rip which would leave you bleeding for days.
The next day, or a day or two or four or six later—according to his mood—it would be doctors or merchants or society men or politicians he would discourse about—and, kind heaven, what a drubbing they would get! He seemed always to be meditating on the vulnerable points of his victims, anxious (and yet presumably not) to show them what poor, fallible, shabby, petty and all but drooling creatures they were. Thus in regard to merchants:
“The average man who has a little business of some kind, a factory or a wholesale or brokerage house or a hotel or a restaurant, usually has a distinctly middle-class mind.” At this all the merchants and manufacturers were likely to give a very sharp ear. “As a rule, you’ll find that they know just the one little line with which they’re connected, and nothing more. One man knows all about cloaks and suits” (this may have been a slap at poor Itzky) “or he knows a little something about leather goods or shoes or lamps or furniture, and that’s all he knows. If he’s an American he’ll buckle down to that little business and work night and day, sweat blood and make every one else connected with him sweat it, underpay his employees, swindle his friends, half-starve himself and his family, in order to get a few thousand dollars and seem as good as some one else who has a few thousand. And yet he doesn’t want to be different from—he wants to be just like—the other fellow. If some one in his line has a house up on the Hudson or on Riverside Drive, when he gets his money he wants to go there and live. If the fellow in his line, or some other that he knows something about, belongs to a certain club, he has to belong to it even if the club doesn’t want him or he wouldn’t look well in it. He wants to have the same tailor, the same grocer, smoke the same brand of cigars and go to the same summer resort as the other fellow. They even want to look alike. God! And then when they’re just like every one else, they think they’re somebody. They haven’t a single idea outside their line, and yet because they’ve made money they want to tell other people how to live and think. Imagine a rich butcher or cloak-maker, or any one else, presuming to tell me how to think or live!”
He stared about him as though he saw many exemplifications of his picture present. And it was always interesting to see how those whom his description really did fit look as though he could not possibly be referring to them.
Of all types or professions that came here, I think he disliked doctors most. The reason was of course that the work they did or were about to do in the world bordered on that which he was trying to accomplish, and the chances were that they sniffed at or at least critically examined what he was doing with an eye to finding its weak spots. In many cases no doubt he fancied that they were there to study and copy his methods and ideas, without having the decency later on to attribute their knowledge to him. It was short shrift for any one of them with ideas or “notions” unfriendly to him advanced in his presence. For a little while during my stay there was a smooth-faced, rather solid physically and decidedly self-opinionated mentally, doctor who ate at the same small table as I and who was never tired of airing his views, medical and otherwise. He confided to me rather loftily that there was, to be sure, something to Culhane’s views and methods but that they were “over-emphasized here, over-emphasized.” Still, one could over-emphasize the value of drugs too. As for himself he had decided to achieve a happy medium if possible, and for this reason (for one) he had come here to study Culhane.
As for Culhane, in spite of the young doctor’s condescension and understanding, or perhaps better yet because of it, he thoroughly disliked, barely tolerated, him, and was never tired of commenting on little dancing medics with their “pill cases” and easily acquired book knowledge, boasting of their supposed learning “which somebody else had paid for,” as he once said—their fathers, of course. And when they were sick, some of them at least, they had to come out here to him, or they came to steal his theory and start a shabby grafting sanitarium of their own. He knew them.
One noon we were at lunch. Occasionally before seating himself at his small central table he would walk or glance about and, having good eyes, would spy some little defect or delinquency somewhere and of course immediately act upon it. One of the rules of the repair shop was that you were to eat what was put before you, especially when it differed from what your table companion received. Thus a fat man at a table with a lean one might receive a small portion of lean meat, no potatoes and no bread or one little roll, whereas his lean acquaintance opposite would be receiving a large portion of fat meat, a baked or boiled potato, plenty of bread and butter, and possibly a side dish of some kind. Now it might well be, as indeed was often the case, that each would be dissatisfied with his apportionment and would attempt to change plates.
But this was the one thing that Culhane would not endure. So upon one occasion, passing near the table at which sat myself and the above-mentioned doctor, table-mates for the time being, he noticed that he was not eating his carrots, a dish which had been especially prepared for him, I imagine—for if one unconsciously ignored certain things the first day or two of his stay, those very things would be all but rammed down his throat during the remainder of his stay; a thing concerning which one guest and another occasionally cautioned newcomers. However this may have been in this particular case, he noticed the uneaten carrots and, pausing a moment, observed:
“What’s the matter? Aren’t you eating your carrots?” We had almost finished eating.
“Who, me?” replied the medic, looking up. “Oh, no, I never eat carrots, you know. I don’t like them.”
“Oh, don’t you?” said Culhane sweetly. “You don’t like them, and so you don’t eat them! Well, suppose you eat them here. They may do you a little good just as a change.”
“But I never eat carrots,” retorted the medic tersely and with a slight show of resentment or opposition, scenting perhaps a new order.
“No, not outside perhaps, but here you do. You eat carrots here, see?”
“Yes, but why should I eat them if I don’t like them? They don’t agree with me. Must I eat something that doesn’t agree with me just because it’s a rule or to please you?”
“To please me, or the carrots, or any damned thing you please—but eat ‘em.”
The doctor subsided. For a day or two he went about commenting on what a farce the whole thing was, how ridiculous to make any one eat what was not suited to him, but just the same while he was there he ate them.
As for myself, I was very fond of large boiled potatoes and substantial orders of fat and lean meat, and in consequence, having been so foolish as to show this preference, I received but the weakest, most contemptible and puling little spuds and pale orders of meat—with, it is true, plenty of other “side dishes”; whereas a later table-mate of mine, a distressed and neurasthenic society man, was receiving—I soon learned he especially abhorred them—potatoes as big as my two fists.
“Now look at that! Now look at that!” he often said peevishly and with a kind of sickly whine in his voice when he saw one being put before him. “He knows I don’t like potatoes, and see what I get! And look at the little bit of a thing he gives you! It’s a shame, the way he nags people, especially over this food question. I don’t think there’s a thing to it. I don’t think eating a big potato does me a bit of good, or you the little one, and yet I have to eat the blank-blank things or get out. And I need to get on my feet just now.”
“Well, cheer up,” I said sympathetically and with an eye on the large potato perhaps. “He isn’t always looking, and we can fix it. You mash up your big potato and put butter and salt on it, and I’ll do the same with my little one. Then when he’s not looking we’ll shift.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” he commented, “but we’d better look out. If he sees us he’ll be as sore as the devil.”
This system worked well enough for a time, and for days I was getting all the potato I wanted and congratulating myself on my skill, when one day as I was slyly forking potatoes out of his dish, moved helpfully in my direction, I saw Culhane approaching and feared that our trick had been discovered. It had. Perhaps some snaky waitress has told on us, or he had seen us, even from his table.
“Now I know what’s going on here at this table,” he growled savagely, “and I want you two to cut it out. This big boob here” (he was referring to my esteemed self) “who hasn’t strength of will or character enough to keep himself in good health and has to be brought up here by his brother, hasn’t
brains enough to see that when I plan a thing for his benefit it is for his benefit, and not mine. Like most of the other damned fools that come up here and waste their money and my time, he thinks I’m playing some cute game with him—tag or something that will let him show how much cuter he is than I am. And he’s supposed to be a writer and have a little horse-sense! His brother claims it, anyhow. And as for this other simp here,” and now he was addressing the assembled diners while nodding toward my friend, “it hasn’t been three weeks since he was begging to know what I could do for him. And now look at him—entering into a petty little game of potato-cheating!
“I swear,” he went on savagely, talking to the room in general, “sometimes I don’t know what to do with such damned fools. The right thing would be to set these two, and about fifty others in this place, out on the main road with their trunks and let them go to hell. They don’t deserve the attention of a conscientious man. I prohibit gambling—what happens? A lot of nincompoops and mental lightweights with more money than brains sneak off into a field of an afternoon on the excuse that they are going for a walk, and then sit down and lose or win a bucket of money just to show off what hells of fellows they are, what sports, what big ‘I ams.’ I prohibit cigarette-smoking, not because I think it’s literally going to kill anybody but because I think it looks bad here, sets a bad example to a lot of young wasters who come here and who ought to be broken of the vice, and besides, because I don’t like cigarette-smoking here—don’t want it and won’t have it. What happens? A lot of sissies and mamma’s boys and pet heirs, whose fathers haven’t got enough brains to cut ‘em off and make ‘em get out and work, come up here, sneak in cigarettes or get the servants to, and then hide out behind the barn or a tree down in the lot and sneak and smoke like a lot of cheap schoolboys. God, it makes me sick! What’s the use of a man working out a fact during a lifetime and letting other people have the benefit of it—not because he needs their money, but that they need his help—if all the time he is going to have such cattle to deal with? Not one out of twenty or forty men that come here really wants me to help him or to help himself. What he wants is to have some one drive him in the way he ought to go, kick him into it, instead of his buckling down and helping himself. What’s the good of bothering with such damned fools? A man ought to take the whole pack and run ‘em off the place with a dog-whip.” He waved his hand in the air. “It’s sickening. It’s impossible.
Twelve Men Page 17