“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“Oh, nothing to speak of,” he replied, airily. “I just happened to hear you broke that gold wrist-watch you usually wear — —”
“I did,” she said. “But John found another for me to-day — a new one exactly like it.” She displayed her left forearm for inspection. “Isn’t it lovely of him always to be so dear about all the little thoughtful things?”’
“I don’t know,” Hobart said; and he quoted an ancient bit of slang: “There might be others!”
She shook her head. “Not like him!”
“Are you sure, Julietta?” He gave her a quick and serious look that increased her surprise. “You might at least take a glance round you to see.”
“What on earth are you talking about, Hobart Simms?”
At that he gave her another quick glance — a personal glance, as it might have been defined, since to Julietta it seemed to convey an unexpected feeling concerning herself and himself. Then he looked wistfully away, and when he spoke, a moment later, his voice had not the briskness customary in his speech; — it was, on the contrary, perceptibly unsteady. “Julietta, I’ve been — well, don’t you suppose a man might some day get a little tired of being — I mean to say, here I am with you, day after day — yet really not with you. You’re so busy noticing old John all the time, you never take time off to be a little friendly with anybody else.”
She caught her breath, staring at him wonderingly. “But you — you never showed me you wanted me to,” she said, slowly.
“Didn’t I?” He turned to her, smiling, and as he spoke he removed the paper wrappings of the small packet. “Other people might want to do some of the little thoughtful things’ too — if they ever got a chance.”
He put into her hand the green velvet box that had been inside the wrapping, and she opened it curiously; — then suppressed an outcry.
“Good Heaven!” she gasped, and stared at him. “Of course you know I couldn’t accept a thing like this!”
“Why not? You would from John.”
“But—”
“You’re wearing the one he gave you.”
“Yes, but this—”
“It’s nothing,” he said. “Of course, if you don’t like it—”
Sorrowfully he extended his hand to take back the little green velvet box from her; but she retained it and stood staring at him, amazed and also profoundly thoughtful. Like Hobart, she was a person who could make quick decisions.
“I never dreamed of this,” she said. “I thought you only came along with us because you thought it was a good course and because John asked you.”
“And he asked me because you made him,” Hobart added. “And the reason you did was because you wanted me for a chaperon.”
She laughed excitedly. “You don’t seem contented with the role, I must say!”
“How could I?”
“I never dreamed!” she said, and she looked at the watch upon her wrist and at that in the green velvet box. “Queer!” she laughed. “Now I have two!”
“Would you mind wearing mine?” Hobart asked, and he laughed with her.
“But he’ll see it!”
Hobart’s laughter became gayer and louder. “What if he does?”
“Perhaps you’re right,” Julietta said, and as she took the magnificent tiny miracle from the box, there began to shine in her eyes an exultation that could be ruthless. “Perhaps I’d better wear yours and keep his in my pocket.”
“Perhaps you’d better,” he agreed, still laughing. “Don’t let him see the joke’s on him till we get back to the clubhouse, though. If he asks you about it, don’t tell him till then; — I want to get away first.”
“Yes,” she assented, thoughtfully. “Perhaps that would be just as well.”
XXXI. THE ANNIVERSARY DINNER
WHEN HE GOT home from the country club, something less than an hour later, his wife told him coldly that he seemed to be in high spirits. “You appear to have the happy faculty of not being depressed by the troubles of people close to you,” she added. “However, your gaiety may be useful this evening, at Mother’s.”
“At your mother’s?” he inquired. “Are we going there?”
She looked at him sternly. “What have you been doing that makes you forget such a thing? It’s Father’s and Mother’s thirty-eighth wedding anniversary.”
“So it is!” he exclaimed. “I’d forgotten all about it.”
“Obviously. You’d better hurry and dress, because the dinner’s to be very early on account of the younger grandchildren; — I sent them half an hour ago.” And, as he did not move, she added, “Please get ready right away.”
He still hesitated, for in his absorption in his plan to atone to his sister-in-law and take up Anne’s challenge he had forgotten more than the anniversary dinner. He had forgotten to consider in what terms he would eventually inform his wife of that plan and what already appeared to be its successful beginnings. The present seemed to be a wise time to say something about it; but he found himself in a difficulty. Face to face with his wife, especially in her present state of mind, which was plainly still critical of him, he was convinced that she would prove unsympathetic. He decided to postpone all explanations, at least until they were on their way to his father-in-law’s house.
But, alone in the car with her, when the postponed moment seemed to have arrived, he found the difficulty no less discouraging. He made an effort, however; but he put it off so long that when he made it they were almost at their destination.
“Oh, about that interview I’m supposed to have with old John, to-morrow morning—”
“Yes,” she said. “When he asks you why you didn’t join him and Julietta at the club this afternoon, you’ll not weaken, I trust.”
“‘Weaken’?”
“Oh, you’ll protest now that you won’t, I know,” she said. “But men are sympathetic — with other men, especially in ‘affairs’ — and John’s terribly sensitive. I shouldn’t be surprised if you failed to carry it through. I shouldn’t at all!”
“But — but of course I shall,” Hobart said, before he knew what he was saying. It was not what he wished to say; but he found himself apparently without control of his own speech, for the moment; and he realized that it would now be more difficult than ever to make the needed explanation. He attempted it feebly, however. “That is to say—” he began, “I mean — ah — suppose such an interview shouldn’t—”
The car stopped.
“We’re here,” Anne said. “I hope you’ll be as: thoughtful as you can of Mildred. And please don’t be too cordial to John. Let him begin to feel what you think about him.”
But Hobart’s determination, as he followed his wife into his father-in-law’s gaily illuminated house, was to be as cordial as possible to old John and to seek the first private opportunity to request him not to mention their game of the afternoon. Unfortunately the anniversary dinner was already in jovial motion; — Anne and her husband were late; the adults of the party had yielded to the clamours of the children and had just gone out to the diningroom. Hobart found himself between Mildred and Cornelia, across the wide table from his brother-in-law.
Old John was silent, and his sensitive face wore such visible depression that presently his father-in law began to rally him upon it. “Good gracious, John, this is a party, not the bedside of a sick friend! Why don’t you eat, or laugh, or anyhow say something? You and Mildred both seem to think it’s a horrible thing to be present at a celebration of two people’s having been happily married for thirty-eight years. Is that what makes you feel so miserable?”
“No, not at all,” John replied, gloomily. “I wasn’t thinking of that. My mind was on other matters.” And, being the singular soul he was, and of such a guileless straightforwardness, he looked across the table at his brother-in-law. “I was thinking of our golf game,” he said, to that gentleman’s acute alarm. “I mean the one this afternoon, Hobart.”
> Hobart heard from the chair next upon his right the subdued and lamentable exclamation uttered by Mildred; but what fascinated his paling gaze was the expression of his wife, seated beside old John. She looked at her husband for a moment of great intensity; — then she turned to Tower.
“So?” she said, lightly. “Did Hobart play with you and Julietta again to-day?”
“He played with Julietta,” old John explained, and in his noble simplicity he continued, to his brother-in-law’s horror, “I didn’t seem to be needed. I’ve been very fond of Julietta, very fond indeed of Julietta. She broke her watch in our car yesterday, and so I took her a new one this afternoon and gave it to her before we began to play. Hobart brought her one, too; and she took mine off and wore his. The one I brought her was an ordinary little gold one; but his was platinum and diamonds — it must have cost a remarkable sum. It was very generous and kind of Hobart, because Julietta isn’t well off; but the way she took it made me feel peculiarly disappointed in her. She evidently considers only the relative financial value of gifts, and not the spirit. She was quite different in her manner toward me. I cannot say that I value her friendship as I did.”
“You don’t?” Anne said; and she laughed excitedly. “Don’t you mean you’ve decided she values my husband’s friendship more than you thought she did?”
The unhappy Hobart, upon whom the wrong he had done to Julietta thus already began to be avenged, made an effort to speak; but beneath the table he felt a warm hand upon his knee, pressing warningly. It was Mildred’s.
“Wait!” she whispered, rapturously. “I understand. I’ll help you to talk to her later. It will be terribly difficult, but I’ll do what I can for you — you angel!”
THE END
The Plutocrat
The Plutocrat first appeared in 1927, published in America by Doubleday, Page & Co. Although the novel is little remembered today, it sold incredibly well upon publication and was featured on multiple bestseller lists. Tarkington’s immense fame and acclaim during his lifetime contrasts dramatically with his relatively unknown status since the late twentieth century and he has been cited by some critics as a prime example of an author whose appeal was largely contained to a very specific time. One argument for his decline in popularity is the conservative nature of his novels which did not appeal to many readers of a later period. While it is true that Tarkington was far from a progressive — he supported Prohibition and vehemently opposed FDR’s New Deal — and his works often reflected his politics, there are many other novelists with conservative values that continued to be widely read years later. In the May 2004 edition of The Atlantic, author and essayist, Thomas Mallon, argues that the ‘vast body of his mediocre work has so suffocated the fine work he produced’, as a reason for why ‘such a ubiquitous and, for a time, honored figure’ could disappear so completely.
The Plutocrat centres on a young New York playwright, Laurence Ogle, who embarks on a voyage to North Africa, where he encounters a successful businessman, Earl Tinker and a charming Frenchwoman, Aurelie Momoro by whom he becomes captivated. Ogle is repulsed by Tinker, the ‘Plutocrat’ of the title, as he appears to be vulgar, boorish and unsophisticated. An artistic elitist and snob, Ogle’s primary objection to Tinker is his perceived lack of taste. While Tarkington remains ambivalent towards the world Tinker represents, he chooses to portray the businessman as generous and modest, highlighting the ways in which Ogle’s sense of superiority is often misplaced.
The first edition of the novel
CONTENTS
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
XXI
XXII
XXIII
XXIV
XXV
XXVI
XXVII
XXVIII
XXIX
XXX
XXXI
XXXII
XXXIII
I
OUT OF THE north Atlantic a January storm came down in the night, sweeping the American coast with wind and snow and sleet upon a great oblique front from Nova Scotia to the Delaware capes. The land was storm-bound and the sea possessed with such confusion that nothing seemed less plausible than that human beings should be out among the running hill ranges, and not only alive but still voyaging crazily on their way. Tow ropes parted off the Maine and Massachusetts coasts; barges were swamped and bargemen drowned; schooners drove ashore in half-frozen harbours; and all night on the Georgian Banks fishermen fought dark monstrosities of water. But in the whole area of the storm nowhere was the northeaster more outrageous than upon that ocean path where flopped and shuttled the great “Duumvir,” five hours outward bound from New York.
Thirty thousand tons the “Duumvir” displaced; but, as in reprisal, more weight of water than that every few moments attempted to displace the “Duumvir.” The attempt was for a permanent displacement, moreover, there appearing to be in the profundities a conviction that this ship had no rightful place upon the surface and should be reduced to the condition of a submarine. The “Duumvir,” sometimes seeming to assent, squatted under the immense smotherings; then, shaped in falling water, rose up into the likeness of a long white cataract dimly symmetrical against a chaotic sky. The upheavals were but momentary and convulsive, however; the great metal creature shook itself thunderously and descended again under fantastic clouds of sea; and in both ascent and descent, sought continually to ease itself by lying first upon one side and then upon the other. Under the same circumstances a peanut shell might have shown a livelier motion; nevertheless, the “Duumvir” did many things that a peanut shell would have done, but, being heavier, did them more impressively.
The impressiveness was greatest in the steamer’s interior where there were vivid correspondences to what went on outside. For, indoors and off the howling decks, the “Duumvir” was not so much a ship as an excellent hotel, just now a hotel miraculously intact, though undergoing the extremities of continuous earthquake, and complaining loudly. Great salons and lounging rooms, empty of human life, but still bright with electric light, tilted up corner-wise, staggered and dipped like the halls of a palace in the nightmare of a sleeper attacked by vertigo. Accompanying these fantasies, painted ceilings and panelled walls protested in every voice known to wrenched wood and racked metal; but, for that matter, the whole inner fabric of the ship had become eloquent, squeaking with a high-pitched rancour sharply audible in spite of thunder and roarings without. And within the passengers’ cabins, those little hotel apartments that had seemed so pleasant when the ship was at her dock, there were complaints and disturbances not lacking in a painful kind of harmony with the protests of the ship and the contortions of the elements that beset her.
Throughout the long ranges of staterooms there was anguish; but nowhere in the whole vastness of the “Duumvir” did it become more acute than in the prettily decorated double cabin where ceaselessly lurched to and fro upon his active bed that newly prosperous young playwright, Laurence Ogle. His lurching was in spite of him, his passionate desire being for motionlessness; and to secure even a few moments of this he would have given recklessly out of the royalties his play was to send him by post from Forty-second Street. More still he would have given to abandon this first sea voyage of his and to be back upon the unmoving pavement of that street, or to be upon any street or road, or in any alley, or to stand upon a bit of earth anywhere, mountain or plain, or to be in a tree rooted in earth. Nothing had value in his mind now save fixity.
His trunk had been opened and then lashed upright against the wall of his bathroom; but something had gone amiss with the lashings, so that at intervals the trunk presented itself in the interven
ing doorway, tilted drunkenly to eject sometimes a drawer or a limp garment upon the threshold, and then withdrew into the bathroom, where it produced crashing noises of breakage, to which Ogle was indifferent. Earlier in his retirement he had summoned a steward who proved so unseasoned as to be suffering himself, much too obviously. Ogle wished never to see this man again, and, even if he had cared for his society or assistance, would have had to lift a hand to reach the bell-button. He did not wish to lift his hand; it was already being lifted for him in company with the rest of his person; and the lifting at its climax brought on his worst moments.
He ascended spirally, meanwhile being rocked laterally, and this curving ascent was a long one, both in time and space; then, at the crest of it, there was a moment of poising followed by a descent like a two or three story drop in a swift elevator. The bed sank too rapidly beneath him, going down a little faster than he did, so that until the fall was completed he had no weight; whereas at the bottom he was too heavy, having already begun to be urged upward again. His whole being seemed to consist of nausea and of motion in undesirable directions; and yet, in addition to his poignant sensations, he still had thoughts and emotions.
The emotions were all bitter and the thoughts all upon one subject. He had supposed that when a reputable marine corporation engaged to take him to the Mediterranean it would take him there with some manner of straightforwardness and not upon all these spiral excursions to which his nervous system was by no means adapted. Therefore he hated the ship, not only for what it was doing to him, but for what appeared to be its personal malevolence in deceiving him. This incessant vertical and lateral voyaging, then, was that “luxury of ocean travel” to which the “Duumvir” had invited him in its little pamphlets illustrated by photographs of smiling ladies reading in steamer chairs, placid stewards offering cups of tea or broth, and even of lively couples dancing upon a horizontal ballroom floor — lying photographs which he was now convinced had been taken when the ship lay in harbour.
Collected Works of Booth Tarkington Page 385