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Trumps: A Novel, a novel by George William Curtis |
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Chapter 23. Boniface Newt, Son, And Co., Dry Goods On Commission |
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_ CHAPTER XXIII. BONIFACE NEWT, SON, AND CO., DRY GOODS ON COMMISSION Abel Newt smoked a great many cigars to enable him to see his position clearly. When he told his mother that he could not accompany her to the Springs because he was about entering his father's counting-room, it was not so much because he was enamored of business as that his future relations with Hope were entirely doubtful, and he did not wish to complicate them by exposing himself to the chances of Saratoga. "Business, of course, is the only career in this country, my son," said Boniface Newt. "What men want, and women too, is money. What is this city of New York? A combination of men and machines for making money. Every body respects a rich man. They may laugh at him behind his back. They may sneer at his ignorance and awkwardness, and all that sort of thing, but they respect his money. Now there's old Jacob Van Boozenberg. I say to you in strict confidence, my son, that there was never a greater fool than that man. He absolutely knows nothing at all. When he dies he will be no more missed in this world than an old dead stage-horse who is made into a manure heap. He is coarse, and vulgar, and mean. His daughter Kate married his clerk, young Tom Witchet--not a cent, you know, but five hundred dollars salary. 'Twas against the old man's will, and he shut his door, and his purse, and his heart. He turned Witchet away; told his daughter that she might lie in the bed she had made for herself; told Witchet that he was a rotten young swindler, and that, as he had married his daughter for her money, he'd be d----d if he wouldn't be up with him, and deuce of a cent should they get from him. They live I don't know where, nor how. Some of her old friends send her money--actually give five-dollar bills to old Jacob Van Boozenberg's daughter, somewhere over by the North River. Every body knows it, you know; but, for all that, we have to make bows to old Van B. Don't we want accommodations? Look here, Abel; if Jacob were not worth a million of dollars, he would be of less consequence than the old fellow who sells apples at the corner of his bank. But as it is, we all agree that he is a shrewd, sensible old fellow; rough in some of his ways--full of little prejudices--rather sharp; and as for Mrs. Tom Witchet, why, if girls will run away, and all that sort of thing, they must take the consequences, you know. Of course they must. Where should we be if every rich merchant's daughters were at the mercy of his clerks? I'm sorry for all this. It's sad, you know. It's positively melancholy. It troubles me. Ah, yes! where was I? Oh, I was saying that money is the respectable thing. And mark, Abel, if this were the Millennium, things would be very different. But it isn't the Millennium. It's give one and take two, if you can get it. That's what it is here; and let him who wants to, kick against the pricks." Abel hung his legs over the arms of the office-chairs in the counting-room, and listened gravely. "I don't suppose, Sir, that 'tis money as money that is worth having. It is only money as the representative of intelligence and refinement, of books, pictures, society--as a vast influence and means of charity; is it not, Sir?" Upon which Mr. Abel Newt blew a prodigious cloud of smoke. Mr. Boniface Newt responded, "Oh fiddle! that's all very fine. But my answer to that is Jacob Van Boozenberg." "Bless my soul! here he comes. Abel put your legs down! throw that cigar away!" The great man came in. His clothes were snuffy and baggy--so was his face. "Good-mornin', Mr. Newt. Beautiful mornin'. I sez to ma this mornin', ma, sez I, I should like to go to the country to-day, sez I. Go 'long; pa! sez she. Werry well, sez I, I'll go 'long if you'll go too. Ma she laughed; she know'd I wasn't in earnest. She know'd 'twasn't only a joke." Mr. Van Boozenberg drew out a large red bandana handkerchief, and blew his nose as if it had been a trumpet sounding a charge. Messrs. Newt & Son smiled sympathetically. The junior partner observed, cheerfully, "Yes, Sir." The millionaire stared at the young man. "Ma's going to Saratogy," remarked Mr. Van Boozenberg. "She said she wanted to go. Werry well, sez I, ma, go." Messrs. Newt & Son smiled deferentially, and hoped Mrs. Van B. would enjoy herself. "No, I ain't no fear of that," replied the millionaire. "Mr. Van Boozenberg," said Boniface Newt, half-hesitatingly, "you were very kind to undertake that little favor--I--I--" "Oh! yes, I come in to say I done that as you wanted. It's all right." "And, Mr. Van Boozenberg, I am pleased to introduce to you my son Abel, who has just entered the house." Abel rose and bowed. "Have you been in the store?" asked the old gentleman. "No, Sir, I've been at school." "What! to school till now? Why, you must be twenty years old!" exclaimed Mr. Van Boozenberg, in great surprise. "Yes, Sir, in my twentieth year." "Why, Mr. Newt," said Mr. Van B., with the air of a man who is in entire perplexity, "what on earth has your boy been doing at school until now?" "It was his grandfather's will, Sir," replied Boniface Newt. "Well, well, a great pity! a werry great pity! Ma wanted one of our boys to go to college. Ma, sez I, what on earth should Corlaer go to college for? To get learnin', pa, sez ma. To get learnin'! sez I. I'll get him learnin', sez I, down to the store, Werry well, sez ma. Werry well, sez I, and so 'twas; and I think I done a good thing by him." Mr. Van Boozenberg talked at much greater length of his general intercourse with ma. Mr. Boniface Newt regarded him more and more contemptuously. But the familiar style of the old gentleman's conversation begot a corresponding familiarity upon the part of Mr. Newt. Mr. Van Boozenberg learned incidentally that Abel had never been in business before. He observed the fresh odor of cigars in the counting-room--he remarked the extreme elegance of Abel's attire, and the inferential tailor's bills. He learned that Mrs. Newt and the family were enjoying themselves at Saratoga. He derived from the conversation and his observation that there were very large family expenses to be met by Boniface Newt. Meanwhile that gentleman had continually no other idea of his visitor than that he was insufferable. He had confessed to Abel that the old man was shrewd. His shrewdness was a proverb. But he is a dull, ignorant, ungrammatical, and ridiculous old ass for all that, thought Boniface Newt; and the said ass sitting in Boniface Newt's counting-room, and amusing and fatiguing Messrs. Newt & Son with his sez I's, and sez shes, and his mas, and his done its, was quietly making up his mind that the house of Newt & Son had received no accession of capital or strength by the entrance of the elegant Abel into a share of its active management, and that some slight whispers which he had heard remotely affecting the standing of the house must be remembered. "A werry pretty store you have here, Mr. Newt. Find Pearl Street as good as Beaver?" "Oh yes, Sir," replied Boniface Newt, bowing and rubbing his hands. "Call again, Sir; it's a rare pleasure to see you here, Mr. Van Boozenberg." "Well, you know, ma, sez she, now pa you mustn't sit in draughts. It's so sort of draughty down town in your horrid offices, pa, sez she--sez ma, you know--that I'm awful 'fraid you'll catch your death, sez she, and I must mind ma, you know. Good-mornin', Mr. Newt, a werry good-mornin', Sir," said the old gentleman, as he stepped out. "Do you have much of that sort of thing to undergo in business, father?" asked Abel, when Jacob Van Boozenberg had gone. "My dear son," replied the older Mr. Newt, "the world is made up of fools, bores, and knaves. Some of them speak good grammar and use white cambric pocket-handkerchiefs, some do not. It's dreadful, I know, and I am rather tired of a world where you are busy driving donkeys with a chance of their presently driving you." Mr. Boniface Newt shook his foot pettishly. "Father," said Abel. "Well." "Which is Uncle Lawrence--a fool, a bore, or a knave?" Mr. Boniface Newt's foot stopped, and, after looking at his son for a few moments, he answered: "Abel, your Uncle Lawrence is a singular man. He's a sort of exception to general rules. I don't understand him, and he doesn't help me to. When he was a boy he went to India and lived there several years. He came home once and staid a little while, and then went back again, although I believe he was rich. It was mysterious, I never could quite understand it--though, of course, I believe there was some woman in it. Neither your mother nor I could ever find out much about it. By-and-by he came home again, and has been in business here ever since. He's a bachelor, you know, and his business is different from mine, and he has queer friends and tastes, so that I don't often see him except when he comes to the house, and that isn't very often." "He's rich, isn't he?" asked Abel. "Yes, he's very rich, and that's the curious part of it," answered his father, "and he gives away a great deal of money in what seems to me a very foolish way. He's a kind of dreamer--an impracticable man. He pays lots of poor people's rents, and I try to show him that he is merely encouraging idleness and crime. But I can't make him see it. He declares that, if a sewing-girl makes but two dollars a week and has a helpless mother and three small sisters to support besides rent and fuel, and so on, it's not encouraging idleness to help her with the rent. Well, I suppose it is hard sometimes with some of those people. But you've no right to go by particular cases in these matters. You ought to go by the general rule, as I constantly tell him. 'Yes,' says he, in that smiling way of his which does put me almost beside myself, 'yes, you shall go by the general rule, and let people starve; and I'll go by particular cases, and feed 'em.' Then he is just as rich as if he were an old flint like Van Boozenberg. Well, it is the funniest, foggiest sort of world. I swear I don't see into it at all--I give it all up. I only know one thing; that it's first in first win. And that's extremely sad, too, you know. Yes, very sad! Where was I? Ah yes! that we are all dirty scoundrels." Abel had relighted his cigar, after Mr. Van Boozenberg's departure, and filled the office with smoke until the atmosphere resembled the fog in which his father seemed to be floundering. "Abel, merchants ought not to smoke cigars in their counting-rooms," said his father, in a half-pettish way. "No, I suppose not," replied Abel, lightly; "they ought to smoke other people. But tell me, father, do you know nothing about the woman that you say was mixed up with Uncle Lawrence's affairs?" "Nothing at all" "Not even her name?" "Not a syllable." "Pathetic and mysterious," rejoined Abel; "a case of unhappy love, I suppose." "If it is so," said Mr. Newt, "your Uncle Lawrence is the happiest miserable man I ever knew." "Well, there's a difference among men, you know, father. Some wear their miseries like an order in their button-holes. Some do as the Spartan boy did when the wolf bit him." "How'd the Spartan boy do?" asked Mr. Newt. "He covered it up, laughed, and dropped dead." "Gracious!" said Mr. Boniface Newt. "Or like Boccaccio's basil-pot," continued Abel, calmly; pouring forth smoke, while his befogged papa inquired, "What on earth do you mean by Boccaccio's basil-pot?" "Why, a girl's lover had his head cut off, and she put it in a flower-pot, and covered it up that way, and instead of laughing herself, set flowers to blooming over it." "Goodness me, Abel, what are you talking about?" "Of Love, the canker-worm, Sir," replied Abel, imperturbable, and emitting smoke. It was evidently not the busy season in the Dry-goods Commission House of Boniface Newt & Son. When Mr. Van Boozenberg went home to dinner, he said: "Ma, you'd better improve this werry pleasant weather and start for Saratogy as soon as you can. Mr. Boniface Newt tells me his wife and family is there, and you'll find them werry pleasant folks. I jes' want you to write me all about 'em. You see, ma, one of our directors to-day sez to me, after board, sez he, 'The Boniface Newts is a going it slap-dash up to Saratogy.' I laughed, and sez I, 'Why shouldn't they? but I don't believe they be,' sez I. Sez he, 'I'll bet you a new shawl for your wife they be,' sez he. Sez I, 'Done.' So you see ma, if so be they be, werry well. A new shawl for some folks, you know; only jes' write me all about it." Ma was not reluctant to depart at the earliest possible moment. Her son Corlaer, whose education had been intercepted by his father, was of opinion, when he heard that the Newts were at Saratoga, that his health imperatively required Congress water. But papa had other views. "Corlaer, I wish you would make the acquaintance of young Mr. Newt. I done it to-day. He is a well-edicated young man; I shall ask him to dinner next Sunday. Don't be out of the way." Jacob Van Boozenberg having dined, arose from the table, seated himself in a spacious easy-chair, and drawing forth the enormous red bandana, spread it over his head and face, and after a few muscular twitches, and a violent nodding of the head, which caused the drapery to fall off several times, finally propped the refractory head against the back of the chair, and bobbing and twitching no longer, dropped off into temporary oblivion. _ |
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