Upton Sinclair - The Metropolis

"No," said he, "it's not that exactly — I wouldn't be offended. But I'm worried about-my brother."

"How do you mean.''"

"He gets a lot of money somehow, and I don't know what it means."

The woman sat for a few moments in silence, watching him. "Didn't he have any when became here.''" she asked.

"Not very much," said he.

"Because," she went on, "if he didn't, he certainly managed it very cleverly — we aU thought he had."

Again there was a pause; then suddenly Mrs. Winnie said: "Do you know, you feel differently about money from the way we do in New York. Do you realise it?"

"I'm not sure," said he. "How do you mean ?

"You look at it in an old-fashioned sort of way — a person has to earn it — it's a sign of

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something he's done. It came to me just now, all in a flash — we don't feel that way about money. We haven't any of us earned ours; we've just got it. And it never occurs to us to «xpect other people to earn it — all we want to know is if they have it."

Montague did not tell his companion how Tery profound a remark he considered that; he was afraid it would not be delicate to agree with her. He had heard a story of a negro occupant of the "mourners' bench," who was volu-ole in confession of his sins, but took exception to the fervour with which the congregation said ^'Amen!"

"The Evanses used to be a lot funnier than they are now," continued Mrs. Winnie, after a while. "When they came here last year, they "were really frightful. They had an English chap for social secretary — a younger son of some broken-down old family. My brother knew a man who had been one of their intimates in the West, and he said it was perfectly excruciating — this fellow used to sit at the table and give orders to the whole crowd: ' Your ice-cream fork should be at your right hand, Miss Mary. — One never asks for more soup, Master Robert. — And Miss Anna, always move your soup-spoon from you — that's better!'"

"I fancy I shall feel sorry for them," said Montague.

"Oh, you needn't," said the other, promptly. "They'll get what they want."

"Do you think so?"

"Why, certainly they will. They've got the

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money; and they've been abroad — they're learning the game. And they'll keep at it until they succeed — what else is there for them to do? And then my husband says that old Evans is making himself a power here in the East; so that pretty soon they won't dare offend him."

"Does that count.?" asked the man.

"Well, I guess it counts!" laughed Mrs. Winnie. "It has of late." And she went on to tell him of the society leader who had dared to offend the daughters of a great magnate, and how the magnate had retaliated by turning the woman's husband out of his high office. That was often the way in the business world; the struggles were supposed to be affairs of men, but oftener than not the moving power was a woman's intrigue. You would see a great upheaval in Wall Street, and it would be two of the big men quarrelling over a mistress; you would see some man rushed suddenly into a high office — and that would be because his wife had sold herself to advance him.

Mrs. Winnie took him up town in her auto, and he dressed for dinner; and then came Oliver, and his brother asked, "Are you trying to put the Evanses into Society.''"

* Who's been telling you about them.?" asked the other.

"Mrs. Winnie," said Montague.

"What did she tell you.?"

Montague went over her recital, which his brother apparently found satisfactory. " It's not

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as serious as that," he said, answering the eariier question. "I help them a Uttle now and then."

"What do you do.P"

" Oh, advise them, mostly — tell them where to go and what to wear. When they first came to New York, they were dressed like paroquets, jou know. And —" here Oliver broke into a laugh — "I refrain from making jokes about them.- And when I hear other people abusing them, I point out that they are sure to land in the end, and will be dangerous enemies. I've got one or two wedges started for them."

"And do they pay you for doing it.?"

"You'd call it paying me, I suppose," replied the other. "The old man carries a few shares of stock for me now and then."

"Carries a few shares.?" echoed Montague, and Oliver explained the procedure. This was one of the customs which had grown up in a community where people did not have to earn their money. The recipient of the favour put up nothing and took no risks; but the other person was supposed to buy some stock for him, and then, when the stock went up, he would send a check for the "profits." Many a man who would have resented a direct offer of money, would assent pleasantly when a powerful friend offered to "carry a hundred shares for him." This was the way one offered a tip in the big world; it was useful in the case of newspaper men, whose good opinion of a stock was desired, or of politicians and legislators, whose votes might help its fortunes. When one expected to get

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into Society, one must be prepared to strew such tips about him.

"Of course," added Oliver, "what the family would really like me to do is to get the Robbie Wallings to take them up. I suppose I could get a round half miUion out of them if I could manage that."

To all of which Montague replied, "I see."

A great light had dawned upon him. So that was the way it was managed! That was why one paid thirty thousand a year for one's apartments, and thirty thousand more for a girl's clothes ! No wonder it was better to spend Christmas week at the Eldridge Devons than to labour at one's law books!

"One more question," Montague went on. "Why are you introducing me to them.?"

"Well," his brother answered, "it won't hurt you; you'll find it amusing. You see, they'd heard I had a brother; and they asked me to bring you. I couldn't keep you hidden for ever, could I?"

All this was while they were driving up town. The Evanses' place was on Riverside Drive; and when Montague got out of the cab and saw it looming up in the semi-darkness, he emitted an exclamation of wonder. It was as big as a jail!

"Oh, yes, they've got room enough," said OUver, with a laugh. I put this deal through for them — it's the old Lamson palace, you know."

They had the room; and likewise they had all the trappings of snobbery — Montague took that fact in at a glance. There were knee-

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breeches and scarlet facings and gold braid — marble balconies and fireplaces and fountains — French masters and real Flemish tapestry. The staircase of their palace was a winding one, and there was a white velvet carpet which had been specially woven for it, and had to be changed frequently; at the top of it was a white cashmere rug which had a pedigree of six centuries — and so on.

And then came the family: this tall, raw-boned, gigantic man, with weather-tanned face and straggling grey mustache — this was Jack Evans; and Mrs. Evans, short and pudgy, but with a kindly face, and not too many diamonds; and the Misses Evans, stately and slender and perfectly arrayed. "Why, they're all right!" was the thought that came to Montague.

They were all right until they opened their mouths. When they spoke, you discovered that Evans was a miner, and that his wife had been cook on a ranch; also that Anne and Mary had harsh voices, and that they never by any chance said or did anything natural.

They were escorted into the stately dining room — Henri II, with a historic mantel taken from the palace of Fontainebleau, and four great allegorical paintings of Morning, Evening, Noon, and Midnight upon the walls. There were no other guests — the table, set for six, seemed like a toy in the vast apartment. And in a sudden flash—with a start of almost terror — Montague realised what it must mean not to be in Society. To have all this splendour, and nobody to share it! To have Henri II dining rooms and Louis