THE DISCOUNTERS OF MONEY
The spectacle of the money-caliphs of the present day going about Bagdad-on-the-Subway trying to relieve the wants of the people is enough to make the great Al Raschid turn Haroun in his grave.If not so, then the assertion should do so, the real caliph having been a wit and a scholar and therefore a hater of puns.
How properly to alleviate the troubles of the poor is one of the greatest troubles of the rich.But one thing agreed upon by all professional philanthropists is that you must never hand over any cash to your subject.The poor are notoriously temperamental; and when they get money they exhibit a strong tendency to spend it for stuffed olives and enlarged crayon portraits instead of giving it to the instalment man.
And still, old Haroun had some advantages as an eleemosynarian.He took around with him on his rambles his vizier, Giafar (a vizier is a composite of a chauffeur, a secretary of state, and a night-and-day bank), and old Uncle Mesrour, his executioner, who toted a snickersnee.With this entourage a caliphing tour could hardly fail to be successful.Have you noticed lately any newspaper articles headed, "What Shall We Do With Our Ex-Presidents?" Well, now, suppose that Mr.
Carnegie could engage /him/ and Joe Gans to go about assisting in the distribution of free libraries? Do you suppose any town would have had the hardihood to refuse one? That caliphalous combination would cause two libraries to grow where there had been only one set of E.P.Roe's works before.
But, as I said, the money-caliphs are handicapped.They have the idea that earth has no sorrow that dough cannot heal; and they rely upon it solely.Al Raschid administered justice, rewarding the deserving, and punished whomsoever he disliked on the spot.He was the originator of the short-story contest.Whenever he succoured any chance pick-up in the bazaars he always made the succouree tell the sad story of his life.If the narrative lacked construction, style, and /esprit/ he commanded his vizier to dole him out a couple of thousand ten-dollar notes of the First National Bank of the Bosphorus, or else gave him a soft job as Keeper of the Bird Seed for the Bulbuls in the Imperial Gardens.If the story was a cracker-jack, he had Mesrour, the executioner, whack of his head.The report that Haroun Al Raschid is yet alive and is editing the magazine that your grandmother used to subscribe for lacks confirmation.
And now follows the Story of the Millionaire, the Inefficacious Increment, and the Babes Drawn from the Wood.
Young Howard Pilkins, the millionaire, got his money ornithologically.
He was a shrewd judge of storks, and got in on the ground floor at the residence of his immediate ancestors, the Pilkins Brewing Company.For his mother was a partner in the business.Finally old man Pilkins died from a torpid liver, and then Mrs.Pilkins died from worry on account of torpid delivery-waggons--and there you have young Howard Pilkins with 4,000,000; and a good fellow at that.He was an agreeable, modestly arrogant young man, who implicitly believed that money could buy anything that the world had to offer.And Bagdad-on-the-Subway for a long time did everything possible to encourage his belief.
But the Rat-trap caught him at last; he heard the spring snap, and found his heart in a wire cage regarding a piece of cheese whose other name was Alice von der Ruysling.
The Von der Ruyslings still live in that little square about which so much has been said, and in which so little has been done.To-day you hear of Mr.Tilden's underground passage, and you hear Mr.Gould's elevated passage, and that about ends the noise in the world made by Gramercy Square.But once it was different.The Von der Ruyslings live there yet, and they received /the first key ever made to Gramercy Park/.
You shall have no description of Alice v.d.R.Just call up in your mind the picture of your own Maggie or Vera or Beatrice, straighten her nose, soften her voice, tone her down and then tone her up, make her beautiful and unattainable--and you have a faint dry-point etching of Alice.The family owned a crumbly brick house and a coachman named Joseph in a coat of many colours, and a horse so old that he claimed to belong to the order of the perissodactyla, and had toes instead of hoofs.In the year 1898 the family had to buy a new set of harness for their Perissodactyl.Before using it they made Joseph smear it over with a mixture of ashes and soot.It was the Von der Ruysling family that bought the territory between the Bowery and East River and Rivington Street and the Statue of Liberty, in the year 1649, from an Indian chief for a quart of passementerie and a pair of Turkey-red portieres designed for a Harlem flat.I have always admired that Indian's perspicacity and good taste.All this is merely to convince you that the Von der Ruyslings were exactly the kind of poor aristocrats that turn down their noses at people who have money.Oh, well, I don't mean that; I mean people who have /just/ money.
One evening Pilkins went down to the red brick house in Gramercy Square, and made what he thought was a proposal to Alice v.d.R.
Alice, with her nose turned down, and thinking of his money, considered it a proposition, and refused it and him.Pilkins, summoning all his resources as any good general would have done, made an indiscreet references to the advantages that his money would provide.That settled it.The lady turned so cold that Walter Wellman himself would have waited until spring to make a dash for her in a dog-sled.
But Pilkins was something of a sport himself.You can't fool all the millionaires every time the ball drops on the Western Union Building.
"If, at any time," he said to A.v.d.R., "you feel that you would like to reconsider your answer, send me a rose like that."
Pilkins audaciously touched a Jacque rose that she wore loosely in her hair.
