mademoney largely. 11 It must be admitted, rather nakedly, that Christopher Newman’s sole aim in life had been to make money; what he had been placed in the world for was, to his own perception, simply to wrest a fortune, the bigger the better, from defiant opportunity. This idea completely filled his horizon and satisfied his imagination. Upon the uses of money, upon what one might do with a life into which one had succeeded in injecting the golden stream, 12 he had up to his thirty-fifth year very scantily reflected. Life had been for him an open game, and he had played for high stakes. He had won at last and carried off his winnings; and now what was he to do with them? He was a man to whom, sooner or later, the question was sure to present itself, and the answer to it belongs to our story. A vague sense that more answers were possible than his philosophy had hitherto dreamt of 13 had already taken possession of him, and it seemed softly and agreeably to deepen as he lounged in this brilliant corner of Paris with his friend.
“I must confess,” he presently went on, “that here I don’t feel at all smart. My remarkable talents seem of no use. I feel as simple as a little child, and a little child might take me by the hand and lead me about.”
“Oh, I’ll be your little child,” said Tristram, jovially; “I’ll take you by the hand. Trust yourself to me.”
“I am a good worker,” Newman continued, “but I rather think I am a poor loafer. I have come abroad to amuse myself, but I doubt whether I know how.”
“Oh, that’s easily learned.”
“Well, I may perhaps learn it, but I am afraid I shall never do it by rote. I have the best will in the world about it, but my genius doesn’t lie in that direction. As a loafer I shall never be original, 14 as I take it that you are.”
“Yes,” said Tristram, “I suppose I am original; like all those immoral pictures in the Louvre.”
“Besides,” Newman continued, “I don’t want to workat pleasure, any more than I played at work. I want to take it easily. I feel deliciously lazy, and I should like to spend six months as I am now, sitting under a tree and listening to a band. There’s only one thing; I want to hear some good music.”
“Music and pictures! Lord, what refined tastes! You are what my wife calls intellectual. I ain’t, a bit. But we can find something better for you to do than to sit under a tree. To begin with, you must come to the club.”
“What club?”
“The Occidental. 15 You will see all the Americans there; all the best of them, at least. Of course you play poker?”
“Oh, I say,” cried Newman, with energy, “you are not going to lock me up in a club and stick me down at a card-table! I haven’t come all this way for that.”
“What the deuce
have
you come for! You were glad enough to play poker in St. Louis, I recollect, when you cleaned me out.”
“I have come to see Europe, to get the best out of it I can. I want to see all the great things, and do what the clever people do.”
“The clever people? Much obliged. You set me down as a blockhead, then?”
Newman was sitting sidewise in his chair, with his elbow on the back and his head leaning on his hand. Without moving he looked awhile at his companion, with his dry, guarded, half-inscrutable, and yet altogether good-natured smile. “Introduce me to your wife!” he said at last.
Tristram bounced about in his chair. “Upon my word, I won’t. She doesn’t want any help to turn up her nose at me, nor do you, either!”
“I don’t turn up my nose at you, my dear fellow; nor at anyone, or anything. I’m not proud, I assure you I’m not proud. That’s why I am willing to take example by the clever people.”
“Well, if I’m not the rose, 16 as they say here, I have lived near it. I can show you some clever people, too. Do you know General Packard? Do you know C. P. Hatch? Do you know Miss Kitty Upjohn?”
“I shall be happy to make their
“I must confess,” he presently went on, “that here I don’t feel at all smart. My remarkable talents seem of no use. I feel as simple as a little child, and a little child might take me by the hand and lead me about.”
“Oh, I’ll be your little child,” said Tristram, jovially; “I’ll take you by the hand. Trust yourself to me.”
“I am a good worker,” Newman continued, “but I rather think I am a poor loafer. I have come abroad to amuse myself, but I doubt whether I know how.”
“Oh, that’s easily learned.”
“Well, I may perhaps learn it, but I am afraid I shall never do it by rote. I have the best will in the world about it, but my genius doesn’t lie in that direction. As a loafer I shall never be original, 14 as I take it that you are.”
“Yes,” said Tristram, “I suppose I am original; like all those immoral pictures in the Louvre.”
“Besides,” Newman continued, “I don’t want to workat pleasure, any more than I played at work. I want to take it easily. I feel deliciously lazy, and I should like to spend six months as I am now, sitting under a tree and listening to a band. There’s only one thing; I want to hear some good music.”
“Music and pictures! Lord, what refined tastes! You are what my wife calls intellectual. I ain’t, a bit. But we can find something better for you to do than to sit under a tree. To begin with, you must come to the club.”
“What club?”
“The Occidental. 15 You will see all the Americans there; all the best of them, at least. Of course you play poker?”
“Oh, I say,” cried Newman, with energy, “you are not going to lock me up in a club and stick me down at a card-table! I haven’t come all this way for that.”
“What the deuce
have
you come for! You were glad enough to play poker in St. Louis, I recollect, when you cleaned me out.”
“I have come to see Europe, to get the best out of it I can. I want to see all the great things, and do what the clever people do.”
“The clever people? Much obliged. You set me down as a blockhead, then?”
Newman was sitting sidewise in his chair, with his elbow on the back and his head leaning on his hand. Without moving he looked awhile at his companion, with his dry, guarded, half-inscrutable, and yet altogether good-natured smile. “Introduce me to your wife!” he said at last.
Tristram bounced about in his chair. “Upon my word, I won’t. She doesn’t want any help to turn up her nose at me, nor do you, either!”
“I don’t turn up my nose at you, my dear fellow; nor at anyone, or anything. I’m not proud, I assure you I’m not proud. That’s why I am willing to take example by the clever people.”
“Well, if I’m not the rose, 16 as they say here, I have lived near it. I can show you some clever people, too. Do you know General Packard? Do you know C. P. Hatch? Do you know Miss Kitty Upjohn?”
“I shall be happy to make their
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