The City of Masks/Chapter 14
CHAPTER XIV
DIPLOMACY
MR. SMITH-PARVIS, Senior, entertained one old-fashioned, back-number idea,—relict of a throttled past; it was a pestiferous idea that always kept bobbing up in an insistent, aggravating way the instant he realized that he had a few minutes to himself.
Psychologists might go so far as to claim that he had been born with it; that it was, after a fashion, hereditary. He had come of honest, hard-working Smiths; the men and women before him had cultivated the idea with such unwavering assiduity that, despite all that had conspired to stifle it, the thing still clung to him and would not be shaken off.
In short, Mr. Smith-Parvis had an idea that a man should work. Especially a young man.
In secret he squirmed over the fact that his son Stuyvesant had never been known to do a day's work in his life. Not that it was actually necessary for the young man to descend to anything so common and inelegant as earning his daily bread, or that there was even a remote prospect of the wolf sniffing around a future doorway. Not at all. He knew that Stuyvie didn't have to work. Still, it grieved him to see so much youthful energy going to waste. He had never quite gotten over the feeling that a man could make something besides a mere gentleman of himself, and do it without seriously impairing the family honour.
He had once suggested to his wife that Stuyvesant ought to go to work. He didn't care what he took up, just so he took up something. Mrs. Smith-Parvis was horrified. She would not listen to his reiterations that he didn't mean clerking in a drygoods shop, or collecting fares on a street car, or repairing electric doorbells, or anything of the kind, and she wouldn't allow him to say just what sort of work he did mean. The subject was not mentioned again for years. Stuyvesant was allowed to go on being a gentleman in his own sweet way.
One day Mrs. Smith-Parvis, to his surprise and joy, announced that she thought Stuyvesant ought to have a real chance to make something of himself,—a vocation or an avocation, she wasn't sure which,—and she couldn't see why the father of such a bright, capable boy had been so blind to the possibilities that lay before him. She actually blamed him for holding the young man back.
"I suggested some time ago, my dear," he began, in self-defence, "that the boy ought to get a job and settle down to—"
"Job? How I loathe that word. It is almost as bad as situation."
"Well, then, position," he amended. "You wouldn't hear to it."
"I have no recollection of any such conversation," said she firmly. "I have been giving the subject a great deal of thought lately. The dear boy is entitled to his opportunity. He must make a name for himself. I have decided, Philander, that he ought to go into the diplomatic service."
"Oh, Lord!"
"I don't blame you for saying 'Oh, Lord,' if you think I mean the American diplomatic service," she said, smiling. "That, of course, is not even to be considered. He must aim higher than that. I know it is a vulgar expression, but there is no class to the American embassies abroad. Compare our embassies with any of the other—"
"But, my dear, you forget that—"
"They are made up largely of men who have sprung from the most ordinary walks in life,—men totally unfitted for the social position that— Please do not argue. Philander. You know perfectly well that what I say is true. I shouldn't think of letting Stuyvesant enter the American diplomatic service. Do you remember that dreadful person who came to see us in Berlin,—about the trunks we sent up from Paris by grande vitesse? Well, just think of Stuyvesant—"
"He was a clerk from the U. S. Consul's office," he interrupted doggedly. "Nothing whatever to do with the embassy. Besides, we can't—"
"It doesn't matter. I have been giving it a great deal of thought lately, trying to decide which is the best service for Stuyvesant to enter. The English diplomatic corps in this country is perfectly stunning, and so is the French,—and the Russian, for that matter. He doesn't speak the Russian language, however, so I suppose we will have to—"
"See here, my dear,—listen to me," he broke in resolutely. "Stuyvesant can't get into the service of any of these countries. He—"
"I'd like to know why not!" she cried sharply. "He is a gentleman, he has manner, he is— Well, isn't he as good as any of the young men one sees at the English or the French Legations in Washington?"
"I grant you all that, but he is an American just the same. He can't be born all over again, you know, with a new pair of parents. He's got to be in the American diplomatic corps, or in no corps at all. Now, get that through your head, my dear."
She finally got it through her head, and resigned herself to the American service, deciding that the Court of St. James offered the most desirable prospects in view of its close proximity to the other great capitals of Europe.
"Stuyvesant likes London next to Paris, and he could cross over to France whenever he felt the need of change."
Mr. Smith-Parvis looked harassed.
"Easier said than done," he ventured. "These chaps in the legations have to stick pretty close to their posts. He can't be running about, all over the place, you know. It isn't expected. You might as well understand in the beginning that he'll have to work like a nailer for a good many years before he gets anywhere in the diplomatic service."
"Nonsense. Doesn't the President appoint men to act as Ambassadors who never had an hour's experience in diplomacy? It's all a matter of politics. I'm sorry to say. Philander, the right men are never appointed. It seems to be the practice in this country to appoint men who, so far as I know, have absolutely no social standing. Mr. Choate was an exception, of course. I am sure that Stuyvesant will go to the top rapidly if he is given a chance. Now, how shall we go about it. Philander?" She considered the matter settled. Her husband shook his head.
"Have you spoken to Stuyvie about it?" he inquired.
"Oh, dear me, no. I want to surprise him."
"I see," said he, rather grimly for him. "I see. We simply say: 'Here is a nice soft berth in the diplomatic corps, Stuyvie. You may sail tomorrow if you like.'"
"Don't be silly. And please do not call him Stuyvie. I've spoken to you about that a thousand times. Philander. Now, don't you think you ought to run down to Washington and see the President? It may—"
"No, I don't," said he flatly. "I'm not a dee fool."
"Don't—don't you care to see your son make something of himself?" she cried in dismay.
"Certainly. I'd like nothing better than—"
"Then, try to take a little interest in him," she said coldly.
"In the first place," said he resignedly, "what are his politics?"
"The same as yours. He is a Republican. All the people we know are Republicans. The Democrats are too common for words."
"Well, his first attempt at diplomacy will be to change his politics," he said, waxing a little sarcastic as he gained courage. "And I'd advise you not to say nasty things about the Democrats. They are in the saddle now, you know. I suppose you've heard that the President is a Democrat?"
"I can't help that," she replied stubbornly.
"And he appoints nothing but Democrats."
"Is there likely to be a Republican president soon?" she inquired, knitting her brows.
"That's difficult to say."
"I suppose Stuyvesant could, in a diplomatic sort of way, pretend to be a Democrat, couldn't he, dear?"
"He lost nearly ten thousand dollars at the last election betting on what he said was a sure thing," said he, compressing his lips.
"The poor dear!"
"I can't see very much in this diplomatic game, anyhow," said Mr. Smith-Parvis determinedly.
"I asked you a direct question. Philander," she said stiffly.
"I—I seem to have forgotten just what—"
"I asked you how we are to go about securing an appointment for him."
"Oh," said he, wilting a little. "So you did. Well,—um—aw—let me think. There's only one way. He's got to have a pull. Does he know any one high up in the Democratic ranks? Any one who possesses great influence?" There was a twinkle in his eye.
"I—I don't know," she replied, helplessly. "He is quite young, Philander. He can't be expected to know everybody. But you! Now that I think of it, you must know any number of influential Democrats. There must be some one to whom you could go. You would simply say to him that Stuyvesant agrees to enter the service, and that he will do everything in his power to raise it to the social standard—"
"The man would die laughing," said he unfeelingly. "I was just thinking. Suppose I were to go to the only influential Democratic politician I know,—Cornelius McFaddan,—and tell him that Stuyvesant advocates the reconstruction of our diplomatic service along English lines, he would undoubtedly say things to me that I could neither forget nor forgive. I can almost hear him now."
"You refuse to make any effort at all, then?"
"Not at all," he broke in quickly. "I will see him. As a matter of fact, McFaddan is a very decent sort of chap, and he is keen to join the Oxford Country Club. He knows I am on the Board of Governors. In fact, he asked me not long ago what golf club I'd advise him to join. He thinks he's getting too fat. Wants to take up golf."
"But you couldn't propose him for membership in the Oxford, Philander," she said flatly. "Only the smartest people in town—"
"Leave it to me," he interrupted, a flash of enthusiasm in his eyes. "By gad, I shouldn't be surprised if I could do something through him. He carries a good deal of weight."
"Would it be wise to let him reduce it by playing golf? "she inquired doubtfully.
He stared. "I mean politically. Figure of speech, my dear."
"Oh, I see."
"A little coddling on my part, and that sort of thing. They all want to break into society,—every last one of them. You never can tell. A little soft soap goes a long way sometimes. I could ask him to have luncheon with me at Bombay House. Um-m-m!" He fell into a reflective mood.
Mrs. Smith-Parvis also was thoughtful. An amazing idea had sprouted in her head.
"Has he a wife?" she inquired, after many minutes.
"They always have, those chaps," said he. "And a lot of children."
"I was just wondering if it wouldn't be good policy to have them to dinner some night. Philander," she said.
"Oh, my God!" he exclaimed, sitting up suddenly and staring at her in astonishment.
"Every little helps," she said argumentatively. "It would be like opening the seventh heaven to her if I were to invite her here to dine. Just think what it would mean to her. She would meet—"
"They probably eat with their knives and tuck their napkins under their chins."
"I am sure that would be amusing," said she, eagerly. "It is so difficult nowadays to provide amusement for one's guests. Really, my dear, I think it is quite an idea. We could explain beforehand to the people we'll have in to meet them,—explain everything, you know. The plan for Stuyvesant, and everything."
He was still staring. "Well, who would you suggest having in with Mr. and Mrs. Con McFaddan?"
"Oh, the Cricklewicks, and the Blodgetts,—and old Mrs. Millidew,—I've been intending to have her anyway,—and perhaps the Van Ostrons and Cicely Braithmere, and I am sure we could get dear old Percy Tromboy. He would be frightfully amused by the McFinnegans, and—"
"McFaddan," he edged in.
"—and he could get a world of material for those screaming Irish imitations he loves to give. Now, when will you see Mr. McFaddan?"
"You'd have to call on his wife, wouldn't you, before asking her to dinner?"
"She probably never has heard of the custom," said Mrs. Smith-Parvis composedly.
The next day, Mr. Smith-Parvis strolled into the offices of Mr. Cornelius McFaddan, Contractor, and casually remarked what a wonderful view of the Bay he had from his windows.
"I dropped in, Mr. McFaddan," he explained, "to see if you were really in earnest about wanting to join the Oxford Country Club." He had decided that it was best to go straight to the point.
McFaddan regarded him narrowly. "Did I ever say I wanted to join the Oxford Country Club?" he demanded.
"Didn't you?" asked his visitor, slightly disturbed by this ungracious response.
"I did not," said Mr. McFaddan promptly.
"Dear me, I—I was under the impression—Ahem! I am sure you spoke of wanting to join a golf club."
"That must have been some time ago. I've joined one," said the other, a little more agreeably.
Mr. Smith-Parvis punched nervously with his cane at one of his pearl grey spats. The contractor allowed his gaze to shift. He didn't wear "spats "himself.
"I am sorry. I daresay I could have rushed you through in the Oxford. They are mighty rigid and exclusive up there, but—well, you would have gone in with a rush. Men like you are always shoved through ahead of others. It isn't quite—ah—regular, you know, but it's done when a candidate of special prominence comes up. Of course, I need not explain that it's—ah—quite sub rosa?"
"Sure," said Mr. McFaddan promptly; "I know. We do it at the Jolly Dog Club." He was again eyeing his visitor narrowly, speculatively. "It's mighty good of you, Mr. Smith-Parvis. Have a cigar?"
"No, thank you. I seldom— On second thoughts, I will take one." It occurred to him that it was the diplomatic thing to do, no matter what kind of a cigar it was. Besides, he wouldn't feel called upon to terminate his visit at once if he lighted the man's cigar. He could at least smoke an inch or even an inch and a half of it before announcing that he would have to be going. And a great deal can happen during the consumption of an inch or so of tobacco.
"That's a good cigar," he commented, after a couple of puffs. He took it from his lips and inspected it critically.
Mr. McFaddan was pleased. "It ought to be," he said. "Fifty cents straight."
The visitor looked at it with sudden respect. "A little better than I'm in the habit of smoking," he said ingratiatingly.
"What does it cost to join the Oxford Club?" inquired the contractor.
"Twelve hundred dollars admission, and two hundred a year dues," said Mr. Smith-Parvis, pricking up his ears. "Really quite reasonable."
"My wife don't like the golf club I belong to," said the other, squinting at his own cigar. "Rough-neck crowd, she says."
Mr. Smith-Parvis looked politely concerned.
"That's too bad," he said.
The contractor appeared to be weighing something in his mind.
"How long does it take to get into your club?" he asked.
"Usually about five years," said Mr. Smith-Parvis, blandly. "Long waiting list, you know. Some of the best people in the city are on it, by the way. I daresay it wouldn't be more than two or three months in your case, however," he concluded.
"I'll speak to the wife about it," said Mr. McFaddan. "She may put her foot down hard. Too swell for us, maybe. We're plain people."
"Not a bit of it," said Mr. Smith-Parvis readily. "Extremely democratic club, my dear McFaddan. Exclusive and all that, but quite—ah—unconventional. Ha-ha!"
Finding himself on the high-road to success, he adventured a little farther. Glancing up at the clock on the wall, he got to his feet with an exclamation of well-feigned dismay.
"My dear fellow, I had no idea it was so near the luncheon hour. Stupid of me. Why didn't you kick me out? Ha-ha! Let me know what you decide to do, and I will be delighted to— But better still, can't you have lunch with me? I could tell you something about the club and— What do you say to going around to Bombay House with me?"
"I'd like nothing better," said the thoroughly perplexed politician. "Excuse me while I wash me hands."
And peering earnestly into the mirror above the washstand in the corner of the office, Mr. McFaddan said to himself:
"I must look easier to him than I do to meself. If I'm any kind of a guesser at all he's after one of two things. He either wants his tax assessment rejuced or wants to run for mayor of the city. The poor boob!"
That evening Mr. Smith-Parvis announced, in a bland and casual manner, that things were shaping themselves beautifully.
"I had McFaddan to lunch with me," he explained. "He was tremendously impressed."
His wife was slightly perturbed. "And I suppose you were so stupid as to introduce him to a lot of men in the club who—"
"I didn't have to," interrupted Mr. Smith-Parvis, a trifle crossly. "It was amazing how many of the members knew him. I daresay four out of every five men in the club shook hands with him and called him Mr. McFaddan. Two bank presidents called him Con, and, by gad, Angela, he actually introduced me to several really big bugs I've been wanting to meet for ten years or more. Most extraordinary, 'pon my word."
"Did you—did you put out any feelers?"
"About Stuyvie—sant? Certainly not. That would have been fatal. I did advance a few tactful and pertinent criticisms of our present diplomatic service, however. I was relieved to discover that he thinks it can be improved. He agreed with me when I advanced the opinion that we, as sovereign citizens of this great Republic, ought to see to it that a better, a higher class of men represent us abroad. He said,—in his rough, slangy way: 'You're dead right. What good are them authors and poets we're sendin' over there now? What we need is good, live hustlers,—men with ginger instead of ink in their veins.' I remember the words perfectly. 'Ginger instead of ink!' Haha,—rather good, eh?"
"You must dress at once, Philander," said his wife. "We are dining with the Hatchers."
"That reminds me," he said, wrinkling his brow. "I dropped in to see Cricklewick on the way up. He didn't appear to be very enthusiastic about dining here with the McFaddans."
"For heaven's sake, you don't mean to say you've already asked the man to dine with us!" cried his wife.
"Not in so many words," he made haste to explain. "He spoke several times about his wife. Seemed to want me to know that she was a snappy old girl,—his words, not mine. The salt of the earth, and so on. Of course, I had to say something agreeable. So I said I'd like very much to have the pleasure of meeting her."
"Oh, you did, did you?" witheringly.
"He seemed really quite affected, my dear. It was several minutes before he could find the words to reply. Got very red in the face and managed to say finally that it was very kind of me. I think it rather made a hit with him. I merely mentioned the possibility of dining together some time,—en famille,—and that I'd like him to meet you. Nothing more,—not a thing more than that!" he cried, quailing a little under his wife's eye.
"And what did he say to that?" she inquired. The rising inflection was ominous.
"He was polite enough to say he'd be pleased to meet you," said he, with justifiable exasperation.