The Rise of Silas Lapham

by William Dean Howells

  “Oh, I guess Pen’ll know how to take care of herself,” said Lapham.

  “She’s got sense enough. But she ain’t so practical as Irene. She’s more up in the clouds—more of what you may call a dreamer. Irene’s wide awake every minute; and I declare, anyone to see these two together when there’s anything to be done, or any lead to be taken, would say Irene was the oldest, nine times out of ten. It’s only when they get to talking that you can see Pen’s got twice as much brains.”

  “Well,” said Lapham, tacitly granting this point, and leaning back in his chair in supreme content. “Did you ever see much nicer girls anywhere?”

  His wife laughed at his pride. “I presume they’re as much swans as anybody’s geese.”

  “No; but honestly, now!”

  “Oh, they’ll do; but don’t you be silly, if you can help it, Si.”

  The young people came in, and Corey said it was time for his boat. Mrs. Lapham pressed him to stay, but he persisted, and he would not let the Colonel send him to the boat; he said he would rather walk. Outside, he pushed along toward the boat, which presently he could see lying at her landing in the bay, across the sandy tract to the left of the hotels. From time to time he almost stopped in his rapid walk, as a man does whose mind is in a pleasant tumult; and then he went forward at a swifter pace.

  “She’s charming!” he said, and he thought he had spoken aloud. He found himself floundering about in the deep sand, wide of the path; he got back to it and reached the boat just before she started. The clerk came to take his fare, and Corey looked radiantly up at him in his lantern light, with a smile that he must have been wearing a long time; his cheek was stiff with it. Once some people who stood near him edged suddenly and fearfully away, and then he suspected himself of having laughed outright.

  XI

  COREY put off his set smile with the help of a frown, of which he first became aware after reaching home, when his father asked: “Anything gone wrong with your department of the fine arts today, Tom?”

  “Oh no—no, sir;” said the son, instantly relieving his brows from the strain upon them and beaming again. “But I was thinking whether you were not perhaps right in your impression that it might be well for you to make Colonel Lapham’s acquaintance before a great while.”

  “Has he been suggesting it in any way?” asked Bromfield Corey, laying aside his book and taking his lean knee between his clasped hands.

  “Oh, not at all!” the young man hastened to reply. “I was merely thinking whether it might not begin to seem intentional, your not doing it.”

  “Well, Tom, you know I have been leaving it altogether to you—”

  “Oh, I understand, of course, and I didn’t mean to urge anything of the kind—”

  “You are so very much more of a Bostonian than I am, you know, that I’ve been waiting your motion in entire confidence that you would know just what to do, and when to do it. If I had been left quite to my own lawless impulses, I think I should have called upon your padrone at once. It seems to me that my father would have found some way of showing that he expected as much as that from people placed in the relation to him that we hold to Colonel Lapham.”

  “Do you think so?” asked the young man.

  “Yes. But you know I don’t pretend to be an authority in such matters. As far as they go, I am always in the hands of your mother and you children.”

  “I’m very sorry, sir. I had no idea I was overruling your judgment. I only wanted to spare you a formality that didn’t seem quite a necessity yet. I’m very sorry,” he said again, and this time with more comprehensive regret. “I shouldn’t like to have seemed remiss with a man who has been so considerate of me. They are all very good-natured.”

  “I daresay,” said Bromfield Corey, with the satisfaction which no elder can help feeling in disabling the judgment of a younger man, “that it won’t be too late if I go down to your office with you tomorrow.”

  “No, no. I didn’t imagine your doing it at once, sir.”

  “Ah, but nothing can prevent me from doing a thing when once I take the bit in my teeth,” said the father, with the pleasure which men of weak will sometimes take in recognizing their weakness. “How does their new house get on?”

  “I believe they expect to be in it before New Year’s.”

  “Will they be a great addition to society?” asked Bromfield Corey, with unimpeachable seriousness.

  “I don’t quite know what you mean,” returned the son, a little uneasily.

  “Ah, I see that you do, Tom.”

  “No one can help feeling that they are all people of good sense and—right ideas.”

  “Oh, that won’t do. If society took in all the people of right ideas and good sense, it would expand beyond the calling capacity of its most active members. Even your mother’s social conscientiousness could not compass it. Society is a very different sort of thing from good sense and right ideas. It is based upon them, of course, but the airy, graceful, winning superstructure which we all know demands different qualities. Have your friends got these qualities—which may be felt, but not defined?”

  The son laughed. “To tell you the truth, sir, I don’t think they have the most elemental ideas of society, as we understand it. I don’t believe Mrs. Lapham ever gave a dinner.”

  “And with all that money!” sighed the father.

  “I don’t believe they have the habit of wine at table. I suspect that when they don’t drink tea and coffee with their dinner, they drink ice water.”

  “Horrible!” said Bromfield Corey.

  “It appears to me that this defines them.”

  “Oh yes. There are people who give dinners, and who are not cognoscible. But people who have never yet given a dinner, how is society to assimilate them?”

  “It digests a great many people,” suggested the young man.

  “Yes; but they have always brought some sort of sauce piquante with them. Now, as I understand you, these friends of yours have no such sauce.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that!” cried the son.

  “Oh, rude, native flavors, I daresay. But that isn’t what I mean. Well, then, they must spend. There is no other way for them to win their way to general regard. We must have the Colonel elected to the Ten O’clock Club, and he must put himself down in the list of those willing to entertain. Anyone can manage a large supper. Yes, I see a gleam of hope for him in that direction.”

  In the morning Bromfield Corey asked his son whether he should find Lapham at his place as early as eleven.

  “I think you might find him even earlier. I’ve never been there before him. I doubt if the porter is there much sooner.”

  “Well, suppose I go with you, then?”

  “Why, if you like, sir,” said the son, with some deprecation.

  “Oh, the question is, will he like?”

  “I think he will, sir”; and the father could see that his son was very much pleased.

  Lapham was rending an impatient course through the morning’s news when they appeared at the door of his inner room. He looked up from the newspaper spread on the desk before him, and then he stood up, making an indifferent feint of not knowing that he knew Bromfield Corey by sight.

  “Good morning, Colonel Lapham,” said the son, and Lapham waited for him to say further, “I wish to introduce my father.”

  Then he answered, “Good morning,” and added rather sternly for the elder Corey, “How do you do, sir? Will you take a chair?” and pushed him one.

  They shook hands and sat down, and Lapham said to his subordinate, “Have a seat”; but young Corey remained standing, watching them in their observance of each other with an amusement which was a little uneasy. Lapham made his visitor speak first by waiting for him to do so.

  “I’m glad to make your acquaintance, Colonel Lapham, and I ought to have come sooner to do
so. My father in your place would have expected it of a man in my place at once, I believe. But I can’t feel myself altogether a stranger as it is. I hope Mrs. Lapham is well? And your daughter?”

  “Thank you,” said Lapham, “they’re quite well.”

  “They were very kind to my wife—”

  “Oh, that was nothing!” cried Lapham. “There’s nothing Mrs. Lapham likes better than a chance of that sort. Mrs. Corey and the young ladies well?”

  “Very well, when I heard from them. They’re out of town.”

  “Yes, so I understood,” said Lapham, with a nod toward the son. “I believe Mr. Corey, here, told Mrs. Lapham.” He leaned back in his chair, stiffly resolute to show that he was not incommoded by the exchange of these civilities.

  “Yes,” said Bromfield Corey. “Tom has had the pleasure which I hope for of seeing you all. I hope you’re able to make him useful to you here?” Corey looked ’round Lapham’s room vaguely, and then out at the clerks in their railed enclosure, where his eye finally rested on an extremely pretty girl, who was operating a typewriter.

  “Well, sir,” replied Lapham, softening for the first time with this approach to business, “I guess it will be our own fault if we don’t. By the way, Corey,” he added, to the younger man, as he gathered up some letters from his desk, “here’s something in your line. Spanish or French, I guess.”

  “I’ll run them over,” said Corey, taking them to his desk.

  His father made an offer to rise.

  “Don’t go,” said Lapham, gesturing him down again. “I just wanted to get him away a minute. I don’t care to say it to his face—I don’t like the principle—but since you ask me about it, I’d just as lief say that I’ve never had any young man take hold here equal to your son. I don’t know as you care—”

  “You make me very happy,” said Bromfield Corey. “Very happy indeed. I’ve always had the idea that there was something in my son, if he could only find the way to work it out. And he seems to have gone into your business for the love of it.”

  “He went to work in the right way, sir! He told me about it. He looked into it. And that paint is a thing that will bear looking into.”

  “Oh, yes. You might think he had invented it, if you heard him celebrating it.”

  “Is that so?” demanded Lapham, pleased through and through. “Well, there ain’t any other way. You’ve got to believe in a thing before you can put any heart in it. Why, I had a partner in this thing once, along back just after the war, and he used to be always wanting to tinker with something else. ‘Why,’ says I, ‘you’ve got the best thing in God’s universe now. Why ain’t you satisfied?’ I had to get rid of him at last. I stuck to my paint, and that fellow’s drifted ’round pretty much all over the whole country, whittling his capital down all the while, till here the other day I had to lend him some money to start him new. No, sir, you’ve got to believe in a thing. And I believe in your son. And I don’t mind telling you that, so far as he’s gone, he’s a success.”

  “That’s very kind of you.”

  “No kindness about it. As I was saying the other day to a friend of mine, I’ve had many a fellow right out of the street that had to work hard all his life, and didn’t begin to take hold like this son of yours.”

  Lapham expanded with profound self-satisfaction. As he probably conceived it, he had succeeded in praising, in a perfectly casual way, the supreme excellence of his paint, and his own sagacity and benevolence; and here he was sitting face-to-face with Bromfield Corey, praising his son to him, and receiving his grateful acknowledgments as if he were the father of some office boy whom Lapham had given a place half but of charity.

  “Yes, sir, when your son proposed to take hold here, I didn’t have much faith in his ideas; that’s the truth. But I had faith in him, and I saw that he meant business from the start. I could see it was born in him. Anyone could.”

  “I’m afraid he didn’t inherit it directly from me,” said Bromfield Corey; “but it’s in the blood, on both sides.”

  “Well, sir, we can’t help those things,” said Lapham compassionately. “Some of us have got it, and some of us haven’t. The idea is to make the most of what we have got.”

  “Oh, yes; that is the idea. By all means.”

  “And you can’t ever tell what’s in you till you try. Why, when I started this thing, I didn’t more than half understand my own strength. I wouldn’t have said, looking back, that I could have stood the wear and tear of what I’ve been through. But I developed as I went along. It’s just like exercising your muscles in a gymnasium. You can lift twice or three times as much after you’ve been in training a month as you could before. And I can see that it’s going to be just so with your son. His going through college won’t hurt him—he’ll soon slough all that off—and his bringing up won’t; don’t be anxious about it. I noticed in the army that some of the fellows that had the most go-ahead were fellows that hadn’t ever had much more to do than girls before the war broke out. Your son will get along.”

  “Thank you,” said Bromfield Corey, and smiled—whether because his spirit was safe in the humility he sometimes boasted, or because it was triply armed in pride against anything the Colonel’s kindness could do.

  “He’ll get along. He’s a good businessman, and he’s a fine fellow. Must you go?” asked Lapham, as Bromfield Corey now rose more resolutely. “Well, glad to see you. It was natural you should want to come and see what he was about, and I’m glad you did. I should have felt just so about it. Here is some of our stuff,” he said, pointing out the various packages in his office, including the Persis Brand.

  “Ah, that’s very nice, very nice indeed,” said his visitor. “That color through the jar—very rich—delicious. Is Persis Brand a name?”

  Lapham blushed.

  “Well, Persis is. I don’t know as you saw an interview that fellow published in The Events awhile back?”

  “What is The Events?”

  “Well, it’s the new paper Witherby’s started.”

  “No,” said Bromfield Corey, “I haven’t seen it. I read The Daily,” he explained; by which he meant The Daily Advertiser, the only daily there is in the old-fashioned Bostonian sense.

  “He put a lot of stuff in my mouth that I never said,” resumed Lapham; “but that’s neither here nor there, so long as you haven’t seen it. Here’s the department your son’s in,” and he showed him the foreign labels. Then he took him out into the warehouse to see the large packages. At the head of the stairs, where his guest stopped to nod to his son and say “Good-bye, Tom,” Lapham insisted upon going down to the lower door with him. “Well, call again,” he said in hospitable dismissal. “I shall always be glad to see you. There ain’t a great deal doing at this season.” Bromfield Corey thanked him, and let his hand remain perforce in Lapham’s lingering grasp. “If you ever like to ride after a good horse—” the Colonel began.

  “Oh, no, no; thank you! The better the horse, the more I should be scared. Tom has told me of your driving!”

  “Ha, ha, ha!” laughed the Colonel. “Well! everyone to his taste. Well, good morning, sir!” and he suffered him to go.

  “Who is the old man blowing to this morning?” asked Walker, the bookkeeper, making an errand to Corey’s desk.

  “My father.”

  “Oh! That your father? I thought he must be one of your Italian correspondents that you’d been showing ’round, or Spanish.”

  In fact, as Bromfield Corey found his way at his leisurely pace up through the streets on which the prosperity of his native city was founded, hardly any figure could have looked more alien to its life. He glanced up and down the facades and through the crooked vistas like a stranger, and the swarthy fruiterer of whom he bought an apple, apparently for the pleasure of holding it in his hand, was not surprised that the purchase should be transacted in his own tongue.

 
Lapham walked back through the outer office to his own room without looking at Corey, and during the day he spoke to him only of business matters. That must have been his way of letting Corey see that he was not overcome by the honor of his father’s visit. But he presented himself at Nantasket with the event so perceptibly on his mind that his wife asked: “Well, Silas, has Rogers been borrowing any more money of you? I don’t want you should let that thing go too far. You’ve done enough.”

  “You needn’t be afraid. I’ve seen the last of Rogers for one while.” He hesitated, to give the fact an effect of no importance. “Corey’s father called this morning.”

  “Did he?” said Mrs. Lapham, willing to humor his feint of indifference. “Did he want to borrow some money too?”

  “Not as I understood.” Lapham was smoking at great ease, and his wife had some crocheting on the other side of the lamp from him.

  The girls were on the piazza looking at the moon on the water again. “There’s no man in it tonight,” Penelope said, and Irene laughed forlornly.

  “What did he want, then?” asked Mrs. Lapham.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Seemed to be just a friendly call. Said he ought to have come before.”

  Mrs. Lapham was silent awhile. Then she said: “Well, I hope you’re satisfied now.”

  Lapham rejected the sympathy too openly offered. “I don’t know about being satisfied. I wan’t in any hurry to see him.”

  His wife permitted him this pretense also. “What sort of a person is he, anyway?”

  “Well, not much like his son. There’s no sort of business about him. I don’t know just how you’d describe him. He’s tall; and he’s got white hair and a mustache; and his fingers are very long and limber. I couldn’t help noticing them as he sat there with his hands on the top of his cane. Didn’t seem to be dressed very much, and acted just like anybody. Didn’t talk much. Guess I did most of the talking. Said he was glad I seemed to be getting along so well with his son. He asked after you and Irene; and he said he couldn’t feel just like a stranger. Said you had been very kind to his wife. Of course I turned it off. Yes,” said Lapham thoughtfully, with his hands resting on his knees, and his cigar between the fingers of his left hand, “I guess he meant to do the right thing, every way. Don’t know as I ever saw a much pleasanter man. Dunno but what he’s about the pleasantest man I ever did see.” He was not letting his wife see in his averted face the struggle that revealed itself there—the struggle of stalwart achievement not to feel flattered at the notice of sterile elegance, not to be sneakingly glad of its amiability, but to stand up and look at it with eyes on the same level. God, who made us so much like himself, but out of the dust, alone knows when that struggle will end. The time had been when Lapham could not have imagined any worldly splendor which his dollars could not buy if he chose to spend them for it; but his wife’s half discoveries, taking form again in his ignorance of the world, filled him with helpless misgiving. A cloudy vision of something unpurchasable, where he had supposed there was nothing, had cowed him in spite of the burly resistance of his pride.