Mr. Smith’s spinster sister was conciliatory as she ushered her to the door. “Now you have met my brother,” she said. “He either loves you or hates you. I hope his reaction was not too fierce. He finds our company in a predicament and he was perhaps hoping for a rescuer.”
“Which he did not find in me.”
“Please do not take it personally. I doubt that anyone could help him right now.” She smiled benignly as she opened the door. “We all try.”
And soon riding the tram back to the train station, alone in an unfamiliar city, very much out of sorts, she was certain that she had lost the contact and the investment she knew from the journal she was required to make. She had come to a dead end, she thought, most definitely, a dead end and a disaster. What a weakling she had been. During the whole first encounter with Homer Smith, an intense one, she had to admit, she had allowed herself to be intimidated, dominated entirely by his pugnacious personality. As swept up as she was by the urgency of the need to buy Cincinnati Soap and Candle stock and the fear of being overrun by this strong, obviously quick-tempered man, she had been barely able to hold herself steady, struggling to see in this man a peculiar but worthy adversary rather than a bully to be avoided.
Throughout his emotional rampage and his insistence in telling her about the outrage of the Procter and Gamble takeover, she found herself—she knew now in retrospect—seeing through to the core of his behavior and seeing how much he was behaving according to a type, one she knew not so much from personal experience as from the literature she had read and the stories she had been told. This man’s behavior did not seem to her in his own or his company’s best interest.
Homer Smith was a person, she wrote to her friend Jung later, a fiery hotheaded rooster of a man, who was behaving now not as the mature wise head of a family and a family company, but as a wounded combatant, furious at an overpowering tyrant and trapped without adult perspective in primitive ill-formed reaction. “He seemed so stuck within his habitual approach,” she wrote, “that he could not see what he was doing. And as much as he kept calling himself a ‘sensitive man,’ his actions in this time of personal crisis could not have been further from human sensitivity.” It was up to her how to not allow this rejection to happen. It was up to her now, although she had no idea at this moment how to pull off such a feat, to become the wise advisor.
Often by surprise, in times of trouble she found coming to her aid a steady perceptive self, her Athena self, “strength when you need it,” it had been called, her animus self, as Jung would describe it later. So often in the past, especially in the heat of battle, she could feel herself being taken over by that wise and understanding personage, her late mother watching over her, she liked to think. Whatever it was, she found it with her now, and so it was now as she reconstructed in her mind the rashness of Homer Smith’s reaction to what he saw as the takeover by Procter and Gamble, and she decided to act. It is the man’s personality, she said to herself. He cannot save himself. It is up to me to save him. It was at that moment at the doors of the Cincinnati train station that she stopped, turned around, and found a cab. “Take me to the largest bank in your city,” she said.
After a short wait in the bank’s reception area, she was led to the desk of a bank official, a tidy and punctilious young man, who greeted her with a warm handshake and asked her to sit down. “I am Mr. Cabot,” he said.
“I am new to this,” she said, suddenly cautious of admitting her naïveté. “I wish to invest, but I have been rebuffed.”
“You cannot then,” he said. “It seems simple.”
“But I must,” she said, barely able to contain her exasperation. “How do I turn this five thousand dollars into the fifty that I need?”
The banker looked at her for a long moment’s evaluation. “You mean besides alchemy,” he said with a condescending smile.
“I am not an alchemist, Mr. Cabot,” she said.
Taking in perhaps her erect posture and the fierceness in her eyes, reconsidering his frivolous comment, he became serious. “No, I see that you are not.” He paused. “So, in that case you offer up collateral and then borrow the amount you need.”
“What collateral?” she said, as if the new term was a totally familiar one.
“Do you own a home?” he said, and she nodded. “Here in the city?” he asked.
“No, in Boston.”
“All the better,” he said. “You simply go to our sister bank in Boston and secure the loan based on the value of the property, and take this risk.”
“And the risk?” Her look of consternation at that moment betrayed her ignorance, but he did not pause again.
“Well, I don’t know if there is much of that actually. Loans on property are very common—”
She cut him off. “But what are the risks?” she asked, looking him square in the eye. At first, uncertain about this customer, the young man didn’t know what to say. “I am not unintelligent, Mr. Cabot. I am just new to this,” she said. “I would appreciate candor.”
“Well, in that case, in candor,” he began, “if you cannot repay the loan, you lose the property.”
“Thank you,” she said. “And now, please instruct me on exactly how to proceed.”
After Mr. Cabot had finished a rather lengthy, and she assumed complete, set of instructions in the most fundamental principles of investment, she thanked him and set about returning to Mr. Homer Smith.
He barely agreed to see her again and greeted her curtly. “What is it now, Miss Putnam? I thought we understood each other.”
“We did understand each other,” she said flatly, “and very well. I am sorry to be so persistent, but I really do wish to invest,” she said. “You need more than I offered.”
“Quite a bit more.” He shook his head with impatience. “I made that perfectly clear,” he said.
Well prepared for his dismissive tone, she focused on the meaning of his words. “And if I could come up with a larger sum, we would have an agreement?”
Homer Smith was serious now, taking measure of exactly what this obviously green young woman from Boston could possibly offer. “With all due respect, Miss Putnam, I do not see how you and your small fund could help. We need ten times your offer. At least.”
This time she did not flinch. “And if I could raise that ten-times amount, we could have an agreement?” She stared at him.
Homer Smith rolled his eyes. “We could have an agreement, yes. But I honestly do not see—”
She cut him off. “That would be fifty thousand dollars,” she said precisely. “I can raise that amount,” she added with a burst, summoning up every bit of bravado she could muster. “But I will need a few days.”
The impulsive Mr. Smith’s impatience was not diminished. “We have a week,” he said. “I can give you the better part of that.”
“I will return within a week,” she said. “With the money you need.”
So, with something like raw fear in her stomach, wondering what she had allowed herself to get into, Eleanor returned to Boston and ventured into territory she knew nothing of. She knew she could not avoid consulting again with her fiancé, Frank Burden, and his counsel on this matter of finance would be useful. Then and later in their lives he was always absolutely certain about financial matters, a true authority, she heard often from men in his profession. And Frank, always a literalist, rarely looked beneath the surface of things or examined too closely underlying causes, so that at this moment and for the rest of their lives together he never seemed to notice that Eleanor had a financial life of her own. Somehow, she could always seek his advice without his becoming suspicious that there might be something going on. She also surmised that her taking him into her confidence and allowing him to hold forth would bring them closer. And it most definitely did.
“There is great risk borrowing against one’s home,” Frank said this time, upon hearing his fiancée’s concerns. “It would be an extremely ill-advised strategy, even if one could find a lender.
”
“But what if one needed funds and with maximum haste?” she said. “I am interested hypothetically, of course.”
“Well, hypothetically, of course, under dire circumstances one could always find a lender and an interest rate, most likely from a Jewish lender, and one less than principled,” Frank said. “It is not an indebtedness anyone would wish to incur.”
“Hypothetically”—Eleanor pressed on with a show of objective confidence well beyond what she was feeling—“if one wished to proceed with such an emergency investment.”
“Well then, again hypothetically, if this soap and candle company of yours should fail or diminish drastically in value,” he said sternly, “one would lose the family home or whatever of value had been offered as collateral. Believe me,” Frank added, “it is a position you definitely do not wish to be in, with a Jewish banker or any lender. You must not consider this.”
“Oh, don’t worry, Frank. It is only a whimsical speculation, a self-education, not something to act upon.”
So Eleanor went about her business immediately, aware of Frank’s admonitions and all the while knowing now more than ever how much she needed an associate who knew the ropes of finance. She did in fact do the research and did find a lender, a kindly old banker on Boylston Street named Lowenstein, and after much careful explanation from the banker she did indeed sign a quick one-year note against the value of her family holdings and 6 Acorn Street, then took the long train back to Cincinnati, with its compulsory stopover in Pittsburgh.
“You could not have come at a better time,” Homer Smith said, looking more red-faced than before, showing more relief than amazement that this naïve-seeming young woman had pulled off such a feat of finance. “The giants are closing in.”
“Then my fund’s investment is timely.”
“Indeed,” Homer Smith said.
So he took the money and gave her an envelope that he had known through telegrams to prepare ahead of time. “I am being generous with the price,” he said. Eleanor opened the offering and did all she could to remain calm as she found herself staring at six thousand shares of Cincinnati Soap and Candle Company, made out in her name.
“I am proud to be an owner,” she said, grateful that her hands were not shaking, as if for her looking at such a piece of paper was the most natural thing in the world, more relieved than Homer Smith or anyone could know that she had lived up to her obligations.
“Glad to have you on board,” Homer Smith said, more glad for the quick appearance of cash, she deduced, than for the newly minted association with a mysterious young woman from Boston.
5
TWO WORKS OF SIGNIFICANCE
It was shortly after her return from Cincinnati with the partial ownership of Cincinnati Soap and Candle Company in hand that she shared with William James City of Music. Even though reconnecting with him upon her 1898 return was greatly anticipated, she knew there were parts of her new life she would not share with him, at least not then. Those were the parts related to the journal and its mandates.
William James had always been amused by what he called her “spunk” and had appeared around her in the early years, as an interested if somewhat detached protector, always keeping a respectful distance. But since her return from Vienna the bond had somehow deepened and grown, as if he now accepted her more as an adult and colleague, and the new profundity of her situation drew her to the spiritual nature of this extraordinary man. In those meetings with him in Cambridge and telling him of the rich life in Vienna and her encounters with Mahler and Freud and the rest she felt his respect for her. She just needed to be mindful of not telling too much.
Presenting him with a copy of City of Music was as close to telling the whole story as she could come. “This book is very important to me,” she said, without explaining further.
He read the slim volume with care and commented affectionately, not because he suspected that she had had anything to do with the book’s authorship and the extraordinary tale behind it, but because she was sharing with him now adult-to-adult something that obviously meant a great deal to her. “Beautifully written,” he said to her. “The observations of this Jonathan Trumpp make one wish to travel to Vienna immediately and to encounter the music of Herr Mahler.”
“You would love Vienna and the whole scene, Mahler and all,” she said.
“And the author?” he said. “I had not heard of him.”
“His is a pseudonym, I believe,” she said, offering nothing more.
“Well, his gifts are significant. The book is one of elegance and depth, and it makes one appreciative of the profound experience you had there. I am very glad that you gave it to me, and, by the way, I hope to read more work of this impressive Mr. Trumpp.”
That was a theme echoed by the book’s publisher, the renowned Mr. Adolph Ochs of the New York Times, who met with Eleanor in New York City in the year following publication. “You must be pleased,” Ochs said. “People are scrambling to find out the identity of this mysterious Jonathan Trumpp. The book is selling as fast as we can print it, and word from Vienna is that New Yorkers are now traveling there, with the express purpose of listening to waltz music and to visit the Café Central, always with the little book in hand.”
“I am pleased,” she said with a satisfied smile.
“And your book, single-handedly, has made Gustav Mahler a phenomenon here. There is a clamoring to get him to come to New York.”
“I am pleased,” she repeated. “I feel greatly honored, actually.”
“My friend Mr. Charles Scribner, the book publisher, is eager for us to reveal the identity of the author.”
Eleanor gave him a worried look. “You wouldn’t tell, would you?”
“Oh, no. Don’t be concerned,” he assured her. “No one keeps a secret identity secret better than the Times of New York. Scribner’s would love to take over the publishing of this book and give it a national exposure, with more to follow. Mr. Scribner is convinced that Mr. Trumpp would have quite a following.”
“I have told Mr. Moss that Mr. Trumpp has written his last; I thought I made that clear,” Eleanor said emphatically. There was no way she could explain the extraordinary circumstances surrounding the writing of this single volume, but her clarity on the matter she could express. “I am certain,” she said.
“We all know that here, but still there is demand. The author could have a comfortable life just publishing further books.”
“That may be,” she said, acknowledging the publisher’s point. “And I am flattered, but my opinion is not going to change.” She became serious. “City of Music was written under special circumstances that the author could not replicate and would never wish to have replicated.” She gave a little shiver as if recalling some intense unpleasantness.
“It is a shame,” said the publisher. “Mr. Trumpp’s is a work of great insight, not to mention popular appeal. But I understand.”
“I am grateful for that,” she said.
The publisher interrupted. “But I am curious,” he said. “How does Mr. Trumpp see it all turning out?”
“How do you mean?”
“What lies in that great city’s future?”
“Oh, yes, that,” she said. “It is, of course, difficult to predict, but perhaps he would observe that the empire will have trouble sustaining itself.”
“With all its political factions?” Mr. Ochs said. “The Czechs wishing to be Czech, the Hungarians wanting to be Hungarian, and so forth. And all without a crown prince to signal the bright future, after that awful Mayerling business.”
Eleanor suppressed a frown. “Exactly,” she said. “To lose such a prince is to lose the future.”
“And what of the politically motivated anti-Semitism?” Her book did not dwell on the phenomenon, but it had described in detail the strategy of the mayor of Vienna, Karl Lueger, using resentment of Jewish control to rally the working classes.
At first Eleanor looked away, not wishing to venture into t
he territory of future predicting—knowing what she did of the future, the part of her challenge she had assiduously avoided and would continue to avoid. But then she realized she was in the presence of a representative of a major world newspaper, an ultimate realist.
“Horrific” was the single and simple word she chose.
Eleanor could not tell Dr. James until later about the encounter with Mr. Ochs over City of Music, since he did not know at that time the identity of the book’s author, but she could tell him about her close association with Sigmund Freud, at least a part of it. In 1900, when three copies of the newly published Interpretation of Dreams by Sigmund Freud, in the original German, arrived in a package from Ernst Kleist, a friend from her time in Vienna, she made certain that Dr. James received one of them. “Another book to read,” he said, repeating his gratitude for her attention.
“I believe you need to know about Dr. Freud.”
“I was teasing,” he said. “We all know of Dr. Freud, and I have been eagerly awaiting this publication.” William James had met Dr. Freud in Europe some years before and had been impressed by his thinking. “You are good to have obtained a copy for me with such speed.”
“You are meant to read it,” she said decisively. “It is the vital next step.”
“You are impressed by Sigmund Freud, aren’t you?”
“I am,” she said with conviction. “I think his message is one the modern world needs to hear right now.”
“Well,” the famous professor said, pleased to hear such self-assurance from his young protégé, “I shall put it on the top of my stack. I am eager for the vital next step.”
In the following year, 1901, convinced of the book’s worth and determined to do all she could to spread its important message—“my mission,” she was to call it years later—she arranged for twenty or so copies of the then-obscure work to be sent out, anonymously, to the most prominent German-speaking scholars she could find. “It was in my interests to have Sigmund Freud discovered by American scholars,” she also said later.
The Lost Prince Page 4
