A Fool There Was | Page 2

go back as far
toward the beginning as it is in our power to see.
* * * * *
Before the restless, never-ebbing of the tides of business had
overwhelmed it with a seething flood of watered stocks and liquid
dollars, there stood on a corner of Fifth Avenue and one of its lower
tributaries, a stern, heavy-portalled mansion of brownstone. It was a
house not forbidding, but dignified. Its broad, plate-glass windows
gazed out in silent, impassive tolerance upon the streams of social life
that passed it of pleasant afternoons in Spring and Fall--on sleet-swept
nights of winter when 'bus and brougham brought from theatre and
opera their little groups and pairs of fur-clad women and high-hatted
men. It was a big house--big in size--big in atmosphere--big in manner.
At its left there was another big house, much like the one that I have
already described. It was possibly a bit more homelike--a bit less
dignified; for, possibly, its windows were a trifle more narrow, and its
portal a little less imposing. And across from that there lay a smaller
house--a house of brick; and this was much more inviting than either of
the others; for one might step from the very sidewalk within the broad
hall, hung with two very, very old portraits and lighted warmly with
shades of dull yellow, and of pink.
In the first of the big houses there lived a boy; and in the second there
lived another boy; and across, in the little house of brick, there lived a
girl. Of course, in these houses there dwelt, as well, other people.
Of these was John Stuyvesant Schuyler, who, with his wife Gretchen,
lived in the big house on the corner, was a man silent, serious. He lived
intent, honest, upright. He seldom laughed; though when he did, there
came at the corners of mouth and eye, tiny, tell-tale lines which showed
that beneath seriousness and silence, lay a fund of humor unharmed by
continual drain. He was a tall man, broad-shouldered, straight-backed.
And to that which had been left him, he added, in health, in mind, and

in money, and he added wisely and well, and never at unjust expense to
anyone.
His wife was much as he in trait and habit. She, too, was silent, serious,
intent. Of her time, of her effort, of herself, she gave freely wherein it
were well to give. In her youth, she had been a beautiful girl; as a
woman, she was still beautiful; and her husband and her son were very
proud of her, though the one was fifty-five, and the other but twelve.
In the big house next door, there lived Thomas Cathcart Blake. He, too,
had a wife, and one child--a boy. And of John Stuyvesant Schuyler he
was very fond--even as Mrs. Thomas Cathcart Blake was fond of Mrs.
John Stuyvesant Schuyler; and even as Tom Blake, the son of the one,
was fond of Jack Schuyler, the son of the other. Blake, the elder, was a
man rotund of figure, ruddy of complexion, great of heart. He laughed
much; for he enjoyed much. He gave away much more than he could
make; and he laughed about it. His wife laughed with him. And really it
made no difference; for they had more for themselves than they could
ever use. Of course, you know, it is true that many people have more
than they can ever use; but few ever think so.
In the little, warm house of red brick, across the street, lived Kathryn
Blair, and with her another Kathryn Blair, who was as much like the
other as it is possible for six to be like thirty. They both had wide,
violet eyes and sensitive, red lips, and very white teeth and lithe,
slender bodies. And they were both loved very much by everyone; and
everyone said what a shame it was that he or she hadn't put his or her
foot down hard and made Jimmy Blair stay at home instead of letting
him go down into that unpronounceable Central American place and
get killed in an opera bouffe revolution with which he had absolutely
nothing to do except that he couldn't stand idly by and see women and
little children shot. Still, it was such a blessing to Kate that she had
little Kate to help her bear it all. And she had enough money, too; no
one seemed to know how; for Jimmy Blair was a reckless giver and a
poor business men. But John Stuyvesant Schuyler and Thomas Cathcart
Blake had been executors. And that explained much to those who knew;
for once every two or three months, these two men, so different and yet

so alike, would stalk solemnly, side by side, across the street and,