All Things Considered | Page 8

of how anybody else is to make his.
He does, indeed, conclude his remarks by advocating some scheme; but
it has nothing in the world to do with Vanderbilt. He merely wished to
prostrate himself before the mystery of a millionaire. For when we
really worship anything, we love not only its clearness but its obscurity.
We exult in its very invisibility. Thus, for instance, when a man is in
love with a woman he takes special pleasure in the fact that a woman is
unreasonable. Thus, again, the very pious poet, celebrating his Creator,
takes pleasure in saying that God moves in a mysterious way. Now, the
writer of the paragraph which I have quoted does not seem to have had
anything to do with a god, and I should not think (judging by his
extreme unpracticality) that he had ever been really in love with a
woman. But the thing he does worship--Vanderbilt--he treats in exactly
this mystical manner. He really revels in the fact his deity Vanderbilt is
keeping a secret from him. And it fills his soul with a sort of transport
of cunning, an ecstasy of priestcraft, that he should pretend to be telling
to the multitude that terrible secret which he does not know.

Speaking about the instinct that makes people rich, the same writer
remarks---
"In olden days its existence was fully understood. The Greeks
enshrined it in the story of Midas, of the 'Golden Touch.' Here was a
man who turned everything he laid his hands upon into gold. His life
was a progress amidst riches. Out of everything that came in his way he
created the precious metal. 'A foolish legend,' said the wiseacres of the
Victorian age. 'A truth,' say we of to-day. We all know of such men.
We are ever meeting or reading about such persons who turn
everything they touch into gold. Success dogs their very footsteps.
Their life's pathway leads unerringly upwards. They cannot fail."
Unfortunately, however, Midas could fail; he did. His path did not lead
unerringly upward. He starved because whenever he touched a biscuit
or a ham sandwich it turned to gold. That was the whole point of the
story, though the writer has to suppress it delicately, writing so near to
a portrait of Lord Rothschild. The old fables of mankind are, indeed,
unfathomably wise; but we must not have them expurgated in the
interests of Mr. Vanderbilt. We must not have King Midas represented
as an example of success; he was a failure of an unusually painful kind.
Also, he had the ears of an ass. Also (like most other prominent and
wealthy persons) he endeavoured to conceal the fact. It was his barber
(if I remember right) who had to be treated on a confidential footing
with regard to this peculiarity; and his barber, instead of behaving like
a go-ahead person of the Succeed-at-all-costs school and trying to
blackmail King Midas, went away and whispered this splendid piece of
society scandal to the reeds, who enjoyed it enormously. It is said that
they also whispered it as the winds swayed them to and fro. I look
reverently at the portrait of Lord Rothschild; I read reverently about the
exploits of Mr. Vanderbilt. I know that I cannot turn everything I touch
to gold; but then I also know that I have never tried, having a
preference for other substances, such as grass, and good wine. I know
that these people have certainly succeeded in something; that they have
certainly overcome somebody; I know that they are kings in a sense
that no men were ever kings before; that they create markets and
bestride continents. Yet it always seems to me that there is some small

domestic fact that they are hiding, and I have sometimes thought I
heard upon the wind the laughter and whisper of the reeds.
At least, let us hope that we shall all live to see these absurd books
about Success covered with a proper derision and neglect. They do not
teach people to be successful, but they do teach people to be snobbish;
they do spread a sort of evil poetry of worldliness. The Puritans are
always denouncing books that inflame lust; what shall we say of books
that inflame the viler passions of avarice and pride? A hundred years
ago we had the ideal of the Industrious Apprentice; boys were told that
by thrift and work they would all become Lord Mayors. This was
fallacious, but it was manly, and had a minimum of moral truth. In our
society, temperance will not help a poor man to enrich himself, but it
may help him to respect himself. Good work will not make him a rich
man, but good work may make him a good workman. The