A Cool Million
Authors: Nathanael West
A COOL
MILLION
Nathanael
West
1934
Contents
“John D. Rockefeller would
give a cool million to have a stomach like yours.”
—OLD SAYING
The home of Mrs. Sarah Pitkin, a
widow well on in years, was situated on an eminence overlooking the Rat River,
near the town of Ottsville in the state of Vermont. It was a humble dwelling
much the worse for wear, yet exceedingly dear to her and her only child,
Lemuel
.
While the house had not been painted
for some time, owing to the straitened circumstances of the little family, it
still had a great deal of charm. An antique collector, had one chanced to pass
it by, would have been greatly interested in its architecture. Having been
built about the time of General Stark’s campaign against the British, its lines
reflected the character of his army, in whose ranks several
Pitkins
had marched.
One late fall evening, Mrs. Pitkin
was sitting quietly in her parlor, when a knock was heard on her humble door.
She kept no servant, and, as usual,
answered the knock in person.
“Mr.
Slemp
!”
she said, as she recognized in her caller the wealthy village lawyer.
“Yes, Mrs. Pitkin, I come upon a
little matter of business.”
“Won’t you come in?” said the widow,
not forgetting her politeness in her surprise.
“I believe I will trespass on your
hospitality for a brief space,” said the lawyer blandly. “Are you quite well?”
“Thank you, sir—quite so,” said Mrs.
Pitkin as she led the way into the sitting room. “Take the rocking chair, Mr.
Slemp
,” she said, pointing to the best chair which the
simple room contained.
“You are very kind,” said the
lawyer, seating himself gingerly in the chair referred to.
“Where is your son,
Lemuel
?” continued the lawyer.
“He is in school. But it is nearly
time for him to be home; he never loiters.” And the mother’s voice showed something
of the pride she felt in her boy.
“Still in school!” exclaimed Mr.
Slemp
. “Shouldn’t he be helping to support you?”
“No,” said the widow proudly. “I set
great store by learning, as does my son. But you came on business?”
“Ah, yes, Mrs. Pitkin. I fear that
the business may be unpleasant for you, but you
will
remember, I am sure, that I act in this matter as agent for another.”
“Unpleasant!” repeated Mrs. Pitkin
apprehensively. “Yes. Mr. Joshua Bird, Squire Bird, has placed in my hands for
foreclosure the mortgage on your house. That is, he will foreclose,” he added
hastily, “if you fail to raise the necessary monies in three months from now,
when the obligation matures.”
“How can I hope to pay?” said the
widow brokenly. “I thought that Squire Bird would be glad to renew, as we pay
him twelve per cent interest.”
“I am sorry, Mrs. Pitkin, sincerely
sorry, but he has decided not to renew. He wants either his money or the
property.”
The lawyer took his hat and bowed
politely, leaving the widow alone with her tears.
(It might interest the reader to
know that I was right in my surmise. An interior decorator, on passing the
house, had been greatly struck by its appearance. He had seen Squire Bird about
purchasing it, and that is why that worthy had decided to foreclose on Mrs.
Pitkin. The name of the cause of this tragedy was
Asa
Goldstein, his business, “Colonial Exteriors and Interiors.” Mr. Goldstein
planned to take the house apart and set it up again in the window of his Fifth
Avenue shop.)
As Lawyer
Slemp
was leaving the humble dwelling, he met the widow’s son,
Lemuel
,
on the threshold. Through the open door, the boy caught a glimpse of his mother
in tears, and said to Mr.
Slemp
:
“What have you been saying to my
mother to make her cry?”
“Stand aside, boy!” exclaimed the
lawyer. He pushed
Lem
with such great force that the
poor lad fell off the porch steps into the cellar, the door of which was
unfortunately open. By the time
Lem
had extricated
himself, Mr.
Slemp
was well on his way down the road.
Our hero, although only seventeen
years old, was a strong, spirited lad and would have followed after the lawyer
but for his mother. On hearing her voice, he dropped the ax which he had
snatched up and ran into the house to comfort her.
The poor widow told her son all we
have recounted and the two of them sat plunged in gloom. No matter how they
racked their brains, they could not discover a way to keep the roof over their
heads.
In desperation,
Lem
finally decided to go and see Mr. Nathan Whipple, who was the town’s most
prominent citizen. Mr. Whipple had once been President of the United States,
and was known affectionately from Maine to California as “
Shagpoke
”
Whipple. After four successful years in office, he had beaten his silk hat, so
to speak, into a ploughshare and had refused to run a second time, preferring
to return to his natal Ottsville and there become a simple citizen again. He
spent all his time between his den in the garage and the Rat River National
Bank, of which he was president.
Mr. Whipple had often shown his
interest in
Lem
, and the lad felt that he might be
willing to help his mother save her home.
Shagpoke
Whipple lived on the main street of Ottsville in a two-story frame house with a
narrow lawn in front and a garage that once had been a chicken house in the
rear. Both buildings had a solid, sober look, and, indeed, no one was ever
allowed to create disorder within their precincts.
The house served as a place of
business as well as a residence; the first floor being devoted to the offices
of the bank and the second functioning as the home of the ex-President. On the
porch, next to the front door, was a large bronze plate that read:
RAT RIVER NATIONAL
BANK Nathan “
Shagpoke
” Whipple PRES.
Some people might object to turning
a part of their dwelling into a bank, especially if, like Mr. Whipple, they had
hobnobbed with crowned heads. But
Shagpoke
was not
proud, and he was of the saving kind. He had always saved: from the first time
he received a penny at the age of five, when he had triumphed over the delusive
pleasures of an investment in candy, right down to the time he was elected
President of the United States. One of his favorite adages was “Don’t teach
your grandmother to suck eggs.” By this he meant that the pleasures of the body
are like
grandmothers,
once they begin to suck eggs
they never stop until all the eggs (purse) are dry.
As
Lem
turned up the path to Mr. Whipple’s house, the sun rapidly sank under the
horizon. Every evening at this time, the ex-President lowered the flag that
flew over his garage and made a speech to as many of the town’s citizenry as
had stopped to watch the ceremony. During the first year after the great man’s
return from Washington, there used to collect quite a crowd, but this had
dwindled until now, as our hero approached the house, there was but a lone Boy
Scout watching the ceremony. This lad was not present of his own free will,
alas, but had been sent by his father, who was desirous of obtaining a loan
from the bank.
Lem
removed his hat and waited in reverence for Mr. Whipple to finish his speech.
“All hail Old Glory! May you be the
joy and pride of the American heart, alike when your gorgeous folds shall
wanton in the summer air and your tattered fragments be dimly seen through
clouds of war! May you ever wave in honor, hope and profit, in unsullied glory
and patriotic fervor, on the dome of the Capitol, on the tented plain, on the
wave-rocked topmast and on the roof of this
garage!
”
With these words,
Shagpoke
lowered the flag for which so many of our finest
have bled and died, and tenderly gathered it up in his arms. The Boy Scout ran
off hurriedly.
Lem
moved forward to greet the orator.
“I would like to have a few words
with you, sir,” said our hero.
“Certainly,” replied Mr. Whipple with
native kindness. “I am never too busy to discuss the problems of youth, for the
youth of a nation is its only hope. Come into my den,” he added.
The room into which
Lem
followed Mr. Whipple was situated in the back of the
garage. It was furnished with extreme simplicity; some boxes, a cracker barrel,
two brass spittoons, a hot stove and a picture of Lincoln were all it held.
When our hero had seated
himself
on one of the boxes,
Shagpoke
perched on the cracker barrel and put his congress gaiters near the hot stove.
He lined up the distance to the nearest spittoon with a measuring gob of
spittle and told the lad to begin.
As it will only delay my narrative
and serve no good purpose to report how
Lem
told
about his predicament, I will skip to his last sentence.
“And so,” concluded our hero, “the
only thing that can save my mother’s home is for your bank to take over Squire
Bird’s mortgage.”
“I would not help you by lending you
money, even if it were possible for me to do so,” was the surprising answer Mr.
Whipple gave the boy.
“Why not, sir?” asked
Lem
, unable to hide his great disappointment
“Because I believe it would be a
mistake. You are too young to borrow.”
“But what shall I do?” asked
Lem
in desperation. “There are still three months left to
you before they can sell your house,” said Mr. Whipple. “Don’t be discouraged.
This is the land of opportunity and the world is an oyster.” “But how am I to
earn fifteen hundred dollars (for that was the face value of the mortgage) here
in such a short time?” asked
Lem
, who was puzzled by
the ex-President’s rather cryptic utterances.
“That is for you to discover, but I
never said that you should remain in Ottsville. Do as I did, when I was your
age. Go out into the world and win your way.”
