Idolatry: Chapter 4

Chapter 4

A BRAHMAN.

Whoever has been in Boston remembers, or has seen, the old Beacon Hill
Bank, which stood, not on Beacon Hill, indeed, but in that part of
School Street now occupied by the City Hall. You passed down by the
dirty old church, on the northeast corner of School and Tremont
Streets, which stands trying to hide its ugly face behind a row of
columns like sooty fingers, and whose School-Street side is quite
bare, and has the distracted aspect peculiar to buildings erected on
an inclined plane;--passing this, you came in sight of the bank, a
darksome, respectable edifice of brick, two stories and a half high,
and gambrel-roofed. It stood a little back from the street, much as an
antiquated aristocrat might withdraw from the stream of modern life,
and fancy himself exclusive. The poor old bank! Its respectable brick
walls have contributed a few rubbish-heaps to the new land in the Back
Bay, perhaps; and its floors and gambrel-roof have long since vanished
up somebody's chimney; only its money--its baser part--still survives
and circulates. Aristocracy and exclusivism do not pay.

The bank, perhaps, took its title from the fact that it owed its chief
support to the Beacon Hill families,--Boston's aristocracy; and
Boston's standard names appeared upon its list of managers. If
business led you that way, you mounted the well-worn steps, and
entered the rather strict and formal door, over which clung the
weather-worn sign,--faded gold lettering upon a rusty black
background. Nothing that met your eyes looked new, although everything
was scrupulously neat. Opposite the doorway, a wooden flight of stairs
mounted to the next floor, where were the offices of some old Puritan
lawyers. Leaving the stairs on your left, you passed down a dusky
passage, and through a glass door, when behold! the banking-room, with
its four grave bald-headed clerks. But you did not come to draw or
deposit, your business was with the President. "Mr. MacGentle in?"
"That way, sir." You opened a door with "Private" painted in black
letters upon its ground-glass panel. Another bald-headed gentleman,
with a grim determination about the mouth, rose up from his table and
barred your way. This was Mr. Dyke, the breakwater against which the
waves of would-be intruders into the inner seclusion often broke
themselves in vain; and unless you had a genuine pass, your expedition
ended there.

Our pass--for we, too, are to call on Mr. MacGentle--would carry us
through solider obstructions than Mr. Dyke; it is the pass of
imagination. He does not even raise his head as we brush by him.

But, first, let us inquire who Mr. MacGentle is, besides President of
the Beacon Hill Bank. He is a man of refinement and cultivation, a
scholar and a reader, has travelled, and, it is said, could handle a
pen to better purpose than the signing bank-notes. In his earlier
years he studied law, and gained a certain degree of distinction in
the profession, although (owing, perhaps, to his having entered it
with too ideal and high-strung views as to its nature and scope) he
never met with what is vulgarly called success. Fortunately for the
ideal barrister, an ample private estate made him independent of
professional earnings. Later in life, he trod the confines of
politics, still, however, enveloping himself in that theoretical,
unpractical atmosphere which was his most marked, and, to some people,
least comprehensible characteristic. A certain mild halo of
statesmanship ever after invested him; not that he had at any time
actually borne a share in the government of the nation, but it was
understood that he might have done so, had he so chosen, or had his
political principles been tough and elastic enough to endure the wear
and strain of action. As it was, some of the most renowned men in the
Senate were known to have been his intimates at college, and he still
met and conversed with them on terms of equality.

Between law, literature, and statesmanship, in all of which pursuits
he had acquired respect and goodwill, without actually accomplishing
anything, Mr. MacGentle fell, no one knew exactly how, into the
presidential chair of the Beacon Hill Bank. As soon as he was there,
everybody saw that there he belonged. His social position, his
culture, his honorable, albeit intangible record, suited the old bank
well. He had an air of subdued wisdom, and people were fond of
appealing to his judgment and asking his advice,--- perhaps because he
never seemed to expect them to follow it when given (as, indeed, they
never did). The Board of Directors looked up to him, deferred to
him,--nay, believed him to be as necessary to the bank's existence as
the entire aggregate of its supporters; but neither the Board nor the
President himself ever dreamed of adopting Mr. MacGentle's financial
theories in the conduct of the banking business.

Let no one hastily infer that the accomplished gentleman of whom we
speak was in any sense a sham. No one could be more true to himself
and his professions. But--if we may hazard a conjecture--he never
breathed the air that other men breathe; another sun than ours shone
for him; the world that met his senses was not our world. His life,
in short, was not human life, yet so closely like it that the two
might be said to correspond, as a face to its reflection in the
mirror; actual contact being in both cases impossible. No doubt the
world and he knew of the barrier between them, though neither said so.
The former, with its usual happy temperament, was little affected by
the separation, smiled good-naturedly upon the latter, and never
troubled itself about the difficulties in the way of shaking hands.
But Mr. MacGentle, being only a single man, perhaps felt lonely and
sad. Either he was a ghost, or the world was. In youth, he may have
believed himself to be the only real flesh and blood; but in later
years, the terrible weight of the world's majority forced him to the
opposite conclusion. And here, at last, he and the world were at one!

Suppose, instead of listening to a personal description of this good
old gentleman, we take a look at him with our own eyes. There is no
danger of disturbing him, no matter how busy he may be. The inner
retreat is very small, and as neat as though an old maid lived in it.
The furniture looks as good as new, but is subdued to a tone of sober
maturity, and chimes in so well with the general effect that one
scarcely notices it. The polished table is mounted in dark morocco;
behind the horsehair-covered arm-chair is a gray marble mantel-piece,
overshadowing an open grate with polished bars and fire-utensils in
the English style. During the winter months a lump of cannel-coal is
always burning there; but the flame, even on the coldest days, is too
much on its good behavior to give out very decided heat. Over the
mantel-piece hangs a crayon copy of Correggio's Reading Magdalen,--the
only touch of sentiment in the whole room, and that, perhaps,
accidental.

The concrete nature of the President's surroundings is at first
perplexing, in view of our theory about his character. But it is
evident that the world could never provide him with furniture
corresponding to the texture of his mind; and hence he would
instinctively lay hold of that which was most commonplace and
non-committal. If he could realize nothing outside himself, he might
at least remove whatever would distract him from inward contemplation.
There is, however, one article in this little room which we must not
omit to notice. It is a looking-glass; and it hangs, of all places in
the world, right over Mr. MacGentle's standing-desk, in the embrasure
of the window. As often as he looks up he beholds the reflection of
his cultured and sad-lined physiognomy, with a glimpse of dusky wall
beyond. Is he a vain man? His worst enemy, had he one, would not call
him that. Nevertheless, Mr. MacGentle finds a pathetic comfort in this
small mirror. No one, not even he, could tell wherefore; but we fancy
it to be like that an exile feels, seeing a picture of his birthplace,
or hearing a strain of his native music. The mirror shows him
something more real, to his sense, than is anything outside of it!

Well, there stands the old gentleman, writing at this desk in the
window. All men, they say, bear more or less resemblance to some
animal; Mr. MacGentle, rather tall and slender, with his slight stoop,
and his black broadcloth frock-coat buttoned closely about his waist,
brings to mind a cultivated, grandfatherly greyhound, upon his hind
legs. He has thick white hair, with a gentle curl in it, growing all
over his finely moulded head. He is close-shaven; his mouth and nose
are formed with great delicacy; his eyes, now somewhat faded, yet show
an occasional reminiscence of youthful fire. The eyebrows are
habitually lifted,--a result, possibly, of the growing infirmity of
Mr. MacGentle's vision; but it produces an expression of
half-plaintive resignation, which is rendered pathetic by the wrinkles
across his forehead and the dejected lines about his delicate mouth.

He is dressed with faultless nicety and elegance, though in a fashion
now out of date. Perhaps, in graceful recognition of the advance of
age, he has adhered to the style in vogue when age first began to
weigh upon his shoulders. He gazes mildly out from the embrasure of
an upright collar and tall stock; below spreads a wide expanse of
spotless shirt-front. His trousers are always gray, except in the heat
of summer, when they become snowy white. They are uniformly too long;
yet he never dispenses with his straps, nor with the gaiters that
crown his gentlemanly shoes.

Although not a stimulating companion, one loves to be where Amos
MacGentle is; to watch his quiet movements, and listen to his
meditative talk. What he says generally bears the stamp of thought and
intellectual capacity, and at first strikes the listener as rare good
sense; yet, if reconsidered afterwards, or applied to the practical
tests of life, his wisdom is apt to fall mysteriously short. Is Mr.
MacGentle aware of this curious fact? There sometimes is a sadly
humorous curving of the lips and glimmering in the eyes after he has
uttered something especially profound, which almost warrants the
suspicion. The lack of accord between the old gentleman and the world
has become to him, at last, a dreary sort of jest.

But we might go on forever touching the elusive chords of Mr.
MacGentle's being; one cannot help loving him, or, if he be not real
enough to love, bestowing upon him such affection as is inspired by
some gentle symphony. Unfortunately, he figures but little in the
coming pages, and in no active part; such, indeed, were unsuited to
him. But it is pleasant to pass through his retired little office on
our way to scenes less peaceful and subdued; and we would gladly look
forward to seeing him once more, when the heat of the day is over and
the sun has gone down.

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