It Is More Blessed to Give

READING a letter in a current periodical asking for donations of old magazines for poor intellectuals in Europe, I was reminded by some imp of mischief of the high stacks of old magazines in my attic, and with an unwonted generosity I got them down. It required a huge roll of heavy brown paper, a ball of twine, and hours of patient toil to wrap them all into neat, secure packages. At the post office my enthusiasm received its first cooling. The postage was horribly high, and I began to wish my magazines were back in the attic, patiently awaiting the junkman. But, refusing to stop there, I cheerfully paid out the postage for every magazine. Homeward bound, I tried to take my mind off my slim purse by thinking of the many people, starving for reading material, that my magazines would make happy, and of the nice letters of appreciation with which they would surely reward me. How they would enjoy some of the stories in the Atlantic and Century, and how their views of Americans as grasping money-lenders would be modified by the liberal Nation and New Republic! A warm feeling of satisfaction for a good deed well done came over me.

The letters came, simply hordes of them, dozens of letters for every magazine. And in each letter there came, not the charmingly phrased laudations or clever criticisms of American letters I had so expected, but only profuse thanks, and always a request for something, from medicine to pianos. The recipients of my magazines must have thought me only a lesser Henry Ford.

Some came with stories that were truly pathetic. One poor Vienna workingman, Gustav by name, wanted me to help him support his too large household, consisting of himself, his wife, his mother, his mother-in-law, an extremely aged grandmother, a brother disabled in the war, five children of another brother killed in the war, and seven children of his own. He also wanted some medicine, a tonic for the grandmother, — he allowed me to use my judgment about the kind, — and a hot-water bottle.

One woman, an artist, sent me some of her portraits of famous Americans, done in pen and ink, to sell among my friends. In this group she included Henry Ford, Douglas Fairbanks, and Jackie Coogan, as well as J. P. Morgan, William Allen White, and most of our presidents.

Of the poorer classes many asked for help to come to America as immigrants, either through the loan of money or by exerting my influence to get them past the immigration authorities. Having less influence even than money, I had to refuse them outright.

One letter came from an inventor, who wanted me to finance the manufacturing of an ‘electrical lamp’ he had invented, which was destined to revolutionize the electric lighting industry. The tone of his letter implied that he was really offering a rare privilege rather than making a request, and he was sure that in this ‘land of wealth and kindness’ I could easily find enough investors to give his lamp the necessary financial backing.

Almost all the letters were written in good English, although the stilted style seemed foreign to our tongue. The phraseology was too polite to sound sincere.

Both in politeness and in ingenuity one supposedly Austrian composer surpassed all the others. He began by sending me a letter in fine English asking for a piano — or, rather, enough money to buy a piano. He would repay me by composing a waltz and naming it for me. This honor was not to be scorned. He was no amateur, he said, but a composer of note, who had already won high honors. He enclosed newspaper clippings, — I am sure they were faked, — to prove his high place among European composers. He also sent me his picture; he had the face and bearing of an artist. To substantiate his promise he already sent me the first part of the waltz that was to bear my name.

Although it gave promise of much beauty and I was delighted by the prospect of having a famous Austrian composer name a composition for me, I still felt I should have to forgo the honor. I had no money to give him a piano, and should have had to send him mine. I was not quite sure the exchange would be equitable. Anyway, how could I appreciate the waltz if I had no piano on which to play it? I accordingly wrote to him that I was unable to comply with his request, expressing the deepest regret.

But he was not to be dismissed that easily, and came back with the whole waltz, a beautiful thing, although I cannot vouch for its originality. The notes were written with a remarkable accuracy and the whole piece was decorated in a way that made me think of the embellishing of manuscripts in the Middle Ages. He must have put hours and hours of time simply into preparing this sheet of music, not considering the time it had taken to compose it, if he had composed it. And, best of all, he had kept his promise in naming it for me. There was my name in the title, charmingly handlettered in gold. In the accompanying letter he seemed sure that I could no longer refuse him. And it was only with the deepest regret that I still had to deny him his piano.

Dummy