The visit starts with an effusive welcome, as Moneybags extends a moist and yielding hand. A wan smile flits for a moment across his impassive countenance, and the judicial manner is once more assumed. How are things with me? Well, he hopes. But at times like these it is difficult to tell—very difficult. A faint note of pessimism already begins to creep into the monologue. General business conditions are unsatisfactory; there has been overproduction in certain industrial lines; the situation in the Near East is not what he would like to have it. Dark hints of revolution and tottering governments, of an uncomfortable feeling in Wall Street, lead naturally to a detailed description of the appalling condition of the farmer (here I begin to be sympathetic), due to the presence of either too much or too little gold in the country, and I am newly impressed by the unfortunate circumstance that I either am or am not a citizen of a debtor nation. I do not quite know which it is, but it is dreadful, whatever it is, and I find myself suddenly filled with compunction that I should have come to this noble, suffering person with my paltry needs. I begin to see dimly that I am only adding a feather’s weight to the staggering load that this self-forgetful Atlas is already carrying, as single-handed he supports the financial fabric of the world.
Moneybags pauses, a chubby hand plays nervously with a delicate ivory paper-cutter. He glances apprehensively at the door; his voice becomes a husky whisper as he alludes to general conditions of unrest among the working classes, their utter lack of appreciation of what is being done for them, and the certainty that things will be worse before they are better. Long ago my little errand has been forgotten in a flood of sympathy for a man so harried by world problems.
At this point Moneybags observes a delicate morsel in a far corner of the trough and he moves away to investigate. It proves attractive, and he forgets me in his efforts to secure it. It is well, for at that moment we are joined by the companion of his sequestered life. It is Mrs. Murphy, the excellent woman who does the cleaning and other important matters in the little house yonder.
She comes abruptly; her manner has none of the poise and dignity which have always endeared her companion to me. She is vocal, she is positive, she knows what she wants and goes after it with commendable directness. I fear she is, like myself, hopelessly middle-class. But I like her. It is a relief to converse again with a pig who talks my language and with whom I have much in common. For Mrs. Murphy and I have many mutual interests—taxes, interest, mortgages, plumbers’ bills, insurance premiums, indigent relatives, and growing children.
The talk turns to other channels. Things are not well with Mrs. Murphy; her rent has been raised on account of conditions in the Near East, there has been illness, food is very dear. I try to explain to her that this is due entirely to unsettled conditions in Russia, but without great success.
Her sister’s children—oh yes, they are with her. Yes, six of them. The two eldest are in an “institooshun.” Thomas will soon be at work, she hopes. Her lord and master is just at present unemployed, but as soon as he comes out of the hospital he hopes to get half-time.
Mrs. Murphy glides easily from the concrete to the abstract. It is the rich who are to blame. They are growing richer, and the poor poorer. She looks scornfully at the towers of the palace beyond the stone wall. I hasten to tell her that we are not on terms now, that I too am out of sympathy with Midas. She seems appeased.
I try to remember all the dreadful things Moneybags told me. It is no use. Moneybags was right. The working classes do not, will not understand; but I have a suspicion that Mrs. Murphy and I do not quite understand Midas and Moneybags.
A joyous bark is heard. Shrill voices pierce the air. School is over and life really begins. I leave this oddly assorted pair to work out their problems, grateful for an hour of perfect peace in the presence of perfect understanding.