Chapter 42 unknown

I can't remember whether it was the poet Longfellow or Confucius, the ancestor of human wisdom, who said this: Readers, please!Since mathematics is the only fair yardstick by which to measure life's problems, let us adjust our subject to the standard of the great goddess of mathematics: 2 + 2 = 4.Numbers—and sums of numbers—ruled over everything, not to mention any opposing factors. A mathematician would look at the above two lines and say, "Well, no, young gentlemen! If X+—I mean, if life is real, then life includes everything, everything That is, real. So let's consider the proposition again: 'Things are not what they appear to be.' How should we say that?"

But this is heresy, not poetry.We pursue the sweet fairy of algebra, and we guide you to the elusive, alluring, coveted, satisfying, and enigmatic X. Shortly before the turn of the century, Septimus Kingsolvan, an old New York resident, had an epiphany and was the first to discover that bread was made from flour and not from futures-traded wheat.In view of the insufficient production of flour, and the lack of any perceptible influence of the Stock Exchange on the growing wheat, Mr. Kingsolvan thus monopolized the flour market. The result is this: when you or my landlady (they never had a hand in anything before the war, everything was run by the servants from the South) bought a piece of bread for a nickel, and you had to add two cents to it, which was Into the purse of Mr. Kingsolvan to prove his wisdom.

The second result was that by the time Mr. Kingsolvan quit, he had made two million dollars in profit--er--oil. While Mr Kingsolvan's mathematical experiments with bread ingredients were going on, his son Dan was studying at university.Dan came home for the holidays to find the old gentleman in a red dressing gown reading Little Dorrit sitting on the porch of the boastful red brick mansion off Washington Square.He was retired from business, and the extra two cents he made from the bread-buyers would, if lined up one after the other, circle the world fifteen times, or roughly equal to the amount of public debt issued by Paraguay.

Dan shook hands with his father and hurried to Greenwich Village to meet Kenwitz, his good friend from high school.Dan had always admired Kenwitz.Pale, curly-haired, tense and serious, Kenwitz was mathematically minded, studious, self-sacrificing, socialist, and the natural enemy of oligarchy.He had also gone to college before, but now he was learning to make clocks in his father's jewelry store.Dan is always smiling, jovial, good-tempered, and as gentle with princes and generals as with pickers.These two are diametrically opposed in temperament, but they are very happy when they get together.Then Dan went back to college and Kenwitz went back to his private library in the back of the jewelry store.

Four years later, Dan returned to Washington Square after earning his BA and traveling to Europe for two years.He paid his respects at the elaborate graveyard of his father, old King Solvan in Greenwald, made a weary journey through the typewritten papers of their family lawyer, and found himself a helpless man. The millionaire hurried across Sixth Avenue to the old jewelry store. Kenwitz removed the magnifying glass embedded in his eyes, called his father out from a dark back room, threw away the watch movement and walked out the door.He sat with Dan on a bench in Washington Square.Dan hasn't changed much, he's strong and has a dignified look that can turn into a smile anytime and anywhere.Kenwitz was more earnest, more uptight, more learned, more philosophical and socialist than he had been in the past.

"I figured it out now," said Dan at last. "I figured it out from the obvious legal papers. Poor old man bequeathed me a lot of money and securities totaling two million dollars." , Ken. I was also told that the money was squeezed penny out of the people who bought the bread in those little bakeries on the corner. You studied economics, Ken, and you know what a monopoly is, what It's the common people, what is an 'octopus', what are the rights of working people. I've never thought about this kind of thing before. My college curriculum only focuses on two things: playing football and being fair and honest to others.

"But I've been thinking about it ever since I came back and found out how my father made his fortune. I really want to give the money back to people who spend so much on bread. I know it's going to cut my income a lot, but I'd love to settle my account with them. See what you can do, you wise man?" Kenwitz's large black eyes shone brightly, and his thin, wise face was ironic.He grabbed Dan's arm, part friend, part judge. "You can't do it!" he said emphatically. "One of the punishments for you who have gained ill-gotten gains is that when you really repent, you will find that you have lost the ability to make restitution or compensation. I appreciate that Your kindness, Dan, but you can't do anything. Those people have been robbed of their precious pennies, and it's too late to make things right. There's no way you can give them money back."

"Of course," said Dan, lighting his pipe, "we can't go door-to-door to the widowed old folks and give them back their money. Bread's always been bought in uncountable numbers. Their taste is queer. I never paid much attention to bread, except a kind of dry cheese toast. But we can always find some of them and send some of Papa's money back to where it came from. If I can I'd be better off with that. It's sad when people worry about stuff like bread. Nobody cares if the price goes up on grilled lobster or fried crab or something. Figure it out, Ken. I'll pay it back Give me back everything I can."

"There are plenty of charities," Ken said without hesitation. "That's easy enough," said Dan, puffing out a puff of smoke, "I think I could build a park for the city, or give an asparagus nursery to a hospital. But if we sell Peter a gold brick, it will benefit me But I don't want to let Paul take it. I want to make up for the shortage of bread." Kenwitz's thin fingers moved rapidly. "Do you know how much money will be given to pay back the losses of those who bought bread during the flour monopoly?" "I don't know," Dan said, "my lawyer told me I had two million."

"If you have a hundred million," exclaimed Kenwitz, "you can't make up a thousandth of the damage done. You don't see the accumulated evils of misused wealth. Snatched from the wizened purses of the poor You don't understand that. You don't know that your wish to pay is hopeless. Nothing can be done." "Don't lose heart, philosopher!" Dan said, "I'm afraid you can't do it with the big to make up the small?" "Not one of them," repeated Kenwitz. "I'll give you an example and see how it goes. Thomas Boyne had a bakery off Warwick Street. He sold bread to the poorest. When the price of flour went up, he had to Raise the price of bread. His customers are too poor to afford it, Boyne's business is gone, and he's lost a thousand dollars in capital, which was all his fortune."

Dan Kingsolvan punches a park bench hard. "I accept the example," he exclaimed. "Take me to Boyne, and I'll give him back the thousand dollars, and I'll buy him a new bakery." "Write a check," said Kenwitz, motionless, "and write a few more to make up for the consequences. The second check was for fifty thousand dollars, and Boyne went mad after bankruptcy, and the landlord wants to evict him." When he went out, he set fire to the house. It was worth that much damage. Boyne died later in the madhouse." "Let's just grab this example," Dan said, "and I don't see any insurance companies on my relief list." "You write the next check for 100,000 yuan." Kenwitz went on, "Boyen's son did not follow the right path after the bakery closed, and was later charged with murder. After three years of judicial investigation, He was acquitted last week. The state spent so much taxpayer money on this case." "Let's talk about the bakery!" Dan cried impatiently. "The government doesn't have to interfere with the bakery business." "The last item in this case is - go, I'll show you." Kenwitz said and stood up. The socialist-minded watchmaker was happy.A natural millionaire prankster, he was a professional pessimist.He'll tell you in one breath that money is nothing but evil and corruption, and that your brand new watch needs scrubbing and a new ratchet. He led King Solvan out of the square, and walked south into the dilapidated and poor Warwick Street.He led the repentant offspring of the "octopus" into a dingy dwelling, up a narrow staircase, knocked on the door, and beckoned them in with a clear voice. In the almost empty room a young girl sat at a sewing machine.She nodded to Kenwitz, as if greeting an acquaintance.A ray of sunlight through the dirty window hit her thick hair the color of an ancient brass shield.She smiled at Kenwitz with a bewildered look on her face. Jin Solwen stood aside admiring her charming beauty, and could hear the sound of his own heartbeat in the silence.From then on they entered the last project of this case. "How many have you done this week, Miss Mary?" asked the watchmaker.A large pile of gray denim shirts was piled on the floor. "Nearly thirty dozen," said the young girl cheerfully. "I made about four dollars' wages. I'm making progress, Mr. Kenwitz, and I don't know what to do with so much money." Her eyes Turning to Dan, bright and gentle, with a little blush on his round, pale face. Kenwitz giggled like an old owl. "Miss Boyne," he said, "let me introduce Mr. King Solvan, the son of the man who raised the price of bread five years ago. He thinks what he would do to help those who are troubled by that event." people." The smile on the girl's face disappeared.She stood up and pointed to the door.This time she looked directly into Kim Solwin's eyes, but it wasn't a pleasant look. The two went downstairs and up Varrick Street.Kenwitz lets his pessimism and "octopus" resentment vent, spouting scathing remarks about his friend's wealth.Dan seemed to be listening to him attentively, then turned and shook Kenwitz's hand warmly. "I appreciate you, Ken, old friend," he murmured, "thank you so much." "My friend! You are mad!" cried the watchmaker, dropping his glasses for the first time in years. Two months later, Kenwitz walked into a large bakery on Lower Broadway with a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles he had repaired for the owner. A lady was giving orders to a clerk as Kenwitz passed. "It's a dime each," said the clerk. "I always buy eight cents of one in the residential area." The lady said, "You don't need to issue a ticket. I will drive by there when I go home." The voice was familiar, and the watchmaker stopped. "Mr. Kenwitz!" cried the lady enthusiastically, "how are you?" Kenwitz was trying to apply her knowledge of socialism and economics to her beautiful fur boa and the waiting carriage. "Oh, Miss Boyne!" he said. "Lady Kingsolvan," she corrected. "Dan and I were married a month ago."

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