The Financier (Barnes & Noble Digital Library)

By Theodore Dreiser

The Financier (1912) is the first volume in Dreiser's Trilogy of Desire, which continued in The Titan (1914) and the posthumously published The Stoic (1947).  Though based on the life of Chicago financier C. T. Yerkes, Dreiser's novel is set in Philadelphia and follows the roller-coaster career of his unscrupulous character, Frank Algernon Cowperwood.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barnes & Noble
• Release date: Mar 1, 2011
• ISBN: 9781411437586

Theodore Dreiser

Theodore Dreiser (1871-1945) was an American novelist and journalist. Born in Indiana, Dreiser was the son of John Paul Dreiser, a German immigrant, and Sarah Maria Schanab, a Mennonite from Ohio who converted to Catholicism and was banished by her community. Raised in a family of thirteen children, of which he was the twelfth, Dreiser attended Indiana University for a year before taking a job as a journalist for the Chicago Globe. While working for the St. Louis Globe-Democrat, Dreiser wrote articles on Nathaniel Hawthorne and William Dean Howells, as well as interviewed such figures as Andrew Carnegie and Thomas Edison. In 1900, he published his debut novel Sister Carrie, a naturalist portrait of a young midwestern woman who travels to Chicago to become an actress. Despite poor reviews, he continued writing fiction, but failed to find real success until An American Tragedy (1925), a novel based on the 1906 murder of Grace Brown. Considered a masterpiece of American fiction, the novel grew his reputation immensely, leading to his nomination for the 1930 Nobel Prize in Literature, which ultimately went to fellow American Sinclair Lewis. Committed to socialism and atheism throughout his life, Dreiser was a member of the Communist Party of the United States of America and a lifelong champion of the working class.

Book preview

THE FINANCIER

A Novel

THEODORE DREISER

This 2011 edition published by Barnes & Noble, Inc.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher.

Barnes & Noble, Inc.

122 Fifth Avenue

New York, NY 10011

ISBN: 978-1-4114-3758-6

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII

CHAPTER XXIV

CHAPTER XXV

CHAPTER XXVI

CHAPTER XXVII

CHAPTER XXVIII

CHAPTER XXIX

CHAPTER XXX

CHAPTER XXXI

CHAPTER XXXII

CHAPTER XXXIII

CHAPTER XXXIV

CHAPTER XXXV

CHAPTER XXXVI

CHAPTER XXXVII

CHAPTER XXXVIII

CHAPTER XXXIX

CHAPTER XL

CHAPTER XLI

CHAPTER XLII

CHAPTER XLIII

CHAPTER XLIV

CHAPTER XLV

CHAPTER XLVI

CHAPTER XLVII

CHAPTER XLVIII

CHAPTER XLIX

CHAPTER L

CHAPTER LI

CHAPTER LII

CHAPTER LIII

CHAPTER LIV

CHAPTER LV

CHAPTER LVI

CHAPTER LVII

CHAPTER LVIII

CHAPTER LIX

CHAPTER LX

CHAPTER LXI

CHAPTER LXII

CHAPTER LXIII

CHAPTER LXIV

CHAPTER LXV

CHAPTER LXVI

CHAPTER LXVII

CHAPTER LXVIII

CHAPTER LXIX

CHAPTER LXX

CHAPTER LXXI

CHAPTER LXXII

CHAPTER LXXIII

CHAPTER LXXIV

CHAPTER I

I came into the world feet first and was born with teeth. The nurse did prophesy that I should snarl and bite.

—RICHARD III.

THE Philadelphia into which Frank Algernon Cowperwood was born was at his very birth already a city of two hundred and fifty thousand and more. It was set with handsome parks, notable buildings, and crowded with historic memories. Many of the things that we and he knew later were not then in existence—the telegraph, telephone, express company, ocean steamer, or city delivery of mails. There were no postage-stamps or registered letters. The street-car had not arrived, and in its place were hosts of omnibuses, and for longer travel, the slowly developing railroad system still largely connected with canals. Young Cowperwood's father was a bank clerk at his birth, and ten years later, when young Cowperwood was turning a very sensible, vigorous eye on the world, his father was still a clerk, although he was a much more trusted and desired one, and was so near a tellership that there was not the least doubt in the world that he would get it. The next year, because the president died and the vice-president became president, the cashier was made vice-president, and Mr. Henry Worthington Cowperwood was moved into the place vacated by the promoted teller. He was a happy man. It meant the munificent sum of thirty-five hundred dollars a year, and he decided, as he told his wife joyously the night he heard it, that he, or they, rather, would now move from Number 21 Buttonwood Street to Number 124 New Market, where there was a nice brick house of three stories in height, as opposed to the one of two stories which they now occupied. Buttonwood Street, at the point which they were now located, was rapidly being surrounded by business conditions which were unbearable; and New Market at the point he had picked on was removed, at least a score of blocks, from the region which was once so nice but was now becoming so sorrowfully defiled. There was the probability that some day they would come into something even much better than this, but for the present this was sufficient. He was exceedingly grateful.

Mr. Henry Worthington Cowperwood was at this time a significant figure—tall, lean, inquisitorial, clerkly, the pink of perfection in the niceties of commercial conduct, absolutely practical—a man who believed only what he saw, was not at all disturbed about those silly fancies which might trouble the less rational brains of this world, and content to be what he was—a banker, or prospective one. He looked upon life as a business situation or deal, with everybody born as more or less capable machines to take a part in it. It was surprising to him to see how many incapable or unsatisfactory machines there were; but, thank heaven, now that he was getting along fairly well, this was no affair of his. At first, when he was much younger—he was now thirty-six—life had seemed just a little unsatisfactorily organized. But now—well now it didn't look so bad. He had nice, smooth, closely cropped side-whiskers coming to almost the lower lobe of his ears, and his upper lip was smooth and curiously long. He had a straight nose of a somewhat longish length and a chin that tended to be pointed. His manner might have been called severe, though really it was more of a cultivated manner than anything else. His eyebrows were bushy, emphasizing vague grayish-green eyes, and his hair was short and smooth and nicely parted. He wore a frock-coat always—it was quite the financial thing in these days—and a high hat. And he kept his hands and nails immaculately clean. Being ambitious to get somewhere socially and financially without falling, he was very careful of whom or with whom he talked; and he was as much afraid of expressing a rabid or unpopular political or social opinion as he was of being seen with an evil character, though he had no opinion of great political significance to express. He was neither anti nor pro slavery, though the air was stormy with abolition sentiment and its opposition. He believed sincerely that vast fortunes were to be made out of railroads if one only had the capital and that curious thing, a magnetic personality—the ability to win the confidence of others. He was sure that Andrew Jackson was all wrong in his opposition to Nicholas Biddle and the United States Bank, one of the great issues of the day; and he was worried, as he might well be, by the perfect storm of wildcat money which was floating about and which was constantly coming to his bank—discounted, of course—and handed out again to anxious borrowers at a profit, you may be sure. His bank was the Third National of Philadelphia, located in that center of all Philadelphia, and indeed almost, at that time, of all national finance, Third Street; and its owners did a brokerage business on the side. As a broker's clerk, Mr. Cowperwood had to know all sorts of banks here and elsewhere, for immense quantities of uncurrent banknotes were to be handled, distributed, and mailed each day. There was a perfect plague of State banks, great and little, in those days, issuing notes practically without regulation upon insecure and unknown assets and failing and suspending with unheard-of rapidity; and these Mr. Cowperwood had to know about. He was convinced after a short experience that life was a ticklish business, and he had become the soul of caution. Unfortunately for him, he lacked in a great measure the two things that are necessary for distinction in any field—magnetism and vision. He was not destined to be a great financier, though he was marked out to be a moderately successful one.

Mr. Cowperwood's home was in Buttonwood Street for the time being, and a pleasant little home it was, to be sure. Mrs. Cowperwood was of a Christian, saving disposition—Episcopalians, they were. She was a small woman, very attractive in her day, with light-brown hair and clear brown eyes. Later in life she became rather prim and matter-of-fact, and when Frank Cowperwood was ten she was the watchful mother of three boys and one girl. The former, captained by the eldest, Frank, were a source of considerable annoyance to her, for they were forever making expeditions to different parts of the city, getting in with bad boys probably, and seeing and hearing things they should neither see nor hear. Mr. Henry Cowperwood, with his future opportunities shining clear before him, hit upon the private school and tutor method as a happy solution, and so these boys for some years afterward were carefully watched. Nevertheless, boys would be boys, and these were no exceptions.

During all these years that Frank was growing up he was a natural-born leader. At the day school, and later at the Central High School, where he was finally educated, he was looked upon as one whose common sense could unquestionably be trusted in all cases, and he never disappointed this belief. He was a sturdy youth, courageous and defiant. After he was ten years old his mother learned to know that Joseph and Edward, the two younger brothers, were perfectly safe in his care, and if they asked to go anywhere it was customary for her to ask if Frank were going. If so, well and good. If not, not. If they wanted to do anything when he was with them and he objected, he was most emphatic in a quiet way.

Can't we go down to the old market and jump on the cars? Joseph used to ask. They were a great sight in those days—the railroad yards. The tracks came into Market Street, and many of the cars being locally switched about were hauled by horses. The boys were fond of riding, stealing as much as they could in this way; and Joseph and Edward were no exceptions.

Why not? Edward might ask.

Because it isn't good for you, that's why. You keep off those things.

Aw, the Collinses go down there.

Well, we're not the Collinses. Don't you ever go down there alone.

Having the parental confidence and backing as well as his own natural force, Frank's word was law; and yet he was a liberal interpreter of the law. He liked to play one old cat, the new baseball game coming into vogue at that time, and he was fond of football as played by his Central High School team. He liked visiting the museums in Chestnut Street—there were several—a menagerie, a museum of anatomy, and another of curious fish and birds; and he liked the theater, and would gladly take his brothers to a minstrel show or a pirate melodrama, paying the expense himself when he had the money. From the very first he was a good leader, but also a splendid second to those older than himself whom he sincerely admired. There was a certain Red Gilligan, a tall, shambling, and yet rather brilliant and pyrotechnic rowdy, who took a great fancy to young Cowperwood for a time. He used to see him at first, when he was a ten-year-old boy, passing the corner of Arch and Second, where Gilligan with the members of what was known as the River gang used to hang out. Gilligan had another young protégé, Spat McGlathery, who received a terrible drubbing one afternoon from young Cowperwood a year or two later for spitting on his shoes. It came about in this way. He was passing innocently by, carrying his books, when the former, wishing to evince his contempt for all the refinements of this world—particularly those that were manifested by boys of his own age—spat sneeringly and contemptuously at the latter's feet and landed a nice spatter of tobacco-juice on his toes. This enraged Cowperwood greatly. Like a flash, though naturally calm, he dropped his books and went for his opponent. He wore a silver ring on his right hand which his mother had given him, and curiously it flashed into his mind in a lightning calculation to take it off, but he did not. Instead, he planted his right fist swift and straight on young McGlathery's jaw, then his left in the same place, then his right on the latter's mouth, then his left square between the latter's mouth and nose.

It was a terrific onslaught, quick and ugly, to which his opponent returned with enthusiasm, but he was no match for his new adversary. The latter forced him back steadily, and as he retreated Frank followed him. There was a crowd in a moment, for Spat was considered a star fighter of the gang; but Cowperwood drove him by sheer force and swiftness all about the sidewalk. He was not thinking of the crowd. He was thinking how thoroughly he could lick this bully and in how short a time. Red Gilligan, who was standing amazedly by, was delighted. He did not know that this nice-looking mama's boy, as they called all the refined youths of the neighborhood, could do anything of the sort. To see Spat McGlathery, whom he greatly admired as a scrapper, being drubbed in this way, and to realize yet as he did that Spat would scorn assistance, even though licked, and that therefore this was one of those admirable contests which one could judge on its merits, was inspiring. He followed them around, pushing the other hickeys, as the bad boys of the gang were called, aside, and seeing that what he called fair play was had. He had on a red shirt, a brown coat, much too short for him, a baggy pair of trousers, fastened about his waist by a belt; and his pugnacious but quizzical and intelligent face was surmounted by a small, close-fitting cloth cap with a vizor pulled over his eyes. He was so interested that he was closely over the fighters all the time.

Police! yelled the neighbors from stores and windows.

Let 'em alone, he yelled to his compatriots, fearing interruption. Hands off! I'll smack your jaw! (This to some youth interfering.) If he can lick him, let him lick him.

The gang stood by.

It was a swift and rapid fight for all of four minutes, all over the red-brick sidewalk and into the gutter. Young Spat, recovering from his surprise and realizing that he had a terrible adversary, clinched. Frank manœuvered the former's head under his arm by sheer, hard force and punched him vigorously.

Huh! Huh! Huh! he grunted, as he struck him.

Mr. McGlathery was bleeding profusely.

Aw! call him off, Spat's friends yelled.

Let him alone, yelled Gilligan. Spat'll say when he's had enough.

Cowperwood forced him to the pavement, punching him and sitting astride of him. After a time he pushed his head against the bricks and punched some more.

I quit, yelled McGlathery, after a time. He was bleeding and almost crying, in spite of himself, and he could not get up nor loosen Cowperwood's hold.

Young Cowperwood got up. He began brushing his clothes and looking about for some friendly face.

Say, kid, called Gilligan, grabbing his arm, say, you're a wonder! What's your name?

Cowperwood, replied Frank, kneading the dirt off his coat and trousers and feeling for his handkerchief.

Kick the stuffing out of him, some other youth called, approaching and chafing to avenge McGlathery.

Yah do, and I'll kick your head off, you flannel mouth. Git back! It was Red Gilligan talking.

Cowperwood realized he had a friend.

Where's my books? he asked.

Where's his books? called Gilligan, authoritatively.

An obsequious underling sought and found them.

Say, kid, said his new protector, I'm Red Gilligan. You're all right. You can fight. Don't you worry. They're not goin' to jump on you.

Cowperwood was looking apprehensively about.

Gilligan walked down the street with him the while a part of the gang stayed to console Spat McGlathery, while another part followed to witness the triumph of the victor. They could scarcely believe their senses—one of their bravest members licked! A policeman, attracted by the cries of shopkeepers and women, shortly hove into view and scattered the crowd. Red Gilligan, drawn by the charm of Cowperwood's personality, put his arm over the latter's shoulder—he was at least nine inches taller, spare and bony—and leered down joyfully in his new discovery's face. Say, I'll be d—d! he said. You're all right! You're fine. Cowperwood, eh? Well, you know me from now on. You can have anything I got. I like you.

I didn't want to fight him, said Cowperwood, conservatively. He was not sure whether he welcomed the attentions of this new friend or not. Still he did not mind them so much. They were pleasant.

I know you didn't. Don't you be afraid. You didn't do any more than you ought to. He spit on your shoes. That's all right; you ought to lick him. You did just what you ought to do. That gang's goin' to do all right by you. They're goin' to be fair. Don't you let any of 'em give you any lip. If they do, soak 'em. I'll see that you git fair play. You can come around where I am any time you want to. Just come and tell me. He patted Frank's shoulder.

Frank realized he was talking to a leader. Gilligan looked it. He was so raw, so uncouth, so strange; still he was fine and strong and brave, and Frank liked him.

I don't want to have any trouble, he suggested, quietly. I didn't start it. I really didn't mean to hit him as hard as I did at first.

Don't you worry. He can take care of himself. You're in with me. I'm your friend. You and I are pards. I live over here in Vine Street.

Cowperwood smiled gladly. All right, he said. I'm afraid they'll jump on me if you don't head 'em off.

No, they won't. If any one of 'em says a word you let me know. They won't do it again.

He accompanied Frank to his door. Gilligan shook hands with him.

Say, Cowperwood, he said, you're fine. Come around some Saturday. I'm always over there about one or two o'clock.

Frank smiled. All right! he said.

He went in, and Mr. Gilligan strolled away.

Say, he chuckled to himself, as he strolled, that was a real fight, that was. Gee, he's got a punch! That's the end of Spat McGlathery, all right. He got all that was comin' to him—say!

Meanwhile Mr. Spat McGlathery had returned to his home in Topper's Alley, a region that swarmed with low-caste laboring life, and there meditated on the fortunes of those who encounter unexpected and untoward forces. It was a sad afternoon for him. Still he did not despair. He had simply found some one at last who could thoroughly lick him.

For a time thereafter Mr. Cowperwood was patronized by Mr. Gilligan, but only in an admiring, friendly way. Mr. Gilligan wanted to attach him to his retinue of stars; but that could not be done very well. Mr. Cowperwood's home ties were too exacting. They did explore certain sections of the city together. Mr. Gilligan did sic him on to certain boastful persons whose colors, in his estimation, needed to be lowered; but Frank was in a way ashamed to do useless and pointless fighting. He liked Mr. Gilligan—his spirit—but his connections were rather reprehensible. So, after a time, he judiciously cut him, giving suave excuses, and Mr. Gilligan really took no offense. Frank made him see how it was. Out of friendship he gradually let him go. But the street-corner gang at Second and Arch never molested him after that one encounter.

From the very start of his life Frank wanted to know about economics and politics. He cared nothing for books. He was a clean, stocky, shapely boy with a bright, clean-cut, incisive face; large, clear gray eyes; a wide forehead; short, bristly, dark-brown hair. He had an incisive, quick-motioned, self-sufficient manner, and was forever asking questions with a keen desire for a brief and intelligent reply. He did not know what sickness was, never had an ache or pain, ate his food with gusto, and ruled his brothers with a rod of iron. Come on, Joe! Hurry, Ed! These commands were issued in no rough, but always a sure way; and Joe and Ed came. They looked up to Frank from the first as a master; and what he had to say, or what he saw or encountered, was listened to eagerly. He himself was pondering, pondering, pondering—one fact astonishing him quite as much as another, for he could not figure out how this thing he had come into—this life—was organized. How did all these people get into the world? What were they doing here? Who started things, anyhow? His mother told him the story of Adam and Eve; but he didn't believe it. There was a fish-market not so very far from his own home; and there, when he went to see his father at the bank, or when he took his brothers on after-school expeditions for mail or errands for his father, he liked to look at a certain tank in front of one store where they kept odd specimens of sea-life which the Delaware Bay fishermen would bring in. He saw once there a seahorse—just a queer little sea-animal that looked somewhat like a horse—and another time he saw an electric eel which Franklin's discovery had explained. One day he saw a jelly-fish put in, and then a squid, and then a lobster. The lobster and the squid came well along in his fish experiences; he was witness of a familiar tragedy in connection with these two, which stayed with him all his life and cleared things up considerably intellectually. The squid, it appeared from the talk of the idle bystanders who were always loafing about this market, was considered the rightful prey of the lobster; and the latter had no other food offered him. The lobster lay at the bottom of the clear glass tank on the yellow sand, apparently seeing nothing—you could not tell in which way his beady, black buttons of eyes were looking—but apparently they were never off the body of the squid. The latter, pale and waxy in texture, looking very much like pork fat or jade, was moving about in torpedo fashion; but his movements were apparently never out of the eyes of his enemy, for by degrees small portions of his body began to disappear, snapped off by the relentless claws of his pursuer. The latter, as young Cowperwood was one day a witness, would leap like a catapult to where the squid was apparently idly dreaming, and the squid, very alert, would dart away, shooting out at the same time a cloud of ink, behind which it would disappear. It was not always completely successful, however. Some small portions of its body or its tail were frequently left in the claws of the monster below. Days passed, and, now fascinated by the drama, young Cowperwood came daily.

Say, pa, he said to his father, one night, did you ever see that tank in front of Joralemon's?

Yes, I know where it is, said his father.

Did you ever see the squid and lobster they got in there?

I don't know. Why?

Well, that lobster's going to eat that squid. I can see more and more of him gone every day.

How's that? asked his father, indifferently?

Why, that old lobster he just lies down there on the bottom of the tank, and he keeps his eyes fixed on that squid; and every now and then he jumps up with a bang, and he almost gets him. Sometimes he does get him—a little; but the squid pulls away. He's nipped off almost half his tail by now. And you know that ink-bag he carries—that stuff he shoots out to make a cloud?

Yes.

Well, that's almost empty now. He's shot out so much he ain't got any more, or hardly any more.

He hasn't any more, corrected his father.

Well, went on his son, ignoring the correction, you see, he's getting tired. I can see it. I've been watching him every day now for a week, and he's getting weaker all the time. That lobster won't give him any rest. I can see him looking at him all the time. He's goin' to get him. That squid's a goner. He's goin' to get him, sure!

He paused, his eye alight, his whole body keyed up. He was interested—not pityingly so much as dramatically interested. His young face was keen and hungry for further information.

Well, what of that? asked his father, curiously.

Oh, nothing. Only I'm going by there in the morning. I want to see whether he's got him.

In the morning he went, his young pantalooned legs squared out solidly in front of the tank. The squid was not gone, but a piece of him; and his ink-bag was emptier than ever. In the corner of the tank sat the lobster, poised apparently for action.

Young Cowperwood put his nose to the glass. He looked solemnly at the lobster. He stayed as long as he could, the bitter struggle fascinating him. He liked to study the rough claw with which the lobster did his deadly work. He liked to stare at the squid and think how fateful was his doom. Now, maybe, or in an hour or a day, he might die, slain by the lobster; and the lobster would eat him. He looked again at the greenish-copperish engine of destruction in the corner and wondered when this would be. Tonight, maybe. He would come back tonight.

He returned one night, and lo! to his grief and astonishment, his wish was granted. There was a little crowd around the tank. The lobster was in the corner. Before him was the squid cut in two and partially devoured.

He got him at last, observed one bystander. I was standing right here an hour ago, and up he leaped and grabbed him. The squid was too tired. He wasn't quick enough. He did back up, but that lobster he calculated on his doing that. He's been figuring on his movements for a long time now. He got him today.

Well, I swan! somebody observed.

Cowperwood Junior only stared. He had missed this. It was too bad. He wanted to see it. The least touch of sorrow came to him for the squid as he stared at it slain. Then he stared at the victor.

That's the way it has to be, I guess, he commented to himself. That squid wasn't quick enough. He didn't have anything to feed on. He figured it out. The squid couldn't kill the lobster—he had no weapon. The lobster could kill the squid—he was heavily armed. There was nothing for the squid to feed on; the lobster had the squid as prey. What was the result to be? What else could it be? He didn't have a chance, he said, finally, tucking his books under his arm and trotting on.

It made a great impression on him. It answered in a rough way that riddle which had been annoying him so much in the past: How is life organized? Things lived on each other—that was it. Lobsters lived on squids and other things. What lived on lobsters? Men, of course! Sure, that was it! And what lived on men? he asked himself. Was it other men? Wild animals lived on men. And there were Indians and cannibals. And some men were killed by storms and accidents. He wasn't so sure about men living on men yet; but men did kill each other. How about wars and street fights and mobs? He had seen a mob once. It attacked the Public Ledger building as he was coming home from school. His father had explained what for, too. There was great excitement. It was about the slaves. That was it! Sure, men lived on men. Look at the slaves. They were men. That's what all this excitement was about these days. Men killing other men—negroes.

He went on home quite pleased with himself at his solution.

Say, he said to his mother, that night, he got him, mother!

Got who? What got what? Go wash your hands.

Why, that lobster got that squid I was telling you and pa about.

Well, that's all right. It's too bad. What makes you take any interest in such things? Run, wash your hands.

Well, it's interesting. You don't often see anything like that. I never did.

He went out in the backyard, where there was a hydrant and a post with a little table on it, and on that a cleanly tin-pan and a bucket of water. Here he washed his face and hands.

Say, papa, he said to his father, later, you know that squid?

Yes.

Well, he's dead. The lobster got him.

The father stared at his paper. Well, that's too bad, he said, indifferently.

For days and weeks Frank thought of this and of the life he was tossed into, for he was already thinking of what he should be in this world, and how he should get along. From seeing his father count money, he was sure that he would like banking; and Third Street, where his father's office was, seemed to him the cleanest, brightest, most fascinating street in the world.

CHAPTER II

THE growth of young Frank Algernon Cowperwood was through years of what might be called a comfortable and happy family existence, for, although the first ten years of his life had been spent in Buttonwood Street, he was, of course, very young and knew little of those social distinctions which afterward became so marked in his consciousness. Buttonwood Street was a lovely place to live for a boy. It contained mostly small two and three story brick houses—red, of course—with small, white-marble steps leading up to the front door, and thin, white-marble trimmings outlining the front door and windows. There were trees in the street—plenty of them. The road pavement was of big, round cobblestones made bright and clean by the rains; and the sidewalks were of brick—red, of course—and always damp and cool. In the windows, in summer-time, were sometimes flowers; and in the rear always was a yard with trees and flowers and grass, for the lots were almost always one hundred feet deep, and the house-fronts, crowding close to the pavement in front, left a comfortable space in the rear. The Cowperwoods, father and mother, were not so lean and narrow that they could not enter into the natural tendency to be happy and joyous with their children; and so this family, which increased at the rate of a child every two or three years after Frank's birth, was quite an interesting affair when he was ten, and they were ready to move into the New Market Street home. Henry Worthington Cowperwood's connections were increased as his position grew more responsible, and gradually he was becoming quite a personage. He already knew a number of the more prosperous merchants who dealt with his bank, and because, as a clerk, during banking hours he frequently had to hurry about to other banking-houses and brokers making exchanges, verifying accounts and checks, he had come to be familiar with and favorably known in the Bank of the United States, the Drexels, the Edwardses, and others. The brokers knew him as representing a very sound organization and being particularly reliable and trustworthy. He was not brilliant, but apparently honest and worthy of confidence in many things.

Hey, Hy! they sometimes called to him. (Hy Cowperwood he was known as in his earlier days.) How are things over in your place? And they secured advice as to the looseness or tightness of money as he would hear of it, and how credits were running. When his tellership arrived he was not so familiarly greeted, except by those who were much superior to him financially.

In this progress of his father, once he was ten years old and the former had become teller, young Cowperwood definitely shared. It was not uncommon for Cowperwood Senior to let his boy come to the bank on Saturdays, when he was not at school, and witness the deft exchange of bills at the brokerage end of the business, at the counting of which, and the calculations in connection with which, his father was an expert. Young Cowperwood was vastly interested in this process—wanted to know where all the types of money came from, why discounts of from ten to fifteen percent were demanded and received, what the men did with all the money they received. His father was glad to explain, pleased at his interest; and Frank was eager to learn. Even at this early age—from ten to fifteen—he gained a wide knowledge of the condition of the country financially—what a State bank was, and what a national one; what brokers did; what stocks were, and bonds, and why they fluctuated in value, and why they were quoted in the papers. He began to see clearly what was meant by money as a medium of exchange, and how all values were calculated according to one primary value, that of gold. If gold were high or scarce, money was said to be tight, and times were bad. If gold was plentiful, money was easy, credits were large, and business was flourishing. Young Cowperwood finally studied all this out for himself, coming to a clear understanding of banking as a machine for doing business. It facilitated, as he saw it, the exchange of this general medium, gold, or its certificates of presence and deposit and ownership. Finance fascinated him much as art might fascinate another boy, or literature another. He was a financier by instinct, and all the knowledge that pertained to that great art was as natural to him as the emotions and subleties of life are to a poet. This medium of exchange, gold, interested him intensely. He asked his father where it came from, and when told that it was mined, dreamed that he owned a gold-mine and waked to wish that he did. Even what gold was made of—its chemical constituents—interested and held his attention. He marveled that it ever came to be, and how it was finally selected as the medium or standard of exchange. So all those piles of bills on his father's desk—those yellow and green papers—represented gold deposited somewhere, or claimed to be deposited. If they were worth their face value, the gold was where the certificate said it was; if the certificate was not worth its face value, the presence of the gold was in question, or hard to get at, just so much as the certificate was discounted. He was interested in stocks and bonds, too, which were constantly being deposited as collateral; and he learned that some stocks and bonds were not worth the paper they were written on, and that others were worth much more than their face value indicated.

There, my son, said his father to him, one day, you won't often see a bundle of those around this neighborhood.

They were a series of shares in the British East India Company deposited as collateral, at two-thirds of their face value, for a loan of one hundred thousand dollars. Some Philadelphia magnate of the day owned them, and had hypothecated them for the use of the ready cash which he needed. Young Cowperwood looked at them curiously.

Say, they're plain-looking, aren't they? he commented, curiously.

They are worth just four times their face value, said his father, archly.

Frank Cowperwood re-examined them. The British East India Company, he read. Ten pounds—that's pretty near fifty dollars.

Forty-eight thirty-five, commented his father, dryly. Well, if we had a bundle of those we wouldn't need to work very hard. You'll notice there are scarcely any pin-marks on these. They aren't hauled around very much. I don't suppose these have ever been used as collateral before.

Young Cowperwood gave them back after a time, but not without a keen sense of the vast ramifications of finance. What was the East India Company? What did it do? His father told him. These shares in companies interested him. They made him think that he would handle shares of his own some day.

At the Cowperwood home also, as young Frank grew older, there was considerable talk at one time and another of this and that financial investment and adventure. He heard, for one thing, of a curious character by the name of Steemberger, who was a great beef speculator from Virginia at the time, and who was attracted to Philadelphia in those days by the hope of large and easy credits. Steemberger, so his father said, had formerly been close to Nicholas Biddle, Lardner, and others of the United States Bank, or at least friendly with them, and seemed to be able to obtain from that organization nearly all that he asked for. His operations in the purchase of cattle in Virginia, Ohio, and other States were vast, amounting, in fact, to an entire monopoly of the business of supplying beef to Eastern cities. He was a big man, enormous, with a face, his father said, something like that of a pig; and he wore a high beaver hat and a long frock-coat which hung loosely about his big chest and stomach. He had managed to force the price of beef up to thirty cents a pound at this time, causing all the retailers and consumers to rebel, and this was what made him so conspicuous. He used to come to the elder Cowperwood's bank, or, rather, the brokerage end of it, with as much as one hundred thousand or two hundred thousand dollars in twelve months—post-notes of the United States Bank in denominations of one thousand, five thousand, and ten thousand dollars. These he would cash at from ten to twelve percent under their face value, having previously given the United States Bank his own note at four months for the entire amount. He would take his pay from the Third National brokerage counter in packages of Virginia, Ohio, and western Pennsylvania bank-notes at par, because he made his disbursements principally in those States. The Third National would in the first place realize a profit of from four to five percent on the original transaction; and as it took the Western bank-notes at a discount, it also made a profit on those. Young Frank listened to the story of these transactions with a greedy ear. They seemed wonderful to him; but this whole world of money was like a fairyland, full of delight. Why, in Third Street there was nothing but money, great piles of it.

There was another man his father told him about—or rather told his mother and he overheard—who was known as Francis J. Grund. He was apparently a famous newspaper correspondent and lobbyist at Washington, and possessed the faculty of getting at and developing secrets of every kind, especially if they related to financial legislation. The secrets of the President and the Cabinet, as well as of the Senate and the House of Representatives, seemed to be open to him. Grund had been about, years before, purchasing through one or two brokers large amounts of the various kinds of Texas debt certificates and bonds, which, as Frank's father observed, other government officials of that time were also doing. The Republic of Texas, in its struggle for independence from Mexico, had issued bonds and certificates in great variety, amounting in value to ten or fifteen million dollars. A scheme had been on foot to make Texas a State of the Union, and a bill was finally passed providing a contribution on the part of the United States of five million dollars, to be applied to the extinguishment of this old debt. Grund knew of this, and also of the fact that some of this debt, owing to the peculiar conditions of issue, was to be paid in full, while other portions were to be scaled down, and there was to be a false or prearranged failure to pass the bill appropriating the five million dollars at one session, in order to frighten off the outsiders who might have heard and begun to buy the old certificates for their own profit. Grund knew of this. The Third National knew of Grund's knowledge through him; and Cowperwood, as teller, was also informed in some way. He told his wife about it afterward; and so his son, in this roundabout way, heard it, and his clear, big eyes glistened. He wondered why his father did not take advantage of it and buy some Texas certificates himself, but the latter was too honest, too careful. So this was the way money was made. Men schemed and planned, and then they reaped big profits. Grund, so his father said, and possibly three or four others, had made over a hundred thousand dollars apiece. It wasn't exactly legitimate, he seemed to think, and yet it was, too. Why shouldn't such inside information be rewarded? Somehow, Frank realized that his father had never been involved in any way in these, to him, wonderful operations. Why? Why didn't his father make a hundred thousand dollars out of something? Look at Steemberger, with a hundred thousand dollars in notes in his hat, and this man Grund, and others! When he grew up, Frank told himself, he was going to be a broker, or a financier, or a banker, and do some of these things. It was so easy for him to see how they were done. You had to get in with people—that was how: you had to know what was going on. His father was nice, but he was slow—surely he was. If he were his father, now.

He walked to school each day thinking of these things; but he was sick of school and books. What did his teachers know about money? Nothing. What did these other boys know of what was going on in Third Street? Not a thing. Why, a man might get down in there and get rich before anybody knew anything about anything. He wondered that the street was not crowded with people like Steemberger and Grund. It was so easy. He could see how it was. He could see how he could do it. Wait. He would be a broker, that's what he would be; and that just as quick as he was out of school, if not sooner. He would work and coin some money, and then he would become a broker, and then he would become rich.

There was an uncle who came to the Cowperwoods' house about this time—the one in New Market Street—when they became well located there, who had not previously appeared in the life of young Cowperwood and his brothers and sister. He was rather a fascinating type of man, solid and unctuous, say five feet ten in height, with a big, round body, a round, smooth head rather bald, a clear, ruddy complexion, blue eyes, and what little hair he had of a sandy hue. He was exceedingly well dressed for men of those days, indulging in flowered waistcoats, long, light-colored frock-coats, and the invariable (for a fairly prosperous man) high hat. Frank was fascinated by him, because he had been a planter in Cuba and still owned a big ranch there, and could tell him tales of Cuban life—rebellions, ambuscades, hand-to-hand fighting with machetes on his own plantation, and things of that sort. He was a brother of Mrs. Cowperwood, Seneca Davis by name; and he brought from Cuba, where he had been for ten years, a collection of Indian curios, to say nothing of an independent fortune and several slaves. He had one slave, named Manuel, a tall, raw-boned black, who was his constant attendant, a body-servant as it were. He still had his sugar-plantation, and at this day shipped raw sugar in boat-loads to the Southwark wharves in Philadelphia. Frank liked him because he took life in a hearty, jovial way, rather rough and offhand for this somewhat quiet and reserved household.

Why, Nancy Arabella, he said to Mrs. Cowperwood, on arriving one Sunday afternoon, when the household was thrown into joyous astonishment at his unexpected and unheralded appearance, you haven't grown an inch! I thought when you married old Brother Hy here that you were going to fatten up and grow tall, something like your brother. Look at you! I swear to Heaven you don't weigh five pound. And he jounced her up and down by the waist, much to the perturbation of the children, who had never before seen their mother so familiarly handled. Henry Cowperwood was exceedingly interested in and pleased at the arrival of this rather prosperous relative; for, twelve years before, when he was married, Seneca Davis had not taken much notice of him. He was a man of his own age, but a much more forceful type of character.

Look at all these little putty-faced Philadelphians. They ought to come down to my ranch in Cuba and get tanned up. That would take away this waxy look. And he pinched the cheek of Anna Adelaide, the only girl, now five years old. I tell you, Henry, you have a rather nice place here. And he looked at the main room of the rather conventional three-story house with a critical eye.

It was nice. This particular room was twenty by twenty-four, and finished in imitation cherry, with a set of new and shapely Sheraton parlor furniture. Since Henry, the father, had become teller of the Third National the family had indulged in a piano—a decided luxury in those days—brought from Europe; and it was intended that Anna Adelaide, when she was old enough, should learn to play. There were a few uncommon ornaments in the room—a gas-chandelier for one thing, a glass bowl with goldfish in it, some rare and highly polished shells, and a marble Cupid bearing a basket of flowers, which Cowperwood had picked up somewhere at a sale. It was summer-time, the windows were open, and the trees outside, with their softly extended green branches, were pleasantly visible shading the brick sidewalk. Uncle Seneca strolled out into the backyard to see if they had a hammock.

Well, this is pleasant enough, he observed, noting a large elm and seeing that the yard was partially paved with brick and inclosed within brick walls, up the sides of which vines were clambering. Where's your hammock? Don't you string a hammock here in summer? Down on my verandas at San Pedro I have six or seven.

He noted Edward, the youngest boy, at his side, with Frank in the distance, looking at him. Mr. and Mrs. Cowperwood were conservatively located in the doorway.

We hadn't thought of putting one up because of the neighbors; but it would be nice. Henry will have to get one.

I have two or three in my trunks over at the hotel. I thought you mightn't have any. My niggers make 'em down there. I'll send Manuel over with them in the morning.

He plucked at the vines, tweaked Edward's ear, told Joseph, the second boy, he would bring him an Indian tomahawk, and went back into the house.

This is the lad that interests me, he said, after a time, laying his hand on the shoulder of Frank. What did you name him in full, Henry?

Frank Algernon.

Well, you might have named him after me. There's something to this boy. He's got something in his eye. How would you like to come down to Cuba and be a planter, my boy?

I'm not so sure that I'd like to, replied the eldest.

Well, that's straight-spoken. What have you against it?

Nothing, except that I don't know anything about it.

What do you know?

The boy smiled wisely. Not so very much, I guess.

Well, what are you interested in?

Money!

Aha! What's bred in the bone, eh! Get something of that from your father, eh? Well, that's a good trait. And spoken like a man, too! We'll hear more about that later. Nancy, you're breeding a financier here, I think. He talks like one.

He looked at this boy carefully now, and he was impressed. There was real force in that sturdy young body—no doubt of it. Those large, clear gray eyes indicated much, and revealed nothing. They seemed full of intelligence and light without speaking of anything apparently that they knew.

A smart boy, he said to Henry, his brother-in-law. I like his get-up. You have a bright family.

Henry Cowperwood smiled dryly. None knew better than he Frank's bent. And this man, if he liked him, might do much for him. He might eventually leave him some of his fortune. He was wealthy and single.

Uncle Seneca became a frequent visitor to the house—he and his negro body-guard, Manuel, who spoke both English and Spanish, much to the astonishment of the children; and he took an increasing interest in Frank.

When that boy gets old enough to find out what he wants to do, I think I'll help him to do it, he observed to his sister one day; and she told him she was very grateful. He talked to Frank about his studies, and found that what he said was true—he cared little for books or most of the study he was compelled to pursue. Grammar was an abomination. Literature silly. Latin was of no use. History—well, it was fairly interesting.

I like bookkeeping and arithmetic, he observed. I want to get out and get to work, though. That's what I want to do.

You're pretty young, my son, observed his uncle. You're only how old now? Fourteen?

Thirteen.

Well, you can't leave school much before sixteen. You'll do better if you stay until seventeen or eighteen. It can't do you any harm. You won't be a boy again.

I don't want to be a boy. I want to get to work.

Don't go too fast, son. You'll be a man soon enough. Be quiet. Study now. When the time comes you'll get a good start. You want to be a banker, do you?

Yes, sir!

Well, when the time comes, if everything is all right and you've behaved yourself and you still want to, I'll help you get a start in business. If I were you and were going to be a banker, I'd first spend a year or so in some good grain and commission house. There's good training to be had there. You'll learn a lot that you ought to know. When the time comes you do that. And, meantime, keep your health and learn all you can. Wherever I am, you let me know, and I'll write and find out how you've been conducting yourself.

He brought some great cannon-crackers out on the evening of July the Fourth, and he and Frank helped entertain and disturb the neighborhood by setting them off. He gave the boy a handsome purse and a ten-dollar gold piece, which he got from Henry Cowperwood by exchange, to start a bank-account with.

That boy is a bright boy, he said to the father. He's a real man already. There's something to him. He's going to make his mark.

And, not strange to say, he liked the whole Cowperwood household much better for this dynamic, self-sufficient, sterling youth who was an integral part of it.

CHAPTER III

THE years that passed between the time that young Cowperwood was fully decided that he wanted to be a banker and the time that he actually achieved this result were filled with curious interests. It was in his thirteenth year that he made his first business venture and it was decidedly profitable from his point of view. Near his home in New Market Street was a grocer where his mother traded; and here he was wont to see great piles of things displayed for sale at one time and another—boxes of soap, for instance, jars of fruit—not cans, for the tinning industry had not developed in those days to the proportions it later assumed—papers of coffee and the like. These things took his eye and interested him in the ramifications of the grocery business—where these things came from, principally. He knew from his geography now that many things were imported to this land—coffee, sugar (his uncle Seneca did that), rice, tea; and he wondered from time to time whether there was much money in the buying and selling of these things. In far-off China, practically unknown to the world commercially, they grew and fired tea, and his geography showed him a picture of that. In Front Street were spice houses which imported spices from Java and the Dutch East Indies; their signs said so. There was one man who sold tropical birds, brought by boat, and monkeys; and there was another man who offered, from time to time, invoices of silks and mattings. The good tailoring-houses brought all their fine weaves from England; and cutlery came from the same place.

But to return. One day he was walking in Front Street, and he saw an auctioneer's flag hanging out before a store, a wholesale grocery store, and inside the contents were being disposed of, the owner having decided to wind up his business.

What am I bid for this exceptional lot of Java coffee, twenty-two bags all told, which is now selling in the market for seven dollars and thirty-two cents a bag wholesale? What am I bid? What am I bid? The whole lot must go as one. What am I bid?

Eighteen dollars, suggested one trader, who was standing near the door, indifferently, more to start the bidding than anything else, for he was not vastly interested in coffee. Frank, who was passing, paused.

Twenty-two! called another.

Thirty! a third. Thirty-five! a fourth; and so on up to seventy-five, less than half of what it was worth.

I'm bid seventy-five! I'm bid seventy-five! I'm bid seventy-five! called the auctioneer, loudly. Any other offers? Going once at seventy-five; am I offered eighty? Going twice at seventy-five, and—he paused, one hand raised dramatically. Then he brought it down with a slap in the palm of the other—sold to Mr. Silas Gregory for seventy-five. Make a note of that, Jerry, he called to his red-headed, freckle-faced clerk beside him. Then he turned to another lot of grocery staples—this time starch, eleven barrels of it.

Young Cowperwood was making a rapid calculation. If, as the auctioneer said, coffee was worth seven dollars and thirty-two cents a bag in the open market, and this buyer was getting this coffee for seventy-five dollars, he was making then and there eighty-six dollars and four cents, to say nothing of what his profit would be if he sold it at retail as Frank's mother's grocer did.

As Frank recalled, his mother was paying twenty-eight cents a pound. He drew nearer, his books tucked under his arm, and watched these operations closely. The starch, as he soon heard, was valued at ten dollars a barrel, and it only brought six. Some kegs of vinegar were knocked down at one-third their value, and so on. He began to wish he could bid; but he had no money, just a little pocket change. The auctioneer noticed him standing almost directly under his nose, and was curious at his interest. He was also impressed with the stolidity—solidarity—of the boy's expression.

I am going to offer you now a fine lot of Castile soap—seven cases, no less, which, as you know, if you know anything about soap, is now selling at fourteen cents a bar. This soap is worth anywhere at this moment eleven dollars and seventy-five cents a case. What am I bid? What am I bid? What am I bid? He was talking fast in the usual style of auctioneers, with much unnecessary emphasis; but Cowperwood was not unduly impressed. He was already rapidly calculating for himself. Seven cases at eleven dollars and seventy-five cents would be worth just eighty-two dollars and twenty-five cents; and if it went at half—if it went at half—

Twelve dollars, commented one bidder.

Fifteen, bid another.

Twenty, called a third.

Twenty-five, a fourth.

Then it came to dollar raises, for Castile soap was not such a vital commodity. Twenty-six. Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. There was a pause.

Thirty, observed young Cowperwood, decisively.

The auctioneer, a short, lean-faced, spare man with bushy hair and an incisive eye, looked at him curiously—without pausing, however. He had, somehow, in spite of himself, been impressed by the boy's peculiar eye; and now he felt, without knowing why, that the offer was probably legitimate enough, and that the boy had the money. He might be the son of a grocer.

I'm bid thirty! I'm bid thirty! I'm bid thirty for this fine lot of Castile soap. It's a fine lot. It's worth fourteen cents a bar. Will any one bid thirty-one? Will any one bid thirty-one? Will any one bid thirty-one?

Thirty-one, said a voice.

Thirty-two, replied Cowperwood.

The same process was repeated.

I'm bid thirty-two! I'm bid thirty-two! I'm bid thirty-two! Will anybody bid thirty-three? It's fine soap. Seven cases of fine Castile soap. Will anybody bid thirty-three?

Young Cowperwood's mind was working. He had no money with him; but his father was teller of the Third National Bank, and he could quote him as references. His uncle was Seneca Davis. He could sell all of his soap to his grocer, surely; or, if not, to other grocers. Other people were anxious to get this soap at this price. Why not he?

The auctioneer paused.

Thirty-two once! Am I bid thirty-three? Thirty-two twice! Am I bid thirty-three? Thirty-two three times! Seven fine cases of soap. Am I bid anything more? Once, twice! Three times! Am I bid anything more?—his hand was up again—and sold to Mr.—? He leaned over and looked curiously into the face of his young bidder.

Frank Cowperwood, son of the teller of the Third National Bank, replied the boy, decisively.

Oh yes, said the man, fixed by his glance.

Will you wait while I run up to the bank and get the money?

Yes. Don't be gone long. If you're not here in an hour I'll sell it again.

Young Cowperwood made no reply. He hurried out and ran fast; first, not to his father, but to his grocer, which was within a block of his home.

Thirty feet from the door he slowed up, put on a nonchalant air, and, strolling in, looked about for Castile soap. There it was, the same kind, displayed in a box and looking just as his soap looked.

How much is this a bar, Mr. Dalrymple? he inquired.

Sixteen cents, replied that worthy.

If I could sell you seven boxes for sixty-two dollars just like this would you take them?

The same soap?

Yes, sir.

Mr. Dalrymple calculated a moment.

Yes, I think I would, he replied, cautiously.

Would you pay me today?

I'd give you my note for it. Where is the soap?

He was perplexed and somewhat astonished by this unexpected proposition on the part of his neighbor's son. He knew Mr. Cowperwood well—and Frank also.

Will you take it if I bring it to you today?

Yes, I will, he replied. Are you going into the soap business?

No. But I know where I can get some of that soap cheap.

He hurried out again and ran to his father's bank. It was after banking hours; but he knew how to get in, and he knew that his father would be glad to see him make thirty dollars. He only wanted to borrow the money for a day.

What's the trouble, Frank? asked his father, looking up from his desk when he appeared, breathless and red-faced.

I want you to loan me thirty-two dollars! Will you?

Why, yes, I might. What do you want to do with it?

"I want to buy some soap—seven boxes of Castile soap. I know where I can get it and sell it. Mr. Dalrymple will take it. He's already offered me sixty-two

Reviews for The Financier (Barnes & Noble Digital Library)

[mahallett · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

the middle of the book was too long about his girlfriend and in court.

[katherinegregg · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The Financier is the first book in a trilogy by Theodore Dreiser which chronicles the life the Frank Cowperwood.

[edwinbcn · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Given the havoc that bankers and financiers cause in society, it is remarkable that hardly any information on what a financier is can be found on for instance Wikipedia, other than that they are people who make their money through investments. It is therefore hard to quickly determine how far back the history of financiers goes, the Renaissance, probably; the South Sea Bubble of 1720 is often cited as one of the first great speculation scandals.Reading The financier (1912) by Theodore Dreiser gives readers an uncanny sense of recognition, as the main character of the novel, Frank Cowperwood could just have sprung up from the pages of a contemporary newspaper, or e-Reader, for that matter.The financier is the first volume in a trilogy, but can very well be read on its own. It describes a complete cycle of fortune, misfortune and recovery of Cowperwood. As a son of a banker, nonetheless, young Frank set out to make his fortune all by himself, starting very modestly by buying a chest of soap and selling it at a profit. In the first twelve chapters, the novel develops rapidly, seeing young Cowperwood setting up as a brokerage, at first as a partner and increasingly independently, running across Mr Butler's pretty young daughter, as early as in chapter 12.As a young, and upcoming financier, he marries the affluent widow, several years his senior. In his burgeoning wealth, Cowperwood buys a house, soon to be replaced by a more magnificent mansion, decorated by a fashionable architect, Ellsworth.Young Cowperwood begins an affair with the young Aileen Butler; her father has them shadowed by private detectives and leaks evidence of adultery to Cowperwood's wife. The hatred of old Mr Butler knows no boundaries and he is bent on destroying Cowperwood, and separating him from his daughter.Growing wealthy through the Civil War Years, the Great Chicago Fire of 1871 leads to Cowperwood's bankruptcy, as he is unable to find money to financy his creditors. The financial crisis caused by the Fire leads to the uncovering of a network of illicit borrowings and speculation with money from the city's Treasury. Cowperwood is made a scapegoat and goes to jail.His lover, Aileen, visits him in jail and remains loyal until he is released two years later. Money works in jail to ease some of the discomfort. Soon after his release, Cowperwood starts with new energy to recoop his lost wealth.Although the novel starts and developes rapidly, the story is dragged out throughout the bankruptcy and jail episodes. Nonetheless, the novel seems to need this volume, and it never seems too wordy or lengthy. The novel is simply elaborate and descriptive in great detail, but it seems appropriate to tell the story with so much detail. It certainly helps to be interested or even a bit knowledgeable in the world of finance, to know the difference between various types of financiers and financial services, and the bulk of the story is developed in this environment.Frank Cowperwood is portrait as a sympathetic financier, whose passion for Aileen seems sincere, although his earlier marriage to the rich widow was probably not. He is a man of good taste. The other characters, old Mr Cowperwood, Mr Butler and other characters, such as Stener are all described in psychologically very convincing portraits, and the tragedy of the novel is sufficiently moving.While not the easiest novel to read, The financier is still very rewarding.

[browner56 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

An interesting trend in literary fiction is for some really good writers to base the plots of their novels on events surrounding crises or other calamities in the financial markets. From Tom Wolfe’s The Bonfire of the Vanities and Don DeLillo’s Cosmopolis to the more recent A Week in December by Sebastian Faulks and Other People’s Money by Justin Cartwright, authors frequently use economic chaos in some way as a backdrop for their stories as well as a metaphor for the social critique they are trying to convey. Indeed, fiction of this ilk is often a thinly veiled morality tale, with the financial institution (e.g., bank, hedge fund) or businessperson (e.g., stockbroker, money manager) playing the role of the evil menace and would-be destroyer of all that is decent and good.With the stock market panics of 1987, 2001 and 2008 fresh in our collective memory, it would be easy to view this literary movement as a contemporary fashion. That would be wrong, however. Written more than a century ago, Theodore’s Dreiser’s The Financier tells the story of the rise, fall and resurrection of Frank Cowperwood, a man whose personal and professional machinations frame a gripping account of the tumultuous United States capital markets in the post-Civil War era, before the country itself was even 100 years old. Based on the true history of Charles Yerkes, a legendary trader and tycoon of the day, the novel is set in Philadelphia and describes Frank’s comfortable but humble origins as well as the economic and emotional carnage he creates on the way to building his financial empire.Cowperwood’s genius lies in his ability to recognize investment opportunities and then manipulate a financial system almost completely devoid of meaningful regulation to his own advantage. Starting with little more than a keen mind, a strong work ethic and a disregard for political and social norms, Frank creates wealth for himself in a very old-fashioned way—by borrowing lots of money and then making more right bets in the stock market than wrong ones. As is often the case when using such massive amounts of financial leverage, though, his downfall—which is truly steep—comes when a stock market crash caused by the Great Chicago Fire of 1871 leaves him without enough money to repay his loans. This chain of events leads to a brief prison term for embezzlement after which another market crash in 1873 provides him with the opportunity to once again use other people’s misfortune (and money) to his benefit. The novel ends with Frank and his long-time mistress leaving their respective families for a fresh start in Chicago.The Financier is the first of Dreiser’s Trilogy of Desire and is followed by The Titan and The Stoic, which continue the Yerkes/Cowperwood saga. This was not always an easy book to read; the author’s so-called gritty naturalism style of prose led to what at times was a densely worded and overly detailed story that was decidedly old-fashioned in tone by modern standards. Nevertheless, I found the scope and imagination of the tale to be quite compelling and, from a historical perspective, it was also a book that taught me a lot about some crucial events that previously were little more than footnotes in my mind. To his credit, Dreiser neither glorifies nor demonizes Frank for the myriad choices he makes in his personal and business affairs, meaning that he offers the reader no easy answers as to what is right and what is wrong. Without question, this remains relevant fiction that deserves to be read for years to come.

[rsubber · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

It's just amazing that Dreiser (1871-1945) wrote this gritty novel in 1912, before anyone even thought of derivatives, credit default swaps, sub-prime "liar loan" mortgages and no-fault (for bankers and brokers, that is) national financial meltdowns. Frank Cowperwood is the ethically-challenged "financier" whose star and fortunes rise so marvelously and then collapse with equal flare. He seems so absolutely convincingly contemporary that I had recurring transient episodes of inverted déjà vu as I followed his desperate ambition and burnout. Frank is a first-rate villain. He burns his friends and enemies with equal disdain, he channels Gordon Gekko with suitably theatrical energy, and he is most deliciously unrepentant when his schemes go awry, his loans get called and his empire crashes around him.I say "deliciously unrepentant" because, unlike his contemporary villainous free spirits of Wall Street, Frank promptly goes to jail for his crimes."The Financier" so obviously is the kind of novel that might be written by a baroque clone of Michael Lewis. If you'd like to work out a bit of the residual rage you feel about the man-made financial cesspool we've been wallowing in for the last few years, try this American classic.

[patito7de7hule · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This book is the first of a trilogy, The Financier, Titan, and The Stoic written by Theodore Dreiser. The first two were written late in the progressive era (prior to WWI), and the last was published in 1947. Frank A. Cowperwood, a character based on Charles T. Yerkes, grew up in Philadelphia, and then moved on to Chicago and finally London. The three books are based on one of these periods of Yerkes's life among the free-booting boodlers of the post civil war era.In The Financier Cowperwood grows up in Philadelphia among trusting, loving family and is married. He becomes involved as a broker in skimming money from the Treasury of the City of Philadelphia. After the great fire in Chicago (1871) the bankruptcy of the Treasury can no longer be hidden, and his co-conspirators come together to lay all the blame on Cowperwood. He is convicted and ruined. In the Panic of 1873 he has early knowledge and uses it to rebuild his fortune. He abandons his faithful wife for another then goes on to Chicago. Chicago is where the novel Titan begins.The book is interesting for the character it builds in Cowperwood, based on Yerkes, and for its portrayal of historical events in a social context. While it was not Dreiser's greatest work, I give it four stars.

[corinneblackmer · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Frank Cowperwood, impatient to leave school as a boy, learns all he needs to know on the street and from his banker father. Soon he is trading for profit and moving up from one firm to another. In Philadelphia, he begins to skim from the city as a broker and is only discovered by the disaster of the great fire. He endures a nasty prison sentence, meted out to him by men who are as guilty or more guilty of fraud and corruption than he is, and, when freed, swiftly regains his fortune in speculation. His love life matches his financial life, with Frank marrying an upper class older widow and then having an affair with a young woman because here as with all else, he is a strong man, and strong men must satisfy their appetites. A book to elucidate that the latest rounds of corruption on Wall Street is nothing new under the American sun.