To conclude that he is vain is not to understand Mr.
Baruch. Is a child vain when it brings some little childish
accomplishment, some infantile drawing on paper, and delightedly
and frankly marvels at what he has done? It is given to children
and to the naive openly to wonder at themselves without vanity,
with a deep underlying sense of humility, and in Mr. Baruch's case
the unaffected delight in himself proceeds from real humility.
After twenty-five years in the jungle of Wall Street, there is--
contradictions multiply in his case--much of the child about Mr.
Baruch, simple, trustful--outside of Wall Street,--incapable of
concealment,--outside of Wall Street--of that which art has taught
the rest of us to conceal. His humility makes him wonder; his
naivete makes him talk quite frankly, unrestrained by the
conventions that balk others. After all, is not wondering at
yourself a sign of humility? A vain man, become great by luck, by
force of circumstances, by the possession of gifts which he does
not himself fully understand, would still take himself for granted.
He would not be a romance to himself, but a solid, unassailable
fact.
For Baruch the great romance is Baruch, the astonishing plaything
of fate, who started life as a three-dollar-a-week broker's clerk;
made millions, lost millions, made millions again, lost millions
again; finally, still young, quit Wall Street with a fortune that
left the game of the market dull and commonplace, seeking a new
occupation for his energies; became during the war next to the
President, the most powerful man in Washington; emerged from the
war, which wrecked most reputations, with a large measure of
credit, prepared by the amazing past for an equally amazing future.
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