That smile is as inevitable a part of Baruch as his engaging
naivete in talking about himself. It is always there, brilliant,
unrelated to circumstances. It does not spring from a sense of
humor,--Mr. Baruch, like the rest of the successful, has not a
marked sense of humor; a sense of the irony of fate he has,
perhaps, but not more. It does not denote gaiety, nor sympathy, nor
satire; it is not kind nor yet unkind; it does not relax the
features, which remain tense as ever even when smiling; it suggests
satisfaction, self-confidence, and a secret inner source of
contentment. It is with Mr. Baruch when he is tired, or ought to be
tired; the romance of Baruch is an internal spring of refreshment.
It does not leave him when he is angry, if he is ever angry; the
romance of Baruch diverts him. Though always there, it is not a
fixed smile, a mask, something worn for the undoing of Wall Street;
it is a real smile. Somewhere subconsciously there abides the
picture of the poor clerk become amazingly rich, of power in
Washington, of a beckoning future with possibilities as
extraordinary as the wonders of the past. Life is not logical,
dull, commonplace, a tissue of cause and effect; it proceeds
delightfully by daily miracles. The American Disraeli is no further
away to-day than was the Baruch of to-day from the Baruch of
yesterday.
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