The seven-year period from 1889 to 1896 may be passed over briefly. Mr. Harriman played no prominent part in it…. In fact, by 1894 even his part in the Illinois Central had been largely forgotten, except by the closest students of events. He was doing what he had so well trained himself to do—lying back and waiting for his time….
Through the long night that came upon the business world in the early nineties he rested, making himself strong for the day that was to follow.
—C. M. Keys, “Harriman: The Man in the Making”
The black hole of Harriman’s career lies in the years between the crisis of 1890 and 1898, when he emerged as a factor in the newly reorganized Union Pacific Railroad. It is, like his boyhood, a time about which he never spoke in later years, as if he had willed it out of existence. His biographers and critics touch these years only in passing because they can find little in them to unlock the most vexing riddle of all: how did the financial wizard and failed vice-president of the Illinois Central Railroad emerge from obscurity to become the most dominant and spectacular figure in the transportation industry?
Part of the answer lies in a classic formula for success: Harriman was the right man in the right place at the right time. Such accidental forces exert a larger influence on destiny than self-made men or biographers care to admit. Harriman in 1897 was no butterfly sprung from the chrysalis of the Harriman of 1890. During these years he continued to grow and to spread his wings into new ventures, gleaning what he could from every activity, keeping an eye cocked for new opportunities and preparing himself to take advantage of them.
The hurt from his confrontation with Fish he buried deep within himself as he did all pain until it became invisible to others and possibly to himself as well. The most revealing key to Harriman’s personality is his refusal to admit weakness or frailty. Whereas most people liked to advertise their suffering, Harriman boasted of his ability to ignore it. Nor was there during these years any long night of the soul in which he wrestled with the dark torments of his life and emerged triumphant over old demons. Harriman was not a reflective man. He was too busy living his life to spend much time philosophizing on it, and he still clung fervently to most of the values imbued in him as a child.
Above all, Harriman was a man in motion, searching for things to do. He gathered new challenges as others collected silver or stamps. No amount of work seemed to sate this urgent need. All his life the polar extremes of caution and boldness waged constant war within him. Until he was fifty, caution won most of the big battles and orchestrated the course of his career. This was not surprising, given the circumstances of his upbringing. Caution had been bred into him and took the form of an overpowering need to give his own family the financial security his parents had never had.
Once Harriman’secured his financial and social position, however, the drive that had spurred him toward those goals began to prod him in new directions. The beauty of his involvement with the Illinois Central was that it fulfilled both needs at once. It brought his firm a bonanza of new business and himself an entry into the most dynamic industry in the country. In 1889 the war within him tipped steadily toward the side of boldness until he seemed on the verge of shedding his bankers skin for that of rail executive.
The confrontation with Fish terminated this movement with brutal suddenness and revealed for the first time a side of Harriman’s nature that grew increasingly prominent. At bottom the episode involved a clash between Harriman’s breeding and his instincts. Of necessity, breeding had prevailed and continued to rule him, though with mounting difficulty, through the depression years. But his instincts pushed ever harder against its restraints, especially one that had reared its head in the fight with Fish: a love of power. It had been crushed just as his eyes had been opened to its possibilities. He saw that he could not possess it as long as he remained subordinate to Fish, and on the Illinois Central he would always be subordinate to Fish.
For a time, then, the practical, conservative side of Harriman’s nature reasserted its dominance. Although frustrated by the manner in which his quest for new horizons had been cut short, he recognized that the time was wrong to fight against his fate. The downturn in the economy required all his skills as a financier to keep the Illinois Central stable and his own fortune intact.
Hard times also offer opportunities of their own. Harriman poked at some new ventures but not in a way that might shove his destiny in new directions. He was content to wait until the depression eased and to extend his knowledge of railroad affairs through his work for the Illinois Central. The taste of power, fleeting as it had been, still lingered in Harriman’s mouth, however, and he found ways to keep its irresistible flavor alive.
Although Harriman’s work as vice-president ended in March 1890, he did not formally resign until June and the board did not accept until October, when it could put him back on the finance committee as chairman. A few papers used the occasion to revive the rumor that Harriman, in the New York Tribune’s words, “had been practically suspended from office before he resigned.” Harriman resisted the urge to reply; he had plenty to do as the financial scene grew steadily gloomier.1
The shifting pattern of the railroad industry had become painfully clear. Rates continued to decline and costs to rise. Lower rates required a higher volume of traffic to keep earnings stable, which in turn meant more wear and tear on the physical plant and larger outlays to keep it up. Fish and Harriman agreed that Jeffery had not put the road in shape to meet these changing needs. Fish was anxious to upgrade the system as rapidly as possible because he had glimpsed a crucial aspect of the future that still escaped many of his peers. “Competition among Western Railways,” he warned in 1890, “which has heretofore been almost entirely on the line of a reduction of rates, is coming to be… one of adequacy and frequency of service, and… in such a struggle success lies in furnishing the best service.”2
Fish won the battle for his improvements program, but how to pay for it in a capital market saturated with offerings by other railroads starved for cash? He tried issuing $10 million in new stock, but shareholders took only $1.8 million and Harriman’s firm was obliged to peddle the remainder in an unreceptive market. Within a few months the improvements outlays sent Harriman’scurrying in search of short-term loans. He managed to sell some bonds and refund some old obligations at lower rates, but a cut in the dividend could no longer be avoided. The rate dropped to 6 percent in 1890 and then to 5 percent in 1891, raising howls of protest from stockholders.3
All of Harriman’s efforts to get cheap money and keep the company’s credit sound depended on the road’s earnings; if they slumped badly, his work would be undone. To his dismay, the financial outlook grew even more bleak during 1892. Early in October, when Harriman got the preliminary earnings figures for July, his reaction belied the later image of him as imperturbable under fire. That evening he and Mary went to the theater with the Fishes. Henry barely noticed the show; his brain burned with the disaster of the July figures. He kept trying to discuss them with Fish but could never find a time. Frustrated and distraught, he dashed off a note late that night begging Fish to meet him in Tuxedo the next afternoon. “I am more than worried about I. C. earnings,” he admitted, and his anxiety poured out in a torrent: “It would be fatal to have them published until some change is effected. We ought to do something at once all of us doing what we can. I’m ready to do my share in any way you can make me of service…. I made statement of earnings for June & July 1892. Compared with the previous year it is startling & I am badly scared but believe it can & will be made all right.”4
The final figures turned out to be more respectable and were published. During the next year earnings revived, thanks in part to a surge in passenger business from the World’s Fair in Chicago. While the income of other roads shriveled, the Illinois Central sailed through the depression of 1893–97 with solid earnings and its dividend record intact if reduced. For this achievement Harriman deserves much of the credit. “It was a well known circumstance among bankers,” said Otto Kahn of Kuhn, Loeb & Co., who later fell under Harriman’s spell, “that the Illinois Central’s finances were managed with remarkable skill and foresight.”5
But it did not come easily. Harriman worried his way through the gloomy fall of 1892, handling every monthly earnings report like a time bomb waiting to explode in his face. Through the depression years he managed to peddle bonds in the Illinois Central’s prime market, London, and even refunded some at lower rates. Between sales he made ends meet with time and sterling loans arranged at low rates. When markets were tight in July 1896, a group of leading bankers tried borrowing money in Europe against a pledge of collateral, which amounted to buying gold. Harriman’smiled indulgently at their effort. “As you know,” he told Fish, “we have been quietly doing this very thing for some time back.”6
While Illinois Central finances remained sound, other roads were going bankrupt and falling into the hands of what Harriman called “Banker Syndicates,” some of which were reaping enormous profits out of reorganizations. Harriman had strong feelings on the issue. “I’ve been a ‘Crank’ on this subject as you know for years,” he wrote Fish, “& it looks now as tho the whole country was so aroused by the abuses arising from this state of things that there must soon be a change.”7
Two years later Harriman involved himself in a syndicate to reorganize the Alton that would expose him to the same scathing criticism, but there is no doubt his views were sincere. “Financing of RRs has been looked upon as the least important department,” he noted, “when in reality it’s all important. And the good properties have been brought into the ‘Bankers’ … hands by poor financing.” This was more than a passing observation on railway management; it was also an expression of the pride he felt in the job he had done for the Illinois Central and a reminder for Fish to give credit where it was due.8
Harriman’s performance is all the more remarkable in that the road not only pushed the improvements program through the depression years but also expanded aggressively at a time when weaker roads around it were failing and could be bought at cheap prices. Harriman had definite ideas on the best policy in such cases. “It pays better to invest in roads already built rather than build new ones,” he argued to a dubious Fish, because someone else would buy the older line and do something with it. “Better buy our neighbors’ than build new,” Harriman repeated. “Better do that than have to support two properties with one business.”9
This notion was hardly original, but few railroad men accepted it. Most preferred building their own line because it was cheaper, could be put where it was wanted, and incurred no onerous past obligations. For large projects Harriman’s strategy had less value, but for branches in many regions it made good sense. Any rival line, however ramshackle, remained a smoking gun so long as it ran trains and could be scooped up by some stronger company and transformed into a competitor.
The expansion work occupied Harriman in months of tough negotiations. The Illinois Central had leased its Memphis branch, the Mississippi & Tennessee, for example, but wanted to merge it into the New Orleans road through a permanent lease. As president of the subsidiary road, Harriman’spent four months dickering with minority holders before getting the new lease in place. More months went into negotiating the purchase of the financially troubled Louisville, New Orleans & Texas, an 807-mile system lying between Memphis and New Orleans, which was finally acquired in June 1892.10
These efforts paled before Harriman’s struggle over another road, the Chesapeake, Ohio & Southwestern. Since its main line ran between Louisville and Memphis, the Illinois Central and the Louisville & Nashville (L&N) agreed to purchase the road jointly. The transaction was a complex one in which the L&N was to get the road and the Illinois Central would have only trackage rights between Memphis and Fulton, Kentucky, but nothing went smoothly. Fish got into a bitter dispute with August Belmont, chairman of the L&N board, over the terms of their agreement that was resolved only when the court barred the L&N from acquiring control of the Southwestern.11
The legal battle dragged on until 1896, when the Supreme Court upheld the decision against the L&N. In July the Illinois Central took control of the entire 456-mile Southwestern system, which then had to be foreclosed and reorganized because it was in receivership. Much of this work fell to Harriman, who tended it closely. Not until October 1897 did he have the Southwestern ready to lease to the parent road. He also spent considerable time arranging for the foreclosure and reorganization of two small branch lines of the Southwestern. The legal and financial snarls of minor projects were often as intricate of those on larger roads, but Harriman became masterful at the work.12
By 1896 Fish and Harriman had greatly enlarged the presence of the Illinois Central in its territory. The system embraced 4,390 miles of track, nearly four times what it had been in 1877. The transformation envisioned by Fish when he enlisted the help of Harriman and others had come to fruition. The Illinois Central was not only larger but stronger as well. Expansion did not weaken or undermine its health as it did so many other systems. The company did not merely grow; it devised new methods of organization and management to support the enlarged system.13
Above all, it financed growth in an orderly and creative manner. For this Harriman was chiefly responsible, and he was just as busy at the work in 1896 as he had been in past years. When the Illinois Central celebrated its golden anniversary in 1901, Fish declared, “The measure of success which has been achieved by the company in the last twenty years, with regard to finances is due to no man more than to the chairman of our finance committee, Mr. Harriman.” By that time Harriman had moved beyond the Illinois Central to become a dominant force in the railroad world. The apprentice had become the master.14
The depression of 1893–97 affected Harriman’s career in two contradictory ways. On one hand, the pinch forced him to keep a close eye on the family banking firm even though he was not fully responsible for it. His ties to Wall Street had shifted but not radically; if anything, they had been enhanced by his growing reputation as an astute railroad financier. On the other hand, hard times created opportunities for him to roam beyond his usual sphere of activity. During these years Harriman joined his friends in a variety of ventures, some in far-flung places and others in his own backyard. In these peripheral excursions he sought not only profit but new directions for his career to take.
One venture found him. In July 1893 the hapless Erie Railroad joined the procession of roads swept into bankruptcy by the depression. The task of reorganizing its complicated affairs fell to J. R Morgan, whose New York office shared the burden with its London counterpart because so many Erie securities were held in England. One problem in particular divided the two offices. The Erie had a second consolidated mortgage with terms so peculiar that they had triggered many of the road’s problems. Since many of these bonds were held abroad, the London office wished to protect their status in the new plan. But Morgan was convinced that a sound reorganization demanded large sacrifices from these holders, and this view shaped the final plan.15
When the plan went public in January 1894, the provisions for the second mortgage bonds became the flash point of protest. The outcry came not only from England but also from an array of American houses, including Kuhn, Loeb, August Belmont, and Harriman & Co. The dispute was over terms, not objectives. All sides agreed that the Erie’s capital structure had to be simplified and scaled down. The dissidents argued that Morgan had not gone far enough in this direction and that his plan imposed an unfair burden on one class of holders. Although his own holdings in the Erie were small, Harriman took up the fight with his usual relish. The Erie was his friendly neighborhood railroad; Arden had its own depot at which Erie trains stopped on request.
Morgan brushed the objections aside and kept his original plan intact. His stance divided the protesters. The more cautious among them, such as Kuhn, Loeb, decided not to fight the plan; others formed a protective committee to oppose it. Harriman agreed to head the committee. When the Erie plan gained enough support to go into effect, he promptly filed suit to block it. There is a famous story about Harriman going to Morgan’s office and laying out his objections to the plan. When Morgans partners asked whom he represented, Harriman’snapped, “Myself!”16
The tale is apocryphal but not out of character. The court denied Harriman’s request for an injunction, and the Morgan plan went into effect. Within months, however, the Erie’s earnings proved so dismal that Morgan’s firm was forced to scrap the original plan and impose a new one along the lines demanded by the Harriman committee. The revised version, put into effect in November 1895, gave Harriman the satisfaction of having lost the battle but won the war. It would not be the last time he and Morgan tangled over the Erie.17
Unfortunately, the clash also added another layer of friction between Harriman and Morgan. The outcome, noted Kennan, vindicated Harriman’s foresight and gave “a number of leading bankers a higher opinion of his judgment and courage.” To Morgan and his partners, however, the episode merely demonstrated anew that, as his son-in-law observed, “Harriman always wanted to get terms which were a little better than other people’s.”18
Who was right? Which one was the real Harriman: the public-spirited banker of courage or the sharpster trying to beat better terms out of Morgan for his own holdings through the usual tactic of harassment? The man of vision or the terrier nipping at Jupiter’s heels? The only answer even close to correct was all of the above.
During these years Harriman did not confine his business ventures to railroads. His outside investments fell into three broad categories: those related to the Illinois Central Railroad; unrelated opportunities that caught his attention, and projects in which his relatives had an interest.
It made good sense for men like Fish and Harriman to invest in businesses along the railroad’s line. Apart from any profits they might glean, the object was to develop new sources of traffic. After absorbing one branch road, for example, the Illinois Central subsidized an experiment to grow sugar beets in its territory. Fish and Harriman took stock in a New Orleans company called Grammercy Sugar, which hoped to use the raw sugar planted in the Delta region. They also invested in a textile firm that used cotton from the Illinois Central region. Neither enterprise made them rich.19
In the course of business Harriman often got invited to put money into projects only marginally related to the railroad. Since the Illinois Central received a large traffic from the Gulf, many of these solicitations came from Latin America. They ranged from a bank in Honduras to some banana plantations that prompted Fish to ask Harriman wryly, “Do you want to buy a ‘pig in a poke’?” Sometimes Fish bit, but Harriman usually kept his money at home.20
Occasionally Harriman took up a project for family or personal reasons. When one of his brothers got in over his head with a streetcar line in St. Joseph, Missouri, Henry bought control of the company and sorted out its affairs. He went to St. Joseph, looked over the property, and ordered improvements made. Once this was done, Harriman’sold the company. Later he claimed that he had never made a cent while he owned it.21
Another bailout involved Mary’s brother William, who had gone partners with his cousin in the Furnaceville Iron Company, located in that small town between Rochester and Sodus Point. Despite backing from his father and uncle, the venture failed. Harriman ended up as president of the company by 1889, but it did little business after the depression struck. In 1895, however, the state legislature authorized an expenditure of $9 million to enlarge the Erie Canal. Harriman decided to submit bids for all the work between Rochester and Lock-port and came away with five contracts covering thirty-four miles of canal. By December 1897 his manager had assembled the machines, tools, and men needed for the project. Then, five months later, the state abruptly ordered work to cease. The original appropriation had been too small, there had been cost overruns, and an investigation hinted at scandal among some contractors.22
Litigation over the unfinished work dragged on for years. Through this long ordeal Harriman’stood firm even though the Furnaceville Iron Company meant little to him. By 1898 he was preoccupied with other matters, yet he pressed the suits until the state paid Furnaceville more than $100,000 for its claims. In part, his stubbornness stemmed from loyalty; as with most of his activities, he had sold Fish (and probably other friends) some stock in the iron company.23
The largest and most satisfying project Harriman undertook during these years was literally in his own backyard. He expanded the original three-room cottage at Arden into a large, rambling, comfortable house, then set about transforming the estate itself into what amounted to his private duchy. Arden became a striking example of Harriman’s ability to mix business with pleasure.
The cottage had to be enlarged because the Harrimans were spending more time there, and the family was growing. Three new children helped ease the still painful loss of little Harry. A third daughter, Carol, arrived in December 1889, followed in November 1891 by the son Harriman had craved so desperately since Harry’s death. He received the name William Averell. Four years later, on Christmas Eve, Mary delighted Henry with a special present in the form of another son. He was named Edward Roland Noel Harriman, honoring his father, grandfather (Roland was the closest thing to Orlando that Henry could abide), and the season.24
The growth of his family and the enlargement of the house at Arden revealed Harriman’s growing determination to sink deep roots in Orange County. Three of its proudest traditions were dairying, mining, and horse breeding; after 1890 Harriman plunged eagerly into all three activities. Arden may have been a retreat, but like all of Harriman’s activities, it quickly became an active rather than a passive pleasure. Milk and dairy products had been the staple of Orange County farmers throughout the nineteenth century. A new frontier opened in 1842, when the Erie Railroad carried the first consignment of milk to reach New York City by train. Five years later the first regular milk train from Orange County made its maiden run.25
Harriman could not resist getting into the business because it used Ardens resources so nicely. He created a new company called Arden Farms, which leased everything it used from Arden. The estate grew hay and fodder for feed, and the surrounding villages served as market along with Tuxedo Park. Harriman also tried to distribute his milk to the poorer districts of New York around the Boys’ Club. He had the milk packed in sanitized cartons and offered it for a penny a quart less than other milk to get it to children. But his tactics backfired: the tenement people thought something must be wrong with the cheaper milk and refused to buy it.26
Horse breeding suited both Harriman and Arden even better than dairying. The lay of the land in Orange County was ideal for breeding. The quality of grasses was superb, especially for the light harness horse or trotter in which Orange County had long excelled. At Arden Harriman’s passion for sports moved easily into horse breeding and racing. His approach showed the same single-minded purpose he brought to business. Surveying the venerable stables that dotted Orange County, he concluded that what he needed most was a prize champion and stud. Without hesitation Harriman plunked down $41,000 for a horse named Stamboul, which more than repaid him as a winner on the turf, in the show ring, and as a stud. Despite the horse’s value, Harriman was not prissy about using him. One winter he wired Arden’s stablemaster from New York, “Send Stamboul.” When the horse arrived, Harriman hitched him to a sleigh to race on Harlem River Drive.27
Once in the fall of 1895 he was eager to see an important race at Goshen but missed the Erie train that stopped there. The only other train was the Chicago express, which made local stops only to pick up passengers. Harriman asked an Erie official to have the express drop him at Goshen as a courtesy; the official refused curtly. Undaunted, Harriman wired a friend in Goshen to buy a ticket for Chicago and got on the train himself in New York. When the train stopped to pick up his friend, Harriman jumped off and got to the race in time. Here again he exhibited the trait that had so offended Morgan. Harriman did whatever he had to do to get what he wanted, and he did not care what anybody else thought of it. If bruised feelings or smoldering resentments were left in his wake, he took little notice. As he was reputed to have told Morgan, he represented himself. Everybody else could do the same, and may the best man win.28
In mining, Harriman’s activity extended beyond the little Furnaceville company. Arden had, after all, begun life as a mining and iron-making enterprise. Harriman made no effort to revive the Parrott ironworks, but he did acquire a mine at Sterling, just west of Arden, along with twenty thousand acres of forest that remained in the family until the 1950s. The lure of mining may have had a more profound influence on his career than anyone has realized. His first interest in the West concerned mines rather than railroads, notably some copper properties in Idaho and a gold mine in South Dakota.29
Arden contained a small village filled with people who had once worked the mines or were employed on the property. To these people Harriman became the patriarch as the estate and dairy replaced the mine. Gradually Squire Harriman emerged as the father figure that Orlando had never quite been, overseeing everything and taking care of everyone. He provided the jobs and backed the local store. To outside eyes he craved money and power, but at Arden he aspired to be the rock on which the residents could anchor their lives.30
Harriman enlarged and improved not only his house but the estate itself. He gobbled up adjacent land until the original holding nearly quadrupled and was twice the size of Manhattan Island. “He collects mountains,” groused one unimpressed neighbor, “as other men collect china.” To provide power for the village, Harriman installed a small water-driven power plant. When the demand for electricity outstripped its capacity, he built a larger, coal-driven plant in the nearby village of Turners to serve both communities and the Sterling mine.31
A large estate required good roads. Harriman developed a passion for building and improving them, first at Arden and then for the county. He was elected road supervisor for Orange County and quickly overspent his budget. On his own Harriman built a new road along the west bank of the Ramapo River. To learn firsthand how things were done, he willingly paid his tuition. When bids were requested for a few miles of macadamized road near Arden, Harriman offered to do the work for $25,000 a mile even though the going rate was around $100,000 a mile.32
Like any proper manor, Arden had its own Episcopal church. St. John’s had been built in 1863 with backing from the Parrotts and others. The Harrimans were adamant that the church serve as the center of village life even though the local men showed little interest in religion. Determined to change their habits, Harriman brought in a new minister to preside over his growing flock. The amiable J. H. McGuinness served his new master well and got vigorous support for his good works.33
Shortly after McGuinness’s arrival in September 1895, Harriman’scolded the men from the estate for their religious sloth. “The lack of interest on your part,” he wrote, “is discouraging to those who provide the means whereby you can have the important privilege of attending church services.” The men got the message quickly. When attendance improved the next Sunday, Harriman invited the men to create a church organization for the winter months and offered to pay for three-fourths of the entire expense himself.34
The Harrimans were usually in residence all summer and most weekends, and Henry wanted the men to commit themselves to sustaining the church in his absence. He made no bones about what he expected from them: “The religious work cannot be carried on permanently, without active and continued help by the men. Women and children must not be left to do it all. Boys attend Sunday School and Church and are no doubt benefitted thereby. But by the example of the men they only expect to do so while boys. Under the influence of your indifference they get to believe that, when they grow up it is unmanly to attend church and show any interest in religion. You should change this. Make it a pleasure as well as benefit and do the thing in a whole-souled way.”35
The squire practiced what he preached. He and his family were in church every Sunday, filling their reserved pew up front, chanting the responses and singing the hymns in lusty voices. Once Harriman had to miss church because his daughter Cornelia suffered an attack of appendicitis the night before and required an immediate operation. In the midst of his anxious vigil Harriman dashed off a note to McGuinness explaining their absence from church and asking that a prayer be said “for the sick child & us all.”36
After church Harriman usually took the parson home with him to have lunch and discuss the parish’s mission work, in which the whole family took a keen interest. Already he and Mary were training the older girls in good works, giving them cases of their own and saying, “That’s yours to attend to. Investigate the case, find out if it’s deserving, give what you think is right.” Henry believed in philanthropy but not in extravagance, which he could no more abide at home than at the office. Sometimes he impressed on the children the harsh lessons of his own childhood. “Money comes hard,” he liked to tell them. “It should go wisely.”37
There was not a single false note in Harriman’s attitude toward religion. Both he and Mary had been reared in families steeped in the traditions of worship and service. As a minister’s son, Henry could hardly have escaped it, but he never rebelled against it. He prodded (some would say coerced) the men of Arden into religious worship out of a stern sense of duty as well as a desire to impose order on his manor. Some resented Harriman’s way of doing things, but no one doubted the sincerity of his convictions.
Unlike his business persona, the squire was not an aloof figure at Arden. Social services were delivered with a personal touch, and Harriman took immense pleasure in the village characters—a blacksmith from Chester, a black preacher, and the old-timers living out their last years as pensioners on the estate. Harriman kept them on the payroll doing something just to preserve their self-respect. One day he stopped to give a lift home to one named Stevens, who was pushing ninety years old.
“Do you drink?” he asked Stevens as they rode along.
“Yes sir, but not to interfere with my work,” said Stevens without hesitation.
“Well,” said Harriman, smiling, “if ever you’re sick and need a little bracer, let me know.”
“I’m sick now, sir,” answered Stevens at once.38
Harriman loved to tell this story along with one about a sixteen-year-old boy named Lukey, whose spunk he admired. Once he had noticed Lukey smoking and asked him sharply, “Do you think it’s good for you?”
Lukey looked him in the eye, which pleased Harriman, and asked coolly, “Why do you sell tobacco in your store?”39
On another occasion Harriman was trying to hurry an old German to a cab. When the old man dawdled, Harriman’snatched up his bag impatiently and carried it on ahead. “Its some satisfaction,” grinned the pensioner later, “to have had a millionaire carry your bag for you.”40
These vignettes do not suggest that Harriman’spent his days mingling with the masses, but neither did he keep himself remote from them. “If more wealthy men were democratic,” he liked to say, “the public wouldn’t be so down on them.” The difference was that Harriman liked to impress people with what he did rather than with who or what he was. He never worried that someone might take advantage of him or make him look foolish. No one doubted who was lord of the manor, but few lords enjoyed the company of their flock with such relish.41
He demanded much of his workers and could be hard on them when they did not perform. Like others of his class, Harriman had trouble keeping good servants. Once in 1888 the butler went to town and came back to Arden “drunk & ‘sassy,’” in Harriman’s words. “I bounced him & he had to walk to Southfield,” he told Fish, who was planning to visit Arden with his wife later that week. While Henry assured Fish that everything would be ready for them, Mary hurried to the city in search of fresh recruits.42
The squire took care of his flock in many ways, including medical needs. When a scrubwoman fell ill, Harriman asked McGuinness to summon a nearby doctor whose practice was limited to more fashionable people. The doctor put off coming for a mere menial despite five calls from McGuinness. When Harriman heard this, he dialed the doctor himself and said in steely tones, “Go to Mrs. M— and go at once!” It was two o’clock on an icy winter morning, but the doctor hurried to Arden without delay.43
Christmas at Arden always delighted the Harrimans, who saw to it that every person on the estate received a present selected by some member of the family. Mary usually did the honors with Henry at her side. One year it was discovered that a small boy with a drunken father had been overlooked by mistake. A chagrined Harriman barged through the house, found a good sled, and tramped four miles through the woods in the stinging cold to deliver it personally. It was not nobility or a flair for the grand gesture that impelled him so much as his fierce determination to do things right and to brook no obstacle in the doing of them.44
At Arden Harriman counseled and lectured his flock, played baseball and hockey with them, rode and hiked about with them, and adjudicated their disputes. Whatever game he played, the competition was savage and waged according to one inviolable Harriman commandment: the rules must be obeyed at all times. He provided uniforms for the village baseball team and in 1900 built a social hall above the school for basketball, parties, and plays, which he invariably attended as he did those of the Boys’ Club. When the Driving Association planned to fence its track at Goshen, Harriman objected. “What if some do steal in and see the races for nothing?” he argued. “They couldn’t pay their way in—so we don’t lose, and, anyway, they need the fun.”45
Unlike many busy people, he knew how to play and how to release himself entirely to the pleasure of simple things. In middle age no less than in youth, nothing gave him more pleasure than nature. On that score, Arden was for him truly paradise. He loved not only to ride or drive his horses but even more to walk and thought nothing of tramping miles through the forest. Little Echo Lake in front of the house was too shallow and muddy for swimming, but three miles into the woods lay Forest Lake, a spring-fed beauty with waters ninety feet deep. Harriman built a crude stable to house the horses and Adirondack-type tents with wood floors.46
There Harriman would ride with some of the family or friends, leave the horses, row to one of the small islands in the lake, and set up camp to fish or swim or loaf beneath the trees as he had at Paul Smith’s. He had a passion for trees and, believing that each one had its own personality, would not let one be chopped down without a forester’s advice. At the edge of Echo Lake stood a special tree where he sat motionless for hours, staring at the distant forest while his mind churned with plans and prospects.47
At Arden Harriman came into his own during the depression years. He reveled with his family and friends in the clean, elemental life of the outdoors, and he grew comfortably into the role of squire. He learned to rule a duchy before he ever ruled a business kingdom, and the experience both revealed and deepened his passion to manage. Years later, having decided to build a great new house at Arden, he told a friend, “You are a minister’s son, and I’m a minister’s son. Minister’s sons never have homes. I’m going to have a home here.”48
He had long since made Arden a home and a sanctuary from the cares and hostility of the outside world. The squire loved his manor and his flock and believed they loved him. “Go to Arden,” he told a reporter defiantly years later, after he had become a national target. “Don’t tell me when you go; go by yourself and ask questions of the people there. There isn’t a man or woman in Arden that wouldn’t go to hell and back for me, if I asked them.” Harriman might be at war with the world, but at home he was always at peace.49