Marry for Wealth, Repent Forever
My name is Winston Plunchard (not that my name should make any difference), and I would like to tell you, if I may, a tale of sorrow and willfulness. It is my own tale, the tale of my own unbearable sorrow, which was caused by my own willfulness. Although it is not a pleasant tale, or one that offers any degree of uplift, I believe that open-minded readers might be able to glean a valuable lesson from it, a lesson that might save them from suffering the same bitter destiny that has engulfed this wretched scribe. That, at least, is my earnest hope.
It is clear to me now, indeed, it is most painfully clear, that my problems began when I decided to become wealthy. Not that I ever was an especially greedy fellow, that is to say, I was never greedy merely for its own sake, but I did have a strong liking for expensive items, and I figured that being rich (enjoying a life of luxury as opposed to enduring a life of poverty) had to be much better than not being rich, which just goes to show how utterly brainless a young man can be. How could I ever have thought such a foolish thing?
I was only twenty-two years old, hardly more than a callow youth, barely out of my boyhood. What did I know of life at that age? (What does anyone, at any age, young or old, ever actually know of life?) My overwhelming desire for wealth was a fateful yearning, a mindless rush of blind impetuousness, a wrongheaded error of unsound judgment that gave a malign shape to the structure of my future. It also forced me to pay higher taxes.
Because I was loath to engage in the kind of hard work that staid convention decrees to be necessary in a quest for wealth, I reckoned that the easiest way for me to become wealthy was to marry a wealthy woman. It seemed a reasonable manner in which to proceed, but as I already have stated, I was young and I was not thinking clearly. I later would curse the moment that I ever contrived such an unworthy intention.
How shall I describe my first impression of Gretel Hobstonk? How does one describe the sight of an ill-boding apparition in a bad dream? Frankly, words fail me. I will say only that, even when viewed with gracious eyes, she could never have been mistaken for Aphrodite, or even for Queen Victoria (or, for that matter, one of my maiden aunts). Nevertheless, in spite of her glaring deficiencies, in terms of looks and personality, she did have a great deal of money, which made her undeniably appealing to me.
We met by accident, when Gretel knocked me over while she was hurrying out of a delicatessen, clutching a container of chicken salad. I instantly knew her face, having seen a photograph of her (with the caption, "Local heiress makes donation of diamond necklace, for the purpose of a raffle to benefit charity") in a newspaper. I also knew that she was wealthy. It was, as random chances go, too good to miss, and I did not intend to miss it.
"Hello," I said, as I got up and dusted myself off.
"Hello," she said. "I hope you're all right."
"Yes, I'm fine," I said.
"That's good," she said.
"Aren't you Miss Gretel Hobstonk?" I asked.
"Why, yes, I am," she replied.
"I've seen a photograph of you in the newspaper, but you’re much better looking than the photo," I said, abandoning all pretense of truthfulness.
"Oh, thank you very much," she said, blushing in a fashion that she probably hoped would come across as pleasingly girlish. "You’re very nice to say so."
"A gentleman cannot lie," I said, wincing inwardly as I lied.
"Would you like some chicken salad?" she asked, coyly extending a plastic fork in my direction.
"Uh, no, I’m not hungry right now, but thank you, anyway," I replied.
I determined, there and then, to sweep Gretel off her (fairly enormous) feet, a goal that I swiftly accomplished, within a few weeks and without so much as a drop of sweat. At that time, I had lately become betrothed to Miss Elspeth Woozendiffle, the girl next door and the sweetest girl that I had ever known. Elspeth was, for the most part, a wonderful person, and she would, no doubt, have been perfect as a spouse, but she had no money, so I duly broke off with her and feigned to turn my affections toward Gretel.
To endear myself to Gretel, all I had to do was to swallow my pride (what little there was of it), go down on one knee, and declare myself to be thoroughly entranced by her winsome loveliness. It was a shamelessly dishonest thing to do, but I did it nonetheless. Oh yes, I did it nonetheless, and I did it with a smile. When one has made up one’s mind to achieve something, one is impelled to do whatever one must do, without pausing to weigh the conceivable likelihood of woe, regret, and ruin.
I had no illusions in regard to Gretel, as either a woman or a potential wife. It could never be said, by anyone who was not a confirmed fantasist, that Gretel was beautiful, or that she had been endowed with a keen intellect. Aside from her ample wealth, there was not much that could be said in Gretel's favor, but as it happened, it was her wealth, and her wealth alone, that drew me toward her.
When a bountiful opportunity manifests itself, it generally is best not to delay in grasping it, so I quickly proposed to Gretel, and she just as quickly accepted. We soon were married. Our wedding was a brazenly lavish affair, with no expense spared, and with a guest list running to the hundreds. We had a luxury honeymoon in Tahiti, staying in a resort near the ocean, after which we returned to our new home, a mansion with thirty-five rooms (and nearly as many bathrooms), a cinema with seating for fifty, an extensive library filled only with first editions, an indoor swimming pool, and a tennis court.
Once we settled into married life, I set about spending Gretel's money. I spent it mostly on the usual things: cars (seven vintage Bentleys, one for each day of the week), clothes (lots of Italian suits), alcohol (champagne for breakfast), and women (young, loose, and shapely). I tried, at the outset, to be discreet where women on the side were concerned, but over the decades of our marriage I became decidedly less circumspect, with inevitable results that any dullard (other than myself) could have foretold without difficulty.
In remorseful hindsight, I must allow that my unwholesome habit of being seen at varied nightspots, carrying on with one woman after another, night after night, probably did not help my situation, but I am not going to make any excuses for my reprobate behavior. I was weak, and I was heedless. I was, for many years, a willing slave to feminine wiles, particularly when those wiles were temptingly dispensed by exuberant redheads with a carefree talent for dancing on the tops of tables until dawn. It was too much, too frequently.
In addition to spending money, I also had to get along with my new father-in-law, Lionel P. Hobstonk, who was the source of the wealth in which I now shared as Gretel's husband. Lionel put great store in portraying himself as a self-made man. He had made a considerable fortune for himself by ensuring that he was the leading wholesale supplier of flibgraps. "No fewer than half a dozen flibgraps in every home" were the words by which Lionel lived. As far as I know, no one has ever found a use for a flibgrap, but owing to the unceasing activities of feverish promotion that continually were undertaken by Lionel Hobstonk, every home has no fewer than half a dozen of them.
Being in possession of many millions of dollars added nothing of quality to Lionel's character. He had few interests beyond the grubby confines of big business. He was, at heart, a crude man with crude tastes, and was happy to spend most evenings at home with his second wife, Myrtle, watching wrestling on television while consuming pretzels and beer. (His first wife, Zelda, Gretel's mother, had left him years before he made his millions, causing a scandal by taking up with a smooth-talking pharmacist who spirited her away to a dreary life of quiet frustration and intense knitting in Old Shoe, a small town in northern Vermont.)
Gretel herself was as dim as a doorknob, and had no more taste than her father. Her general sensibilities were only slightly removed from those of a slovenly bricklayer. She was excessively fond of viewing inferior films, preferably ones that featured violent gangs on fast motorcycles, tearing around in hot pursuit of peroxide blondes and cheap fun. Even now, I cannot say, with certainty, whether it was Gretel or her father who was most repellent to me. I tend to think of them as two sides of the same coin: both of them working together, driving me beyond the realm of sanity and hastening the utter destruction of my soul.
Still, I did have plenty of money to spend. I greatly enjoyed being rich, but I found that it was not without drawbacks. At first, I dismissed those drawbacks, casually brushing them aside, day by day, until they became more pressing. When a person becomes rich, all of their relations and all of their friends (and all of those who claim to be friends) suddenly presume upon said person, each of them taking it for granted that they are entitled to a sizable loan (or an outright gift). I received the first nine or ten requests with a strained attempt at good grace, but after that I steadfastly refused everyone. I did not want to be perceived as a soft touch.
In the meantime, our marriage began its long descent into a sour condition of unmitigated misery. It is one thing to not be madly in love with your wife (a malady that is common to many husbands), but it is entirely another thing to vehemently hate the sight of her. Gretel and I rarely spoke to each other, and my father-in-law, who never liked me and (rightly) suspected me of being an unfaithful spouse, made daily threats against my safety. Worst of all, he hired a private detective to follow me and track my every move. When the detective provided Gretel with photographic evidence of my shameless dalliances, the game was over. I was sunk, well and truly, and I knew it.
When the end of our marriage finally came, it was short and sharp. It came in the form of a grim showdown between an angry wife (Gretel) and a rueful husband (me), bringing a harsh conclusion to a foul union that had never, not even for a fleeting moment, been able to approximate any semblance of blissful harmony.
"Winston, I've seen photographs of you with other women," Gretel said, giving me a cold look. "You've been cheating on me."
"Yes, I'm afraid so," I said.
"How could you?" she asked, as she lost her reserve and fell into a wild fit of unrestrained weeping.
"What can I say?" I replied. "Unfortunately, Gretel, these things happen."
"You don't love me!" she said.
"Yes, that is quite true," I said.
"Right from the beginning, you never loved me!" she said.
"Yes, that also is quite true," I said.
"You only married me for my money!" she said.
"Again, what you say is quite true." I said.
"Then you don't deny it?" she asked.
"No, I do not deny it," I replied. "To do so would be false and useless."
It should come as no surprise when I tell you that my conversation with Gretel went downhill from there. My attempt at full honesty, however guileless and daring it might have been, did not appear to lessen her anger. On the contrary, it seemed that she would rather not hear the truth, full or otherwise. (Women, in my experience, sometimes can be funny about hearing the truth.) She went to a lawyer the next day and filed for a divorce. We had no children, but Gretel did seek custody of our goldfish, Tiberius.
By that hideous stage of my wedded ordeal, I had surrendered: I had given up, humbly and completely. I no longer cared about being rich. I no longer cared about the cars, the clothes, the alcohol, or the women (not even the exuberant redheads). I knew, deep within myself, that I was beaten, and I had no strength to resist the heavy penalties that I knew would, undoubtedly, ensue. I was a broken man. I was washed-up. I was finished.
When the divorce was granted, I was cast into the wilderness, cut off without so much as a penny. I was left only with a burdensome collection of sickening memories. I had no more money to spend on Bentleys, no more money to spend on Italian suits, no more money to spend on champagne, and no more money to spend on meaningless flings with women who were young, loose, and shapely. In short, I had no money at all. (Easy come, easy go, etc.) I took some joy in knowing that I was, at last, free of Gretel and her father, but not much. For me, it was a case of "marry for wealth, repent forever."
I can see that, had I been wiser when I was young, I would have acted with more forethought. Most pertinently, I would have turned away from my unwary craving for wealth. I would, at all costs, have avoided any course of action that might have connected me to Gretel Hobstonk, as an ardent vegetarian avoids a T-bone steak, and I would have married Elspeth Woozendiffle. Now that I think of it, perhaps I should give Elspeth a call. We could have a nice chat about the old days. Assuming, of course, that she is willing to speak with me.
It is clear to me now, indeed, it is most painfully clear, that my problems began when I decided to become wealthy. Not that I ever was an especially greedy fellow, that is to say, I was never greedy merely for its own sake, but I did have a strong liking for expensive items, and I figured that being rich (enjoying a life of luxury as opposed to enduring a life of poverty) had to be much better than not being rich, which just goes to show how utterly brainless a young man can be. How could I ever have thought such a foolish thing?
I was only twenty-two years old, hardly more than a callow youth, barely out of my boyhood. What did I know of life at that age? (What does anyone, at any age, young or old, ever actually know of life?) My overwhelming desire for wealth was a fateful yearning, a mindless rush of blind impetuousness, a wrongheaded error of unsound judgment that gave a malign shape to the structure of my future. It also forced me to pay higher taxes.
Because I was loath to engage in the kind of hard work that staid convention decrees to be necessary in a quest for wealth, I reckoned that the easiest way for me to become wealthy was to marry a wealthy woman. It seemed a reasonable manner in which to proceed, but as I already have stated, I was young and I was not thinking clearly. I later would curse the moment that I ever contrived such an unworthy intention.
How shall I describe my first impression of Gretel Hobstonk? How does one describe the sight of an ill-boding apparition in a bad dream? Frankly, words fail me. I will say only that, even when viewed with gracious eyes, she could never have been mistaken for Aphrodite, or even for Queen Victoria (or, for that matter, one of my maiden aunts). Nevertheless, in spite of her glaring deficiencies, in terms of looks and personality, she did have a great deal of money, which made her undeniably appealing to me.
We met by accident, when Gretel knocked me over while she was hurrying out of a delicatessen, clutching a container of chicken salad. I instantly knew her face, having seen a photograph of her (with the caption, "Local heiress makes donation of diamond necklace, for the purpose of a raffle to benefit charity") in a newspaper. I also knew that she was wealthy. It was, as random chances go, too good to miss, and I did not intend to miss it.
"Hello," I said, as I got up and dusted myself off.
"Hello," she said. "I hope you're all right."
"Yes, I'm fine," I said.
"That's good," she said.
"Aren't you Miss Gretel Hobstonk?" I asked.
"Why, yes, I am," she replied.
"I've seen a photograph of you in the newspaper, but you’re much better looking than the photo," I said, abandoning all pretense of truthfulness.
"Oh, thank you very much," she said, blushing in a fashion that she probably hoped would come across as pleasingly girlish. "You’re very nice to say so."
"A gentleman cannot lie," I said, wincing inwardly as I lied.
"Would you like some chicken salad?" she asked, coyly extending a plastic fork in my direction.
"Uh, no, I’m not hungry right now, but thank you, anyway," I replied.
I determined, there and then, to sweep Gretel off her (fairly enormous) feet, a goal that I swiftly accomplished, within a few weeks and without so much as a drop of sweat. At that time, I had lately become betrothed to Miss Elspeth Woozendiffle, the girl next door and the sweetest girl that I had ever known. Elspeth was, for the most part, a wonderful person, and she would, no doubt, have been perfect as a spouse, but she had no money, so I duly broke off with her and feigned to turn my affections toward Gretel.
To endear myself to Gretel, all I had to do was to swallow my pride (what little there was of it), go down on one knee, and declare myself to be thoroughly entranced by her winsome loveliness. It was a shamelessly dishonest thing to do, but I did it nonetheless. Oh yes, I did it nonetheless, and I did it with a smile. When one has made up one’s mind to achieve something, one is impelled to do whatever one must do, without pausing to weigh the conceivable likelihood of woe, regret, and ruin.
I had no illusions in regard to Gretel, as either a woman or a potential wife. It could never be said, by anyone who was not a confirmed fantasist, that Gretel was beautiful, or that she had been endowed with a keen intellect. Aside from her ample wealth, there was not much that could be said in Gretel's favor, but as it happened, it was her wealth, and her wealth alone, that drew me toward her.
When a bountiful opportunity manifests itself, it generally is best not to delay in grasping it, so I quickly proposed to Gretel, and she just as quickly accepted. We soon were married. Our wedding was a brazenly lavish affair, with no expense spared, and with a guest list running to the hundreds. We had a luxury honeymoon in Tahiti, staying in a resort near the ocean, after which we returned to our new home, a mansion with thirty-five rooms (and nearly as many bathrooms), a cinema with seating for fifty, an extensive library filled only with first editions, an indoor swimming pool, and a tennis court.
Once we settled into married life, I set about spending Gretel's money. I spent it mostly on the usual things: cars (seven vintage Bentleys, one for each day of the week), clothes (lots of Italian suits), alcohol (champagne for breakfast), and women (young, loose, and shapely). I tried, at the outset, to be discreet where women on the side were concerned, but over the decades of our marriage I became decidedly less circumspect, with inevitable results that any dullard (other than myself) could have foretold without difficulty.
In remorseful hindsight, I must allow that my unwholesome habit of being seen at varied nightspots, carrying on with one woman after another, night after night, probably did not help my situation, but I am not going to make any excuses for my reprobate behavior. I was weak, and I was heedless. I was, for many years, a willing slave to feminine wiles, particularly when those wiles were temptingly dispensed by exuberant redheads with a carefree talent for dancing on the tops of tables until dawn. It was too much, too frequently.
In addition to spending money, I also had to get along with my new father-in-law, Lionel P. Hobstonk, who was the source of the wealth in which I now shared as Gretel's husband. Lionel put great store in portraying himself as a self-made man. He had made a considerable fortune for himself by ensuring that he was the leading wholesale supplier of flibgraps. "No fewer than half a dozen flibgraps in every home" were the words by which Lionel lived. As far as I know, no one has ever found a use for a flibgrap, but owing to the unceasing activities of feverish promotion that continually were undertaken by Lionel Hobstonk, every home has no fewer than half a dozen of them.
Being in possession of many millions of dollars added nothing of quality to Lionel's character. He had few interests beyond the grubby confines of big business. He was, at heart, a crude man with crude tastes, and was happy to spend most evenings at home with his second wife, Myrtle, watching wrestling on television while consuming pretzels and beer. (His first wife, Zelda, Gretel's mother, had left him years before he made his millions, causing a scandal by taking up with a smooth-talking pharmacist who spirited her away to a dreary life of quiet frustration and intense knitting in Old Shoe, a small town in northern Vermont.)
Gretel herself was as dim as a doorknob, and had no more taste than her father. Her general sensibilities were only slightly removed from those of a slovenly bricklayer. She was excessively fond of viewing inferior films, preferably ones that featured violent gangs on fast motorcycles, tearing around in hot pursuit of peroxide blondes and cheap fun. Even now, I cannot say, with certainty, whether it was Gretel or her father who was most repellent to me. I tend to think of them as two sides of the same coin: both of them working together, driving me beyond the realm of sanity and hastening the utter destruction of my soul.
Still, I did have plenty of money to spend. I greatly enjoyed being rich, but I found that it was not without drawbacks. At first, I dismissed those drawbacks, casually brushing them aside, day by day, until they became more pressing. When a person becomes rich, all of their relations and all of their friends (and all of those who claim to be friends) suddenly presume upon said person, each of them taking it for granted that they are entitled to a sizable loan (or an outright gift). I received the first nine or ten requests with a strained attempt at good grace, but after that I steadfastly refused everyone. I did not want to be perceived as a soft touch.
In the meantime, our marriage began its long descent into a sour condition of unmitigated misery. It is one thing to not be madly in love with your wife (a malady that is common to many husbands), but it is entirely another thing to vehemently hate the sight of her. Gretel and I rarely spoke to each other, and my father-in-law, who never liked me and (rightly) suspected me of being an unfaithful spouse, made daily threats against my safety. Worst of all, he hired a private detective to follow me and track my every move. When the detective provided Gretel with photographic evidence of my shameless dalliances, the game was over. I was sunk, well and truly, and I knew it.
When the end of our marriage finally came, it was short and sharp. It came in the form of a grim showdown between an angry wife (Gretel) and a rueful husband (me), bringing a harsh conclusion to a foul union that had never, not even for a fleeting moment, been able to approximate any semblance of blissful harmony.
"Winston, I've seen photographs of you with other women," Gretel said, giving me a cold look. "You've been cheating on me."
"Yes, I'm afraid so," I said.
"How could you?" she asked, as she lost her reserve and fell into a wild fit of unrestrained weeping.
"What can I say?" I replied. "Unfortunately, Gretel, these things happen."
"You don't love me!" she said.
"Yes, that is quite true," I said.
"Right from the beginning, you never loved me!" she said.
"Yes, that also is quite true," I said.
"You only married me for my money!" she said.
"Again, what you say is quite true." I said.
"Then you don't deny it?" she asked.
"No, I do not deny it," I replied. "To do so would be false and useless."
It should come as no surprise when I tell you that my conversation with Gretel went downhill from there. My attempt at full honesty, however guileless and daring it might have been, did not appear to lessen her anger. On the contrary, it seemed that she would rather not hear the truth, full or otherwise. (Women, in my experience, sometimes can be funny about hearing the truth.) She went to a lawyer the next day and filed for a divorce. We had no children, but Gretel did seek custody of our goldfish, Tiberius.
By that hideous stage of my wedded ordeal, I had surrendered: I had given up, humbly and completely. I no longer cared about being rich. I no longer cared about the cars, the clothes, the alcohol, or the women (not even the exuberant redheads). I knew, deep within myself, that I was beaten, and I had no strength to resist the heavy penalties that I knew would, undoubtedly, ensue. I was a broken man. I was washed-up. I was finished.
When the divorce was granted, I was cast into the wilderness, cut off without so much as a penny. I was left only with a burdensome collection of sickening memories. I had no more money to spend on Bentleys, no more money to spend on Italian suits, no more money to spend on champagne, and no more money to spend on meaningless flings with women who were young, loose, and shapely. In short, I had no money at all. (Easy come, easy go, etc.) I took some joy in knowing that I was, at last, free of Gretel and her father, but not much. For me, it was a case of "marry for wealth, repent forever."
I can see that, had I been wiser when I was young, I would have acted with more forethought. Most pertinently, I would have turned away from my unwary craving for wealth. I would, at all costs, have avoided any course of action that might have connected me to Gretel Hobstonk, as an ardent vegetarian avoids a T-bone steak, and I would have married Elspeth Woozendiffle. Now that I think of it, perhaps I should give Elspeth a call. We could have a nice chat about the old days. Assuming, of course, that she is willing to speak with me.