A Lesson in Free Enterprise
By Taylor Caldwell The New American, December 30, 2002
A childhood race teaches a valuable lesson about the difference between free enterprise and socialist “share the wealth” schemes.
I am not one to genuflect when Free Enterprise is mentioned, nor do I drop my voice in reverence when speaking of it, myself. I do not think it is God’s system for bringing Heaven to earth, nor do I believe the angels shout with joy when another rugged scoundrel reaches a fifth or sixth nefarious million. (Especially these days when few make and keep money, in view of taxes, who are not red-hot crooks.) I’ve seen too many lard-heads who amassed fortunes to be respectful of them, and too many retarded intellects who collected acres of fat real estate. And to those who sneer, “If you’re so smart, why ain’t you rich, too?” I reply, “It doesn’t take much smartness to be rich. Look in your mirror, and see for yourself.” Nevertheless, and literally giving the Devil his due, Free Enterprise — inadvertently — brings liberty with it and opportunity and respect for the individual; and eventually, when it gets a little out of hand, it brings just laws which prevent a few from gobbling up everyone else and so enlarges the sphere of activity for every man with a measure of industry, intelligence, and ambition. Free Enterprise, of course, did not design free Governments, and in many cases it has resented them, but somehow free governments arise in its bustling golden shadow. Palm trees never set out deliberately to offer shade and fruit on an oasis for the sole delight of starving and thirsting men; they grow for their own benefit and thus spread cool greenness and life on the desert for others. Liberty and life and the pursuit of happiness, then, are by-products of Free Enterprise, involuntarily created, for it needs them for itself. Those who practice Free Enterprise, as do those in any other walk of life, also, reveal the normal aspects of cussedness, greed, avarice, indifference, perjury, subornation, dishonesty, cruelty, and what not. But at least they are honestly what they are, and do not tilt a plated halo over their beetling brows; nor do they warble piously, nor do they rob others for the welfare of the “underprivileged.” They may lie, but only in their own interest. There is a certain nobility about them: They are not hypocrites nor robbers of Peters to keep irresponsible Pauls on unearned velvet cushions. I’ve never heard a Free Enterpriser call some uncouth lout, bum, or criminal “another poor unfortunate.” Nor have such people rushed eagerly to the defense of a psychopathic juvenile murderer with cries of “Broken Home!” For these things alone Free Enterprise deserves our deepest respect; it is the keeper of our sanity. When it is forced out of existence a nation goes mad, drinks itself to death, or cuts its throat — all of which it well deserves. For it has shattered its central equilibrium.
First Taste of a Free Market
I’ll go along with the head-shrinkers a little when they declare that what you learn and experience in your early childhood fashions your outlook when you are an adult. I am a Free Enterpriser because of what happened to me on a bright summer day in England, when I was five years old; though I own not a single stock or bond and was never engaged in pure Free Enterprise — except once. The British calendar is full of holidays, a hangover from its gayer and heartier Catholic past. Not even Cromwell, whose boys murdered a few of my ancestors, could suppress the lusty appetite the British have for holidays and their determination to keep them, come the knouts of the Labor Party or outright Communism. A nation which loves to romp is still fairly safe, and the more holidays the better, say I. It is the dreary-hearted people who succumb to slavery, the dull who are conditioned to obey. Whitsuntide is a happy holiday in England, especially for the children. I remember that holiday in particular, when I was five, and engaged for the first, and last, time in Free Enterprise. Our little private school, which had eighteen students ranging from four years to twelve, was going to race, jump, box, and leap in competition with 18 students from the grammar (free) school nearby. We were little snobs, of course; all children are. We regarded the grammar-school students as oafs, though our own parents really could not afford to send us to a private school, my father in particular. In fact, several of the fathers of the “free-ers” were much more prosperous than the fathers of us tilt-nosed little swine. But children are notorious putters-on and use any excuse to lord it over their peers and excel and snub them; and no human Changer of the World is ever going to eliminate this healthy instinct — I hope. If he does then the world is lost. I was a good racer, for I had long legs and excellent wind, the latter due to my constant loud complaints at school and at home. I could out-bellow almost any child my age, boy or girl, and I usually did. My speed came from the fact that I needed it to escape from my agile mother who, after half an hour, would lose patience and charge me; and she had a very telling hand, and a fleet foot, being only 24 then. So I decided that I would uphold the honor of five-year-olds in Miss Brothers’ school against the slobs from the free outfit.
Saintly Supply and Demand
I knew my most dangerous contender was Elsie, who lived next door, and, like myself, had a mother whose forbearance had a low threshold. We were well-matched, being large for our age, muscular and rugged. We both possessed iron determination and were the curse of our teachers. Elsie had a slight edge on me, being considerably heavier, for her father was a foreman in the cotton mill and her mother’s table was much better than the table of my mother, who was the wife of a poor artist. Otherwise, we were even. We attended the same Sunday-school class with regularity, not because we were pious but because our parents drove us there, frequently with blows on a nice Sunday — which is rare in England, summer or not. So we duly collected a “holy card” every Sunday for attendance, and cherished them, admiring their garish colors and sometimes gory subjects. They were also means of exchange, almost as good as pennies, and I regret to say that all of us children did a thriving barter in them, trading briskly and with a keen sense of worth. Christmas brought the most valuable of cards — the Holy Family in the stable — and this was followed up, in the marts of trade, by the Crucifixion. Their worth was in their rarity. Those children who had more indulgent and loving parents naturally did not get as many cards as Elsie and I did, because they were not forced every Sunday to go to Sunday school. They could get out of it with a mere cold or a toothache, or if a heavy rain was falling, or if it was snowing. But Elsie and I rarely if ever missed a Sunday. We, therefore, were Cartiers among a lot of cheap purveyors of rhinestones. When we parted with a very valuable card we frequently demanded money, and got it. Needless to say, our parents and teachers were not aware of this wicked business, just as parents and teachers are rarely aware of anything else about their children, particularly evil. This is not due to deliberate or stupid blindness; it is just that children, who are usually engaged in notorious naughtiness, can always manage to keep their parents in the dark concerning the whole subject. I was somewhat of a better trader than Elsie, and had three St. John the Baptists to her two. Moreover, her grandmother had died at Easter time, and Elsie’s parents had taken her to Liverpool for the funeral. So Elsie missed out on a Crucifixion. I had five of them, she only three. I also had an Our Lady of Lourdes, an extreme rarity. This put me in an excellent bargaining position.
Bartering Victory
Miss Brothers chose me for the five-year-old girls’ race, remarking, as she did so, that I could out-run Satan, himself; a dubious compliment when you think of it. Elsie, a “free-er,” was chosen by her teacher to compete with me. We had had long experience in racing, for we were not loved by the neighbors for reasons now too painful to remember. Sometimes Elsie passed me in our mutual flight, and sometimes I passed her. As I recall it, it seems we ran much more than we walked, and not out of childish exuberance either. We were friends; the friendship only cracked a little when we learned that we were to race each other the next Sunday. Our families became a little cool, however, for the British take even a children’s race seriously. We soon learned that we were to uphold not only the honor of our schools but the honor of our families, and we were depressed. We didn’t get into a single act of mischief the last five days before that momentous Sunday. We even remarked to each other that we hoped it would rain, but then, we reminded each other, we’d have to race the next Sunday. We couldn’t hope for rain on every Sunday, though that is very possible in England. The race began to loom before us as a day of execution. (There were, of course, other events but we hardly thought of them. This was the Important Event.) The prize was a small wax doll with real hair. I had at least a dozen dolls; Elsie had only two. The dolls I possessed were far more expensive than the one at stake, and bigger; but all at once that doll became the supreme reward even though its drawers were crudely nailed on, unlike the dolls I possessed whose drawers had lace on them and were fastened with little buttons. I lusted for that doll. I must have it at all cost. To get it, however, I must win that race, and by a large margin. I began to think. On Friday, two days before the race, I approached Elsie warily. She watched me come, equally wary, no doubt warned by perspicacious parents. Before I could speak, she said, “My Ma says not to listen to you, Janet Caldwell.” She shook her head vigorously. I decided I didn’t like her, after all. She had a long mop of curling golden hair and my hair was red and straight; my inferiority in this regard hadn’t struck me before but now it did. “I’m not going to talk about the race,” I lied. “I just want to talk about the holy cards. Have you got an Our Lady of Lourdes, yet?” I knew she hadn’t. She licked her lips and shook her head again, this time sadly. “And you still have only three Crucifixions,” I remarked, with sympathy. “Two,” she said, her eyes mournful. “I traded one for a St. John. Not a good picture, either.” “Ah,” I said. I kicked a stone halfway across the street. “Kim Campbell wants to give me sixpence for my Our Lady of Lourdes, and another sixpence for my best Crucifixion.” This was riches! It was also an infernal lie. “The same money for a Crucifixion as for an Our Lady of Lourdes!” said Elsie incredulously. I nodded and smirked. “But this is a different Crucifixion. This wasn’t printed in Manchester. It came all the way from London.” I sighed. “Don’t you remember? You missed that one.” Elsie’s eyes filled with tears. And avarice. Then she had an idea; I could see it forming. She said, eagerly, “My Dadda says he’ll give me a shilling when I win the race. I’ll give it to you for those cards.” I knew there was a 50-50 chance that she’d win that race, and I never did believe in odds of any kind. I had to make sure. “You don’t know if you’ll win.” I said. “Then you won’t have the shilling, or the cards. Or the doll,” I said, carelessly. She considered me thoughtfully, her blue eyes narrowing. “Well?” she said, with that coming-to-the-point-at-once notable among children. “I’ll give you the cards. For nothing. If I win that race,” I said. “And you like my boy doll. I’ll give you that, too. If I win that race.” Elsie was silent. She was not struggling with Honor or with her Better Nature. Children have neither. She was weighing my boy doll, and the cards, against the possibility of getting nothing at all. The doll and the cards were a sure thing; winning was not. Children are sensible. They are also very cautious and conservative. “Let’s see the cards,” she said. I just happened to have them in my pinafore pocket. I held them up to the weak sunlight and all their fiery beauty was displayed. But Elsie, of course, saw only 12 pence, from Kim Campbell. I put the cards away, deftly. “Want a look at my doll again?” I suggested. We sneaked in the back door of my house and Elsie examined my doll. She was lost, and I knew it. We twined our left hands together in a bargain, and crossed our hearts with the right hand. This was an unbreakable pact, between equals. Then, briskly, we worked out a plan. If Elsie found herself forging ahead she would stumble, and fall. “Unless I have my new white stockings on,” she said. In that event, she would slow down. It had to be done so it looked right, I cautioned her. Adults were infamous for catching on to fakery. And they’d be watching keenly on Sunday. Elsie and I began to practice selling out the race. By tea-time we had it down pat, and were hot and exhausted. But the cartel was on.
Sharp Trading Truth
Sunday came, a bright blue day, warm and fresh. Mama, solicitous, did not hard-boil my eggs as usual or undercook my bacon. She even managed not to burn the toast. The tea did not have leaves in it, as was customary. Papa did not complain about Mama’s cooking by the time I was five. He had given up. He was so well trained now that he did not remark that he would be happy if he got a breakfast like this every day; that would have meant war. But I said, “Everything’s wonderful. Why can’t we have things like this every day? Not burned or anything?” Mama’s hand came up automatically, and then stopped in mid-air. After all, this was the day of The Race. But she gave me a brooding look. We all went out to the local playing-fields, and mobs of parents and teachers and neighbors were there. Elsie and I did not exchange a single glance as we waited with the other children for our events and competitions. We private-schoolers kept to ourselves, murmuring in genteel accents, ignoring the opposition. I did peek once to see if Elsie had on her white stockings. She had. That meant she would have to work twice as hard to deceive, and I had a worried moment. In fact, I worried steadily and did not bother to watch the preceding events. Then The Race came up. Miss Brothers gave me an anxious smile; my school-mates told me earnestly that I could run the legs off Elsie. Elsie was receiving the same encouragement from her side of the fence. I looked at her now, openly. She was a little pale; her under lip was quivering. What did this mean? We were pushed side by side, and the long green strip of grass lay between us, and a rope was stretched at the end. Endless miles away. Miss Brothers and Elsie’s teacher clapped their hands simultaneously. We leapt forward. The silly crowd screamed. I suddenly thought, even in my extreme effort, that the whole thing was stupid. Then I was thinking of something else. Elsie was panting shoulder to shoulder with me. We were churning up the turf, spurning it under our heavy soles. The rope appeared to retreat. Now we were halfway, and Elsie was still shoulder to shoulder. I gave her a fierce brief glare. Had she changed her mind, after all? Then she stumbled, appeared to trip, and fell down. The crowd roared. There were shrieks imploring Elsie to “move on, move on!” But I was ahead now. The rope came rushing at me. I reached it and clutched it. Elsie was at least five lengths behind. I had won. Mama and Papa surged against the rope, beaming and shouting. I remember the doll being thrust into my arms, and then I was led away. I don’t remember the rest of the afternoon very well. I was too intoxicated with victory. Miss Brothers gave me a damp kiss of delight. Later, in the cool twilight, I had tea with my parents; the doll sat in state in the middle of the table. I looked at it and my heart was full of joy and I had not the slightest feeling of compunction or remorse. After all, I had had an even chance of winning fairly. I said, in a grave voice, “Poor Elsie. I’ll give her one of my dolls so she won’t be too sad.” Mama, usually all the skeptic when it came to me, was so pleased today that she was touched. She looked at Papa with welling eyes. “Now, isn’t that lovely?” she asked of him. “She’s a good girl, after all, our Janet.” She beamed at me, and not a single question or doubt stood in her pretty black eyes. After tea, she took me over to Elsie’s house, and I carried the boy doll and I had the cards in my innocent little hand. Mama began to smile at Elsie’s grim parents and to begin a noble speech, but Elsie’s mother said in an ominous tone, “Mrs. Caldwell, we were just coming over to your house. Elsie’s just told us something.” Then I saw Elsie, sobbing near the fireplace, and my heart leapt. The tale was soon out. After the day’s events were over Elsie had sought out Kim Campbell and had informed him that she would soon have those two precious cards and to get his 12 pence ready. Kim, in astonishment, soon enlightened her about the truth: He had never, but never, offered such a vast sum of cash for them. He had never had 12 pence in his life, all at once. Elsie, infuriated, had then lost her head and in despair had told her parents of the whole bargain between us. She had deliberately lost the race, for my boy doll and the cards. So she said. Mama drew a deep breath. She had the story straight, but she was curious about the cards. She wanted to know what we did with the cards. So Elsie, the traitor to Free Enterprise, told of the trading and bargaining. She seemed to relish the telling. Her mother and mine were shocked. Holy cards, being used in barter! Not to keep, not to honor, not to reverence. Just for trading. Our mothers were more aghast over this for a while than the deliberate losing of the race. Then British commonsense won out. The race was the thing. “But I might’ve won the race anyway!” I screamed in rage. “And perhaps I did! Anyone who’d tell about the cards would tell a lie, too!” Mama and Elsie’s mother smacked both of us so soundly that we reeled against each other. I was a little quicker than Elsie and so got in a blow myself, against her chin. She sat down hard on the floor. Mama said to me in a fierce voice, “You’ll go right back home and get that prize doll you were supposed to have won, and bring it here and give it to Elsie. And you’ll give her those cards, too. And that boy doll of yours. This will teach you a lesson.” She seized my arm in a hand like iron and dragged me home. My last sight of Elsie was of her still sitting on the floor hugging my boy doll. Then the sight was drowned in anguished tears. Mama flung open the kitchen door and marched me into the house. Papa was sipping a peaceful cup of tea. “What now?” he said, apprehensively, as the whirlwind approached him. Mama slapped me again, then told my father the whole ghastly story. He listened. I waited for fresh punishment, from him this time. But he sat quietly at the table. Then to my amazement his light blue eyes began to dance, then he was laughing as I had never seen him laugh before. Mama was so astounded that she became speechless. I sobbed with heart-break. “It isn’t fair,” I wailed. “I really won; I think I really won.” Papa rarely opposed Mama. It just wasn’t safe. But he did then, and I think it was almost the last time in his life. He swung me up into his lap, and laughed until he cried. “The lass is right,” he said, when he could get his breath. He looked at Mama who resembled a small black thunderstorm. “She may have won after all, and it was sharp trading, you’ve got to admit that. If Elsie had sold those cards there’d not have been a word out of her. She was just revenging herself for coming out second best. So, the lass will keep her prize doll and the cards, too.” Mama gave me a shove towards the stairs. “Go along with you,” she said, “and get ready for bed.” Sniffling, clutching my prize and my cards, I went upstairs. Later I heard my parents laughing helplessly together.
Enterprising Anger
I lay in bed, full of outrage against Elsie. Then I remembered something and sat up. Elsie had said that if she wore her new white stockings she wouldn’t fall down and soil them; she would pretend to stumble a little and would then slow down and let me win. But she had worn her white stockings, and she had fallen, and it hadn’t been fakery at all. I had honestly won, though that had not been the original idea, I must admit. So, malice and envy and resentment had made her betray our code. Granted I had lied to her about the worth of the cards; they were still valuable for trading purposes, and she had my boy doll. She had no honest right to anything, in reality, for she had earned nothing. The next day I encountered Elsie outside; she was smoothing the hair of my boy doll, and she gave me a secret, tucked-in smile of triumph. “I won,” I told her, flatly. I snatched the doll from her and neatly gave her a kick when she lurched at me. Her howls filled the neighborhood as I went righteously back into our house. Free Enterprise had exerted itself again. Granted that my deal with Elsie had been a little shady, there was still a kind of honor involved. Now, rightfully, she had nothing, for she had not earned it. A feud began between our two families, and I never played with Elsie again. I did meet Elsie in London a few years ago, a brisk and aggressive lady, quite high in the Labor Party. “We’ll win next time,” she told me, firmly. “The British people deserve absolute cradle-to-grave security, and complete nationalization of all industry. It is only fair and just, you know. We don’t believe in ruthless competition; share and share alike.” “Yes,” I said, “something for nothing. As usual.” But Elsie was only puzzled. “Don’t you remember the time,” I said, “when you didn’t really win the race — when we were kids together — but somehow got something you didn’t deserve from me?” She mused over the memory. Then her face brightened. “Oh, yes,” she said, smiling. “But then, you had prettier dresses than I did. It’s true I didn’t win the race. But my father was only a workingman and your father was an artist. So, I really deserved the prize.” “Why?” She looked at me with real anger. “I can see,” she said ominously, “that at heart you are a fascist.” That’s their invariable reply. Demand justice, and you are an enemy of the People. Praise initiative, and you are an oppressor of “minority groups.” Say, with St. Paul, that “he who does not work, neither shall he eat,” and you hate the “underprivileged.” Say, with Our Lord, that that which is Caesar’s should be rendered unto Caesar and that which is God’s must be rendered unto Him, and you are accused of not loving [liberal Supreme Court Chief Justice] Earl Warren. Taylor Caldwell (1900-1985) was a best-selling author who wrote over 30 novels, including Dear and Glorious Physician, A Pillar of Iron, and Captains and the Kings. This article (abridged) originally appeared as “The Race: Free Enterprise and I” in the April 1964 issue of American Opinion, a predecessor to The New American.
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