“Could I ask why?”
“You could, but I can’t answer. I hope you understand.”
“Spy business?”
She grinned. “Something like that.”
Carol motioned at their surroundings. “You’ve definitely come to the right place to learn about Mr. Mellon. Here, in the rotunda, is a perfect example of his influence. He wanted a dome on the building as a focal point for the outside, to offset the mass of the long wings. He caught a lot of grief for that decision. People thought only the Capitol should be domed. Here, inside, you can see he was right. This space offers the perfect meeting point for the great halls. A true centerpiece.”
Overhead rose a coffered dome with scalloped niches and a glass oculus at its center, strikingly similar to the Pantheon in Rome. A circular procession of thick, green marble columns held the roof aloft, matted from behind by cream-colored limestone walls. A tingling fountain sat in the center.
“The bronze figure in the fountain is Mercury, cast sometime in the late 18th or early 19th century. Mr. Mellon acquired it as part of his collection.”
“Why do you call him Mr., as if he’s still here?”
“He is still here.”
A strange reply.
“This building is totally reflective of him. This was his monument to the country, and since he was paying the bills his wishes were generally honored.”
She listened as Carol explained how Mellon chose the architect and approved every aspect of the design. He selected Tennessee marble for the outside and most of the interior décor. He wanted the exhibit rooms harmonious, but not elaborate, intended to convey both period and place. So plaster was used for early Italian, Flemish, and German works. Damask for later Italian. Oak paneling displayed Rubens, van Dyck, Rembrandt, and other Dutch masters. Painted paneling accommodated the French, English, and American canvases. No other adornments were allowed in the galleries, save for a few sofas. Never, Mellon insisted, should the building dominate its contents.
“He had a good eye,” Carol said, “and a good sense of things. It would have been easy for him, with all his money, to build a palace. But he intentionally refused to do that. Instead he built a place where works of art could be appreciated.”
“You admire him?”
“For his art? Definitely. His taste? Oh, yes. But there were other aspects of him that were less than admirable. He was, after all, a clear product of his time. First, from the Gilded Age where fortunes were built upon greed and ruthless ambition. Then from the prosperous 1920s where those fortunes either expanded or collapsed. Mr. Mellon’s multiplied a hundredfold.”
Her hostess motioned and they left the rotunda, entering one of the long sculpture halls that spread east and west. Overhead, a barrel-vaulted ceiling with skylights allowed in the late-morning sun. Statuary lined the center between pediment doorways that led to more exhibition rooms. Visitors paraded back and forth, admiring the sculptures. She noticed that the hall was another simple, elegant space that did not overpower.
“Did history interest him?” she asked.
Carol nodded. “His father, Thomas, once said that in the short voyage of a lifetime, we can see the eddies and ripples on the surface, but not the under-currents changing the main channel of the stream. Only history can determine the causes that bring that about. The son believed that, too. History was important to him. His book on taxation is still regarded as authoritative. Many of the things he wrote about then continue to apply today.”
She recalled Danny reading portions to her in the car.
“He was not a proponent of big government,” Carol said. “To him, less was more. He never felt government should be taking care of people. He believed people should take care of themselves. And that wasn’t a cruel attitude. He just cherished personal independence. The New Deal, to him, infringed on that freedom, with government mandating everything for you. Social Security, unemployment insurance, a minimum wage. Those he opposed. He was definitely a product of his circumstances. Prior to 1932, ideas of wealth redistribution and social welfare were not popular.”
They stopped near the gallery’s end, before another of the rectangular doorways.
“Did Mr. Mellon appreciate any historical figures? Like George Mason?”
Carol’s face lit up. “How did you know? He admired Mason a great deal. It took courage to not sign the Constitution, but Mason stood his ground. That was the type of independence Mr. Mellon respected. He was a contributor to the renovation of Gunston Hall, Mason’s ancestral home in Virginia. It was restored in the 1930s and is now a lovely museum.”
Which might explain why Mellon chose to utilize that name in the start of his quest. The fact that, upon the Great Seal, a six-pointed star and five letters combined to form the word Mason was surely just a coincidence. Albeit a fortuitous one for Mellon, which he used to aggravate the 32nd president of the United States. And no matter how much FDR protested, he’d clearly been intrigued. Enough to assign a Secret Service agent and the secretary of Treasury to investigate. Unfortunately, Roosevelt did not live long enough to see any of that through.
They left the hall and entered a spacious garden court.
“This is more of Mr. Mellon’s influence,” Carol said. “He wanted people to feel refreshed and uplifted, not worn out or tired. So he had these green spots added where visitors could rest among plants and flowing water.”
More sunlight poured in from skylights in another barrel-vaulted ceiling and added to the obvious feeling of being outdoors. Stalks of varied greenery stretched up twenty feet. Roses, begonias, and chrysanthemums added a blaze of color. Everything was meticulously tended. They sat on one of the stone benches abutting the walls and she listened as the curator told her more about Andrew Mellon.
“His father, Thomas, required that all of his sons memorize every word of ‘Epistle to a Young Friend.’ It’s by Robert Burns. Have you ever read the poem?”
She shook her head.
“Burns wrote it in 1786 to someone who was about to head out into the world. It’s a poem of advice that deals with practical wisdom and self-sufficiency. One verse was Mr. Mellon’s favorite. To catch dame fortune’s golden smile, assiduous wait upon her. And gather gear by every wile that’s justified by honor. Not for to hide it in a hedge, nor for a train attendant. But for the glorious privilege of being independent.”
She smiled at the verse’s cleverness.
“As a boy of ten, Mr. Mellon would recite the poem then, together, he and his father would repeat out loud that seventh verse. Burns wrote the poem to a young man named Andrew. Of course, that was Mr. Mellon’s first name, too, a coincidence he loved.”
What she’d heard on the tape with FDR flashed through her mind. Roosevelt told Mark Tipton that Mellon had quoted from Lord Byron. A strange coincidence, to use a phrase, by which such things are settled nowadays.
Strange, indeed.
“That verse from Burns defined Mr. Mellon,” Carol said. “He literally lived his life by it.”
“What Roosevelt did,” she said, “going after him, at the end of his life for tax evasion. That had to be devastating.”
Carol nodded. “For someone of his stature, being portrayed as a cheat and a crook was awful. He attended court proceedings every day, whic
h dragged on for months. He personally fought every charge and won. Unfortunately, he died before the decision was announced.”
“Any idea why Roosevelt targeted him?”
“Politics. There’s no other way to view it. Who was going to stand up and defend one of the richest men in the country against the president of the United States? Particularly when half the population was out of work. Roosevelt saw in Mr. Mellon an easy target, a way to bolster his own political image. A free shot, with little to no repercussion.”
Except that Roosevelt lost and Mellon went on the offensive. But this woman would know none of that. She thought about quizzing her on some of the particulars Mellon had discussed with Roosevelt, but knew better. The connection with George Mason had been worth the trip over. But she did recall something else from the tape recording in the Oval Office, when Roosevelt and Mark Tipton were speaking. He said he’d be waiting for me. Can you imagine the arrogance? He told the president of the United States that he’d be waiting.
That was New Year’s Eve 1936.
“What did Mellon do in the final months of his life?” she asked.
A group of schoolchildren entered the court, for the most part quiet, but still excited. Two adults kept them in check as they made their way toward the fountain and the sunken garden at the center.
“By 1937 he was, essentially, retired. He’d turned over control of his businesses to others, withdrawn from public life, and the tax trial was finally over. He did a lot of art collecting during that time, most of which is on display here. But he also knew he was dying. So his main focus was on the plans for the National Gallery.”
“I’m curious, why didn’t he name this after himself?”