His generosity had over the years become a part of him as essential, as physical, as the immense belly, the beard, the curious yet somehow appropriate manner of dress. What had begun, perhaps, as a rich man’s whimsical impulse—who could remember?—had grown into a habit, a lifework, an industry. If sometimes he wearied of it, if the scope and complexity of his responsibilities sometimes overwhelmed him, he nonetheless resisted, better than most men, the seductions of pessimism. The more cynical of his associates may have observed, toward the end, a note of strain, of obscure vexation, creeping into the familiar laughter; a handful of his intimates may have guessed, as Christmases rolled by with disheartening frequency, however more reluctantly he girded himself, year after year, for the long night journey. But to the world at large he betrayed no sign of despair, no hint of deepening disillusionment. No one can confirm, and many would deny, the legend that in his last years he had come to despise children, enduring their cloying company, their demands, only as a final reflexive gesture toward public relations.
