The Richest Woman in the World

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXIV, Issue 21, 27 May 1905, Page 13

The Richest Woman in the World

Of all the ten thousand millionaires of America, the most extraordinary is Mrs, Hetty Green. She is not only the richest woman in the world, but she is also the most eccentric of the millionaire women of the United Stated. My first chat with Mrs. Hetty Green was through the bars of a eage. It was a gilded cage —of brass bars greater in diameter than any prison bars—and it was built specially for Hetty Green. It stands in the Chemical Bank of New York—the richest bank in the country, a £2O share of its stock being worth £BOO. Behind that bank are the hundred million dollars, or twenty millions sterling, of Mrs. Hetty Green. By virtue of that, twenty millions sterling, Mrs. Green is £5,000,000 richer than Miss Bertha Krupp, the da lighter of the late gunmaker of Essen. Germany. Her right to the title of richest woman on earth, therefore, none can dispute; for even the bank officials acknowledge her £20,000,000, the only doubt being as to how much in excess of that sum she possesses. In that gilded cage in the Chemical Bank, Mrs. Green spends the greater part of every working day. Whoever wishes to see her on business—and she lias a constant stream of callers during business hours—must go to the bank and converse with her through the brass bars. The cage itself is not bigger than your bath-room; blit then the eage itself is nothing more than the vesitbule of a steel vault, which is as large as any double bedroom in a hotel. The massive steel doors of that vault form the back of the cage; and whin Hetty Green steps through those steel doors, you know that she stands among the stocks, bonds, mortgages, and other documents which represent her fortune, and no one knows how much shining gold. She comes to her cage every morning at ten o’clock, and remains there till three in the afternoon, an I thus she. has spent “banking hours” for years. Nearly 40 years ago, as Miss Robinson, she was one of the society belles of New York. When His Majesty me King of to-day visited the United States as the I’rime of Wales, she danced with him. Later, she spent some years in England, and was presented at Court. When Van Buren was President of the Unil.id Slates, she was an honoured guest at the Presidential mansion in Washington. Then Iler father died, leaving her £2,000,000. It was the turning-of that paltry inheritance into the colossal fortune of to-day that produced the Hetty Green of the gilded cage, through the bars of which she talked to me of the old times in her life. While she talked to me she sat on the edge of a common pine chair, such as is used in a kitchen, and that was absolutely the only furniture in the cage. The massive doors of the vault opened into the cage, fairly bristling with steel locks and bolts and patent electric burglar appliances; and upon those steel gates to her wealth she from time to. time feasted her eyes. The only tiling in the shape of a desk was the glass ledge of the window oi tier cage, on which stood a penny ink-stand, a common pen, and a piece of blottingpaper. Transactions involving millions were settled on that bit of glass. The window was not half as large as that < f a ticket-seller at a railway station; and, unless you are a very short person, you have to stoop down if you wish to project your inquiries through the aperture. For myself, I preferred to stand up straight, and talk- and listen—through the brass bars.

She wore a greasy and shiny black silk dress, mueh frayed in the sleeves and bodice—the same dress she has worn at the bank as long as any of the clerks can remember; and a bonnet that hud seen equally long service lay over one ear. showing that she had spurned a mirror in putting it on. Her hair was dyed black; and otherwise she looked as young as any lady can look who is seventy years old. “Oh, excuse me,” she said, in greeting. “I forgot to switch off an electric light in the vault. Them electrics do burn up a lot of money If you don’t watch ’em.” And into

the haven of her millions she stepped a moment to avert the wilful waste. When she returned to the solitary pine chair, she said—and I must state here that the only thing Hetty Green has wasted in her whole life is the English language: “Oh. yes; I don’t mind tellin! you ’bout them days when I was young and pretty. Them was the days when I was presented to the Prince of Wales —I often wonder if he remembers Miss Robinson now that he’s a king. He! he! he!” The last words merely represent the sound of this feminine Croesus’ laugh. “Well, I was in the city of New Orleans, visiting relatives oi mine, ami we gave a ball in honour of the Prince. The Prince told one of my relatives that he would like to meet me—and he did. and I danced with him. He! he! he! Just wait a moment, and I’ll show you a souvenir I’ve kept, all these years.” Again she went into her great steel purse, and brought forth a printed and much worn dancing card. On one line was scribbled something undecipherable. but still—“ That's what the Prince of Wales wrote on my card that night.” “Now he—-His Majesty, I mean- has my old enemy at his court as Ambassador from this country. 1 mean .Joe Choate. He’s an American Ambassador; but. wlien he comes back here 1 shall call him just, Joseph—right to his face, as 1 always have; ’cause it makes him squirm.” 1 forgot to say that, after all. there have been many days which Hetty Green has not passed in her cage in the bank. Those “oil” days were spent by her in a court of justice, for she is one cf those who glory in interminable lawsuits. In most of these suits Mr Choate, before he went as Ambassador to England, was the opposing counsel. And he beat Hetty Green nine times out of ten; hence Mrs Green’s hatred for referees and lawyers generally anil for - “Joe” Choate in p'ar.ieular, “I s’pose Joe is gettin’ on in years now,” she said. “Everybody seems to have kinder grown old —exceptin' me. We are only as old as we feel, eight You can just put that down—just say that Hetty Green’s young enough yet to beat ail the dead beats that come to her office”—mark the word office, meaning cage—“to get. money out of her. You can just print in your paper,” she added, “that it won't do nd good for dead beats to write to me. I get stacks of letters every day. but I don’t open a quarter of ’em. 1 can tell by the appearance of a letter who ther its contents are more important to me than to the person who wrote it. The other day the postman came in with a whole wad of letters for me. I just glanced at ’em, and then told the postman I didn’t want any of cm. livery letter in the pack looked as if it contained either a request for a loan of money for a dead beat—or an offer of marriage for my daughter Sylvia. “Fortune hunters’ He! he! he! Ain’t I fightin’ off counts and dukes and earls every day? They all love Sylvia; how they do love Sylvia! Why, a marriage broker called on me here one day and said he wanted to submit a proposition of marriage that would be advantageous to Sylvia and myself. He was the agent of a Russian duke. Well —he! he! he! —I just called tiie porter, and the porter attended to the agent. And that’s the way I send all fortune hunters off to stalk smaller game. “But I was tellin’ you 'bout Joe Choate. It wasn’t so very long lago that he was advocatin’, along with other lawyers, the spendin’ of ten millions” (£2,000,000) “of the nation’s money merely to honour my cousin, Admiral Dewey. He is my eousin, yon know—that very man who took his fleet into Manila Bay in the SpanishAmerican War and put the Spaniards out of business. But even if he is my cousin, I can’t see no use in spendin’ all those millions for him. Bah! Pish! It means millions for champagne for politicians. Why. the sum they want to spend on my cousin is

the very amount—every penny that iny poor pa left me when lie died. Where would 1 be to-day if 1 had squandered it in high livin’? Why, the lawyers began eat in’ up the money before the breath was out of pa’s body. But I just learned how to manage things myself, and saved and saved every penny; and the newspapers can’t say 1 haven't done my duty towards my daughter Sylvia and my son Ned. And if it hadn’t been for Joe Choate—he's out of my way in England now. thank goodness!—l’d have been a very rich woman.” I have now set down enough of that first interview through the bars of her gilded cage to show the character of this remarkable lady, who has proved that, even in finance, woman can be the equal of man. Her energy and endurance, at seventy, surprise all who have dealings with her. It is said in the financial world that she can produce more actual cash in gold at a moment’s notice than any millionaire in the country. It is supposed that she keeps, always, at least a million dollars (.£201M>00) in gold in the vault behind her cage, to be used in an (iiir--gency. An\ way, it is a matter of official record that some years ago. when a great New York merchant, Judge Hilton, came to her. and told her that he would fail within one hour unless she could loan him .£200.000. without security, she calmly walked into her vault and came back with a bag of gold. Ten times she went hack into the vault, while Judge Hilton waited, and ten times she brought forth a bag of gold. And the hank porter had to carry the Lags over to the judge's office. Thus she saved an old friend; and when Judge Hilton died the lite insurance companies paid Hetty Green a sum somewhat in excess of £200.000. The son. Ned. to whom she referred during our talk through the bars, is Edward Green. one of the railway ’magnates of the country. He lives in princely style on his ranch in the State of Texas, and expects to inherit the bulk of his. mother’s fortune. She herself says that her main object in living now is to get enough money together to leave Edward in a position to keep out of debt. Now for my second chat with Hetty Green. 1 must first explain that 1 would never have been granted the interviews it not been for the kindness of one of the detectives who follow the rich woman wherever she goes. So thoroughly does she fear highwaymen that she not only hires detectives to watch over her. but she also long ago secured from the city a special license to carry a revolver. She declares that there is a conspiracy among her arch-enemies, the lawyers, to take her life, and hence it is that she always dresses shabbily for the purpose of avoiding notice in the street. It was one of the detectives, then, who arranged these interviews. As she seeks in every possible way to avoid paying personal taxes, she necessarily leads a nomadic life. She changes her place of residence every six or seven months, having lived successively in many parts of New lork. and in a score of suburban towns and cities. And (very time she moves she changes her name. Thus she keeps her identity a secret from landlords—at least, until after she has concluded the lowest of bargains as to the amount of the rent. My second chat took place in a cheap fiat in which she was living in a section of the city of Hoboken, just across the river by ferry from New York. The section is inhabited chiefly by German workmen, and is known as ‘ Little Germany.” For that flat, the woman whose income is known to amount to £2 a minute, asleep or awake, paid £2 a month. She was living there under the name of Mrs Dewey. T called at the address the detective had given me, and rung the top floor bell. No answer. After ringing in vain for fifteen minutes. I sought the janitor, or porter. “I’m looking for Sirs Green.” I said, forgetting that the detective had told me to ask for Mrs Dewey. “Ain’t no Mrs Green lives here.” said the porter. “What? The woman lives on the top floor?” he added, in response to my remarks. “Lives with her lone daughter, doesn’t she? Iter husband died some years ago. 1 believe. The poor widow now works for her living—poor thing! — because she

crosses the ferry to New York every morning along with the working people. And she comes back across the ferry every evening along with the working people. She's got a job over in the Chemical Bank or *ome such place. No. she’s not exactly bard up for money. They do say she has a bank account. But. say- there's those in this neighbourhood that gossips about the widow being so miserly that -he sits in the back pew in church to save the interest on her penny.” “That’s the lady I'm looking for,” I said, promptly. Five minutes later I was sitting in the •’front parlour” of the £ 2-a-inonth flat. A single gas-jet was burning, but it was turned low. On the gorgeous wallpaper hung several chromos of the kind that are giv< n with a pound of tea. On the centre table the sole ornament was a sewing-basket. There was a high-hack sofa of the horse hair sort, and an alleged divan made ot boards covered with an old red tablecloth. No servant was visible. | was let in by the daughter, the young lady for whom fortune-hunters were crossing the sea. Ihe daughter disappeared. and I saw no more of her. Presently Mrs Green came in. She had evidently made an elaborate toilette that is, she had washed her hands, had put some water on her dyed hair, and had cut some of the frayed edges of the greasy black silk sleeves. “Ob. excuse me.” she said, in greeting, exactly as she had greeted me through the bars of the cage. “1 forgot to turn down the gas in the hack parlour.” And again she went to avert the wilful waste. When she returned she sat in a patent rockingchair. the squeaky kind you buy on the instalment plan. As she talked the rocker squeaked-; and she talked and the rocker squeaked for time solid hours, during all of which time her money-earning kept going right on at. the rate of £2 a minute. Thus, even while I sat listening to her. she earned something like C .360. “Y(S, 1 remember tellin* you’ ’limit them young days of mine.” sh-* saiu. “Them was the days when a President of the United States gave a big dinner in my honour. I was pretty then; but you take the handsomest horse in the world and hitch him to an omnibus, ami keep him there for forty years, and he won’t look very handsome then, eigb ? Well, for forty years I’ve been doin' omnibus work. “But I don't want my da light ei Sylvia to be no omnibus horse. I want her to do her share of the work in keeping our flat neat, and no m ‘re. 1 say to Sylvia: Now. Sylvia. I want Io see you married and in a home of your own: but I don't want you married to no foreign man with nothin’ but a title. I want you to marry a poor young man with good principles who is making an honest livin' and an honest tight for success. I don't care whether he's got any money or not. so long as he’s made of the right stull - . You’ll have more money than you'll ever spend, and it isn’t necessary to look out for a rich man. But, above all. avoid the poor young men of society. the penniless sprigs who part their hair in the middle. Don’t ever believe a word they say. Stick to the poor young man who ain’t in society, and who ain’t too knowin' to be enthusiastic, and who ain’t up io the fact that it's vulgar to be in love with his own wife.’” Thus she continued on and on about her personal matters through the three-hour monologue, while the patent rocker squeaked and the £2 a minute continued to roll, as it were, into the vault - behind her gilded cage al the bank. “My object in life,” sue concluded, as she turned the gas still lower, preparatory Io saying goodnight, “is to get even with Joe Choate for takin’ the opposite side in all my law-suits; to make my son a rich man; and to marry my (laughter to the right kind of a poor man.*’ Dilson \\ diets.