Tutor is a bit of an outlier among Wise and Virtuous Mentors to Dynastic Wealth. For one thing he is ordained, and few of the others are, though many have Divinity Degrees, and one or two have been defrocked. He is the only one who doubles as a Moral Mentor to the World's Wealthiest Families and Dungeon Master to the Stars in Wealth Bondage, providing Correction OTK, and the sacrament of penance; the others are mostly attorneys, wealth advisors, or Trust Officers plying their Noble Trade in Wealth Bondage, inculcating virtue, but without confession, corporal punishment, repentance, and absolution. The Happy Tutor is not Wise, in fact he is a World Class Fool, and proud of it, while they are wise enough to say so, loudly and often, and even in print, or from the dais wherever wealth advisors congregate to master their craft. They are Virtuous, as you can tell from the pious expression on their faces, the stilted prose, the blue blazers, the grey slacks, or the skirts no shorter than the knee. They are from plebian or shopkeeper lineage. He is of noble birth, the third son of a Duke. They are upstarts. He is Old School, a protégé of Diogenes, a boon companion of Erasmus and Rabelais, having mentored heirs since the age of Cicero and the collapse of the Roman republic. They serve Dynastic Wealth in a more recent collapse. They make $5,000 to $10,000 a day preparing the money for the heirs and the heirs for the money. He has taken vows of poverty and chastity, and been faithful to the former. They serve families faithfully who serve themselves, in a paradise of the rich, which the advisor prevents them from losing, from a fickle turn of fate. Tutor serves families who would serve the world. He prepares the heirs for the money, and the body politic for the rule of the few. But these are not the only differences between the real deal (Tutor) and the upstart popinjays at the private banks and family offices.
Tutor, in Hawaiian shirt, priest pants, and Jesus sandals is lounging on Audrey's bed, in her stone walled room in the Castle by the Sea. Her small, gymnast's back, in her blue denim jacket is turned to him. She is at an age where ignoring her Tutor, or any authority, is now her "thing." She is paging through People Magazine with a black marker in her hand. She is drawing horns and mustaches on any heir she can find whether standing by their Dad and Mom, or on a boat, or by a plane, or at a party, or on some island. The heiress to the Pig Farming Fortune. The heir of the Chocolate Bar Fortune. The heir to a Casino Fortune. The heir of a South American playboy who privatized a national bank. The grandson of a head of state, exiting a limousine in a motorcade. Her point of view is that each is a competitor, like rival nobles, to her as our once and future queen. Each will be vanquished as Momma consolidates all the world's wealth, and Audrey inherits the world and with it all the temptations that Satan showed Christ on the Mount.
Here is what makes Tutor truly different from the other, more contemporary, Trusted Advisors to Extreme Wealth. For one thing he is at least 2,000 years old, but he stayed young by always loving and being loved by a kid. Audrey is one of a long succession. So many dynasties have risen and fallen. So many rulers have gone to the dark side, prospered at the expense of the body politic, or been ultimately purged to restore the body politic to sanity and health. He has worked with them in Rome, Carthage, Greece, Byzantium, London, Paris, DC, Istanbul, Buenes Aires. Each of those kids, whether smart or dumb, beautiful or homely, hale or frail, no matter how thin the blood by interbreeding, no matter how disgraceful in conduct, was precious to him. He loved each and every one of these little monsters, some of whose names are famous, some infamous, some buried and forgotten. He still has a jewel from the nose of one kid's carriage horse, pulled off at Moscow station when her family fled Russia. From Rome, one coin, a kid's talisman. From Paris a handkerchief steeped in royal blood. Each of these kids he loved as if each were his own.
Tutor is Tutor and sui generis. He works wonders with the most unhappy or confused wealthy kids in the world. I watch and study here in my Dumpster surrounded by old books, the canon of many civilizations fading into one another over time, endlessly telling the same old stories of quest, tragedy, and the human comedy. I was just now reading Chekov, in a beer stained edition tossed here by some student headed home for vacation. I do keep up with the coming fusion of the liberal arts and Wealth Bondage. I see the Doxies on Parade in and out of Wealth Bondage Headquarters, headed all over the world to create wise and virtuous families of wealth, while preserving and growing Assets Under Management in Perpetuity. I read their benumbing Texts on Human Flourishing. I see much on therapy, much on finance, much on family values, and much that is driven by wealth as a master metaphor for all good things. But, you know, in all these years not once have I heard any one of these $5,000 - $10,000 a day Mentors to the Heirs, say that they love the kid. Not one has mentioned reading bedtime stories, or cuddling a child as she falls asleep, or making paper dolls, or playing pick up sticks. Not one has mentioned the importance of reading a kid Fairy Tales, teaching Silly Songs, singing a lullaby, or learning a prayer. Yet, without love, and its tender, humble, thankless, daily ministrations, no kid can thrive.
Who could possibly love that red-haired miscreant, getting black marker all over her fingers and her faded pink jeans, defacing People Magazine, and plotting world conquest? I hear Tutor, putting aside "The Vanity of Human Wishes," and laughing. "C'mere, kid. Did I ever tell you that you are very, very lovable?" Yes, he has, ad nauseam, and Audrey being a self respecting 9.5 year old squirms away. Love is for kids! She is bent over now, looking back through her legs at Tutor. "I don't love you, Tutor, you are just my babysitter and I don't even need one. You are a Stupid Grown up! You work for Momma, and if you make me mad I am going to get you fired. No, I will have Momma's Seal Team Seven feed you to the sharks! They will drop you from the helicopter, Tutor, way, way, far out in the ocean! In the middle of the night! And you can't even swim! I won't save you!" At which harsh, and unfair, repudiation of his aching, boundless love, Tutor begins bawling like a child, pounding the mattress with his fists, while grownup Audrey goes back to conquering all comers. "Stop crying, Tutor," his charge admonishes him. "You sound very immature." His wailing becomes stifled, forlorn sobbing. On such conversations the future of our planet depends.