one down the road. Twenty-five years at Field’s were not easily forgotten. Bonds had been forged which could not easily be broken. He later explained his emotions during those troubled times to a journalist from the
Saturday Evening Post
: ‘I was extremely miserable competing with my own people – the people with whom I had spent so many happy and gloriously exciting years. I tried to beat down the feeling, but my unhappiness increased.’Selfridge tried everything he could to energize his new staff but they simply couldn’t meet his impossibly high standards. ‘There’s no one here who knows
how
to do it,’ he told his wife sadly, perhaps only now realizing how skilful the vast back-room team had been at Marshall Field.
After being forced to leave so abruptly – no presentation, no gifts, no party, no recognition
at all
for what he had done over twenty-five years – Selfridge became a man dispossessed. Always the eternal optimist, now he became depressed. Suddenly, life at Harrose Hall, his country house on Lake Geneva, where he could tend his greenhouses full of rare orchids took on a new allure. Just three months after starting his new business, he made a spontaneous decision to sell up and retire. He called his ex-colleague John Shedd for help and advice. Shedd came up with the reputable retailers Carson, Pirie & Scott, who were anxious to relocate, and arranged a meeting between Sam Pirie and Harry Selfridge. The canny Mr Pirie struck a hard bargain, offering Selfridge – who had wanted a $250,000 premium over and above the original cost of his lease – $150,000 plus his supplier liabilities. Desperate to get out, Harry accepted.
Not unsurprisingly, Harry found retirement dull. He pottered around the grounds at Harrose Hall, tending his roses and orchids, and spending time with his young family. But it wasn’t enough. He bought himself a steam yacht which apparently rarely left its moorings, and attempted to take up golf, a game which he played abysmally badly. His friends urged him to take up public office, which in Chicago would have been a challenge in itself. The idea didn’t appeal. ‘No politics for me,’ he said, ‘it’s too much like being put in the pillory.’ He would probably have agreed with a reporter from the London
Daily Mail
who, after visiting the city, had written: ‘Chicago presents more splendid attractions and more hideous repulsions than any city I know. Other places hide their dark side out of sight – Chicago treasures it to the heart of the business quarter and gives it a veneer.’ He couldn’t have put it better himself. Chicago’s tycoons were ruthless. Harry Selfridge was never really part of their world.Despite being a manager
par excellence
, to most of them he would always remain ‘Field’s ex-office boy’.
Selfridge had a cavalier attitude towards money. He lived extravagantly, spent prodigiously on those he loved and had a belief that all would always be well – regardless of what he owed. In later years, when his personal overdraft had reached monumental proportions, one of his bankers in London remarked, ‘Mr Selfridge seems to enjoy the sensation of debt.’ In Chicago, with his family and perhaps his age in mind, he took out a high-level life insurance policy. He also tried his hand at investments. Invited to put money into the White Rock Soda Company – carbonated drinks being all the rage – he turned the offer down as being too closely associated with diluting whiskey. However, he did decide to invest in a gold mine. In the winter of 1904, he became President of the Sullivan Creek Mining and Milling Company, providing the finance to drill for gold at the Calico mine in Tuolumne County, California.
It all started off rather well. The Chicago firm of Allis-Chalmers – then the world’s largest manufacturer of mining equipment – was on board advising Selfridge as to what equipment would be needed, and the mining expert William Chalmers seemed
Saturday Evening Post
: ‘I was extremely miserable competing with my own people – the people with whom I had spent so many happy and gloriously exciting years. I tried to beat down the feeling, but my unhappiness increased.’Selfridge tried everything he could to energize his new staff but they simply couldn’t meet his impossibly high standards. ‘There’s no one here who knows
how
to do it,’ he told his wife sadly, perhaps only now realizing how skilful the vast back-room team had been at Marshall Field.
After being forced to leave so abruptly – no presentation, no gifts, no party, no recognition
at all
for what he had done over twenty-five years – Selfridge became a man dispossessed. Always the eternal optimist, now he became depressed. Suddenly, life at Harrose Hall, his country house on Lake Geneva, where he could tend his greenhouses full of rare orchids took on a new allure. Just three months after starting his new business, he made a spontaneous decision to sell up and retire. He called his ex-colleague John Shedd for help and advice. Shedd came up with the reputable retailers Carson, Pirie & Scott, who were anxious to relocate, and arranged a meeting between Sam Pirie and Harry Selfridge. The canny Mr Pirie struck a hard bargain, offering Selfridge – who had wanted a $250,000 premium over and above the original cost of his lease – $150,000 plus his supplier liabilities. Desperate to get out, Harry accepted.
Not unsurprisingly, Harry found retirement dull. He pottered around the grounds at Harrose Hall, tending his roses and orchids, and spending time with his young family. But it wasn’t enough. He bought himself a steam yacht which apparently rarely left its moorings, and attempted to take up golf, a game which he played abysmally badly. His friends urged him to take up public office, which in Chicago would have been a challenge in itself. The idea didn’t appeal. ‘No politics for me,’ he said, ‘it’s too much like being put in the pillory.’ He would probably have agreed with a reporter from the London
Daily Mail
who, after visiting the city, had written: ‘Chicago presents more splendid attractions and more hideous repulsions than any city I know. Other places hide their dark side out of sight – Chicago treasures it to the heart of the business quarter and gives it a veneer.’ He couldn’t have put it better himself. Chicago’s tycoons were ruthless. Harry Selfridge was never really part of their world.Despite being a manager
par excellence
, to most of them he would always remain ‘Field’s ex-office boy’.
Selfridge had a cavalier attitude towards money. He lived extravagantly, spent prodigiously on those he loved and had a belief that all would always be well – regardless of what he owed. In later years, when his personal overdraft had reached monumental proportions, one of his bankers in London remarked, ‘Mr Selfridge seems to enjoy the sensation of debt.’ In Chicago, with his family and perhaps his age in mind, he took out a high-level life insurance policy. He also tried his hand at investments. Invited to put money into the White Rock Soda Company – carbonated drinks being all the rage – he turned the offer down as being too closely associated with diluting whiskey. However, he did decide to invest in a gold mine. In the winter of 1904, he became President of the Sullivan Creek Mining and Milling Company, providing the finance to drill for gold at the Calico mine in Tuolumne County, California.
It all started off rather well. The Chicago firm of Allis-Chalmers – then the world’s largest manufacturer of mining equipment – was on board advising Selfridge as to what equipment would be needed, and the mining expert William Chalmers seemed
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