CHARLES FEENEY

By Romesh Ratnesar

The recipients did not know why the gifts came, or how to ask for more. But still the money drizzled in, to universities and hospitals and service groups around the globe, paid in cashier's checks and accompanied only by word that the giver wished to remain anonymous. In January the shroud lifted, revealing a tale of such unsung goodness that some almost wished its secrecy had been preserved. Charles F. Feeney, 66, a businessman from New Jersey, had during the past decade given away more than $600 million through his two charitable foundations. At least $3.5 billion more--the entire value of Feeney's ownership stake in the duty-free shop empire DFS Group Ltd., which he turned over to the foundations in 1984--remains in the trusts' coffers. Feeney's beneficence already ranks among the grandest of any living American and may someday make him the most generous philanthropist of all time.

The only thing that astonished more than the size of Feeney's largesse was his determination to keep it hidden. To avoid U.S. tax-disclosure requirements, Feeney incorporated his foundations in Bermuda and sought no tax deductions. For years Forbes magazine listed him as one of the 400 richest Americans, even though he has reportedly bled his wealth of all but $5 million; Feeney abhors the list, but he let the fiction persist rather than betray his charity. Early in the year, a lawsuit over the sale by his foundation of its stake in DFS threatened to expose the scope of Feeney's giving. So he broke out of his cocoon, telling the New York Times, "Money has an attraction for some people, but nobody can wear two pairs of shoes at one time."

Feeney then retreated from the front pages, declining all interview requests. Friends helped assemble the fragments of his life: born poor in Elizabeth, N.J.; fiercely loyal to his ancestral Ireland and his alma mater, Cornell; a "shabby" dresser who flies coach and does not own a house or car. Reports of Feeney's modest trappings are true, save one--that he wears a $15 watch. A spokesman says it cost five bucks.

Feeney's unmasking was the first of 1997's philanthropic dramas, as a roaring bull market induced conspicuous giving from Ted Turner, George Soros and Bill Gates. And yet the richest 1% of Americans still give only 2% of their annual gross income to charity. It made Feeney's silent work seem all the more admirable. In an age of aggrandizement, Feeney showed that humble hearts still beat. In many ways, that is a revelation even more gratifying than the sums he has given away.

--By Romesh Ratnesar