There’s really nothing else to do on train journeys. Reading on the
train gives you a headache; after three hours scenery should never have
been invented. And as for that green plush.... If you have an
acquaintance on the train and talk yourself out with him you will never
want to see him again.... Bridge? But that is our story.
Sometimes on trains or boats there are signs like this: “Beware the
Professional Gambler; He is Smarter Than You.” This is romantic. But it
is not the type of romance which appeals to most young women, and as a
rule they ignore the signs and play bridge. On the chance that you do
not know your Dreiser, I shall attempt to describe the requisite
technique.
Carrie is sitting forlornly in her chair in the Pullman, with a closed
Red Book in her lap. Sunk in the crack of the chair is a discarded
College Comics. She doesn’t want to buy another magazine; she wishes the
man with the cap would stop bothering her with Eskimo Pies and perfume,
and bananas and paper-backed novels. The train smells sooty. Large hard
balls of soot keep falling into her lap. Outside the window is the same
yellowed field that she has been watching all day. It twists and
presents various corners to the passing train, but it’s the same field
just the same, with the same wheat lining up into orderly ranks that
fall apart into chaos as the train passes on. Twenty more hours and
nothing left to think about....
You walk down the aisle, staggering as the train sways. She looks at you
idly. You are tall and skinny, and when she sees that you are beginning
to get bald, she loses interest. At the same time you see her. You have
been looking for her ever since she passed through the club car on her
way from lunch: you like them small and blonde and young when there are
no tall and blonde and snappy ones. Stop by her chair and smile at her.
“Would you like to join a party at bridge, if I can start a game?” you
ask. Her first impulse is to refuse; not from caution, but from inertia.
It’s the same feeling that made her turn down the man with the cap on
his last journey when she really wanted a bar of Hershey’s. But as she
shakes her head she changes her mind. Bridge! Something to do!
“Why—yes, I guess so.” And she giggles a little, from shyness.
“Good! I’ll get someone else and be back in a minute.” But you return
with bad tidings. Everyone else is already playing.
“I guess we got the idea too late,” you announce, sitting down in the
next seat. “I wish I’d thought of it before. There was an old fellow in
the back that asked me this morning, but he was getting off at Chicago.
Isn’t that where you got on? How far are you going?”
“Colorado. I’m going to get off this train at La Junta.” Whistle.
“You have pretty near as long a ride as I have. I go clear across.
Tiresome, isn’t it? I ought to be used to it, but I never am, somehow.”
“What do you do?”
“Furniture. Wholesale furniture. I’m traveling for a firm in Tucson;
Robinson and Company. Have you ever been there?”
“Oh, no; this is my first trip West.”
“It’s a nice town, but hot right now. I’m lucky to be away. Just had a
letter from my—my sister and she says the heat is unbearable.
Unbearable.”
She murmurs sympathetically and looks back at the wheat, while you
remember that at times you talk too much about yourself. Ah, well
then....
“If it isn’t too personal—what part of the country do you hail from?”
“Illinois. Darien. It’s just a little town. I’m going out to Colorado to
visit and maybe I’m going to stay. If I can get a job teaching and if I
like the country, I mean.”
“Really? Now, I’d have said you were from New York.”
There is a pleased little silence.
“Why, what a funny idea. Why should you think I’m from New York?”
“Oh, I don’t know. A man in my business gets so he can spot people
pretty quickly, and he can’t exactly tell how, nine times out of ten.”
“Kind of second nature?”
“Yes, second nature. I don’t know just why I did think you were from New
York. Your clothes, or perhaps the way you talk. Or the way you know how
to take care of yourself.”
“How can you tell anything about that?”
“Oh, that’s easy. A man can always tell. You can take care of yourself.”
She blushes and remembers that she is all alone on this train.
“Well,” slightly raising your voice, “I do like New York. It looks
pretty good when you’ve been out in the sticks for a couple of months.”
“I’ll bet it does.”
“Yes, there’s no place like New York for shows. I wouldn’t like to live
there, but it’s a good place to visit. My—my mother used to live there,
and I never could see how she stood it as long as she did.”
She answers with animation. “Oh, but the little towns get so dull! There
just isn’t anything to do out in the country.”
“Nothing to do? Why, gee, what’s the matter with fishing? Two weeks a
year isn’t enough fishing for me!”
“But of course you’re a man.”
“Sure, that’s right. A man feels different. I admit I don’t understand
women, and I bet I’m as bright as the next one. There’s not a man alive
can understand a woman.”
“Well, maybe you’re right.”
“Isn’t it time to eat? Let’s go on in and see. Will you have dinner with
me?”
“Why—I don’t know——”
“What’s the harm?”
No nice girl will admit the possibility of harm. She ignores your
remark, therefore, by rising and starting for the dining car. It is
seven cars away, and some of the long passages are difficult to manage
without staggering from side to side. Hold her elbow in a firm grasp,
squeezing it as she stumbles against you, and laugh a good deal. You are
much better friends when you reach the diner.
She looks out of the window at the sweeping darkness and you watch her
and she knows it. The speed of the train and the feeling of not
belonging anywhere are very exciting. What will Colorado be like? What
is it all about anyway? No one in the train is a real person; they are
all simply part of an adventure, like the armies and mobs in the
background of a moving picture. Even the man across the table—isn’t he
simply part of it too? The most exciting part? A personification of the
whole thing, the whole waiting world.... I’d have said you were from New
York.... You can take care of yourself.... I certainly can.... She
smiles at you suddenly, defiantly, gayly. “What were you thinking
about?”
“Oh, I don’t know. The future, I guess.”
“I thought so. Let’s drink to it.” Hold up your water glass. “To your
future, and may it include me.”
She laughs again, recklessly. Lean over the table.
“Will it, kid? Will it?”
“Oh——how do I know? I’m no fortune teller.” Again she turns to the
window. There are no fields to be seen now, but the stars look very
large. Stars and darkness and the train going
somewhere—somewhere—somewhere. And that man looking at her and
appreciating all her expressions and knowing that he doesn’t understand
her; wondering about her....
“Now what are you thinking about?”
But she’ll never tell you. You’ll always wonder about the girl you met
on the train for a few minutes. Ships that pass in the night. It’s
exciting to be going somewhere.
She doesn’t want any more ice cream. Go back to her chair and when
someone asks you to play bridge refuse without even consulting her. No
matter. Stare out of the window.
“You know, it’s a funny thing. This has been a much better day than I
expected.”
“How do you mean?”
“Oh, you know. I thought it would be just the same. You can imagine,
riding on trains day in, day out.”
“Yes, I can imagine.”
“I’m glad you got on at Chicago, that’s all. You won’t be sore at me for
saying so? I’ve got to say what I think, to you.”
She can feel just how it must be. Your profile looks so tired.
Turn to her suddenly. “I’m talking like a crazy person. Do you think I’m
crazy?”
“Of course I don’t.”
Settle back again. “Good. I’m not really, but I guess most people would
think so.”
“Why should they?”
“Talking like this to a girl I just met on the train.”
“Talking like what? You haven’t said anything.” She is really
bewildered.
“Haven’t I?” Look at her again, quickly. “You know, that’s a queer
thing. I thought I had. I thought I’d said lots of things. Do you ever
have that feeling?”
“Oh—that. Yes.”
“Well, I know what I’m going to say, right now. You’ll probably be mad
at me.”
“What is it?”
“I think you’re a darned good sport.”
“Why? You don’t know. You don’t know anything about me at all.”
“Sure I do. I’m not dumb. I’ve been watching you all day and I guess I
can tell as well as the next one. Do you know what I think about you?”
“How should I?”
“I think probably you’re awfully nice.” Put your hand over hers. “I know
you are. You’re all excited, aren’t you?”
“What makes you say that?”
“You’re shaking. What’s the matter? Scared of me?” Your hand tightens.
“Oh, no.” She is annoyed with herself. It’s hard on the nerves, sitting
in a train all day. Almost time to go to bed, she thinks—the porter has
started at the other end of the car; his head is immersed in the upper
berth in the corner.
“It’s getting late,” you say, understanding her. She nods and thinks
with a new terror of arriving in a strange town. Nervous.
“I’m sorry,” you add. There is another silence. Some perverse shyness
keeps her from saying anything. It is almost as if, against her own
will, she waits for something fateful. But say no more. Pat her hand and
settle back, looking up at the top of the car.
Slowly, followed by a mysterious growth of little green cabins, the
porter approaches you, slamming down chair-covers, manipulating linen.
Sit up with a new briskness.
“I’m going to the smoker,” you announce. “But listen, I’m not going to
say good-bye.” She looks at you and waits. Her tongue won’t move; is it
curiosity? Nervous....
“I’m coming in to say good-night,” say, your eyes fixed on hers. “I have
a book to lend you. So long.” Rise, and then put your hand over hers
again. She simply stares at you.
“You’re a nice kid,” you observe, and walk away.
Slowly she stands and picks up her suitcase as the porter reaches her
chair in his constructive progress. Slowly she walks down the aisle to
the Ladies’ Room. A sudden flush of thought as she gets there—she drops
the bag and looks into the mirror, horror-stricken. Why didn’t she say
something? What should she do now? Then as she thinks, she feels better.
He’s simply coming to say good-night. Sure, he’ll probably try to kiss
her, but—oh, well, stop thinking. Just the same she’ll wear her
dressing gown to bed; no use giving him ideas. Everything seems so
different on a train; if it would stop making a noise and let you think
straight.... Ships that pass in the night. What’s the difference?