John should be writing this, but he says he is tired. I am sure he
must be. But there is another reason, which is that he is cross,
poor dear, and you, no doubt, will think with good reason when you
hear what he has been through.
On leaving Sharrow--the Sanfords' place--we drove to the village
where still stands the inn known as "The Maypole" in "Barnaby Rudge."
Willit is dead, and I saw nothing as attractive as Dolly Varden, nor
anything as horrible, I am thankful to say, as Hugh. In other words,
we felt as Thackeray says he felt when he visited Tours--it had none
of the charm which he had expected after reading "Quentin Durward"!
I urged John to leave the car at the Maypole and go to town by train,
for I knew it would be an exhausting experience to drive through the
city. But no. He was determined to see if he was enough of a
chauffeur to accomplish a feat which tries the nerve of a
professional! So we started.
The road led us to the east side of the city, which we entered with
the late market-carts. No words can describe the congestion. It was
not only the innumerable wagons of every description which made
progress almost impossible, but the swarms of creatures which I
suppose one must call "human," though there was little indication of
their humanity except the power of speech, and when one had heard
that, one was tempted to wish they were without it! There are
veritably two Englands, the one we had just left, of green fields and
clear brooks and kind hearts and noble deeds, and now this sink of
iniquity. There is nothing in New York to compare with it, for,
shocking as our tenement-house district is, one is comforted by the
thought that it is temporary, that there is an upward trend, and that
the children of the tenements--almost exclusively of foreign-born
parentage--are destined to escape. But these poor creatures are
predestined to "damnation" before they are born. There is all the
difference between the East Side of New York and the East End of
London that there is between a stream which has been defiled by the
drainage of factories, but which will purify itself after it has
flowed a certain number of miles, and a malarial swamp, whose
stagnant waters have no power of movement and, therefore, no hope of
cleansing, but will breed sickness from generation to generation.
This is the reverse of the medal inscribed "As it was in the
beginning," etc.
Through this seething mass, then, we made our way into White Chapel,
the nursery of crime, into Cannon Street, where the great wholesale
houses distribute the wealth of the empire, and where the great
dray-horses, almost as large as elephants, block the way, past St.
Paul's, the silent witness to a faith which the life around seems to
have forgotten--if it ever heard of it!--into Holborn, with its
restaurants and shops and law-courts, and at last into Leicester
Square, with its foreign population and its palatial music-halls.
It has taken but a few moments to write this, but it took hours to
drive it, and I confess when it was over I felt like the Irishman in
the bottomless Sedan chair: "If it wasn't for the honor of the thing,
I'd as lief walk." I had the good sense not to ask John how he felt.
I could tell by looking at him: his face was white and drawn.
Before we started from the Maypole, John had suggested wiring to the
"Holland" for rooms, but I induced him to come here--"Garvin's
Private Hotel"--instead, and now I wish I had not!
The Slocums had advised me to come here rather than to one of the
great caravansaries, which they said are so "Cooksy." They told me
that they always stopped here, and that I should like the class of
people one meets here--the county families--and also that one
received that personal attention which formerly made English hotels
unique, and which Americans and Germans were killing.
Well, I found it good enough. The bedrooms may have been dingy--to
speak the truth they were--but the maid was pleasant and efficient,
and the dinner, if not exciting, was palatable. But John said it
"had nothing on a Lexington Avenue boarding-house." The truth is, he
was tired out, and vexed because a telegram, which he had expected to
find here, had not arrived.
The next day he went to the manager, and an investigation was begun
which led to the discovery that the telegram, which had arrived the
day before, was in the porters' rack! It seems that Garvin's has
doors on two streets, and the porter of the door by which we did
_not_ enter had received it. When John asked why it had not been
sent to his room, he was informed, first, that no one had told _that_
porter that we were in the house, and, second, that telegrams were
sent only to private sitting-rooms! I don't know which excuse made
him the more angry. It was then he made his remark about the
Lexington Avenue boarding-house. Not that he knows anything about
them, for he has never stayed in one in his life, but because it was
the first thing he thought of. It was an example of what I once
heard you call "the universe of discourse." But, "you bet," I didn't
tell him so!
At dinner John looked round the dreary dining-room and asked where
were the "county families"?
I also was feeling the strain of the day, and said "I hoped to meet
them later."
He replied he hoped he might be out when they called.
By this time I was well-nigh desperate, and suggested that he go
outside and smoke his cigar in the street, for I had caught a glimpse
of the "Smoke Room," which looks out on a mews, and is more like a
dog-kennel than a room, and I did not feel I could stand any more
remarks about "private hotels"! _Entre nous_, I advise you never to
go to one. I have no doubt if you were a "county family," and came
up every year as your father had done before you, and took the "first
floor front," with a private sitting-room, they would "do you well."
But it is no place for transients.
As we had no sitting-room, I went to the dreary parlor to read and,
if possible, to quiet my mind before going to bed. But instead of
reading, I began to think of John, and the more I thought of him the
sadder I grew. I know no one who bears the great troubles of life
more patiently than he, but a petty thing, like this telegram,
poisons him as the black flies poisoned me in the Adirondacks! They
only bite most people, but they send me to bed with a temperature!
And the worst of it is he suffers such remorse after one of these
attacks. Why should we laugh at Mrs. Gummage? There are people who
"feel it more than others." However, I reflected that there was
nothing I could do about it, and so turned to my book.
It was one of those dreary books of Benson's, which are conducive to
intellectual and moral indigestion--wallowing in imaginary
emotions--and I did not see how I could read it in the frame of mind
I was then in. But I did not have to, for I was suddenly startled by
a voice saying: "If you won't think me rude, I _should_ like to know
where you got that hat?"
My first thought was that Garvin's was another sort of private
institution, but peering into the dim corner, I saw a typical "county
family," or rather the head of one. He was a hale and hearty old
man, somewhat over sixty, and had the ruddy complexion which only
English country life can give. I saw he was not dangerous, and also
that he was unquestionably a "gentleman," so I replied: "I am glad
you like it. I got it at Bonwit Teller's."
"I don't know the shop," he said, in a disappointed tone.
"Well, that is not surprising, for it is in New York."
"Really! And are you an American? I never should have," etc.
"Did you want a hat like this for yourself?" I demurely asked.
"Oh, I say! Now you are trying to pull my leg."
I looked at the solid limb in question, and assured him I had no such
purpose.
"No, I didn't want it for myself. The truth is, I saw you at
dinner--by the way, why do they call that leather they served
to-night 'mutton'? I wonder if they have ever tasted mutton? Awful
food they give one at these hotels nowadays! Poison, I call it! I
always stop at my club when I come up to town, but this time I have
my wife and daughter with me. Couldn't take them to the club, of
course, so came here. Family been coming here forever, I should say;
came when the father of this man had it. This man married the French
maid, and she has put on the table a lot of kickshaws, and calls them
a '_menu_.' Silly stuff. There was no such nonsense in the father's
time. One just called the waiter and said, 'What's the joint?' and
that was all there was to it. But, as I was saying, I saw you at
dinner, and said to my daughter: 'That's a deuced pretty-looking girl
over there, and I wish you had a hat like hers.' You don't mind my
telling you this? Wouldn't do for a young man, but an old man has
his privileges."
I assured him I was flattered, and the simple-hearted old squire
replied: "Not at all. The simple truth."
I was rather confused at this and, not quite thinking what I was
saying, asked what his daughter said.
"'Why,' she said, 'if you admire the lady's hat, you had better ask
her where she got it.' And, by George, I said I would, never
dreaming, you understand, that I should really ever speak to you.
"You see, they have gone to the play, but as I have taken a cold,
something I never have at home, I thought I would stop in and write
some letters. But the fire in my sitting-room (though it is August,
the evenings are chill) smokes so I came in here, and no sooner got
settled down than I heard some one come in and, looking round, saw it
was you. Matilda _will_ be surprised when she learns that I have
asked about the hat." And he chuckled to himself at the thought.
I turned again to my book but the old man was not done with me. "So
you are an American. Is it true that Americans have baths in their
drawing-rooms?"
"I have never seen one there, but as they have them generally about
the house, I should not be surprised."
"Oh, you must not take me too seriously," he said in a sorrowful
tone; "I was only ragging you a bit!"