NEW YORK AGAIN
On my first night in San Francisco I sat up late, unpacking and
distributing my things about my room; it was early morning when I was
ready to retire, and it occurred to me that I had better leave a call.
"Please call me at nine," I said to the telephone operator.
"Nine o'clock," she repeated, and in a voice like a caress, added:
"Good-night."
It was very pleasant to be told good-night, like that, even though the
sweet voice was strange, and came over a wire; for my companion and I
had been traveling for a long, long time, and though the strangers we
had met had been most hospitable, and though many of them had soon
ceased to be strangers, and had become friends, and though we had often
said--and not without sincerity--that we "felt very much at home," we
had now reached a state of mind in which we realized that, to say one
"feels at home" when one is not actually at home, is, after all, to
stretch the truth a little.
I must have gone to sleep immediately and I knew nothing more until I
was awakened in the morning by the tinkle of the telephone.
I jumped out of bed and answered.
"Good-morning, Mr. Street," came a voice even sweeter than that of the
night before. "Nine o'clock."
As I may have mentioned previously, I do not, as a rule, feel cheerful
on the moment of arising, especially in a strange room, a strange hotel,
and a strange city. But the pleasant personal note contained in that
morning greeting, the charming tone in which it was delivered, and
perhaps, in addition, the great warm patch of melted California gold
which lay upon the carpet near my window--these things combined to make
me feel awake, alive and happy, at the beginning of the day.
Every night, after that, I left a call, whether I really wished to be
called, or not, just for the sake of the "good-night," and the
"good-morning" with my name appended. For it is very pleasant to be
known, in a great hotel, as something more than a mere number.
I said to myself, "That morning operator has learned from the papers
that I am here. She has probably read things I have written, and is
interested in me. Doubtless she boasts to her friends: 'Julian Street,
the author, is stopping down at the hotel. I call him every morning. He
has a pleasant voice. I wish I could see him, once.'"
Because of modesty I did not mention this flattering attention to my
companion until the day before we left San Francisco, and then I was
only induced to speak of it by something which occurred when we were
shopping.
It was at Gump's--that most fascinating Oriental store--and having made
a purchase which I wished them to deliver, I mentioned my name and
address to the clerk who, however, seemed to have some difficulty in
getting it correctly, setting me down at first as "Mr. Julius Sweet."
When my companion chose to taunt me about that, dwelling with apparent
delight upon the painfully evident fact that my name meant nothing to
the clerk, I retorted:
"That makes no difference. The telephone operator at the St. Francis
calls me by name every morning."
"So she does me," he returned.
I did not believe him. I could not think that this beautiful young
girl--I was sure that any girl with such a voice must be young and
beautiful--would cheapen her vocal favors by dispensing them broadcast.
For her to coo my name to me each morning was merely a delicate
attention, but for her to do the same to him seemed, somehow, brazen.
I pondered the matter as I went to bed that night, and in the morning,
when the bell rang, I thought of it immediately.
"Hello."
"Good-morning, Mr. Street. Eight o'clock," came the mellifluous
cadences.
"Good-morning," I replied. "This is the last time you will call me, so I
want to say good-by, and thank you. You and the other operator always
say 'good-night' and 'good-morning' very pleasantly and I wish you to
know I have appreciated it. And when _you_ call me you always do so by
name. That has pleased me too."
"Thank you," she said--and oh! the dulcet tone in which she spoke the
words.
"How did you happen to know my name?" I asked.
"Oh," she replied--and seemed to hesitate for just an instant--"Mr.
Woods has given us instructions always to call by name."
"You mean in my case?" I asked, somewhat nervously.
"In making all morning calls," she explained. "At night, when the night
operator isn't busy, she takes the call list, gets the names of the
people, and notes them down opposite the room numbers so that I can read
them off, when I ring, in the morning. Mr. Woods says that it makes
guests feel more at home."
"It does," I assured her sadly. Then, in justice, I added: "Nevertheless
you have a most agreeable voice."
"It's very kind of you to speak of it," she returned.
"Not at all," said I. "I am writing something about San Francisco, and I
want to know your name so that I can mention you as the owner of the
voice."
"Oh," she said, "are you a writer?"
"I am," I declared firmly.
"And you're really going to mention me?"
"I am if you will give me your name."
"It's Lulu Maguire," she said. "Will you let me know when it comes out?"
"I will," said I.
"Thank you very much," she answered. "I hope you'll come again."
"I hope so too."
Then we said good-by. And though I cannot say of the angel-voiced Miss
Maguire that she taught me about women, she did teach me something about
writers, and something else about hotels.
* * * * *
I had always fancied that an unbroken flight across the continent would
prove fatiguing and seem very, very long, but however others may have
found it, it seemed short to me.
Looking back over the run from the Pacific Coast to Chicago I feel as
though it had consumed but a night and one long, interesting day--a day
full of changing scenes and episodes. The three things I remember best
about the journey are the beauty of the Bad Lands, the wonderful squab
guinea chicken I had, one night, for dinner, in the dining car, and the
pretty girl with the demure expression and the mischievous blue eyes,
who, before coming aboard at a little western station, kissed a handsome
young cattleman good-by, and who, having later made friends with a gay
young blade upon the train, kissed him good-by, also, when they parted
on the platform in Chicago.
Railroad travel in the West does not seem so machine-like as in the
East. That is true in many ways. West of Chicago you do not feel that
your train is sandwiched in between two other trains, one just ahead,
the other just behind. You run for a long time without passing another
train, and when you do pass one, it is something in the nature of an
event, like passing another ship, at sea. So, also, on the train, the
relations between passengers and crew are not merely mechanical. You
feel that the conductor is a human being, and that the dining-car
conductor is distinctly a nice fellow.
But once you pass Chicago, going east, the individuality of train
officials ceases to be felt. They become automatons, very efficient, but
cold as cogs in a machine. As for you, you are a unit, to be transported
and fed, and they do transport and feed you, doing it all impartially
and impersonally, performing their duties with the most rigid decorum,
and the most cold-blooded correctness.
Even the food in the dining-car seems to be standardized. The dishes
look differently, and vary mildly in flavor, but there is one taste
running through everything, as though the whole meal were made from some
basic substance, colored and flavored in different ways, to create a
variety of courses. The great primary taste of eastern dining-car food
is, as nearly as I can hit on it, that of wet paper. The oysters seem to
be made of slippery wet paper with oyster-flavor added. The soup is a
sort of creamy essence of manilla. The chicken is damp paper, ground up,
soaked with chicken-extract, and pressed into the form of a deceased
bird. And, above all, the salad is green tissue-paper, soaked in
vinegar and water.
[Illustration: New York--Everyone is in a hurry. Everyone is dodging
everyone else. Everyone is trying to keep his knees from being knocked
by swift-passing suitcases]
As with the officials, so with the passengers. They become frigid, too.
If, forgetting momentarily that you are no longer in the West, you speak
to the gentleman who has the seat beside you in the buffet smoker, after
dinner, he takes a long appraising look at you before replying. Then,
after answering you briefly, and in such a way as to give you as little
information as possible, and to impress upon you the idea that you have
been guilty of gross familiarity in speaking to a social superior
without having first been spoken to by him--then the gentleman will rise
from his chair and move to another seat, feeling, the while, to make
sure that you have not got his watch.
That, gentle reader, is the sweet spirit of the civilized East.
Easterners regard men with whom they are not personally acquainted as
potential pickpockets; and men with whom they are acquainted as
established thieves.
On you rush towards the metropolis. The train is crowded. The farms,
flying past, are small, and are divided into little fields which look
cramped after the great open areas of the West. Towns and cities flash
by, one after another, in quick succession, as the floors flash by an
express elevator, shooting down, its shaft in a skyscraper; and where
there are no towns there are barns painted with advertisements, and
great advertising signboards disfiguring the landscape. There are four
tracks now. A passenger train roars by, savagely, on one side, and is
gone, while on the other, a half-mile freight train tugs and squeaks and
clatters.
When the porter calls you in the morning, and you raise your window
shade, you see no plains or mountains, but the backs of squalid suburban
tenements, with vari-colored garments fluttering on their clothes lines,
like the flags of some ship decked for a gala day.
Gathering yourself and your dusty habiliments together, you sneak
shamefully to the washroom. Already it is full of men: men in trousers
and undershirt, men with tousled hair and stubble chins, men with bags
and dressing-cases spread out on the seats, splattering men, who immerse
their faces in the swinging suds of the nickel-plated washbowl, and
snort like seals in the aquarium.
Ah, the East! The throbbing, thriving, thickly-populated East!
Presently you get your turn at a sloppy washbowl, after which you slip
into the stale clothing of the day before, and return to the body of the
car, feeling half washed, half dressed and half dead.
Outside are factories, and railroad yards, and everywhere tall black
chimneys, vomiting their heavy, muddy smoke. But always the train glides
on like some swift, smooth river. Now the track is elevated, now
depressed. You run over bridges or under them, crossing streets and
other railroads. At last you dive into a tunnel and presently emerging,
coast slowly along beside an endless concrete platform raised to the
level of the car floor.
Your bags have long since been carried away by the Pullman porter, and
you have sat for many minutes in the hot car, wearing the overcoat and
hat into which he insisted upon putting you when you were yet many miles
outside New York.
Before the train stops you are in the narrow passage-way at the end of
the car, lined-up with others eager to escape. The Redcaps run beside
the vestibule. That is one good thing: there are always plenty of
porters in New York.
The Pullman porter hands your bags to a station porter, and you hand the
Pullman porter something which elicits a swift: "Thank you, boss."
Then, through the crowd, you make your way, behind your Redcap, towards
the taxi-stand. In the great concourse, people are rushing hither and
thither. Every one is in a hurry. Every one is dodging every one else.
Every one is trying to keep his knees from being knocked by
swift-passing suitcases. You feel dazed, rushed, jostled.
It is always the same, the arrival in New York. The stranger setting
foot there for the first time may, perhaps, sense more keenly than the
returning resident, the magnificent fury of the city. But, upon reaching
the metropolis after a period of exile, the most confirmed New Yorker
must, unless his perceptions are quite ossified, feel his imagination
quicken as he is again confronted by the whirling, grinding, smashing,
shrieking, seething, writhing, glittering, hellish splendor of the City
of New York.
Never before, it seemed to me, had I felt the impact of the city as when
I moved through the crowded concourse of the Pennsylvania Terminal with
my companion--the comrade of so many trains and tickets, so many miles
and meals.
We were at our journey's end. We were in New York again at last and
would be in our respective homes as soon as taxicabs could take us to
them. But, eager as I was to reach my home, it was with a kind of pang
that I realized that now, for the first time in months, we would not
drive away together in the same taxicab, but would part here, at the
taxi-stand, and go our separate ways; that we would not dine together
that night, nor sup together, nor visit in each other's rooms to talk
over the day's doings, before turning in, nor breakfast together in the
morning, nor match coins to determine who should pay for things.
When the first taxi came up there were politenesses between us as to
which should take it--that in itself bespoke the change already coming
over us.
I persuaded him to get in. We shook hands hurriedly through the window.
Then, with a jerk, the taxi started.
As I watched it drive away, I thought: "What a fine thing to know that
man as I know him! Have I always been as considerate of him, on this
trip, as I should have been? Was it right for me to insist on his
staying up that night, in San Francisco, when he wanted to go to bed?
Was it right for me to insist on his going to bed that night, in
Excelsior Springs, when he wanted to stay up? Shouldn't I have taken
more interest in his packing? And if I had done so, would he have left
his razor in one hotel, and his pumps in another, and his bathrobe in
another, and his kodak in another, and his umbrella in another, and his
silver shoehorn in another, and his trousers in another, and his pajamas
in every hotel we stopped in?"
Then my taxi drove up and I got in, and as we scurried out into the
congested street, I kept on ruminating over my treatment of my traveling
companion.
"I never treated him badly," I thought. "Still, if I had it all to do
over again I should treat him better. I should tuck him in at night. I
should send his shoes to be polished and his clothes to be pressed. I
should perform all kinds of little services for him--not because he
deserves such treatment, but because that would get him under
obligations to me. And it is a most desirable thing to get a man under
obligations to you when he knows as much about you as that man knows
about me!"