When they tell us the world is getting worse and worse, and the
follies and peevishness of men will soon bring us all to some
damnable perdition, we are consoled by contemplating the steadfast
virtue of commuters. The planet grows harder and harder to live on,
it is true; every new invention makes things more complicated and
perplexing. These new automatic telephones, which are said to make
the business of getting a number so easy, will mean (we suppose)
that we will be called up fifty times a day--instead of (as now) a
mere twenty or thirty, while we are swooning and swinking over a
sonnet. But more and more people are taking to commuting and we look
to that to save things.
Because commuting is a tough and gruelling discipline. It educes
all the latent strength and virtue in a man (although it is hard on
those at home, for when he wins back at supper time there is left in
him very little of what the ladies so quaintly call "soul"). If you
study the demeanour of fellow-passengers on the 8:04 and the 5:27
you will see a quiet and well-drilled acceptiveness, a pious
non-resistance, which is not unworthy of the antique Chinese sages.
Is there any ritual (we cry, warming to our theme) so apt to imbue
the spirit with patience, stolidity, endurance, all the ripe and
seasoned qualities of manhood? It is well known that the fiercest
and most terrible fighters in the late war were those who had been
commuters. It was a Division composed chiefly of commuters that
stormed the Hindenburg Stellung and purged the Argonne thickets with
flame and steel. Their commanding officers were wont to remark these
men's carelessness of life. It seemed as though they hardly heeded
whether they got home again or not.
See them as they stand mobbed at the train gate, waiting for
admission to the homeward cars. A certain disingenuous casualness
appears on those hardened brows; but beneath burn stubborn fires.
These are engaged in battle, and they know it--a battle that never
ends. And while a warfare that goes on without truce necessarily
develops its own jokes, informalities, callousnesses, disregard of
wounds and gruesome sights, yet deep in their souls the units never
forget that they are drilled and regimented for struggle. We stood
the other evening with a Freeport man in the baggage compartment at
the front of a train leaving Brooklyn. We two had gained the
bull's-eye window at the nose of the train and sombrely watched the
sparkling panorama of lights along the track. Something had gone
wrong with the schedule that evening, and the passengers of the 5:27
had been shunted to the 5:30. As fellow mariners will, we discussed
famous breakdowns of old and the uncertainties of the commuter's
life. "Yes," said our companion, "once you leave home you never know
when you'll get back." And he smiled the passive, placable smile of
the experienced commuter.
It is this reasonable and moderate temper that makes the commuter
the seed wherewith a new generation shall be disseminated. He faces
troubles manifold without embittered grumbling. His is a new kind of
Puritanism, which endures hardship without dourness. When, on
Christmas Eve, the train out of Jamaica was so packed that the aisle
was one long mass of unwillingly embraced passengers, and even the
car platforms were crowded with shivering wights, and the conductor
buffeted his way as best he could over our toes and our parcels of
tinsel balls, what was the general cry? Was it a yell against the
railroad for not adding an extra brace of cars? No, it was
good-natured banter of the perspiring little officer as he struggled
to disentangle himself from forests of wedged legs. "You've got a
fine, big family in here," they told him: "you ought to be proud of
us." And there was a sorrowing Italian who had with him a string of
seven children who had tunnelled and burrowed their way down the
packed aisle of the smoking car and had got irretrievably scattered.
The father was distracted. Here and there, down the length of the
car, someone would discover an urchin and hold him up for
inspection. "Is this one of them?" he would cry, and Italy would
give assent. "Right!" And the children were agglomerated and piled
in a heap in the middle of the car until such time as a thinning of
the crowd permitted the anxious and blushing sire to reassemble them
and reprove their truancy with Adriatic lightnings from his dark
glowing eyes.
How pleasing is our commuter's simplicity! A cage of white mice, or
a crated goat (such are to be seen now and then on the Jamaica
platform) will engage his eye and give him keen amusement. Then
there is that game always known (in the smoking car) as
"pea-knuckle." The sight of four men playing will afford
contemplative and apparently intense satisfaction to all near. They
will lean diligently over seat-backs to watch every play of the
cards. They will stand in the aisle to follow the game, with
apparent comprehension. Then there are distinguished figures that
move through the observant commuter's peep-show. There is the tall
young man with the beaky nose, which (as Herrick said)
Is the grace
And proscenium of his face.
He is one of several light-hearted and carefree gentry who always
sit together and are full of superb cheer. Those who travel
sometimes with twinges of perplexity or skepticism are healed when
they see the magnificent assurance of this creature. Every day we
hear him making dates for his cronies to meet him at lunch time,
and in the evening we see him towering above the throng at the gate.
We like his confident air toward life, though he is still a little
too jocular to be a typical commuter.
But the commuter, though simple and anxious to be pleased, is
shrewdly alert. Every now and then they shuffle the trains at
Jamaica just to keep him guessing and sharpen his faculty of judging
whether this train goes to Brooklyn or Penn Station. His decisions
have to be made rapidly. We are speaking now of Long Island
commuters, whom we know best; but commuters are the same wherever
you find them. The Jersey commuter has had his own celebrant in
Joyce Kilmer, and we hope that he knows Joyce's pleasant essay on
the subject which was published in that little book, "The Circus and
Other Essays." But we gain-say the right of Staten Islanders to be
classed as commuters. These are a proud and active sort who are
really seafarers, not commuters. Fogs and ice floes make them blench
a little; but the less romantic troubles of broken brake-shoes leave
them unscotched.
Of Long Island commuters there are two classes: those who travel to
Penn Station, those who travel to Brooklyn. Let it not be denied,
there is a certain air of aristocracy about the Penn Station clique
that we cannot waive. Their tastes are more delicate. The train-boy
from Penn Station cries aloud "Choice, delicious apples," which
seems to us almost an affectation compared to the hoarse yell of our
Brooklyn news-agents imploring "Have a comic cartoon book, 'Mutt
and Jeff,' 'Bringing Up Father,' choclut-covered cherries!" The
club cars all go to Penn Station: there would be a general apoplexy
in the lowly terminal at Atlantic Avenue if one of those vehicles
were seen there. People are often seen (on the Penn Station branch)
who look exactly like the advertisements in _Vanity Fair_. Yet we,
for our humility, have treasures of our own, such as the brightly
lighted little shops along Atlantic Avenue and a station with the
poetic name of Autumn Avenue. The Brooklyn commuter points with
pride to his monthly ticket, which is distinguished from that of the
Penn Station nobility by a red badge of courage--a bright red
stripe. On the Penn Station branch they often punch the tickets with
little diamond-shaped holes; but on our line the punch is in the
form of a heart.
When the humble commuter who is accustomed to travelling via
Brooklyn is diverted from his accustomed orbit, and goes by way of
the Pennsylvania Station, what surprising excitements are his. The
enormousness of the crowd at Penn Station around 5 P.M. causes him
to realize that what he had thought, in his innocent Brooklyn
fashion, was a considerable mob, was nothing more than a trifling
scuffle. But he notes with pleasure the Penn Station habit of
letting people through the gate before the train comes in, so that
one may stand in comparative comfort and coolness downstairs on the
train platform. Here a vision of luxury greets his eyes that could
not possibly be imagined at the Brooklyn terminal--the Lehigh Valley
dining car that stands on a neighbouring track, the pink candles
lit on the tables, the shining water carafes, the white-coated
stewards at attention. At the car's kitchen window lolls a young
coloured boy in a chef's hat, surveying the files of proletarian
commuters with a glorious calmness of scorn and superiority. His
mood of sanguine assurance and self-esteem is so complete, so
unruffled, and so composed that we cannot help loving him. Lucky
youth, devoid of cares, responsibilities, and chagrins! Does he not
belong to the conquering class that has us all under its thumb? What
does it matter that he (probably) knows less about cooking than you
or I? He gazes with glorious cheer upon the wretched middle class,
and as our train rolls away we see him still gazing across the
darkling cellars of the station with that untroubled gleam of
condescension, his eyes seeming (as we look back at them) as large
and white and unspeculative as billiard balls.
In the eye of one commuter, the 12:50 SATURDAY ONLY is the
most exciting train of all. What a gay, heavily-bundled, and
loquacious crowd it is that gathers by the gate at the Atlantic
Avenue terminal. There is a holiday spirit among the throng, which
pants a little after the battle down and up those steps leading from
the subway. (What a fine sight, incidentally, is the stag-like stout
man who always leaps from the train first and speeds scuddingly
along the platform, to reach the stairs before any one else.) Here
is the man who always carries a blue cardboard box full of chicks.
Their plaintive chirpings sound shrill and disconsolate. There is
such a piercing sorrow and perplexity in their persistent query that
one knows they have the true souls of minor poets. Here are two
cheerful stenographers off to Rockaway for the week-end. They are
rather sarcastic about another young woman of their party who always
insists on sleeping under sixteen blankets when at the shore.
But the high point of the trip comes when one changes at Jamaica,
there boarding the 1:15 for Salamis. This is the train that on
Saturdays takes back the two famous club cars, known to all
travellers on the Oyster Bay route. Behind partly drawn blinds the
luncheon tables are spread; one gets narrow glimpses of the great
ones of the Island at their tiffin. This is a militant moment for
the white-jacketed steward of the club car. On Saturdays there are
always some strangers, unaccustomed to the ways of this train, who
regard the two wagons of luxury as a personal affront. When they
find all the seats in the other cars filled they sternly desire to
storm the door of the club car, where the proud steward stands on
guard. "What's the matter with this car?" they say. "Nothing's the
matter with it," he replies. Other more humble commuters stand in
the vestibule, enjoying these little arguments. It is always quite
delightful to see the indignation of these gallant creatures, their
faces seamed with irritation to think that there should be a holy of
holies into which they may not tread.
A proud man, and a high-spirited, is the conductor of the 4:27 on
weekdays. This train, after leaving Jamaica, does not stop until
Salamis is reached. It attains such magnificent speed that it always
gets to Salamis a couple of minutes ahead of time. Then stands the
conductor on the platform, watch in hand, receiving the plaudits of
those who get off. The Salamites have to stand patiently beside the
train--it is a level crossing--until it moves on. This is the daily
glory of this conductor, as he stands, watch in one hand, the other
hand on the signal cord, waiting for Time to catch up with him.
"_Some_ train," we cry up at him; he tries not to look pleased, but
he is a happy man. Then he pulls the cord and glides away.
Among other articulations in the anatomy of commuting, we mention
the fact that no good trainman ever speaks of a train _going_ or
_stopping_ anywhere. He says, "This train _makes_ Sea Cliff and Glen
Cove; it don't make Salamis." To be more purist still, one should
refer to the train as "he" (as a kind of extension of the engineer's
personality, we suppose). If you want to speak with the tongue of a
veteran, you will say, "He makes Sea Cliff and Glen Cove."
The commuter has a chance to observe all manner of types among his
brethren. On our line we all know by sight the two fanatical checker
players, bent happily over their homemade board all the way to town.
At Jamaica they are so absorbed in play that the conductor--this is
the conductor who is so nervous about missing a fare and asks
everyone three times if his ticket has been punched--has to rout
them out to change to the Brooklyn train. "How's the game this
morning?" says someone. "Oh, I was just trimming him, but they made
us change." However thick the throng, these two always manage to
find seats together. They are still hard at it when Atlantic Avenue
is reached, furiously playing the last moves as the rest file out.
Then there is the humorous news-agent who takes charge of the
smoking car between Jamaica and Oyster Bay. There is some mysterious
little game that he conducts with his clients. Very solemnly he
passes down the aisle distributing rolled-up strips of paper among
the card players. By and by it transpires that some one has won a
box of candy. Just how this is done we know not. Speaking of card
players, observe the gaze of anguish on the outpost. He dashes
ahead, grabs two facing seats and sits in one with a face contorted
with anxiety for fear that the others will be too late to join him.
As soon as a card game is started there are always a half dozen
other men who watch it, following every play with painful scrutiny.
It seems that watching other people play cards is the most absorbing
amusement known to the commuter.
Then there is the man who carries a heavy bag packed with books. A
queer creature, this. Day by day he lugs that bag with him yet
spends all his time reading the papers and rarely using the books he
carries. His pipe always goes out just as he reaches his station;
frantically he tries to fill and light it before the train stops.
Sometimes he digs deeply into the bag and brings out a large slab of
chocolate, which he eats with an air of being slightly ashamed of
himself. The oddities of this person do not amuse us any the less
because he happens to be ourself.
So fares the commuter: a figure as international as the teddy bear.
He has his own consolations--of a morning when he climbs briskly
upward from his dark tunnel and sees the sunlight upon the spread
wings of the Telephone and Telegraph Building's statue, and moves
again into the stirring pearl and blue of New York's lucid air. And
at night, though drooping a little in the heat and dimness of those
Oyster Bay smoking cars, he is dumped down and set free. As he
climbs the long hill and tunes his thoughts in order, the sky is a
froth of stars.
[Illustration]