A RIDE BY NIGHT
It was a glorious night—quite wonderful. There are certain summer
evenings when nature produces a poetic, emotionalizing mood. Life seems
to talk to you in soft whispers of wonderful things it is doing. Marshes
and pools, if you encounter any, exhale a mystic breath. You can look
into the profiles of trees and define strange gorgon-like
countenances—all the crones and spectres of a thousand years. (What
images of horror have I not seen in the profiles of trees!) Every
cottage seems to contain a lamp of wonder and to sing. Every garden
suggests a tryst of lovers. A river, if you follow one, glimmers and
whimpers. The stars glow and sing. They bend down like lambent eyes. All
nature improvises a harmony—a splendid harmony—one of her rarest
symphonies indeed.
And tonight as we sped out of Owego and I rested in the deep cushions of
the car it seemed as if some such perfect symphony was being
interpreted. Somewhere out of the great mystery of the unknowable was
coming this rare and lovely something. What is God, I asked, that he
should build such scenes as this? His forces of chemistry! His powers of
physics! We complain and complain, but scenes like these compensate for
many things. They weave and sing. But what are they? Here now are
treetoads cheep-cheeping. What do they know of life—or do their small
bodies contain a world of wonder, all dark to my five dull senses? And
these sweet shadows—rich and fragrant—now mellowing, now poignant! I
looked over my right shoulder quite by accident and there was a new moon
hanging low in the west, a mere feather, its faintness reflected in the
bosom of a still stream. We were careening along a cliff overhanging
this river and as we did so along came a brightly lighted train
following the stream bed and rushing somewhere, probably to New York. I
thought of all the people on it and what they were doing, what dreaming,
where going; what trysts, what plots, what hopes nurturing. I looked
into a cottage door and there a group of people were singing and
strumming—their voices followed us down the wind in music and laughter.
Somewhere along this road at some wayside garage we had to stop for oil
and gas, as Speed referred to gasoline—always one quart of oil, I
noticed, and about seven gallons of gasoline, the price being anywhere
from $1.25 to $1.75, according to where we chanced to be. I was drowsing
and dreaming, thinking how wonderful it all was and how pleasant our
route would surely be, when a man came up on a motorcycle, a strained
and wiry looking individual, who said he had just come through western
New York and northern Ohio—one of those fierce souls who cover a
thousand miles a day on a motorcycle. They terrify me.
Franklin, with an honest interest in the wellbeing of his car, was for
gathering information as to roads. There was no mystery about our
immediate course, for we were in a region of populous towns—Waverley,
Elmira, Corning, Hornell—which on our map were marked as easy of access.
The roads were supposed to be ideal. The great proposition before us,
however, was whether once having reached Elmira we would go due north to
Canandaigua and Rochester, thereby striking, as someone told us, a
wonderful state road to Buffalo—’_the_ road—or whether we would do as I
had been wishing and suggesting, cut due west, following the northern
Pennsylvania border, and thereby save perhaps as much as a hundred and
fifty miles in useless riding north and south.
Franklin was for the region that offered the best roads. I was for
adventure, regardless of machines or roads. We had half compromised on
the thought that it might be well to visit Warsaw, New York, which lay
about half way between the two opposing routes with which we were
opposing each other, and this solely because the name of one of my home
towns in Indiana was Warsaw and this Warsaw, as my pamphlet showed, was
about the same size. It was a sort of moonshiny, nonsensical argument
all around; and this man who had just come through Warsaw from Buffalo
had no particular good word to say for the roads. It was a hilly
country, he said. “You climb one hill to get into Warsaw and five others
to get out, and they’re terrors.” I could see a look of uncertainty pass
over Franklin’s face. Farewell to Warsaw, I thought.
But another bystander was not so sure. All the roads from here on
leading toward Buffalo were very good. Many machines came through
Warsaw. My spirits rose. We decided to postpone further discussion until
we reached Elmira and could consult with an automobile club, perhaps. We
knew we would not get farther than Elmira tonight; for we had chaffered
away another hour, and it was already dusk.
We never experienced a more delightful evening on the whole trip. It was
all so moving—the warm air, the new silvery moon, the trees on the hills
forming dark shadows, the hills themselves gradually growing dim and
fading into black, the twinkling lights here and there, fire-flies, the
river, this highroad always high, high above the stream. There were
gnats but no mosquitoes—at least none when we were in motion—and our
friend Speed, guiding the car with a splendid technique, was still able
between twists and turns and high speeds and low speeds to toss back
tale after tale of a daring and yet childlike character, which kept me
laughing all the while. Speed was so naïve. He had such innocently gross
and yet comfortable human things to relate of horses, cows, dogs, farm
girls, farm boys, the studfarm business, with which he was once
connected, and so on.
“Put on a slip and come down,” he called to her.
“So she slipped on the stairs and came down.”
(Do you remember that one? They were all like that.)
Once out of Owego, we were soon in Waverley, a town say of ten or
fifteen thousand population, which we mistook at first for Elmira. Its
streets were so wide and clean, its houses so large and comfortable, we
saw on entering. I called Franklin’s attention to the typical American
atmosphere of this town too—the America of a slightly older day. There
was a time not long ago when Americans felt that the beginning and end
of all things was the home. Not anything great in construction or
tragically magnificent, but just a comfortable home in which to grow and
vegetate. Everything had to be sacrificed to it. It came to have a
sacrosanct character: all the art, the joy, the hope which a youthful
and ingenuous people were feeling and believing, expressed, or attempted
to express themselves, in the home. It was a place of great trees,
numerous flowerbeds, a spacious lawn, French windows, a square cupola,
verandas, birdhouses. All the romance of a youthful spirit crept into
these things and still lingers. You can feel as you look at them how
virtuous the owners felt themselves to be, and how perfect their
children, what marvels of men and women these latter were to become—pure
and above reproach.
Alas for a dusty world that would not permit it—that will never permit
any perfect thing to be. These houses, a little faded now, a little
puffy with damp, a little heavier for paint, a little grey or brown or
greenish black, suggest by their atmosphere that they have yielded up
crops of children. We have seen several generations go by since they
were built. Have they been any better than their sires, if as good? It
seems to me as if I myself have witnessed a great revolt against all the
binding perfection which these lovely homes represented. In my youthful
day it was taken for granted that we were to be good and beautiful and
true, and God was to reward us in heaven. We were to die and go straight
before the throne of grace. Each of us was to take one wife or one
husband to our heart and hearth. We were never to swindle or steal or
lie or do anything wrong whatsoever. America was to make the sermon on
the mount come true—and look at us. Have we done it?
I call attention to Pittsburg, Chicago, and New York, to go no further:
to the orgies of trust building, stock gambling, stock watering, get
rich quick-ing; to the scandals of politics and finance; to the endless
divorces and remarriages and all the license of the stage and the hungry
streets of harlots and kept women. Have we made the ten commandments
work? Do not these small towns with their faded ideal homes stand almost
as Karnak and Memphis—in their frail way pointing the vanity of
religious and moral ideals in this world? We have striven for some
things but not the ideals of the sermon on the mount. Our girls have not
been virtuous beyond those of any other nation—our boys more honest than
those of any other land. We have simply been human, and a little more
human for being told that we were not or ought not to be so.
In Waverley, despite the fact that we had determined to reach Elmira
before stopping for dinner, we became suddenly hungry and while
“cruising,” as Speed put it, down the principal street, about three
quarters of a mile long, with various stores and movies in full swing,
we discovered an irresistible “lunch car” crowded in between two
buildings. Inside was the usual “hash slinger,” at his pots and pans. He
was a swarthy skinned black-haired youth, this impresario with a
penchant for doing his work gallantly, like an acrobat. He had nothing
to offer save pork and beans, ham and eggs, various sandwiches, and one
kind of pie. All the remainder of his stock had been disposed of. I
ordered ham and eggs—somehow in small towns I always feel safest in so
doing. It was amusing to watch him “flip” an egg with a turn of the
wrist and at the same time hold bantering converse with a frowsy headed
youth whose face was pressed to a small porthole giving out onto the
sidewalk. Every now and then, as we were eating, some familiar of the
town would tap on the window to give evidence of his passing, and soon
the place was invaded by five evening roysterers, smart boys of the
town, who made all sorts of quips and jests as to the limited bill of
fare.
“How about a whole egg? Have you got one?”
“Do you ever keep any salt and pepper here, Jake?”
“Somebody said you’d have a new pie, tomorrow. Is that right?”
“What’s the matter with the old one?” inquired someone.
“Why, a feller bit into it by mistake. They’re goin' to sell it to the
shootin' gallery for a target.”
“Why don’t you fellers get up a new line o' dope?” interjected the host
at one place. “My pies ain’t in it with what you’re springin'.”
This drew a laugh and more chatter.
As I sat on a stool looking out and munching my “ham-and” I could not
help thinking of the high spirits of all these towns we were passing. In
Europe, in places of four or five times the size of this—Rotterdam,
Amsterdam, The Hague, Dover, Amiens, Florence, Perugia, even Venice, I
might say, I found no such flare nor any such zest for just living. What
is it about Americans that gives all their small towns such an air?
Somebody had already introduced the five-light lamp standard here, in
one or two places. The stores were all brightly lighted and you could
see boys and girls going up and down in the hope of those chance
encounters with adventure which youths and maidens of all strata so
crave. Noting all this, I said to myself that in Europe somehow, in
towns of this size and much larger, things always seemed duller. Here in
America there are always these boys and girls of no particular social
caste, I take it, whose homes are not very attractive, whose minds and
bodies are craving a touch of vitality—gay contact with someone of the
other sex—and who find their social life in this way, on the streets. No
doubt at this point someone will rise to say that they need more
supervision. I am not so sure. As life expresses itself, so it should
be, I fancy. All my sympathies go out to such young people, for I recall
with what earnestness as a boy I used to do this same thing—how I wished
and longed and how my body tingled at the thoughts of love and the
promise of life to come.
Once on the road again, I hummed and meditated until suddenly I found
myself dreaming. I wasn’t on the high road between Binghamton and Elmira
at all but in some happy land that hadn’t anything to do with motoring—a
land of youth and affection. Suddenly I sat up, wondering whether I had
keeled over toward Franklin, and he had discovered that I had been
asleep.
“We don’t have to spend the night in Elmira, do we?” I ventured
cautiously.
“Oh, no,” said Franklin, amiably.
“Since it’s so late, the next hotel we come to, we’d better tie up,
don’t you think,—I’m getting sleepy.”
“All right for me,” agreed Franklin. I couldn’t tell whether he was
sleepy or not.
Presently a great square old house came into view with trees and flowers
and a light burning before it. It was so still now we seemed to have the
night all to ourselves. No automobiles were in sight. We debated whether
we would stay here.
“Oh, let’s risk it,” said Franklin. “It’s only for one night, anyhow.”
We were greeted by a tall, angular country boy with the air of one who
is half asleep and a habit of running his hand through his hair. He had
been serving three men in the rear with drinks. He led us up warm,
stuffy, carpeted halls, lighted by oil lamps, into a small, musty
chamber with a large, yellow, creaky bed. This and another similar
apartment for Speed were all he could offer us.
It was hot. A few mosquitoes were buzzing. Still the prospect of a deep
black sky and stars through the open window was soothing. I made a few
joyless comments, which Franklin received in silence; and then we slept.