IV

So now, Grandma was travelling again. And, as the train covered the

miles away from Lexington, Grandma put aside the worries of the visit

she had just had, the memories of the unpleasantness of the visit

with Mary, the apprehensions of the visit that awaited her. Grandma

shed, all at once, all of these things and emerged, a wonderful, new

personality, a dear, happy little old lady, travelling. Grandma became,

as she always became, three days of each year, the woman she would have

liked to have been, the old lady she sometimes dreamed she was.

First, Grandma rang for the porter. She was well supplied with money

for Albert always sent her a check for travelling expenses. She loved

feeling independent, a personality. When the porter came, Grandma

demanded, in the gentle, well-bred tone Florence might have used, that

the porter bring her an envelope for her bonnet, a pillow for her head,

a stool for her feet. She tipped him generously enough to make him

grin his thanks and hurry to her whenever she rang. There were even

porters who said, “Yes’m, you travelled on my car before,” when they

saw Grandma.

From her bag, Grandma took out a small black lace cap, with a bit of

perky lavender ribbon on it and adjusted it on her thinning hair. At

Mary’s house they were always telling her how thin her hair looked, the

young boy even hinting something about old people who ought to wear

wigs. Albert had sent her the cap in her last Christmas box, and, as

usual, she had saved it for travelling. Grandma put on, too, a pair of

gold-rimmed spectacles. She had needed them for years, but at first a

sort of pride in her good eyes had kept her from getting them. Then, at

Fred’s, she had been too busy; at Albert’s, no one paid much attention

to her needs; at Mary’s they had laughed at her near-sightedness

without offering a corrective. When she was at Albert’s, last year, she

had told him, finally, her need of glasses and the next day Florence

had driven her to an oculist. But she felt that she had annoyed and

disturbed Florence, that getting glasses for an old lady wasn’t just in

Florence’s pattern of things.

Grandma put the cheap candy and the fruit from Fred and Homer into

her bag. It had been awfully kind and good of them. She took out her

knitting and added row after row, as the minutes passed.

Then Grandma rang for the porter again. But, before he came, she looked

around at her fellow passengers, as she always looked at them when she

travelled. Two seats in front of her sat a tired-looking woman of about

forty, with a thin, drawn face. Knitting in hand, Grandma took slow,

careful little steps up the train to her.

“How do you do?” said Grandma, with her sweetest smile, “I wonder if

you won’t have tea with me, keep an old lady company? It seems so—so

unsocial, having tea alone.”

The woman gasped and looked at Grandma. She saw the well-dressed,

comfortable little old lady, with the frill of soft lace at throat and

wrists, a tiny black cap on her grey hair, grey knitting in her gnarled

hands, a picture-book Grandma for all the world.

“Why, yes, I—that would be delightful,” she said.

Grandma led the way back to her own seat. When the porter came she

ordered tea and toast and little cakes and sandwiches, “and some of

that good orange marmalade you always have on this road.”

Grandma hadn’t had any lunch but she didn’t say so. When the little

table was adjusted and the tea things brought in, Grandma poured tea,

as if, every day, in her own home, the routine included the serving of

tea at a dear little tea table.

Grandma listened sympathetically to the other woman’s story. Grandma

knew that each woman who was travelling had a story and would tell it,

if encouraged at all, but she wasn’t much interested—she had heard so

many stories during the past years. Then, when her guest had finished,

Grandma talked.

Grandma didn’t say much, really. She told about her visits, about her

two wonderful sons and her splendid daughter. As Grandma told these

things, they, too, emerged into beauty, the journey threw a magic over

them as it did over Grandma. The things she told were so real that

Grandma believed them, herself, because she wanted to.

“I have three children, so, of course, I spend four months of the year

with each of them. Each of them wanted me all the time—they are such

good children—so the best way seemed to be to divide the time. I’m

on my way to visit my older son, now. Maybe, as you’ve lived in New

York, you’ve heard of him—he has a seat on the Stock Exchange and is

a director in so many things—Albert Morrell Cunningham. His wife was

a Mornington, and they have two such wonderful children, a boy and a

girl. Arlene made her début last year, so you can imagine what a good

time she’s having and what fun it is to be there with her, she’s so

popular and pretty. I’ll show you her picture, later. Each day I’m

there, nearly, they do something for me, a drive in the park, theatres

and concerts. I really get too gay in the city—it’s wonderful.

“Then I go to see Mary, my only daughter, and you know how a mother

feels toward a daughter. She is married to a lawyer in St. Louis and

they have four of the dearest children. The oldest, a boy, is eighteen

and the youngest, a girl, is eleven. Quite an ideal family, isn’t it?

Mary’s husband is quite well-to-do, but they live so comfortably and

simply, no airs at all. Mary doesn’t care a great deal for society,

just wrapped up in her husband and children, but she goes with such

nice people.

“I’ve just come from my second son, Fred. And there—perhaps you’d never

guess it, people have flattered me so long about looking youthful that

I believe them—but I’ve two great-grandchildren, the older three years

old, the younger just a year, the dearest things. Nell, the children’s

mother and her husband and the children are all living right at home.

Fred and his wife won’t hear of them going away. They were housekeeping

for a while, but the family didn’t like it—they are all so devoted to

the children. There are two other girls in the family besides Nell and

they have a great big old-fashioned home, set way back in a broad lawn,

lots of trees and flowers. Yes, it’s Fred’s own home. It’s a good thing

he bought such a big one, years ago, he needs it with so many young

people. They do have such good times together—and, of course, it’s

young people who keep us all young, these days.”

Then, from her bag, Grandma drew a bundle of photographs. The

photographers, from the maker of the shiny products of Lexington to the

creator of the soft sepias of Fifth Avenue, had, with their usual skill

at disguise, smoothed away the lines of discontent on Mary’s face,

the bold impudence of her children, had added a little kindness and

humanness to Florence and Albert, had made Fred’s family look placid,

undisturbed and prosperous. The pictures showed Grandma’s family to be

all she had said of them, even to the dimpled little Ruthie, taken just

a few weeks before, on a post-card by a neighbourhood photographer.

It didn’t sound like bragging, as Grandma told things. It was just the

simple, contented story of an old lady of seventy-three, who spent her

days satisfied and serene, travelling from one loving and beloved set

of relatives to another.

When tea was finished, Grandma allowed the other woman to return to

her seat with a gentle nod and a “thank you for keeping an old woman

company.” Then Grandma knitted and looked at the passengers again.

Always, whenever she travelled, out of the set that presented itself,

Grandma was able to find those she needed.

A tiny, plump little woman with a too-fat baby was seated just a seat

or so back of Grandma, on the left. It was to her that Grandma went,

now.

“May I hold the baby?” she asked. “I know how tired you must get,

holding him all day, on a day like this. I’ve two great-grandchildren.

Your baby is just about in between them, in age, I think. Sometimes, I

hold them for just a little while and I know how heavy babies can be.”

Deftly, Grandma took the child in her arms and settled him comfortably.

“When dinner is announced,” said Grandma, “you go in and eat. I’ll

take care of the baby. It will be a rest for you—it is so difficult

travelling with a baby—you’ll enjoy your dinner more, alone. Sometimes,

when we go on picnics with my great-grandchildren....”

Grandma told about the babies, about their mother, about her own

grown-up children, whom she visited. She even told little things about

their childhood, as mothers tell to mothers, but, always, she came back

to the present, telling of her visits, encased in the rose colour of

her journey. Not that Grandma told deliberate falsehoods. She didn’t

claim servants or wealth for Fred nor jollity for Albert. But each fact

she brought forth was broidered with the romance that travel brought

to Grandma—the stories all showed Grandma welcome, beloved, happy, made

her children kind, considerate, affectionate, successful, capable.

Grandma helped her listeners, too, for she spread some of this haze

over them. You can’t envy, you must enter into the pleasure of it, when

an old lady of seventy-three shows you the treasures that a lifetime

has handed to her.

Grandma smiled as she sat with the little mother and her baby. And she

smiled as she held the heavy, squirming bundle, while the mother ate

dinner.

“It’s a real pleasure to help you even a little,” said Grandma, as the

woman came back from the dining car to claim her baby and thank Grandma.

Grandma washed her face carefully before she went in to her own dinner.

She took a clean handkerchief from her bag, dainty, lavender-bordered,

the present that Edna, Fred’s second daughter, had given her last

Christmas. On it she sprinkled a bit of perfume, a gift from Alice, two

years before. She smoothed her hair, brushed the dust from her waist. A

new adventure always awaited her in the dining car.

She walked with stiff little steps the length of the three cars,

holding tight to the seats as she passed. And, through the cars, she

smiled at the children and to grown-ups, smiles a bit patronizing,

perhaps, as smiles should be from such a distinguished, contented old

lady.

In the diner, Grandma was seated across from a stout, middle-aged

man, who was eating an enormous meal. She smiled at him. He couldn’t

misjudge her—one doesn’t flirt that way at seventy-three.

“It’s a wonderful day for travelling, isn’t it?” she said. “Last time I

travelled, four months ago...”

Grandma was telling of her children, of her journeys.

Grandma ordered carefully—a steak, you are really safe about steaks

when you travel, a fresh vegetable, a green salad, a bit of pastry,

black coffee. Grandma ordered as if the ordering of a dinner were a

usual but precious rite. She felt correct, prosperous, a woman of the

world. The man across the table, pleased with his meal and moved a

bit by Grandma’s story of her happy and fortunate life, her devoted

children, saw in Grandma the things that made this devotion. He even

grew a bit gallant.

“I can see why your children are so good to you, ma’am. It makes me

wish I had a grandma or mother like you myself.” This during mouthfuls.

Grandma was equal to it.

“Why me, I’m just what my children have made me. Just think of you,

making such lovely speeches to an old lady. You’re deserving of the

best mother a man ever had, I’m sure.”

There were more pretty speeches. The man became almost flowery. Grandma

actually blushed, before she paid her check, adding her usual generous

tip—the stranger had offered to pay but Grandma wouldn’t have that,

of course. Then, as Grandma arose, the man opposite rose, too, and

courteously escorted her through the cars and to her seat, stopping for

a moment to talk.

Grandma couldn’t knit at night. The motion of the car and the electric

lights were not a good combination for her old eyes. She put her

knitting into her bag and extracted a deck of cards, flamboyant, with

green and gold gift-looking backs. She chose now two young women and a

good-looking young man in his early thirties. She approached them all

with the same question.

“Wouldn’t you like a game of bridge? It seems so lonely, an evening

alone, in a sleeper—”

Strangely, all three did play bridge and would like a game. The porter

brought a little table, again, and they played, rather indifferently,

to be sure—Grandma was no expert and one of the young women played even

a poorer game than she did—but several hours passed pleasantly. Then,

after they stopped playing, Grandma brought the fruit from her bag.

Grandma told them about Fred bringing the fruit to her, and, as they

ate, she told, too, of her visits, of her children, her grandchildren,

and the two little great-grand ones. The three card-players really

seemed interested, so of course the photographs were brought out for a

round of approval.

After the guests had gone to their seats, Grandma had her berth made

up. She was rather particular about this—she wanted it made with her

feet to the engine. Grandma thought this knowing about head and foot

gave her a travelled air. Besides, she really didn’t like to feel that

she was travelling backwards.

In the dressing-room she put on her violet silk dressing gown, a

gift from Florence three years before, which she kept carefully

for travelling, and a frivolous little cap of cream lace, to keep

the dust out of her hair while she slept. She spread her ivory

travelling articles in their leather case—five years old on her last

birthday—before her, and, as she prepared for sleep, talked pleasantly

with the woman who happened to come into the dressing-room while she

was there.

Grandma slept fairly well for travelling, waking up frequently to pull

up the shade and look out on the hurrying landscape, the occasional

lights, the little towns. She thought it was mighty pleasant travelling.

She was up at seven and dressed swiftly. A new woman had got on during

the night and now occupied the seat opposite Grandma, a well-gowned

woman in her late thirties, with a smart, city-like air.

Grandma nodded a pleasant good morning.

“We seem to be making good time,” she said.

“Yes, indeed,” the woman smiled, “pleasant day for travelling.”

With the air of one born traveller to another, Grandma talked a bit,

then motioned the woman to sit beside her. The pleasant conversation

gave Grandma a warm feeling of well-being. She suggested breakfast and

the two of them went in together, the younger woman steadying Grandma

just a bit when the train swayed around a curve.

It was a pleasant breakfast. Grandma ordered three-minute eggs. They

were the way she liked eggs best, but she seldom had them. At Albert’s

it seemed so self-assertive to ask for things like that, special

directions and everything—and at Fred’s and Mary’s!

Grandma and her new friend talked about New York, about plays they

had both seen the year before. They discussed food and the cost of

living, servants, the usual things that two hardly acquainted women

talk of, when circumstance throws them together. There was nothing

condescending in the new acquaintance’s attitude. Why should there

have been? Grandma was neither an unnecessary member of a cool,

indifferent household nor an overworked old woman—she was the ideal

Grandma, cultured, clever, kindly. It was no wonder, then, that, after

breakfast, the two of them should loiter in Grandma’s seat and Grandma

should show a few family photographs and dwell, pleasantly, on how

fortunate she was in having such splendid sons, such a lovely daughter

and such wonders of grandchildren, to say nothing of the two babies.

Then the woman suggested that she and Grandma go to the observation

car, and, before long, Grandma was seated in a big chair, knitting

again, and glancing at the flying scenery.

All the morning Grandma’s former acquaintances came to talk to her.

The thin woman with the sad face offered her some candy. Grandma had

a little chat with the plump mother and the baby and held the baby

again while his mother ate luncheon. The stout man, reading a magazine,

dropped it long enough to come over and ask Grandma how she was feeling

and if there was anything he could do for her. Grandma’s bridge

companions, now well acquainted, with the sudden friendship that travel

brings, gathered around Grandma for a chat, laughing at everything.

Several others, coming into the car, stopped for a word with Grandma.

Grandma and her latest acquaintance had luncheon together, too. Then,

after luncheon, Grandma prepared, a whole hour ahead, as she always

did, for the end of her journey. She washed off as much of the soot as

she could. She took off the little lace cap and replaced it with her

decent old bonnet, which had been resting in its bag all this time.

She slipped on her black travelling coat over her grey crêpe dress.

She took out a clean handkerchief, sprinkling a bit of perfume on it.

Before closing her bag, Grandma took out the cheap candy that Homer had

brought to the station and gave it, with a gracious smile, to the woman

with the baby. It was good to be able to give something—and, besides,

what could she do with the candy at Albert’s? She didn’t care for candy

and even the servants would have laughed at it.

Grandma closed her bag then and sat waiting. Her chance acquaintances

passed, nodded, smiled and talked. Grandma was a real person of

importance, a dear, happy old lady, with a devoted family, spending

her life contentedly divided among them. Didn’t all these people know

about Grandma? Hadn’t they heard of her children and her grandchildren

and her great-grandchildren? Hadn’t they seen their photographs, even?

Didn’t they know that, after four pleasant months with Fred and his

happy, jovial family, she was on her way to visit Albert, rich and

prominent and kind?

V

The train drew into the Grand Central Station. Grandma, trembling a

little—for the excitement of travelling is apt to make one tremble at

seventy-three—allowed the porter to brush her coat, bade farewell to

her train acquaintances, followed her bag down the aisle and into the

station.

A man in a chauffeur’s uniform took Grandma’s bag and addressing

Grandma politely, gravely, told her that Mr. and Mrs. Cunningham were

sorry, but engagements prevented them from meeting her. They would see

her at dinner at seven.

Grandma, with short, unsteady little steps, went out to the waiting

car. There was something very near a tear in her eye. After all,

travelling has its difficulties when one is seventy-three. The shell

of radiance, of smiling independence, of being cared for, important,

loved, fell away. Grandma was just a little, tired, lonely old lady

again. Another of Grandma’s romantic journeys was over.