therefore I limited myself to two hand-pieces. For the first of these
I had not far to search. It was that frail, slim, dapper thing, a
straw suitcase. It was very light, just how light I was afterwards to
discover, but before embarkation I regarded it with joy; it seemed to
me suitable and genteel, with its sober gray sides and trim leather
corners. With it I was satisfied, whereas from the first I felt
misgiving about my second article of impedimenta. There was nothing
genteel or ladylike about this, that was certain, but perhaps I am
not the first traveler who has yielded to the mendacious promises
of a telescope. It looks as if it would so obligingly yield to the
need either of condensation or expansion. You may inflate or contract
at will, and it’s all the same to the telescope. My telescope was
peculiarly unbeautiful. Its material was a shiny substance looking like
linoleum, called wood fiber, and having a bright burnt-orange color. Its
corners were strengthened with sheet iron, lacquered black. You have
seen the same in use by rural drummers, but rarely in a female hand.
I don’t know why I bought it. It is part of my quarrel with inanimate
objects that they always exert an hypnotic influence upon me in the
shop, and always excite loathing so soon as they arrive at my home. In
this instance it was both the saleswoman and the purchase that excited
the hypnotism. She was of that florid, expansive, pompadoured type
that always reduces my mind to feebleness. Moreover, she jumped up and
down on my prospective telescope, bouncing before my eyes in all her
bigness. Now, in my sober senses I do know that one’s primary motive
in purchasing a handbag is not that one may dance upon it; but at that
moment, as I watched her pirouetting as if on a springboard, I felt
that no piece of luggage was anything worth unless you could jump upon
it. I bought.
Almost at once that tawny bedemoned box began its career of naughtiness.
The first thing it did on shipboard was to disappear. It stopped just
long enough to be entered in the agent’s book, and then it leaped down
into the hold and hid. I searched; the purser searched; so did six
several stewards and stewardesses. The stewards searched the staterooms;
I searched the passages; together we searched the hold, penetrating
even the steerage to see if the missing article were congregating with
the motley collection down there. We were four days out when, in a
passage repeatedly searched, on a ledge near a porthole, behold my tawny
telescope leering at me! My steward was genuinely superstitious over it.
So was I.
It was during my first travels on land that I discovered that a capacity
for being jumped upon, far from being a recommendation in a piece of
luggage, is distinctly a detraction. I did a great deal of jumping
during three weeks in Scotland. I am sure I shall have sympathizers
when I declare my difficulties in packing a telescope. In the first
place, it is very hard, when both ends are lying on the floor, supine
and gaping, to distinguish which is top and which is bottom. It is only
after sad repacking that you discover that while top will sometimes go
over bottom, bottom will never go over top. Having ascertained which is
bottom, you begin to pack. You soon are even with the edge; but in a
telescope this is nothing. You continue to pack, up, up into the air, a
tremulous mountain of garments upon which at length you gingerly place
top. Firmly seating yourself at one end, you grasp the straps that
girdle the other, and bravely you seek to buckle them. Result, while
that end of the telescope on which you are sitting undoubtedly settles
under your weight, from the gaping mouth which you are attempting to
muzzle there is belched forth an array of petticoats, blouses, collars,
postcards. You dismount, reopen, replace scattered articles, and reseat
yourself on the opposite end. Result, the end which sank under you
before now pops wide, and spouts forth a stream of Baedekers red as
collops. Again you repack all, replace top. Starting from across the
room, with a running high jump, you aim to land on the very middle of
the thing. Result, the top goes down, it is true, but from all edges
there dips a fringe of garments. In the privacy of your room, with
the assistance of Heaven and the chambermaid and the Boots, you may
sometimes contrive to shut a telescope; but I once had to open and
restrap mine, sole and unaided, in the waiting room of a station. It
happened that I had placed my ticket to London in the toe of one shoe,
placed the shoe in the bottom of the straw suitcase, locked this, placed
the key in the toe of the other shoe, and placed that in the bottom
of my telescope. Why did I do this? Simply because I had just visited
Melrose Abbey. I frequently suffer from a tendency of my costume to
disruption in moments of stress. At times of great muscular exertion and
mental excitement my hat tends to take an inebriate lunge, each several
hairpin stands on end, my collar rises rowdyish from its moorings,
impeccable glove fingers gape wantonly. All these circumstances attended
the closing of my telescope on that occasion. It was immediately after
that I decided upon the necessity of a third piece of baggage.
I bought it in Edinburgh, on Princes Street, the wonderful street where
you vainly seek to apply yourself to mundane shopping with Edinburgh
Castle ever filling your vision, standing over there on its craggy
hill, all misty with legend, while a hundred memories of Mary Queen
of Scots come whispering at your ear as you soberly endeavor to buy
gloves. If my previous impedimenta had been outrageously American, my
third handbag was Scotch, every inch of him. He was gentlemanly and
distinguished, frank and accommodating. I have never seen anything like
him over here,--shiny black sides of oil-cloth, bound by leather strips,
plentifully studded with tacks, but otherwise strictly unornamented. But
his chief charm was the way he opened, the whole top flapping easily
apart at will, and afterwards the two sides closing over all as easily
as if his only desire were to please. In capacity he was unlimited; you
could pour into him, on and on, and always he closed upon his contents
smilingly, without protest.
For a brief space, as I trickled down through England from cathedral to
cathedral, my Scotch companion was my chiefest comfort, the mere sight
of his black, rising-sunshiny face cheering me as it looked down upon me
from the luggage rack of a third-class carriage. More and more I came to
impose upon the generosity of his interior, until one day my confidence
in his Scotch integrity was rudely shattered; for I discovered that the
reason he could hold so much was that he had quietly kicked out his
bottom! He continued to accompany me, it is true, but thrust from his
high gentlemanly estate, resembling now rather those bleary, dilapidated
Glasgow porters that greet one’s arriving vessel, his frail form, like
theirs, begirt and bandaged in order to support the few light belongings
I now dared to entrust to his feebleness.
Meanwhile, the strength of my yellow telescope continued unabated,
but so did also its averseness to accommodating my possessions, which
daily, all unwittingly and unwillingly, increased. My dapper suitcase
had suffered by the way, its neat sides were bruised and staved in, one
leather corner was missing, another stood up like an attentive ear. It
still smiled, “brave in ragged luck,” but its own America would not have
known it. It now appeared that England, and as it happened, rural Devon,
must contribute another article to my retinue.
Now, ever since I had touched Great Britain, my unaccustomed eye had
been fascinated by a piece of luggage quite new to me. I mean that most
British thing, the tin trunk. We have nothing like it in luggage, but we
have copied it exactly in cake boxes; the only difference is that the
English original has a bulge top and a lock and key. In character my
British baggage was much better natured than my American telescope, but
in color it was much the same, orange tawny; it had grown very easy for
me to spot my belongings in the miscellany of the luggage van.
These representatives of the American, Scotch, and English nations
followed in my wake from Southampton to St. Malo, and perhaps their
company need never have been increased on the continent if in Brittany I
had not bought a pair of sabots, life size. Nothing so unaccommodating
as sabots! Seemingly each was big enough to sleep in, but if I attempted
to pack the inside of one, behold, it would hold nothing at all; it was
built to hold a foot, and if it couldn’t have a foot, it would have
nothing. In true peasant insolence, each sabot demanded a whole handbag
to itself, and, once in, refused to accommodate its substantial bulk to
the needs of any of my other possessions. In much difficulty I managed
to get across France, but once in Paris, especially in view of certain
aristocratic purchases that absolutely refused to consort with wooden
shoes, the need of still a fifth hand-piece was evident.
Paris luggage, like a Paris lady, is built to show a pleasing exterior.
Diversion rather than utility is its motive. My Paris handbag still
preserves its suggestion of perpetual picnic. It looks as if it were
always just off for a Sunday in the Bois. It is a woven wicker thing,
exactly like an American lunch-basket, vastly magnified. The handle must
be grasped from the top, and is not the handy side appendage of all
American grips. I never look at it without seeing within dozens upon
dozens of boiled eggs and sandwiches. As a matter of fact, it has never
held anything of the sort; rather it carried my new Parisian costume
safely from Paris to New York.
By dint of fast and furious touring through Belgium I managed not to
acquire anything more to pack or to be packed, but in Holland once again
I fell. I was within a few days of sailing when I visited Alkmaar. There
a tall polyglot young Dutchman showed me through a most delicious cheese
factory. Innocent and round, ruby or orange, smiled those cheeses down
at me from their long shelves. My guide gave me to eat. Thus it was that
the last thing I bought on the other side was--cheeses! Oh, he assured
me, they were perfectly well behaved; even had they so desired they
could not get out of their strong cases; no more innocent gift to be
taken home to appreciative friends. That Dutchman understood American
credulity better than he did the American language. Those cheeses did
not stay in their cases. They came out and performed in all ways after
the manner of cheeses. Now throughout my trip, whatever inconveniences
I might suffer by reason of possessions acquired, I could never make up
my mind to abandon any. Having bought them, I did not desert my cheeses,
but it became increasingly apparent that they would have to travel in
a home of their own, together with such of my goods as would not be
corrupted by evil communications. I purchased my last bit of luggage in
Rotterdam. It was a gray canvas bag, in shape like a dachshund without
the appendages. It was capable of as much lateral expansion as a Marken
fisherman. It received and held the cheeses, but frankly, so that their
contour was clear to the eye. To all appearances I was taking home a
bushel of turnips out of brave little Holland.
I embarked at Rotterdam, and for ten days sank into that state of coma
to which ocean travel stimulates me. It was not till we had touched the
Hoboken dock that I became once more acutely alert. I had donned my
Paris traveling dress, had walked through the great shed until I found
my letter X, and then turned about to wait with the rest for the arrival
of my luggage. Then for the first time realization overwhelmed me. I
was waiting for my bags, _my_ bags; those six disreputable traveling
companions would here and now seek me out and claim my society, right
here in America, with V and W to right of me, Y and Z to left, my
haughty steamer acquaintance, looking on! Over on the other side one is
not known by one’s baggage, but here one is! I had faced many a white
continental porter with nonchalance, but with which one of my motley
collection in my hand could I face the black Pullman porter of my own
country? I cowered with shame, so slowly they arrived, each several one
of the six, tediously threading its way to X, never losing itself, never
losing me, always hunting me down! The joy of home-coming was turned to
gall. I saw V and W, Y and Z, turn away their faces. To my eyes each
several hand-piece looked more bizarre than the last. Which one should I
select to accompany me on an American railroad? Which of the motley crew
would least endanger the respectability of a lady traveling alone in an
American car? Through the crowd my Parisian lunch-basket came mincing up
to me, still ready for perpetual picnic. Silly chit! I wouldn’t travel
with her. My Rotterdam purchase, bulging and redolent with cheeses,
came waddling up, respectable perhaps, but with it I should have been
as conspicuous as with one of the Marken imps in copious trousers
that it so much resembled. My former pride of Scotch travel was now
so fallen away that he looked as if he were in the last stages of his
native whiskey, and as if his physique would hardly have supported the
weight of a hairpin. No help to be had in him! My American suitcase,
in May so trig and debonair, had been punched and pounded out of all
semblance to anything belonging either to America or a suitcase. My
British cake-box had suffered likewise, and in its decrepitude supported
the loss of a lock, and appeared to my horrified eyes carefully roped
with clothesline by a friendly steward. Even though I promptly sat
down upon it, spreading my Paris skirt wide, I could not conceal that
yellow cake-box from the fashionable steamer folk that swarmed about me.
Suitcase and tin trunk both had lost all distinction of nation; they
both belonged now to the international species, tramp. There remained
to me only my evil genius, the orange-tawny telescope. Foreign labels
had but scantily subdued the natural aggressiveness of his demeanor. He
was possible--perhaps. Then I considered how he had flouted me, scorned
me, spilled out at me, jeered at me in my helplessness. I pictured
opening and shutting him in the berth of a sleeping car; then quietly,
inconspicuously, and virulently, I kicked him.
I fastened the last strap the customs officers had loosened. Just one
moment I hesitated, regarding my rakish European retinue, then I fell
upon the waiting baggage-agent. “Check them all,” I cried, “all!” Free
as a bird, as a gypsy, as an American, I traveled from New York to
Chicago, a lady luggage-less.
V
_Detached Thoughts on Boarding_
Boarding is a puzzling and provocative subject for any student of human
nature. Some clue to its psychology is revealed by the fact that even
Adam and Eve got tired of it. Eden itself could not keep them from
wanting their own _ménage_. One can conjecture the course of their
growing _ennui_ and irritation as the suspicion dawned upon them that in
Paradise they were not getting all the comforts of home. Having nothing
to do _but_ board, they probably conversed a great deal about their
food, when the celestial ministrants were out of earshot, and eventually
decided that they could have run the table a great deal better
themselves. Then, too, they had no privacy, they were absolutely at the
mercy of any archangel who might choose to drop in on them. Possibly,
also, Eve felt that Eden was no sort of place for bringing up children.
They might be spoiled by the attentions of other boarders, elephant or
ape, fish or fowl, any one of a perfectly indiscriminate menagerie,
while she herself, as a mother, might be subjected to constant advice
from angels who did not know one thing more about human babies than she
did herself. After Eve had thought over these matters for some time, and
whispered them all to Adam, she did what many another boarder has done
since; she up and precipitated a crisis.
The case of Adam and Eve is sufficiently typical to afford some light
upon the puzzling effects of boarding, but not quite enough illumination
to satisfy the psychologist. He is teased by the conviction that there
is more in this matter than he can get at. Without an ultimate analysis
of causes it may still be of interest to examine some results to the
human spirit of both the selling and the buying of house-room, and to
offer some tentative explanation of the curious phenomena that for many
of us are too familiar for attention.
We all recognize as a distinct human type the woman who keeps boarders.
One writes woman rather than man, not that in strict accuracy one could
say that men never keep boarders; when men do engage in the business,
however, they do so by wholesale, never by retail, while it is precisely
the increased personal intimacy of the retail relation that occasions
the peculiar blight incurred by the proprietor of a boarding-house,
but escaped by the proprietor of a hotel. There is an expression
familiar to our tongues, distressing in its figurative suggestion,
which is frequently descriptive of the class under discussion, “decayed
gentlewoman.” No one knows whether a gentlewoman takes boarders because
she has decayed or whether she decays because she takes them. Of
course, not all women who take boarders are decrepit either in soul
or body,--some of them are very buxom indeed; and, equally, not all
are refined,--some of them are refreshingly vulgar; still, as a whole,
the attributes inherent in the term “decayed gentlewoman” so generally
characterize the profession that in whatever country one travels one is
received by ladies so consciously redolent of better days as to shame a
boarder for not having had better days himself. However adroitly they
conceal their emotions, women who entertain paying guests generally
have toward their occupation a feeling of perpetual apology or of
perpetual resentment. Sometimes the apology element predominates, and
then a blundering boarder had better be mindful of the sensitive toes
of his hostess; sometimes the resentment is uppermost, and then the
boarder had better be mindful for his own toes. There is no reason why
these facts should characterize so worthy a business, and there are
conspicuous exceptions in which both the woman and the domicile remain
invincibly warm-hearted and welcoming, but the rule still holds that
only the rarest of women can invite the public into her home and not
herself suffer from the exposure, only the rarest of women can as the
mistress of a boarding-house still be perfectly herself.
Having boarders, however, is not so demoralizing as being a boarder. The
chronic boarder is an easily recognizable type, fat, fussy, futile, and
usually feminine. This caustic characterization does not apply to women
who go out by the day to any form of scrubbing, as doctors, lawyers,
or whatnot, professional women too busy for carping; it is the woman
who has no profession except boarding that suffers its utmost injury.
To give primary attention to the manner in which one is fed and lodged
has the same effect as any other reversion to an animal attitude. The
faces of women who do nothing but keep house are always harassed; the
faces of women who do nothing but board are always vacuous. Men-boarders
in a house are generally preferred to women; a he-boarder is more to
be desired than a she-boarder because there is less of him underfoot.
On the other hand, since a man can always beat a woman on her own
ground whenever he thinks it worth while, a man who gives his undivided
attention to his boarding can in fume and fuss out-boarder any woman.
The insidious influence of boarding upon the spirit is most evident when
we watch it operate upon a child. We all know the type of youngster
that even the very best of boarding-houses is prone to produce. He is
noisy, aggressive, self-conscious, and yet to sympathetic penetration
profoundly pathetic. He knows that all his little life is overheard,
that every room knows when he is scolded or spanked or entreated.
A grown-up learns how to conceal his soul from even boarding-house
scrutiny, but a child has no refuge except in slamming doors and
thundering on the stairs and jumping into the secrets of those who have
trespassed upon his own.
The effect of boarding upon our own soul may best be seen by contrasting
our reactions to our geography, according as we wake in the morning to
find ourselves at home, in a friend’s home, or in a boarding-house.
At home our attitude toward the ensuing day is one of absolute
sincerity,--we expect to be our best self or our worst, for frankness is
the chief comfort of kinship; if, on the other hand, we open our eyes
in somebody’s guest chamber, we marshal our forces to insure our good
behavior, we owe it to our host to put out best foot foremost; but if
we wake in a boarding-house? There our morning resolve reduces itself
to the single sordid intention to get our money’s worth. This latent
hostility is ignominious and unworthy, but it is true. Yet we all know
that any hostelry is richer in Samaritan opportunities than the road to
Jericho.
The detriment due to boarding does not confine itself to animate beings,
but extends to the inanimate. In a boarding-house even the chairs
look protesting and sat upon. The curtains seem exhausted by enforced
welcome. The overworked kitchen has not enough pride left to keep its
savors to itself. The piano has clattered until it has forgotten it was
ever meant for music. The doom of dejection falls upon a boarding-house
both without and within, so that one always regrets its entrance into
a street cozy with homes. Its windows stare forth so blankly that
the homes grow uncomfortable and move away. There is a blur over the
face-walls of a boarding-place obliterating the individuality to which
every house has a right.
This very absence of personality gives the boarding-house a certain
personality of its own. The effort to analyze this character has made
the boarding-house a favorite background with story-writers. Balzac,
in “Père Goriot,” caught and reproduced its very soul as well as the
soul of the homeless home-lover that it harbored. The frequency of the
hall bedroom and the long table in magazine stories to-day suggests the
wistful familiarity with both of writer and reader. The juxtaposition of
types in a group bound together by no more congenial tie than the brute
need of food and shelter has always opened a fascinating field to the
romancer from Chaucer’s day to ours.
The mere mention of Chaucer’s name is eloquent with contrast, for surely
the Tabard was no bleak spot, but warm and tingling with hospitality.
Yet even Chaucer’s blithe company had a sharp eye and a gossipy tongue
ready for each other’s foibles, and if they had remained together too
long, it would have taken more than mine host to keep them in order, but
fortunately they had their picnic and parted. Another week or two and
even the Canterbury pilgrims might have degenerated into boarders, and
dear knows what metamorphosis mine host the merry, might have undergone.
To place Balzac’s boarding-house and Chaucer’s Tabard side by side is to
produce a pregnant contrast. Yet if the primary purpose of both is akin,
why the world of difference connoted by the word “boarding-house” and
the word “inn”? Inn suggests comfort, coziness, congenial conversation,
but, alas, it also suggests a dear departed day. The only inns left are
survivors from dead decades, and they themselves have no descendants.
“Mine ease in mine inn” is a phrase from the past.
It is interesting to examine the difference in meaning of the three
types of hostelry--hotel, boarding-house, and inn. The hotel does not
try to be something it is not. It neither offers nor expects anything
personal. Its purpose is to make money out of the visitor, as his
purpose is to get comfort out of it. A hotel is not a home, and it
does not pretend to be. Now a boarding-house is pathetic because it is
always trying to be a home when it is not. It is we, the boarders, who
are responsible for its being the wistful anomaly that it is, for at
one moment we demand of it the indifference of a hotel and the next the
coziness of a home, and at all moments we ask of it that which money
cannot buy--hospitality.