Stevenson says that there are certain periods in life which leave
behind them a kind of roseate haze on the map of one’s existence. You
cannot remember the details; you are merely conscious of a kind of
pleasant blur. I feel the same thing about my voyage from Tahiti to
San Francisco, but I have not yet forgotten and shall never forget
the details. That voyage stands out for me like a kind of bath which
had the power of restoring one’s youth for the time being. The trade
winds blew freshly the whole time. There was a breeze even when we
crossed “the line.” It was tropically warm, and yet never for one
hour too hot. It was only at the end of the voyage that the freshness
was overdone, that the weather grew cold, and the sea too rough for
comfort; otherwise the weather was perfect. The huge clouds of the
Pacific chased one another across the sky, as Stevenson describes
them--“blotting out the stars” at night, and making fantastic citadels
in the sunset.
Apropos of the stars in the tropics, one is always told that there is
no twilight in these regions. This is not quite an accurate way of
expressing it. What is accurate, is Coleridge’s line in “The Ancient
Mariner,” when he says, “The Sun’s rim dips; the stars rush out.” He
adds, “At one stride comes the dark.” The moment the sun goes down,
you do see the stars at once; but the darkness that comes is not dark;
the red afterglow down on the horizon, and above it the luminous mauve
haze, which is peculiar to the tropics, lingers a long time, and
against this the great shapes of the clouds stand out inky and black.
It is a wonderful sight.
The football boys used to train twice a day. A large swimming-bath,
made out of a sail, had been fixed up on the deck, so that after
toying with a little amateur training, one could take off one’s clothes
and splash about in the salt water. I do not think I ever enjoyed baths
so much.
In the afternoon many of us used to take sunbaths, and lie half
stripped on the upper deck in the sun, till our skin turned first red
and then brown. At Sydney everybody takes these sunbaths, and this
accounts for the bronzed complexion of the Australians.
The football boys had appetites which I have rarely seen equalled and
never seen surpassed.
When I was at school at Eton, there was a phrase which was peculiar to
the place, namely, “a brozier” (I am not certain that this is the right
spelling). “A brozier” or “to brozier” meant when the boys ate all the
food provided for them and clamored for more, until there was nothing
left in the house.
There was, once upon a time, a much-venerated lady at Eton, called
Miss Evans, who ruled over a house of boys. One day the boys settled on
“a brozier,” and ate everything in the house, but Miss Evans was not
to be defeated. She produced a large, evil-smelling cheese, and set it
before the boys, and this cheese defeated them.
The football boys seemed capable of doing this every day, and the
stewards were walked off their feet by the amount of fetching and
carrying of dishes which they had to perform. As soon as the bugle
blew, one heard a stampede of feet going down to the saloon. One felt
inclined to quote Browning’s celebrated poem, and say,--
“Dinner’s at seven--
All’s right with the world.”
It is a curious thing that I got to know more about Australia and
New Zealand after having left it than I did when I was there, by the
presence and companionship of these football boys from New South Wales.
Most of them were Australians, some had come from New Zealand. Besides
being some of the best amateur football players in the world, they were
the very best of good fellows, and to live with them was like being
transported back again to Oxford or Cambridge and the days of one’s
youth.
After dinner in the evening choruses used to be sung, and singing in
chorus is the crown of good-fellowship.
In the eighteenth century in England, whenever people met together to
eat, drink, and enjoy themselves, they sang. Song, alas, is now dying
out of modern England, but it still lingers in the haunts of the young.
Very few people now write drinking-songs, and this surely testifies to
a lamentable decay in our morals.
I shall always be thankful to this trip for having afforded me a better
glimpse of the new world, which I obtained through the companionship
of these fine sons of Australia and New Zealand, than I might have
obtained by living for months in Wellington or Sydney, because on
board a small ship one gets to know people far more intimately than one
does anywhere else, and it is by getting to know people that you arrive
at an understanding of a country. It is not through sight-seeing that
you get to know a country; it is through getting to know its people
well, and through getting to know the right sort of people.
_San Francisco: October 3_
There is no subject in the world more hackneyed than American
impressions. Nearly every month a writer of note discovers America over
again. In spite of this, I am told, there is no stuff that is more
eagerly read in the States, and outside of them, than impressions of
America written by a foreigner. It doesn’t seem to matter whether such
impressions are written by a writer of renown, such as H. G. Wells or
Arnold Bennett, or by a totally unknown tourist; it does not matter
whether they are well written or ill written, whether they are serious
or flippant, amusing or dull; they are certain to be read.
I think I can understand the reason of this. People in any country like
to read about themselves. They like to look upon their own image as it
is reflected in the mirror of foreign observers.
It does not much matter what the mirror is like, so long as the image
is there. There is no book of impressions of England, for instance,
that I could not read with interest.
Nevertheless, all this does not make the task of writing about America
to an American public any easier. If one is writing exclusively for
one’s own native public, the task is not so difficult. One can describe
an American hotel, for instance, a train, a tram-car; one can tell how
one is shaved and how one’s boots are blacked; but the American public
knows that already. So the task resolves itself into this: one has to
write about things which are intimately familiar to the public one is
addressing, in such a manner as to make it possible for them to read
what one writes without being tired to death and throwing the book at
some one’s head.
This being so, I revolve in my mind the different methods which could
be applied to the task. First of all, there is the method to which I
have already alluded, and in some cases used in these notes: the method
of not writing about America at all, but about something else. You
would begin writing like this: “The day I arrived at San Francisco,
I was thinking about Venice,” and then you would write a chapter on
Venice. But I do not think people would stand this.
Then you could use the manner of Bernard Shaw. You could write a
“discussion” on America in three acts, in which an aeronaut, a
milliner, a Salvation Army girl, a capitalist, a High-Church clergyman,
and a lady Socialist would sit round a table and discuss America.
You would begin with a preface on trusts, Italian opera, vivisection,
submarines, and prizefighting. Then you would get to the discussion.
This would be prefaced by five pages of stage-directions, with
regard to the room in which the discussion was to take place. Then
one of the characters would enter, and there would be two pages of
stage-directions in very small print about the facial expression, the
clothes, the boots, the watch, the cigarette-case of that character.
Then the character would do a little business,--open the window,
perhaps, or shut it. More characters would enter, heralded by more
stage-directions. Then the characters, having sat down, would discuss
America, and incidentally every other country under the sun, especially
England.
The discussion would be forbidden by the censorship in England, because
one of the characters would be called Askfour, and this would be
considered allusion to
(_a_) Mr. Asquith
(_b_) Mr. Balfour
(_c_) Sir George Askwith (on account of the “k”);--
and so the discussion would be acted in the Little Theatre at New York,
and in London by the State Society on Sunday evenings.
Then I might adopt the method of Pierre Loti. This is called the
“dot-and-dash” method. It is like the Morse code made poetic. You
begin a sentence and leave it unfinished, adding a lot of dots like
this:--
New York.............
I am in New York-.-...but I am not thinking of New York..-....-I
am thinking of something else....-..the other places.......
the East ......the desert........Stamboul...............
Ispahan........Sadi......
(Then a whole line of dots.)
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
(Then you begin again.)
I am in New York............. tall buildings rise wistful and white in
the pale milky sky...... They are very tall, those buildings........
They affect me with a strange longing to go away....... to be
somewhere else...... anywhere else........ not here....There........
where?...... Beyond.......
Translate that into French, and you get the Loti-Morse method.
[Illustration: VERY FEW WRITERS THINK WHEN THEY ARE WRITING]
Then there is the Masefield method. That would consist in writing an
enormously long poem about the Bowery, in verse full of expletives,
oaths, and tough adjectives, called “Street-pity.”
“Take that, and that, and go to Hell.
Hell, Hell, Hell, Hell.”
On reflection, I reject all these methods. I will leave the matter to
my pen.
The only way to write is to let the pen do the work, like what happens
in planchette (except when somebody cheats). Very few writers think
before they write or even when they are writing; they let their pen
guide their thoughts. And I am certain that those writers who write too
much suffer from a disease of the fingers and not of the brain.
Before saying a word about America, I apologize for anything I shall
say which may sound or be absurd.
A wit once said that the American and English people had everything in
common, except, of course, the language. There is, I think, a great
deal of truth in this: the words are the same, but they mean different
things and they are used in different ways.
Some day, when I have learned the American language properly, I mean
to write a large book on the American language. In the mean time,
the following condensed grammar for foreigners may prove useful
for Americans going to England, as well as for Englishmen going to
America:--
_Chapter I_
_Rule I._ (Very important.) Whenever you say “in” in English say
either “on” or “to” in American.
(Note that all English people say, “on a ship,” except British naval
officers. If you say, “on a ship,” to a British naval officer,--if,
for instance, you say, “Jones is on the Dreadnought,” he will get very
angry and correct you, and say, “_in_ the Dreadnought.”)
There are one hundred and twenty-six exceptions to this rule, the most
important of which is this:--
“To be in trouble” is not translated “to be on trouble” in American.
_Rule II._ The two most important words in American are “proposition”
and “stunt.”
Everything is either a proposition or a stunt.
There are no other rules.
_Exercise_
Translate the following story into American:--
THE MOUSE AND THE LION
Once upon a time a Mouse went and trod on a Lion who was asleep. The
Lion, who had been late in going to bed the night before (translate
“had a hang-over”), woke up, and after saying, “Bother you,” seized
the Mouse, and prepared to eat it.
But the Mouse, who was as brave as a mouse, said, “Let me go, you son
of a Lioness; perhaps some day I may do you a good turn.”
The Lion, having laughed the Mouse to scorn, let it go, saying: “A
Mouse do a Lion a good turn. How witty!”
Some time afterwards, some hunters caught the Lion, and put it into a
large net.
The Mouse, which happened to be there, hearing the Lion groan, came
and nibbled away the net (translate “got busy”), until the Lion was
free.
“Don’t you remember,” said the Mouse, “my telling you that I might
some day do you a good turn? You see how right you were not to eat me
then.”
“Yes, that’s true,” said the Lion, and it ate the Mouse.
_Conversation_
Did you hand the gardener’s niece a lemon?
Where is the son of the stockbroker?
What is the son of the stockbroker doing on the street?
Will the son of the stockbroker be stung?
Is the son of the stockbroker a cooker?
Did the son of the baker call the son of the cook a four-flusher?
Did the cousin of the carpenter make the brother-in-law of the
blacksmith look like 30 cents?
Is it up to you to put it over him?
Did the son of the banker, when his father gave him his blessing for a
birthday present, say it was a two-spot on the show-down?
No, but I threw a bouquet at the brother of the carpenter.
He is on the street.
The son of the stockbroker is looking for hens’ teeth.
Yes, good and plenty.
No, the son of the stockbroker is a quitter.
No, he called him a son of a gun.
No, he got his.
Sure, Mike.
Yes, and he said the gent was a piece of cheese.
Can you see anything to the daughter of the money-lender?
Did the second cousin of the tough get outside four bottles?
Is the nephew of the crook a booze-fighter?
Will the uncle of the stockbroker lend me fifty dollars?
Yes, $5,100,000.
No, the second cousin of the tough has been on the water-wagon for
three moons.
No, the nephew of the crook is a Bull-Mooser.
No, the uncle of the stockbroker is a tight-wad.
What differentiates the arrival at an American port or city from the
arrival at the port or city of any other country is that in America you
will find a whole lot of people who are there to meet your wants and
your need. When you arrive in any foreign country, you are necessarily
ignorant of nearly all those things which it is essential you should
know. Now, in most countries you find nobody to help deal with that
ignorance and to help you out of a situation created by it. In America,
on the other hand, you will find a whole lot of people who are there
to find out what you want to do, and to help you to do it in the most
convenient and quickest way. They make a business of it. It pays them
and it helps you. It pays them to help you better than some one else
helps you.
I have met in England quite a lot of people who are frightened at the
thought of going to America, because they feel so ignorant of the
conditions obtaining there. They need feel no such alarm. They will
find a crowd of people competing among themselves as to who can best
put them in the way of what they want to do. For instance, when I
arrived at San Francisco, agents came on board the ship from all of
the different railway lines, each of which was ready to fix up your
journey for you and do anything you wanted. Each railway line wants you
to travel by their line, so each line makes it his business that you
should have every possible inducement to do so.
When I arrived at San Francisco, I thought I might have to proceed on
my journey that same night, but I also wanted to get some money from
the bank. I had arrived after the closing-time of banks. In any other
country this would have been an insuperable obstacle in the way of
getting money. In San Francisco, not at all. The representative of the
Santa Fé Line, which I wished to travel by, immediately took me to an
office where I could get money on presentation of my letter of credit.
The whole business was fixed up in about ten minutes; in most other
countries it takes about half a day to draw on a letter of credit in a
bank; it is quite impossible to draw on it after business hours.
As a matter of fact, I did not proceed on my journey that night. Here,
again, there was no difficulty in cancelling my sleeping-berth.
All these things, which are a matter of course to the American, are
unheard of in European countries. Nobody in Europe has made it a
fine art to meet the convenience of travellers, with the exception,
of course, of Messrs. Cook & Son; but when Cook’s office is closed,
it is closed, and nothing can open it. In America, as far as I can
see, nothing is ever completely closed. There will always be somebody
somewhere to get you what you want.
In San Francisco, to-day, it is difficult to detect any traces of the
fire which followed the earthquake. The enormous high buildings look as
if they had always been there.
I drove to the hotel--the St. Francis--after having finished my
business in the city, in a taxi. This is an expensive thing to do,
but practically the only time you need do it is when you are coming
from the boat. In spite of this, one sometimes wishes that taxis in
America were cheaper. I think there is only one country in the world
where it is within the means of the really poor to hire a cab, and
that is--Russia. A poor man can take a cab just as easily as a rich
man there, because there is no standard charge. The charge depends on
the cabman, and sometimes he will drive you for almost nothing. I have
often seen extremely poor people take cabs in Russia.
In Moscow, the cab-drivers very often own their cabs. They bargain with
you before you get into the cab, as to the price of the drive, and if
the driver does not agree to your price, he will not drive you.
New York, I suppose, is the only city now where hansom cabs still
exist. In London, the only place where you can find one is the British
Museum.
The first thing that struck me in San Francisco, and in America
altogether, was the architecture. Many years ago, when I was in
Florence, I was present in the house of a famous picture expert, when
he and some well-known archæologists were discussing architecture, and
some one who was present said he wondered whether there would ever be a
Renaissance in architecture. One of the archæologists present said that
this Renaissance was already happening in America.
I do not think there are any modern buildings in Europe which can
compare with the modern buildings in America, But apart from such
masterpieces as the Pennsylvania Railroad Station, Pierpont Morgan’s
library, and the wonderful towers and skyscrapers in New York, it
struck me that all the little houses you saw everywhere in the
country round San Francisco and along the Santa Fé Railway track, and
again in Long Island, were remarkable for their symmetry, their good
proportions, and their daintiness. For instance, the country in New
Zealand is covered with little bungalows; so is the country round San
Francisco; but the difference between them is immense. There is no
elegance or prettiness about the bungalows in New Zealand; they are
heavy, unshapely, and monotonous; there is no taste or design about
them; while in San Francisco, on the contrary, they are extremely
varied, remarkable for their proportion, attractive-looking, and often
extremely pretty. I believe that in the American character there is
a deep sense of symmetry, shape, and neatness. I think there are
evidences of this in all departments of American life: in the clothes
of the men and women; in their neatness; in the quickness and neatness
of their phrases and their humour; in the ingenuity of their machinery.
There is a constant tendency to do away with what is unnecessary. In
the finest American buildings what strikes one most is the absence of
unnecessary ornamentation and detail of architect’s “twiddles,” which,
in England, for instance, it is impossible to get architects to leave
out, do what you will.
[Illustration: THE ONLY HANSOM CAB IN LONDON]
The Pennsylvania Railroad Station and Pierpont Morgan’s library have
the simplicity of Greek architecture.
To go back again to San Francisco, the climate is like champagne. There
is gaiety in the air. The streets and the houses seem to radiate with
amusement and cheerfulness. San Francisco is essentially a night city,
and next to Paris, I should say it was the gayest night city in the
world.
I have met with a great deal of hospitality all over the world, but I
have never met with people who take so much trouble for the stranger as
the Americans. A friend of mine in New York met a friend of his, and
asked this friend if he had any acquaintances in San Francisco, and if
so, whether they could do anything for me. This friend of my friend’s
immediately sent a lot of telegrams to San Francisco, the result of
which was that I instantly received cards of invitation to three
different clubs, and that I was, that very night, entertained at the
Pacific Union Club.
Here again was an example of beautiful architecture. The club is the
last word of luxury, but the luxury is subordinate to taste and design.
It is not over-ornamented. When new clubs are built in England, for
the sheer purpose of luxury, such as, for instance, the Automobile
Club, the result is ramshackle, shoddy, pretentious, and hideous.
There is nothing solid about it in taste or in design--merely luxurious
gaudiness. I do not think there is in the whole of the world a club
to compare in luxury, solid comfort, and fine proportion with the San
Francisco Pacific Union. The food is as excellent as the architecture.
I was also taken to the Bohemian Club, which is famous for its great
yearly entertainment in the redwood region.
There is also a wonderful home of athletics, which I visited, called
the Olympic Club, which has not long been built. It contains every kind
of bath you can imagine, and an enormous salt-water swimming-bath.
It is the kind of bath you can imagine the ancient Romans built for
themselves, and, indeed, American cities lead one to think that in many
respects they are like ancient Rome: the quantity of marble employed;
the detailed supply which is ever present to meet the demands and the
needs of the individual.
During my second day in San Francisco, I was taken by a friend to see a
ranch. We went by train, and then drove in a machine over the beautiful
hills, right into the heart of the country. There is no country more
beautiful than California. At this moment, although no rain had fallen
for some time, the green was still vivid, the colours of the foliage
mellow and soft and indescribably varied. The atmosphere of the hills
softened the tints, and the harmony of colour was soft and gorgeous.
Riding back we passed through Stanford University, which possesses in
its university buildings a striking example of American genius for
architecture.
Next day I went to see the Australian Football Team play a local team.
I do not think the American public is very highly interested in Rugby
football, judging from the gate, which was not a very good one, as the
introduction of the Rugby game in America is comparatively recent.
The local team played very well, but they did not seem familiar with
some of the rules. The Australian boys had not yet recovered from their
journey; nevertheless, they won.
After the match was over, I drove back with them to the Olympic Club,
where they bathed.
The next day I went with some friends, first by ferry across the bay,
then by train, till we reached the hills. We climbed up into the hills,
where great vistas of gorgeous scenery lay beneath one, and then,
walking down into the valley, we wandered about amongst the trunks of
the huge topless redwood. A mountain railway took us down to the level
again.
No words can describe the glory of the California scenery when you get
up into these hills, which are covered with woods, and nothing can give
you any idea of the sweetness and the freshness of the air there.
The next night I left San Francisco for Chicago. Before leaving San
Francisco, I had dinner at a restaurant called the “New Franks.” It
is a small restaurant, and it provides the best food I have ever eaten
anywhere. When people speak in this way of a restaurant, they often
mean that they happened on that day to be hungry and to have a good
appetite. I was not hungry the night I went to the New Franks. I was
not inclined to eat, but the sheer excellence of the cooking there
excited my greed, and bade my appetite rise from the dead.
The cooking was perfect. There is no other word for it. When I say the
cooking was perfect, I mean the food was perfectly cooked. I don’t mean
that there were dozens of messy entrées and highly spiced sauces. The
food was of the simplest. I had soup (soup _à l’oignon_, a dream!),
fish, and chicken, and I never tasted anything so good in my life.
Anatole France tells somewhere the story of a king, who, powerful as
he was (or rather just because he was all-powerful), was condemned
to the luxury of a huge kitchen and a huge staff of cooks, who served
him up elaborate tasteless dishes which meant nothing to him. And this
was sad, adds Anatole France, for he liked good food (Car il aimait la
bonne chère).