20,000 Leagues Under the Sea or David Copperfield Read online

  Someone thinks of turning on the fan. This is a Pullman contrivance whereby heated air from the engine is brought through asbestos pipes and set in motion in the drawing rooms. Its effect is that of a soft sponge of chloroform held close against the nose. At the first whirl of the fan, out goes Mother again.

  As the train starts, everyone crowds to the window to get whatever air there may be, and that is a good joke, too, for there isn’t any air. There is something on which the soot travels, but it isn’t air. Something for physicists to discover some day is what that element is that comes in at train windows in summer. It might be turned to some good use if it could only be isolated and harnessed, such as frying wheatcakes or popping corn, for instance.

  Now all this would be very terrible if this family had had to make the trip at this particular time. It would be wrong for us to laugh at other people’s sufferings. But this is the result of months of careful planning and eager anticipation. Everybody knows what trains are in late June, July, and August, and that is evidently why everybody takes trains in late June, July, and August rather than at any other time.

  If any one factor more than another is making for the gradual disintegration of the American family and the increase of divorce it is this custom of family traveling in summer. I saw a family of four leaving Chicago last summer on the way to the Coast. They had two drawing rooms and seemed to be the best of friends when the train pulled out of the Santa Fe station. (May I explain that I was taking the trip on business? When I want a vacation I get in a rowboat.) The next morning it was 98 in Kansas City and the sun wasn’t up yet. By Emporia it was 105. The family in question were my next-door neighbors and gradually I began to hear voices being raised in querulous bickering. There seemed to be some argument as to whether they should have lunch brought in to them or go into the diner.

  “It can’t be any worse in the diner than it is in here,” someone said.

  “Oh, it can’t, can’t it? Have you ever been in a diner?”

  “Yes, I’ve been in a diner and I know what I’m talking about.”

  “If you didn’t have all those things hanging up on the hooks it would be a little cooler in here.”

  “My things! Two-thirds of them are yours.”

  Then there was a sound of things being yanked off hooks and packed into a suitcase.

  “Now – I suppose you are cooler! Now I guess you’ll need an overcoat.”

  “Well, at any rate, the air gets a chance to circulate.”

  “Air! What air?”

  This went on, sometimes louder, sometimes softer, according to the stamina of the speaker. Finally two of them went into the diner and two of them had lunch served in the drawing room. None of them ate anything; just sat around and gasped.

  This went on all across Kansas, and during the night there were sounds of restless banging and murmured threats. At Albuquerque the next afternoon, one member of the family got off and took the next train back, another got off and bought a house in Albuquerque and I guess is living there yet. The other two continued on to the Coast but in separate drawing rooms and didn’t speak to each other again. One of them was carried off on a stretcher at Pasadena.

  This sort of thing is going on every summer in almost every train going in almost any direction. Is it any wonder that our people are becoming loosely knit.

  Of course, the phenomenon of railroad excursions in summer is even more startling. In every railroad station in the country you will see great posters advertising cut-rate excursions for the Fourth of July. The one day in the year when anyone with any brains would plan to get into the bath tub with a good book and pull down the shades is the one day in the year when the citizenry put on stiff collars and take a round trip to Savannah, Georgia, Washington, D.C, or Old Point Comfort. And a round trip at that! None of this staying and getting a bath anywhere. Just jam on the train and sit in the heat until you get some place – and then jam on the train and sit in the heat until you get back. I don’t know what to make of it.

  Perhaps the explanation is that some of the people are crazy some of the time; some of the people are crazy all of the time, and in late June, July, and August all of the people are crazy all of the time.

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  Junior Drama

  * * *

  Latitude 41.54 N.

  Longitude 58.27 W.

  The dramatic season on the French Line opened this afternoon at three sharp with a performance in the Guignol, or, as you Americans say, the “Punch and Judy.” It was held in the Children’s Room and was a gala affair, except for one little girl who was badly frightened and had to be led out. She was much too young to have been brought, anyway, and it is to be hoped that the Guignol season will not receive a black eye around the ship because of this one small critic who left early.

  The French give themselves much more latitude in their Punch and Judy (as they do in so many other of life’s pleasures) and do not feel obliged to stick to the old plot every time. In fact, Punch and Judy as characters did not appear on the opening bill at all. The only familiar touch was the hanging at the end, doubtless put in as a concession to public sentimentality.

  The bill consisted of two pieces – one a curtain raiser called “La bonne Chance de M. Mouton,” and the other a realistic crime melodrama entitled “Le Voleur” (not the Bernstein piece recently revived by Alice Brady). Both plays were strictly original and dealt with two of the more sordid phases of life in Paris. One might almost object to them on the ground that, while such low characters undoubtedly do exist in real life, they are not what one goes to the theater to see. However, this department has never been one to cavil at the theme of a play and we do not intend to begin caviling now, at least not in mid-ocean.

  The first piece, “La bonne Chance de M. Mouton,” hardly calls for extended comment. It was received with marked indifference by the first afternoon audience, as it deserved to be. What seemed like hours of expository dialogue between M. Mouton and a character who appeared to be a Chinaman of some sort thoroughly bored the spectators and there was a great deal of fidgeting among the younger members of the audience (those between three and four) and practically a running fire of high treble conversation with nurses and parents. It was not until M. Mouton (played with little or no distinction by the largest puppet of the troupe) began beating his wife that the audience showed signs of following the plot at all.

  This sudden sadistic streak in M. Mouton came as quite a surprise, as he had seemed entirely devoted to dialectics up to this point, besides being a man well along in his seventies. But evidently Mme. Mouton was of a type which irritated him, for he beat her into insensibility and threw her out behind the house for no particular reason. We are sorry to report that this brutality pleased the audience enormously, and that there were loud demands for more.

  In “Le Voleur” (in free translation, “The Thief”) we find more of that gaiety which one associates with the French, although here, too, we should say that the French puppets hit each other much harder than is necessary and display a viciousness in belaboring a victim after he is obviously unconscious which detracts a little from the light-heartedness of the comedy.

  The plot of “Le Voleur” is soon told – if at all. A lady keeps placing articles of furniture out on the sidewalk in front of her house (either the reason for this is not brought out in the dialogue or our French is not what it was), only to have each article in succession stolen by a mean-looking man as soon as she goes back into the house for more. A piano, a table, a dish-cabinet, and finally a bed are thus taken right under her very eyes, and a gendarme who is called in each time proves to be worse than useless, owing to drink. The whole thing up to this point is very improbable, but it drew down screams of laughter from the audience and so justifies itself on the ground of being what the public wants.

  The thief is finally apprehended through trickery (we were asked not to divulge the plot), and is beaten in good old French fashion until his
head hangs limp over the edge of the stage-apron, after which he is given a couple more socks for good measure. Then, to make doubly sure that he will menace society no longer, he is hanged from a gallows and the magistrate and gendarme dance away, with him in a coffin, singing “Auprès de ma Blonde.”

  We have gone into this plot at length because it seems to indicate a tendency on the part of the French to follow the Eugene O’Neill influence in cumulative tragedy. Not one piece of furniture is stolen, but four, each one larger than the last. Not one sock on the nose is given, but eight. The protagonist of the drama is not only killed by beating – he is hanged as well. It is Life closing in on him. It is Truth and Beauty.

  Incidentally, we should like to complain of just one thing in the Children’s Room equipment. The chairs are awfully low for a six-foot spectator, and tip over too easily when the ship rolls.

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  The Passing of the Cow

  (With Wild West Sketches

  from the Author’s Notebook)

  * * *

  One of the signs of the gradual deterioration of the West is the even more gradual disappearance of the cow. By “cow” is meant any heavy animal that lumbers along mooing, regardless of sex. There has been too much attention paid to sex lately.

  According to the startling statistics of the U.S. Cow-Counting Bureau issued on Monday (for release Wednesday), there are not more than six or seven real cows left in the West. This, at first blush, would seem to be an understatement when one thinks of the number of animals that look like cows that one sees from the back of the prairie-schooner as one drives across the plains. But certainly the U. S. Cow-Counting Bureau ought to know a cow when it sees one. These other animals must be impostors.

  ONE OF THE STEERS THAT HAS DISAPPEARED

  (This is easily the worst drawing of the lot. It has, however, caught something of the spirit of the old West.)

  Accepting these statistics – or this statistic – as genuine, we find ourselves confronted by a pretty serious situation. The cow has been called “Man’s best friend.” No, that is the dog. . . . Sorry. The situation is serious, regardless of who Man’s best friend is. Without cows (and if, when these figures were compiled, there were only six or seven left in the West, it is safe to assume that even these are gone by now) things look pretty black. It sometimes seems as if it were hardly worth while going on.

  Ever since 1847 the cow has been the feature of the West that most appealed to the imagination. Prior to 1847 it was thought that all these animals were horses. You can imagine the surprise of the man who first discovered otherwise.

  With the discovery of cows came the cowboy. And with the cowboy came the moving picture. So you see!

  HORSE AND RIDER

  (If I were doing this over again, I would put a large cactus in to hide the horse's front legs. And maybe his hind ones, too. Perhaps I would just have the cowboy standing there.)

  It is related, in an old cowboy ballad, how the first cow was lassoed. It seems that Ernest Guilfoil, known as “Mr. Ernest Guilfoil,” was practicing swinging his rope one day, trying to synchronize gum-chewing with rope-twirling so that he could work in a monologue between the two and go on the stage. He had the gum-chewing and monologue all synchronized, but was having trouble with the rope. Suddenly, after a particularly complicated session with the “pesky” thing, he felt a tug on the other end and, on reeling it in, discovered that he had entangled a cow in the noose. Terrified, he jumped on his pony and rode to the nearest corral, dragging the luckless cow behind him. Thus “Mr. Ernest Guilfoil” became the first cowboy.

  COWBOY CHASING COW

  (It has never been very easy for me to draw animals, and it seems to be getting harder and harder as I grow older. For instance, that cow is not right and I know it. The horse is a little better, but seems to have too much personality. At any rate, the etching has action. Perhaps it would have been better to write an article just about cowboys themselves.)

  The first inkling that the world at large had of the lack of cows was the concentration of cowboys in rodeos and Wild West shows. Here it was possible for a dozen or so cowboys to work on one cow, using the same one over and over at each performance. But it was not until the Bureau of Cow-Counting made its staggering analysis that the public finally realized what had happened. And now it is too late. Just what is to be done about it is a problem. Some suggest moving a lot of cows on from the East, but old-time Westerners feel that this would be adding insult to injury. The alternative seems to be to bring the cowboys on to where the cows are, but that wouldn’t work out either, because – oh, because it wouldn’t, that’s all.

  And so it comes about that romance dies and Civilization charges ahead. But some of us are wondering, “Is it all worth it?”

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  Back to the Game

  * * *

  This is about the time of year (it would be a good joke on me if this chapter were held over until Spring) when the old boys begin thinking of going back to college to the Big Game. All during the year they have never given a thought to whether they were alumni of Yale or the New York Pharmaceutical College, but as soon as the sporting pages begin telling about O’Brienstein of Harvard and what a wonderful back he is, all Harvard men with cigar-ashes on their waistcoats suddenly remember that they went to Harvard and send in their applications for the Yale Game. There is nothing like a college education to broaden a man.

  Going back to the old college town is something of an ordeal, in case you want to know. You think it’s going to be all right and you have a little dream-picture of how glad the boys will be to see you. “Weekins, 1914” you will say, and there will be a big demonstration, with fire-works and retchings. The word will go around that Weekins, 1914, is back and professors in everything but Greek will say to their classes: “Dismissed for the day, gentlemen. Weekins, 1914, is back!” And a happy crowd of boys will rush pell-mell out of the recitation-hall and down to the Inn to take the horses from your carriage (or put horses into it) and drag you all around the Campus. (My using the word “Campus” is just a concession to the rabble. Where I come from “Campus” is a place where stage-collegians in skull-caps romp around and sing “When Love Is Young in Springtime” in four-part harmony. The reservation in question is known as “the Yard,” and I will thank you to call it that in future.)

  Anyone who has ever gone back to the old college town after, let us say, ten years, will realize that this country is going to the dogs, especially as regards its youth in the colleges. You get your tickets for the Big Game and you spend a lot of money on railroad fare. (That’s all right; you have made a lot of money since getting out. You can afford it.) When you get to the old railroad station you can at least expect that Eddie, the hack-driver, will remember you. Eddie, however, is now pretty fat and has five men working for him. You can’t even get one of his cabs, much less a nod out of him. “O.K. Eddie! The hell with you!”

  You go to the fraternity house (another concession on my part to my Middle West readers) and announce yourself as “Weekins, 1914.” (My class was 1912, as a matter of fact. I am giving myself a slight break and trying to be mysterious about this whole thing.) A lone Junior who is hanging around in the front room says “How do you do? Come on in,” and excuses himself immediately. The old place looks about the same, except that an odd-looking banner on the wall says “1930,” there being no such year. A couple of young men come in and, seeing you, go right out again. Welcome back to the old House, Weekins!

  A steward of some sort enters the room and arranges the magazines on the table.

  “Rather quiet for the day of the Big Game,” you say to him. “Where is everybody?”

  This frightens him and he says: “Thank you, sir!” and also disappears.

  Well, after all, you do have a certain claim on this place. You helped raise the money for the mission furniture and somewhere up on the wall is a stein with your n
ame on it. There is no reason why you should feel like an intruder. This gives you courage to meet the three young men who enter with books under their arms and pass right by into the hall.

  “My name is Weekins, 1914,” you say. “Where is everybody?”

  “Classes are just over,” one of them explains. “Make yourself at home. My name is Hammerbiddle, 1931.”

  Somehow the mention of such a year as “1931” enrages you. “1931 what? Electrons?” But the three young men have gone down the hall; so you will never know.

  A familiar face! In between the bead portieres comes a man, bald and fat, yet with something about him that strikes an old G chord.

  “Billigs!” you cry.

  “Stanpfer is the name,” he says. “Think of seeing you here!”

  You try to make believe that you knew that it was Stanpfer all the time and were just saying Billigs to be funny.

  “It must be fifteen years,” you say.

  “Well, not quite,” says Stanpfer, “I saw you two years ago in New York.”

  “Oh, yes, I know that!” (Where the hell did you see him two years ago? The man is crazy.)

  “But I mean it must be fifteen years since we were here together.”

  “Fourteen,” he corrects.

  “I guess you’re right. Fourteen. Well, how the hell are you?”

  “Great! How are you?”

  “Great! How are you?”

  “Great! Couldn’t be better. Everything going all right?”

  “Great! All right with you?”