CHAPTER XVA 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 thebosom 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—’theroad—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 mightbe 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 neverto 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 hispassing, 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.