A London Home in the Nineties

by Hughes, M. V. ;

  Accordingly next morning I ventured out without my map, feeling sure that I knew Boston now, and having the Londoner’s dislike of being seen consulting a map in the street and being thought a tourist. Delighting in my freedom from both education and interesting sights, I pranced down street after street, muttering to myself a line from what I always considered the perfect holiday poem, especially for a teacher who endured ‘supervision duty’:

  Dorm on the herb, with none to supervise.

  What was my astonishment when my eyes fell on the house of their author. Thrice blessed are the ‘sights’ that we run against accidentally. I stared; it was true; on a little creeper-covered house of no apparent importance was a small brass plate with the magic name O. W. Holmes. No doubt the actual autocrat was inside, possibly sounding somebody’s chest or making up a prescription. I went to and fro, and then close up to the bell, and had the greatest difficulty in resisting the impulse to ring and ask to see the doctor about some imaginary complaint. I had no possible symptom of anything, and dragged myself away. How often I have since wished that I had rung that bell, asked to see him, and simply told him of the pleasure his books had given me.

  I did the next best thing, looked about for a bookshop, asked to see his works, and bought a copy of the one which a false friend had borrowed and not returned. The man in the shop was the only unpleasant American I struck. Perhaps it was the heat, for he was obviously in a bad temper. As he wrapped up the book he remarked surlily, ‘You English people! You all go down on your knees to a lord.’ ‘Do we?’ said I as though seeking information, ‘I never noticed that.’ ‘Oh yes,’ he went on, ‘you grovel to them.’ I said I had missed the grovelling act, but he was so cross and earnest that I thought it better not to laugh or contradict, so bowing my head at last in solemn acquiescence I went off. After a leisurely lunch in a cool-looking café, I thought I would make my way gradually back to the hotel by a new route. It was certainly a new route and certainly gradual. I had wandered and turned about so much during the morning that I had lost all sense of direction, and had no idea where my hotel was. I found that its name, ‘The United States Hotel’, made no impression on the people I asked. They couldn’t rightly just say where it was. Even when I mentioned to one man that 1,600 cars passed its doors daily he only smiled. I began to see that the chess-board arrangement of Chicago had some advantages, and even the dreadful numbering of the streets. I could see no post-office. I was too good a Londoner to speak to a policeman on traffic duty, but at last I spied one who was seemingly at leisure for the moment—a fine, tall fellow, in the cool garments and light helmet that our bobbies would envy. I approached him with, ‘Can you tell me where the United States Hotel is, officer?’ ‘It’s where it was yesterday!’ he snapped, not to be trifled with. But when I looked bewildered he melted, and pointing with a smile across the road said, ‘Over there.’ Boston, thought I, is Looking-glass Land to the life—you can’t reach a place, but walk away from it and you bump into it.

  The next day was my last and a Sunday, and I meant to keep cool and not go far afield, to put pride in my pocket and take a map. I made for a church ‘noted for its fine services’, but found that they were taking far too long to ask the Lord to have mercy on them, considering the state of the weather. Then I tried another ‘noted for architecture’ and went in only to find the same petitions going on, but at a later stage. I had given up the idea of attending any service at all when I noticed a building whose excessive architecture proclaimed it to be something non-conforming. ‘Anything for a change,’ thought I, and walked in to find a sermon impending. I should have hurriedly withdrawn, but a kindly man ushered me to a seat and I found myself in the midst of a large and hearty congregation. A big fellow in a black gown was on a kind of platform, and in front of him an open Bible cushioned on a desk. After a significant pause he began to prance to and fro, and announced from various positions on the platform: ‘One thing thou lackest’ (which I took to be his text). ‘Here,’ said he, ‘we have a fine building, one of the very finest in our country’ (elaboration of its merits followed). ‘We have all the best appointments—comfortable pews, good ventilation, stained-glass windows’ (more elaborations of each). ‘Our splendid and costly organ, raised by our own efforts, is now free of debt’ (this surprised me). ‘I may say without boasting that our choir can beat any in Boston’ (recent successes in competitions enumerated). ‘We have an overflowing congregation. Owing to your generosity we have had the means to do all this.’ Here followed another long pause, and I made sure that all this was to lead up to an appeal for dollars for a new vestry-room or some such excrescence. ‘One thing thou lackest,’ he said in a low, quiet tone, as he seemed to eye each one of us. Then suddenly, with a business-like jerk of the head, he finished with, ‘All we want now is the Holy Ghost to run the show.’

  At my last meal before leaving that evening a woman at my table ate as much like a pig as anyone can. I counted ten little dishes arranged around her, and even so her vegetable was on the cloth. What a town of extremes, and I felt that in my short stay I had been lucky enough to see a good many of them.

  Here’s to the city of Boston,

  The home of the bean and the cod,

  Where the Lowells speak only to Cabots,

  And the Cabots speak only to God.

  VI. Meeting the Sun

  JUST before leaving Boston I had a letter from my late travelling companion warning me of all the dangers of New York. ‘On no account take a cab. I had to pay six dollars for mine.’ I pictured the scene with some amusement—the cabby’s revenge for the many trunks and a haughty manner. I forget the other pitfalls of the city, but thought it would be wise to check my one trunk straight through to the hotel, and so be independent of cabs. My route lay by train to Fall River and thence by boat to New York. It was dark when I went aboard; I was dirty and tired with the train journey, and had to wait ages in a queue to see the purser, to get a stateroom. When at last my turn came the only thing left was to share a cabin with five others. One sight of these quarters was enough to keep me from bed as long as possible, and I amused myself by prolonging my dinner and watching my fellow passengers. The S.S. Plymouth was said to be the finest of its kind afloat, and it seemed to be used for pleasure trips, for although it looked already full enough, lots more people came aboard at a port where we called; and there followed the gayest scenes of music and dancing in the saloon. Driven by fatigue to my berth I had a miserable night, and when we docked in the morning I felt too weak and faint to get about. Turning resolutely from the inviting cabs, I induced a car to stop for me, and reached the haven of the Broadway Central Hotel. After a bath and breakfast and a couple of hours’ sleep I felt equal to anything.

  There was no time to waste, for in two days my boat sailed. A little business had to be done first, including a visit to the post-office for letters, and another to Cook’s to get my money changed. How pleasing were the English sovereigns and pennies. I kept only enough American money for immediate needs, except one gold piece which I put away carefully (and still possess) as a memento of so jolly a visit. Even these short walks exhausted me, for New York exhibited a kind of heat completely new to me. Boston had been hot, but here there was a dry, choking heat, as though one were being smothered in blankets. I even longed for the Atlantic, and I can’t put it more strongly than that. I discarded as many clothes as I could, and understood Sidney Smith’s desire to take off his skin and sit in his bones. In addition to the heat the noise of the street was terrific, although the traffic in Broadway was anything but enormous as compared with Oxford Street or Holborn. The paving consisted of those big stones (about the size of an ordinary brick) that used to make travel in the buses of old days so sickening, and that have now been discarded in London. Someone in the hotel explained to me that the extremes of heat and frost in New York defied any attempt at better paving. But I expect that by now something has been done to counteract the noise.

  No more walking that day f
or me, and I spent the afternoon in a twenty-five cent drive round Central Park, feeling sorry for the Americans that they had not such grand old trees as we have in Kensington Gardens. One road I was particularly anxious to see—Fifth Avenue. This I had always understood to be the home of millionaires and the intellectual and social élite of New York. I expected a super-magnificent Park Lane. I went along it, and said to myself, is this really it? No doubt there is more than meets the eye.

  And now only one more day in America, and all New York to choose from. I was quite certain what my choice would be. I meant to go to see the Stock Exchange, weather or no. My father had told me little bits about the London Stock Exchange, and I knew that no outsider could enter its holy precincts. To this day I am fond of going down Throgmorton regions and watching all the busy to-ing and fro-ing in the street, picturing my father among them. Well, I understood that the New York exchange was not so exclusive, and that anyone might go up into the gallery at Wall Street and look down on the brokers broking. I had heard that they did a good deal of shouting, but the scene exceeded my wildest fancies. The yelling and the gestures were a blend of the lion-house, the monkey-house, and the parrot-house in the Zoo. There was only one other spectator in the gallery, and presently I remarked to him that the citizens of New York were missing a splendid entertainment. He looked at me in a puzzled way, and then said, ‘It’s new to you. You are a stranger, you’re English, aren’t you?’ I admitted it, and he added, ‘Well, we don’t think anything of this; they’re just doing ordinary business; it’s a dull day—a darned slack day. You must come again when there’s something really going on.’ ‘Unfortunately I’m sailing tonight,’ I replied, ‘so there will be no other chance.’ ‘Then I hope you have had a good time and seen plenty.’ I laughed as I told him that I had only two days for New York, and so far had seen only Central Park, Fifth Avenue, and the Stock Exchange. ‘Come with me now,’ said he, ‘and I will show you as much as possible in ten minutes.’ He then took me to the top of the Equitable building, whence there was a view of the whole city. ‘You can tell them way back,’ said he, ‘that you saw all of New York.’ Unfortunately all I can remember now is the statue of Liberty, which I had already seen sufficiently, but my friend gave me statistics of the number of people who could dine in her head, or something equally absurd. It made my arm ache to look at that statue, and I realized why a piece of sculpture should never give one a restless sensation.

  For my last afternoon I went for a stroll, but was careful not to stray too far from my base, lest I should get lost again. Even so, I soon became exhausted with the heat, and thought I would go back on the elevated railroad. Spying a little booking-office I asked for a ticket to the nearest station to my hotel. ‘Five cents,’ said the clerk, as he slapped down the ticket. Searching my purse I found that I had come out without any small change.

  ‘Sorry,’ said I, handing back the ticket, ‘I’m afraid I must walk back. I’ve no money on me except an English sovereign.’

  ‘Oh, do let me look at it!’ cried the clerk, and when I handed it to him he gazed on it as in a trance, and then said, ‘I’m English, too.’

  ‘What part of England do you come from?’ I asked.

  ‘A place called Manchester,’ said he. ‘Do you know it?’ ‘Do I know it!’ I laughed. ‘Why, everyone knows Manchester. I’m only a Londoner, and the saying is that what Manchester thinks today London thinks tomorrow.’

  He thereupon thrust my sovereign and the ticket back to me, and said it didn’t matter about the five cents. We managed to shake hands through the little booking-hole.

  I was quite glad to get back into the shelter of the hotel, for the weather had developed a terrifically high wind, a sort of sirocco. I amused myself by making a pen-and-ink drawing of Broadway from the veranda, then packed my hold-all and watched the scenes in the street until dusk, when it was time to start for the boat. My trunk had been sent on, so that I had nothing to do but make my way to the docks by car. Again I had that queer feeling of the unreality of the whole thing—stepping out of an hotel and boarding an Atlantic liner so casually.

  The S.S. New York was a palatial affair compared to the Adriatic. I had a roomy cabin all to myself (an advantage impossible to overrate), and as soon as I had disposed of my things I wandered about to explore the vessel. Presently it occurred to me that it was rather cold-blooded to leave a country where I had been treated so hospitably without saying goodbye to someone. Seeing a young officer, I said, ‘Which way is it to the sea, please?’ When he laughed I explained that it was not exactly the sea that I wanted, but to find the place where I could get ashore. Then I ran across the gangway on to America again. It was now quite dark, but not far away I saw the glare of some stalls. I bought two large pears, and astonished the man by telling him that I was all alone, was just off to England, and wanted to say goodbye to him. When I added that I felt hungry but couldn’t bear to face the ship’s dinner, I think he put me down as mentally deficient.

  I had been in my berth some time before the tremble of the engines told me that we were off. Determined not to let my nausea keep me in my cabin, as it had done on the outward voyage, I struggled into my clothes each morning and crawled up on deck, so glad to have got past the smell of india-rubber. I made no attempt so much as to look into the dining-saloon. But I had hardly been tucked up in a rug on a deck-chair by kindly fellow passengers before a steward would come along with beef-tea, followed by another with sandwiches. The weather was splendid, and all the other passengers were bursting with health. They were amused at my lying there all day, and used to stop for a chat as they went by, and tease me. ‘One would think you were a mamma instead of a girl!’ ‘If I had to scrub the deck,’ I argued, ‘I would probably be well enough to do it; but as I have nothing to do, why shouldn’t I do as I like?’ Concerts and things were going on in the distance, but they couldn’t induce me to attend them; so they brought me several books to beguile the time. Of these I tried three: one described a broken-hearted lover, another a forsaken girl, and the third a mother’s death-bed. After these I preferred merely revelling in the idea that I was getting nearer England. Lunch-time made a pleasant interlude. A little while before it was due the steward came to me with the menu for me to make a choice, and then the various things were brought to me on a vast tray, served in a most appetizing way. At some time each day the purser sat down for a chat. He was a charming fellow, full of droll anecdotes, and I began to suspect that pursers were chosen simply for their ability to make the voyage agreeable for the passengers.

  What with these many chats, the continual little meals, watching men cleaning the already spotless things on the ship, and the excitement of sometimes seeing a steamer in the distance, the days never hung heavily. I compared them with those endless days on the Adriatic, and commented on the difference to the purser. ‘But they really are shorter,’ he exclaimed, ‘because we are meeting the sun,’ and proceeded to explain it at great length. I agreed to all he said very heartily, for I felt I would rather go west again than be made to understand what happened. ‘The upshot of it seems to be,’ said I, ‘that you lengthen your life by travelling west, and if you kept at it thoroughly there is no reason why you should ever die.’ He said there was something in my point, but it obviously set him back a pace, and the subject was fortunately dropped.

  On the last evening a specially good dinner was laid out on my tray, with real grapes, so different from those I had eaten in America, which looked and tasted as if they had come off a woman’s hat. When I remarked on this to the steward he said, ‘Captain’s dinner—special.’ Whether it was the captain’s dinner or a rumour flying round that the Scilly Lights were in view, I can’t say, but suddenly my legs returned, my head was no longer giddy, and I ran along the deck waving my arm and crying, ‘Hurrah for Cornwall’. To think that Tony and Reskadinnick were just over there! I could hardly sleep that night for excitement, found none of the former difficulty in dressing in the morning, and was early u
p on deck. I caused a small sensation by going into the dining-saloon for breakfast and eating heartily. ‘Whom have we here? A stowaway?’ was among the bantering remarks.

  Then followed a cheery bustle of good-byes and hopings to meet again, of handing out of letters and sending off telegrams. For me there was a long letter from Arthur, begging me to give Cornwall the go-by and come straight on to Wales. Instructions were given about distinguishing the various stations at Southampton, about every possible train I might catch, where to change, and how he would expect a telegram as soon as ever I could give particulars. He would come to Southampton to meet me were it not for the old res angusta. In case the letter should go astray the more intimate parts were in Welsh and Latin.

  I parted regretfully from my friend the deck-steward. Not knowing what was the correct tip, since no one had been waited on as I had been, I confided to him my difficulty, and offered him all the American notes that remained to me. He demurred to this and asked did I know how much it was. I said no, I wasn’t at all clear, but it didn’t matter, as I was never likely to go to America again.