Nostalgia in Dallas

Wherein the Civic Courtesy of Texas Is Contrasted With Some Foolish Memories of Europe

LOUIS GOLDING

I DO not suppose it would have happened if that dawn in Dallas (which is in Texas) had not been so unbearably beautiful. And perhaps that same dawn would not have been so unbearably beautiful if a man could sleep (that is, if I could sleep) on the sleeping-berths thoughtfully provided for long railway-journeys by the Pullman Company. I can not. The pounding rhythm induces a tranced wakefulness in me. In a sort of Paracelsian stupor I meditate upon the destinies of that lady whom one green curtain and another chastely separate from me, and upon that slumbering Elk in the berth above me who is balanced on the superior ether like a seicento cherub. I meditate upon them and upon how near we are and how far we are. I he urgent rhythm occupies the whole arc of night. Only the first streak of dawn striking upon an Oklahoman oil-derrick, a pine-wood in Louisiana, suspends it. The train halts. Here, in Indianapolis, here in Houston, a man goes forth, with this trance still upon him.

That morning, very early that morning, it was upon the bosom of Dallas (which is in Texas) that a man was delivered. And there would he no northward train until the afternoon. And, alone in Dallas, homeless in Dallas, a man must beat those remote bournes during the long morning hours. And the rhythm of the engine is still upon his ears, and the light of apocalypse is still upon his eyes. And he goes forth, not knowing what might befall him.

I PUT a lot of it down, I say, to the beauty of that dawn. The moment 1 came out of the station and lifted my eyes to those immaculate, those lazuline, those cornflower skies (how silly such adjectives are! Blue Skies, as the song has it—precisely nothing else!) the moment I lifted my eyes to those blue skies, the nostalgia fell upon me, I yearned for those lands where 1 had been pierced by just such dawns as these. It was the sort of dawn where a man, believing that a good poet has written them, quotes his own poems, quotes them aloud even:

So beautiful was this dawn that no one knew Whether it was a secret blossom grew Out of earth's own hid bosom rather than The familiar sun climbed from the Caspian. All men incredulous beheld their fellows there Rise from their marble feet in the crystal air To the broad pinnacle of their smooth brows. . . .

I paused. I blushed. I became aware it was my own verse I quoted. Unpardonable solecism. I had crossed the road from the station. Upon my right hand was a gasoline pump. Before me the doors of the Hotel Bristol extended hospitably. I looked into the faces of the passers-by, wondering if they recognized that the young man who had been uttering verses had been uttering his own verses. They did not. They looked upon me with benign eyes and went their way. And there was a sign-board with a legend, hoisted above the threshold of the almost imposing Hotel Bristol.

"Sensible Rates", 1 read. "European Plan." How therefore? I ask you. How therefore not? How was it possible that these words should not forthwith transport me to all the inumerable Hotels Bristol in Europe (in Africa and Asia, not less) where I rose and looked out through my window and gazed at a dawn so wistful and so exquisite as this dawn in Dallas (which is in Texas) ? And in Segovia, from the Hotel Bristol, (Sensible Rates, European Plan) had I not beheld the dawn through the mammoth arches of that Roman aqueduct which is the grandest legacy of Rome though their builders builded it to span a ravine in Castile? And from the Hotel Bristol in Seefeld (which is in Tyrol) did I not behold the risen sun splinter against the frozen cataracts? And from the Hotel Bristol (which, positively, is in Bristol), did I not behold the sun stepping delicately from peak to peak of the three scarlet mainsails of three saucy fishing-smacks? And the dawn broadened into noonday, and before luncheon in the Hotel Bristol, in Torino, I commanded them to bring me a glass of such vermouth (unvitiated by spumy waters) as never journeys beyond Torino, its native city. And in the naughty twilight of Marseilles, in the vestibule of the Hotel Bristol, will you not step a moment into the dangerous fringes of that green lake called absinthe? And that is veritable Tokay, even at this late day, which he (forgive me that I do not blazon his name) will lay down, as it were a chrism of sacrament, beside your sturgeon-steak on the hushed tables of the Hotel Bristol (which is, as you know, in Budapest, upon the swart bank of the Danube).

YEA verily, (I chanted in Dallas), Sensible Rates, European Plan; and made a poem there beside the gasoline-pump, but I will not transcribe it because it was so grievous with nostalgia, and to render it here would be a discourtesy to Dallas, which is of all cities in America the most hospitable. It is as if that city were sorrowfully aware that it may no longer entertain the stranger tarrying within its walls with the kindnesses it proffered them once (for no one will maintain that Near Beer is not an indecency and an abomination) ; so it seeks as best it may to atone for the rigours imposed upon it. (I am not suggesting that, furtively, somewhere in Dallas a man may not knock three times upon an iron-studded door, which will thereupon swing on its heavy hinges and admit him to its arcane alcoholic saturnalia. I do not suggest that he may not, nor do I assert that he may. I do not know. But that is not hospitality, in the grand Greek sense, or in any sense at all. That is a contravention to an Amendment incorporated in the law of this land. Fie upon that, I say!)

So Dallas that lovely morning was full of proffered hospitalities. As for instance, when I walked further into the heart of the city, leaving the Hotel Bristol behind me, I came upon an institution which is called the Gurton Barber College. And here a resident of Dallas may for ten cents be shaved and for fifteen cents have his hair cut. But the stranger, in an inner place called the ''Free Department," may be shaved and have his hair cut for an expenditure of no moneys at all. Now nowhere in any city have I encountered such hospitality. It was prodigal. It was moving. And though a cynic said to me later that same day that I had misinterpreted the situation, that in the "Free Department" of these institutions the novice practises upon the "bum"— that, I am sure, was the word he used—and that this "bum" goes forth at the end of it all with a face hanging in strips like the poor saint in David's picture at Bruges, I refused angrily to believe him. I will have none of such cynicism.

IF there was no bock to drink in Dallas, upon A little sunny benches under a spilth of mimosa, if I might not swallow a tiny beaker of that yellow wizardry called Strega—much beloved by Mr. Norman Douglas in the shadowy garlic-festooned trattorias of Sirenland—at least I might be shaved gratis, and have my hair cut. And if I were thirsty—or hungry, perhaps, for I do not know which condition of the human appetite this substance ministers to—I might buy at Mr. Mills's store a jar of Br'er Rabbit Syrup at sixty cents the gallon. I would not be embarrassed by the suggestion that I could take it away for nothing. But at that price Mr. Mills was virtually giving it away. Was it not in Louisville, Kentucky, they were asking eighty-five cents per gallon for the same commodity? Or was it Birmingham, in Alabama? Mr. Mills was selling Shelled Peanuts, moreover, at twenty-five cents for two gallons, and that seemed to me fabulous. For I am certain that never in Baghdad, even in the days of Haroun el Raschid, might a man obtain Shelled Peanuts, at twenty-five cents for two gallons.

But I have not come to the end of the hospitalities offered in Dallas for the exchange of no money at all. There was a Convention that day, in the principal hotel, of people who belonged to a special religion which flourishes in these parts. They were called "Realtors" and they were "getting together," as I heard one of them describe their ritual in the lobby of the hotel. And whereas, in an earlier epoch of American history, in order to shew their goodwill to all men these people might have stationed great kegs of home-brewed ale along the pavements of Dallas, and roasted a whole ox in the market-place of Dallas—such generosities being denied them, they sent forth a fleet of automobiles through the streets of the city. And a small card was displayed upon the wind-screen of these cars, whereon these words were printed: "Realtors' Convention. Courtesy Car." And any man, it seemed, might signal to the driver of any of these cars, and bid him go anywhere and then stop, and return with him whither he desired. So hospitable are the people called Realtors, in the city of Dallas (which is in Texas). Now I do not expect that a free ride upon an automobile is exciting to the average American, seeing that the stenographer repairs to her typewriter and the bootblack to his stand, each upon his automobile. But 1 am an Englishman, and to go riding about upon automobiles is still a dizzy adventure to me (most dizzy should I myself attempt to drive it). And even if I had become blunted to that excitement, which I have not, should I have permitted myself so ungraciously to refuse the hospitality of the Realtors? There were, moreover, many hours still, before my train should bear me away from this kindly city, and how more potently than by riding upon automobiles should I assuage my nostalgia for the Motel Bristol, on the Grand Boulevard, where they serve the golden Château Yquern with your Sole Marguéry (but be careful to satisfy your mere thirst with a respectable Graves, so that you may savour that attar of Elysium for its own sweet sake rather than for your thirst's sake). And how' more potently assuage my nostalgia for Trapani, that sea-girt city in Sicily, under the rock of Eryx? Mere is black wine from Etna, as if the very lava had been pressed to yield it. And as for the gentle Liebfraumilch, which a man drinks under the Drachenfels, that Nordic rock, it goes best with a blue trout from the mountain-streams . . .

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And so T signalled to the driver of a Realtor's Courtesy Car. And he drove a long way and stopped and looked inquiringly at me and said, "How do you like this lot?" So I got down and looked about me and said it was a fine lot and bade him drive me into the town again. And I mounted another automobile headed in another direction and 1 looked at another lot. And I came back and climbed into another automobile and looked at another lot. All morning I was the guest of the courteous Realtors of Dallas and climbed into their automobiles and looked at lots. And certainly in that respect they had the advantage of the courteous barbers of Dallas (if I do not incorrectly assume that more than one barber in Dallas offers you the freedom of his razor and clippers). For whereas you may go out upon automobiles repeatedly and look at lots, to try to submerge the memory of the gallant ale they brew in Steyning under the Sussex Downs, you can only be shaved once and have your hair cut once, within the space of a few hours. Unless they do it piecemeal, which would not be pleasant.

But the time came when the drivers of the Courtesy Cars provided for the use of forlorn strangers by the Realtors of Dallas began to look curiously at me. Not unkindly, I hasten to affirm, but curiously. For though I looked upon many lots, I did not buy any. Perhaps they would not have been displeased had I bought some. Perhaps, even, I might have bought one or two; for how could I receive so much hospitality and make no return at all? Alas, the time had come when I must retrace my steps towards the station. My train was due in less than half an hour. No automobile fared in the direction of the station, for all the lots were sold in that vicinity. So I made my way towards the gasoline-pump again, past the portals of the Hotel Bristol. "Sensible Rates. European Plan" . . .

Ah yes, that night in the Hotel Bristol, at Salzburg . . . she had such green eyes and drank Crême de Menthe, though she knew it was poor stuff. It matched her eyes, she said.