Frenzied Fiction, Page 2

  II. Father Knickerbocker: A Fantasy

  It happened quite recently--I think it must have been on April thesecond of 1917--that I was making the long pilgrimage on a day-trainfrom the remote place where I dwell to the city of New York. And as wedrew near the city, and day darkened into night, I had fallen to readingfrom a quaint old copy of Washington Irving's immortal sketches ofFather Knickerbocker and of the little town where once he dwelt.

  I had picked up the book I know not where. Very old it apparently wasand made in England. For there was pasted across the fly-leaf of it anextract from some ancient magazine or journal of a century ago, givingwhat was evidently a description of the New York of that day.

  From reading the book I turned--my head still filled with the visionof Father Knickerbocker and Sleepy Hollow and Tarrytown--to examinethe extract. I read it in a sort of half-doze, for the dark had fallenoutside, and the drowsy throbbing of the running train attuned one'smind to dreaming of the past.

  "The town of New York"--so ran the extract pasted in the littlebook--"is pleasantly situated at the lower extremity of the Islandof Manhattan. Its recent progress has been so amazing that it is nowreputed, on good authority, to harbour at least twenty thousand souls.Viewed from the sea, it presents, even at the distance of half a mile, astriking appearance owing to the number and beauty of its church spires,which rise high above the roofs and foliage and give to the place itscharacteristically religious aspect. The extreme end of the island isheavily fortified with cannon, commanding a range of a quarter of amile, and forbidding all access to the harbour. Behind this Battery aneat greensward affords a pleasant promenade, where the citizens areaccustomed to walk with their wives every morning after church."

  "How I should like to have seen it!" I murmured to myself as I laidthe book aside for a moment. "The Battery, the harbour and the citizenswalking with their wives, their own wives, on the greensward."

  Then I read on:

  "From the town itself a wide thoroughfare, the Albany Post Road, runsmeandering northward through the fields. It is known for some distanceunder the name of the Broad Way, and is so wide that four movingvehicles are said to be able to pass abreast. The Broad Way, especiallyin the springtime when it is redolent with the scent of clover andapple-blossoms, is a favourite evening promenade for the citizens--withtheir wives--after church. Here they may be seen any evening strollingtoward the high ground overlooking the Hudson, their wives on one arm,a spyglass under the other, in order to view what they can see. Downthe Broad Way may be seen moving also droves of young lambs with theirshepherds, proceeding to the market, while here and there a goat standsquietly munching beside the road and gazing at the passers-by."

  "It seems," I muttered to myself as I read, "in some ways but littlechanged after all."

  "The town"--so the extract continued--"is not without its amusements. Acommodious theatre presents with great success every Saturday night theplays of Shakespeare alternating with sacred concerts; the New Yorker,indeed, is celebrated throughout the provinces for his love of amusementand late hours. The theatres do not come out until long after nineo'clock, while for the gayer habitues two excellent restaurants servefish, macaroni, prunes and other delicacies till long past ten atnight. The dress of the New Yorker is correspondingly gay. In the otherprovinces the men wear nothing but plain suits of a rusty black, whereasin New York there are frequently seen suits of brown, snuff-colour andeven of pepper-and-salt. The costumes of the New York women are equallydaring, and differ notably from the quiet dress of New England.

  "In fine, it is commonly said in the provinces that a New Yorker can berecognized anywhere, with his wife, by their modish costumes, their easymanners and their willingness to spend money--two, three and even fivecents being paid for the smallest service."

  "Dear me," I thought, as I paused a moment in my reading, "so they hadbegun it even then."

  "The whole spirit of the place"--the account continued--"has recentlybeen admirably embodied in literary form by an American writer, Mr.Washington Irving (not to be confounded with George Washington). Hiscreation of Father Knickerbocker is so lifelike that it may be said toembody the very spirit of New York. The accompanying woodcut--whichwas drawn on wood especially for this periodical--recalls at once thedelightful figure of Father Knickerbocker. The New Yorkers of to-dayare accustomed, indeed, to laugh at Mr. Irving's fancy and to say thatKnickerbocker belongs to a day long since past. Yet those who know tellus that the image of the amiable old gentleman, kindly but irascible,generous and yet frugal, loving his town and seeing little beyond it,may be held once and for all to typify the spirit of the place, withoutreference to any particular time or generation."

  "Father Knickerbocker!" I murmured, as I felt myself dozing off tosleep, rocked by the motion of the car. "Father Knickerbocker, howstrange if he could be here again and see the great city as we know itnow! How different from his day! How I should love to go round New Yorkand show it to him as it is."

  So I mused and dozed till the very rumble of the wheels seemed topiece together in little snatches. "Father Knickerbocker--FatherKnickerbocker--the Battery--the Battery--citizens walking with theirwives, with their wives--their own wives"--until presently, I imagine, Imust have fallen asleep altogether and knew no more till my journey wasover and I found myself among the roar and bustle of the concourse ofthe Grand Central.

  And there, lo and behold, waiting to meet me, was Father Knickerbockerhimself! I know not how it happened, by what queer freak ofhallucination or by what actual miracle--let those explain it who dealin such things--but there he stood before me, with an outstretched handand a smile of greeting, Father Knickerbocker himself, the EmbodiedSpirit of New York.

  "How strange," I said. "I was just reading about you in a book on thetrain and imagining how much I should like actually to meet you and toshow you round New York."

  The old man laughed in a jaunty way.

  "Show _me_ round?" he said. "Why, my dear boy, _I live here_."

  "I know you did long ago," I said.

  "I do still," said Father Knickerbocker. "I've never left the place.I'll show _you_ around. But wait a bit--don't carry that handbag. I'llget a boy to call a porter to fetch a man to take it."

  "Oh, I can carry it," I said. "It's a mere nothing."

  "My dear fellow," said Father Knickerbocker, a little testily I thought,"I'm as democratic and as plain and simple as any man in this city. Butwhen it comes to carrying a handbag in full sight of all this crowd,why, as I said to Peter Stuyvesant about--about"--here a misty lookseemed to come over the old gentleman's face--"about two hundred yearsago, I'll be hanged if I will. It can't be done. It's not up to date."

  While he was saying this, Father Knickerbocker had beckoned to a groupof porters.

  "Take this gentleman's handbag," he said, "and you carry his newspapers,and you take his umbrella. Here's a quarter for you and a quarter foryou and a quarter for you. One of you go in front and lead the way to ataxi."

  "Don't you know the way yourself?" I asked in a half-whisper.

  "Of course I do, but I generally like to walk with a boy in front of me.We all do. Only the cheap people nowadays find their own way."

  Father Knickerbocker had taken my arm and was walking along in a queer,excited fashion, senile and yet with a sort of forced youthfulness inhis gait and manner.

  "Now then," he said, "get into this taxi."

  "Can't we _walk_?" I asked.

  "Impossible," said the old gentleman. "It's five blocks to where we aregoing."

  As we took our seats I looked again at my companion; this time moreclosely. Father Knickerbocker he certainly was, yet somehow strangelytransformed from my pictured fancy of the Sleepy Hollow days. Hisantique coat with its wide skirt had, it seemed, assumed a modish cutas if in imitation of the bell-shaped spring overcoat of the young manabout town. His three-cornered hat was set at a rakish angle till itlooked almost like an up-to-date fedora. The great stick that he usedto carry had somehow changed it
self into the curved walking-stick of aBroadway lounger. The solid old shoes with their wide buckles were gone.In their place he wore narrow slippers of patent leather of which heseemed inordinately proud, for he had stuck his feet up ostentatiouslyon the seat opposite. His eyes followed my glance toward his shoes.

  "For the fox-trot," he said. "The old ones were no good. Have acigarette? These are Armenian, or would you prefer a Honolulan or aNigerian? Now," he resumed, when we had lighted our cigarettes, "whatwould you like to do first? Dance the tango? Hear some Hawaiian music,drink cocktails, or what?"

  "Why, what I should like most of all, Father Knickerbocker--"

  But he interrupted me.

  "There's a devilish fine woman! Look, the tall blonde one! Give meblondes every time!" Here he smacked his lips. "By gad, sir, the womenin this town seem to get finer every century. What were you saying?"

  "Why, Father Knickerbocker," I began, but he interrupted me again.

  "My dear fellow," he said. "May I ask you not to call me _Father_Knickerbocker?"

  "But I thought you were so old," I said humbly.

  "Old! Me _old_! Oh, I don't know. Why, dash it, there are plenty of menas old as I am dancing the tango here every night. Pray call me, if youdon't mind, just Knickerbocker, or simply Knicky--most of the other boyscall me Knicky. Now what's it to be?"

  "Most of all," I said, "I should like to go to some quiet place and havea talk about the old days."

  "Right," he said. "We're going to just the place now--nice quiet dinner,a good quiet orchestra, Hawaiian, but quiet, and lots of women." Herehe smacked his lips again, and nudged me with his elbow. "Lots of women,bunches of them. Do you like women?"

  "Why, Mr. Knickerbocker," I said hesitatingly, "I suppose--I--"

  The old man sniggered as he poked me again in the ribs.

  "You bet you do, you dog!" he chuckled. "We _all_ do. For me, I confessit, sir, I can't sit down to dinner without plenty of women, stacks ofthem, all round me."

  Meantime the taxi had stopped. I was about to open the door and get out.

  "Wait, wait," said Father Knickerbocker, his hand upon my arm, as helooked out of the window. "I'll see somebody in a minute who'll let usout for fifty cents. None of us here ever gets in or out of anything byourselves. It's bad form. Ah, here he is!"

  A moment later we had passed through the portals of a great restaurant,and found ourselves surrounded with all the colour and tumult of a NewYork dinner _a la mode_. A burst of wild music, pounded and thrummedout on ukuleles by a group of yellow men in Hawaiian costume, filled theroom, helping to drown or perhaps only serving to accentuate the babelof talk and the clatter of dishes that arose on every side. Men inevening dress and women in all the colours of the rainbow, _decollete_to a degree, were seated at little tables, blowing blue smoke into theair, and drinking green and yellow drinks from glasses with thin stems.A troupe of _cabaret_ performers shouted and leaped on a little stage atthe side of the room, unheeded by the crowd.

  "Ha ha!" said Knickerbocker, as we drew in our chairs to a table. "Someplace, eh? There's a peach! Look at her! Or do you like better thatlazy-looking brunette next to her?"

  Mr. Knickerbocker was staring about the room, gazing at the women withopen effrontery, and a senile leer upon his face. I felt ashamed of him.Yet, oddly enough, no one about us seemed in the least disturbed.

  "Now, what cocktail will you have?" said my companion. "There's a newone this week, the Fantan, fifty cents each, will you have that? Right?Two Fantans. Now to eat--what would you like?"

  "May I have a slice of cold beef and a pint of ale?"

  "Beef!" said Knickerbocker contemptuously. "My dear fellow, you can'thave that. Beef is only fifty cents. Do take something reasonable. TryLobster Newburg, or no, here's a more expensive thing--Filet Bourbona la something. I don't know what it is, but by gad, sir, it's threedollars a portion anyway."

  "All right," I said. "You order the dinner."

  Mr. Knickerbocker proceeded to do so, the head-waiter obsequiously athis side, and his long finger indicating on the menu everything thatseemed most expensive and that carried the most incomprehensible name.When he had finished he turned to me again.

  "Now," he said, "let's talk."

  "Tell me," I said, "about the old days and the old times on Broadway."

  "Ah, yes," he answered, "the old days--you mean ten years ago before theWinter Garden was opened. We've been going ahead, sir, going ahead. Why,ten years ago there was practically nothing, sir, above Times Square,and look at it now."

  I began to realize that Father Knickerbocker, old as he was, hadforgotten all the earlier times with which I associated his memory.There was nothing left but the _cabarets_, and the Gardens, the PalmRooms, and the ukuleles of to-day. Behind that his mind refused totravel.

  "Don't you remember," I asked, "the apple orchards and the quiet grovesof trees that used to line Broadway long ago?"

  "Groves!" he said. "I'll show you a grove, a coconut grove"--here hewinked over his wineglass in a senile fashion--"that has apple-treesbeaten from here to Honolulu." Thus he babbled on.

  All through our meal his talk continued: of _cabarets_ and dances, orfox-trots and midnight suppers, of blondes and brunettes, "peaches" and"dreams," and all the while his eye roved incessantly among the tables,resting on the women with a bold stare. At times he would indicate andpoint out for me some of what he called the "representative people"present.

  "Notice that man at the second table," he would whisper across tome. "He's worth all the way to ten millions: made it in Governmentcontracts; they tried to send him to the penitentiary last fall butthey can't get him--he's too smart for them! I'll introduce you to himpresently. See the man with him? That's his lawyer, biggest crook inAmerica, they say; we'll meet him after dinner." Then he would suddenlybreak off and exclaim: "Egad, sir, there's a fine bunch of them," asanother bevy of girls came trooping out upon the stage.

  "I wonder," I murmured, "if there is nothing left of him but this?Has all the fine old spirit gone? Is it all drowned out in wine andsuffocated in the foul atmosphere of luxury?"

  Then suddenly I looked up at my companion, and I saw to my surprise thathis whole face and manner had altered. His hand was clenched tight onthe edge of the table. His eyes looked before him--through and beyondthe riotous crowd all about him--into vacancy, into the far past,back into memories that I thought forgotten. His face had altered. Thesenile, leering look was gone, and in its place the firm-set face of theKnickerbocker of a century ago.

  He was speaking in a strange voice, deep and strong.

  "Listen," he said, "listen. Do you hear it--there--far out atsea--ships' guns--listen--they're calling for help--ships' guns--far outat sea!" He had clasped me by the arm. "Quick, to the Battery, they'llneed every man to-night, they'll--"

  Then he sank back into his chair. His look changed again. The visiondied out of his eyes.

  "What was I saying?" he asked. "Ah, yes, this old brandy, a very specialbrand. They keep it for me here, a dollar a glass. They know me here,"he added in his fatuous way. "All the waiters know me. The headwaiteralways knows me the minute I come into the room--keeps a chair for me.Now try this brandy and then presently we'll move on and see what'sdoing at some of the shows."

  But somehow, in spite of himself, my companion seemed to be unable tobring himself fully back into the consciousness of the scene before him.The far-away look still lingered in his eyes.

  Presently he turned and spoke to me in a low, confidential tone.

  "Was I talking to myself a moment ago?" he asked. "Yes? Ah, I fearedI was. Do you know--I don't mind telling it to you--lately I've had astrange, queer feeling that comes over me at times, as if _somethingwere happening_--something, I don't know what. I suppose," he continued,with a false attempt at resuming his fatuous manner, "I'm going thepace a little too hard, eh! Makes one fanciful. But the fact is, attimes"--he spoke gravely again--"I feel as if there were somethinghappening, something coming."

  "
Knickerbocker," I said earnestly, "Father Knickerbocker, don't you knowthat something _is_ happening, that this very evening as we are sittinghere in all this riot, the President of the United States is to comebefore Congress on the most solemn mission that ever--"

  But my speech fell unheeded. Knickerbocker had picked up his glass againand was leering over it at a bevy of girls dancing upon the stage.

  "Look at that girl," he interrupted quickly, "the one dancing at theend. What do you think of her, eh? Some peach!"

  Knickerbocker broke off suddenly. For at this moment our ears caught thesound of a noise, a distant tumult, as it were, far down the street andgrowing nearer. The old man had drawn himself erect in his seat, hishand to his ear, listening as he caught the sound.

  "Out on the Broad Way," he said, instinctively calling it by itsancient name as if a flood of memories were upon him. "Do you hear it?Listen--listen--what is it? I've heard that sound before--I've heardevery sound on the Broad Way these two centuries back--what is it? Iseem to know it!"

  The sound and tumult as of running feet and of many voices crying camelouder from the street. The people at the tables had turned in theirseats to listen. The music of the orchestra had stopped. The waitershad thrown back the heavy curtains from the windows and the people werecrowding to them to look out into the street. Knickerbocker had risen inhis place, his eyes looked toward the windows, but his gaze was fixed onvacancy as with one who sees a vision passing.

  "I know the sound," he cried. "I see it all again. Look, can't you seethem? It's Massachusetts soldiers marching South to the war--can't youhear the beating of the drums and the shrill calling of the fife--theregiments from the North, the first to come. I saw them pass, here wherewe are sitting, sixty years ago--"

  Knickerbocker paused a moment, his hand still extended in the air, andthen with a great light upon his face he cried:

  "I know it now! I know what it meant, the feeling that has hauntedme--the sounds I kept hearing--the guns of the ships at sea and thevoices calling in distress! I know now. It means, sir, it means--"

  But as he spoke a great cry came up from the street and burst in at thedoors and windows, echoing in a single word:

  WAR! WAR! The message of the President is for WAR!

  "War!" cried Father Knickerbocker, rising to his full height, stern andmajestic and shouting in a stentorian tone that echoed through the greatroom. "War! War! To your places, every one of you! Be done with youridle luxury! Out with the glare of your lights! Begone you painted womenand worthless men! To your places every man of you! To the Battery! Manthe guns! Stand to it, every one of you for the defence of America--forour New York, New York--"

  Then, with the sound "New York, New York" still echoing in my ears Iwoke up. The vision of my dream was gone. I was still on the seat ofthe car where I had dozed asleep, the book upon my knee. The train hadarrived at the depot and the porters were calling into the doorway ofthe car: "New York! New York!"

  All about me was the stir and hubbub of the great depot. But loudover all it was heard the call of the newsboys crying "WAR! WAR! ThePresident's message is for WAR! Late extra! WAR! WAR!"

  And I knew that a great nation had cast aside the bonds of slothand luxury, and was girding itself to join in the fight for the freedemocracy of all mankind.