Part 3

Mary, Mrs. John Falconer, Grandma’s youngest child, had always been a bit her favourite. Mary still lived in St. Louis, where she had gone after her marriage. The Falconers had four children, two sons of eighteen and fourteen, two daughters, sixteen and eleven. John Falconer, a lawyer of moderate means, was quite stingy in family matters. Although he had a great deal more money than Fred, the family occupied a much smaller house, though it was modern and in a good neighbourhood, and Grandma had to share the bedroom of the two daughters. Mary’s family had an advantage over Fred’s in having one maid, who did all of the cooking and washing and some of the cleaning, so there was not so much for Grandma to do. Grandma felt that she should have been very happy with the Falconers. But they were disagreeable people to live with. Grandma tried not to see their faults but it was not easy for her to be contented during her visits there.

The Falconers had the habit of criticism. Nothing was ever just right with them. Mary always told Grandma that if it hadn’t been for Grandma’s encouragement she would never have married John Falconer—if she had waited she probably could have done much better. John Falconer was a former Lexington boy whom Mary had met when he was visiting his old home. Grandma didn’t remember that she had encouraged the match except to tell Mary that John was a nice boy and would probably make a good husband—Mary had been the one who seemed enthusiastic. But, somehow, Grandma was blamed whenever John showed disagreeable characteristics.

Mary was dissatisfied with her social position, with the amount of money John gave her to spend, with her children. She spoke slurringly of Albert and “his rich family who are in society.” Mary would ask Grandma innumerable questions about the way the Albert Cunninghams lived, copy them when circumstances permitted and later bring the unused bits of information into the conversation, with disagreeable slurs.

“I guess Albert wouldn’t call this dinner good enough for him, would he? It’s a wonder you are satisfied here, Mamma, without a butler to answer the door or a maid to bring breakfast to your room,” or “It’s a wonder Albert and Florence wouldn’t do something for Irene. I bet she’s a lot smarter and better looking than their stuck-up daughter. But not a thing does he do for her, except send a little box on Christmas—gave Irene a cheap wrist watch last year—you could buy the same kind right here in St. Louis. He could keep it for all I’d care.”

The four Falconer children were badly brought up and noisy. They interrupted each other or all talked at once. At meals they reached across the table for dishes of food. The one maid had had no training and, as she did the cooking, her waitress duties consisted of putting bowls and platters of food on the table. Then John Falconer made a pretence of serving, always, after one or two plates, he’d “pass the things around so you can all help yourselves.”

As there was no attempt to show Grandma any special favour—she was never served first, the first plate going to the person in the greatest hurry to get away, frequently Tom the eldest son—usually when the bowl or platter reached Grandma there was little left for her. Grandma didn’t mind this, unless the food happened to be a favourite—she had become accustomed to little sacrifices while raising her family. There was always enough bread and butter.

What Grandma did object to at Mary’s was the spirit of unrest, the unkindness, the disagreeable taunts of the family, the noise and disorder. Every one criticized Grandma, calling her attention to the way she held her fork, though their own manners were frequently insufferable. They criticized, too, Grandma’s pronunciation of words, idioms of Lexington, and errors in grammar. These were made much of and repeated, with laughter. Then, too, if Grandma showed ignorance of any modern appliance or invention, this was thought to be a great joke and was introduced as a titbit in the table conversation.

Grandma darned all of the stockings at Mary’s—there always seemed to be a basketful—and took care of the bedroom in which she slept, relieving the two girls of an unwelcome duty. She straightened the living-room, for Mary hated housework and grumbled about it and the overworked maid never quite got through her round of duties. But Grandma was not too busy at Mary’s. She liked having something to do. It was the taunts that made her unhappy, the little barbed things the family said. John Falconer made Grandma feel that she was an actual expense, that the amount of food she ate was a real item in the household budget. Mary came to her with little whines about the relatives—though they lived in other cities and paid little attention to her—about her husband, how stingy he was, how much better she could have done, had she not taken her mother’s advice in her marriage, about the children, how much money they spent, how they quarrelled with each other, how disobedient they were. Grandma always went from Mary’s home to Fred’s, and though she knew the work that awaited her, the tired hours in store, she actually looked forward to the next visit.

IV

So now, Grandma was travelling again. And, as the train covered the miles away from Lexington, Grandma put aside the worries of the visit she had just had, the memories of the unpleasantness of the visit with Mary, the apprehensions of the visit that awaited her. Grandma shed, all at once, all of these things and emerged, a wonderful, new personality, a dear, happy little old lady, travelling. Grandma became, as she always became, three days of each year, the woman she would have liked to have been, the old lady she sometimes dreamed she was.

First, Grandma rang for the porter. She was well supplied with money for Albert always sent her a check for travelling expenses. She loved feeling independent, a personality. When the porter came, Grandma demanded, in the gentle, well-bred tone Florence might have used, that the porter bring her an envelope for her bonnet, a pillow for her head, a stool for her feet. She tipped him generously enough to make him grin his thanks and hurry to her whenever she rang. There were even porters who said, “Yes’m, you travelled on my car before,” when they saw Grandma.

From her bag, Grandma took out a small black lace cap, with a bit of perky lavender ribbon on it and adjusted it on her thinning hair. At Mary’s house they were always telling her how thin her hair looked, the young boy even hinting something about old people who ought to wear wigs. Albert had sent her the cap in her last Christmas box, and, as usual, she had saved it for travelling. Grandma put on, too, a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. She had needed them for years, but at first a sort of pride in her good eyes had kept her from getting them. Then, at Fred’s, she had been too busy; at Albert’s, no one paid much attention to her needs; at Mary’s they had laughed at her near-sightedness without offering a corrective. When she was at Albert’s, last year, she had told him, finally, her need of glasses and the next day Florence had driven her to an oculist. But she felt that she had annoyed and disturbed Florence, that getting glasses for an old lady wasn’t just in Florence’s pattern of things.

Grandma put the cheap candy and the fruit from Fred and Homer into her bag. It had been awfully kind and good of them. She took out her knitting and added row after row, as the minutes passed.

Then Grandma rang for the porter again. But, before he came, she looked around at her fellow passengers, as she always looked at them when she travelled. Two seats in front of her sat a tired-looking woman of about forty, with a thin, drawn face. Knitting in hand, Grandma took slow, careful little steps up the train to her.

“How do you do?” said Grandma, with her sweetest smile, “I wonder if you won’t have tea with me, keep an old lady company? It seems so—so unsocial, having tea alone.”

The woman gasped and looked at Grandma. She saw the well-dressed, comfortable little old lady, with the frill of soft lace at throat and wrists, a tiny black cap on her grey hair, grey knitting in her gnarled hands, a picture-book Grandma for all the world.

“Why, yes, I—that would be delightful,” she said.

Grandma led the way back to her own seat. When the porter came she ordered tea and toast and little cakes and sandwiches, “and some of that good orange marmalade you always have on this road.”

Grandma hadn’t had any lunch but she didn’t say so. When the little table was adjusted and the tea things brought in, Grandma poured tea, as if, every day, in her own home, the routine included the serving of tea at a dear little tea table.

Grandma listened sympathetically to the other woman’s story. Grandma knew that each woman who was travelling had a story and would tell it, if encouraged at all, but she wasn’t much interested—she had heard so many stories during the past years. Then, when her guest had finished, Grandma talked.

Grandma didn’t say much, really. She told about her visits, about her two wonderful sons and her splendid daughter. As Grandma told these things, they, too, emerged into beauty, the journey threw a magic over them as it did over Grandma. The things she told were so real that Grandma believed them, herself, because she wanted to.

“I have three children, so, of course, I spend four months of the year with each of them. Each of them wanted me all the time—they are such good children—so the best way seemed to be to divide the time. I’m on my way to visit my older son, now. Maybe, as you’ve lived in New York, you’ve heard of him—he has a seat on the Stock Exchange and is a director in so many things—Albert Morrell Cunningham. His wife was a Mornington, and they have two such wonderful children, a boy and a girl. Arlene made her début last year, so you can imagine what a good time she’s having and what fun it is to be there with her, she’s so popular and pretty. I’ll show you her picture, later. Each day I’m there, nearly, they do something for me, a drive in the park, theatres and concerts. I really get too gay in the city—it’s wonderful.

“Then I go to see Mary, my only daughter, and you know how a mother feels toward a daughter. She is married to a lawyer in St. Louis and they have four of the dearest children. The oldest, a boy, is eighteen and the youngest, a girl, is eleven. Quite an ideal family, isn’t it? Mary’s husband is quite well-to-do, but they live so comfortably and simply, no airs at all. Mary doesn’t care a great deal for society, just wrapped up in her husband and children, but she goes with such nice people.

“I’ve just come from my second son, Fred. And there—perhaps you’d never guess it, people have flattered me so long about looking youthful that I believe them—but I’ve two great-grandchildren, the older three years old, the younger just a year, the dearest things. Nell, the children’s mother and her husband and the children are all living right at home. Fred and his wife won’t hear of them going away. They were housekeeping for a while, but the family didn’t like it—they are all so devoted to the children. There are two other girls in the family besides Nell and they have a great big old-fashioned home, set way back in a broad lawn, lots of trees and flowers. Yes, it’s Fred’s own home. It’s a good thing he bought such a big one, years ago, he needs it with so many young people. They do have such good times together—and, of course, it’s young people who keep us all young, these days.”

Then, from her bag, Grandma drew a bundle of photographs. The photographers, from the maker of the shiny products of Lexington to the creator of the soft sepias of Fifth Avenue, had, with their usual skill at disguise, smoothed away the lines of discontent on Mary’s face, the bold impudence of her children, had added a little kindness and humanness to Florence and Albert, had made Fred’s family look placid, undisturbed and prosperous. The pictures showed Grandma’s family to be all she had said of them, even to the dimpled little Ruthie, taken just a few weeks before, on a post-card by a neighbourhood photographer.

It didn’t sound like bragging, as Grandma told things. It was just the simple, contented story of an old lady of seventy-three, who spent her days satisfied and serene, travelling from one loving and beloved set of relatives to another.

When tea was finished, Grandma allowed the other woman to return to her seat with a gentle nod and a “thank you for keeping an old woman company.” Then Grandma knitted and looked at the passengers again. Always, whenever she travelled, out of the set that presented itself, Grandma was able to find those she needed.

A tiny, plump little woman with a too-fat baby was seated just a seat or so back of Grandma, on the left. It was to her that Grandma went, now.

“May I hold the baby?” she asked. “I know how tired you must get, holding him all day, on a day like this. I’ve two great-grandchildren. Your baby is just about in between them, in age, I think. Sometimes, I hold them for just a little while and I know how heavy babies can be.”

Deftly, Grandma took the child in her arms and settled him comfortably.

“When dinner is announced,” said Grandma, “you go in and eat. I’ll take care of the baby. It will be a rest for you—it is so difficult travelling with a baby—you’ll enjoy your dinner more, alone. Sometimes, when we go on picnics with my great-grandchildren....”

Grandma told about the babies, about their mother, about her own grown-up children, whom she visited. She even told little things about their childhood, as mothers tell to mothers, but, always, she came back to the present, telling of her visits, encased in the rose colour of her journey. Not that Grandma told deliberate falsehoods. She didn’t claim servants or wealth for Fred nor jollity for Albert. But each fact she brought forth was broidered with the romance that travel brought to Grandma—the stories all showed Grandma welcome, beloved, happy, made her children kind, considerate, affectionate, successful, capable. Grandma helped her listeners, too, for she spread some of this haze over them. You can’t envy, you must enter into the pleasure of it, when an old lady of seventy-three shows you the treasures that a lifetime has handed to her.

Grandma smiled as she sat with the little mother and her baby. And she smiled as she held the heavy, squirming bundle, while the mother ate dinner.

“It’s a real pleasure to help you even a little,” said Grandma, as the woman came back from the dining car to claim her baby and thank Grandma.

Grandma washed her face carefully before she went in to her own dinner. She took a clean handkerchief from her bag, dainty, lavender-bordered, the present that Edna, Fred’s second daughter, had given her last Christmas. On it she sprinkled a bit of perfume, a gift from Alice, two years before. She smoothed her hair, brushed the dust from her waist. A new adventure always awaited her in the dining car.

She walked with stiff little steps the length of the three cars, holding tight to the seats as she passed. And, through the cars, she smiled at the children and to grown-ups, smiles a bit patronizing, perhaps, as smiles should be from such a distinguished, contented old lady.

In the diner, Grandma was seated across from a stout, middle-aged man, who was eating an enormous meal. She smiled at him. He couldn’t misjudge her—one doesn’t flirt that way at seventy-three.

“It’s a wonderful day for travelling, isn’t it?” she said. “Last time I travelled, four months ago...”

Grandma was telling of her children, of her journeys.

Grandma ordered carefully—a steak, you are really safe about steaks when you travel, a fresh vegetable, a green salad, a bit of pastry, black coffee. Grandma ordered as if the ordering of a dinner were a usual but precious rite. She felt correct, prosperous, a woman of the world. The man across the table, pleased with his meal and moved a bit by Grandma’s story of her happy and fortunate life, her devoted children, saw in Grandma the things that made this devotion. He even grew a bit gallant.

“I can see why your children are so good to you, ma’am. It makes me wish I had a grandma or mother like you myself.” This during mouthfuls.

Grandma was equal to it.

“Why me, I’m just what my children have made me. Just think of you, making such lovely speeches to an old lady. You’re deserving of the best mother a man ever had, I’m sure.”

There were more pretty speeches. The man became almost flowery. Grandma actually blushed, before she paid her check, adding her usual generous tip—the stranger had offered to pay but Grandma wouldn’t have that, of course. Then, as Grandma arose, the man opposite rose, too, and courteously escorted her through the cars and to her seat, stopping for a moment to talk.

Grandma couldn’t knit at night. The motion of the car and the electric lights were not a good combination for her old eyes. She put her knitting into her bag and extracted a deck of cards, flamboyant, with green and gold gift-looking backs. She chose now two young women and a good-looking young man in his early thirties. She approached them all with the same question.

“Wouldn’t you like a game of bridge? It seems so lonely, an evening alone, in a sleeper—”

Strangely, all three did play bridge and would like a game. The porter brought a little table, again, and they played, rather indifferently, to be sure—Grandma was no expert and one of the young women played even a poorer game than she did—but several hours passed pleasantly. Then, after they stopped playing, Grandma brought the fruit from her bag. Grandma told them about Fred bringing the fruit to her, and, as they ate, she told, too, of her visits, of her children, her grandchildren, and the two little great-grand ones. The three card-players really seemed interested, so of course the photographs were brought out for a round of approval.

After the guests had gone to their seats, Grandma had her berth made up. She was rather particular about this—she wanted it made with her feet to the engine. Grandma thought this knowing about head and foot gave her a travelled air. Besides, she really didn’t like to feel that she was travelling backwards.

In the dressing-room she put on her violet silk dressing gown, a gift from Florence three years before, which she kept carefully for travelling, and a frivolous little cap of cream lace, to keep the dust out of her hair while she slept. She spread her ivory travelling articles in their leather case—five years old on her last birthday—before her, and, as she prepared for sleep, talked pleasantly with the woman who happened to come into the dressing-room while she was there.

Grandma slept fairly well for travelling, waking up frequently to pull up the shade and look out on the hurrying landscape, the occasional lights, the little towns. She thought it was mighty pleasant travelling.

She was up at seven and dressed swiftly. A new woman had got on during the night and now occupied the seat opposite Grandma, a well-gowned woman in her late thirties, with a smart, city-like air.

Grandma nodded a pleasant good morning.

“We seem to be making good time,” she said.

“Yes, indeed,” the woman smiled, “pleasant day for travelling.”

With the air of one born traveller to another, Grandma talked a bit, then motioned the woman to sit beside her. The pleasant conversation gave Grandma a warm feeling of well-being. She suggested breakfast and the two of them went in together, the younger woman steadying Grandma just a bit when the train swayed around a curve.

It was a pleasant breakfast. Grandma ordered three-minute eggs. They were the way she liked eggs best, but she seldom had them. At Albert’s it seemed so self-assertive to ask for things like that, special directions and everything—and at Fred’s and Mary’s!

Grandma and her new friend talked about New York, about plays they had both seen the year before. They discussed food and the cost of living, servants, the usual things that two hardly acquainted women talk of, when circumstance throws them together. There was nothing condescending in the new acquaintance’s attitude. Why should there have been? Grandma was neither an unnecessary member of a cool, indifferent household nor an overworked old woman—she was the ideal Grandma, cultured, clever, kindly. It was no wonder, then, that, after breakfast, the two of them should loiter in Grandma’s seat and Grandma should show a few family photographs and dwell, pleasantly, on how fortunate she was in having such splendid sons, such a lovely daughter and such wonders of grandchildren, to say nothing of the two babies.

Then the woman suggested that she and Grandma go to the observation car, and, before long, Grandma was seated in a big chair, knitting again, and glancing at the flying scenery.

All the morning Grandma’s former acquaintances came to talk to her. The thin woman with the sad face offered her some candy. Grandma had a little chat with the plump mother and the baby and held the baby again while his mother ate luncheon. The stout man, reading a magazine, dropped it long enough to come over and ask Grandma how she was feeling and if there was anything he could do for her. Grandma’s bridge companions, now well acquainted, with the sudden friendship that travel brings, gathered around Grandma for a chat, laughing at everything. Several others, coming into the car, stopped for a word with Grandma.

Grandma and her latest acquaintance had luncheon together, too. Then, after luncheon, Grandma prepared, a whole hour ahead, as she always did, for the end of her journey. She washed off as much of the soot as she could. She took off the little lace cap and replaced it with her decent old bonnet, which had been resting in its bag all this time. She slipped on her black travelling coat over her grey crêpe dress. She took out a clean handkerchief, sprinkling a bit of perfume on it. Before closing her bag, Grandma took out the cheap candy that Homer had brought to the station and gave it, with a gracious smile, to the woman with the baby. It was good to be able to give something—and, besides, what could she do with the candy at Albert’s? She didn’t care for candy and even the servants would have laughed at it.

Grandma closed her bag then and sat waiting. Her chance acquaintances passed, nodded, smiled and talked. Grandma was a real person of importance, a dear, happy old lady, with a devoted family, spending her life contentedly divided among them. Didn’t all these people know about Grandma? Hadn’t they heard of her children and her grandchildren and her great-grandchildren? Hadn’t they seen their photographs, even? Didn’t they know that, after four pleasant months with Fred and his happy, jovial family, she was on her way to visit Albert, rich and prominent and kind?

V

The train drew into the Grand Central Station. Grandma, trembling a little—for the excitement of travelling is apt to make one tremble at seventy-three—allowed the porter to brush her coat, bade farewell to her train acquaintances, followed her bag down the aisle and into the station.

A man in a chauffeur’s uniform took Grandma’s bag and addressing Grandma politely, gravely, told her that Mr. and Mrs. Cunningham were sorry, but engagements prevented them from meeting her. They would see her at dinner at seven.

Grandma, with short, unsteady little steps, went out to the waiting car. There was something very near a tear in her eye. After all, travelling has its difficulties when one is seventy-three. The shell of radiance, of smiling independence, of being cared for, important, loved, fell away. Grandma was just a little, tired, lonely old lady again. Another of Grandma’s romantic journeys was over.

MAMIE CARPENTER

I