Another advantage of a long railway journey is the opportunity it affords to give one’s vocal cords a (usually) well-merited rest. It is possible to travel across the continent without saying a word. A nod or a shake of the head suffices in your dealings with the porter; and you learn nothing from questioning him, as he has not been on that run before. Also, business with the train and Pullman conductors may be transacted in silence, and there is no profit in asking the latter to exchange your upper berth for a lower, as he has [p 275] />]already been entreated by all the other occupants of uppers. When the train halts you do not have to ask, “What place is this?”—you may find out by looking at the large sign on the station. Nor is it necessary to inquire, “Are we on time?”—your watch and time-table will enlighten you. You do not have to exclaim, when a fresh locomotive is violently attached, “Well, I see we got an engine”—there is always somebody to say it for you. And you write your orders in the dining car. There is, of course, the chance of being accosted in the club car, but since this went dry the danger has been slight. And conversation can always be averted by absorption in a book, or, in a crisis, by pretending to be dumb.
Not everybody can travel three or four days without exchanging words with a fellow traveler. Mr. George Moore, for example, would be quite wretched. Conversation is the breath of his being, he says somewhere. I understand that Mr. Moore has another book on press, entitled “Avowals.” Avowals! My dear!… After the “Confessions” and the “Memoirs” what in the world is there left for the man to avow?
What a delightful fictionist is Moore! And never more delightful than when he is writing fiction under the appearance of fact. No one has [p 276] />]taken more to heart the axiom that the imaginary is the only real. As my friend the Librarian observed, the difference between George Moore and Baron Munchausen is that Moore’s lies are interesting.
Travelers must carry their own reading matter under government ownership. The club car library now consists of time-tables, maps, and pamphlets setting forth the never to be forgotten attractions of the show places along the way. These are all written by the celebrated prose poet Ibid, and, with a bottle of pseudo beer or lemon pop, help to make the club car as gay a place as a mortician’s parlor on a rainy afternoon.
The treeless plateau over which the train rolls, hour after hour, is the result of a great uplift. It was not sudden; it was slow but sure. This result is arid and plateautudinous, in a manner of speaking—not the best manner. It makes me think of democracy—and prohibition. To this complexion we shall come at last. To be sure, the genius of man will continue to cut channels in the monotonous plain; erosion will relieve the dreary prospect with form and color, but it bids fair to be, for the most part, a flat and dry world, from which many of us will part with a minimum of regret. There will remain the inextinguishable [p 277] />]desire to learn what wonders science will disclose. Perhaps—who knows?—they will discover how to ventilate a sleeping car.