I felt quite reduced. I had expected to find a picturesque, ambling, drawling mountaineer.
Between bounces and jounces and “holding back” against declivities to which Bert seemed amazingly indifferent, I sat and dreamed over those moonlit hills. What a possession for a state like Indiana, I thought—a small, quaint, wonderful Alpine region within its very center. As time went on and population increased, I thought, this would afford pleasure and recreation to thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands, who knows, who could not afford to go farther. Plainly it had already evinced its charm to the world, for were we not on the very outskirts of two of the most remarkable curative spring resorts in America, if not in the world? Who had not heard of French Lick—West Baden? And yet when I went to school at the state university, these places had not been heard of locally, let alone nationally.
I recall a long, lanky student from this very county who was studying law at “our college,” who told me of French Lick, and that “a lot of people around there thought the waters were good for rheumatism.” I expected, somehow, as we rode along, to see some evidence in the way of improved mountain conditions—better houses, more of them, possibly—now that we were in the vicinity of such a prosperous resort, but not a sign was there. Ten o’clock came and then eleven. We were told that we were within nine miles, seven miles, four miles, two miles—still no houses to speak of, and only the poorest type of cabin. At one mile there was still no sign. Then suddenly, at the bend of a road, came summer cottages of the customary resort type, a street of them. Bright lamps appeared. A great wall of cream colored brick, ablaze with lights, arose at the bottom of the ravine into which we were descending. I was sure this was the principal hotel. Then as we approached gardens and grounds most extensive and formal in character appeared, and in their depths, to the left, through a faint pearly haze, appeared a much larger and much more imposing structure. This was The hotel. The other was an annex for servants!
All the gaudy luxury of a Lausanne or Biarritz resort was here in evidence. A railroad spur adjoining a private hotel station contained three or four private cars, idling here while their owners rested. A darkened Pullman train was evidently awaiting some particular hour to depart. At the foot of a long iron and glass awning, protecting a yellow marble staircase of exceedingly florate design, a liveried flunky stood waiting to open automobile doors. As we sped up he greeted us. Various black porters pounced on our bags like vultures. We were escorted through a marble lobby such as Arabian romances once dreamed of as rare, and to an altar like desk, where a high priest of American profit deigned to permit us to register. We were assigned rooms (separate quarters for our chauffeur) at six dollars the day, and subsequently ushered down two miles of hall on the fifth or sixth floor to our very plain, very white, but tastefully furnished rooms, where we were permitted to pay the various slaves who had attended us.
“George,” I said to the robustious soul who carried my bag, “how many rooms has this hotel?”
“Eight hundred, suh, Ah believe.”
“And how many miles is it from here to the diningroom?”
“We don’t serve no meals aftah nine o’clock, suh, but Ah expects if you wanted a lil' sumfin sent up to yo room, de chef would see you done got it.”
“No, George, I’m afraid of these chefs. I think I’ll go out instead. Isn’t there a restaurant around here somewhere?”
“Nothin' as you-all’d like to patronize, suh, no suh. Dey is one restaurant. It keeps open most all night. It’s right outside de grounds here. I think you might get a lil' sumfin dayah. Dey has a kinda pie countah.”