"Well," said the newspaper man, "I suddenly remembered that he was in a theater and I got kind of curious. I asked what he was doing in the theater and he looked at me and grinned.
""I"m all in," he said. "Been going the pace for about a month now. Out every night. Taking in all the glad spots and high spots."
"This was so curious coming from Big Bill that I looked surprised. And he went on talking. Yes, sir, this Big Bill Haywood, the terror of organized society, was saying goodbye to his native land as if he were a sentimental playboy. He wasn"t going to jail because by that time he had all his plans matured for his escape to Russia.
"But he knew he was going to leave the country and perhaps never come back again. So he was making the rounds.
""I"ve been to almost every show in town," he went on talking, "all the musical comedies, all the dramas, all the west side melodramas. I"ve been to almost all the cafes, the swell ones with the monkey-suit waiters and the old ones I"ve known myself for years. I drew up a list of all these places in town about a month ago and I"ve been following a schedule ever since."
"I asked him," said the newspaper man, "if he liked the plays he"d seen.
Bill grinned at that.
""It ain"t that," said Bill. "No, it ain"t that. It"s only seeing them.
You know, there"s nothing like these kind of things anywhere else in the world."
"And then the theater got dark and we said good-bye casually and went to our different seats. I didn"t see Haywood again. About a week or so later I read the headline that he had fled the country. n.o.body knew where he was, but people suspected. And then two weeks after that there was the story that he had reached Russia and was in Moscow.
"Well, when I read that," said the newspaper man, "I remembered all of a sudden how he had stood leaning against the railing at the Columbia theater saying good-bye to something. Making the rounds for a month saying good-bye in his own way to all the places he would never see again. Kind of odd, I thought, for Bill Haywood to do that. That isn"t the way Nietzsche would have written a radical. But d.i.c.kens might have written it that way, like Bill.
"That"s why whenever I see his name in print now," pursued the newspaper man, "I always think of the burlesque chorus on the stage kicking their legs and yodeling jazzily and Big Bill Haywood staring with his one eye, saying good-bye with his one eye.
"Tell me he"s not an exile!" laughed the newspaper man suddenly.
ON A DAY LIKE THIS
On a day like this, he says, on a day like this, when the wind plays cello music across the rooftops.... I think about things. The town is like a fireless, dimly lighted room. Yesterday the windows sparkled with sunlight. To-day they stare like little coffin tops.
On a day like this, he says, on this sort of a day I walk along smoking a pipe and wonder what I was excited about yesterday. Then I remember, he says, that once it rained yesterday and I waited under the awning till it ended. I remember, he says, that once I walked swiftly down this street toward a building on the corner. It was vastly important that I reach this building. I remember, he says, that there were days I hurried down Clark Street and days I ran down Monroe Street. Now it is windy again. There is long silence over the noises of the street. The sky looks empty and old.
There were people gathered around an automobile that had b.u.mped into the curbing. I stopped to watch them, he says. There was a man next to me with a heavy gray face, with loose lips and with intent eyes. There was another man and another--dozens of men--all of them people who had been hurrying in the street to get somewhere. And here they were standing and looking intently at an automobile with a twisted wheel.
I became aware that we were all looking with a strange intensity at this automobile; that we all stood as if waiting for something. Dozens of men hurrying somewhere suddenly stop and stand for ten, twenty, thirty minutes staring at a broken automobile. There was a reason for this. Always where there is a machine at work, digging or hammering piles, where there is a horse fallen, an auto crashed, a flapjack turner, a fountain pen demonstrator; where there is a magic clock that runs, n.o.body knows how, or a window puzzle that turns in a drug-store window or anything that moves behind plate gla.s.s--always where there is any one of these things there are people like us standing riveted, attentive, unwavering.
People on artificial errands, hurrying like obedient automations through the streets; stern-faced people with dignified eyes, important-stepping people with grave decision stamped upon them; careless, innocuous-looking people--all these people look as if they had something in their heads, as if there were things of import driving them through the streets. But this is an error. Nothing in their heads. They are like the fish that swim beneath the water--a piece of shining tin captures their eyes and they pause and stare at it.
The broken automobile holds their eyes, holds them all riveted because--because it is something unordinary to look at, to think about.
And there is nothing unordinary to look at or think about in their heads.
And I too, he says, on this day when the wind played cello music across the rooftops, stood in the crowd. We were all children, I noticed, more than that--infants. Open-mouthed infantile wonder staring out of our tired, gray faces. Men, without thought, men making a curious little confession in the busy street that they were not busy, that there is nothing in life at the moment that preoccupies them--that a broken automobile is a G.o.dsend, a diversion, a drama, a great happiness.
I smoked my pipe, he says, and began to wonder again. Why did they stare like this? And at what? And who were these staring ones? And what was it in them that stared? I thought of this, he says. Dead dreams, and forgotten defeats stood staring from the curb at the broken automobile.
Men who had survived themselves, who had become compliant and automatic little forces in the engine of the city--these were ourselves on the curb.
And this is a weary thing to remember about the city. When I am tired, he says, and the plot of which I am hero, villain and Greek chorus suddenly vanish from my mind, I pause and look at something behind plate gla.s.s. A bauble catches my eye. Long minutes, half hours pa.s.s. There is a marvelous plent.i.tude of baubles to look at. Machines digging, excavations, scaffoldings, advertis.e.m.e.nts, never are lacking.
And at such times I begin to notice how many of us there are. The hurry of the streets is an illusion. The noises that rise in clouds, and the too-many suits of clothes and hats that sweep by--all these things are part of an illusion. The fact drifts through my tired senses that there is an amazing silence in the street--the silence inside of people"s heads.
Everywhere I look I find these busy ones, these energetic ones stopped and standing like myself before a bauble in a window, before a broken automobile.
Of people, authors always make great plots. Authors always write of adventures and intrigues, of emotions and troubles and ideas which occupy people. People fall in love, people suffer defeats, people experience tragedies, happinesses, and there is no end to the action of people in books.
But here is a curious plot, he says, on a day like this. Here is a crowd around a broken automobile. The broken automobile has trapped them, betrayed them. They realize the broken automobile as a "practical" excuse to stop walking, to stop moving, to stop going anywhere or being anybody.
Their serious concentration on the broken wheel enables them to pretend that they are logically interested in practical matters. Without which pretense it would be impossible for them to exist. Without which pretense they would become consciously dead. They must always seem, to themselves as well as to others, logically interested in something. Yes, always something.
But the plot is--and do not misunderstand this, he cautions--that the pretense here around the broken automobile grows shallow enough to plumb.
There is nothing here. Two dozen men standing dead on a curbing, tricked into confessional by a little accident.
So I will begin a book tomorrow, he says, and empties his pipe as he talks, which will have to do with the make-believe of people in streets--the make-believe of being alive and being somebody and going somewhere.
And saying this, this garrulous one walks off with a high whistle on his lips and a grave triumph sitting on his shoulders.
JAZZ BAND IMPRESSIONS
The trombone player has a straight part. He umpah umps with the conventional trombone fatalism. Whatever the tune, whatever the harmonies, trombone umpah umps regardless. Umpah ump is the soul of all things.
Cadenzas, glissandos, arpeggios, chromatics, syncopations, blue melodies--these are the embroidery of sound. From year to year these change, these pa.s.s. Only the umpah ump remains. And tonight the trombone player plays what he will play a thousand nights from tonight--umpah ump.
The ba.s.soon and the bull fiddle--they umpah ump along. Underneath the quaver and whine of the jazz they beat the time, they make the tuneless rhythm. The feet dancing on the crowded cabaret floor listen cautiously for the trombone, the ba.s.soon and the bull fiddle. They have a liaison with the umpah umps--the feet. Long ago they danced only to the umpah umps. There were no cadenzas, glissandos, arpeggios then. There was only the thumping of cedar wood on cedar wood, on ebony or taut deerskin.
Civilizations have risen, fallen and risen again. Armies, G.o.ds, races have been chewed into mist by the years. But the thumping remains. The feet of the dancers on the cabaret floor keep a rendezvous with the ebony on the taut deerskin, with the cedar wood beating on cedar wood.
The clarinet screeches, wails, moans and whistles. The clarinet flings an obbligato high over the heads of the dancers on the cabaret floor. It makes shrill sounds. It raves like a fireless Ophelia. It plays the clown, the tragedian, the acrobat.
A whimsical insanity lurks in the music of the clarinet. It stutters ecstasies. It postures like Tristan and whimpers like a livery-stable nag.
It grimaces like Peer Gynt and winks like a lounge lizard, a cake eater.
It is not for the feet of the dancers on the crowded cabaret floor. The feet follow the umpah umps. The thoughts of the dancers follow the clarinet. The thoughts of the b.o.o.bilariat dance easily to the tangled lyric of the clarinet. The thoughts tie themselves into crazy knots. The music of the clarinet becomes like crazily uncoiling whips. The thoughts of the dancers shake themselves loose from words under the spur of the whips. They begin to dance, not as the feet dance. There is another rhythm here. The rhythm of little ecstasies whimpering. Thus the thoughts of the dancers dance--dead hopes, wearied ambitions, vanishing youth do an inarticulate can-can in the heads of the dancers on the cabaret floor.
The cornet wears a wooden gag in its mouth and a battered black derby hangs over its end. Umpah ump from the trombone, the bull fiddle and the ba.s.soon. Tangled lyrics from the clarinet. And the cornet cakewalks like a hoyden vampire, the cornet whinnies like an odalisque expiring in the arms of the Wizard of Oz.
l.u.s.t giggles at a sly jest out of the cornet. Pa.s.sion thumbs its nose at the stars out of the cornet. The melody of jazz, the tin pan ghosts of Chopin, Tchaikowsky, Old Black Joe, Liszt and Mumbo Magumbo, jungle troubadour of the Congo, come whinnying out from under the pendant derby.