At midnight the cafe was crowded. By some chance the little table at which
I sat had escaped the eye of incomers， and two vacant chairs at it extended
their arms with venal hospitality to the influx of patrons.
And then a cosmopolite sat in one of them， and I was glad， for I held a
theory that since Adam no true citizen of the world has existed. We hear of
them， and we see foreign labels on much luggage， but we find travellers instead
of cosmopolites.
I invoke your consideration of the scene——the marble-topped tables， the
range of leather-upholstered wall seats， the gay company， the ladies dressed in
demi-state toilets， speaking in an exquisite visible chorus of taste， economy，
opulence or art; the sedulous and largess-loving garcons， the music wisely
catering to all with its raids upon the composers; the melange of talk and
laughter——and， if you will， the Wurzburger in the tall glass cones that bend to
your lips as a ripe cherry sways on its branch to the beak of a robber jay. I
was told by a sculptor from Mauch Chunk that the scene was truly Parisian.
My cosmopolite was named E. Rushmore Coglan， and he will be heard from next
summer at Coney Island. He is to establish a new “attraction” there， he informed
me， offering kingly diversion. And then his conversation rang along parallels of
latitude and longitude. He took the great， round world in his hand， so to speak，
familiarly， contemptuously， and it seemed no larger than the seed of a
Maraschino cherry in a table d'hote grape fruit. He spoke disrespectfully of the
equator， he skipped from continent to continent， he derided the zones， he mopped
up the high seas with his napkin. With a wave of his hand he would speak of a
certain bazaar in Hyderabad. Whiff! He would have you on skis in Lapland. Zip!
Now you rode the breakers with the Kanakas at Kealaikahiki. Presto! He dragged
you through an Arkansas post-oak swamp， let you dry for a moment on the alkali
plains of his Idaho ranch， then whirled you into the society of Viennese
archdukes. Anon he would be telling you of a cold he acquired in a Chicago lake
breeze and how old Escamila cured it in Buenos Ayres with a hot infusion of the
chuchula weed. You would have addressed a letter to “E. Rushmore Coglan， Esq.，
the Earth， Solar System， the Universe，” and have mailed it， feeling confident
that it would be delivered to him.
I was sure that I had found at last the one true cosmopolite since Adam，
and I listened to his worldwide discourse fearful lest I should discover in it
the local note of the mere globe-trotter. But his opinions never fluttered or
drooped; he was as impartial to cities， countries and continents as the winds or
gravitation. And as E. Rushmore Coglan prattled of this little planet I thought
with glee of a great almost-cosmopolite who wrote for the whole world and
dedicated himself to Bombay. In a poem he has to say that there is pride and
rivalry between the cities of the earth， and that “the men that breed from them，
they traffic up and down， but cling to their cities' hem as a child to the
mother's gown.” And whenever they walk “by roaring streets unknown” they
remember their native city “most faithful， foolish， fond; making her
mere-breathed name their bond upon their bond.” And my glee was roused because I
had caught Mr. Kipling napping. Here I had found a man not made from dust; one
who had no narrow boasts of birthplace or country， one who， if he bragged at
all， would brag of his whole round globe against the Martians and the
inhabitants of the Moon.
Expression on these subjects was precipitated from E. Rushmore Coglan by
the third corner to our table. While Coglan was describing to me the topography
along the Siberian Railway the orchestra glided into a medley. The concluding
air was “Dixie，” and as the exhilarating notes tumbled forth they were almost
overpowered by a great clapping of hands from almost every table.
It is worth a paragraph to say that this remarkable scene can be witnessed
every evening in numerous cafes in the City of New York. Tons of brew have been
consumed over theories to account for it. Some have conjectured hastily that all
Southerners in town hie themselves to cafes at nightfall. This applause of the
“rebel” air in a Northern city does puzzle a little; but it is not insolvable.
The war with Spain， many years' generous mint and watermelon crops， a few
long-shot winners at the New Orleans race-track， and the brilliant banquets
given by the Indiana and Kansas citizens who compose the North Carolina Society
have made the South rather a “fad” in Manhattan. Your manicure will lisp softly
that your left forefinger reminds her so much of a gentleman's in Richmond， Va.
Oh， certainly; but many a lady has to work now——the war， you know.
When “Dixie” was being played a dark-haired young man sprang up from
somewhere with a Mosby guerrilla yell and waved frantically his soft- brimmed
hat. Then he strayed through the smoke， dropped into the vacant chair at our
table and pulled out cigarettes.
The evening was at the period when reserve is thawed. One of us mentioned
three Wurzburgers to the waiter; the dark-haired young man acknowledged his
inclusion in the order by a smile and a nod. I hastened to ask him a question
because I wanted to try out a theory I had.
“Would you mind telling me，” I began， “whether you are from——”
The fist of E. Rushmore Coglan banged the table and I was jarred into
silence.
“Excuse me，” said he， “but that's a question I never like to hear asked.
What does it matter where a man is from? Is it fair to judge a man by his
post-office address? Why， I've seen Kentuckians who hated whiskey， Virginians
who weren't descended from Pocahontas， Indianians who hadn't written a novel，
Mexicans who didn't wear velvet trousers with silver dollars sewed along the
seams， funny Englishmen， spendthrift Yankees， cold-blooded Southerners， narrow-
minded Westerners， and New Yorkers who were too busy to stop for an hour on the
street to watch a one-armed grocer's clerk do up cranberries in paper bags. Let
a man be a man and don't handicap him with the label of any section.”
“Pardon me，” I said， “but my curiosity was not altogether an idle one. I
know the South， and when the band plays 'Dixie' I like to observe. I have formed
the belief that the man who applauds that air with special violence and
ostensible sectional loyalty is invariably a native of either Secaucus， N.J.， or
the district between Murray Hill Lyceum and the Harlem River， this city. I was
about to put my opinion to the test by inquiring of this gentleman when you
interrupted with your own——larger theory， I must confess.”
And now the dark-haired young man spoke to me， and it became evident that
his mind also moved along its own set of grooves.
“I should like to be a periwinkle，” said he， mysteriously， “on the top of a
valley， and sing tooralloo-ralloo.”
This was clearly too obscure， so I turned again to Coglan.
“I've been around the world twelve times，” said he. “I know an Esquimau in
Upernavik who sends to Cincinnati for his neckties， and I saw a goatherder in
Uruguay who won a prize in a Battle Creek breakfast food puzzle competition. I
pay rent on a room in Cairo， Egypt， and another in Yokohama all the year around.
I've got slippers waiting for me in a tea-house in Shanghai， and I don't have to
tell 'em how to cook my eggs in Rio de Janeiro or Seattle. It's a mighty little
old world. What's the use of bragging about being from the North， or the South，
or the old manor house in the dale， or Euclid avenue， Cleveland， or Pike's Peak，
or Fairfax County， Va.， or Hooligan's Flats or any place? It'll be a better
world when we quit being fools about some mildewed town or ten acres of
swampland just because we happened to be born there.”
“You seem to be a genuine cosmopolite，” I said admiringly. “But it also
seems that you would decry patriotism.”
“A relic of the stone age，” declared Coglan， warmly. “We are all
brothers——Chinamen， Englishmen， Zulus， Patagonians and the people in the bend of
the Kaw River. Some day all this petty pride in one's city or State or section
or country will be wiped out， and we'll all be citizens of the world， as we
ought to be.”
“But while you are wandering in foreign lands，” I persisted， “do not your
thoughts revert to some spo——some dear and——”
“Nary a spot，” interrupted E. R. Coglan， flippantly. “The terrestrial，
globular， planetary hunk of matter， slightly flattened at the poles， and known
as the Earth， is my abode. I've met a good many object-bound citizens of this
country abroad. I've seen men from Chicago sit in a gondola in Venice on a
moonlight night and brag about their drainage canal. I've seen a Southerner on
being introduced to the King of England hand that monarch， without batting his
eyes， the information that his grandaunt on his mother's side was related by
marriage to the Perkinses， of Charleston. I knew a New Yorker who was kidnapped
for ransom by some Afghanistan bandits. His people sent over the money and he
came back to Kabul with the agent. 'Afghanistan?' the natives said to him
through an interpreter. 'Well， not so slow， do you think?' 'Oh， I don't know，'
says he， and he begins to tell them about a cab driver at Sixth avenue and
Broadway. Those ideas don't suit me. I'm not tied down to anything that isn't
8，000 miles in diameter. Just put me down as E. Rushmore Coglan， citizen of the
terrestrial sphere.”
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My cosmopolite made a large adieu and left me， for he thought he saw some
one through the chatter and smoke whom he knew. So I was left with the would-be
periwinkle， who was reduced to Wurzburger without further ability to voice his
aspirations to perch， melodious， upon the summit of a valley.
I sat reflecting upon my evident cosmopolite and wondering how the poet had
managed to miss him. He was my discovery and I believed in him. How was it? “The
men that breed from them they traffic up and down， but cling to their cities'
hem as a child to the mother's gown.”
Not so E. Rushmore Coglan. With the whole world for his——
My meditations were interrupted by a tremendous noise and conflict in
another part of the cafe. I saw above the heads of the seated patrons E.
Rushmore Coglan and a stranger to me engaged in terrific battle. They fought
between the tables like Titans， and glasses crashed， and men caught their hats
up and were knocked down， and a brunette screamed， and a blonde began to sing
“Teasing.”
My cosmopolite was sustaining the pride and reputation of the Earth when
the waiters closed in on both combatants with their famous flying wedge
formation and bore them outside， still resisting.
I called McCarthy， one of the French garcons， and asked him the cause of
the conflict.
“The man with the red tie” (that was my cosmopolite)， said he， “got hot on
account of things said about the bum sidewalks and water supply of the place he
come from by the other guy.”
“Why，” said I， bewildered， “that man is a citizen of the world——a
cosmopolite. He——”
“Originally from Mattawamkeag， Maine， he said，” continued McCarthy， “and he
wouldn't stand for no knockin' the place.”
发表于 2016-7-10 11:23:02
