From Time to Time

23

THIS IS THE ENORMOUS 1912 face which will always mean the Great White Way for me. Archie, an out-of-town New Yorker, had planned this; sent our cab west on Thirty-second Street so that as it turned up Broadway, there it was. And as I hung out the cab window staring up at the immense face, the Jotta Girl’s head beside mine staring too, that great big electric left eye winked at us. I clipped this photo from a New York Times story on Broadway’s spectacular new light-bulb signs that seemed to move; the chariot race with revolving wheels, flying hoofs, and cracking whips up ahead on the roof of the Normandie was another. “New York is crazy about them,” Archie said, and I nodded and grinned. “So am I.”

Nighttime Broadway lay ahead, so different from the almost quiet daytime street I’d walked down. Now sidewalks and street were jammed and glittering whitely: this was the Great White Way because it was white, no neon, every automobile and streetcar headlight, every street-level shop window and theater marquee blazingly lighted by clear, spike-ended white bulbs. And Archie sat grinning: this was his town; he’d personally screwed in every shining bulb around us.

Then he disappointed me. The driver swung left, across the street to park heading the wrong way in front of—the Astor Hotel? I didn’t want to go here, into a place still existing in my own time, in which I’d often been, and the Jotta Girl, glancing at me, didn’t either. But in we went, to the elevators, where Archie—Mr. Manhattan—simply nodded at the elevator boy, forefinger pointing straight up. And then we stepped out into this, the Astor Roof Garden; I didn’t know it existed. Roof gardens all over town, Arch said as we were led to a table overlooking Broadway; on hotels and even theater roofs, the plays moving out and up under the sky when the weather was right. Now as we sat down, we could feel the great gas heaters, all around the perimeter. And then, under the glitter of the night sky, we had—what else?—champagne. And talked. Or Archie did; I mostly questioned. This tall, pleasant, red-haired, red-mustached, freckled man was a major in the U.S. Army and—I wasn’t surprised—chief aide to President Taft, as he had been to the preceding President, Theodore Roosevelt. And I nodded, impressed, thinking of their nighttime meeting beside the Flatiron Building. But now Arch had a six-week leave; he needed a rest, though he didn’t look tired to me. First, some time in New York, which he loved. “Then a few weeks in Europe.”

“Oh? When are you going?”

And it was this easy: “Wednesday, this coming Wednesday; on the Campania. She’s small and a bit slow, but I like that, and she’s a Cunarder, so I expect I’ll enjoy the sea voyage; I am never seasick. I have a friend, Francis Millet, the well-known painter”—a little pride in his voice—“who is off on the midnight sailing of the Mauretania tonight. Wouldn’t wait for me; doesn’t like New York, if you can imagine that.”

“Midnight sailing?” The Jotta Girl sounded interested.

“Oh yes. They’re enormous fun, you know. Come along, why don’t you. Both of you. You’ll enjoy it, they’re like an enormous party.”

Rube . . . are you sure this is Z?

Champagne up there in the sky; then we walked catercorner across Broadway, Archie not saying where we were going. But—not running across the street, hardly even looking, just walking between the few slow-moving cars trundling along—when I saw the huge stone griffin over the entrance, I knew; this was Rector’s.

Inside, it was big, lavish, crystal-chandeliered, luxurious, and crowded. We had to wait, but they knew Archie, and we didn’t wait long.

At our table—more champagne on the way—the Jotta Girl and I looked at our napkins, embroidered with the griffin; at the tablecloth marked with the same, at our glasses and silverware engraved with the Rector griffin. And part-time New Yorker Archie watched us, delighted.

Then he entertained us with Rector stories: the former jockey, now rich, who occasionally had his giant servant carry a small cannon to the roof, where he shot it off to celebrate various occasions, such as his wedding; the rich miner from the West who showed up annually, always with a vest pocket full of pearls which he’d finger and play with on the tabletop. The giant apples imported from France in season, all grown with a paper griffin pasted to their skin so they ripened with the Rector trademark.

Elegant people all around us, including one beauty who caught me staring. A fine orchestra, and it occurred to me, half listening as Archie talked, how many songs of this time have been remembered ever since: they played “By the Light of the Silvery Moon” . . . “I Wonder Who’s Kissing Her Now” . . . “Meet Me Tonight in Dreamland” . . . “Oh, You Beautiful Doll” . . . Then, right in the middle of “Let Me Call You Sweetheart,” Archie just finishing about the apples from France, the orchestra cut off in midnote and swung abruptly into “I’m Falling in Love with Someone,” and Arch leaned discreetly across the table to whisper excitedly, “There he is! By the door!”

I looked, saw a man in evening clothes, in his early fifties, I’d say, who stood nodding, smiling, bowing slightly, acknowledging a spatter of applause. Then he turned to walk to the orchestra. “He’s going to thank them now,” Archie said. “He always does.”

“Who is he?”

That startled Archie. “Why, Victor Herbert! The moment they see him enter, they invariably stop and play one of his compositions. And invariably he walks over to thank them—see him? Very gracious man.”

We ordered dinner, the Jotta Girl nudged me to pour more champagne, and after we’d tasted, I asked Archie if he knew Alice Longworth.

Of course! Everyone knew Alice, she was leader of a set, of which he was pleased to be a minor member.

Oh? What was she like?

“A madcap. Quite insane. Her husband, Nick, is a member of the House, but she finds that no barrier to her impulses. If one is awakened at three in the morning by pebbles dashed against one’s window, it will be Alice down below forcing you up and dressed to join some sort of impromptu party. We’ve played golf with Alice driving a ball through the empty streets of Washington at some unlikely hour. I am in hope that she and Nicky will come up to New York for at least a day before I must sail.”

I think dinner—rack of lamb for me—was maybe the best I’ve ever had. Then—this was my evening—I ordered brandy, and when I asked Archie about his two Presidents, he got serious. Had enormous regard and respect for President Taft, liked him immensely, an honor to serve as his aide. But his real love, I could tell from his voice, was President Roosevelt.

What about Roosevelt, what did he admire so? Well, T.R. was himself always. Took a walk once with the French ambassador, reached the Potomac, and sent his two Secret Service guards home. Then—a fine summer day—the two men stripped down, swam the Potomac, swam back, sat on a rock in the sun, drying, got dressed, and walked back to the White House. Independent. And a spirit of fun.

But tough. “He believes in physical fitness, and had ordered the officer corps of the Navy to make a ninety-mile horseback ride each week. And he said to me, ‘If you could see the protests against my order prescribing the riding test for the Navy, you would understand that a great coterie of both the Army and the Navy are only waiting for me to leave the White House to deluge the next President with applications to modify the order. But I know the order is not too severe; and if it is, I also want to know it. But if two naval officers, and you and I can take this ride of ninety miles in one day, we will never hear a word again in protest of the order. It will silence all critics, and the Army and the Navy itself will see to its perpetuation as a matter of esprit de corps.’ ”

Across the dining room from us, a large, portly man, dining alone, stood up at his table and began to sing in a fine loud baritone. The song was something about “I want what I want when I want it!” from a musical, Archie said, in which this man starred. And as he sang, most of the Rector’s patrons picked up glasses, knives, or whatever, and began banging the tabletops in unison with each “want.” “I WANT what I WANT when I WANT it!” sang the man, each “WANT” almost lost in the united pounding.

He finished and bowed, everyone applauding including waiters and members of the orchestra which had softly accompanied him. Then he sat down, resumed eating, the restaurant’s conversational buzz resumed, and Archie said, “And so on the day of the ride—or not the day, I should say, but in the middle of the night—the President came pounding at my door, we had breakfast, and it was just twenty minutes to four when the President, Admiral Rixey, Dr. Gregson, and I mounted our horses. The President rode Roswell and I had my faithful Larry. The two naval officers had their own mounts also. We started at a dogtrot down Pennsylvania Avenue and made the bridge in ten minutes. But oh, the wind was cold, Si! And everything frozen hard.

“The greater part of the roads we traveled over had been deeply furrowed and cut up since the last thaw and snow, and had frozen in this way. But we managed to reach Fairfax Courthouse by six-twenty. I had ordered two cavalry orderlies to leave replacement horses at Fairfax, Cub Run, and Buckland, but gave no explanation of whom they were for. Consequently the horses were the most ordinary cavalry mounts.

“At Fairfax we found the first detachment of new horses waiting for us in charge of a trooper from Fort Myer. It took only fifteen minutes to change horses, and without waiting a minute we started at a brisk trot toward Centerville. At Cub Run we found our second change of horses, and for the President and myself it was for the worse. The new horses were rough, slow, and mine was vicious.

“But the President was in the best of spirits, and joked Admiral Rixey about the Virginia roads, and wondered what the old veterans would say if their spirits could see him riding over Bull Run with these rebels, as he called us.”

“Is that Jack London?” said the Jotta Girl, gesturing with her chin at a table across the room, and we looked.

“I believe it is,” said Archie, and I thought so too. He had that look, that early-years-of-the-century face that you see in photos of the Yale football team of the times before they wore helmets; the longish hair, the turtleneck jerseys, a look that eventually vanished from the earth. It was Jack London all right. “And I believe the men with him are Richard Harding Davis and Gerald Montizambert.”

I didn’t say anything; I didn’t know who Richard Harding Davis was, though of course I knew, as who didn’t, who the sinister and notorious Gerald Montizambert was.

Arch said, “By the time we reached Gainesville we all felt that the trip would be a success. Each had measured his strength, and knew about what we could do, and when we reached Buckland at nine thirty-five we were in a fine humor.

“We changed our horses there, and started on our last lap to Warrenton. We had planned to reach the town by eleven, but it looked hopeless for a time, as part of the road was so furrowed and cut up that we could only make any time by keeping off the roads and riding up on the embankments. We took advantage of every good stretch, however, to gallop, and just as the town clock struck eleven we entered the main thoroughfare of the town. Several people recognized the President, and soon the news spread. They would not believe we had ridden from Washington. He made a short address to them, but the result was that he had to eat his lunch in ten minutes.

“We left Warrenton at twelve-fifteen and did not reach Buckland on our way back until one thirty-five. I had a horse which fought the bit the entire way. And once when I got off to look after the girth of the President’s saddle, I was fifteen minutes getting back on again. He would plunge and rear, and once he struck at Dr. Gregson and came near putting him out of business. Finally I made a flying leap for the saddle and made it. I was mighty glad to turn him over to the orderly at Buckland, I can tell you.

“Between Buckland and Cub Run our vitality was at its lowest. Admiral Rixey was on a fine animal of his own, and he had set the pace at a jog trot which was all right for him but it was hell on the President and myself, who were riding the roughest troop horses which Fort Myer could turn out. Finally as we reached Cub Run and started afresh, the President ordered Rixey to the rear and told me to set the pace. I set it by walking slowly when the roads were bad and galloping like mad when they were good. We made better time this way, although one is not supposed to; but the pace had the effect of resting us up when very tired, and when galloping to warm our blood and exhilarate our spirits.

“Just before we reached Centerville we met a blizzard, which came from the north in the shape of a blinding sleet storm, and this storm was continuous from this point to Washington. The wind was blowing a gale and the ice cut our faces so that I thought mine must certainly be bleeding. We kept up a fast gait to Fairfax, however, as every mile covered now was that much made certain, for it was beginning to look doubtful whether we would be able to make Washington on account of the heavy fall of sleet. When we reached Fairfax we got the horses on which we had begun the ride, and I never felt more relieved in my life than when the orderly told us that both Roswell and Larry were in good condition and not lame from the ride in the early morning. On any other horses I don’t think we would have made Washington without an accident, if indeed we had made it at all.

“We left Fairfax in the inky blackness of night, and walked practically the entire way to Falls Church. From Centerville the President had been going it blindly, for the ice would cake on his glasses so that he could see nothing ahead of him. He simply trusted to Roswell now. I took the lead and he came immediately behind me, followed by Gregson and Admiral Rixey.

“I dared not gallop, for we were too near our goal to run the risks of an accident. Once, when I began to trot, the President’s horse went into a ditch, but luckily recovered himself without injury to himself or his rider. At Falls Church we began to trot, for the roads were better, and strange to say, by the reflected lights of Washington nine miles away, we could keep fairly well in the roads. Enough snow had fallen with the sleet to make them fairly safe, so we trotted the entire way in to the Aqueduct Bridge. As we turned into the lighted approach, we saw the carriage from the White House which I had ordered to meet us before we left Fairfax. But when the question came up as to whether the asphalt streets were safe for the horses, the President settled it by saying, ‘By George, we will make the White House with our horses if we have to lead them,’ and we started across the bridge.

“Mrs. Roosevelt was watching for us from the window of Miss Ethel’s room, and by the time we alighted she was standing in the doorway to welcome us. We were all covered with ice, but the President in his black riding jacket with fur collar and pockets, and broad-brim black hat, looked for all the world like the pictures of Santa Claus. Mrs. Roosevelt made us come in and gave us a julep, which was the first drop of liquor any of us had during the entire ride.

“I was stiff the following day, and did not feel like getting up. But I was out of the house at the usual time, and reported to the President at ten. I could not refrain from stopping at my club and showing myself in passing, for I knew that everyone there would be expecting us to be laid up for days. It was a ride of a hundred and four miles.”

We sat there then, in the crowded, fashionable restaurant, and I didn’t say anything for a minute or so. I was thinking about American Presidents. Nothing original, but only that they come in many varieties. And that possibly the earlier vintages had something the newer ones don’t seem to know about. Anyway, if it was true that here in 1912 the causes of the Great War were still small, still manageable, could still be altered and the war actually prevented . . . maybe this tall, pleasant, competent, and honorable man, and the two Presidents he served, might just possibly be able to manage it.

Archie said, “It’s nearly ten-thirty. We must leave now if we are to join the party on the Mauretania.”