Europe Revised | Page 5

is begging somebody to tell auntie
to be sure to write. You gather that auntie will be expected to write
weekly, if not oftener.
As the slice of dark water between boat and dock widens, those who
are left behind begin running toward the pierhead in such numbers that

each wide, bright-lit door-opening in turn suggests a flittering section
of a moving-picture film. The only perfectly calm person in sight is a
gorgeous, gold-laced creature standing on the outermost gunwale of the
dock, wearing the kind of uniform that a rear admiral of the Swiss navy
would wear--if the Swiss had any navy--and holding a speaking
trumpet in his hand. This person is not excited, for he sends
thirty-odd-thousand-ton ships off to Europe at frequent intervals, and so
he is impressively and importantly blase about it; but everybody else is
excited. You find yourself rather that way. You wave at persons you
know and then at persons you do not know.
You continue to wave until the man alongside you, who has spent years
of his life learning to imitate a siren whistle with his face, suddenly
twines his hands about his mouth and lets go a terrific blast right in
your ear. Something seems to warn you that you are not going to care
for this man.
The pier, ceasing to be a long, outstretched finger, seems to fold back
into itself, knuckle-fashion, and presently is but a part of the oddly
foreshortened shoreline, distinguishable only by the black dot of
watchers clustered under a battery of lights, like a swarm of hiving bees.
Out in midstream the tugs, which have been convoying the ship, let go
of her and scuttle off, one in this direction and one in that, like a brace
of teal ducks getting out of a walrus' way.
Almost imperceptibly her nose straightens down the river and soon on
the starboard quarter--how quickly one picks up these nautical
terms!--looming through the harbor mists, you behold the statue of
Miss Liberty, in her popular specialty of enlightening the world. So you
go below and turn in. Anyway, that is what I did; for certain of the
larger ships of the Cunard line sail at midnight or even later, and this
was such a ship.
For some hours I lay awake, while above me and below me and all
about me the boat settled down to her ordained ship's job, and began
drawing the long, soothing snores that for five days and nights she was
to continue drawing without cessation. There were so many things to
think over. I tried to remember all the authoritative and conflicting
advice that hadbeen offered to me by traveled friends and well-wishers.
Let's see, now: On shipboard I was to wear only light clothes, because
nobody ever caught cold at sea. I was to wear the heaviest clothes I had,

because the landlubber always caught cold at sea. I was to tip only
those who served me. I was to tip all hands in moderation, whether they
served me or not. If I felt squeamish I was to do the following things:
Eat something. Quit eating. Drink something. Quit drinking. Stay on
deck. Go below and lie perfectly flat. Seek company. Avoid same. Give
it up. Keep it down.
There was but one point on which all of them were agreed. On no
account should I miss Naples; I must see Naples if I did not see another
solitary thing in Europe. Well, I did both--I saw Naples; and now I
should not miss Naples if I never saw it again, and I do not think I shall.
As regards the other suggestions these friends of mine gave me, I
learned in time that all of them were right and all of them were wrong.
For example, there was the matter of a correct traveling costume.
Between seasons on the Atlantic one wears what best pleases one. One
sees at the same time women in furs and summer boys in white ducks.
Tweed-enshrouded Englishmen and linen-clad American girls
promenade together, giving to the decks that pleasing air of variety and
individuality of apparel only to be found in southern California during
the winter, and in those orthodox pictures in the book of Robinson
Crusoe, where Robinson is depicted as completely wrapped up in
goatskins, while Man Friday is pirouetting round as nude as a raw
oyster and both of them are perfectly comfortable. I used to wonder
how Robinson and Friday did it. Since taking an ocean trip I
understand perfectly. I could do it myself now.
There certainly were a lot of things to think over. I do not recall now
exactly the moment when I ceased thinking them over. A blank that
was measurable by hours ensued. I woke from a