The Voice of the City(城市之声)

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The Voice of the City

O Henry

The Voice of the City

THE VOICE OF THE CITY

Twenty-five years ago the school children used to chant their lessons.

The manner of their delivery was a singsong recitative between the

utterance of an Episcopal minister and the drone of a tired sawmill. I mean

no disrespect. We must have lumber and sawdust.

I remember one beautiful and instructive little lyric that emanated

from the physiology class. The most striking line of it was this:

"The shin-bone is the long-est bone in the hu-man bod-y."

What an inestimable boon it would have been if all the corporeal and

spiritual facts pertaining to man bad thus been tunefully and logically

inculcated in our youthful minds! But what we gained in anatomy, music

and philosophy was meagre.

The other day I became confused. I needed a ray of light. I turned back

to those school days for aid. But in all the nasal harmonies we whined

forth from those bard benches I could not recall one that treated of the

voice of agglomerated mankind.

In other words, of the composite vocal message of massed humanity.

In other words, of the Voice of a Big City.

Now, the individual voice is not lacking. We can understand the song

of the poet, the ripple of the brook, the meaning of the man who wants $5

until next Monday, the inscriptions on the tombs of the Pharaohs, the

language of flowers, the "step lively" of the conductor, and the prelude of

the milk cans at 4 A. M. Certain large-eared ones even assert that they are

wise to the vibrations of the tympanum pro- need by concussion of the air

emanating from Mr. H. James. But who can comprehend the meaning of

the voice of the city?

I went out for to see.

First, I asked Aurelia. She wore white Swiss and a bat with flowers on

it, and ribbons and ends of things fluttered here and there.

"Tell me," I said, stammeringly, for I have no voice of my own, "what

does this big - er - enormous - er - whopping city say? It must have a voice

of some kind. Does it ever speak to you? How do you interpret its

The Voice of the City

meaning? It is a tremen- dous mass, but it must have a key:'

"Like a Saratoga trunk?" asked Aurelia.

"No," said I. "Please do not refer to the lid. I have a fancy that every

city has a voice. Each one has something to say to the one who can hear it.

What does the big one say to you? "

"All cities," said Aurelia, judicially, "say the same thing. When they

get through saying it there is an echo from Philadelphia. So, they are

unanimous."

"Here are 4,000,000 people," said I, scholastic- ally, "compressed upon

an island, which is mostly lamb surrounded by Wall Street water. The

conjunc- tion of so many units into so small a space must result in an

identity - or, or rather a homogeneity that finds its oral expression through

a common chan- nel. It is, as you might say, a consensus of transla- tion,

concentrating in a crystallized, general idea which reveals itself in what

may be termed the Voice of the City. Can you tell me what it is?

Aurelia smiled wonderfully. She sat on the high stoop. A spray of

insolent ivy bobbed against her right ear. A ray of impudent moonlight

flickered upon her nose. But I was adamant, nickel- plated.

"I must go and find out," I said, "what is the Voice of this city. Other

cities have voices. It is an assignment. I must have it. New York," I con-

tinned, in a rising tone, "had better not hand me a cigar and say: ' Old man,

I can't talk for publication.' No other city acts in that way. Chicago says,

unhes- itatingly, 'I will;' I Philadelphia says, 'I should;' New Orleans says, '

I used to;' Louisville says, 'Don't care if I do;' St. Louis says, 'Excuse me;'

Pittsburg says, 'Smoke up.' Now, New York - "

Aurelia smiled.

"Very well," said I, "I must go elsewhere and find out."

I went into a palace, tile-floored, cherub-ceilinged and square with the

cop. I put my foot on the brass rail and said to Billy Magnus, the best

bartender in the diocese:

Billy, you've lived in New York a long time what kind of a song-and-

dance does this old town give you? What I mean is, doesn't the gab of it

seem to kind of bunch up and slide over the bar to you in a sort of

amalgamated tip that bits off the burg in a kind of an epigram with a dash

The Voice of the City

of bitters and a slice of - "

"Excuse me a minute," said Billy, "somebody's punching the button at

the side door."

He went away; came back with an empty tin bucket; again vanished

with it full; returned and said to me:

"That was Mame. She rings twice. She likes a glass of beer for supper.

Her and the kid. If you ever saw that little skeesicks of mine brace up in

his high chair and take his beer and - But, say, what was yours? I get kind

of excited when I bear them two rings -was it the baseball score or gin fizz

you asked for?"

"Ginger ale," I answered.

I walked up to Broadway. I saw a cop on the cor- ner. The cops take

kids up, women across, and men in. I went up to him.

If I'm not exceeding the spiel limit," I said, "let me ask you. You see

New York during its vocative hours. It is the function of you and your

brother cops to preserve the acoustics of the city. There must be a civic

voice that is intelligible to you. At night during your lonely rounds you

must have beard it. What is the epitome of its turmoil and shouting? What

does the city say to you?

"Friend," said the policeman, spinning his club, "it don't say nothing. I

get my orders from the man higher up. Say, I guess you're all right. Stand

here for a few minutes and keep an eye open for the roundsman."

The cop melted into the darkness of the side street. In ten minutes be

had returned.

"Married last Tuesday," be said, half gruffly. "You know bow they are.

She comes to that corner at nine every night for a - comes to say ' hello! ' I

generally manage to be there. Say, what was it you asked me a bit ago -

what's doing in the city? Oh, there's a roof-garden or two just opened,

twelve blocks up."

I crossed a crow's-foot of street-car tracks, and skirted the edge of an

umbrageous park. An artificial Diana, gilded, heroic, poised, wind-ruled,

on the tower, shimmered in the clear light of her namesake in the sky.

Along came my poet, hurry- ing, hatted, haired, emitting dactyls, spondees

and dactylis. I seized him. "Bill," said I (in the magazine he is Cleon),

The Voice of the City

"give me a lift. I am on an assignment to find out the Voice of the city. You

see, it's a special order. Ordi- narily a symposium comprising the views of

Henry Clews, John L. Sullivan, Edwin Markham, May Ir- win and Charles

Schwab would be about all. But this is a different matter. We want a broad,

poetic, mystic vocalization of the city's soul and meaning. You are the very

chap to give me a hint. Some years ago a man got at the Niagara Falls and

gave us its pitch. The note was about two feet below the lowest G on the

piano. Now, you can't put New York into a note unless it's better indorsed

than that. But give me an idea of what it would say if it should speak. It is

bound to be a mighty and far-reaching utterance. To arrive at it we must

take the tremendous crash of the chords of the day's traffic, the laughter

and music of the night, the solemn tones of Dr. Parkhurst, the rag-time, the

weeping, the stealthy bum of cab-wbeels, the shout of the press agent, the

tinkle of fountains on the roof gardens, the hullabaloo of the strawberry

vender and the covers of Everybody's Magazine, the whispers of the

lovers in the parks - all these sounds, must go into your Voice - not

combined, but mixed, and of the mixture an essence made; and of the es-

sence an extract - an audible extract, of which one drop shall form the

thing we seek."

"Do you remember," asked the poet, with a chuckle, "that California

girl we met at Stiver's studio last week? Well, I'm on my way to see her.

She repeated that poem of mine, ' The Tribute of Spring,' word for word.

She's the smartest proposi- tion in this town just at present. Say, how does

this confounded tie look? I spoiled four before I got one to set right."

"And the Voice that I asked you about?" I in- quired.

"Oh, she doesn't sing," said Cleon. "But you ought to bear her recite

my 'Angel of the Inshore Wind.'"

I passed on. I cornered a newsboy and be flashed at me prophetic pink

papers that outstripped the news by two revolutions of the clock's longest

hand.

"Son," I said, while I pretended to chase coins in my penny pocket,

"doesn't it sometimes seem to you as if the city ought to be able to talk?

All these ups and downs and funny business and queer things hap- pening

every daywhat would it say, do you think, if it could speak?

The Voice of the City

"Quit yer kiddin'," said the boy. "Wot paper yer want? I got no time to

waste. It's Mag's birthday, and I want thirty cents to git her a present."

Here was no interpreter of the city's mouthpiece. I bought a paper, and

consigned its undeclared treaties, its premeditated murders and unfought

bat- tles to an ash can.

Again I repaired to the park and sat in the moon shade. I thought and

thought, and wondered why none could tell me what I asked for.

And then, as swift as light from a fixed star, the answer came to me. I

arose and hurried - hurried as so many reasoners must, back around my

circle. I knew the answer and I bugged it in my breast as I flew, fearing

lest some one would stop me and demand my secret.

Aurelia was still on the stoop. The moon was higher and the ivy

shadows were deeper. I sat at her side and we watched a little cloud tilt at

the drifting moon and go asunder, quite pale and discomfited.

And then, wonder of wonders and delight of de- lights! our hands

somehow touched, and our fingers closed together and did not part.

After half an hour Aurelia said, with that smile of hers:

"Do you know, you haven't spoken a word since you came back! "

"That," said I, nodding wisely, "is the Voice of the City."

The Voice of the City

THE COMPLETE LIFE OF JOHN

HOPKINS

There is a saying that no man has tasted the full flavor of life until he

has known poverty, love and war. The justness of this reflection

commends it to the lover of condensed philosophy. The three condi- tions

embrace about all there is in life worth knowing. A surface thinker might

deem that wealth should be added to the list. Not so. When a poor man

finds a long-bidden quarter-dollar that has slipped through a rip into his

vest lining, be sounds the pleasure of life with a deeper plummet than any

millionaire can hope to cast.

It seems that the wise executive power that rules life has thought best

to drill man in these three con- ditions; and none may escape all three. In

rural places the terms do not mean so much. Poverty is less pinching; love

is temperate; war shrinks to con- tests about boundary lines and the

neighbors' hens. It is in the cities that our epigram gains in truth and vigor;

and it has remained for one John Hopkins to crowd the experience into a

rather small space of time.

The Hopkins flat was like a thousand others. There was a rubber plant

in one window; a flea- bitten terrier sat in the other, wondering when he

was to have his day.

John Hopkins was like a thousand others. He worked at $20 per week

in a nine-story, red-brick building at either Insurance, Buckle's Hoisting

En- gines, Chiropody, Loans, Pulleys, Boas Renovated, Waltz Guaranteed

in Five Lessons, or Artificial Limbs. It is not for us to wring Mr. Hopkins's

avo- cation from these outward signs that be.

Mrs. Hopkins was like a thousand others. The auriferous tooth, the

sedentary disposition, the Sun- day afternoon wanderlust, the draught

upon the delicatessen store for home-made comforts, the furor for

department store marked-down sales, the feeling of superiority to the lady

in the third-floor front who wore genuine ostrich tips and had two names

over her bell, the mucilaginous hours during which she remained glued to

the window sill, the vigi- lant avoidance of the instalment man, the tireless

The Voice of the City

patronage of the acoustics of the dumb-waiter shaft - all the attributes of

the Gotham flat-dweller were hers.

One moment yet of sententiousness and the story moves.

In the Big City large and sudden things happen. You round a corner

and thrust the rib of your um- brella into the eye of your old friend from

Kootenai Falls. You stroll out to pluck a Sweet William in the park - and lo!

bandits attack you - you are am- bulanced to the hospital - you marry your

nurse; are divorced - get squeezed while short on U. P. S. and D. 0. W. N.

S. - stand in the bread line - marry an heiress, take out your laundry and

pay your club dues - seemingly all in the wink of an eye. You travel the

streets, and a finger beckons to you, a handkerchief is dropped for you, a

brick is dropped upon you, the elevator cable or your bank breaks, a table

d'hote or your wife disagrees with you, and Fate tosses you about like cork

crumbs in wine opened by an un-feed waiter. The City is a sprightly

young- ster, and you are red paint upon its toy, and you get licked off.

John Hopkins sat, after a compressed dinner, in his glove-fitting

straight-front flat. He sat upon a hornblende couch and gazed, with

satiated eyes, at Art Brought Home to the People in the shape of "The

Storm " tacked against the wall. Mrs. Hop- kins discoursed droningly of

the dinner smells from the flat across the ball. The flea-bitten terrier gave

Hopkins a look of disgust, and showed a man-hating tooth.

Here was neither poverty, love, nor war; but upon such barren stems

may be grafted those essentials of a complete life.

John Hopkins sought to inject a few raisins of conversation into the

tasteless dough of existence.

"Putting a new elevator in at the office," he said, discarding the

nominative noun, "and the boss has turned out his whiskers."

"You don't mean it! commented Mrs. Hopkins.

"Mr. Whipples," continued John, "wore his new spring suit down to-

day. I liked it fine It's a gray with - " He stopped, suddenly stricken by a

need that made itself known to him. "I believe I'll walk down to the corner

and get a five-cent cigar,"he concluded.

John Hopkins took his bat aid picked his way down the musty halls

and stairs of the flat-house

The Voice of the City

The evening air was mild, and the streets shrill with the careless cries

of children playing games con- trolled by mysterious rhythms and phrases.

Their elders held the doorways and steps with leisurely pipe and gossip.

Paradoxically, the fire-escapes sup- ported lovers in couples who made no

attempt to fly the mounting conflagration they were there to fan. The

corner cigar store aimed at by John Hopkins was kept by a man named

Freshmayer, who looked upon the earth as a sterile promontory.

Hopkins, unknown in the store, entered and called genially for his

"bunch of spinach, car-fare grade." This imputation deepened the

pessimism of Fresh- mayer; but be set out a brand that came perilously

near to filling the order. Hopkins bit off the roots of his purchase, and

lighted up at the swinging gas jet. Feeling in his pockets to make payment,

he found not a penny there.

"Say, my friend," he explained, frankly, "I've come out without any

change. Hand you that nickel first time I pass."

Joy surged in Freshmayer's heart. Here was cor- roboration of his

belief that the world was rotten and man a peripatetic evil. Without a word

he rounded the end of his counter and made earnest onslaught upon his

customer. Hopkins was no man to serve as a punching-bag for a

pessimistic tobacconist. He quickly bestowed upon Freshmayer a

Colorado- maduro eye in return for the ardent kick that be received from

that dealer in goods for cash only.

The impetus of the enemy's attack forced the Hopkins line back to the

sidewalk. There the con- flict raged; the pacific wooden Indian, with his

carven smile, was overturned, and those of the street who delighted in

carnage pressed round to view the zealous joust.

But then came the inevitable cop and imminent convenience for both

the attacker and attacked. John Hopkins was a peaceful citizen, who

worked at rebuses of nights in a flat, but be was not without the

fundamental spirit of resistance that comes with the battle-rage. He

knocked the policeman into a gro- cer's sidewalk display of goods and

gave Freshmayer a punch that caused him temporarily to regret that he had

not made it a rule to extend a five-cent line of credit to certain customers.

Then Hopkins took spiritedly to his heels down the sidewalk, closely fol-

The Voice of the City

lowed by the cigar-dealer and the policeman, whose uniform testified to

the reason in the grocer's sign that read: "Eggs cheaper than anywhere else

in the city."

As Hopkins ran he became aware of a big, low, red, racing automobile

that kept abreast of him in the street. This auto steered in to the side of the

sidewalk, and the man guiding it motioned to Hopkins to jump into it. He

did so without slackening his speed, and fell into the turkey-red

upholstered seat beside the chauffeur. The big machine, with a dimin-

uendo cough, flew away like an albatross down the avenue into which the

street emptied.

The driver of the auto sped his machine without a word. He was

masked beyond guess in the goggles and diabolic garb of the chauffeur.

"Much obliged, old man," called Hopkins, grate- fully. "I guess you've

got sporting blood in you, all right, and don't admire the sight of two men

trying to soak one. Little more and I'd have been pinched."

The chauffeur made no sign that he had heard. Hopkins shrugged a

shoulder and chewed at his cigar, to which his teeth had clung grimly

through- out the melee.

Ten minutes and the auto turned into the open carriage entrance of a

noble mansion of brown stone, and stood still. The chauffeur leaped out,

and said: "Come quick. The lady, she will explain. It is the great honor you

will have, monsieur. Ah, that milady could call upon Armand to do this

thing! But, no, I am only one chauffeur."

With vehement gestures the chauffeur conducted Hopkins into the

house. He was ushered into a small but luxurious reception chamber. A

lady, young, and possessing the beauty of visions, rose from a chair. In her

eyes smouldered a becoming anger. Her high- arched, threadlike brows

were ruffled into a delicious frown.

"Milady," said the chauffeur, bowing low, "I have the honor to relate to

you that I went to the house of Monsieur Long and found him to be not at

home. As I came back I see this gentleman in combat against bow you say

- greatest odds. He is fighting with five - ten - thirty men - gendarmes,

aussi. Yes, milady, he what you call 'swat' one - three - eight policemans. If

that Monsieur Long is out I say to myself this Gentleman be will serve

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TheVoiceoftheCity1TheVoiceoftheCityOHenryTheVoiceoftheCity2THEVOICEOFTHECITYTwenty-fiveyearsagotheschoolchildrenusedtochanttheirlessons.ThemanneroftheirdeliverywasasingsongrecitativebetweentheutteranceofanEpiscopalministerandthedroneofatiredsawmill.Imeannodisrespect.Wemusthavelumberandsawdust.Iremem...

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