Frenzied Fiction: Ch. 2 - Father Knickerbocker

Ch. 2 - Father Knickerbocker

A Fantasy

It happened quite recently--I think it must have been on
April the second of 1917--that I was making the long
pilgrimage on a day-train from the remote place where I
dwell to the city of New York. And as we drew near the
city, and day darkened into night, I had fallen to reading
from a quaint old copy of Washington Irving's immortal
sketches of Father Knickerbocker and of the little town
where once he dwelt.

I had picked up the book I know not where. Very old it
apparently was and made in England. For there was pasted
across the fly-leaf of it an extract from some ancient
magazine or journal of a century ago, giving what was
evidently a description of the New York of that day.

From reading the book I turned--my head still filled with
the vision of Father Knickerbocker and Sleepy Hollow and
Tarrytown--to examine the extract. I read it in a sort
of half-doze, for the dark had fallen outside, and the
drowsy throbbing of the running train attuned one's mind
to dreaming of the past.

"The town of New York"--so ran the extract pasted in the
little book--"is pleasantly situated at the lower extremity
of the Island of Manhattan. Its recent progress has been
so amazing that it is now reputed, on good authority, to
harbour at least twenty thousand souls. Viewed from the
sea, it presents, even at the distance of half a mile,
a striking appearance owing to the number and beauty of
its church spires, which rise high above the roofs and
foliage and give to the place its characteristically
religious aspect. The extreme end of the island is heavily
fortified with cannon, commanding a range of a quarter
of a mile, and forbidding all access to the harbour.
Behind this Battery a neat greensward affords a pleasant
promenade, where the citizens are accustomed to walk with
their wives every morning after church."

"How I should like to have seen it!" I murmured to myself
as I laid the book aside for a moment. "The Battery, the
harbour and the citizens walking with their wives, their
own wives, on the greensward."

Then I read on:

"From the town itself a wide thoroughfare, the Albany
Post Road, runs meandering northward through the fields.
It is known for some distance under the name of the Broad
Way, and is so wide that four moving vehicles are said
to be able to pass abreast. The Broad Way, especially in
the springtime when it is redolent with the scent of
clover and apple-blossoms, is a favourite evening promenade
for the citizens--with their wives--after church. Here
they may be seen any evening strolling toward the high
ground overlooking the Hudson, their wives on one arm,
a spyglass under the other, in order to view what they
can see. Down the Broad Way may be seen moving also droves
of young lambs with their shepherds, proceeding to the
market, while here and there a goat stands quietly munching
beside the road and gazing at the passers-by."

"It seems," I muttered to myself as I read, "in some ways
but little changed after all."

"The town"--so the extract continued--"is not without
its amusements. A commodious theatre presents with great
success every Saturday night the plays of Shakespeare
alternating with sacred concerts; the New Yorker, indeed,
is celebrated throughout the provinces for his love of
amusement and late hours. The theatres do not come out
until long after nine o'clock, while for the gayer habitues
two excellent restaurants serve fish, macaroni, prunes
and other delicacies till long past ten at night. The
dress of the New Yorker is correspondingly gay. In the
other provinces the men wear nothing but plain suits of
a rusty black, whereas in New York there are frequently
seen suits of brown, snuff-colour and even of
pepper-and-salt. The costumes of the New York women are
equally daring, and differ notably from the quiet dress
of New England.

"In fine, it is commonly said in the provinces that a
New Yorker can be recognized anywhere, with his wife, by
their modish costumes, their easy manners and their
willingness to spend money--two, three and even five
cents being paid for the smallest service."

"Dear me," I thought, as I paused a moment in my reading,
"so they had begun it even then."

"The whole spirit of the place"--the account continued--"has
recently been admirably embodied in literary form by an
American writer, Mr. Washington Irving (not to be confounded
with George Washington). His creation of Father Knickerbocker
is so lifelike that it may be said to embody the very
spirit of New York. The accompanying woodcut--which was
drawn on wood especially for this periodical--recalls at
once the delightful figure of Father Knickerbocker. The
New Yorkers of to-day are accustomed, indeed, to laugh
at Mr. Irving's fancy and to say that Knickerbocker
belongs to a day long since past. Yet those who know tell
us that the image of the amiable old gentleman, kindly
but irascible, generous and yet frugal, loving his town
and seeing little beyond it, may be held once and for
all to typify the spirit of the place, without reference
to any particular time or generation."

"Father Knickerbocker!" I murmured, as I felt myself
dozing off to sleep, rocked by the motion of the car.
"Father Knickerbocker, how strange if he could be here
again and see the great city as we know it now! How
different from his day! How I should love to go round
New York and show it to him as it is."

So I mused and dozed till the very rumble of the wheels
seemed to piece together in little snatches. "Father
Knickerbocker--Father Knickerbocker--the Battery--the
Battery--citizens walking with their wives, with their
wives--their own wives"--until presently, I imagine, I
must have fallen asleep altogether and knew no more till
my journey was over and I found myself among the roar
and bustle of the concourse of the Grand Central.

And there, lo and behold, waiting to meet me, was Father
Knickerbocker himself! I know not how it happened, by
what queer freak of hallucination or by what actual
miracle--let those explain it who deal in such things
--but there he stood before me, with an outstretched hand
and a smile of greeting, Father Knickerbocker himself,
the Embodied Spirit of New York.

"How strange," I said. "I was just reading about you in
a book on the train and imagining how much I should like
actually to meet you and to show you round New York."

The old man laughed in a jaunty way.

"Show _me_ round?" he said. "Why, my dear boy, _I live
here_."

"I know you did long ago," I said.

"I do still," said Father Knickerbocker. "I've never left
the place. I'll show _you_ around. But wait a bit--don't
carry that handbag. I'll get a boy to call a porter to
fetch a man to take it."

"Oh, I can carry it," I said. "It's a mere nothing."

"My dear fellow," said Father Knickerbocker, a little
testily I thought, "I'm as democratic and as plain and
simple as any man in this city. But when it comes to
carrying a handbag in full sight of all this crowd, why,
as I said to Peter Stuyvesant about--about"--here a misty
look seemed to come over the old gentleman's face--"about
two hundred years ago, I'll be hanged if I will. It can't
be done. It's not up to date."

While he was saying this, Father Knickerbocker had beckoned
to a group of porters.

"Take this gentleman's handbag," he said, "and you carry
his newspapers, and you take his umbrella. Here's a
quarter for you and a quarter for you and a quarter for
you. One of you go in front and lead the way to a taxi."

"Don't you know the way yourself?" I asked in a
half-whisper.

"Of course I do, but I generally like to walk with a boy
in front of me. We all do. Only the cheap people nowadays
find their own way."

Father Knickerbocker had taken my arm and was walking
along in a queer, excited fashion, senile and yet with
a sort of forced youthfulness in his gait and manner.

"Now then," he said, "get into this taxi."

"Can't we _walk_?" I asked.

"Impossible," said the old gentleman. "It's five blocks
to where we are going."

As we took our seats I looked again at my companion; this
time more closely. Father Knickerbocker he certainly was,
yet somehow strangely transformed from my pictured fancy
of the Sleepy Hollow days. His antique coat with its wide
skirt had, it seemed, assumed a modish cut as if in
imitation of the bell-shaped spring overcoat of the young
man about town. His three-cornered hat was set at a rakish
angle till it looked almost like an up-to-date fedora.
The great stick that he used to carry had somehow changed
itself into the curved walking-stick of a Broadway lounger.
The solid old shoes with their wide buckles were gone.
In their place he wore narrow slippers of patent leather
of which he seemed inordinately proud, for he had stuck
his feet up ostentatiously on the seat opposite. His eyes
followed my glance toward his shoes.

"For the fox-trot," he said. "The old ones were no good.
Have a cigarette? These are Armenian, or would you prefer
a Honolulan or a Nigerian? Now," he resumed, when we had
lighted our cigarettes, "what would you like to do first?
Dance the tango? Hear some Hawaiian music, drink cocktails,
or what?"

"Why, what I should like most of all, Father
Knickerbocker--"

But he interrupted me.

"There's a devilish fine woman! Look, the tall blonde
one! Give me blondes every time!" Here he smacked his
lips. "By gad, sir, the women in this town seem to get
finer every century. What were you saying?"

"Why, Father Knickerbocker," I began, but he interrupted
me again.

"My dear fellow," he said. "May I ask you not to call me
_Father_ Knickerbocker?"

"But I thought you were so old," I said humbly.

"Old! Me _old_! Oh, I don't know. Why, dash it, there
are plenty of men as old as I am dancing the tango here
every night. Pray call me, if you don't mind, just
Knickerbocker, or simply Knicky--most of the other boys
call me Knicky. Now what's it to be?"

"Most of all," I said, "I should like to go to some quiet
place and have a talk about the old days."

"Right," he said. "We're going to just the place now--nice
quiet dinner, a good quiet orchestra, Hawaiian, but quiet,
and lots of women." Here he smacked his lips again, and
nudged me with his elbow. "Lots of women, bunches of
them. Do you like women?"

"Why, Mr. Knickerbocker," I said hesitatingly, "I
suppose--I--"

The old man sniggered as he poked me again in the ribs.

"You bet you do, you dog!" he chuckled. "We _all_ do.
For me, I confess it, sir, I can't sit down to dinner
without plenty of women, stacks of them, all round me."

Meantime the taxi had stopped. I was about to open the
door and get out.

"Wait, wait," said Father Knickerbocker, his hand upon
my arm, as he looked out of the window. "I'll see somebody
in a minute who'll let us out for fifty cents. None of
us here ever gets in or out of anything by ourselves.
It's bad form. Ah, here he is!"

A moment later we had passed through the portals of a
great restaurant, and found ourselves surrounded with
all the colour and tumult of a New York dinner _a la
mode_. A burst of wild music, pounded and thrummed out
on ukuleles by a group of yellow men in Hawaiian costume,
filled the room, helping to drown or perhaps only serving
to accentuate the babel of talk and the clatter of dishes
that arose on every side. Men in evening dress and women
in all the colours of the rainbow, _decollete_ to a
degree, were seated at little tables, blowing blue smoke
into the air, and drinking green and yellow drinks from
glasses with thin stems. A troupe of _cabaret_ performers
shouted and leaped on a little stage at the side of the
room, unheeded by the crowd.

"Ha ha!" said Knickerbocker, as we drew in our chairs to
a table. "Some place, eh? There's a peach! Look at her!
Or do you like better that lazy-looking brunette next to
her?"

Mr. Knickerbocker was staring about the room, gazing at
the women with open effrontery, and a senile leer upon
his face. I felt ashamed of him. Yet, oddly enough, no
one about us seemed in the least disturbed.

"Now, what cocktail will you have?" said my companion.
"There's a new one this week, the Fantan, fifty cents
each, will you have that? Right? Two Fantans. Now to
eat--what would you like?"

"May I have a slice of cold beef and a pint of ale?"

"Beef!" said Knickerbocker contemptuously. "My dear
fellow, you can't have that. Beef is only fifty cents.
Do take something reasonable. Try Lobster Newburg, or
no, here's a more expensive thing--Filet Bourbon a la
something. I don't know what it is, but by gad, sir, it's
three dollars a portion anyway."

"All right," I said. "You order the dinner."

Mr. Knickerbocker proceeded to do so, the head-waiter
obsequiously at his side, and his long finger indicating
on the menu everything that seemed most expensive and
that carried the most incomprehensible name. When he had
finished he turned to me again.

"Now," he said, "let's talk."

"Tell me," I said, "about the old days and the old times
on Broadway."

"Ah, yes," he answered, "the old days--you mean ten years
ago before the Winter Garden was opened. We've been going
ahead, sir, going ahead. Why, ten years ago there was
practically nothing, sir, above Times Square, and look
at it now."

I began to realize that Father Knickerbocker, old as he
was, had forgotten all the earlier times with which I
associated his memory. There was nothing left but the
_cabarets_, and the Gardens, the Palm Rooms, and the
ukuleles of to-day. Behind that his mind refused to
travel.

"Don't you remember," I asked, "the apple orchards and
the quiet groves of trees that used to line Broadway long
ago?"

"Groves!" he said. "I'll show you a grove, a coconut
grove"--here he winked over his wineglass in a senile
fashion--"that has apple-trees beaten from here to
Honolulu." Thus he babbled on.

All through our meal his talk continued: of _cabarets_
and dances, or fox-trots and midnight suppers, of blondes
and brunettes, "peaches" and "dreams," and all the while
his eye roved incessantly among the tables, resting on
the women with a bold stare. At times he would indicate
and point out for me some of what he called the
"representative people" present.

"Notice that man at the second table," he would whisper
across to me. "He's worth all the way to ten millions:
made it in Government contracts; they tried to send him
to the penitentiary last fall but they can't get him--he's
too smart for them! I'll introduce you to him presently.
See the man with him? That's his lawyer, biggest crook
in America, they say; we'll meet him after dinner." Then
he would suddenly break off and exclaim: "Egad, sir,
there's a fine bunch of them," as another bevy of girls
came trooping out upon the stage.

"I wonder," I murmured, "if there is nothing left of him
but this? Has all the fine old spirit gone? Is it all
drowned out in wine and suffocated in the foul atmosphere
of luxury?"

Then suddenly I looked up at my companion, and I saw to
my surprise that his whole face and manner had altered.
His hand was clenched tight on the edge of the table.
His eyes looked before him--through and beyond the riotous
crowd all about him--into vacancy, into the far past,
back into memories that I thought forgotten. His face
had altered. The senile, leering look was gone, and in
its place the firm-set face of the Knickerbocker of a
century ago.

He was speaking in a strange voice, deep and strong.

"Listen," he said, "listen. Do you hear it--there--far
out at sea--ships' guns--listen--they're calling for
help--ships' guns--far out at sea!" He had clasped me by
the arm. "Quick, to the Battery, they'll need every man
to-night, they'll--"

Then he sank back into his chair. His look changed again.
The vision died out of his eyes.

"What was I saying?" he asked. "Ah, yes, this old brandy,
a very special brand. They keep it for me here, a dollar
a glass. They know me here," he added in his fatuous way.
"All the waiters know me. The headwaiter always knows me
the minute I come into the room--keeps a chair for me.
Now try this brandy and then presently we'll move on and
see what's doing at some of the shows."

But somehow, in spite of himself, my companion seemed to
be unable to bring himself fully back into the consciousness
of the scene before him. The far-away look still lingered
in his eyes.

Presently he turned and spoke to me in a low, confidential
tone.

"Was I talking to myself a moment ago?" he asked. "Yes?
Ah, I feared I was. Do you know--I don't mind telling it
to you--lately I've had a strange, queer feeling that
comes over me at times, as if _something were happening_
--something, I don't know what. I suppose," he continued,
with a false attempt at resuming his fatuous manner, "I'm
going the pace a little too hard, eh! Makes one fanciful.
But the fact is, at times"--he spoke gravely again--"I
feel as if there were something happening, something
coming."

"Knickerbocker," I said earnestly, "Father Knickerbocker,
don't you know that something _is_ happening, that this
very evening as we are sitting here in all this riot,
the President of the United States is to come before
Congress on the most solemn mission that ever--"

But my speech fell unheeded. Knickerbocker had picked up
his glass again and was leering over it at a bevy of
girls dancing upon the stage.

"Look at that girl," he interrupted quickly, "the one
dancing at the end. What do you think of her, eh? Some
peach!"

Knickerbocker broke off suddenly. For at this moment our
ears caught the sound of a noise, a distant tumult, as
it were, far down the street and growing nearer. The old
man had drawn himself erect in his seat, his hand to his
ear, listening as he caught the sound.

"Out on the Broad Way," he said, instinctively calling
it by its ancient name as if a flood of memories were
upon him. "Do you hear it? Listen--listen--what is it?
I've heard that sound before--I've heard every sound on
the Broad Way these two centuries back--what is it? I
seem to know it!"

The sound and tumult as of running feet and of many voices
crying came louder from the street. The people at the
tables had turned in their seats to listen. The music of
the orchestra had stopped. The waiters had thrown back
the heavy curtains from the windows and the people were
crowding to them to look out into the street. Knickerbocker
had risen in his place, his eyes looked toward the windows,
but his gaze was fixed on vacancy as with one who sees
a vision passing.

"I know the sound," he cried. "I see it all again. Look,
can't you see them? It's Massachusetts soldiers marching
South to the war--can't you hear the beating of the drums
and the shrill calling of the fife--the regiments from
the North, the first to come. I saw them pass, here where
we are sitting, sixty years ago--"

Knickerbocker paused a moment, his hand still extended
in the air, and then with a great light upon his face he
cried:

"I know it now! I know what it meant, the feeling that
has haunted me--the sounds I kept hearing--the guns of
the ships at sea and the voices calling in distress! I
know now. It means, sir, it means--"

But as he spoke a great cry came up from the street and
burst in at the doors and windows, echoing in a single
word:

WAR! WAR! The message of the President is for WAR!

"War!" cried Father Knickerbocker, rising to his full
height, stern and majestic and shouting in a stentorian
tone that echoed through the great room. "War! War! To
your places, every one of you! Be done with your idle
luxury! Out with the glare of your lights! Begone you
painted women and worthless men! To your places every
man of you! To the Battery! Man the guns! Stand to it,
every one of you for the defence of America--for our
New York, New York--"

Then, with the sound "New York, New York" still echoing
in my ears I woke up. The vision of my dream was gone.
I was still on the seat of the car where I had dozed
asleep, the book upon my knee. The train had arrived at
the depot and the porters were calling into the doorway
of the car: "New York! New York!"

All about me was the stir and hubbub of the great depot.
But loud over all it was heard the call of the newsboys
crying "WAR! WAR! The President's message is for WAR!
Late extra! WAR! WAR!"

And I knew that a great nation had cast aside the bonds
of sloth and luxury, and was girding itself to join in
the fight for the free democracy of all mankind.

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