“Yeast is yeast, and West is West,” I said, and was quite surprised at my own cleverness. I hadn’t made a remark like that to Andrew in five years.
“I see you are acquainted with Kipling,” he said.
“Oh, yes, every governess is.”
“Where and whom did you govern?”
“I was in New York, with the family of a wealthy stockbroker. There were three children. I used to take them walking in Central Park.”
“Did you ever go to Brooklyn?” he asked abruptly.
“Never,” I replied.
“Ah!” he said. “That’s just the trouble. New York is Babylon; Brooklyn is the true Holy City. New York is the city of envy, office work, and hustle; Brooklyn is the region of homes and happiness. It is extraordinary: poor, harassed New Yorkers presume to look down on low-lying, home-loving Brooklyn, when as a matter of fact it is the precious jewel their souls are thirsting for and they never know it. Broadway: think how symbolic the name is. Broad is the way that leadeth to destruction! But in Brooklyn the ways are narrow, and they lead to the Heavenly City of content. Central Park: there you are—the centre of things, hemmed in by walls of pride. Now how much better is Prospect Park, giving a fair view over the hills of humility! There is no hope for New Yorkers, for they glory in their skyscraping sins; but in Brooklyn there is the wisdom of the lowly.”
“So you think that if I had been a governess in Brooklyn I should have been so contented that I would never have come with Andrew and compiled my anthology of 6,000 loaves of bread and the lesser lyrics?”
But the volatile Professor had already soared to other points of view, and was not to be thwarted by argument.
“Of course Brooklyn is a dingy place, really,” he admitted. “But to me it symbolizes a state of mind, whereas New York is only a state of pocket. You see I was a boy in Brooklyn: it still trails clouds of glory for me. When I get back there and start work on my book I shall be as happy as Nebuchadnezzar when he left off grass and returned to tea and crumpets. Literature Among the Farmers I’m going to call it, but that’s a poor title. I’d like to read you some of my notes for it.”
I’m afraid I poorly concealed a yawn. As a matter of fact I was sleepy, and it was growing chilly.
“Tell me first,” I said, “where in the world are we, and what time is it?”
He pulled out a turnip watch. “It’s nine o’clock,” he said, “and we’re about two miles from Shelby, I should reckon. Perhaps we’d better get along. They told me in Greenbriar that the Grand Central Hotel in Shelby is a good place to stop at. That’s why I wasn’t anxious to get there. It sounds so darned like New York.”
He bundled the cooking utensils back into Parnassus, hitched Peg up again, and tied Bock to the stern of the van. Then he insisted on giving me the two dollars and eighty cents he had collected in Greenbriar. I was really too sleepy to protest, and of course it was mine anyway. We creaked off along the dark and silent road between the pine woods. I think he talked fluently about his pilgrim’s progress among the farmers of a dozen states, but (to be honest) I fell asleep in my corner of the seat. I woke up when we halted before the one hotel in Shelby—a plain, unimposing country inn, despite its absurd name. I left him to put Parnassus and the animals away for the night, while I engaged a room. Just as I got my key from the clerk he came into the dingy lobby.
“Well, Mr. Mifflin,” I said. “Shall I see you in the morning?”
“I had intended to push on to Port Vigor tonight,” he said, “but as it’s fully eight miles (they tell me), I guess I’ll bivouac here. I think I’ll go into the smoking room and put them wise to some good books. We won’t say goodbye till tomorrow.”
My room was pleasant and clean (fairly so). I took my suitcase up with me and had a hot bath. As I fell asleep I heard a shrill voice ascending from below, punctuated with masculine laughter. The Pilgrim was making more converts!
VI
I had a curious feeling of bewilderment when I woke the next morning. The bare room with the red-and-blue rag carpet and green china toilet set was utterly strange. In the hall outside I heard a clock strike. “Heavens!” I thought, “I’ve overslept myself nearly two hours. What on earth will Andrew do for breakfast?” And then as I ran to close the window I saw the blue Parnassus with its startling red letters standing in the yard. Instantly I remembered. And discreetly peeping from behind the window shade I saw that the Professor, armed with a tin of paint, was blotting out his own name on the side of the van, evidently intending to substitute mine. That was something I had not thought of. However, I might as well make the best of it.
I dressed promptly, repacked my bag, and hurried downstairs for breakfast. The long table was nearly empty, but one or two men sitting at the other end eyed me curiously. Through the window I could see my name in large, red letters, growing on the side of the van, as the Professor diligently wielded his brush. And when I had finished my coffee and beans and bacon I noticed with some amusement that the Professor had painted out the line about Shakespeare, Charles Lamb, and so on, and had substituted new lettering. The sign now read:
H. McGill’s Travelling Parnassus
Good Books For Sale
Cookbooks a Specialty
Inquire Within
Evidently he distrusted my familiarity with the classics.
I paid my bill at the desk, and was careful also to pay the charge for putting up the horse
