Blues in the night

TABLE TALK DENIS BROGAN

Princeton, Ni—One of the most characteristic and evocative American sounds is—or was— the long, melancholy moan of an American train crossing the lone prairie at night. It was as moving as the hoot of ships' sirens on the Clyde, especially if the fog muffled the sound. It was most moving in the winter when one could pull up the blind (if one had the luck of a lower berth) and look out on the vast snowy landscape and on the occasional lights of little and lonely towns, for which the train was the link with the remote outside world and the station, 'the deepo,' the centre of local life. There was meaning in the once popular song that recalled a heroine who 'hides every Tuesday when the train Roes by.' And there was history, too, in the names of the great rail- roads: Southern Pacifie, Northern Pacific, Union Pacific, and that epitome of American history, the 'Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe.'

True, it is a long time since a passenger train went to Santa Fe (I must be one of the few survivors of that remote age). Now, or for the moment, I should say, you join the main line north at Lamy (called after .Willa ,Cather's archbishop), but soon you may not be able to join the train even at Lamy, for the Super Chief is threatened with the death that has befallen the Twentieth Century Limited, the Golden State and the Lark : all have gone to the past of the buffalo, the pony express and the stagecoach of one of the best of westerns.

Of the murdered great trains, the Lark has for me the most pleasant memories. It ran from San Francisco to Los Angeles and the natural pang of making such a journey was diminished by the smartness of the waitresses, the comparative excellence of the food and drink and the perpetual feast of watching the California coast. Of course, the coast was 'spoiled,' but no more spoiled than the Riviera or, if that is going too far, the Adriatic coast down to Ravenna and Rimini, devastated by Germans not noticeably more civilised than in the days of Theodoric. The Sunset Limited never appealed much to me, but that may have been due to the endless boredom of the long haul across Texas. But the Santa Fe was another matter; its Super Chief was the favourite line of the stars and it looked it.

But the last time I travelled on this famous train, the passengers were elderly couples, silent and morose, who didn't like flying or driving. The bar was a monument to past glories. The tables were set in a sunken area (recalling the sunken bath of Goezing's train as reported on by a friend of mine whom I shall dis-

guise under the name of Nicholas Kaldor). But I was the only inhabitant of the bar and the barman and I looked at each other in sorrow and looked at the astonishing land- scape rather in the spirit of travellers in a very antique land, with the train as the monu- ment to Ozymandias.

My first experience with American trains was in September 1925 when I took an upper berth from New York to Boston and, arriving too soon and seeing no porter, half vaulted, half climbed into the upper berth, wondering how old people (i.e. people - over thirty) managed. Not till the porter brought a ladder for the now arriving passengers did I realise that provision had been made for the oldsters.

I was astonished at the intimacy of the Pull- mans; the only barrier between you and the neighbouring passengers was a flopping green curtain, a curiously inadequate shield for American prudery in an age when girls were still forced to wear skirts and stockings when swimming. Married couples (or persons pro- fessing to be married) were permitted to share a berth and, no doubt, matrimonial rights were

'Things are pretty tense here as the doctor begins to do the transplant operation all over again—only this time blindfold.'

exercised behind the curtain. (Charlie Chaplin was prosecuted under the Mann Act for allegedly doing so with a lady to who,tn he was not, in fact, married.) There was a large stock of improper stories about the possi- bilities of brief encounters in Pullman sleepers, most of them not suited for these chaste pages.

(I was delighted to learn, later, from White Russian friends, that the same stories were told of the Trans-Siberian.) But one American story

can be told. A passenger asked for something from the porter and could not be supplied. He

called out, 'Is there a Catholic priest in the car?' No answer. 'Is there an Episcopalian minister in the car?' No answer. A voice spoke up, 'If you need spiritual comfort, I'm a Methodist minister.' I don't want spiritual comfort. I want a corkscrew.'

Now the remaining great western trains are trying to get the Interstate Commerce Com- mission to permit the killing of the once admired and crowded Limiteds. The Federal examiner has retorted by accusing them, especi- ally the Southern Pacific, of providing de- liberately bad service. From my experience, the examiner is right about the Southern Pacific,

although it is hard to prove intent. The Santa Fe hasn't earned such suspicions, but unless some miracle supervenes, the trains are dead. (Two friends of mine have just gone to 'the Coast' and back, fearing that it may be their last chance.) In the east, the situation is even worse. The unfortunate New York, New Haven and Hart- ford is irremediably bankrupt and is trying to unload itself on the newly combined Pennsyl- vania-New York Central. The 'Pennsy,' once among the richest of lines and one of the three ruling powers of Pennsylvania when that state was 'corrupt and contented,' certainly doesn't encourage passengers. Last year I twice booked a seat in the 'club car' from Washington to find, in each case, that the seat had also been allocated to a lady. And both times we were the only two passengers! An unaided com- puter could not have produced this result.

Last week, going down to Washington, we were told we had to change at North Phila- delphia. The train that took us from Princeton was unspeakably filthy. The 'buffet bar,' attended by a large Negro smoking a cigar, was dingy and repellent. But at North Phila- delphia we changed to a clean, modern train, with a clean dining-car and a reasonably good dinner. To my astonishment and delight, it was a train of the much maligned and bankrupt New Haven!

On the return journey, I booked two seats in the parlour car and, as we had been assured that there would be a diner, we went forward. There was no diner. In the corner of a scruffy car there was a little bar, on what appeared to be a flimsy desk (it threatened to fall down if you leaned against it). My wife and I got three sandwiches and one carton of milk for the equivalent of twenty-five shillings. (British tourists please note.) The track both ways was abominable, the train swayed even more than does the Paris-Strasbourg express, but that is one of the fastest trains in the world and you get a good meal—if you can hold on to the glasses and plates. The intelligent and remorse- ful servants of the Pennsy were apologetic. 'Something has gone wrong.' I wondered, do the directors of the Pennsy ever take their own trains? But then do the high officers of British Railways ever take their own trains? I am sure the sufferers of the Southern Region would like to know.