Abroad At Home Part 41

After showing us these things, and talking upon general subjects for a time, the President went to the foot of the stairs and called:

"Mamma!"

Whereupon a woman's voice answered, from above, and a moment later Mrs.

Smith--one of the Mrs. Smiths--appeared. She was most cordial and kindly--a pleasant, motherly sort of woman who made you feel that she was always in good spirits.

After we had enjoyed a pleasant little talk with her, one of her sons and his wife came in: he a strong young farmer, she pretty, plump and rosy. They had with them their little girl, who played about upon the floor. Later appeared President Penrose (there are several Presidents in the Mormon Church, but President Smith is the leader) who has red cheeks and brown hair in spite of the fact that he is eighty-two years old, and considerably married.

Here in the midst of this intimate family group I kept wis.h.i.+ng that, in some way, the matter of polygamy might be mentioned. By this time I had heard so many Mormons talk about it freely that I understood the topic was not taboo; still, in the presence of Mrs. Smith I hardly knew how to begin, or indeed, whether it was tactful to begin--although I had been informed in advance that I might ask questions.

But how to ask? I couldn't very well say to this pleasant lady: "How do you like being one of five or six wives, and how do you think the others like it?" And as for: "How do you like being married?" that hardly expressed the question that was in my mind--besides which, it was plainly evident that the lady was entirely content with her lot.

It did not seem proper to inquire of my hostess: "How can you be content?" That much my social instinct told me. What, then, could I ask?

At last the baby granddaughter gave me a happy thought. "Certainly," I said to myself, "it cannot be bad form to make polite inquiries about the family of any gentleman."

I tried to think how I might best ask the President the question. "Have you any children?" would not do, because there was his son, right in the room, and other sons and daughters had been referred to in the course of conversation. Finally, as time was getting short, I determined to put it bluntly.

"How many children and grandchildren have you?" I asked President Smith.

He was not in the least annoyed by the inquiry; only a little bit perplexed.

"Let's see," he answered ruminatively, fingering his long beard, and looking at the ceiling. "I don't remember exactly--but over a hundred."

"Why!" put in Mrs. Smith, proudly, "you have a lot over a hundred."

Then, to me, she explained: "I am the mother of eleven, and I have had thirty-two grandchildren in the last twelve years. There is forty-three, right there."

"Oh, you surely have a hundred and ten, father," said young Smith.

"Perhaps, perhaps," returned the modern Abraham, contentedly.

"I beat you, though!" laughed President Penrose.

"I don't know about that," interposed young Smith, sticking up for the family. "If father would count up I think you'd find he was ahead."

"How many have you?" President Smith inquired of his coadjutor.

President Penrose rubbed his hands and beamed with satisfaction.

"A hundred and twenty-odd," he said.

After that there was no gainsaying him. He was supreme. Even Mrs. Smith admitted it.

"Yes," she said, smiling and shaking a playful finger at him, "you're ahead just now; but remember, you're older than we are. You just give us time!"

CHAPTER x.x.xVI

Pa.s.sING PICTURES

As our train crossed the Great Salt Lake the farther sh.o.r.es were glistening in a golden haze, half real, half mirage, like the sh.o.r.es of Paestum as you see them from the monastery at Amalfi on a sunny day.

Beyond the lake a portion of the desert was glazed with a curious thin film of water--evidently overflow--in which the forms of stony hills at the margin of the waste were reflected so clearly that the eye could not determine the exact point of meeting between cliff and plain. Farther out in the desert there was no water, and as we left the hills behind, the world became a great white arid reach, flat as only moist sand can be flat, and tragic in its desolation. For a time nothing, literally, was visible but sky and desert, save for a line of telegraph poles, rising forlornly beside the right-of-way.

I found the desert impressive, but my companion, whose luncheon had not agreed with him, declared that it was not up to specifications.

"Any one who is familiar with Frederick Remington's drawings," he said, "knows that there must be skeletons and buffalo skulls stuck around on deserts."

I was about to explain that the Western Pacific was a new railroad and that probably they had not yet found time to do their landscape gardening along the line, when, far ahead, I caught sight of a dark dot on the sand. I kept my eye on it. As our train overtook it, it began to a.s.sume form, and at last I saw that it was actually a prairie schooner.

Presently we pa.s.sed it. It was moving slowly along, a few hundred yards from the track. The horses were walking; their heads were down and they looked tired. The man who was driving was the only human being visible; he was hunched over, and when the train went by, he never so much as turned his head.

The picture was perfect. Even my companion admitted that, and ceased to demand skulls and skeletons. And when, two or three hours later, after having crossed the desert and worked our way into the hills, we saw a full-fledged cowboy on a pinto pony, we felt that the Western Pacific railroad was complete in its theatrical accessories.

The cowboy did his best to give us Western color. When he saw the train coming, he spurred up his pony, and waving a la.s.so, set out in pursuit of an innocent old milch cow, which was grazing nearby. That she was no range animal was evident. Her sleek condition and her calm demeanor showed that she was fully accustomed to the refined surroundings of the stable. As he came at her she gazed in horrified amazement, quite as some fat, dignified old lady might gaze at a bad little boy, running at her with a pea-shooter. Then, in bovine alarm, she turned and lumbered heavily away. The cowboy charged and cut her off, waving his rope and yelling. However, no capture was made. As soon as the train had pa.s.sed the cowboy desisted, and poor old bossy was allowed to settle down again to comfortable grazing.

After a good dinner in one of those admirable dining cars one always finds on western roads, and a good smoke, my companion and I were ready for bed. But as we were about to retire, a fellow-pa.s.senger with whom we had been talking, asked, "Aren't you going to sit up for Elko?"

"What is there at Elko?" inquired my companion, with a yawn.

"Oh," said the other, "there's a little of the local color of Nevada there. You had better wait."

"I don't believe we'll be able to see anything," I put in, glancing out at the black night.

"It is something you couldn't see by daylight," said the stranger.

That made us curious, so we sat up.

As the train slowed for Elko, and we went to get our overcoats, we observed that one pa.s.senger, a woman, was making ready to get off. We had noticed her during the day--a stalwart woman of thirty-three or four, perhaps, who, we judged, had once been very handsome, though she now looked faded. Her hair was a dull red, and her complexion was of that milky whiteness which so often accompanies red hair. Her eyes were green, cold and expressionless, and her mouth, though well formed, sagged at the corners, giving her a discontented and rather hard look. I remember that we wondered what manner of woman she was, and that we could not decide.

The train stopped, and with our acquaintance of the car, my companion and I alighted. It was a long train, and our sleeper, which was near the rear, came to a standstill some distance short of the station building, so that the part of the platform to which we stepped was without light.

Beyond the station we saw several buildings looming like black shadows, but that was all; we could make out nothing of the town.

"I don't see much here," I remarked to the man who had suggested sitting up.

"Come on," he said, moving back through the blackness, towards the end of the train.

As I turned to follow him I saw the red-haired woman step down from the car and hand her suitcase to a man who had been awaiting her; they stood for a moment in conversation; as I moved away I heard their low voices.

Reaching the last car our guide descended to the track and crossed to the other side. We followed. My first glimpse of what lay beyond gave me the impression that a large railroad yard was spread out before me, its myriad switch-lights glowing red through the black night. But as my eyes became accustomed to the darkness, I saw that here was not a maze of tracks, but a maze of houses, and that the lights were not those of switches, but of windows and front doors: night signs of the traffic to which the houses were dedicated.

[Ill.u.s.tration: The Cliff House has a Sorrento setting and hectic turkey-trotting nights]

"There," said our acquaintance. "A few years back you'd have seen this in almost any town out here, but things are changing; I don't know another place on this whole line that shows off its red light district the way Elko does."

After looking for a time at the sinister lights, we re-crossed the railroad track. As we stepped up to the platform, two figures coming in the opposite direction rounded the rear car and, crossing the rails, moved away towards the illuminated region. I heard their voices; they were the red haired woman and the man who had met her at the train.

Was she a new arrival? I think not, for she seemed to know the man, and she had, somehow, the air of getting home. Was she an "inmate" of one of the establishments? Again I think not, for, with her look of hardness, there was also one of capability, and more than any one thing it is laziness and lack of capability which cause sane women to give up freedom for such "homes." No; I think the woman from the train was a proprietor who had been away on a vacation, or perhaps a "business trip."