The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - Swanston Edition, Vol. 02Stevenson, Robert Louis
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The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - Swanston Edition, Vol. 02
Stevenson, Robert Louis
English literature -- 19th century
You had to pass through the rain, which still fell thick and resonant,
to reach a lavatory on the other side of the court. There were three
basin-stands, and a few crumpled towels and pieces of wet soap, white
and slippery like fish; nor should I forget a looking-glass and a pair
of questionable combs. Another Scots lad was here, scrubbing his face
with a good will. He had been three months in New York and had not yet
found a single job nor earned a single halfpenny. Up to the present, he
also was exactly out of pocket by the amount of the fare. I began to
grow sick at heart for my fellow-emigrants.
Of my nightmare wanderings in New York I spare to tell. I had a thousand
and one things to do; only the day to do them in, and a journey across
the continent before me in the evening. It rained with patient fury;
every now and then I had to get under cover for a while in order, so to
speak, to give my mackintosh a rest; for under this continued drenching
it began to grow damp on the inside. I went to banks, post-offices,
railway-offices, restaurants, publishers, booksellers, money-changers,
and wherever I went a pool would gather about my feet, and those who
were careful of their floors would look on with an unfriendly eye.
Wherever I went, too, the same traits struck me: the people were all
surprisingly rude and surprisingly kind. The money-changer
cross-questioned me like a French commissary, asking my age, my
business, my average income, and my destination, beating down my
attempts at evasion, and receiving my answer in silence; and yet when
all was over, he shook hands with me up to the elbows, and sent his lad
nearly a quarter of a mile in the rain to get me books at a reduction.
Again, in a very large publishing and bookselling establishment, a man,
who seemed to be the manager, received me as I had certainly never
before been received in any human shop, indicated squarely that he put
no faith in my honesty, and refused to look up the names of books or
give me the slightest help or information, on the ground, like the
steward, that it was none of his business. I lost my temper at last,
said I was a stranger in America and not learned in their etiquette; but
I would assure him, if he went to any bookseller in England, of more
handsome usage. The boast was perhaps exaggerated; but like many a long
shot, it struck the gold. The manager passed at once from one extreme to
the other; I may say that from that moment he loaded me with kindness;
he gave me all sorts of good advice, wrote me down addresses and came
bareheaded into the rain to point me out a restaurant, where I might
lunch, nor even then did he seem to think that he had done enough. These
are (it is as well to be bold in statement) the manners of America. It
is this same opposition that has most struck me in people of almost all
classes and from east to west. By the time a man had about strung me up
to be the death of him by his insulting behaviour, he himself would be
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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