Books: The Native Son
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Inez Haynes Irwin >> The Native Son
Let me tell some stories to prove my point. Anybody who has lived in San
Francisco has heard them by scores. I pick one or two at random.
A group of Native Sons were once dining in one of the little Bohemian
restaurants of San Francisco. Two of them made a bet with the others
that they could kiss every woman in the room. They went from table to
table and in mellifluous accents, plus a strain of hyperbole, explained
their predicament to each lady, concluding with a respectful demand for
a kiss. Every woman in the room (with the gallant indulgence of her
swain) acceded to this amazing request. In fifteen minutes all the
kisses were collected and the wager won. I don't know on which this
story reflects the greater credit - the Native Daughter or the Native
Son. But I do know that it couldn't have happened anywhere but in
California.
The first time I visited San Francisco shortly after the fire, I was
walking one day in rather a lonely part of the city. There were many
burnt areas about: only a few pedestrians. Presently, I saw a man and
woman leaning against a fence, absorbed in conversation. Apparently they
did not hear my approach; they were too deep in talk. They did not look
out of the ordinary and, indeed, I should not have given them a second
glance if, as I passed, I had not heard the woman say, "And did you kill
anyone else?"
A man told me that once early in the morning he was walking through
Chinatown. There was nobody else on the street except, a little distance
ahead, a child carrying a small bundle. Suddenly just as she passed, a
panel in one of the houses slid open . . . a hand came out . . . the
child slipped the bundle into the hand . . . the hand disappeared . . .
the wall panel closed up. The child trotted on as though nothing had
happened . . . disappeared around the corner. When my friend reached the
house, it was impossible to locate the panel.
A reporter I know was leaving his home one morning when there came a
ring at his telephone. "There is something wrong in apartment number
blank, house number blank, on your street," said Central. "Will you
please go over there at once?" He went. Somehow he got into the house.
Nobody answered his ring at the apartment; he had to break the door
open. Inside a very beautiful girl in a gay negligee was lying dead on a
couch, a bottle of poison on the floor beside her. He investigated the
case. The dead girl had been in the habit of calling a certain number,
and she always used a curious identifying code-phrase. The reporter
investigated that number. The rest of the story is long and thrilling,
but finally he ran down a group of lawbreakers who had been selling the
dead girl drugs, were indirectly responsible for her suicide. Do you
suppose such a ripe story could have dropped straight from the Tree of
Life into the hand of a reporter anywhere except in California?
A woman I know was once waiting on the corner for a car. Near, she
happened casually to notice, was a Chinaman of a noticeable, dried
antiquity, shuffling along under the weight of a bunch of bananas. She
was at that moment considering a curious mental problem and, in her
preoccupation, she drew her hand down the length of her face in a
gesture that her friends recognize as characteristic. Did she, by
accident, stumble on one of the secret signals of a great secret
traffic? That is her only explanation of what followed. For suddenly the
old Chinaman shuffled to her side, unobtrusively turned his back towards
her. One of the bananas on top the bunch, easy to the reach of her hand,
was opened, displaying itself to be emptied of fruit. But in its place
was something - something little, wrapped in tissue paper. Her complete
astonishment apparently warned the vendor of drugs of his mistake. He
scuttled across the street; in a flash had vanished in a back alley.
One could go on forever. I cannot forbear another. A woman was passing
through the theatrical district of San Francisco one night, just before
the theatres let out. The street was fairly deserted. Suddenly she was
accosted by a strange gentleman of suave address. Obviously he had
dallied with the demon and was spectacularly the worse for it. He was
carrying an enormous, a very beautiful - and a very expensive - bouquet.
In a short speech of an impassioned eloquence and quite as flowery as
his tribute, he presented her with the bouquet. She tried to avoid
accepting it. But this was not, without undue publicity, to be done.
Finally to put an end to the scene, she bore off her booty. She has
often wondered what actress was deprived of her over-the-foot-lights
trophy by the sudden freak of an exhilarated messenger.
I know that the Native Son works and works hard. The proof of that is
California itself. San Francisco twice rebuilt, the progressive city of
Los Angeles, all the merry enterprising smaller California cities and
towns. But, somehow, he plays so hard at his work and works so hard at
his play that you are always wondering whether it's all the time he
works or all the time he plays. At any rate, out of his work comes
gaiety and out of his play seriousness. His activities are so many that
when I try to make my imagined program of his average day, I should
provide one not of twenty-four hours, but of seventy-two.
I imagine him going down to his office at about nine in the morning,
working until noon as though driven by steam and electricity; then
lunching with a party of Native Sons, all filled with jocund japeful
joshing Native Son humor which brims over in showers of Native Son wit.
I imagine him returning to an afternoon of brief but concentrated
strenuous labor, then going for a run in the Park, or tennis, or golf,
ending with a swim; presenting himself fine and fit at his club at
first-cocktail time. I imagine him dining at his club or at a restaurant
or at a stag-dinner, always in the company of other joyous Native Sons;
going to the Orpheum, motoring through the Park afterwards; and finally
indulging in another bite before he gets to bed. Sometime during the
process, he has assisted in playing a graceful practical joke on a
trusting friend. He has attended a meeting to boost a big, new
developing project for California. He has made a speech. He has
contributed to some pressing charity. He has swung into at least two
political fights. He has attended a pageant or a fiesta or a carnival.
And he has managed to conduct his wooing of that beautiful (and
fortunate) Native Daughter who will some day become Mrs. Native Son.
Really my favorite hour is every hour.
Every hour in San Francisco is a charming hour. Perhaps my favorite
comes anywhere between six and eight. Then "The City" is brilliant with
lights; street lamps, shop windows, roof advertising signs. The hotels
are a-dance and a-dazzle with life. Flowers and greens make mats and
cushions of gorgeous color at the downtown corners. At one end of Market
Street, the Ferry building is outlined in electricity, sometimes in
color; at the other end the delicate outlines of Twin Peaks are merging
with night. Perhaps swinging towards the horizon there is a crescent
moon - that gay strong young bow which should be the emblem of
California's perpetual youth and of her augmenting power. Perhaps close
to the crescent flickers the evening star - that jewel on the brow of
night which should be a symbol of San Francisco's eternal sparkle. And,
perhaps floating over the City, a sheer high fog mutes the crescent's
gold to a daffodil yellow; winds moist gauzes over the thrilling evening
star. At the top of the high hill-streets, the lamps run in straight
strings or pendant necklaces. Down their astonishing slopes slide cars
like glass boxes filled with liquid light; motors whose front lamps
flood the asphalt with bubbling gold. If it be Christmas - and nowhere
is Christmas so Christmasy as in California - the clubs and hotels show
facades covered with jewel-designs in red and green lights; mistletoe,
holly, stack high the sidewalks on each side of the flower stands. The
beautiful Native Daughter, eyes dancing, lips smiling, dressed with much
color and more chic, is everywhere. And everywhere too, crowding the
streets, thronging the cafes, jamming the theatres, flooding the parks,
filling the endless files of motor-car, until before your very eyes,
"the city" seems to spawn men, is -
Generous, genial, gay; handsome; frank and fine; careless and care-free;
vital, virile, vigorous; engaging and debonair; witty and winning and
wise; humorous and human; kindly and courteous; high-minded,
high-hearted, high-spirited; here's to him! Ladies, this toast must be
drunk standing - the Native Son.