« p. 69-82: The Children's Republic in Freeville
The Thundering Water on Sunday
p. 82-85
One hundred and seventy trains, from all over the United States and the English Dominion of Canada, pour out their contents on both sides of the falls. Today in the morning, Toff and Honey, ‘Arry and Sue blissfully hold onto each other as they play on both sides of the Niagara River.
There are also crowds there, large crowds of Americans, who have come from far and wide this summer to see this wonder of the earth with their own eyes. -- There they are now, where the water thunders, on a priceless Sunday on the border of Canada and the States. In the same way that they can tell I’m a European by my accent, they also know where everyone else is from. I’d like to superimpose all the various pronunciations of the word that was humming in my ear: it comes out something like Neiägroh. That’s what they call this body of water in American.
The people from Waterloo in the state of Jowa are cheerful people. They have great white bows on their chests, with tiny golden bells, so that they can recognize each other from a distance. I listen to and watch the men and women from the northern state of Montana, who wear large porcelain brooches on their clothing with the red imprinted map of their state and the inscription 500,000 Circulation -- I’m not sure if that refers to wagons, people or cattle. And the people from Auburn draw near. They have small streamers bound on their left arms. And people from Sacramento in California, who make an entertaining ruckus with Indian claps.
I feel like I’m one of them. Right away, I’m experiencing a wonderful moment with them on the shore and under these tremendous falls -- I’d like to put all my other phrases away and call it: these Falls of Niagara.
The Lady of the Mist is a small ship; you put on rubber coats and hoods before going on board, and then the small ship travels past the roaring of the American falls to the middle of the open horseshoe of the Canadian falls. From the plunging skyscrapers on the Canadian side, I can see on shore the greenest grass I have ever seen in my life. But in a moment, the small, brave mist lady steers right into the sea foam. In the damp, roaring, whistling sea fog, it looks like the water is climbing into a monstrous, spherical cloud under the slopes above, white like alabaster.
Then comes the moment when ‘Arry and Sue peer through the holes in their hoods, overpowered and breathless, their eyes, nose and mouth full of the water that’s been blowing over the little ship and us rubbery people like a white thundering night. Very slowly, the small Lady of the Mist crosses back and forth between both falls. You could imagine being on Frithjof Nansen’s Fram and driving through the white polar seas, with nothing but a giant brown stone to see in the water, a sleepy, mythical, dull and stubborn giant that the waters have struck like thunder for millions of years. In just a short million years, both of them will topple over each other and disappear from the scene; then the water will prove the victor, and observers will have a different picture bouncing off their retina. And would that really be it?
In the Cave of the Winds, you come across a small round rainbow, whose middle point is yourself -- a most amusing sight. The dressing room is also amusing, where you receive a gray prisoner’s outfit and a tar jacket to wear over it. Toff and Honey, ‘Arry and Sue laugh blissfully at me. (Honey and Sue got red stockings and caps for the trip.) So we all climb down the tower that brings us to the path in the abyss under the Bridal Veil Falls. Down below, as we hold each other tightly by the hands (not so much because of fear, but because the tour guide places all responsibility on his own followers), I had another moment. The terrifying water, which thunders down behind us, allows no sounds but its own. Even the thunder of the greatest machine in the world, against this, is only the breathing of a sleeping child. I try to yell as loudly as I can, to see if I can hear myself, but all that happens is my neighbor’s hands shake a little, but those hands would shake from the noise of the universe or passing stars. It’s as if we’re permanently stuck with gags in the backs of our throats. On the way back, my neighbor turns to me and asks, “That was a good test of nerves, wasn’t it?” And I think to myself: If I can eat with Mr. X in the park at midday and let him prattle on to me for a half hour without even the most primitive forms of hospitality, I think my nerves are ready for this sort of test.
The sun sinks over all these moments and disappears behind the mountains. The lights glow out from the shore and the houses, more brightly than I have ever seen lights glow. They have red cheeks, so to say, like country children, who live on the fruit of their father’s fields, becoming healthy and well-fed. It is wonderfully beautiful as night comes. Benches stand between bushes and hide under the trees by the shore, where the glowing lights can’t get to them. Sometimes a bit of foamy water moistens them.
The people from Jowa, Missouri, Montana stand at a lookout point, but Toff and Honey, ‘Arry and Sue sit on the dark benches by the water, unable to hear the words they say to each other.