A Cosmopolite in a Cafe

by O. Henry

　　

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Before you start the story, it's important to understand that a "cosmopolite" is someone that fashions themselves as a person or citizen of the world, one that is truly at home in any location or setting. Such a person would be free from local attachments and prejudice, and be free of provincial affections.

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At midnight the cafe was crowded. By some chance the little tableat which I sat had escaped the eye of incomers, and two vacant chairsat it extended their arms with venal hospitality to the influx ofpatrons.And then a cosmopolite sat in one of them, and I was glad, for I helda theory that since Adam no true citizen of the world has existed.We hear of them, and we see foreign labels on much luggage, but wefind travellers instead of cosmopolites.I invoke your consideration of the scene--the marble-topped tables,the range of leather-upholstered wall seats, the gay company, theladies dressed in demi-state toilets, speaking in an exquisitevisible chorus of taste, economy, opulence or art; the sedulous andlargess-loving garcons, the music wisely catering to all with itsraids upon the composers; the melange of talk and laughter--and,if you will, the Wurzburger in the tall glass cones that bend to yourlips as a ripe cherry sways on its branch to the beak of a robberjay. I was told by a sculptor from Mauch Chunk that the scene wastruly Parisian.My cosmopolite was named E. Rushmore Coglan, and he will be heardfrom next summer at Coney Island. He is to establish a new"attraction" there, he informed me, offering kingly diversion. Andthen his conversation rang along parallels of latitude and longitude.He took the great, round world in his hand, so to speak, familiarly,contemptuously, and it seemed no larger than the seed of a Maraschinocherry in a table d'hote grape fruit. He spoke disrespectfully ofthe equator, he skipped from continent to continent, he derided thezones, he mopped up the high seas with his napkin. With a wave ofhis hand he would speak of a certain bazaar in Hyderabad. Whiff! Hewould have you on skis in Lapland. Zip! Now you rode the breakerswith the Kanakas at Kealaikahiki. Presto! He dragged you through anArkansas post-oak swamp, let you dry for a moment on the alkaliplains of his Idaho ranch, then whirled you into the society ofViennese archdukes. Anon he would be telling you of a cold heacquired in a Chicago lake breeze and how old Escamila cured it inBuenos Ayres with a hot infusion of the chuchula weed. You wouldhave addressed a letter to "E. Rushmore Coglan, Esq., the Earth,Solar System, the Universe," and have mailed it, feeling confidentthat it would be delivered to him.I was sure that I had found at last the one true cosmopolite sinceAdam, and I listened to his worldwide discourse fearful lest I shoulddiscover in it the local note of the mere globe-trotter. But hisopinions never fluttered or drooped; he was as impartial to cities,countries and continents as the winds or gravitation. And asE. Rushmore Coglan prattled of this little planet I thought with gleeof a great almost-cosmopolite who wrote for the whole world anddedicated himself to Bombay. In a poem he has to say that there ispride and rivalry between the cities of the earth, and that "the menthat breed from them, they traffic up and down, but cling to theircities' hem as a child to the mother's gown." And whenever they walk"by roaring streets unknown" they remember their native city "mostfaithful, foolish, fond; making her mere-breathed name their bondupon their bond." And my glee was roused because I had caught Mr.Kipling napping. Here I had found a man not made from dust; one whohad no narrow boasts of birthplace or country, one who, if he braggedat all, would brag of his whole round globe against the Martians andthe inhabitants of the Moon.Expression on these subjects was precipitated from E. Rushmore Coglanby the third corner to our table. While Coglan was describing to methe topography along the Siberian Railway the orchestra glided intoa medley. The concluding air was "Dixie," and as the exhilaratingnotes tumbled forth they were almost overpowered by a great clappingof hands from almost every table.It is worth a paragraph to say that this remarkable scene can bewitnessed every evening in numerous cafes in the City of New York.Tons of brew have been consumed over theories to account for it.Some have conjectured hastily that all Southerners in town hiethemselves to cafes at nightfall. This applause of the "rebel" airin a Northern city does puzzle a little; but it is not insolvable.The war with Spain, many years' generous mint and watermelon crops,a few long-shot winners at the New Orleans race-track, and thebrilliant banquets given by the Indiana and Kansas citizens whocompose the North Carolina Society have made the South rather a"fad" in Manhattan. Your manicure will lisp softly that your leftforefinger reminds her so much of a gentleman's in Richmond, Va.Oh, certainly; but many a lady has to work now--the war, you know.When "Dixie" was being played a dark-haired young man sprang up fromsomewhere with a Mosby guerrilla yell and waved frantically his soft-brimmed hat. Then he strayed through the smoke, dropped into thevacant chair at our table and pulled out cigarettes.The evening was at the period when reserve is thawed. One of usmentioned three Wurzburgers to the waiter; the dark-haired young manacknowledged his inclusion in the order by a smile and a nod. Ihastened to ask him a question because I wanted to try out a theoryI had."Would you mind telling me," I began, "whether you are from--"The fist of E. Rushmore Coglan banged the table and I was jarred intosilence."Excuse me," said he, "but that's a question I never like to hearasked. What does it matter where a man is from? Is it fair to judgea man by his post-office address? Why, I've seen Kentuckians whohated whiskey, Virginians who weren't descended from Pocahontas,Indianians who hadn't written a novel, Mexicans who didn't wearvelvet trousers with silver dollars sewed along the seams, funnyEnglishmen, spendthrift Yankees, cold-blooded Southerners, narrow-minded Westerners, and New Yorkers who were too busy to stop for anhour on the street to watch a one-armed grocer's clerk do upcranberries in paper bags. Let a man be a man and don't handicap himwith the label of any section.""Pardon me," I said, "but my curiosity was not altogether an idleone. I know the South, and when the band plays 'Dixie' I like toobserve. I have formed the belief that the man who applauds that airwith special violence and ostensible sectional loyalty is invariablya native of either Secaucus, N.J., or the district between MurrayHill Lyceum and the Harlem River, this city. I was about to put myopinion to the test by inquiring of this gentleman when youinterrupted with your own--larger theory, I must confess."And now the dark-haired young man spoke to me, and it became evidentthat his mind also moved along its own set of grooves."I should like to be a periwinkle," said he, mysteriously, "on thetop of a valley, and sing tooralloo-ralloo."This was clearly too obscure, so I turned again to Coglan."I've been around the world twelve times," said he. "I know anEsquimau in Upernavik who sends to Cincinnati for his neckties, andI saw a goatherder in Uruguay who won a prize in a Battle Creekbreakfast food puzzle competition. I pay rent on a room in Cairo,Egypt, and another in Yokohama all the year around. I've gotslippers waiting for me in a tea-house in Shanghai, and I don't haveto tell 'em how to cook my eggs in Rio de Janeiro or Seattle. It's amighty little old world. What's the use of bragging about being fromthe North, or the South, or the old manor house in the dale, orEuclid avenue, Cleveland, or Pike's Peak, or Fairfax County, Va., orHooligan's Flats or any place? It'll be a better world when we quitbeing fools about some mildewed town or ten acres of swampland justbecause we happened to be born there.""You seem to be a genuine cosmopolite," I said admiringly. "But italso seems that you would decry patriotism.""A relic of the stone age," declared Coglan, warmly. "We are allbrothers--Chinamen, Englishmen, Zulus, Patagonians and the peoplein the bend of the Kaw River. Some day all this petty pride in one'scity or State or section or country will be wiped out, and we'll allbe citizens of the world, as we ought to be.""But while you are wandering in foreign lands," I persisted, "do notyour thoughts revert to some spo--some dear and--""Nary a spot," interrupted E. R. Coglan, flippantly. "Theterrestrial, globular, planetary hunk of matter, slightly flattenedat the poles, and known as the Earth, is my abode. I've met a goodmany object-bound citizens of this country abroad. I've seen menfrom Chicago sit in a gondola in Venice on a moonlight night and bragabout their drainage canal. I've seen a Southerner on beingintroduced to the King of England hand that monarch, without battinghis eyes, the information that his grandaunt on his mother's side wasrelated by marriage to the Perkinses, of Charleston. I knew a NewYorker who was kidnapped for ransom by some Afghanistan bandits. Hispeople sent over the money and he came back to Kabul with the agent.'Afghanistan?' the natives said to him through an interpreter.'Well, not so slow, do you think?' 'Oh, I don't know,' says he, andhe begins to tell them about a cab driver at Sixth avenue andBroadway. Those ideas don't suit me. I'm not tied down to anythingthat isn't 8,000 miles in diameter. Just put me down as E. RushmoreCoglan, citizen of the terrestrial sphere."My cosmopolite made a large adieu and left me, for he thought he sawsome one through the chatter and smoke whom he knew. So I was leftwith the would-be periwinkle, who was reduced to Wurzburger withoutfurther ability to voice his aspirations to perch, melodious, uponthe summit of a valley.I sat reflecting upon my evident cosmopolite and wondering how thepoet had managed to miss him. He was my discovery and I believed inhim. How was it? "The men that breed from them they traffic up anddown, but cling to their cities' hem as a child to the mother'sgown."Not so E. Rushmore Coglan. With the whole world for his--My meditations were interrupted by a tremendous noise and conflictin another part of the cafe. I saw above the heads of the seatedpatrons E. Rushmore Coglan and a stranger to me engaged in terrificbattle. They fought between the tables like Titans, and glassescrashed, and men caught their hats up and were knocked down, and abrunette screamed, and a blonde began to sing "Teasing."My cosmopolite was sustaining the pride and reputation of the Earthwhen the waiters closed in on both combatants with their famousflying wedge formation and bore them outside, still resisting.I called McCarthy, one of the French garcons, and asked him thecause of the conflict."The man with the red tie" (that was my cosmopolite), said he, "gothot on account of things said about the bum sidewalks and watersupply of the place he come from by the other guy.""Why," said I, bewildered, "that man is a citizen of the world--acosmopolite. He--""Originally from Mattawamkeag, Maine, he said," continued McCarthy,"and he wouldn't stand for no knockin' the place."

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A Cosmopolite in a Cafe was featured as TheShort Story of the Day on Wed, Jun 10, 2015

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