here is Miss Donaldina
Cameron. We all call her Dolly.”
Dolly!
Yes, a Dolly! Very much a Dolly! Daniel eagerly leans forward, and her knees
part a little.
“Or
Donald,” the elegant Miss Cameron says, frowning at her friend’s familiarity.
“Donald ? ”
Daniel shuffles back on his knees, lurches to his feet, regains the chair. Oh,
no. She cannot be one of those peculiar women who cannot decide if they are
female or male. He bows a little stiffly. “Miss Cameron.”
“Dolly
is one of the MacKenzie Camerons,” Miss Brownstone rattles on, uncertain how she
has offended her friend. “Of Scotland, New Zealand, San Francisco, Oakland, and
the San Gabriel Valley!” she says with another doubtful look at Miss Cameron.
Daniel
rouses himself. “Ah, then you know San Francisco, Miss Cameron? You know Oakland?
Still the mud hut frontier, these towns, are they not?”
Oakland
glimmers behind the windows of the Overland train. After the golden-brown hills
and rustic flatlands, he has not expected this--a shimmering lake, a stylish
city. Three-story Queen Anne mansions line the littoral shore, with astounding
gardens and sprawling lawns, carriage houses and small private parks set with
classical sculptures wrought in marble. Daniel spies fine carriages driven by
liveried coachmen trotting down well-worn lanes bordered by more of the astonishing
succulents and palms, broad swooping oaks with reddish-green leaves unlike any
foliage he’s seen back East.
Miss
Cameron coolly regards his surprise. “We call Oakland the Continental Side of
the Bay, Mr. Watkins. Evie attended Snell’s Seminary here.”
“Snells?”
Daniel thinks of escargot in garlic butter.
“ The finishing school, of course.”
“Of
course.” The sliver of a headache pokes behind Daniel’s eyes.
She
gazes out the window, shifting into a pensive mood. “The good people live in
Oakland, Mr. Watkins. People who love books and art and sculpture. Aesthetes, Mr.
Watkins. Birders, scholars, astronomers, entomologists. Dr. Merritt lives here,
and the Peraltas, and Joseph Knowland the publisher, and Judge Sam McKee. Mr.
F. M. Smith, who discovered all that borax in Nevada. His ballroom accommodates
hundreds and his gardens are legendary.”
“I’ve
heard of his gardens.”
“And
the houses in Oakland have telephones, Mr. Watkins. Do you know of the
telephone?”
He
laughs indignantly. “Why, of course. In London and Paris—“
“Oaklanders
own more telephones than people in San Francisco,” Miss Cameron continues,
growing animated. “They’ve got more electricity in their homes than anyone.”
“Mother’s
got a system of electrical buzzers to summon the servants,” Miss Brownstone
says breathlessly. “Like Mrs. Winchester, the rifle heiress.”
“And
electrical lights,” Miss Cameron says. “Oaklanders employ Mr. Edison’s genius
to good advantage, Mr. Watkins.”
“I
never said you didn’t.”
“Mother’s
got hot water for my bath,” Miss Brownstone yelps, getting into the spirit.
“Pumped right into my rooms on the third floor!”
“You
say you’ve seen London and Paris, Mr. Watkins,” Miss Cameron says imperiously.
“Well, the McPhail mansion was designed by California architects, and do you
know what those clever fellows did? They installed a chute in the wall that
opens up in the boudoir of the lady of the house upstairs and goes all the way
down to the washerwomen’s tubs in the basement. No one has ever seen anything
like it.” Miss Cameron’s flowers and ribbons quake with civic pride. “Have you
ever seen such a thing in London or Paris, Mr. Watkins?” Before he can respond
properly or crack a joke, she snaps, “No, I thought not, sir! We are scarcely
mud huts in California. We are quite modern and striding forth into the future.
And don’t you forget it!”
The two
ladies storm out of the dining car, leaving Daniel dazed.
* *
*
The
Overland pulls into the station at the Port of Oakland. Daniel
Cameron. We all call her Dolly.”
Dolly!
Yes, a Dolly! Very much a Dolly! Daniel eagerly leans forward, and her knees
part a little.
“Or
Donald,” the elegant Miss Cameron says, frowning at her friend’s familiarity.
“Donald ? ”
Daniel shuffles back on his knees, lurches to his feet, regains the chair. Oh,
no. She cannot be one of those peculiar women who cannot decide if they are
female or male. He bows a little stiffly. “Miss Cameron.”
“Dolly
is one of the MacKenzie Camerons,” Miss Brownstone rattles on, uncertain how she
has offended her friend. “Of Scotland, New Zealand, San Francisco, Oakland, and
the San Gabriel Valley!” she says with another doubtful look at Miss Cameron.
Daniel
rouses himself. “Ah, then you know San Francisco, Miss Cameron? You know Oakland?
Still the mud hut frontier, these towns, are they not?”
Oakland
glimmers behind the windows of the Overland train. After the golden-brown hills
and rustic flatlands, he has not expected this--a shimmering lake, a stylish
city. Three-story Queen Anne mansions line the littoral shore, with astounding
gardens and sprawling lawns, carriage houses and small private parks set with
classical sculptures wrought in marble. Daniel spies fine carriages driven by
liveried coachmen trotting down well-worn lanes bordered by more of the astonishing
succulents and palms, broad swooping oaks with reddish-green leaves unlike any
foliage he’s seen back East.
Miss
Cameron coolly regards his surprise. “We call Oakland the Continental Side of
the Bay, Mr. Watkins. Evie attended Snell’s Seminary here.”
“Snells?”
Daniel thinks of escargot in garlic butter.
“ The finishing school, of course.”
“Of
course.” The sliver of a headache pokes behind Daniel’s eyes.
She
gazes out the window, shifting into a pensive mood. “The good people live in
Oakland, Mr. Watkins. People who love books and art and sculpture. Aesthetes, Mr.
Watkins. Birders, scholars, astronomers, entomologists. Dr. Merritt lives here,
and the Peraltas, and Joseph Knowland the publisher, and Judge Sam McKee. Mr.
F. M. Smith, who discovered all that borax in Nevada. His ballroom accommodates
hundreds and his gardens are legendary.”
“I’ve
heard of his gardens.”
“And
the houses in Oakland have telephones, Mr. Watkins. Do you know of the
telephone?”
He
laughs indignantly. “Why, of course. In London and Paris—“
“Oaklanders
own more telephones than people in San Francisco,” Miss Cameron continues,
growing animated. “They’ve got more electricity in their homes than anyone.”
“Mother’s
got a system of electrical buzzers to summon the servants,” Miss Brownstone
says breathlessly. “Like Mrs. Winchester, the rifle heiress.”
“And
electrical lights,” Miss Cameron says. “Oaklanders employ Mr. Edison’s genius
to good advantage, Mr. Watkins.”
“I
never said you didn’t.”
“Mother’s
got hot water for my bath,” Miss Brownstone yelps, getting into the spirit.
“Pumped right into my rooms on the third floor!”
“You
say you’ve seen London and Paris, Mr. Watkins,” Miss Cameron says imperiously.
“Well, the McPhail mansion was designed by California architects, and do you
know what those clever fellows did? They installed a chute in the wall that
opens up in the boudoir of the lady of the house upstairs and goes all the way
down to the washerwomen’s tubs in the basement. No one has ever seen anything
like it.” Miss Cameron’s flowers and ribbons quake with civic pride. “Have you
ever seen such a thing in London or Paris, Mr. Watkins?” Before he can respond
properly or crack a joke, she snaps, “No, I thought not, sir! We are scarcely
mud huts in California. We are quite modern and striding forth into the future.
And don’t you forget it!”
The two
ladies storm out of the dining car, leaving Daniel dazed.
* *
*
The
Overland pulls into the station at the Port of Oakland. Daniel
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