Page:The New Yorker 0001 1925-02-21.pdf/7

THE NEW YORKER reality. For that is Will Beebe′s distinguishing characteristic, the ability to find and sound the reality of people. That is why his books on science are more widely read than popular works of fiction. And that is why one can be sure that each member of his staff, while standing high in the professional capacity, will have a still higher place as a human being.

“Among the others now steaming south is Dr. William Gregory, whose quiet unassuming manner effectively disguises the fact that he is one of the best comparative anatomists in the country. He has an inner knowledge of the private life of the spinal column that has never been suspected by the most self-conscious of vertebrates. In addition to his professional equipment he goes around with several eight syllabled words with which to paralyze the staff at charades.

“Five young women scientists are in the party and a few distant great-aunts who love conventions above all else will be happy to know that one of them is married. She is M. D. Fish, the assistant in larval fish distributions, whose husband, Dr. C. J. Fish is also a member of the staff as Assistant in Diatoms and Crustacea.

“In the youthful company also is Dwight Franklin, whom most of us know for his striking models of pirates, marine marauders and the tiny reproductions of medieval rooms in the Metropolitan Museum of Art and elsewhere. His sculpture shares his interest with zoology, and as a zoologist he will pass the next six months, with intermissions for singing and catching baseball scores on the radio.

“Half a dozen other men, most of them in their early thirties complete the staff, which with an operating crew of thirty-four will spend the next six months or more on a ship in the middle of a sea, They will see each other three times a day around the dining table. For the rest of the day each expects to be so busy with his own work that meeting in the evening will be an event. And from the number of gay shawls and scarfs most of these events promise to be gala.

“Dr. Beebe’s great boast is that no member of his staff has any excuse for not doing good scientific work. Which brings us to the chef. It has been necessary because of the feeling in the kitchens of the St. Regis, the Piping Rock, the Colony Club, etc. to keep his name a secret. He is furthermore not allowed to operate in New York and spends his time making the pursuit of science palatable on one expedition or other. For his best interests there are on board two ice plants, an immense cold storage plant and six China boys as go-betweens. Every delicacy that lives in a tin can is included in his list of supplies, except caviar and the chef said apologetically that he did not include it because he expected we′d catch our own.”

As one invited to go along New York is beginning to seem a bit humdrum.

The democratic spirit of our time is strengthened almost daily by the arrival of Dukes and Duchesses from other republics, all eager to help America maintain its Jeffersonian simplicities. Last week, at Mr. Muschenheim’s Hotel Astor, for instance, four nobilities were counted in one box supervising the display of new broad-brimmed hats by mannekins at a fashion exposition. From left to right they were: le Duc et la Duchesse de Richelieu, the Countess Dru and the Baron de Vaux. Another democrat, Miss Maric Dressler, was their fellow judge of beauty.

The news of the winter has frequently referred to White House breakfasts, but I haven’t yet seen any recording of the breakfast service. When I had breakfast there recently I made note for my constituents’ elevation that the service was of white porcelain with a thin gold border. The American eagle is emblazoned—or should I say baked?—in the border. The sausages were very hot and the syrup was served in silver pitchers.

At a luncheon of financiers at the Bankers Club the other day, Elihu Root was master of ceremonies, Everyone was seated and Mr. Root stood at the door of the banquet room talking to a man when Mr. Herbert Swope, the only Executive Editor of the World, who never arrived on time at a theatrical first night in his life, dashed up, an accurate five minutes late. He greeted Mr. Root with voluble explanation of his tardiness and turned to the other man, and after greeting him effusively, opened with a discussion of affairs of the day. He was still talking to him when another man came from the room to suggest to Mr. Root that the luncheon proceed.

“Yes, we will begin serving just as soon as Mr. Swope finishes talking to the steward,” said Mr. Root.