XI
Gwynne, between the fog and the story, felt congealed to the marrow. Heleaned his elbows on his knees and stared at the bottom of the boat. Itwas the second time that the dark and carefully guarded recesses of thehuman soul had been opened to him, but Zeal's at least were a man's, andhe had listened to him with a certain passive acceptance cut withlightning-like visions of his own ruined future. He had never beeninvited into a woman's crypts before, and he hardly knew whether he weregratified or repelled. She had been as brutally truthful as he wouldhave expected her to be if she spoke at all, but he doubted if heunderstood her as well as he had expected. He had been assured that shehad once at least possessed the capacity for intense feeling, but whatwas the result? And were the depths frozen solid? Or merely buriedalive?
He remarked after a moment: "I cannot think of anything appropriate tosay, so perhaps it is as well to say nothing. I certainly do not feelthat you are in any need of my sympathies, for you are quite terriblystrong. When did all this happen?"
"About eight months before I went to England."
"What did you do with yourself in the interval?"
"I climbed in the Alps a bit, then went to Rome and studied theCampagna, then travelled somewhat in Spain. By that time the desire forCalifornia had grown insistent. The novelty of Europe had worn thin. Iwas tired of playing at doing things, and only at home could I reallyaccomplish anything. I suddenly made up my mind to pay the long-delayedvisit to England, stopping in Paris by the way for frocks. I doubt if Iever enjoyed anything more than those three weeks in Paris, where Icompletely forgot every unpleasant association. It was my first finewardrobe, my first opportunity to experience to the full the delight ofclothes. I have felt quite happy here. California is so far from everyother place that it is almost like living on a detached planet. Youforget the rest of the world for months at a time. For days after Ireturned I wandered about out-of-doors in a gay irresponsible mood, andcarolled all over the house. Of course it was nothing but theelectricity of the climate and that I was in my own State once more andtook an insane pride in it. You do not even need to be born here forthat; it comes with the inevitable sense of isolation. You will feel itin time. If I had not known that so certainly I should never have daredto urge you to come."
Gwynne smiled with a pardonable cynicism; but while he was not unwillingthe conversation should turn upon himself, his curiosity was notsatisfied. The fog had gone and the moon had risen. He could see Isabelquite plainly. She had turned her head and was gazing out over the greatexpanse desolated by the moonlight, and he studied her profile for thefirst time, often as he had observed it. To-night with the moonlight onit and against the dark hills it was almost repellently unmodern in itssharply cut regularity, the classic modelling of the eye-socket andchin, the nose with its slight arch. Her hair had fallen from its pinsand hung in a braid, its length concealed by her position, and makingthe effect of a queue. She had long since taken off her hat and wrappedits veil about her head. The veil had slipped and might easily have beenmistaken for a ribbon confining the queue at the base of the head. Foran instant Gwynne's senses swam. He recalled the portraits of theirRevolutionary ancestors in the house on Russian Hill. It might have beena medallion suspended before him. He drew in his breath; then his eyefell to the short thin sensitive upper lip, rarely quiet for all herextraordinary repose; to the full enticing under lip, and the littleblack moles. Then his gaze wandered down to the rough shooting-jacket,to the rubber boots reaching to her waist, and he only restrainedhimself from laughing aloud because he feared to rush down the curtainbefore that secretive nature.
"Then you have no faith in love as the best thing in the world?" heasked.
She turned upon him her clear dreaming eyes. "I have faith enough inlove, as I have faith in death, or any other of the uncontrovertiblefacts, as well as in its mission. But not as the best thing in life; notfor my sort at least. Not for even the domestic, for that matter, unlessthey are utterly brainless. I believe that from the beginning of timethe misery of the world has been caused by the superstition that lovewas all. It must continue to be the fate of the child-bearing woman, Isuppose--for a while at least; but others have blundered upon the factthat it is a mere incident, and are far happier in consequence. To womenlike Anabel freedom means an indulgent husband and plenty of money. Toothers it means something of which the Anabels know the barenomenclature: an absolute freedom of the soul, of which the outerindependence is but the symbol. As I said, we only find it when we havefinished with the bogie of love. It is a modern enough discovery. Thinkof the poor old maids of the generations behind us, who, failing tomarry, collapsed into insignificance instead of revelling in theirdeliverance. And what humiliation to know that in your youth you arereally wooed for the sake of the race alone, no matter what thedelusions. If any one doubts it let him compare the matrimonialopportunities of the ugly maternal girl and the ugly clever girl. Whenclever women realize that they are a sex apart and wait until theirfirst youth at least is over before selecting a companion of the sexthat I am quite willing to concede must always interest us more than ourown, and no doubt is necessary to our completion, then will the worldhave taken its first step towards real happiness."
Gwynne repressed his gorge and answered practically: "Not a bad idea iftwo were really suited, for no doubt companionship is _one_ of the bestthings in life, and a woman is more useful in many ways to a man than apartner of his own sex. It is even apparent that she does equally wellin certain varieties of sport. I suppose the more experience a man hashad of life the more he hesitates to define what love really is. One hasattacks of such a severity and one recovers so completely! DoubtlessSchopenhauer was right: it is merely the furious determination of therace to persist. Spencer tells us that it is 'absolutely antecedent toall relative experience whatever.' Companionship--yes--perhaps----"
"It is necessary to a man; but by no means to all women----"
"Not for yourself, you mean. You are still blunted and somewhatdisgusted--"
"I have dismissed the question. You cannot imagine how happy I feelevery morning when I wake up, and every night when I go, always rathertired, into my comfortable little bed, knowing that I shall sleep likean infant. I love work. I love out-door life. I love the long eveningswith my books and my thoughts, and my plans for the future--all my own.I revel in the thought that I can never be unhappy again, because now Ilove no one. I loved my poor father, and suffered with him in his fitsof repentance and shame. I loved, of course, that man. I have absolutelynothing in common with Paula, and my mother is merely a pretty memory. Iam fond of Anabel and perhaps several other friends--Mr. and Mrs.Leslie; but that sort of affection does not go very deep. Love issynonymous with selfishness and slavery--slavery because you no longerown yourself. My brother-in-law adores my sister, makes a great point ofhis fidelity, because before his marriage he was always flaunting somepainted female, without which possession, a few years ago, a SanFranciscan felt that he would lose the respect of his fellow-citizens.But Lyster's reform makes him as exacting as a Turk. If my poor sillylittle sister smiles at some fugitive thought he demands to know what itis, and if she cannot remember he sulks for a day. He would possess hervery thoughts. She dares not have a man friend, talk to a man for halfan hour at a time. He won't let her belong to a club--clubs are all verywell for other women, but his wife is not as other women. On the otherhand, he has long since let her persuade him that he is the mostmarvellous of men, and, in consequence, permits her to make every sortof mean little sacrifice while he spends his money on himself. Her eyesare in a measure open now, but it is too late, and she rebels in theusual futile feminine way. There are millions like them. You will meetAnne Montgomery. She is thirty-five now, quite plain, and makes a livingas a sort of itinerant housekeeper and caterer. She was a most lovelygirl, with a wild-rose complexion and starlike eyes, and full of lifeand buoyant hope. Her great talent was for the violin, and she dreamedof conquering the world. Teachers told her that with the proper stud
yshe could at least become a professional of the first rank, although shelacked the genius of creation. Her parents and an older sister--one ofthe plain, domestic, unselfish kind, whose pleasure is in living forothers--were horrified at the bare suggestion. Not only because theywere old-fashioned--some of the most old-fashioned people on earth arein San Francisco--but because it would mean separation from their idol.They surrounded her like a flaming belt, not even a man could get ather. They worshipped her as if she was a being of another world,devoured her; all the treasures of life were centred in her. That theremight be the less temptation, they never took her to Europe; andgradually induced her to lay aside the instrument altogether. She wasvery sweet and gentle, and she loved them and submitted (I would havethrottled them all). But she faded rapidly, lost her lovely coloring andanimation, and she had no other beauty. Then her father speculated andfailed. While they were undergoing real privations the influenza swoopeddown upon them and carried off the three older members of the family ina week. Anne Montgomery is the most conspicuous victim of what aregenerally supposed to be the higher affections that I know. They werejust commonplace animals--those three--nothing more."
"Real happiness may lie in forgetting that love is selfish, and inoverlooking the bitter in the sweet."
Isabel shrugged her shoulders. "If one can be happy without love why runthe risks?"
They felt that they had exhausted the subject for the present and therewas a long silence. Gwynne's eyes wandered over the inexpressiblydesolate and sinister landscape. The intense brilliancy of the moonseemed to press darkness down upon the earth. It was true that everyobject was as sharp of outline as if cut against crystal, but they werea hard dark brown: the hills that jutted out into the windings of themarsh, the marsh itself, the more distant mountains. It looked like alandscape upon which the sun had set for ever, smitten with death--ornot yet born into the solar system; some terrible formless menacingglobe on the edge of the Universe. As he had approached San Francisco onthe afternoon of his arrival, standing on the forward deck of the boatin a high wind, he had thought it the most stranded lonely city he hadever seen. He recalled the impression now, and in a flash he appreciatedthe Californian's attitude to the rest of the world, the effect of suchisolation upon the character of a people that had created a great andimportant city out of the wilderness, and in half a century. In spite ofthe obstinate aloofness of his ego he felt an involuntary thrill ofpride in his connection with such a people; and hoped it might bepremonitory. But again the eerie landscape claimed him and he becameaware of the weird night sounds that broke out with violent abruptnessafter intervals of throbbing quiet: the loud honk-honk of geese, theshriek of loons, the noisy capricious serenade of the frogs. Heexperienced a feeling of such utter isolation that he almost startedwhen Isabel spoke.
"These waste places in California are almost terrifying by moonlight,"said she. "They always look as if they were brooding, crouching,concentrating their energies for a convulsion. No earthquake country canbe quite normal in any of its aspects, nor quite beautiful. Here comesthe tide. How Mac will grumble at us! But he is sure to have kept thefire going, and you shall have a cup of hot coffee before you start forhome."