Ancestors: A Novel

  XXI

  The Poodle Dog, a high new ugly building, stood on the corner of Eddyand Mason Streets in the very centre of the Tenderloin, or "all nightdistrict." For two or three blocks on every side there was a blaze oflight, electric signs, illuminated windows, sudden flashes from swingingdoors. There was much movement, life, laughter, carriages in the streetdriving from restaurant to theatre. And all beyond, east and west, southand north, was a city as dark and quiet as the grave. The hill tops werepicked out with a few lights, but one could barely see them from thisregion that never slept. Nor could one see Chinatown and Barbary coast,nor other sections more picturesque than creditable, where the cheapergas blazed late, and not even a policeman was sure of his morrow if heventured too far. But here was the sound of music and decorous laughter,the clang of street-cars and the constant rattle of carriages: therestaurants were beginning to empty; there would be an hour or two ofcomparative quiet, and then another crowd would fill the streets, therestaurants, even the saloons; a crowd that rarely saw daylight mixingamiably with respectable but undomestic citizens that could afford tosleep late.

  At present the scene was brilliant. "The San Franciscan loves theoutside life as much as the Londoner," said Isabel to Gwynne, as theystood a moment almost blinded by the lower signs. "In many ways youwill find them not unlike--especially as regards fads. Wait until youhave been really initiated into intellectual Bohemia--the clever youngnewspaper men and budding authors. I already hate the names of Ibsen,Shaw, Wilde, Symons, Maeterlinck, and Gorky. I am only waiting for themto discover Max Klinger and Manet--"

  "Klinger?" asked Stone. "Where have I heard that name?"

  "He is the great unconscious humorist of modern art, also a greatetcher," said Isabel, dryly. "Have you ever heard of the_Secessionists_?"

  "Of course," replied Stone, huffily. "You imagine that because you havebeen to Europe--"

  "Well, _have_ you ever heard of the _Scholles_?"

  Gwynne laughed aloud. "If he has not, I should champion the octopusproclivities of California."

  "They are the very best draughtsmen in the world--"

  But Paula had no intention that the conversation should be general. Ithad been agreed that they should visit Chinatown, and she took Gwynne'sarm and led him up the hill; she found his cool impersonal manner almostfascinating after a lifetime in a nest of horned egos. They walked upthrough the semi-darkness to Clay Street and down to Portsmouth Square,passing through an entirely disreputable region, but quiet at this hour.As they crossed the Old Plaza--now Portsmouth Square--Isabel explainedthat it had been the nucleus of the San Francisco of the Fifties, andthat people had crowded nightly against the great plate-glass windows onone of the corners to watch the gamblers and the hillocks of gold onevery table; and that no doubt their common ancestor, who was aconvivial adventurous soul, had brawled here many a night. Mrs. Paula,who knew absolutely nothing of the history of either California or SanFrancisco, hastened her steps, and in consequence excited the alwayssmouldering jealousy of her husband. Stone had an exaggerated idea ofher beauty and youth, and felt his own power waning, moreover had allthe average American's Oriental instinct for exclusive possession.Consequently, as they entered the flaming bit of Hong-Kong on theopposite side of the square, Gwynne, infinitely to his satisfaction,found that there had been a deft exchange of partners.

  He had been in China, and the sudden entrance into an illusion morecomplete than even the stage could achieve almost took his breath away.There were the same crowds of stolid faces and dark-blue blouses,relieved here and there with the rich garments of the merchants and thewomen; the hundreds of tiny high balconies; the gorgeous windows filledwith embroideries and porcelain, Satsuma and bronzes. He was glad tostroll with Isabel through a scene so like a picture-book, and toexclaim with her over the novel sensation of passing from thequintessence of the Western world into a bit of ancient civilization.She realized the psychology of every violent contrast as no companion hehad ever known, and when she told him of the adjacent Spanish Town,Little Italy, Nigger Town, Sailor Town, where representatives of thescum of every clime were no doubt qualifying for purgatory at themoment, he experienced a lively regret that there were places he mustexplore without her comment.

  It was a gala night in Chinatown. Even the provision shops werefestooned with sausages ornamented with bits of colored paper, anddecorated paper or silken lanterns hung before every house. Paintedwomen with stolid faces, often deeply imprinted with misery, rolledalong, and there were many pretty children in the street, painted too,and dressed in the gayest and richest of garments. On the balconies ofthe upper and greater restaurants were valuable jars and vases full ofplants and flowers. They ascended to the finest of these restaurants andfound a merchant's party eating at round tables from dolls' plates. In aroom opening upon a veranda, their creatures chanted what sounded toOccidental ears like the dirge of the lost souls of all the FloweryEmpire, and the expression of the relaxed haunted faces confirmed theimpression. In large alcoves well-dressed Chinamen reclined on tables ofmarble and teakwood, filling and refilling the opium pipe with aninfinity of patience that if otherwise applied might have led togreatness instead of dreams.

  "These men are just on exhibition," said Stone, contemptuously. "Waittill I show you the real thing down in the slime. Lots of tall storiesabout Chinatown, but the reality is bad enough."

  They took a Jackson Street car and rode up through humbler Chinatown,then through quarters of varying respectability until they reached thesacred precinct of Nob Hill. Here there was an aristocratic calm, butmuch light, and faint strains of music. The season was in full swing,and society was either dining, or dressing for the dance.

  As they climbed the hill-stair Stone artfully trimmed the ragged edgesof his wife's discontent. Subservient as she was to him, there weretimes when her temper flew straight and sharp like a blade too longhooped, and he had his reasons for conciliating her.

  Said Gwynne in a low tone as they felt their way up the dark andprecarious flight: "Shall you think me rude if I accept Hofer'sinvitation for to-morrow? And Stone wants me to do the town a bitto-night. I am most curious--but I am your guest--and I can come downanother time--"

  "I feel almost cross with you. This house is your hotel. If you ever goto another--whether I am in town or not--there will be trouble."

  So it was that as they reached the steps leading up to the door of thehouse, Stone dropped his wife's arm, which had lain somewhat rigidly inhis, and catching Gwynne firmly by the elbow, beat a rapid retreat.

  "Good-night, darling!" he cried. "We're off to do the town." Throwing upfirst one leg then the other in black silhouette against the stars, hesang: "And we won't be home till morning, till morning--"

  The voice drifted up from the corner of Taylor and Broadway, where thetwo men waited for a car. "Till daylight doth appear."

  Mrs. Paula was gasping. "Well, I never--never--" she exclaimed, asIsabel hastily marshalled her up the stair and into the house. "I hopethey'll be garroted! That's all! But it's just like the selfish beastsof men--"

  "What difference does it make? Didn't Lyster agree to be host? It wouldbe too dismal for Gwynne to roam through the purlieus with apoliceman--and he cannot come down often. It's bedtime, anyhow."

  "Bedtime?" cried Mrs. Paula. "Why, it's only ten o'clock. But I forgotthat you go to bed and get up with chickens."

  "I should think you would be grateful to go to bed early, once in awhile."

  "Oh, I often retire early enough, if it comes to that. It's listeninghalf the night--all, is more like it--for the last car, and then for ahack galloping from side to side up that hill, as if the driver and thevery horses were drunk themselves. I tell you it's a life!"

  "And don't you get used to it?" asked Isabel with curiosity. "You'vebeen married thirteen years, and I suppose Lyster has always been whathe calls an all-nighter."

  "There are some things a wife never gets used to," replied Paula withinjured dignity, as she held out a doubting hand for t
he candle Isabelhad lighted. "Haven't you gas or electricity?"

  "There is gas, but why take the trouble to light it? And the candlerecalls so many delightful evenings in England. I know no prettierpicture than a procession of long-trained women, with bare shoulders,and jewels in their hair, each carrying a candle up a long stair besidethe central hall."

  "Ah! I have no such charming reminiscences of the English aristocracy,and I am only afraid of spilling candle grease on my one decent dress."