Ancestors: A Novel

  XXXVIII

  "Ibsen will live, not as a dramaturgist, but as the greatest professorof dramaturgy the world has ever known." "Only one way left to beoriginal--never write about Italy." "When we say that a man is a hightype what we really mean is that he is the great exception to the type.""That progressive type of bore--the man with a grievance." "SanFrancisco is the cradle and the grave of more genius than ever waspacked into any city, ancient or modern. It is like our money, 'easycome, easy go.'" "And more Hell." "An epigram is only to be forgivenwhen a memorable thought is packed into a phrase that sticks."

  As Isabel and Gwynne escaped from the little Italian restaurant into theblare and glare of the street, their heads were ringing with muchbrilliant if somewhat affected talk. They had sat with their hosts atthe "newspaper table." It was the fashion at the moment to express lifein paradoxes, and with a nice adjustment of commas and colons. There hadbeen no talk of politics in this Bohemia, nor of society; nor yet ofother subjects that commanded its attention when the long day gave placeto the shorter night: the women present were respectable, many of themwives, and not a few went into society when they chose. There was muchtalk of the fads with which the world was ridden, never a reference tothe literature or art of the past; and there was something almostpathetic in the prostration of these brilliant young men, who had nevercrossed the boundaries of their State, to European groups, some of whosemembers were already passe, but still loomed gigantic from the far edgeof the Pacific. Few American writers are popular in California, howeverthey may be read; and the reason, no doubt, lies in the mixed blood towhich all Europe has contributed, and which is full of affinities littleexperienced by the rest of the country. Even the famous cooking isun-American. The French, Italian, and Spanish restaurants are exactlywhat they claim to be; their very atmosphere might have been imported.The many that prefer restaurant life even to the excellent cooking to befound in the average home, give their highest preference to the legacyof the Spaniard; they eat hot sauces and Chile peppers with every dish;and _tamales_ are sold on the street corners. This is enough to make theSan Franciscan an exotic, and it contributes in a great measure to hisfatal content. These young men had no real knowledge of the world, butthey had their own world, and were by no means provincial in theaccepted sense. But the majority were satisfied to coruscate to an everapplauding audience--for a few years; with money easily got anddelightfully spent; to regard Life as a game, not as a business.Afterwards the rut, the friendly pocket--nowhere so open as in SanFrancisco--a job now and then, more than one way of forgetting that intimes gone by a fellow was one of those "coming men" the wanton heedlesscity turns out with the same profusion that gorges her markets andflaunts her sun for eight months of the year.

  To Gwynne they seemed like some primitive race flourishing before itstime. He no longer argued with them, for he had the disadvantage ofbeing a scholar, and it interfered with his tolerance of fads on therampage; but they saddened him, made him feel almost elderly--andabominably healthy. To-night, although some of the complexions of theseyoung men were green, and others red, they had been brilliant withoutundue hilarity. They intended to get very drunk later on--if only as acompliment to the New Year--but they were far too accomplished forprecipitancy. Stone, alone, refilled his glass so often that Gwynneannounced abruptly that they were missing the fun in the street, andPaula promptly took possession of his arm. Stone followed, rumblingdisapproval, with Isabel. This arrangement was not to Gwynne's taste,but he had developed subtlety in such matters and bided his time.

  Kearney Street from Telegraph Hill to Market Street, a mile or more, wasa blaze of light, and crowded with people. It was a very orderly throng,for it was composed of the respectable element of the city, and if theyhad laid dignity aside for the moment, they were not distractinglynoisy. All were throwing confetti, and many had tin horns. Isabel sawthe Hofers, arm in arm, tooting vigorously. Half of society was there;and many staid and strenuous business men were promenading with theirwives and daughters, more than one with his neck encircled by paperribbons of many hues. The street-cars had stopped, but there were anumber of automobiles filled with masques, singling out their friends onthe pavement and hurling confetti.

  But it was not until Stone and his party reached the great centralhighway, Market Street, that the scene was characteristic. Here thewindows of the Palace Hotel, and all the other buildings, great andsmall, were illuminated and filled with people. And the entire citywould seem to have emptied itself not only into Market Street, but intothose streets on the north side that completed the "all-night district."The people in the windows wore their gayest attire, and there was oftenmusic as well as light behind them. They threw down confetti by thebushel on the masses below. And the masses! There was no politerestraint here. Largely recruited from the immense South of MarketStreet district, they were out for a good time, and its inevitableexpression was noise. They were in the best of tempers, but the din wasterrific. They hooted and yelled, and every one of the several thousandhad a tin horn and blew it with all his might. Every undefended ear wasvictimized. Isabel pressed one of her own against Stone's shoulder andcovered the other with her hand. But she stared at the crowd with allthe interest of the secluded for the mass. There were painted ladies ofall grades, and hundreds of shop-girls, covered with white paint orlavender powder, their figures exaggerated with the corset of themoment, and violent plumage on head and waist, although they hadprudently left their best skirts at home. Many of them wereastonishingly pretty, and no doubt more respectable than they looked.Mrs. Paula was in her element. She wore her red hat and blouse, wavedher hands to the windows, exulted in the showers of confetti thatdescended in response, and shouted into Gwynne's ear that she wassingled out for special attentions. In truth she received more than herescort relished. Her natural affinity with the class above which she hadrisen so high had never been more patent, and kindred spirits lookedfrom many approving eyes. Suddenly both cheeks were painted black by atoo fraternal hand, and then a man tried to kiss her. This was more thaneven Paula could stand, and she flung herself into her husband's arms,daubing his shirt with black and red. He dropped Isabel and struck outfuriously. There was an immediate scuffle, during which Gwynne baselydrew Isabel's arm through his and pressed forward into the thick of thecrowd.

  "We have had enough of them, and no doubt they have had of us," he said,comfortably. "Now we will enjoy ourselves."

  "Well, if they blacken my face don't notice them. One would think Lysterwould know how to play the game by this time."

  "He is always ready to fight after the fifth glass of champagne. I havehad lively experiences with him."

  Conversation was impossible in the din. Isabel's face was smudged morethan once, but no other liberty was attempted. Gwynne also looked like achimney-sweep, and was addressed as "darling" several times, but thecrowd was inoffensive until a chain-gang of hoodlums dashed irresistiblythrough it, pushing many off the sidewalk, and rousing a luridaccompaniment. One man, solid and stolid, stood his ground on the edgeof the chain and administered a hearty kick upon each ankle as itpassed. There were angry howls in response, but none could retaliatewithout breaking the chain, nor indeed could they control its momentum.

  "That is one of those things one would like to have thought of one'sself," said Gwynne, admiringly, rubbing his ribs, for he had hastilyswung Isabel outward, and received much of the impact. "We might aswell get out of this."

  They slowly made their way into one of the cross streets that seemed toleap like a blazing meteor down from the darkness of the heights. Butthe crowd was still as dense, and the street but a third the width ofMarket Street. Not even an automobile attempted to force its way. Saloondoors were swinging. Policemen stood in front of them, but there was nofurther disorder. Gwynne and Isabel pressed back against the wall of ashop and watched and waited. They were to celebrate the birth of the NewYear with the Hofers at a restaurant on the block above, but there wasno prospect of reaching it at present.

  The sky
was cloudless. If the evening chill had come in from thePacific, it was routed by the mass of humanity and the downpour of heatfrom the electric lights. All the great signs were blazing, many incolors. And there was music in all the saloons and restaurants; it roseand fell with the noise of the tin horn and the hoot of the happy. Thepeople in the windows here threw down not only confetti but flowers, andstacks at each elbow added to the mass of color. Even the men had tiedbright silk handkerchiefs about their necks, and they were bestrewedwith bits of gold and silver paper, and festooned with colored ribbon.Gwynne and Isabel were quickly singled out and pelted with balls thatopened with the impact and tangled them together with the endless paperstreamers.

  It was eleven o'clock before the crowd began its retreat to theirrestaurants, and Gwynne and Isabel were able to make their way up to thecelebrated resort where the Hofers awaited them. They were shown to adressing-room where they could wash their faces, and then to the galleryabove the body of the restaurant which was divided into boxes, andoccupied by all sorts and kinds of people, including many of theirfriends. In Hofer's box was a large bottle on ice and a table set forsupper. Mrs. Hofer, looking less approving than earlier in the evening,sat half-hidden by a curtain, but her husband, in common with most ofthe other people in the gallery, was throwing confetti upon his friendsbelow. He seized Gwynne and dragged him to the front of the box, and thenew arrival was greeted by shouts from every man, it seemed to him, thathe had met in San Francisco. The large hall with its tables of all sizeswas as densely packed as the streets had been.

  "Ever see anything like this before?" demanded Hofer. He paused with agasp and dislodged a ball of confetti from his throat. "Look with allyour eyes, old man. There are the best and the worst--all who can paythe price: the reformers cheek by jowl with the mayor and the Boss, byJove! The matron and the other kind of matron, the fair young girl whohopes to buy a rich husband, and the sort that has to give more and takeless; the family man and his family, not a bit afraid of contamination,enjoying himself to the limit; financiers, millionaires, corporationbosses and curb-stone brokers, newspaper men, artists, politicians bigand little, society youths and girls severely chaperoned. See that crowdwith the queens of the Tenderloin? Ever hear what one of our local witssaid about them: 'Pity the worst of men should be named for the best offish!'"

  Hofer, who felt it his duty as a good citizen to empty his bottle withthe rest of the world on New Year's eve, rattled on. Mrs. Hofer gave anoccasional warning cough. Like most San Francisco women of her classthere was a good deal of prudery under her gayety, and no instinctwhatever for Bohemia. She had come to the restaurant because her husbandhad urged it, but she took no part, and threw only an occasional glanceat the floor. But as Isabel was manifestly interested, she presented herarm and hat to the gaze of the crowd, that her guest might partake inthe doubtful fun if she wished.

  Isabel and Gwynne, still tangled in the paper streamers and vigorouslypelted from below, leaned eagerly over the railing and flung handsful ofgold and silver bits upon the already glittering throng. It certainlywas an astonishing sight. There was little seeking afterinconspicuousness, even in the boxes. All were there to celebrate thebirth of the New Year, and to "play the game," however chastened theymight feel on the morrow. All were drinking champagne and growing morehilarious every moment. One girl modestly dressed, and known to Mrs.Hofer as an entirely respectable young person, although not of her ownclass, was sitting on the knee of the man she was to marry, and drinkingfrom his glass. The ladies of the lower ten thousand were nicely graded.Some were dressed with a severe and simple elegance, and painted asdelicately as a miniature. These were very quiet, the carven smile ontheir crimson lips not disturbing the careful arrangement of theirfeatures; and their eyes never lost their jewel-like immobility. Theywere attended by what is vaguely known as "men about town," men withmoney to spend and no position to lose. It was no longer the fashionamong conspicuous men to flaunt their mistresses, but these indefinitepersons kept the old traditions alive. Still other women blazed withpaint and jewels and excessive richness of attire. In attendance werethe big sleek brutes, whom all other men held in contempt. But all werehappy to-night and asking no man for his respect.

  At a table in the very middle of the room was a young, buxom, and verynaughty-looking damsel, who evidently was a belle: the circle of blackcoats about her round table was unbroken save by herself. What dress shewore was black, and on her golden head was an immense black hat coveredwith feathers. Her abundant diamonds were almost overwhelmed. Every timeone of her escort raised his glass to his lips he toasted her, and sherose to respond, presumably to give the company the benefit of the tinywaist that tapered off the white acre above. She was irreverentlyhooted, but imperturbably rose and fell like a jack-in-the-box.

  Hofer finally sat down to supper with his guests, but they had barelyfinished when every clock in town began to boom the midnight hour andthere was a wild ringing of bells all over the city. Down-stairs one ofthe young men ran to the orchestra, whirled the leader from his seat,flung off his own coat, and led the crashing music with a tin horn.Hofer and Gwynne went to the front of the box, glasses in hand. Allbelow had sprung to their feet and were waving and clicking theirchampagne-glasses, singing, catcalling, tooting, cheering. Even Isabeland Mrs. Hofer leaned forward. In the turmoil they did not notice thatthe young woman in the centre of the room was standing on her table, herbefeathered head flung back, draining her glass; but they turned just intime to see one of her admirers rifle her bodice and wag his trove atthe company.

  "This is too much!" cried Mrs. Hofer, furiously, and running to theback of the box. "Nicolas, I insist!" But Nicolas was enjoying himselfimmensely and paid no attention.

  Isabel had been about to follow Mrs. Hofer when she lost her breath andnearly fell over the edge of the box. Lady Victoria, accompanied by aman who was unmistakably a pugilist, had entered by a side door.

  Isabel's brain seemed to eliminate every thought it had ever possessedand hurriedly to remodel down to one agonizing point. The pair wereendeavoring to force their way forward to a table that evidently hadbeen reserved for them. Gwynne was leaning over the railing drinking toMr. and Mrs. Trennahan. In a moment his interested eyes would rove overthe crowd again. Isabel suddenly fell on him, bearing him backward.

  "Take me out--quick!" she gasped. "I am horribly ill!"

  Gwynne, grasping his hat, was fairly borne out of the box. As Isabel wasghastly and trembling he assumed that she was really ill, and made noprotest, but half-carried her down the stair. They attracted noattention and reached the sidewalk in a moment.

  "If we can only find a carriage!" he said, solicitously. "You never canwalk up those hills. What an atmosphere that was! I don't wonder youcame a cropper. I hope the Hofers won't mind--"

  "Nobody minds anything."

  She took his arm and they walked up the street. The bells were stillringing, horns tooting, but the street was comparatively empty. At thecorner a Salvation Army corps was singing hymns to a flabby and penitentcongregation. Just beyond was a row of hacks awaiting the wearyreveller, and in a moment Gwynne and Isabel were driving rapidly along adark and deserted street.

  "Do you feel better?" he asked.

  She did not answer for a moment, afraid of breaking down. Gwynne wassure to offer prompt consolation, and even if he assumed the brotherlyattitude, she had no wish to be taken in his arms. In spite of herselfhis calm reiteration that he intended to marry her had forced its seedinto her brain, for ideas projected from bold determined minds areinsistent things. But never had love and all connected with it been sohateful to her as at this moment. He peered into her face.

  "You are not going to cry!" he exclaimed. "You!"

  "No, I am not! But I never was so nearly overcome. Such noise! Suchsights! Such heat! It was too bad to take you away, though. Shall you goback?"

  "Not I! May I smoke? We shall be an hour reaching the base of our cliffat this rate. He is apparently going out to the cemeteries underpre
tence of avoiding the hills."

  He elevated his feet to the opposite seat and lit a cigarette.

  "I wish my mother had come home before we left. It was a pity for her tomiss this. Even if she would not dine with us, I could have returned forher."

  "I saw her in the crowd with a party of people. I might have told you,but my mind has been in as many pieces to-night as a bag full ofconfetti. I am sure she has seen it all."

  "Good. It was what you might call a trifle variegated, but not to bemissed. Great old town, this! No wonder they think California is theworld, out here. It is what they say of the London flats:'self-contained.' I like Hofer better than ever. The man whom champagnetransforms into a big silly boy is the right sort. Is there really aworkaday world, a city to reform, and two ranches up the valley?"