XX
It was characteristic of Mrs. Paula that she was not in the leastjealous of Isabel's beauty. She was quite positive that no man wouldhesitate between her own exuberant prettiness and a face and form thatlooked as if it had stepped down from a dingy old canvas. It was truethat Stone admired Isabel--with reservations to his wife--and had openlyavowed his intention to paint her when he emerged from the tyranny ofthe pot-boiler. He had hoped that Isabel would take the graceful hintand order a portrait, but Isabel had succumbed to the pleadings of toomany students of indifferent talent, and had no intention of undergoingthe ordeal of sittings again to any but a master. To-night, as the partyof four entered The Poodle Dog--the socially successful offspring of thestill enterprising and disreputable parent on the dark slopeabove--Paula deliberately outstripped her companions and appropriatedthe seat, at the corner table reserved for them, that faced the room.Isabel was only too delighted to turn her back upon the staring people,for it had occurred to her to-night, for the first time, to be uneasilyashamed of her adopted relative. She had gone about with her severaltimes since her return from Europe, and absently disapproved of asomewhat eccentric tendency in dress, but to all sorts of odd costumingshe had grown accustomed during her experience of art circles abroad.This evening, as she stood in her living-room with Gwynne and watchedPaula sail down the broad staircase, she had a sudden vision of theshanty at the northern base of Russian Hill where Mrs. Belmont had foundher little Mexican seamstress, deserted by her American husband, wailingover the child she was about to leave. This story had always inspiredIsabel with the profoundest pity, tempering her frequent impatience anddisgust towards the family alien, but to-night she wished for a fewmoments that her mother had sent Paula to a foundling asylum. Sheglanced uneasily at Gwynne and fancied she could hear him slam the lidof his breeding upon a supercilious sputter. Mrs. Paula's skirt and thejacket on her arm were a respectable brown, but there was something inthe screaming red blouse, the immense cheap red hat, the blazing cheeks,the pinched waist between swelling bust and hips, the already liftedskirt--Paula always wore a train that she might at the same time achievelonger lines and more subtle opportunities--exhibiting the pointedbronze slipper with a large red bow and much open work above, thatsuggested, if not the French cocotte, at least that San Franciscovariety known in local parlance as "South of Market Street Chippy." Shedid not bear the remotest likeness to a lady. She looked common, fast.Isabel wondered that she had never faced the truth before. It was as ifa wave of final criticism heaved from the brain of the man whose lifehad been passed in the best societies of the world across to hers. ButGwynne was imperturbable and polite, and as they rode down-town in thebright cars Paula thought him "fearfully nice" and was quite sure thathe admired her.
"We are fearfully late," she remarked, complacently, as she seatedherself and looked slowly around the big room with its ornate frescoesand heavy chandeliers, its crowded tables and strange assortment oftypes. "But it is much nicer--to see them all at once, I mean," sheadded, untruthfully.
Gwynne, whose seat also commanded a view of the room, looked about himwith much interest. He had a vague association of impropriety with thename of the restaurant, but he saw only a few painted females andqueer-looking men. The majority looked as if they belonged to the higherwalks of Bohemia, and quite a fourth were indubitably fashionable. Buthis more vivid impression was that they all looked gay and care-free,and that their personalities were not wholly obscured by clothes. Afterlunching or dining at one of the great New York restaurants he hadcarried away the impression of a tremendously fashionable school inuniform--the women distinguished in appearance beyond those of any otherAmerican city, but utterly unindividual. The social bodies of the UnitedStates had interested him little, but to-night he glanced about withsomething of the curiosity of a Columbus discovering the land of hisfathers. No doubt his Otis great-grandfather had been intimate with thegreat-grandfathers of more than one man present; in this remote bit ofcivilization he almost felt as if he were sitting down with a company ofrelatives, at the least to a gathering of the clans. And he had rarelyseen so many handsome women together, nor such a variety of types.
Paula, who knew every one by sight and assiduously read the societypapers, volunteered much information while Isabel ordered the dinner;Stone had been detained half-way down the room by a party of friends.
"That is Mrs. Masten," she whispered, with a respectful accent on thename and in the significant tone she always employed when addressing aperson of social importance. "The youngish tall woman with white hairand distinguished profile. She is one of the old set--the one Mrs.Belmont belonged to--and fearfully haughty. Some people call her abeauty, but how can a woman be a beauty with white hair? Lots get ithere and lose their complexions before they are twenty-five. It is thewind and nerves and too many good times. I wonder I have not gone offtoo, but I take a nap every day no matter what happens. Just beyond isMrs. Trennahan. She never did have any beauty with that sallow skin andno feature except her eyes; but her husband, who was a great swell inNew York, and often takes her there, is quite devoted to her, and theyhave a house on Nob Hill and another in Menlo Park. She is so exclusivethat it is a wonder she ever condescends to dine in a restaurant; butMr. Trennahan is a fearfully high liver, and this kitchen is famous.Mrs. Trennahan's mother, Mrs. Yorba, who led society in the Eighties,had only ninety people on her visiting list, and they say that herparties were the dullest ever given in San Francisco. Of course that wasbefore I was born. The glory of that prehistoric crowd has departed, inspite of the fact that a few of them--not many--have kept theirfortunes--and they are nothing to the new ones. The Irish and Germansare on top now and are just ruling things--people whose very names ourmothers never heard, although they were making their piles withoutsaying much about it. They have come forward in the last five or sixyears with a rush. All the old leaders are dead, and their childrendon't seem to care much--just stand aside and put on airs. One of thenew leaders has a brogue. And as for Mrs. Hofer--take a good look ather."
Paula indicated a tall superbly proportioned young woman in a simpleParisian black gown and an immense black hat with a cascade of whitefeathers rolling over the brim; she had a round laughing face and an airof indescribable buoyancy. "She was born and brought up south of MarketStreet, in the respectable part, but a dead give away in her generation:she's only twenty-six. I forget what her old peasant grandfather startedlife as, a peddler, probably, but afterwards he had a dry-goods store,or shoes or something, and he bought real estate, and his son improvedit, so now they are rich. She was educated at the public schools, wentto the University for a year, had two more in Europe, and came back withwhat they call presence and style, but is just cheek dressed up. Shehadn't much show socially, but she didn't lose any time capturingNicolas Hofer, the son of a German emigrant, who made money in thecommission business which his sons have turned into millions. All themen like him, and as he was a great catch, of course he went everywhere;and when he married they had to accept his wife. She did the rest, andno one can deny that she is smart--in our sense and yours! She is aleader already, and has a perfectly wonderful house, that all the oldaristocrats fall over themselves to get invited to. I'd like to go theremyself, but of course I'm nobody. Hofer poses as a reformer, but I guessthis old town's too much for him--"
"Nicolas Hofer?" asked Gwynne, with interest. "I fancy that is the manmy mother met at Homburg and asked me to call on."
"Oh!" exclaimed Mrs. Paula, with a toss of her head. "If you are goingin for fine society you will soon have no use for us."
Gwynne, being unaccustomed to crudities of this sort, applied himself tohis oysters, while Isabel made a fierce resolution that she would findanother chaperon or remain in the country. She was disagreeablyconscious of craning necks, and although she knew that she was beginningto excite interest in San Francisco, and was looking her best in a whitecloth frock and large white hat, she made no doubt that herjuxtaposition to the exotic Paula was the theme of more
than oneunpleasant comment. While she liked Bohemia and was entirely indifferentto shabbiness, she had never grown accustomed to vulgarities, and thatthey should be embodied in her adopted sister filled her with a futilewrath.
Stone hurried to his neglected party, waving his hand genially. He was avery tall loosely built man, with a sensuous laughing mouth and an eyethat was seldom sober. He carried wine in his spirit as well as in hisskin, and if the latter had bagged a trifle under its burden, the spiritwas only depressed by the morning headache, and few men were morepopular.
"Know what kept me?" he demanded, as he doubled a huge Easternoyster--for the others Isabel had ordered the more delicate Californian,but Stone's interior demanded a sterner nourishment. "Isabel, you arefamous. At first it was the men. Now it is the women too. It was likeyou, dearie, to put Isabel opposite that mirror where everybody can seeher, but in which she looks just one decree further removed from commonmortals. Takes an artist's wife! No use, my sister. The Eggopolis musttake care of itself, the chickens be left to roost alone. San Franciscowants you, and what she wants she gets--what is the matter, darling?"The corners of his little wife's mouth were down and her chin wastrembling.
"You might have paid _me one_ compliment!" she enunciated, between angerand tears.
"Good heavens, sweetheart, you are as familiar to them as Lotta'sfountain. You are an old story--and always beautiful," he added,gallantly. "But Isabel! We raise the voluptuous by the score, Gwynne,houris to beat the band. Climate's a regular Venus factory; but somehowwe don't get the classic very often. Too mixed, probably. Will have towait another generation or two. Eyes, complexions, figures--ye gods! Butnoses--somehow they run to snub. Still! Look over there. Ever seeanything more fetching than those great Irish eyes in a regular littleDago mug? She's worth three cold millions and I pine to paint her. Theprice would be a mere detail. But to return to Isabel. She has only toraise her finger to become the rage, and I want her to raise it."
"I wonder how much they would care for her if she hadn't been born intoone of the sacred old families, and hadn't money to boot!" cried Mrs.Stone, exasperated beyond endurance by this triumph of maritaltactlessness. "I'd like to know what chance a poor girl has to turnpeople's heads--"
"Tut! tut! Brownie, you're jealous. You know there never was a townwhere people cared less about money--"
"It's just like any other old town, only you have silly legends about itthat you stick to in the face of facts. That day Isabel took me to theSt. Francis for lunch I never saw so many stuck-up-looking girls in mylife, and they all looked as if they had just sailed out of New Yorkfashion-plates. There are only about six really fashionable women hereto-night, and they only come because they think it's spicy to get soclose to real vice without actually touching it. For my part I'm sick ofthe whole Bohemian game, and I'd like to dine at The St. Francis or ThePalace every night." She turned to Gwynne, her eyes flashingdramatically; she was tired of being chorus to her popular husband'sleading roles, and was determined to hold the centre of the stage forGwynne's edification at least. "They pretend to come here because thedinner is so good!" she exclaimed. "Good and cheap! But it isn't that abit with the swells--the women, that is. They just love the idea ofdoing something almost naughty, once in a while in their virtuouslives--when a San Francisco woman _is_ proper she'd make you reallytired with her superior airs and censorious tongue; but there isn't muchshe doesn't know, all the same, and she just revels in venturing thisfar."
"I don't understand," said the bewildered Englishman. "Are we dining ina dive?"
"Not quite, but almost!" cried Stone, refilling his glass from the largebottle in ice. "There is only one San Francisco! We have about six ofthese French restaurants--ever taste anything like these frogs in Paris?You scarcely ever see anybody in them at this hour with an 'all-night'reputation. There are plenty of other resorts, a good many of them underthe sidewalks, where the dinner is almost as good but where a mandoesn't take his wife. And up-stairs--here--and in a few others--well,if a woman is seen entering by the side door she is done for. But thenshe isn't usually seen. Lord! if these walls could speak! Thedivorce-mills would explode. The waiters all invest in real estate.Policemen send their daughters to Europe, and the boss politicians getrich so fast they spend money almost like a gentleman. In the hotels youare all but asked for your marriage license, but in what iseuphemistically known as the French restaurants--well, high-toned vicecomes high, but the town is fairly bursting with accommodations forevery purse. No town like this!" he exclaimed, gazing into his liftedglass and with the accent of deep feeling. "No town on God's footstool.Nothing like it. Wouldn't live anywhere else if you gave me the planet.Of course I've reformed, but then it's the _atmosphere_--not a taint ofAmerican Puritanism--European and something more--the wild flavor of anew and unique civilization. Precious few California men that go to NewYork to live but are too glad to come back; and Eastern men, likeTrennahan, who have had a long taste of it, couldn't be paid to liveanywhere else."
"So all the legends of San Francisco are true?" said Gwynne, whopreferred Stone to his wife.
"Couldn't exaggerate if you tried. Wait till I show it to you. No blazedtrail nor special policeman detailed to protect our precious skulls. Iknow the ropes and am not afraid to go anywhere."
"How do you like your new work?" asked Isabel, hastily, not knowing whathe might say next. "I should fancy that newspaper life would suit you."
"Does! Never hit a job I liked as well. Jolly set of fellows. Up allnight. What more could a fellow ask? No more aristocracy of art for me.I'm neither a Peters nor a Keith, and I wish I'd found it out ten yearsago. If a man can make a good living, what in--ah, what on earth morecan he want in a town that gives him the best things in the world toeat, the jolliest all-night life, the finest fellows in the world, theprettiest women to look at, a climate that puts new life into oldhorses--life's a dead easy game out here--when you don't develop toomuch ambition. Ambition? Nothing in that. Fellows are ingrates andidiots that go off to a cold-blooded place like New York, with a beastlyclimate, the moment they have made a little mark here. No philosophy inambition. Only one life. Why not enjoy it--when your creditors will letyou? And the money always comes somehow--comes easy, goes easy, and ifwe can't all be great, we can be happier here than anywhere else onearth. Here's to San Francisco--and perdition to him that calls it'Frisco!"
"So you have said good-bye to ambition?" asked Isabel, curiously. "Iused to think you had a good deal."
"So I had. Once I was younger and knew less. Perhaps if I had ever doneanything cleverer than a few dashing skits for the Bohemian Club, andsomebody had patted me hard enough on the back, I might have made an assof myself and crossed the continent in the wake of so many that havenever been heard of since."
"I don't think you ever gave your creativeness a real chance. If you hadshut yourself up in the country for a year--"
"I should have stayed a week. Scenery on a drop curtain is all I want ofnature. No, Isabel." He relapsed into sadness for a moment. "I havetravelled the logical road and simmered down into my place. It's justthis: San Francisco breeds all sorts. A few are born with a drop ofiron in their souls. They resist the climate, and the enchantment of theeasy luxurious semi-idle life you can command out here on next tonothing, and clear out, and work hard, and make little old Californiafamous. Where they get the iron from God knows. It's all electricitywith the rest of us. There are hundreds of my sort. You've seen them atthe real Bohemian restaurants; young men mad with life and the sense oftheir own powers; all of them writing, painting, composing,editing--mostly talking. Then at other tables the old-young men whohave shrugged their shoulders and simmered down like myself; lucky ifthey haven't taken to drink or drugs to drown regrets. Still othertables--the young-old men, quite happy, and generally drunk. Businessmen and some professional are the only ones that forge steadily ahead;with precious few exceptions. But you don't see them often in the cheapBohemian restaurants, which have a glamour for the young, and are afinancial n
ecessity for the failures. Never was such a high percentageof brains in any one city. But they must get out. And if they don't goyoung they don't go at all. San Francisco is a disease. You can't shakeit off. And you don't want to. To Hades with ambition anyhow," he cried,gayly. "We can admire one another--and we've learned to, instead ofknocking the life out of everybody else as we did a few years ago. Nowwe present the unique spectacle of a city packed to the brim withcleverness and always ready for more. We know how to appreciate. _Vivela bagatelle._ New York? Why, the spirit and brains would be drained outof nine-tenths of us trying to keep a roof over our heads, and nobodyknowing we were there. No, _sir_. No, _madam_! The men in this townrealize more and more when they are well off, and here is one of them."And he refilled his glass.
Isabel, not knowing that she had been listening to the litany of wastedlives, turned in disgust and cast about for an excuse to leave beforeStone ordered another bottle of champagne. She encountered a gleam ofamusement in Gwynne's eyes, and it seemed to transfer her to an emptyauditorium, while mankind performed its little tricks on the stage forher sole benefit. It was a subtle tribute, and she blushed under it. Shewas also gratified to observe that Paula was boring him. But she glancedaway, lest he should think she had forgiven him. At the same moment shesaw a young man that had sat with his back to them, and opposite thefamous Mrs. Hofer, suddenly push back his chair, rise to his feet, andlook sharply at Gwynne. Then he came rapidly down the room, and Gwynnerose and met him as if lifted to his feet by the hospitality beamingfrom the large bright shrewd capable face of the Californian.
"This is Mr. Gwynne! Is it really?" he exclaimed, taking the stranger'shand in a large warm grasp. "I am Nicolas Hofer. Your mother wrote you?We have only been back a short time--I had intended running up to seeyou. I knew you for a Britisher the minute you entered the room, but theword was only just passed about who you were. Do--please--waiveformality and lunch with me at my house to-morrow. Then we'll motorabout a bit and I'll show you something of the city. Glad the fineweather holds out. No denial. I expect you." And he skilfully tookhimself off, before Gwynne should feel obliged to introduce him to hisparty.
"Now, what do you think of that for California manners, and thearrogance of the rich?" demanded Paula, triumphantly.
"Not a bit of it," replied Stone, amiably. "Man was in a hurry. Can'tyou see his wife waiting for him? Never knew a Californian to put onairs in my life." By this time his optimism was complete. "Only womenimagine such things. There are as many poor as rich in San Franciscosociety. Only some of us are too poor, and Bohemia is better anyway.Well, let's hit the pike. This room is too hot for my head."
Ancestors: A Novel Page 39