San Francisco.
Dearest Mamma,--I have just got a letter from Jane Roose about having
heard of Mrs. Smith's being on the ship with Harry. Has it come to your
ears, too? What on earth could a woman like that want to be going to
Zanzibar for, unless she was hunting some man who was going to hunt
lions? I call it most extraordinary, don't you? And probably that is
what these papers meant by saying he had gone to India with a fair
haired widow, and I was so silly I never suspected a thing. Well, if he
thinks it will annoy me he is very much mistaken. I don't care in _the
least_, and am amusing myself _awfully_ with Gaston, and you can tell
him so; and as for cabling to him, as I think I asked you to in my last
letter, don't dream of it! Let him enjoy himself if he can. But how any
man could, with that woman, old enough to be his mother! I suppose she
has taken some lovely clothes. She always has that sort of attraction,
and no doubt she is pouring sympathy into his ears in the moonlight
about my unkindness. It makes me feel perfectly sick that anyone can be
such a fool as Harry to be taken in by her;--having got away from her
once, to go back again.
No doubt it was she prompted him to be so horrible to me (he behaved
like a perfect brute you know, Mamma, and I never did a thing). It is
only because I can't bear him to be made a fool of that I mind in the
least, otherwise I am perfectly indifferent. He can play with whom he
chooses, it is nothing to me. Gaston is devoted to me, and although I
should not think of divorcing Harry, No matter what he does, because of
letting that odious woman become Marchioness of Valmond, still it is
nice to know someone else would absolutely die for you, isn't it, even
though I don't want to marry him--Gaston, I mean--We arrived here last
night. We have come all round this way because now we are about it
Octavia felt we ought to see Salt Lake City and San Francisco, and go
down the coast to Los Angeles. Then we shall have done this side of
America thoroughly. We only rushed through everywhere, of course, but
got a general coup d'oeil. Crossing the great Salt Lake was wonderful.
It seemed like being at sea on a bridge, and I could not help wondering
what it would be like if the lake were rough. You can't think of
anything so intelligent as the way that Brigham Young laid out Salt Lake
City, seeing far ahead; he planned splendid avenues, and planted trees,
and even though lots of them still have only mud roads, and little board
shanties down them, they are there all ready for the time when the
splendid houses are built, and tram cars and electric light everywhere;
and such green and beautiful rich looking country! No wonder, after the
desert it seemed the promised land.
I should hate to be a Mormon, wouldn't you, Mamma? Worse than being a
Chinee and having to sit at the theatre penned up with only females.
Think of sharing a man with six other women, and being a kind of
servant. It is natural they look cowed and colourless,--the ones we saw;
at least they were pointed out to us. But really it seems much honester
to call them wives openly than to be like--but no, I won't speak of it
any more. Only _I_ will never share a man with another woman! Not the
least little scrap of him; and if Harry thinks I will he is mistaken. To
have six husbands is a much better plan; that, at least, would teach
one to be awfully agreeable, and to understand the creatures' different
ways; but a man to have six wives is an impossible idea,--specially as
now it is not necessary, the way they behave. I wish I had got Jane's
letter sooner, Mamma, because I could have amused myself more with
Gaston than I have. I feel I have lost some opportunities, snubbing him
all the time.
San Francisco is perfectly wonderful. Imagine colossal switchbacks going
for miles, and other switchbacks crossing them like a chess board,
and you have some idea of the way of the streets; hills as steep as
staircases, and the roads straight up and down, not zigzag, just being
obliged to take the land as it comes; some persons in the beginning, I
suppose, having ruled the plan on flat paper without considering what
the formation was like, and then insisting on its being ruthlessly
carried out.
When we arrived at the station, Octavia and I were put into a two horse
fly because it was very windy and cold. It always is, we are told, and
the motors for hire were all open. So we started to go to Fairmount, the
big hotel right up on the hill. At first it was a sort of gradual slope
past such sad desolation of levelled houses, with hardly the foundations
left. The results of the earthquake and the fire are so incredible that
you would think I was recounting travellers' tales if I described them,
so I won't. Presently the coachman turned his two strong fat horses to
the right, up one of the perpendicular roads, to get to our destination,
but they would have none of it! They backed and jibbed and got as cross
as possible, and he was obliged to continue along the slope, explaining
to us that there was another turning further on which they might be
persuaded to face. But when we got there it was just the same, no
whipping or coaxing could get them to sample it. They backed so
violently that we nearly went over into the cellars of a ruin at the
corner, and the man asked us to get out, as he said it was no use, none
of his horses would face these streets. And to go on to a gradual hill
was miles further along, and he advised us to walk, as the hotel was
only about six hundred yards away!! So in the growing night Octavia and
I, clutching our jewel cases, were left to our own devices. We really
felt deserted, as now that nearly everything in this neighbourhood is in
ruins there are no people about much, and it felt like being alone in a
graveyard, or Pompeii after dark. We almost expected bandits and
wolves or jackals. We started, holding on our hats and feeling very
ill-tempered, but we had not got a hundred yards on our climb, when a
motor tore down upon us, and Gaston and the Senator jumped out; they had
been getting quite anxious at our non-arrival and come to look for us.
Tom, of course, being an English husband, was sure nothing had happened;
and when we got there we found him having a cocktail and smoking a cigar
calmly in the hotel.
As we have come this way we have picked up Lola sooner. I must call her
that, Mamma, although I dislike using peoples' Christian names, but
Mrs. Vinerhorn is so long, and everyone calls her Lola, and the Senator
wished it; he wants us to be friends. He and I have been even more
intimate since he told me his story. I am deeply attached to him; he is
a sort of father and yet not--much nicer, really; and the best friend
I have in the world, except you, Mamma, and one I would rather tell
anything to. He is a perfect dear; we all love him. The two cousins, who
were promised Tom, live here and came to dinner; such amusing girls,
they would make any party merry, and we had the most gay and festive
evening; and one of the Senator's secretaries has joined the party also,
a very nice worthy young fellow whom the girls bully. Columbia and
Mercédès are the girls' names, and they are both small and dark and
pretty. They are both heiresses, and wonderfully dressed. Their two
mothers were the Senator's sisters, and "raised" somewhere down South,
where he originally came from. But the girls have been educated in New
York with Lola.
The crowd in this hotel are totally different looking to Chicago. Some
have moustaches, and some even look like sportsmen, and as if they led
an idle life and enjoyed it; and a few of the women are lovely, pure
pink and white, and golden haired, and that air of breezy go-aheadness
which is always so attractive. And all of them seem well dressed, though
naturally one or two freaks are about, as in every country.
The food was as excellent as in all the places, and rather more
varied--dishes with wonderful salads and ices; and after dinner we sat
in the hall and made plans, and Gaston said such entreprenant things in
my ear that I was obliged to be really angry with him. So to pay me
out he sulked, and then devoted himself to Mercédès. Men are really
impossible people to deal with, aren't they, Mamma? So ridiculously vain
and unreasonable. I shall be glad to see Mr. Renour again; he was quite
different; respectful and yet devoted, not wanting to eat one up like
Gaston, and I am _sure_ incapable of treating me like Harry has. I
suppose by now they have got right up into Africa. I wonder if she is
going to shoot lions, too, or be a shikari or cook his food. I am sure
she would look hideous roughing it without her maid. Her hair has to be
crimped with tongs, and she has to have washes for her complexion, and
things. You know, Mamma, though I don't care a bit, the whole affair has
upset me so that the dear Senator noticed I was not quite myself after
the post came in, and asked me if there was anything else I wanted that
he could do for me. And when I told him only to teach me to be a brazen
heartless creature, as hard as nails, he held my hand like I held his,
and pressed it, and said we should soon be in the sunshine where the
winds did not blow.
"You are too broad gauge to want things like that," he said; "those
bitter thoughts are for the puny growths."
And I suddenly felt inclined to cry, Mamma; I can't think why. So I came
up to bed;--and I am homesick and I want Hurstbridge and Ermyntrude, and
what's the good of anything?
Your affectionate daughter,