From 'Rose of Dutcher's Coolly.' Copyright 1895 by Hamlin Garland, and
published by Stone & Kimball
As the winter deepened, Rose narrowed the circle of conquest. She no
longer thought of conquering the world; it came to be the question of
winning the approbation of one human soul. That is, she wished to win
the approbation of the world in order that Warren Mason might smile
and say "Well done!"
She did not reach this state of mind smoothly and easily. On the
contrary, she had moments when she rebelled at the thought of any
man's opinion being the greatest good in the world to her. She
rebelled at the implied inferiority of her position in relation to
him, and also at the physical bondage implied. In the morning, when
she was strong, in the midst of some social success, when people
swarmed about her and men bent deferentially, then she held herself
like a soldier on a tower, defying capture.
But at night, when the lights were all out, when she felt her
essential loneliness and weakness and need, when the world seemed cold
and cruel and selfish,--then it seemed as if the sweetest thing in the
universe would be to have him open his arms and say "Come!"
There would be rest there, and repose. His judgment, his keen wit, his
penetrating, powerful influence, made him seem a giant to her; a giant
who disdained effort and gave out an appearance of indifference and
lassitude. She had known physical giants in her neighborhood, who
spoke in soft drawl and slouched lazily in action, but who were
invincible when aroused.
She imagined she perceived in Mason a mental giant, who assumed
irresolution and weakness for reasons of his own. He was always off
duty when she saw him, and bent more upon rest than a display of
power. Once or twice she saw him roused, and it thrilled her; that
measured lazy roll of voice changed to a quick, stern snarl, the brows
lowered, and the big plump face took on battle lines. It was like a
seemingly shallow pool, suddenly disclosed to be of soundless depths
by a wind of passion.
The lake had been the refuge of the distracted and restless girl. She
went to it often in the autumn days, for it rested her from the noise
of grinding wheels, and screams, and yells. Its smooth rise and fall,
its sparkle of white-caps, its sailing gulls, filled her with
delicious pleasure. It soothed her and it roused her also. It gave her
time to think.
The street disturbed her, left her purposeless and powerless; but out
there where the ships floated like shadows, and shadows shifted like
flame, and the wind was keen and sweet,--there she could get her
mental breath again. She watched it change to wintry desolation, till
it grew empty of vessels and was lonely as the Arctic Sea; and always
it was grand and thought-inspiring.
She went out one day in March, when the home longing was upon her and
when it seemed that the city would be her death. She was tired of her
food, tired of Mary, tired of her room. Her forehead was knotted
tensely with pain of life and love--
She cried out with sudden joy, for she had never seen the lake more
beautiful. Near the shore a great mass of churned and heaving ice and
snow lay like a robe of shaggy fur. Beyond this the deep water spread,
a vivid pea-green broken by wide irregular strips of dark purple. In
the open water by the wall a spatter of steel blue lay like the petals
of some strange flower, scattered upon the green.
Great splendid clouds developed, marvelously like the clouds of June,
making the girl's heart swell with memories of summer. They were white
as wool, these mountainous clouds, and bottomed in violet, and as they
passed the snow-fields they sent down pink-purple misty shadows, which
trailed away in splendor toward the green which flamed in bewildering
beauty beyond. The girl sat like one in a dream, while the wind blew
the green and purple of the outer sea into fantastic, flitting forms
which dazzled her eyes like the stream of mingled banners.
Each form seemed more beautiful than the preceding one; each
combination had such unearthly radiance, her heart ached with
exquisite sorrow to see it vanish. The girl felt that spring was
coming on the wing of the southern wind, and the desire to utter her
passion grew almost into pain.
It had other moods, this mighty spread of water. It could be angry,
dangerous. Sometimes it rolled sullenly, and convoluted in oily surges
beneath its coverlid of snow, like a bed of monstrous serpents.
Sometimes the leaden sky shut down over it, and from the desolate
northeast a snow-storm rushed, hissing and howling. Sometimes it
slumbered for days, quiet as a sleeping boa, then awoke and was a
presence and a voice in the night, fit to make the hardiest tremble.
Rose saw it when it was roused, but she had yet to see it in a frenzy.
The knowledge of its worst came to her early in May, just before her
return to the Coule.
The day broke with the wind in the northeast. Rose, lying in her bed,
could hear the roar of the lake; never before had its voice penetrated
so far. She sprang up and dressed, eager to see it in such a mood.
Mary responded sleepily to her call, saying the lake would be there
after breakfast.
Rose did not regret her eagerness, though it was piercingly cold and
raw. The sea was already terrific. Its spread of tawny yellow showed
how it had reached down and laid hold on the sand of its bed. There
were oily splotches of plum color scattered over it where the wind
blew it smooth, and it reached to the wild east sky, cold, desolate,
destructive.
It had a fierce, breathing snarl like a monster at meat. It leaped
against the sea-wall like a rabid tiger, its sleek and spotted hide
rolling. Every surge sent a triangular sheet of foam twenty-five feet
above the wall, yellow and white and shadowed with dull blue; and the
wind caught it as it rose, and its crest burst into great clouds of
spray, which sailed across the streets and dashed along the walk like
rain, making the roadway like a river; while the main body of each
upleaping wave, falling back astride the wall, crashed like the fall
of glass, and the next wave met it with a growl of thunderous rage,
striking it with concave palm with a sound like a cannon's exploding
roar.
Out of the appalling obscurity to the north, frightened ships scudded
at intervals, with bare masts bending like fire-trimmed pines. They
hastened like the homing pigeons, which do not look behind. The
helmsmen stood grimly at their wheels, with eyes on the harbor ahead.
The girl felt it all as no one native to the sea can possibly do. It
seemed as if the bounds of the flood had been overcome, and that it
was about to hurl itself upon the land. The slender trees, standing
deep in the swash of water, bowed like women in pain; the wall was
half hidden, and the flood and the land seemed mingled in battle.
Rose walked along the shore, too much excited to go back to her
breakfast. At noon she ate lunch hurriedly and returned to the shore.
There were hundreds of people coming and going along the drive; young
girls shrieking with glee, as the sailing clouds of spray fell upon
them. Rose felt angry to think they could be so silly in face of such
dreadful power.
She came upon Mason, dressed in a thick mackintosh coat, taking notes
rapidly in a little book. He did not look up, and she passed him,
wishing to speak, yet afraid to speak. Near him a young man was
sketching.
Mason stood like a rock in his long, close-fitting rain coat, while
she was blown nearly off her feet by the blast. She came back against
the wind, feeling her soul's internal storm rising. It seemed quite
like a proposal of marriage to go up and speak to him--yet she could
not forego the pleasure.
He did not see her until she came into his lee; then he smiled,
extending his hand. She spoke first:--
"May I take shelter here?"
His eyes lightened with a sudden tender humor.
"Free anchorage," he said, and drew her by the hand closer to his
shoulder. It was a beautiful moment to her, and a dangerous one to
him. He took refuge in outside matters.
"How does that strike your inland eyes?" He pointed to the north.
"It's awful. It's like the anger of God." She spoke into his bowed
ear.
"Please don't think I'm reporting it," he explained. "I'm only making
a few notes about it for an editorial on the need of harbors."
Each moment the fury increased, the waves deepened. The commotion sank
down amid the sands of the deeper inshore water, and it boiled like
milk. Splendid colors grew into it near at hand; the winds tore at the
tops of the waves, and wove them into tawny banners, which blurred the
air like blown sand. On the horizon the waves leaped in savage ranks,
clutching at the sky like insane sea monsters,--frantic, futile.
"I've seen the Atlantic twice during a gale," shouted the artist to a
companion, "but I never saw anything more awful than this. These waves
are quicker and higher. I don't see how a vessel could live in it if
caught broadside."
"It's the worst I ever saw here."
"I'm going down to the south side: would you like to go?" Mason asked
of Rose.
"I would indeed," she replied.
Back from the lake shore the wind was less powerful but more
uncertain. It came in gusts which nearly upturned the street cars. Men
and women scudded from shelter to shelter, like beleaguered citizens
avoiding cannon shots.
"What makes our lake so terrible," said Mason in the car, "is the fact
that it has a smooth shore--no indentations, no harbors. There is only
one harbor here at Chicago, behind the breakwater, and every vessel in
mid-lake must come here. Those flying ships are seeking safety here
like birds. The harbor will be full of disabled vessels."
As they left the car, a roaring gust swept around a twenty-story
building with such power [that] Rose would have been taken off her
feet had not Mason put his arms about her shoulders.
"You're at a disadvantage," he said, "with skirts." He knew she prided
herself on her strength, and he took no credit to himself for standing
where she fell.
It was precisely as if they were alone together; the storm seemed to
wall them in, and his manner was more intimate than ever before. It
was in very truth the first time they had been out together, and also
it was the only time he had assumed any physical care of her. He had
never asserted his greater muscular power and mastery of material
things, and she was amazed to see that his lethargy was only a mood.
He could be alert and agile at need. It made his cynicism appear to be
a mood also; at least, it made her heart wondrously light to think so.
They came upon the lake shore again, near the Auditorium. The refuge
behind the breakwater was full of boats, straining at anchor, rolling,
pitching, crashing together. Close about the edge of the breakwater,
ships were rounding hurriedly, and two broken vessels lay against the
shore, threshing up and down in the awful grasp of the breakers. Far
down toward the south the water dashed against the spiles, shooting
fifty feet above the wall, sailing like smoke, deluging the street,
and lashing against the row of buildings across the way.