Burned Bridges, Bertrand W. Sinclair [ready to read books .txt] 📗

Awful,

Treacherous Sea Which Had Swallowed The _Roland_. It Lay Like A

Chapter 10 (The World Is Small) Pg 84

Wave-Tossing Heaven Under The Steamer,  And Gave It A Gentle Rocking

Motion,  By No Means Unpleasant. There Was Majesty In The Course Of Even

The Plain Little Trader,  Painted Black Above The Water-Line And Red

Below. Compared With That Mechanical Marvel,  The _Roland_,  It Was Like

A Comfortable Old Stage-Coach,  And Could Be Depended Upon To Make Its

Ten Knots An Hour With A Great Show Of Speed. Captain Butor In All

Seriousness Declared The Castaways Had Brought Him Good Luck. The Moment

They Appeared,  The Old Man Of The Sea Turned As Peaceful And Serene As An

Octogenarian English Rector.

 

"Yes," Said Stoss,  "But Your Old English Rector First Filled His Belly

With A Few Hecatombs Of Human Lives. Stop,  Look,  Listen! Don't Be Too

Quick To Trust Him. When He's Done Assimilating,  He'll Have A Still

Better Appetite."

 

Up To The Very End Of The Trip,  Though There Was A Corpse On Board And

The Woman From The Steerage Was Still Very Sick,  The Atmosphere On The

_Hamburg_ Lost None Of Its Festal Character. The Bridge Was Free

Territory. Ingigerd Was Usually To Be Seen There In The Daytime Playing

Chess With Wendler,  Or Looking On While Frederick Won One Game After The

Other From The Engineer. Naturally Enough,  The Entire Crew,  By No Means

Exclusive Of Captain Butor,  Felt Profound Satisfaction Because Of The

Booty They Had Recovered On The High Seas,  Each Wearing An Air Of Evident

Pride In The Catch. Had The Exalted Feelings That Swelled The Hearts Of

All On Board The Gallant Freight Coach,  The _Hamburg_,  Been Transferred

Into Od-Rays,  The Steamer Would Have Sailed Up New York Harbour

Surrounded,  Even At High Noon,  By An Aureole Of Its Own Radiance.

 

There Was Betting As To The Number Of The Pilot-Boat That Would Come To

Meet The _Hamburg_,  When Suddenly It Appeared Hard By,  With The Number

"25" Decipherable On Its Sail. Arthur Stoss Had Won. Almost Choking With

Laughter,  He Raked In A Considerable Sum,  And Jacob Fleischmann Envied

Him With Comically Obvious Greed.

 

The Close Companionship With His Fellow-Passengers On The Small Steamer,

The Compulsion He Was Under To Listen To Their Jokes And To The

Superficial,  Reiterated Tale Of The Disaster Made Frederick Inwardly

Impatient. Unlike The Others,  He Had Not Yet Recovered His Old Relation

To Life. His Soul Was Numbed. He Had Lost His Feeling For The Past,  His

Feeling For The Future,  Even His Passion For Ingigerd. The Moment Of The

Catastrophe Seemed To Have Snapped All The Threads That Bound Him To The

Events,  Men,  And Things Of His Former Life. Whenever He Looked Upon

Ingigerd,  He Felt An Oppressive Consciousness Of Responsibility. In These

Days It Almost Seemed As If The Girl In Her Predominatingly Soft,  Serious

Mood Were Awaiting The Declaration Of His Love.

 

"You All Want To Have Fun With Me," She Once Said,  "But Nobody Wants

Anything Serious Of Me."

 

Frederick Did Not Understand Himself. Hahlstroem Was No Longer Living,

Achleitner Had Had To Pay The Penalty Of His Undignified,  Dog-Like Love,

And The Girl,  Shaken And Refined To The Depths Of Her Being,  Was Wax In

His Hands. Often He Would Look At Her To Find That Her Eyes Had Been

Fixed Upon Him In A Long,  Grave,  Meditative Gaze. Then He Would Seem To

Chapter 10 (The World Is Small) Pg 85

Himself A Very Sorry Sort Of Person,  And Was Compelled To Admit That He

Who Had Once Wished To Overwhelm The Girl With The Infinite Riches Of A

Passionately Loving Soul,  Was A Bankrupt,  Groping With Empty Hands In

Empty Pockets. He Ought To Speak,  Ought To Open The Sluices On The Other

Side Of Which The Flood Of His Passionate Love Must Have Gathered And

Risen High; But All The Waters Had Trickled Away,Aa Grievance,  A Theory,  Or

Even Merely The Gift Of Gab Might Air His Views And Be Reasonably Sure

Of An Audience. In The Evening There Was Always A Crowd. Street Fakirs

Plied Their Traffic Under Sputtering Gas Torches,  Dispensing,  Along With

A Ready Flow Of Glib Chatter,  Marvellous Ointments,  Cure-Alls,  Soap,

Suspenders,  Cheap Safety Razors,  Anything That Would Coax Stray Dimes

And Quarters From The Crowd.

 

But The Street Fakirs Were In The Minority. The Percentage Of Gullible

Ones Was Small. Mostly It Was A Place Of Oratory,  The Haunt Of

Propagandists. Thompson Listened To Social Democrats,  Social Laborites,

Syndicalists,  Radicals,  Revolutionaries,  Philosophical Anarchists,  Men

With Social And Economic Theories Of The Extremist Type. But They Talked

Well. They Had A Grasp Of Their Subject. They Had On Tap Tremendous

Quantities Of All Sorts Of Knowledge. The Very Extent Of Their

Vocabulary Amazed Thompson. He Heard Scientific And Historical

Authorities Quoted And Disputed,  Listened To Arguments Waged On Every

Sort Of Ground--From Biological Complexities Which He Could Not

Understand To Agricultural Statistics Which He Understood Still Less. A

Lot Of It Perplexed And Irritated Him,  Because The Terminology Was Over

His Head. And The Fact That He Could Not Follow These Men In Full

Intellectual Flight Spurred Him To Find The Truth Or Falsity Of Those

Things For Himself. He Got An Inkling Of The Economic Problems That

Afflict Society. He Found Himself Assenting Offhand To The Reasonable

Theorem That A Man Who Produced Wealth Was Entitled To What He

Produced. He Listened To Many A Wordy Debate In Which The Theory Of

Evolution Was Opposed To The Seven-Day Creation. There Was Thus Revived

In Him Some Of Those Troublesome Perplexities Which Sam And Sophie Carr

Had First Aroused.

 

In The End,  Lacking Profitable Employment And Growing Dubious Of

Obtaining It During The Slack Industrial Season Which Then Hovered Over

California,  He Turned To The Serried Shelves Of The City Library. Once

Started Along This Road He Became An Habitue,  Spending In A Particular

Chair At A Certain Table Anywhere From Three To Six Hours A Day,  Deep In

A Book,  Not To Be Deterred Therefrom By The Usual Series Of Mental

Shocks Which A Man,  Full-Fed All His Life On Conventions And Dogmas And

Superficial Thinking,  Gets When He First Goes Seriously And Critically

Into The Fields Of Scientific Conclusions.

 

He Was Seated At A Reading Table One Afternoon,  Nursing His Chin In One

Hand,  Deep In A Volume Of Huxley's "Lectures And Essays" Which Was

Making A Profound Impression Upon Him Through Its Twin Merits Of Simple,

Concise Language And Breadth Of Vision. There Was In It A Rational

Explanation Of Certain Elementary Processes Which To Thompson Had Never

Been Accounted For Save By Means Of The Supernatural,  The Mysterious,

The Inexplicable. Huxley Was Merely Sharpening A Function Of His Mind

Which Had Been Dormant Until He Ran Amuck Among The Books. He Began To

Perceive Order In The Universe And All That It Contained,  That Natural

Phenomena Could Be Interpreted By A Study Of Nature,  That There Was

Chapter 10 (The World Is Small) Pg 86

Something More Than A Name In Geology. And He Was So Immersed In What

He Read,  In The Printed Page And The Inevitable Speculations That Arose

In His Mind As He Conned It,  That He Was Only Subconsciously Aware Of A

Woman Passing His Seat.

 

Slowly,  As A Man Roused From Deep Sleep Looks About Him For The Cause Of

Dimly Heard Noises,  So Now Thompson's Eyes Lifted From His Book,  And,

With His Mind Still Half Upon The Last Sentence Read,  His Gaze Followed

The Girl Now Some Forty Feet Distant In The Long,  Quiet Room.

 

There Was No Valid Reason Why The Rustle Of A Woman's Skirt In Passing,

The Faint Suggestion Of Some Delicate Perfume,  Should Have Focussed His

Attention. He Saw Scores Of Women And Girls In The Library Every Day. He

Passed Thousands On The Streets. This One,  Now,  Upon Whom He Gazed With

A Detached Interest,  Was Like Many Others,  A Girl Of Medium Height,

Slender,  Well-Dressed.

 

That Was All--Until She Paused At A Desk To Have Speech With A Library

Assistant. She Turned Then So That Her Face Was In Profile,  So That A

Gleam Of Hair Showed Under A Wide Leghorn Hat. And Thompson Thought

There Could Scarcely Be Two Women In The World With Quite So Marvellous

A Similarity Of Face And Figure And Coloring,  Nor With Quite The Same

Contour Of Chin And Cheek,  Nor The Same Thick Hair,  Yellow Like The

Husks Of Ripe Corn Or A Willow Leaf In The Autumn. He Was Just As Sure

That By Some Strange Chance Sophie Carr Stood At That Desk As He Was

Sure Of Himself Sitting In An Oak Chair At A Reading Table. And He Rose

Impulsively To Go To Her.

 

She Turned Away In The Same Instant And Walked Quickly Down A Passage

Between The Rows Of Shelved Books. Thompson Could Not Drive Himself To

Hurry,  Nor To Call. He Was Sure--Yet Not Too Sure. He Hated To Make

Himself Appear Ridiculous. Nor Was He Overconfident That If It Were

Indeed Sophie Carr She Would Be Either Pleased Or Willing To Renew Their

Old Intimacy. And So,  Lagging Faint-Heartedly,  He Lost Her In The Maze

Of Books.

 

But He Did Not Quite Give Up. He Was On The Second Floor. The Windows On

A Certain Side Overlooked The Main Entrance. He Surmised That She Would

Be Leaving. So He Crossed To A Window That Gave On The Library Entrance

And Waited For An Eternity It Seemed,  But In Reality A Scant Five

Minutes,  Before He Caught Sight Of A Mauve Suit On The Broad Steps.

Looking From Above He Could Be Less Sure Than When She Stood At The

Desk. But The Girl Halted At The Foot Of The Steps And Standing By A Red

Roadster Turned To Look Up At The Library Building. The Sun Fell Full

Upon Her Upturned Face. The Distance Was One Easily To Be Spanned By

Eyes As Keen As His. Thompson Was No Longer Uncertain. He Was Suddenly,

Acutely Unhappy. The Old Ghosts Which He Had Thought Well Laid Were

Walking,  Rattling Their Dry Bones Forlornly In His Ears.

 

Sophie Got Into The Machine. The Red Roadster Slid Off With Gears

Singing Their Metallic Song As She Shifted Through To High. Thompson

Watched It Turn A Corner,  And Went Back To His Table With A Mind Past

All Possibility Of Concentrating Upon Anything Between The Covers Of A

Book. He Put The Volume Back On Its Shelf At Last And Went Out To Walk

The Streets In Aimless,  Restless Fashion,  Full Of Vivid,  Painful

Memories,