Burned Bridges - Bertrand W. Sinclair (best ereader for academics txt) 📗

Troubled By A Sudden Flaring Up Of Emotions Which Had Lain So

Long Dormant He Had Supposed Them Dead.

 

Chapter 10 (The World Is Small) Pg 87

Here In San Francisco He Had Not Expected To Behold Sophie In The

Enjoyment Of Her Good Fortune. Yet There Was No Reason Why She Should

Not Be Here. Thompson Damned Under His Breath The Blind Chance Which Had

Set Him Aboard The Wrong Steamer At Wrangel.

 

But,  He Said To Himself After A Time,  What Did It Matter? In A City Of

Half A Million They Were As Far Apart As If He Were Still At Lone Moose

And She God Only Knew Where. That Powerful Roadster,  The Sort Of Clothes

She Wore,  The General Air Of Well-Being Which He Had Begun To Recognize

As A Characteristic Of People Whose Social And Financial Position Is

Impregnable--These Things Served To Intensify The Gulf Between Them

Which Their Radical Differences Of Outlook Had Originally Opened. No,

Sophie Carr's Presence In San Francisco Could Not Possibly Make Any

Difference To Him. He Repeated This Emphatically--With Rather More

Emphasis Than Seemed Necessary.

 

 

 

Chapter 11 (A Meeting By The Way) Pg 88

But He Found It Did Make A Difference,  A Profoundly Disturbing

Difference. He Had Grown Insulated Against The Memory Of Sophie Carr

Tugging At His Heartstrings As The Magnetic North Pulls On The Compass

Needle. He Had Grown Free Of Both Thought And Hope Of Her. There Had

Been Too Many Other Vital Things Pressing Upon Him These Months Of

Adventure In Toil,  Too Many Undeniable,  Everyday Factors Of Living

Present At Every Turn,  Hourly Insistent Upon Being Coped With,  For Him

To Nurse Old Sad Dreams And Longings. So He Had Come At Last To Think Of

That Passionate Yearning As A Disease Which Had Run Its Course.

 

Now,  To His Dismay,  It Recurred In All Its Old Virulence,  At A Mere

Glimpse Of Sophie. The Floodgates Of Memory Loosed Bitter Waters Upon

Him,  To Make His Heart Heavy And Spoil His Days Of Passive Content. It

Angered Him To Be So Hopelessly Troubled. But He Could Not Gainsay The

Fact.

 

It Made San Francisco A Dreary Waste. Try As He Would He Could Not Keep

Sophie Carr From Being The Sun Around Which The Lesser Nebulae Of His

Thought Continually Revolved. He Could No More Help A Wistful Lookout

For Her Upon San Francisco's Streets Than He Could Help Breathing. Upon

The Rolling Phalanxes Of Motor Cars His Gaze Would Turn With Watchful

Expectation,  And He Took To Scanning The Faces Of The Passing Thousands,

A Lonely,  Shy Man With A Queer Glow In His Eyes. That,  Of Course,  Was

Only In Moments Of Forgetfulness. Then He Would Pull Himself Together

With A Resentful Irritation And Tax Himself With Being A Weak Fool And

Stalk Along About His Business.

 

But His Business Had Lost Its Savor,  Just As His Soul Had Lost Its

Slowly-Won Serenity. His Business Had No Importance To Any Save Himself.

It Had Been Merely To Winter Decently And Economically With An Eye

Chapter 11 (A Meeting By The Way) Pg 89

Cocked For Such Opportunities Of Self-Betterment As Came His Way,  And

Failing Material Opportunity In This Bagdad Of The Pacific Coast To Make

The Most Of His Enforced Idleness.

 

And Now The Magic Of The Colorful City Had Departed Along With The Magic

Of The Books. The Downtown Streets Ceased To Be A Wonderful Human

Panorama Which He Loved To Watch. The Hushed Reading Room Where He Had

Passed So Many Contented Hours Was Haunted By A Presence That Obscured

The Printed Page. He Would Find Himself Staring Absently At An Open

Book,  The Words Blurred And Overlaid With Mental Pictures Of Lone Moose,

Of Sophie Sitting On The Creek Bank,  Of His Unfinished Church,  Forlorn

And Gaunt In The Winter Snows And The Summer Silences,  Of Tommy Ashe

Trudging Across The Meadow,  Gun In Hand,  Of Old Sam Carr In His

Moosehide Chair,  Of The Indians,  The Forest,  Of All That Goes To Make

The Northern Wilderness--And Of Himself Moving Through It All,  An

Unheroic Figure,  A Man Who Had Failed In His Work,  In His Love,  In

Everything.

 

That,  Chiefly,  Was What Stirred Him Anew To Action,  A Suddenly Acute

Sense Of Failure,  Of A Consciousness That He Was Drifting Instead Of

Doing. He Found Himself Jarred Out Of The Even Tenor Of His Way. San

Francisco Filled Him With Dissatisfaction Now,  Knowing That She Was

There. If The Mere Knowledge That Sophie Carr Dwelt Somewhere Within The

City Boundaries Had Power To Make A Mooning Idiot Of Him,  He Said To

Himself Testily,  Then He Had Better Get Out,  Go Somewhere,  Get Down To

Work,  Be At His Fixed Purpose Of Proving His Mettle Upon An Obdurate

World,  And Get Her Out Of His Mind In The Process. He Couldn't Tune His

Whole Existence To A Sentimental Craving For Any Woman--Even Such A

Woman As Sophie. He Would,  In The Moment Of Such Emotional Genuflexions,

Have Dissented With Cynical Bitterness From The Poetic Dictum That It

Was Better To Have Loved And Lost Than Never To Have Loved At All.

 

Spurred By This Mood He Acted Instinctively Rather Than With Reasoned

Purpose. He Gave Up His Room,  Packed His Clothes And Betook Himself Upon

A Work-Seeking Pilgrimage Among The Small,  Interior Towns.

 

He Left San Francisco In March. By May He Had Circulated All Through The

Lower San Joaquin And Farther Abroad To The San Juan,  And Had Turned His

Face Again Toward San Francisco Bay. At Various Jobs He Had Tried His

Hand,  Making A Living Such As It Was,  Acquiring In Addition Thereto A

Store Of First-Hand Experience In The Social And Monetary Values Of

Itinerant Labor. He Conceded That Such Experience Might Somehow Be Of

Use To A Man. But He Had Had Enough Of It. He Had A Feeling Of Having

Tested California For His Purposes--And Of Finding It Wanting.

 

He Had Made Up His Mind To Double On His Tracks,  To Go North Again,

Specifically To British Columbia,  Partly Because Tommy Was There,

Chiefly Because Vancouver Was A Growing Place On The Edge Of A Vast,

Newly Opened Interior. He Knew That If No Greater Thing Offered,  From

That Center There Was Always The Avenue Of The Woods. He Could Qualify

In That Line. And In The Woods Even A Common Axeman Exacted And Received

More Democratic Treatment Than In This Older Region Where Industry Ran

In Fixed Channels,  Where Class Lines Were More Rigidly Drawn,  Where

Common Labor Was Cheap And Unprivileged.

 

He Hadn't Been Getting On In Those Three Months. He Had Less Money Than

When He Started Out--About Enough Now To Get Him Up North And Leave A

Hundred Dollars Or So For Emergencies. No,  Decidedly He Wasn't Getting

Chapter 11 (A Meeting By The Way) Pg 90

On--He Was Going Down,  He Told Himself. It Dismayed Him A Little. It

Wasn't Enough To Be Big And Strong And Willing. A Mule Could Be That.

The Race Was Not To The Swift Or The Strong. Not In Modern Industry,

With Its Bewildering Complexities. No,  It Fell To The Trained,  The

Specialist In Knowledge,  The Man Who Could Do Something More

Efficiently,  With Greater Precision Than His Fellows.

 

He Could Not Do That--Not Yet. And So There Was Nothing In California

For Him,  He Decided. A Man Could No Longer Go West And Grow Up With The

Country--But He Could Go North.

 

Thompson Was Sitting On The Border Of A Road That Runs Between San

Mateo And The City When He Definitely Committed Himself To Doubling On

His Tracks,  To Counteracting The Trick Of Fate Which Had Sent Him To A

Place Where He Did Not Wish To Go. He Was Looking Between The Trees And

Out Over An Undulating Valley Floored With Emerald Fields,  Studded With

Oaks,  Backed By The Bare Hamiltons To The East,  And Westward By The

Redwood-Clad Ruggedness Of The Santa Cruz Range. And He Was Not Seeing

This Loveliness Of Landscape At All. He Was Looking Far Beyond And His

Eyes Were Full Of Miles Upon Miles Of Untrodden Forest,  The Sanctuary Of

Silence And Furtive Living Things,  Of Mountains That Lifted Snowy Spires

To Heaven High Over The Glaciers That Scarred Their Sides. And The

Smells That For A Moment Rose Strongly In His Nostrils Were Not The

Smells Of Palm And Gum And Poppy-Dotted Fields,  But Odors Of Pine And

Spruce And The Smell Of Birchwood Burning In Campfires. He Came Out Of

That Queer Projection Of Mind Into Great Distance With A Slight Shake Of

His Head And A Feeling Of Wonder. It Had Been Very Vivid. And It Dawned

Upon Him That For A Minute He Had Grown Sentimentally Lonely For That

Grim,  Unconquered Region Where He Had First Learned The Pangs Of

Loneliness,  Where He Had Suffered In Body And Spirit Until He Had

Learned A Lesson He Would Never Forget While He Lived.

 

The Road Itself,  Abutting Upon Stately Homes And Modest Bungalows Behind

A Leafy Screen Of Australian Gums,  Ran Straight As An Arrow Down The

Peninsula Toward The City And The Bay,  A Broad,  Smoothly Asphalted

Highway Upon That Road Where The Feet Of The Franciscan Priests Had

Traced The _Camino Real_. And Down This Highway Both North And South

There Passed Many Motor Cars Swiftly And Silently Or With Less Speed And

More Noise,  According To Their Quality And Each Driver's Mood.

 

Thompson Rested,  Watching Them From The Grassy Level Beneath A Tree. He

Rather Regretted Now The Impulse Which Had Made Him Ship His Bag And

Blanket Roll From The Last Town,  And Undertake This Solitary Hike. He

Had Merely Humored A Whim To Walk Through Orchards And Green Fields In