XII
A year from the following June, and two days after her arrival in Menlo,Magdalena went into the middle woods. The great oaks were dusty already,their brilliant greens were dimming: but the depths of the woods werefull of the warm shimmer of summer, of the mysterious noises produced bycreatures never seen, by the very heat itself, perchance by the riotoussap in the young trees which had sprung to life from the roots of theirmighty parents.
Magdalena left the driveway and pushed in among the brush. Poison oakdid not affect her; and she separated the beautiful creeper fearlesslyuntil she reached a spot where she was as sure of being alone and unseenas if she had entered the bowels of the earth. She sat down on the warmdry ground and looked about her for a moment, glad in the sense ofabsolute freedom. Above the fragrant brush of many greens rose the oldtwisted oaks, a light breeze rustling their brittle leaves, their armslifted eagerly to the warm yellow bath from above. Near her was a highpile of branches and leaves, the home of a wood-rat. No sound came fromit, and mortal had nothing to fear from him. A few birds moved among theleaves, but the heat made them lazy, and they did not sing.
After a few moments, Magdalena's glance swept the wall of leaves thatsurrounded her; then she took a pencil and a roll of foolscap from herpocket. She had made up her mind that the time had come for her firstessay in fiction. For two years and a half she had studied and thoughtto this end; too reverent to criticise, but taking the creators'structures to pieces as best she could and giving all attention to partsand details.
She had had a nebulous idea in her mind for some time. It had troubledher that it did not assume definite form, but she trusted to thatinspiration of the pen of which she had read much.
Her hand trembled so that she could not write for a few moments. She putthe pencil down, not covering her face with her hands as a moredemonstrative girl would have done, but biting her lips. Her heart beatsuffocatingly. For the first time she fully realised what the power towrite would mean to her. Her religion had gone, that dear companion ofmany years; she had practised faithfully until six months ago, when shehad asked her teacher to tell her father that she could never becomeeven a third-rate musician; and Don Roberto had, after a caustic hour,concluded that he would "throw no more good money after bad;" she hadhad long and meaning conferences with her mirror, conjuring up phantasmsof the beautiful dead women of her race, and decided sadly that theworship of man was not for her. She had never talked for ten consecutiveminutes with a young man; but she had a woman's instincts, she had read,she had listened to the tales of her aunt, and she knew that what manmost valued in woman she did not possess. Her great position and thegraces she hoped to cultivate might gratify her ambitions in a measure,but they would not companion her soul. Books were left; but books aretoo heterogeneous an interest to furnish a vital one in life, a reasonfor being alive. She had read of the jealous absorption of art, of theintense exclusive love with which it inspired its votaries. She had readof the joys of creation, and her whole being had responded; she feltthat did her brain obey her will and shape itself to achievement, shetoo would know ecstasy and ask nothing more of life.
Her nerves settled, and she began to write. Her reading had beenconfined to the classics of the old world: not only had she not read amodern novel, but of the regnant lights of her own country, Mr. Howellsand Mr. James, she had never heard. She may have seen their names in the"Literary Bulletin" her bookseller sent her, but had probably gatheredthat they were biologists. There was no one to tell her that the actorsand happenings within her horizon were the proper substance for hercreative faculty. California had whispered to her, but she had notunderstood. Her intention was to write a story of England in the reignsof Oliver Cromwell and Charles the Second. The romance of Englandappealed to her irresistibly. The mass of virgin ore which lay at herhand did not provoke a flash of magnetism from her brain.
She wrote very slowly. An hour passed, and she had only covered a page.Her head ached a little from the intense concentration of mind. Herfingers were stiff. Finally, she laid her pencil aside and read what shehad written. It was a laboured introduction to the story, an attempt togive a picture of the times. She was only nineteen and a novice, but sheknew that what she had written was rubbish. It was a trite synopsis ofwhat she had read, of what everybody knew; and the English, althoughcorrect, was commonplace, the vocabulary cheap. She set her lips, toreit up, and began again. At the end of another hour she destroyed thesecond result.
Then she determined to skip the prologue for the present and begin thestory. For many long moments she sat staring into the brush, her brainplodding toward an opening scene, an opening sentence. At last she beganto write. She described the hero. He was walking down the greatstaircase of a baronial hall,--in which he had lain concealed,--and thecompany below were struck dumb with terror and amazement at theapparition. She got him to the middle of the stair; she described hiscostume with fidelity; she wrote of the temper of the people in thegreat hall. Then she dropped the pencil. What was to happen thereafterwas a blank.
She read what she had written. It was lifeless. It was not fiction. Theleast of Helena's letters was more virile and objective than this.
Again that mysterious indefinable presentiment assailed her. It was thefirst time that it had come since that night she had stood on thebalcony and opened her brain to literary desire. Had that presentimentmeant anything since compassed? Her father's cruel treatment? Herterrible experience in the street of painted women? Her illness? Theloss of her religion? It was none of these things. So far, it had notbeen fulfilled; and it had struck its warning note again. She shivered,then discovered that the yellow light was no longer about her, and thather head ached. She rose stiffly and put the torn scraps of paper in herpocket. As she left, she cast a curious glance about her retreat, notknowing what prompted it. The scent of newly upturned earth came to hernostrils; a bird flew down on the rat's nest, starting along the sides ashower of loose earth; the frogs were chanting hoarsely.
The Californians Page 12
