Kempton-Wace Letters E-Book

Jack London

• Herausgeber: ShadowPOET
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Yesterday I wrote formally, rising to the occasion like the conventional happy father rather than the man who believes in the miracle and lives for it. Yesterday I stinted myself. I took you in my arms, glad of what is and stately with respect for the fullness of your manhood. It is to-day that I let myself leap into yours in a passion of joy. I dwell on what has come to pass and inflate myself with pride in your fulfilment, more as a mother would, I think, and she your mother.
But why did you not write before? After all, the great event was not when you found your offer of marriage accepted, but when you found you had fallen in love. Then was your hour. Then was the time for congratulation, when the call was first sounded and the reveille of Time and about fell upon your soul and the march to another's destiny was begun. It is always more important to love than to be loved. I wish it had been vouchsafed me to be by when your spirit of a sudden grew willing to bestow itself without question or let or hope of
return, when the self-broke up and you grew fain to beat out your strength in praise and service for the woman who was soaring high in the blue wastes. You have known her long, and you must have been hers long, yet no word of her and of your love reached me. It was not kind to be silent.
Barbara spoke yesterday of your fastidiousness, and we told each other that you had gained a triumph of happiness in your love, for you are not of those who cheat themselves. You choose rigorously, straining for the heart of the end as do all rigorists who are also hedonists. Because we are in possession of this bit of data as to your temperamental cosmos we can congratulate you with the more abandon. Oh, Herbert, do you know that this is a rampant spring, and that on leaving Barbara I tramped out of the confines into the green, happier, it almost seems, than I have ever been? Do you know that because you love a woman and she loves you, and that because you are swept along by certain forces, that I am happy and feel myself in sight of my portion of immortality on earth, far more than because of my books, dear lad, far more?
I wish I could fly England and get to you. Should I have a shade less of you than formerly, if we were together now? From your too much green of wealth, a barrenness of friendship? It does not matter; what is her gain cannot be my loss. One power is mine,—without hindrance, in freedom and in right, to say to Ellen's son, "Godspeed!" to place Hester Stebbins's hand in his, and bid them forth to the sunrise, into the glory of day!
Ever your devoted father, DANE KEMPTON.

Leseprobe

LONDON,

KEMPTON-WACELETTERS

I

FROMDANEKEMPTONTOHERBERTWACE

3AQUEEN'SROAD,CHELSEA,S.W.

August14,19—.

Yesterday I wrote formally, rising to the occasion like the conventional happyfatherratherthanthemanwhobelievesinthemiracleandlivesforit.Yesterday I stinted myself. I took you in my arms, glad of what is and statelywithrespectforthefullnessofyourmanhood.Itisto-daythatIletmyselfleapinto yours in a passion of joy. I dwell on what has come to pass and inflatemyself with pride in your fulfilment, more as a mother would, I think, and sheyourmother.

But why did you not write before? After all, the great event was not when youfound your offer of marriage accepted, but when you found you had fallen inlove. Then was your hour. Then was the time for congratulation, when the callwas first sounded and the reveille of Time and about fell upon your soul andthe march to another's destiny was begun. It is always more important to lovethantobeloved.Iwishithadbeenvouchsafedmetobebywhenyourspiritofasuddengrewwillingtobestowitselfwithoutquestionorletorhopeof

return, when the self-broke up and you grew fain to beat out your strength inpraise and service for the woman who was soaring high in the blue wastes.You have known her long, and you must have been hers long, yet no word ofherandofyourlovereachedme.Itwasnotkindtobesilent.

Barbara spoke yesterday of your fastidiousness, and we told each other thatyou had gained a triumph of happiness in your love, for you are not of thosewhocheatthemselves.Youchooserigorously,strainingfortheheartoftheendas do all rigorists who are also hedonists. Because we are in possession of thisbit of data as to your temperamental cosmos we can congratulate you with themore abandon. Oh, Herbert, do you know that this is a rampant spring, andthatonleavingBarbaraItrampedoutoftheconfinesintothegreen,happier,italmost seems, than I have ever been? Do you know that because you love awoman and she loves you, and that because you are swept along by certainforces, that I am happy and feel myself in sight of my portion of immortalityonearth,farmorethanbecauseofmybooks,dearlad,farmore?

I wish I could fly England and get to you. Should I have a shade less of youthan formerly, if we were together now? From your too much green of wealth,a barrenness of friendship? It does not matter; what is her gain cannot be myloss. One power is mine,—without hindrance, in freedom and in right, to sayto Ellen's son, "Godspeed!" to place Hester Stebbins's hand in his, and bidthemforthtothesunrise,intothegloryofday!

Everyourdevotedfather,DANEKEMPTON.

II

FROMHERBERTWACETODANEKEMPTON

THERIDGE,

BERKELEY,CALIFORNIA.

September3,19—.

Here I am, back in the old quarters once more, with the old afternoon climbacross the campus and up into the sky, up to the old rooms, the old books, andtheoldview.Youpoorfog-begirtDaneKempton,couldyoubuthaveloungedwith me on the window couch, an hour past, and watched the light pass out ofthe day through the Golden Gate and the night creep over the Berkeley Hillsanddownoutoftheeast!WhyshouldyoulingeronthereinLondontown!Wegrow away from each other, it seems—you with your wonder-singing, I withmyjoyfulscience.

Poesy and economics! Alack! alack! How did I escape you, Dane, when mindandmoodyoumasteredme?Theaugurieswerefair.I,too,shouldhavebeenasinger, and lo, I strive for science. All my boyhood was singing, what of you;and my father was a singer, too, in his own fine way. Dear to me is yourlikening of him to Waring.—"What's become of Waring?" He was Waring. Icanthinkofhimonlyasonewhowentaway,"choselandtravelorseafaring."

Gwynne says I am sometimes almost a poet—Gwynne, you know, ArthurGwynne, who has come to live with me at The Ridge. "If it were not for yourdismalscience,"heissuretoadd;andtofirehimIlayittothedefectsofearlytraining. I know he thinks that I never half appreciated you, and that I do notappreciate you now. If you will recollect, you praised his verses once. Hecherishesthatpraiseamongsthissweetesttreasures.PoordeargoodoldGwynne,tender,sensitive,shrinking,withthefaceofaseraphandtheheartofamaid.Neverweretwomenmoreincongruouslycompanioned.Ilovehimforhimself. He tolerates me, I do secretly believe, because of you. He longs tomeetyou,—heknewyouwellthroughmyfather,—andweoftentalkyouover.BesureateveryopportunityItearoffyourhaloandtrundleitabout.Trustme,youreceivescantcourtesy.

How I wander on. My pen is unruly after the long vacation; my thought yetwayward, what of the fever of successful wooing. And besides, ... how shall Isay?... such was the gracious warmth of your letter, of both your letters, that Iam at a loss. I feel weak, inadequate. It almost seems as though you had madeademanduponsomethingthatisnotinme.Ah,youpoets!Itwouldseemyour delight in my marriage were greater than mine. In my present mood, it isyouwhoareyoung,youwholove;Iwhohavelivedandamold.

Yes, I am going to be married. At this present moment, I doubt not, a millionmen and women are saying the same thing. Hewers of wood and drawers ofwater,princesandpotentates,shy-shrinkingmaidensandbrazen-facedhussies,allsaying,"Iamgoingtobemarried."Andalllookingforwardtoitasacrisisintheirlives?No.Afterall,marriageisthewayoftheworld.Considered biologically, it is an institution necessary for the perpetuation ofthe species. Why should it be a crisis? These million men and women willmarry, and the work of the world go on just as it did before. Shuffle themabout,andtheworkoftheworldwouldyetgoon.

True, a month ago it did seem a crisis. I wrote you as much. It did seem adisturbing element in my life-work. One cannot view with equanimity thatwhich appears to be totally disruptive of one's dear little system of living. Butit only appeared so; I lacked perspective, that was all. As I look upon it now,everythingfitswellandallwillrunsmoothlyIamsure.

You know I had two years yet to work for my Doctorate. I still have them. Asyousee,Iambacktotheoldquarters,settleddownintheoldgroove,

hammering away at the old grind. Nothing is changed. And besides my ownstudies,IhavetakenupanassistantinstructorshipintheDepartmentofEconomics. It is an ambitious course, and an important one. I don't know howtheyevercametoconfideittome,orhowIfoundthetemeritytoattemptit,—whichisneitherherenorthere.Itisallagreed.Hesterisasensiblegirl.

Theengagementistobelong.Ishallcontinuemycareerascharted.Twoyearsfromnow,whenIshallhavebecomeaDoctorofSocialSciences(andcandidate for numerous other things), I shall also become a benedict. Mymarriageandthepresumablynecessaryhoneymoonchimeinwiththesummervacation. There is no disturbing element even there. Oh, we are very practical,HesterandI.Andwearebothstrongenoughtoleadeachourownlives.

Whichremindsmethatyouhavenotaskedabouther.First,letmeshockyou

—she, too, is a scientist. It was in my undergraduate days that we met, and erethe half-hour struck we were quarrelling felicitously over Weismann and theneo-Darwinians. I was at Berkeley at the time, a cocksure junior; and she, farmaturerasafreshman,wasatStanford,carryingmoreculturewithherintoheruniversitythanisgiventheaveragestudenttocarryout.

Next,andhereyourarmsopentoher,sheisapoet.Pre-eminentlysheisapoet

—this must be always understood. She is the greater poet, I take it, in thisdawning twentieth century, because she is a scientist; not in spite of being ascientist as some would hold. How shall I describe her? Perhaps as a GeorgeEliot, fused with an Elizabeth Barrett, with a hint of Huxley and a trace ofKeats. I may say she is something like all this, but I must say she issomethingother and different. There is about her a certain lightsomeness, a glow or flashalmost Latin or oriental, or perhaps Celtic. Yes, that must be it—Celtic. Butthe high-stomached Norman is there and the stubborn Saxon. Her quicknessandfineaudacityarecheckedandpoised,asitwere,bythatcertainconservatism which gives stability to purpose and power to achievement. Sheisunafraid,andwide-lookingandfar-looking,butsheisnotover-looking.TheSaxon grapples with the Celt, and the Norman forces the twain to do what theone would not dream of doing and what the other would dream beyond andnever do. Do you catch me? Her most salient charm, is I think, her perfectpoise,herexquisiteadjustment.

Altogether she is a most wonderful woman, take my word for it. And after allsheisdescribedvicariously.Thoughshehaspublishednothingandisexceeding shy, I shall send you some of her work. There will you find andknow her. She is waiting for stronger voice and sings softly as yet. But herswill be no minor note, no middle flight. She is—well, she is Hester. In twoyearsweshallbemarried.Twoyears,Dane.Surelyyouwillbewithus.

Onethingmore;inyourletteracertainundertonewhichIcouldnotfailto

detect. A shade less of me than formerly?—I turn and look into your face—Waring'shandiworkyouremember—hispainter'sfancyofyouinthosegoldendays when I stood on the brink of the world, and you showed me the delightsof the world and the way of my feet therein. So I turn and look, and look andwonder. A shade less of me, of you? Poesy and economics! Where lies theblame?

HERBERT.

III

FROMDANEKEMPTONTOHERBERTWACE

LONDON,

September30,19—.

It is because you know not what you do that I cannot forgive you. Could youknow that your letter with its catalogue of advantages and arrangements mustoffendmeasmuchasitbelies(letushope)youandthewomanofyourlove,Iwould pardon the affront of it upon us all, and ascribe the unseemly want ofwarmth to reserve or to the sadness which grips the heart when joy is toopalpitant. But something warns me that you are unaware of the chill yourwordsbreathe,andthatisalapsewhichitisimpossibletomeetwithindulgence.

"He does not love her," was Barbara's quick decision, and she laid the openletter down with a definiteness which said that you, too, are laid out and laidlow. Your sister's very wrists can be articulate. However, I laughed at her andshe soon joined me. We do not mean to be extravagant with our fears. Whoshall prescribe the letters of lovers to their sisters and foster-fathers? Yet thereare some things their letters should be incapable of saying, and amongst themthatloveisnotacrisisandarebirth,butthatitiscommonasthecommonplace,ahitormissaffairwhich"shuffling"couldnotaffect.

Barbara showed me your note to her. "Had I written like this of myself andEarl—"

"Youcouldnot,"Iobjected.

"Then Herbert should have been as little able to do it," she deduced withemphasis. Here I might have told her that men and women are races apart, butnoonetalkscanttoBarbara.SoIdidnotconsoleher,anditstandsagainstyouinourmindsthatonthiscriticaloccasionyouhavebaffleduswithcoldness.

An absence of six years, broken into twice by a brief few months, must workchanges.WhenBarbaracalledyourletterunnatural,sheforgothowlittleshe

knows what is natural to you. She and I have been wont to predetermine you,your character, foothold, and outlook, by—say by the fact that you knew yourWordsworth and that you knew him without being able to take for yourself hisausterepeace.Youthwhichlivesbyhopeisrivenbyunrest.

"Imadenovows;vowsweremadeforme,Bondunknowntomewasgiven

ThatIshouldbe,elsesinninggently,Adedicatedspirit."

ThatpalesunriseseenfromMt.Tamalpaisandyourvoicevibranttofierceness on the "else sinning gently"—to me the splendour of rose on piled-up ridges of mist spoke all for you, so dear have you always been. It rested onthepossiblewonderofyourlife.ItthrewyouintothescintillantDawnwithanabandonmeettoasonofWaring.

Tell me, do you still read your Wordsworth on your knees? I am bent withregret for the time when your mind had no surprises for me, when the dayswere flushed halcyon with my hope in you. I resent your development if it isbecauseofitthatyouspeakprosaicallyofaprosaicmarriageandofahoneymoon simultaneous with the Degree. I think you are too well pleasedwiththesimultaneousness.

Yet the fact of the letter is fair. It cannot be that the soul of it is not. HesterStebbins is a poet. I lean forward and think it out as I did some days ago whenthe news came. I conjure up the look of love. If the woman is content (howmuch more than content the feeling she bounds with in knowing you hers assheisyours),whatbettertestthatalliswell?Iconjureupthelookoflove.Itisthusatmeetingandthusatparting.Evenhere,to-night,whenallischillandhard to understand, I catch the flash and the warmth, and what I see restoresyou to me, but how deep the plummet of my mind needed to sound before itreached you. It is because you permitted yourself to speak when silence hadexpressedyoubetter.

Show me the ideally real Hester Stebbins, the spark of fire which is she. Thestorms have not broken over her head. She will laugh and make poetry of herlaughter.Ifbeforeshemetyoushewept,that,too,willhelpthesmiling.ThereislaughterwhichistheechoofaMisereresobbedbytheages.Menchuckleinthe irony of pain, and they smile cold, lessoned smiles in resignation; theylaugh in forgetfulness and they laugh lest they die of sadness. A shrug of theshoulders, a widening of the lips, a heaving forth of sound, and the life issaved. The remedy is as drastic as are the drugs used for epilepsy, which inquelling the spasm bring idiocy to the patient. If we are made idiots by ourlaughter,wearepayingdearlyfortheprivilegeofcontinuinginlife.

Hestershalllaughbecausesheisgladandmusttellherjoy,andshewillnotloseitinthetelling.Greetherformeandhastentoproveyourself,for

"The Poet, gentle creature that he is,Hath like the Lover, his unruly times;Hisfitswhenheisneithersicknorwell,

ThoughnodistressbenearhimbuthisownUnmanageablethoughts."

YouwilljudgebythisletterthatIamneithersicknorwell,andthatIreachfora distress which is not near. If I were Merchant rather than Poet, it would beotherwisewithme.

DANE.

IV

FROMHERBERTWACETODANEKEMPTON

THERIDGE,

BERKELEY,CALIFORNIA.

October27,19—.

DoIstillreadmyWordsworthonmyknees?Well,wemayaswellhaveitout.I have foreseen this day so long and shunned it that now I meet it almost withextended hands. No, I do not read my Wordsworth on my knees. My mind isfilled with other things. I have not the time. I am not the Herbert Wace of sixyears gone. It is fair that you should know this; fair, also, that you shouldknow the Herbert Wace of six years gone was not quite the lad you deemedhim.

There is no more pathetic and terrible thing than the prejudice of love. Bothyou and I have suffered from it. Six years ago, ay, and before that, I felt andresented the growing difference between us. When under your spell, it seemedthat I was born to lisp in numbers and devote myself to singing, that the worldwas good and all of it fit for singing. But away from you, even then, doubtsfaced me, and I knew in vague fashion that we lived in different worlds. Atfirst in vague fashion, I say; and when with you again, your spell dominatedme and I could not question. You were true, you were good, I argued, all thatwas wonderful and glorious; therefore, you were also right. You mastered mewithyourcharm,asyouwerewonttomasterthosewholovedyou.

ButtherecametimeswhenyoursympathyfailedmeandIstoodaloneon

outlooks I had achieved alone. There was no response from you. I could nothear your voice. I looked down upon a real world; you were caught up in abeautiful cloudland and shut away from me. Possibly it was because life ofitself appealed to you, while to me appealed the mechanics of life. But be it asit may, yours was a world of ideas and fancies, mine a world of things andfacts.

Enters here the prejudice of love. It was the lad that discovered our differenceand concealed; it was the man who was blind and could not discover. Thereweerred,manandboy;andhere,bothmennow,wemakeallwellagain.

Let me be explicit. Do you remember the passion with which I read the"Intellectual Development of Europe?" I understood not the tithe of it, but Iwas thrilled. My common sense was thrilled, I suppose; but it was all veryjoyous,grippingholdofthetangibleworldforthefirsttime.AndwhenIcameto you, warm with the glow of adventure, you looked blankly, then smiledindulgently and did not answer. You regarded my ardour complacently. Apassing humour of adolescence, you thought; and I thought: "Dane does notread his Draper on his knees." Wordsworth was great to me; Draper was greatalso. You had no patience with him, and I know now, as I felt then, yourconsistentrevoltagainsthismaterialisticphilosophy.

Only the other day you complained of a letter of mine, calling it cold andanalytical. That I should be cold and analytical despite all the prodding andpressingandmouldingIhavereceivedatyourhands,andthehandsofWaring,marks only more clearly our temperamental difference; but it does not markthat one or the other of us is less a dedicated spirit. If I have wandered awayfrom the warmth of poesy and become practical, have you not remained andbecomeconfirmedinallthatisbeautifullyimpractical?IfIhaveadventuredinanewworldofcommonthings,haveyounotlingeredintheoldworldofgreatand impossible things? If I have shivered in the gray dawn of a new day, haveyou not crouched over the dying embers of the fire of yesterday? Ah, Dane,youcannotrekindlethatfire.Thewhirloftheworldscattersitsasheswideand far, like volcanic dust, to make beautiful crimson sunsets for a time andthentovanish.

None the less are you a dedicated spirit, priest that you are of a dying faith.Your prayers are futile, your altars crumbling, and the light flickers and dropsdown into night. Poetry is empty these days, empty and worthless and dead.All the old-world epic and lyric-singing will not put this very miserable earthof ours to rights. So long as the singers sing of the things of yesterday,glorifying the things of yesterday and lamenting their departure, so long willpoetry be a vain thing and without avail. The old world is dead, dead andburiedalongwithitsheroesandHelensandknightsandladiesandtournamentsandpageants.Youcannotsingofthetruthandwonderofto-day

intermsofyesterday.Andnoonewilllistentoyoursingingtillyousingofto-dayintermsofto-day.

This is the day of the common man. Do you glorify the common man? This isthedayofthemachine.Whenhaveyousungofthemachine?Thecrusadesare here again, not the Crusades of Christ but the Crusades of the Machine—have you found motive in them for your song? We are crusading to-day, notfor the remission of sins, but for the abolition of sinning, of economic andindustrial sinning. The crusade to Christ's sepulchre was paltry compared withthe splendour and might of our crusade to-day toward manhood. There aremillions of us afoot. In the stillness of the night have you never listened to thetrampling of our feet and been caught up by the glory and the romance of it?Oh, Dane! Dane! Our captains sit in council, our heroes take the field, ourfighting men are buckling on their harness, our martyrs have already died, andyouareblindtoit,blindtoitall!

We have no poets these days, and perforce we are singing with our hands. Thewalkingdelegateisagreatersingerandafinersingerthanyou,DaneKempton. The cold, analytical economist, delving in the dynamics of society,ismoretheprophetthanyou.Thecarpenterathisbench,theblacksmithbyhisforge, the boiler-maker clanging and clattering, are all warbling more sweetlythan you. The sledge-wielder pours out more strength and certitude and joy inevery blow than do you in your whole sheaf of songs. Why, the very socialistagitator, hustled by the police on a street corner amid the jeers of the mob, hascaught the romance of to-day as you have not caught it and where you havemissedit.Heknowslifeandisliving.Areyouliving,DaneKempton?

Forgive me. I had begun to explain and reconcile our difference. I find I amlecturing and censuring you. In defending myself, I offend. But this I wish tosay: We are so made, you and I, that your function in life is to dream, mine towork. That you failed to make a dreamer of me is no cause for heartache andchagrin.Whatofmypracticalnatureandanalyticalmind,Ihavegeneralisedinmyownwayuponthedataoflifeandachievedadifferentcodefromyours.Yet I seek truth as passionately as you. I still believe myself to be a dedicatedspirit.

And what boots it, all of it? When the last word is said, we are two men, by athousand ties very dear to each other. There is room in our hearts for eachother as there is room in the world for both of us. Though we have manythings not in common, yet you are my dearest friend on earth, you who havebeenasecondfathertomeaswell.

Youhavelongmeritedthisexplanation,anditwascowardlyofmenottohavemade it before. My hope is that I have been sufficiently clear for you tounderstand.