from the father
of her girl--and how that separation had been brought about, whether by
death, which can be sometimes merciful, or by the merciless pressure of
conventions, is a mystery to me. From the little which Stein (who knew
so many stories) had let drop in my hearing, I am convinced that she was
no ordinary woman. Her own father had been a white; a high official;
one of the brilliantly endowed men who are not dull enough to nurse a
success, and whose careers so often end under a cloud. I suppose she too
must have lacked the saving dullness--and her career ended in Patusan.
Our common fate . . . for where is the man--I mean a real sentient
man--who does not remember vaguely having been deserted in the fullness
of possession by some one or something more precious than life? . . .
our common fate fastens upon the women with a peculiar cruelty. It
does not punish like a master, but inflicts lingering torment, as if to
gratify a secret, unappeasable spite. One would think that, appointed
to rule on earth, it seeks to revenge itself upon the beings that come
nearest to rising above the trammels of earthly caution; for it is
only women who manage to put at times into their love an element just
palpable enough to give one a fright--an extra-terrestrial touch. I ask
myself with wonder--how the world can look to them--whether it has the
shape and substance _we_ know, the air _we_ breathe! Sometimes I fancy
it must be a region of unreasonable sublimities seething with the
excitement of their adventurous souls, lighted by the glory of all
possible risks and renunciations. However, I suspect there are very few
women in the world, though of course I am aware of the multitudes of
mankind and of the equality of sexes--in point of numbers, that is. But
I am sure that the mother was as much of a woman as the daughter seemed
to be. I cannot help picturing to myself these two, at first the young
woman and the child, then the old woman and the young girl, the awful
sameness and the swift passage of time, the barrier of forest, the
solitude and the turmoil round these two lonely lives, and every word
spoken between them penetrated with sad meaning. There must have
been confidences, not so much of fact, I suppose, as of innermost
feelings--regrets--fears--warnings, no doubt: warnings that the younger
did not fully understand till the elder was dead--and Jim came along.
Then I am sure she understood much--not everything--the fear mostly,