houses, each exactly like the next, each with its
awful bow window, and all needing a new coat of paint. So are the lives
inside. And there are miles of them. There are just four sorts of people
in this town--ignoring its underworld--that get any real enjoyment out
of life: those that are wealthy enough to command constant variety; the
careless clever Bohemians with their wits always on the alert and plenty
of congenial work; the club women; the laboring class, that get the
highest wages on earth and are as happy as beasts of the field on a
bright warm winter's day like this. But oh, the thousands and thousands
of mere mortals that are mired in their ruts and no longer even plan to
climb out! There is no more chance for those people--who are in some
little business, or are clerks, or small professional men, or fractions
in the great corporations--to mention but a few examples--no more chance
for them than in any of the older cities; for San Francisco has gone at
such a pace that she has as many ruts as if centuries had plowed her,
and those in the ruts might as well be on Lone Mountain. They--the women
particularly--have the tedium vitae in an acuter form than you have seen
anywhere in Europe, for over there the centuries have mellowed and
enriched life; there is something besides this eternal climate which can
never take the place of art. Of course there was a day when every man
had an equal chance, but that day has passed long since. And then in
Europe," she went on, the minor note in her voice becoming more
plaintive, although she was too well bred to whine, "you are always near
some other place. You can save your money for a few months and command a
change of scene. Here you have to travel three thousand miles to find a
change of accent. I often have the delusion that California is on Mars.
And the climate! Day after day, when I walk down that shabby hill with
menus revolving in my head, or take the boat across that sparkling
bay--I have customers all about--I long for the extremes of seasons they
have in the East--fogs and four months of intermittent rain are only an
irritant to one's natural love of variety. I long for the excitement of
wading through snow drifts. I wish we would have a war. I should love
to hear the shells hissing overhead, to see great buildings collapse,
people rushing about in a mad state of excitement--anything,
anything, to relieve the monotony of this isolated bit of
semi-civilization--where,