The House of Pride

by Jack London

Percival Ford wondered why he had come. He did not dance. He didnot care much for army people. Yet he knew them all--gliding andrevolving there on the broad lanai of the Seaside, the officers intheir fresh-starched uniforms of white, the civilians in white andblack, and the women bare of shoulders and arms. After two years inHonolulu the Twentieth was departing to its new station in Alaska,and Percival Ford, as one of the big men of the Islands, could nothelp knowing the officers and their women.But between knowing and liking was a vast gulf. The army womenfrightened him just a little. They were in ways quite differentfrom the women he liked best--the elderly women, the spinsters andthe bespectacled maidens, and the very serious women of all ageswhom he met on church and library and kindergarten committees, whocame meekly to him for contributions and advice. He ruled thosewomen by virtue of his superior mentality, his great wealth, and thehigh place he occupied in the commercial baronage of Hawaii. And hewas not afraid of them in the least. Sex, with them, was notobtrusive. Yes, that was it. There was in them something else, ormore, than the assertive grossness of life. He was fastidious; heacknowledged that to himself; and these army women, with their bareshoulders and naked arms, their straight-looking eyes, theirvitality and challenging femaleness, jarred upon his sensibilities.Nor did he get on better with the army men, who took life lightly,drinking and smoking and swearing their way through life andasserting the essential grossness of flesh no less shamelessly thantheir women. He was always uncomfortable in the company of the armymen. They seemed uncomfortable, too. And he felt, always, thatthey were laughing at him up their sleeves, or pitying him, ortolerating him. Then, too, they seemed, by mere contiguity, toemphasize a lack in him, to call attention to that in them which hedid not possess and which he thanked God he did not possess. Faugh!They were like their women!In fact, Percival Ford was no more a woman's man than he was a man'sman. A glance at him told the reason. He had a good constitution,never was on intimate terms with sickness, nor even mild disorders;but he lacked vitality. His was a negative organism. No blood witha ferment in it could have nourished and shaped that long and narrowface, those thin lips, lean cheeks, and the small, sharp eyes. Thethatch of hair, dust-coloured, straight and sparse, advertised theniggard soil, as did the nose, thin, delicately modelled, and justhinting the suggestion of a beak. His meagre blood had denied himmuch of life, and permitted him to be an extremist in one thingonly, which thing was righteousness. Over right conduct he ponderedand agonized, and that he should do right was as necessary to hisnature as loving and being loved were necessary to commoner clay.He was sitting under the algaroba trees between the lanai and thebeach. His eyes wandered over the dancers and he turned his headaway and gazed seaward across the mellow-sounding surf to theSouthern Cross burning low on the horizon. He was irritated by thebare shoulders and arms of the women. If he had a daughter he wouldnever permit it, never. But his hypothesis was the sheerestabstraction. The thought process had been accompanied by no innervision of that daughter. He did not see a daughter with arms andshoulders. Instead, he smiled at the remote contingency ofmarriage. He was thirty-five, and, having had no personalexperience of love, he looked upon it, not as mythical, but asbestial. Anybody could marry. The Japanese and Chinese coolies,toiling on the sugar plantations and in the rice-fields, married.They invariably married at the first opportunity. It was becausethey were so low in the scale of life. There was nothing else forthem to do. They were like the army men and women. But for himthere were other and higher things. He was different from them--from all of them. He was proud of how he happened to be. He hadcome of no petty love-match. He had come of lofty conception ofduty and of devotion to a cause. His father had not married forlove. Love was a madness that had never perturbed Isaac Ford. Whenhe answered the call to go to the heathen with the message of life,he had had no thought and no desire for marriage. In this they werealike, his father and he. But the Board of Missions was economical.With New England thrift it weighed and measured and decided thatmarried missionaries were less expensive per capita and moreefficacious. So the Board commanded Isaac Ford to marry.Furthermore, it furnished him with a wife, another zealous soul withno thought of marriage, intent only on doing the Lord's work amongthe heathen. They saw each other for the first time in Boston. TheBoard brought them together, arranged everything, and by the end ofthe week they were married and started on the long voyage around theHorn.Percival Ford was proud that he had come of such a union. He hadbeen born high, and he thought of himself as a spiritual aristocrat.And he was proud of his father. It was a passion with him. Theerect, austere figure of Isaac Ford had burned itself upon hispride. On his desk was a miniature of that soldier of the Lord. Inhis bedroom hung the portrait of Isaac Ford, painted at the timewhen he had served under the Monarchy as prime minister. Not thatIsaac Ford had coveted place and worldly wealth, but that, as primeminister, and, later, as banker, he had been of greater service tothe missionary cause. The German crowd, and the English crowd, andall the rest of the trading crowd, had sneered at Isaac Ford as acommercial soul-saver; but he, his son, knew different. When thenatives, emerging abruptly from their feudal system, with noconception of the nature and significance of property in land, wereletting their broad acres slip through their fingers, it was IsaacFord who had stepped in between the trading crowd and its prey andtaken possession of fat, vast holdings. Small wonder the tradingcrowd did not like his memory. But he had never looked upon hisenormous wealth as his own. He had considered himself God'ssteward. Out of the revenues he had built schools, and hospitals,and churches. Nor was it his fault that sugar, after the slump, hadpaid forty per cent; that the bank he founded had prospered into arailroad; and that, among other things, fifty thousand acres of Oahupasture land, which he had bought for a dollar an acre, grew eighttons of sugar to the acre every eighteen months. No, in all truth,Isaac Ford was an heroic figure, fit, so Percival Ford thoughtprivately, to stand beside the statue of Kamehameha I. in front ofthe Judiciary Building. Isaac Ford was gone, but he, his son,carried on the good work at least as inflexibly if not asmasterfully.He turned his eyes back to the lanai. What was the difference, heasked himself, between the shameless, grass-girdled hula dances andthe decollete dances of the women of his own race? Was there anessential difference? or was it a matter of degree?As he pondered the problem a hand rested on his shoulder."Hello, Ford, what are you doing here? Isn't this a bit festive?""I try to be lenient, Dr. Kennedy, even as I look on," Percival Fordanswered gravely. "Won't you sit down?"Dr. Kennedy sat down, clapping his palms sharply. A white-cladJapanese servant answered swiftly.Scotch and soda was Kennedy's order; then, turning to the other, hesaid:-"Of course, I don't ask you.""But I will take something," Ford said firmly. The doctor's eyesshowed surprise, and the servant waited. "Boy, a lemonade, please."The doctor laughed at it heartily, as a joke on himself, and glancedat the musicians under the hau tree."Why, it's the Aloha Orchestra," he said. "I thought they were withthe Hawaiian Hotel on Tuesday nights. Some rumpus, I guess."His eyes paused for a moment, and dwelt upon the one who was playinga guitar and singing a Hawaiian song to the accompaniment of all theinstruments.His face became grave as he looked at the singer, and it was stillgrave as he turned it to his companion."Look here, Ford, isn't it time you let up on Joe Garland? Iunderstand you are in opposition to the Promotion Committee'ssending him to the States on this surf-board proposition, and I'vebeen wanting to speak to you about it. I should have thought you'dbe glad to get him out of the country. It would be a good way toend your persecution of him.""Persecution?" Percival Ford's eyebrows lifted interrogatively."Call it by any name you please," Kennedy went on. "You've houndedthat poor devil for years. It's not his fault. Even you will admitthat.""Not his fault?" Percival Ford's thin lips drew tightly togetherfor the moment. "Joe Garland is dissolute and idle. He has alwaysbeen a wastrel, a profligate.""But that's no reason you should keep on after him the way you do.I've watched you from the beginning. The first thing you did whenyou returned from college and found him working on the plantation asoutside luna was to fire him--you with your millions, and he withhis sixty dollars a month.""Not the first thing," Percival Ford said judicially, in a tone hewas accustomed to use in committee meetings. "I gave him hiswarning. The superintendent said he was a capable luna. I had noobjection to him on that ground. It was what he did outside workinghours. He undid my work faster than I could build it up. Of whatuse were the Sunday schools, the night schools, and the sewingclasses, when in the evenings there was Joe Garland with hisinfernal and eternal tum-tumming of guitar and ukulele, his strongdrink, and his hula dancing? After I warned him, I came upon him--Ishall never forget it--came upon him, down at the cabins. It wasevening. I could hear the hula songs before I saw the scene. Andwhen I did see it, there were the girls, shameless in the moonlightand dancing--the girls upon whom I had worked to teach clean livingand right conduct. And there were three girls there, I remember,just graduated from the mission school. Of course I discharged JoeGarland. I know it was the same at Hilo. People said I went out ofmy way when I persuaded Mason and Fitch to discharge him. But itwas the missionaries who requested me to do so. He was undoingtheir work by his reprehensible example.""Afterwards, when he got on the railroad, your railroad, he wasdischarged without cause," Kennedy challenged."Not so," was the quick answer. "I had him into my private officeand talked with him for half an hour.""You discharged him for inefficiency?""For immoral living, if you please."Dr. Kennedy laughed with a grating sound. "Who the devil gave it toyou to be judge and jury? Does landlordism give you control of theimmortal souls of those that toil for you? I have been yourphysician. Am I to expect tomorrow your ukase that I give up Scotchand soda or your patronage? Bah! Ford, you take life tooseriously. Besides, when Joe got into that smuggling scrape (hewasn't in your employ, either), and he sent word to you, asked youto pay his fine, you left him to do his six months' hard labour onthe reef. Don't forget, you left Joe Garland in the lurch thattime. You threw him down, hard; and yet I remember the first dayyou came to school--we boarded, you were only a day scholar--you hadto be initiated. Three times under in the swimming tank--youremember, it was the regular dose every new boy got. And you heldback. You denied that you could swim. You were frightened,hysterical--""Yes, I know," Percival Ford said slowly. "I was frightened. Andit was a lie, for I could swim . . . And I was frightened.""And you remember who fought for you? who lied for you harder thanyou could lie, and swore he knew you couldn't swim? Who jumped intothe tank and pulled you out after the first under and was nearlydrowned for it by the other boys, who had discovered by that timethat you COULD swim?""Of course I know," the other rejoined coldly. "But a generous actas a boy does not excuse a lifetime of wrong living.""He has never done wrong to you?--personally and directly, I mean?""No," was Percival Ford's answer. "That is what makes my positionimpregnable. I have no personal spite against him. He is bad, thatis all. His life is bad--""Which is another way of saying that he does not agree with you inthe way life should be lived," the doctor interrupted."Have it that way. It is immaterial. He is an idler--""With reason," was the interruption, "considering the jobs out ofwhich you have knocked him.""He is immoral--""Oh, hold on now, Ford. Don't go harping on that. You are pure NewEngland stock. Joe Garland is half Kanaka. Your blood is thin.His is warm. Life is one thing to you, another thing to him. Helaughs and sings and dances through life, genial, unselfish,childlike, everybody's friend. You go through life like aperambulating prayer-wheel, a friend of nobody but the righteous,and the righteous are those who agree with you as to what is right.And after all, who shall say? You live like an anchorite. JoeGarland lives like a good fellow. Who has extracted the most fromlife? We are paid to live, you know. When the wages are too meagrewe throw up the job, which is the cause, believe me, of all rationalsuicide. Joe Garland would starve to death on the wages you getfrom life. You see, he is made differently. So would you starve onhis wages, which are singing, and love--""Lust, if you will pardon me," was the interruption.Dr. Kennedy smiled."Love, to you, is a word of four letters and a definition which youhave extracted from the dictionary. But love, real love, dewy andpalpitant and tender, you do not know. If God made you and me, andmen and women, believe me He made love, too. But to come back.It's about time you quit hounding Joe Garland. It is not worthy ofyou, and it is cowardly. The thing for you to do is to reach outand lend him a hand.""Why I, any more than you?" the other demanded. "Why don't youreach him a hand?""I have. I'm reaching him a hand now. I'm trying to get you not todown the Promotion Committee's proposition of sending him away. Igot him the job at Hilo with Mason and Fitch. I've got him half adozen jobs, out of every one of which you drove him. But never mindthat. Don't forget one thing--and a little frankness won't hurtyou--it is not fair play to saddle another fault on Joe Garland; andyou know that you, least of all, are the man to do it. Why, man,it's not good taste. It's positively indecent.""Now I don't follow you," Percival Ford answered. "You're up in theair with some obscure scientific theory of heredity and personalirresponsibility. But how any theory can hold Joe Garlandirresponsible for his wrongdoings and at the same time hold mepersonally responsible for them--more responsible than any one else,including Joe Garland--is beyond me.""It's a matter of delicacy, I suppose, or of taste, that preventsyou from following me," Dr. Kennedy snapped out. "It's all verywell, for the sake of society, tacitly to ignore some things, butyou do more than tacitly ignore.""What is it, pray, that I tacitly ignore!"Dr. Kennedy was angry. A deeper red than that of constitutionalScotch and soda suffused his face, as he answered:"Your father's son.""Now just what do you mean?""Damn it, man, you can't ask me to be plainer spoken than that. Butif you will, all right--Isaac Ford's son--Joe Garland--yourbrother."Percival Ford sat quietly, an annoyed and shocked expression on hisface. Kennedy looked at him curiously, then, as the slow minutesdragged by, became embarrassed and frightened."My God!" he cried finally, "you don't mean to tell me that youdidn't know!"As in answer, Percival Ford's cheeks turned slowly grey."It's a ghastly joke," he said; "a ghastly joke."The doctor had got himself in hand."Everybody knows it," he said. "I thought you knew it. And sinceyou don't know it, it's time you did, and I'm glad of the chance ofsetting you straight. Joe Garland and you are brothers--half-brothers.""It's a lie," Ford cried. "You don't mean it. Joe Garland's motherwas Eliza Kunilio." (Dr. Kennedy nodded.) "I remember her well,with her duck pond and taro patch. His father was Joseph Garland,the beach-comber." (Dr. Kennedy shook his head.) "He died only twoor three years ago. He used to get drunk. There's where Joe gothis dissoluteness. There's the heredity for you.""And nobody told you," Kennedy said wonderingly, after a pause."Dr. Kennedy, you have said something terrible, which I cannot allowto pass. You must either prove or, or . . . ""Prove it yourself. Turn around and look at him. You've got him inprofile. Look at his nose. That's Isaac Ford's. Yours is a thinedition of it. That's right. Look. The lines are fuller, but theyare all there."Percival Ford looked at the Kanaka half-breed who played under thehau tree, and it seemed, as by some illumination, that he was gazingon a wraith of himself. Feature after feature flashed up anunmistakable resemblance. Or, rather, it was he who was the wraithof that other full-muscled and generously moulded man. And hisfeatures, and that other man's features, were all reminiscent ofIsaac Ford. And nobody had told him. Every line of Isaac Ford'sface he knew. Miniatures, portraits, and photographs of his fatherwere passing in review through his mind, and here and there, overand again, in the face before him, he caught resemblances and vaguehints of likeness. It was devil's work that could reproduce theaustere features of Isaac Ford in the loose and sensuous featuresbefore him. Once, the man turned, and for one flashing instant itseemed to Percival Ford that he saw his father, dead and gone,peering at him out of the face of Joe Garland."It's nothing at all," he could faintly hear Dr. Kennedy saying,"They were all mixed up in the old days. You know that. You'veseen it all your life. Sailors married queens and begat princessesand all the rest of it. It was the usual thing in the Islands.""But not with my father," Percival Ford interrupted."There you are." Kennedy shrugged his shoulders. "Cosmic sap andsmoke of life. Old Isaac Ford was straitlaced and all the rest, andI know there's no explaining it, least of all to himself. Heunderstood it no more than you do. Smoke of life, that's all. Anddon't forget one thing, Ford. There was a dab of unruly blood inold Isaac Ford, and Joe Garland inherited it--all of it, smoke oflife and cosmic sap; while you inherited all of old Isaac's asceticblood. And just because your blood is cold, well-ordered, and well-disciplined, is no reason that you should frown upon Joe Garland.When Joe Garland undoes the work you do, remember that it is onlyold Isaac Ford on both sides, undoing with one hand what he doeswith the other. You are Isaac Ford's right hand, let us say; JoeGarland is his left hand."Percival Ford made no answer, and in the silence Dr. Kennedyfinished his forgotten Scotch and soda. From across the grounds anautomobile hooted imperatively."There's the machine," Dr. Kennedy said, rising. "I've got to run.I'm sorry I've shaken you up, and at the same time I'm glad. Andknow one thing, Isaac Ford's dab of unruly blood was remarkablysmall, and Joe Garland got it all. And one other thing. If yourfather's left hand offend you, don't smite it off. Besides, Joe isall right. Frankly, if I could choose between you and him to livewith me on a desert isle, I'd choose Joe."Little bare-legged children ran about him, playing, on the grass;but Percival Ford did not see them. He was gazing steadily at thesinger under the hau tree. He even changed his position once, toget closer. The clerk of the Seaside went by, limping with age anddragging his reluctant feet. He had lived forty years on theIslands. Percival Ford beckoned to him, and the clerk camerespectfully, and wondering that he should be noticed by PercivalFord."John," Ford said, "I want you to give me some information. Won'tyou sit down?"The clerk sat down awkwardly, stunned by the unexpected honour. Heblinked at the other and mumbled, "Yes, sir, thank you.""John, who is Joe Garland?"The clerk stared at him, blinked, cleared his throat, and saidnothing."Go on," Percival Ford commanded."Who is he?""You're joking me, sir," the other managed to articulate."I spoke to you seriously."The clerk recoiled from him."You don't mean to say you don't know?" he questioned, his questionin itself the answer."I want to know.""Why, he's--" John broke off and looked about him helplessly."Hadn't you better ask somebody else? Everybody thought you knew.We always thought . . . ""Yes, go ahead.""We always thought that that was why you had it in for him."Photographs and miniatures of Isaac Ford were trooping through hisson's brain, and ghosts of Isaac Ford seemed in the air about hint"I wish you good night, sir," he could hear the clerk saying, and hesaw him beginning to limp away."John," he called abruptly.John came back and stood near him, blinking and nervously moisteninghis lips."You haven't told me yet, you know.""Oh, about Joe Garland?""Yes, about Joe Garland. Who is he?""He's your brother, sir, if I say it who shouldn't.""Thank you, John. Good night.""And you didn't know?" the old man queried, content to linger, nowthat the crucial point was past."Thank you, John. Good night," was the response."Yes, sir, thank you, sir. I think it's going to rain. Good night,sir."Out of the clear sky, filled only with stars and moonlight, fell arain so fine and attenuated as to resemble a vapour spray. Nobodyminded it; the children played on, running bare-legged over thegrass and leaping into the sand; and in a few minutes it was gone.In the south-east, Diamond Head, a black blot, sharply defined,silhouetted its crater-form against the stars. At sleepy intervalsthe surf flung its foam across the sands to the grass, and far outcould be seen the black specks of swimmers under the moon. Thevoices of the singers, singing a waltz, died away; and in thesilence, from somewhere under the trees, arose the laugh of a womanthat was a love-cry. It startled Percival Ford, and it reminded himof Dr. Kennedy's phrase. Down by the outrigger canoes, where theylay hauled out on the sand, he saw men and women, Kanakas, reclininglanguorously, like lotus-eaters, the women in white holokus; andagainst one such holoku he saw the dark head of the steersman of thecanoe resting upon the woman's shoulder. Farther down, where thestrip of sand widened at the entrance to the lagoon, he saw a manand woman walking side by side. As they drew near the light lanai,he saw the woman's hand go down to her waist and disengage agirdling arm. And as they passed him, Percival Ford nodded to acaptain he knew, and to a major's daughter. Smoke of life, that wasit, an ample phrase. And again, from under the dark algaroba treearose the laugh of a woman that was a love-cry; and past his chair,on the way to bed, a bare-legged youngster was led by a chidingJapanese nurse-maid. The voices of the singers broke softly andmeltingly into an Hawaiian love-song, and officers and women, withencircling arms, were gliding and whirling on the lanai; and onceagain the woman laughed under the algaroba trees.And Percival Ford knew only disapproval of it all. He was irritatedby the love-laugh of the woman, by the steersman with pillowed headon the white holoku, by the couples that walked on the beach, by theofficers and women that danced, and by the voices of the singerssinging of love, and his brother singing there with them under thehau tree. The woman that laughed especially irritated him. Acurious train of thought was aroused. He was Isaac Ford's son, andwhat had happened with Isaac Ford might happen with him. He felt inhis cheeks the faint heat of a blush at the thought, and experienceda poignant sense of shame. He was appalled by what was in hisblood. It was like learning suddenly that his father had been aleper and that his own blood might bear the taint of that dreaddisease. Isaac Ford, the austere soldier of the Lord--the oldhypocrite! What difference between him and any beach-comber? Thehouse of pride that Percival Ford had builded was tumbling about hisears.The hours passed, the army people laughed and danced, the nativeorchestra played on, and Percival Ford wrestled with the abrupt andoverwhelming problem that had been thrust upon him. He prayedquietly, his elbow on the table, his head bowed upon his hand, withall the appearance of any tired onlooker. Between the dances thearmy men and women and the civilians fluttered up to him and buzzedconventionally, and when they went back to the lanai he took up hiswrestling where he had left it off.He began to patch together his shattered ideal of Isaac Ford, andfor cement he used a cunning and subtle logic. It was of the sortthat is compounded in the brain laboratories of egotists, and itworked. It was incontrovertible that his father had been made offiner clay than those about him; but still, old Isaac had been onlyin the process of becoming, while he, Percival Ford, had become. Asproof of it, he rehabilitated his father and at the same timeexalted himself. His lean little ego waxed to colossal proportions.He was great enough to forgive. He glowed at the thought of it.Isaac Ford had been great, but he was greater, for he could forgiveIsaac Ford and even restore him to the holy place in his memory,though the place was not quite so holy as it had been. Also, heapplauded Isaac Ford for having ignored the outcome of his one stepaside. Very well, he, too, would ignore it.The dance was breaking up. The orchestra had finished "Aloha Oe"and was preparing to go home. Percival Ford clapped his hands forthe Japanese servant."You tell that man I want to see him," he said, pointing out JoeGarland. "Tell him to come here, now."Joe Garland approached and halted respectfully several paces away,nervously fingering the guitar which he still carried. The otherdid not ask him to sit down."You are my brother," he said."Why, everybody knows that," was the reply, in tones of wonderment."Yes, so I understand," Percival Ford said dryly. "But I did notknow it till this evening."The half-brother waited uncomfortably in the silence that followed,during which Percival Ford coolly considered his next utterance."You remember that first time I came to school and the boys duckedme?" he asked. "Why did you take my part?"The half-brother smiled bashfully."Because you knew?""Yes, that was why.""But I didn't know," Percival Ford said in the same dry fashion."Yes," the other said.Another silence fell. Servants were beginning to put out the lightson the lanai."You know . . . now," the half-brother said simply.Percival Ford frowned. Then he looked the other over with aconsidering eye."How much will you take to leave the Islands and never come back?"he demanded."And never come back?" Joe Garland faltered. "It is the only land Iknow. Other lands are cold. I do not know other lands. I havemany friends here. In other lands there would not be one voice tosay, 'Aloha, Joe, my boy.'""I said never to come back," Percival Ford reiterated. "The Alamedasails tomorrow for San Francisco."Joe Garland was bewildered."But why?" he asked. "You know now that we are brothers.""That is why," was the retort. "As you said yourself, everybodyknows. I will make it worth your while."All awkwardness and embarrassment disappeared from Joe Garland.Birth and station were bridged and reversed."You want me to go?" he demanded."I want you to go and never come back," Percival Ford answered.And in that moment, flashing and fleeting, it was given him to seehis brother tower above him like a mountain, and to feel himselfdwindle and dwarf to microscopic insignificance. But it is not wellfor one to see himself truly, nor can one so see himself for longand live; and only for that flashing moment did Percival Ford seehimself and his brother in true perspective. The next moment he wasmastered by his meagre and insatiable ego."As I said, I will make it worth your while. You will not suffer.I will pay you well.""All right," Joe Garland said. "I'll go."He started to turn away."Joe," the other called. "You see my lawyer tomorrow morning. Fivehundred down and two hundred a month as long as you stay away.""You are very kind," Joe Garland answered softly. "You are tookind. And anyway, I guess I don't want your money. I go tomorrowon the Alameda."He walked away, but did not say goodbye.Percival Ford clapped his hands."Boy," he said to the Japanese, "a lemonade."And over the lemonade he smiled long and contentedly to himself.

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