A week slipped by before we returned the Howells' call. Then, one
brilliant morning, I drove with Bill into Havana and together we
transacted some embarrassing monetary business at the bank. After
which I expressed a desire to go shopping. The sidewalks were quite
impassable: so narrow that, for the most part, the pedestrians,
unhurried, strolled in the hardly wider streets. The shops held me,
fascinated. And I was not a little annoyed at the manner in which Bill
conducted my purchases--here a gorgeous feather fan, there a piece of
lace: and in another spot a deadly and lovely bit of Toledo
workmanship, executed with rare finesse on the hilt of a stiletto.
Yet, I too, was determined not to return to Green Hill without a trunk
laden with gifts for my dear people there. Once, I slipped away from
my husband, who was deep in conversation ... of a political nature,
judging from the volubility of the shop-keeper who engaged his
attention ... and, entering a store some five or six houses away, I
tried out my absurd and garbled knowledge of Spanish, with terrifying
results. For the little lady who guarded the delicate linens flooded
me with such an impressive flow of wholly unintelligible syllables,
that, baffled, I beat an ignominious retreat, followed by her to the
very door. On the street I met Bill, hatless and disturbed out of all
proportion.
"Please never do that again, Mavis," he commanded, taking my arm. "I
am not willing to have you roam the streets of Havana alone."
I drew my arm away.
"I am quite capable of taking care of myself," I said with frigidity,
"especially in broad daylight."
"This is not Green Hill," he answered enigmatically, "nor yet New
York."
I started to reply, but a glance from a passing dark-eyed individual,
immaculately attired in white, quelled me. I had never before
encountered anything quite so sweeping, so totally inventorying, so
insolent. I had the immediate sensation that I was in one of those
nightmare dreams, in which one walks upon a public highway, quite
unclothed. Unconsciously, I cast a reassuring glance at my lavender
linen, and breathed again. I must have gasped, for Bill looked from my
blazing cheeks to the wayfaring gentleman. Something belligerent came
into his eyes, and then he looked into mine, lifting his brows.
"You see?" he remarked.
It was plain that I had seen. I said nothing, but hastened my steps.
"Where did you leave your hat?" I asked sweetly.
We retrieved the object and went to where we had left the car, driving
to a restaurant, high over the harbor, where, on the second floor, we
lunched deliciously, on palatable creatures sinisterly named Morro
crabs, and other delicacies. A gun boat lay, far off, at rest on the
blue waters, and here and there the black funnels of steamers lifted
darkly against a burning sky. People at neighboring tables bowed to my
companion. Several came over to us and were presented to me: a
ruddy-faced Englishman, of military bearing, and with an ineffable air
of detachment from his surroundings: a member of the American
Legation, a lean, bearded man, with an unamerican name and a dark
face, reminding me of an ancient Spanish nobleman whose picture I had
once seen: a fair-haired, attractive boy, and others whom I have
forgotten. And the meal could hardly have been termed a tete-a-tete. I
was heartily glad of it.
Until the calling hour came, we amused ourselves with a survey of the
crowded districts of the city. An appalling number of tourists passed
and repassed us, obviously bent on the same idle occupation. Pretty
girls in bright sweaters and tennis-shoes: fat mothers, similarly
clad: and patient, bored men, silent or loquacious, chewing black
Cuban cigars, following their women folk in and out the shops. And on
the broader thoroughfares, I saw the Cuban women driving in open
victorias, powdered and wonderfully dressed, regarding the "touristen"
with slightly cynical, always beautiful, eyes.
The Howells' great house, a stone structure on the Vadado, was a
revelation of formal and chilling luxury. As we waited for Mrs. Howell
to come to us in the drawing-room, Bill murmured under his breath,
"'I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls!' Isn't it amazing?"
Before I could answer, our hostess swept in, accompanied, almost
preceded, by an overpowering wave of perfume. I had no time to reply,
but found myself nodding at him in sympathetic appreciation. All
through the somewhat stilted conversation which followed, the stately
tea, and the meteoric appearance of Mercedes, as chatty and brilliant
as some tropical bird, I seemed to cling to the solidity and confident
familiarity of my husband as the one real thing in an unreal room.
But, leaving, I was forced to confess to myself the real friendliness
and cordiality of these alien people towards me, a stranger at their
imposing gates.
It was Mercedes who explained to me that the feminine quality of
Havana did not go a-shopping in sport clothes.
"You would not do it," she said, "on your Fifth Avenue. We do not do
it here. It is not the custom. We wear our smartest gowns and our
highest-heeled shoes."
She made an entrancing little moue at the thought of sweaters and
rubber soles. And, with a feeling of commiseration toward my
comfortably sport-clad compatriots, dashing through Havana streets,
lavish of exclamation and of purse I was foolishly glad that something
had prompted me to look my coolest and prettiest before setting forth
on the expedition.
I remember that day well, for it was on the same evening, back once
more in the palm-enclosed gardens of my new home, that Juan, the
native workman appeared, shortly after dinner, a broad-brimmed hat
clutched to his sunken chest, his face working oddly, demanding to
speak to the doctor.
I heard scattered words--"fiebre" and "agonia," and the name
"Annunciata" repeated again and again. And, finally, when Bill rose
with a quiet, brief sentence, I caught a long-drawn "ah-h" and "Dios!
muchisimas gracias, Senor!" from the old man.
"Juan's daughter is ill," Bill told me quickly. "I'm going with him.
Shan't be long. Go to bed, Mavis, you look done up. It's been a long
day."
Stopping only to get his hat and an emergency case, he was gone with
the excited, anxious old man, and I was alone in the big room.
Something he had said to me, far back in what now seemed the past
ages, came to me vaguely, something about the "poetry of healing." And
I pondered upon it for a long time, till a falling log roused me, and
I went to bed. But not until I heard a familiar step on the path did I
consider sleeping. I slipped on a negligee and went to my door. He was
coming toward me, tired, I thought, and troubled.
"Bill!" I called softly.
He stopped a moment, peering into the dim light which streamed through
the half-open door into the narrow, long hall which separated our
rooms.
"Mavis!" and then, reproachfully. "Why aren't you in bed?"
"You've been gone hours," I said, conscious of a childish petulance.
"How is she?"
With a hand on the latch of his own door, he considered me. I must
have looked a sight, half-asleep, my hair in braids down my
thinly-clad back. But if he thought so, he did not say it.
"All right now," he answered. "But she was a pretty sick girl. And, of
course, they had applied home-made remedies, liberally sprinkled with
superstition! It looked like a case of ptomaine to me. Anyway, she'll
be on the road to recovery--and more beatings--tomorrow. It was," he
concluded with a smile, "a rather disconcerting evening. Half a dozen
people praying all over the place, and, when I left, kissing my hands!
Lucky I've had some experience in dealing with the natives before
this."
"I'm glad," I said. "Poor old Juan!"
"It was nice of you to wait up," said Bill suddenly. "Thanks!"
I became acutely conscious of the hour and of my appearance.
"I--I was interested," I said lamely.
"Yes, that's it," he answered, a smile lighting up his worn face,
"it's not often that you--honor me."
It was on the tip of my tongue to reply, "my interest is solely in old
Juan and his daughter." But I didn't. It didn't seem quite fair, and
wasn't strictly true.
"Good-night," I said, withdrawing, "I'm glad she's all right."
From his closing door his words floated back to me,
"_Buenas noches, cara mia!_"
Annunciata recovered, and to Sarah's outspoken disapproval I had her
come often to the house. She sewed excellently, and embroidered even
better, and I was glad to be able to give her small odds and ends of
work to do. She was a lovely thing: rounded, and supple, with a clear,
creamy-brown skin. But chancing one day to observe her mother on the
road below the house I was smitten with a prophetic horror for
Annunciata's future. For the woman, who could not have been more than
thirty-five was as bent and gnarled as a Northerner of sixty, wrinkled
like a monkey and with something of that creature's patient, if
malicious wisdom in her eyes. I began to realize that Juan, too was
according to our standards a man still in his early prime. I was
confused by such an ordering of Nature. I said something of this to
Bill but he only answered, knocking the ashes from his pipe.
"Southern fruit ripens quickly."
"It doesn't seem fair," I said, rebelliously, thinking of Annunciata
and her slow, indolent grace. At sixteen I--but perhaps I was not a
good example.
"Our girls are children at sixteen," I told him.
"You are a child at--what is it--twenty-two," he answered.
I did not pursue the personal application further. But it was not
right that this young thing should be a woman so soon, and so shortly
destined to be old. Youth--and Age. There are no timid blossomings, no
gracious gradations in the South.
We were, very quietly, rather gay those days. I had been several times
to luncheon at the Country Club and had met a number of delightful
Americans there. It was all very new and exciting. And so invariably
beautiful! And I was absurdly glad that Bill ranked very high in the
estimation of the other men, as a golfer. Watching remnants of the
game from the long, wide Club-porch, I was astounded by the
seriousness with which grown men pursued an innocuous white ball for
miles and miles of green turf. Once, in the late afternoon, together
with a party of several women including Mercedes Howell, I followed a
match game for a time. The exotic view, the stunted palms, the small
lizards that ran almost from under our feet, animate emeralds, the
glimpse of blue water from a hill, enthralled me. But I think that the
small, black or tan boys who carried the clubs and who bet their
prospective fees with whole-hearted enthusiasm on the respective
merits of their employers amused me more than anything I had ever
seen. And it was of course solely from sympathy with my husband's
ebony attendant that I knew a certain triumph, when, long after we
women had tired and returned to the club-house, the men came in, hot
and shrieking for cool drinks, proclaiming Bill as victor. He had
"saved the game by supernatural putting" his partner, the fair haired
boy I had met in the Havana restaurant, announced enviously.
"You should be proud of him," he added, sitting down beside me.
"I am," I said dutifully.
Bill, en route to a mysterious thing called a locker, paused to cast a
mirthful look at me, and quite against my will I laughed. I am certain
that the blond one, who answered to the name of Bobby Willard, thought
me demented.
A number of people called upon us almost every day, motoring out for
luncheon or tea. Our little household ran smoothly, and happily. Sarah
and Nora gradually became excellent friends, and, evenings, I would
often hear Silas's low voice in the kitchen, and going in to consult
Nora, would surprise his lean form, sprawled in a kitchen chair, two
legs of it off the floor, smoking his inevitable cigar, a coffee-cup
at his elbow. To Wing and Fong, Sarah, to my astonishment, perceptibly
unbent. It was apparent that the two silent little Asiatics regarded
her with admiration and awe. Bill suggested that she was doubtless
trying to convert them. But I could not believe that!
Peter was perhaps, the most whole-heartedly happy of any of us. Never
very far from Silas's side, he assumed a lordly dictatorship over the
natives, and picked up an amazing amount of Spanish, in his excursions
about the plantation. Silas taught him to ride, too, on a lean little
Cuban horse, and would ride out with him, in the early mornings,
tremendously amused at the grave manner in which Peter would return
the white-toothed salutations of the passersby. In those days, also, I
elected to oversee Peter's neglected education, and, with more
ambition than efficiency, would devote the half hour before his supper
time to teaching him to read. Bill, with his pipe and his newspaper,
would attend these sessions, from a far corner of the room. And I
could not refrain from reflecting how, to an unenlightened observer,
very domestic we would appear. That the thought had not escaped Bill,
too, was apparent by a remark he made one evening. Coming to the
mantel-piece, he looked at the two of us for some time, and said,
"You make a charming picture, you two children. Exemplary," he added
with a smile.
I made no comment, but bent lower over the page on which the pregnant
legend, "This is a cat," appeared in large letters, flanking an
appropriate illustration.
Those were days, even, and uneventful in the larger sense. There were
varying episodes, incidents, which however did not break into the
continuity of a life that seemed a half-waking dream. Once, I went
fishing with Bill and Bobby Willard. It was pleasant, drifting over
the peacock-blue waters, and of our not inconsiderable catch nothing
remains in my memory save the almost unnatural beauty of certain
gorgeous fish, colored red and blue and purple, with little sail-like
fins.
I had my first swimming lesson in many years, at that time too. And
the picture of the beach, the feel of the velvet-soft, brilliantly
blue water, the laughing people and the many children, stayed with me
for a long time. At my second dip, I actually swam three strokes, not,
however, without Bill's solidly protective arm. He swam magnificently
himself. Mercedes Howells, transformed into a most seductive mermaid
by a bright green bathing suit, was most outspoken in her admiration.
"What a wonderful figure," she said, in a wholly audible aside to me.
I was forced to agree, but swallowed a good deal more water than was
comfortable in the process.
Bill, in spite of his vigorous exploits in the water, seemed content
to spend most of his swimming hour with Peter and me. But after he had
sent us to the bathing pavilion to dress, he swam far out to join
Mercedes, and when I came from my cubicle again, they were just coming
out of the water together, a splendidly matched pair, laughing, vital.
A curious languor came over me as I watched them walking across the
beach.
"You're tired," said Bill, dripping before me.
"A little," I admitted.
So after that, I swam rarely. The ride in from Guayabal was long and
tiring. And once or twice a week, I stayed at home, while Bill went
forth in the motor, to golf and swim, coming back in time for dinner.
I was never bored. There were letters from Father to answer: a
difficult diplomatic task; letters too, from the Goodriches, who were
dashing about the Continent at a breath-taking speed. Peter had half
an album filled with postcards before his parents had been on the
other side two weeks! And of course I had to take innumerable
snapshots with the little kodak Bill bought me in Havana, in order to
pictorially report Peter's progress. Uncle John wrote often, sometimes
to Bill, sometimes to me, and now and then to us both jointly. The
advent of the mail was a real joy. No one seemed to forget us,
everyone demanded an immediate reply. And it was difficult not to put
off letter writing until the morrow. For I had not been in Cuba more
than twenty-eight hours before the "manana philosophy" had laid hold
of me.
In my secret drawer a little pile of poems grew. I was amazed at the
way the songs came to me, sang in my brain and would not be still
until I had put them on paper. In my heart, I harbor a timid ambition
of one day showing them to Uncle John. If he would publish them,
privately, I could send a copy to Richard Warren. After all--they were
his: his and Cuba's and mine own.
Between tea and dinner, the days when Bill was not at home, I would
walk. Sometimes with little Peter, or with Annunciata, sometimes
alone, save for little Wiggles. Little by little I grew to know the
natives by name and station: went, even into their one-roomed houses,
dark and smoky, thatched with palm leaves, and odorous with charcoal
stoves. One amusing acquaintance I made was that of old Manuel, who
lived not for from our gates. Annunciata took me there, affirming that
of all the Guayablan sights, this was one I must not miss. Bill was
horrified to hear of my call at Manuel's pitifully poor dwelling. But
he went there himself later, to see if in any way, he could alleviate
the very obvious poverty and probable suffering of the ancient
creature. For the tradition had it that Manuel was one hundred and
twenty years old. Certain it was that he remembered Havana when it was
little more than a cow-pasture. Age had shrunken him to the stature of
a child, but his eye were still bright, his features cleancut, his
grey hair and beard still curling and vigorous. The village people
took a certain pride in their ancient, and he did not lack for
visitors. Propped up on a make-shift bed, wrapped in rags, from which
his bare thin legs protruded, he received me with great dignity. And
we talked for fully half an hour: that is to say, Annunciata talked,
and Manuel talked, and now and then the former would translate a
phrase or two into her scanty English. It was from Bill, however,
that I heard most of the old man's story.
It was on one of my solitary excursions that the sudden night
surprised me, a quarter of a mile from home. The smoke-blue rim of
mountains grew black and menacing, and the song of the light winds in
the palms turned to a sinister whispering. With Wiggles at my hurrying
heels, I fairly fled through the night, ashamed of my unreasoning
terror. A group of Rurales, the native soldiers, passed me with a
clatter of hoofs. Later, a bare-footed native, riding saddleless,
singing in a curious, eerie monotone, to ward off the evil spirits,
rode slowly by. There was a heavy perfume in the air, and a young moon
swung delicately into view. But I had no heart for beauty, and almost
stumbling into the hedge of Spanish Bayonets which fringed our
property, I came through the open gates into the light from the house,
with a half-sob of relief, and an exceedingly youthful fear of
justifiable chastisement. But it was some ten minutes after I had come
home, that I heard the car, with Bill at the wheel, swing up to the
portico. That evening, discussing the past day, I refrained from
mentioning my little adventure. For it was an adventure, mysterious,
strange, and somehow terrifying.
The evenings were pleasant. We read a great deal, aloud, and I was
surprised to find my husband no mean critic, widely read, and with
keen appreciation. We sat, always before the fire, and much of the
time I would forget to listen to the sense of the words, hearing only
the sound of the attractive, flexible voice, and watching the flames
on the big hearth. I never wearied of that. There was a wonderful poem
in the logs, flowering blue and rose, gold and scarlet: charring to
white and red, which seemed like some extraordinary fungus-growth:
singing and flickering, intensely alive in disintegration.
And so the days drew into March, and still we lingered. Bill,
persuaded by neighbors that even May was bearable in Cuba, spoke of
staying at least until the middle of April. I did not care. Father was
still in Canada, and Green Hill would have been empty without him. It
was a Lotus-eater's life and I was content. The sight of the great,
purple orchids, fragile and almost unbelievably beautiful, clinging to
the palm-trees, was enough to keep me happy for a whole day. To look
from the windows through the luxuriance of the bourginvilla vines to
the golden-freighted orange-trees was a rare delight. To see the
cane-fields in the wind, the hibiscus under a noon sun, the peacocks
pacing the white walks before sunset, was to live a poem. If, now and
then, on still nights, a restlessness and nostalgia for something
keener, sharper, something unnamable and unknown, would seize me, it
would vanish again before the breathless, expectant dawn. And, if one
grew melancholy, there was always Arthur to turn to--a bird,
philosophic and unexpected, who had developed a feud with Wiggles. To
watch the two of them, Arthur resplendent and mocking on his perch,
Wiggles, a black lump of outrage dashing up and down before the door
of the wire cage, which was as big as a small room, was a sight to
dispel dull care. And from someone, Arthur had learned endearing
names. "Pretty darling!" he would articulate, his head flirtatiously
to one side, his beady eyes fixed on mine, his claw extended with
quite the grand manner. And, when, nettled by his tone, I would
advance to the cage, he would slide off to the other end of his perch
and demand bleakly, "Coffee! Gol dern! Bow wow wow!" a climax that
never failed to arouse Wiggles to frenzy.
And so, between beauty and laughter, firelight and sunshine, we trod,
all unknowing, perilously close to tragedy.