Strawbridge could understand only snatches of Benavente's satire which
the señora was reading. When the Spanish girl read, she reverted to the
soft Castilian pronunciation of her childhood, and Strawbridge's ear
was accustomed to the hard colonial accent of South America.
Benavente has a leaning toward the theme of unfaithful wives, and the
comedy which the señora had chosen to read was of this type.
As the reading progressed, the mood of the satire, the quirks and
turns of Benavente's wit played over the girl's face as if from some
delicate, changing illumination, as indeed it was. Presently, in the
sheer pleasure of watching her, the sick man gave up the effort to
follow the text. He had never before observed such a radiance about
her, such a fine, ardent life in her. The drummer's nationality evoked
the thought that some artist ought to paint Dolores sitting thus
reading. It was his American instinct to commercialize the moment, not
for its monetary value but for its pleasure value. He was under the
abiding American delusion that pleasures are somehow bottleable; that
a pleasure can be commanded to stand still in the heavens, somewhat
after the fashion of Joshua's sun. It is the command of these American
Joshuas which has inflicted on the world the phonograph, the kodak, the
college annual, place-card collections, and the family album.
As the drummer studied the señora's face, he observed, when she
smiled, a little dimple in her left cheek. Somehow this tiny discovery
stirred the sick man in a subtle way. With a feeling of peculiar
intimacy he watched it come and go. It seemed to advertise, ever so
delicately, veiled and exquisite reserves in the nunnish figure. It
amazed him that he had not seen, until just now, how lovely the señora
was. It seemed as if beauty had been spilled over her.
He lay warming himself in this miracle, when the girl looked up,
studied his face a moment, then accused playfully:
"_Cá!_ señor, you are not listening to a word I read. What are your
thoughts?"
The sick man was taken aback when he was thus brought to a realization
of the vague compound of admiration, sensuous longing, and wistfulness
which moved his heart, for the wife of another man. He moistened his
lips to say something, when the señora assisted him:
"I dare say you are lying there thinking about your business."
The drummer accepted the suggestion:
"Perhaps I was."
"You mustn't worry about it."
At this negative suggestion, Strawbridge did begin to worry:
"I think I have a right to, señora, when my trip down to San Geronimo
spoiled the very thing I went after."
"How is that?"
The sick man tossed his head on his pillow.
"Oh, you know I wanted to sell the general rifles. Well ... I helped
him capture all he can use ... ruined my own sale." The salesman
laughed a little, but he was not amused.
The girl did not smile.
"Has your trade really fallen through, after all you've done?"
"Sure! A sale can slip away from you just so easy." He stared at the
ceiling, with hollow, troubled eyes.
With a faint, tender smile, the girl looked at her patient.
"Tell me, Tomas: why do you place such great stress on selling,
selling, selling?"
He looked at her, weakly surprised.
"Why, that's my job!"
"Yes, I know, but you will sell to some one else if not to the general."
"But the idea is not to miss a sale; to get everybody; to do a big
business."
The señora laughed outright but kindlily.
"Yes, but what is the object of your big business, that you work at it
with such fury? You already make the money you need."
"I didn't know I worked at it with such fury."
"_Cá!_ You do!"
The drummer pondered a moment.
"Well, a man just naturally wants a big business, and, besides, my old
man expects it. I'll lose my job if I don't."
"_Pues_, your 'old man,' then: why does he want a big business? What
does he mean finally to do with it?"
Strawbridge, with a sick man's suggestibility, stopped fretting about
his own sale and lay pondering gently what his old man meant to do with
his business. He could not imagine his old man _doing_ anything with
his business except running it, expanding it, beating down competitors
with it. Just then he recalled an explanation which is current with
every American, and which finds expression in every American paper and
magazine, so he repeated it:
"Why, business is a game with my old man, señora; he never will stop,
because that's his game. He takes a pride in seeing how big a business
he can develop, just as he tries to make a low golf score. Business is
the American game."
The señora smiled at such naïveté. She might not have smiled had she
known that Strawbridge had sounded for her the depth of American
popular philosophy on the point; but, not knowing that, she put it down
to the drummer's general childishness.
"Tomas," she said gently, "do you really think that a game, any game,
is the whole of a man's life? Would you be willing, Tomas, to spend the
whole of your life playing a game?"
"That's what everybody believes in America, señora."
"Surely Americans must be wrong!"
"I don't know. What do you think?"
"I have wondered. You are the only American I have ever known, Tomas,
and you were so big and strong and restless, I could not help saying to
myself, 'Why is he so restless? He is not poor; any one can see that.
What does he mean to do with his fortune that he rushes so to get?'"
The señora quoted her thoughts pensively, and then added, "Still, I
suppose I do know."
"Why, why?" blurted out the drummer, greatly surprised.
"You wish to make your fortune equal to that of some wealthy girl's."
"A wealthy girl's...." The drummer looked at the Spanish girl quite
blankly, then, as her implication penetrated him, he was moved to a
somewhat abrupt denial:
"No, señora, no girls for mine ... at least not yet." He shifted his
bulk a trifle and lay looking at her defensively; then he saw where
her logic had led her. "Why, the idea! We were talking about why all
Americans work so, and you think they work because they want to get
married. What an idea!"
"But doesn't that explain a great many, señor?"
"Mighty few business fellows. When we are boys we have our sweethearts,
of course, but when we get out into business, women sort of drop out
of our lives for eight or ten years. We chase 'em a little, but not
much. Later, when our business justifies it, we buy us a motor, a
bungalow, and a girl,--I mean, we pick out a girl and marry her,--but
getting married is just a symptom that a man is getting on in his
business; it's not the aim of his business, at all. The business clicks
away just the same, whether he marries or not."
It would be difficult to say just how much the señora was moved at
this reversal of ordinary human motives. She looked at the drummer for
several moments, and finally asked in an odd voice:
"How do you decide you have the reached a position to marry, Señor
Tomas?"
"Oh, that depends on your ideals. When I was a kid I thought fifteen a
week and a flivver would do. As I got older my ideals went up, and now
I've got to have ten thousand a year and a twelve-cylinder."
"And you have no particular girl in view?"
The drummer laughed weakly.
"When you've got ten thousand a year, you don't have to have any
particular girl in view. You've got to keep out of view, or some
flapper 'll land you."
The señora shook her head.
"I don't understand it, Tomas," she said gently. "It seems to me you
deserve something finer than what you say. It's so ... like a machine."
She flushed faintly, and arose, saying that she must make the sick man
some broth.
"You'll be back soon, señora?" he asked anxiously.
She smiled at him, picked up a salver from a table, and went out.
With the departure of the señora, the sense of pleasure which had
enveloped Strawbridge also vanished. It gave him the same feeling of
loss that he experienced at times when he stepped out of the glow and
romance of a theater, into a dull, prosaic street. Still, after all, it
was in dull, prosaic streets that money was made and ambitious young
fellows gained headway. A query trickled into the drummer's mind. He
wondered if it would be possible, if it were in the scope of things
to take some of the glow and romance of the theater out into life, to
keep it there, always to have this dear warmth in his heart ... if
the _señora_.... A quiver went through the drummer at the direction
in which his musing had led him. He came to a sudden stop, deserted
the theater which his fancy had built, and walked slowly out into the
prosaic street once more.
When his door opened again, Strawbridge saw, to his disgust, that it
was the _griffe_ girl who had brought him his broth. The girl had had
a serious part in nursing Strawbridge over his wound and the solar
fever which exposure in the campaign had caused. This had bred in her
considerable authority. So now, as she entered, she narrowed her black
eyes, nodded firmly at her patient, and said, "You are to drink this,
señor."
The salesman was outraged that the maid should have come instead of the
mistress. He turned on his side away from her.
"Don't want any."
"But the señora said you were to drink it."
"Don't believe it's time."
"You can look at your watch, if it hasn't stopped running. You never
remember to wind it. Have you wound it this morning?"
The drummer fumbled under his pillow for the watch. It was still
running, and stood at eleven minutes after his broth-time. He wound
it with the sensitive fingers of the sick. As he did so, he stared
ill-temperedly through the window and observed a number of banners
waving in the plaza. He broke out:
"Look here! Are they going to have another damn fiesta? What's it for?
Good Lord! the time they waste on fiestas!"
At this outbreak the _griffe_ girl stared at him, then wrinkled her
freckled snub nose, and went off into such a gust of light-headed
giggling that Strawbridge was irritated anew.
"What the hell you whinnying like that for?"
The maid caught up the corner of her apron and stuffed it into her
mouth as a mirth-extinguisher. The American received the tray on the
side of his bed, glaring at the girl, who plainly was about to burst
out laughing again. A sudden plan came to him.
"I'm going to get up," he announced.
The maid was horrified.
"Oh, señor, you are not!"
"Oh, señorita, I am!"
"But you mustn't. It'll make you worse!"
"I'm all right. I feel all right. I'm going to get up, so get out of
here!" He began tumbling his big body around under the sheets.
The _griffe_ girl became desperate.
"But, señor, the señora has not said so; the doctor has not said so;
nobody has given you permission...." She was trying to shoo him back
under the cover with her hands.
"Are you going to get out or not?"
"Señor, you must not get up!"
"Oh, all right! Stick around and get an eyeful...." He began heaving
himself up, tumbling back the sheet.
The _griffe_ girl started backing out of the room. She resisted him
morally to the last ditch, motioning him back into bed, but being
gradually expelled as larger and larger segments of his pink pajamas
came into view. The queer part was that in Strawbridge's extreme
weakness the _griffe_ girl had assisted one of the guards in the
drummer's necessities; now she was whisked out of the room by the sight
of his pajamas. Such is the power of matter over mind.
Strawbridge made a sorry mess of getting his clothes on, until Pambo,
the guard who had served him during his illness, came in--sent,
no doubt, by the _griffe_ girl--and helped. Pambo was a pleasant
little fellow, and instead of discouraging the invalid's effort he
congratulated him on his improvement, and suggested a walk down into
the plaza.
After the dressing, the two men left the palace and moved very slowly
through the sunshine to a seat in the plaza. The guard placed the
invalid's chair in the deep shade of a _mamone_ tree, then, promising
to return in half an hour, went back to his duties.
Already a crowd of idlers were gathered in the plaza, watching the
preparations for the fête. The invalid sat in the color and stir, with
that feeling of soft, weak pleasure that comes to a man after the
pains of the sick-bed have vanished. All things were very grateful to
him--the sunshine, the movement of the crowd, the calls of the venders,
the heroic statue of General Fombombo offering on a scroll to the State
of Rio Negro, Liberty, Fraternity, Equality.
Presently the firemen's band in red coats and blue trousers began
gathering, with their instruments. Pleasure-seekers grew thicker, and
commenced renting chairs and placing them around a band stand which was
shaped like a huge conch-shell. Girls in mantillas began with their
fans to conduct discreet flirtations. Certain bolder women moved among
the crowd, waiting for some one to accost them. Two or three priests
from the cathedral mingled with their flock. One father moved about
with his eyes riveted on a little Bible, having selected this strange
place for his religious meditations.
A number of persons saluted the drummer, which rather surprised him,
for the upper-class Venezuelans are usually reserved toward foreigners.
Strawbridge was thinking over his sudden popularity, with the mildly
amused superiority of a North American, when he saw approaching him
a negro in a white linen suit. As this figure came nearer, the sick
man recognized Gumersindo in gala attire. The negro bowed deeply,
congratulated Strawbridge on his early convalescence, then took a copy
of "El Correo del Rio Negro" from his pocket and pressed it upon his
friend.
"Have you read my description of the battle of San Geronimo, _mi caro
señor_?" he asked warmly. "_Caramba!_ I do not say I have excelled, but
Father Benicio, a man of excellent judgment, assures me these pages--"
he tapped the paper--"will go down to posterity as one of the great
battle descriptions of history. You will find your own name mentioned,
_mi amigo_. I have taken the liberty of comparing you to the Swiss
Guard at Versailles and the English regiment at Carabobo--a wounded
lion, señor, crouched before the shield of Rio Negro!"
All this was uttered in a tone of impassioned eloquence, and now the
black editor astonished Strawbridge by suddenly wringing his hand and
hurrying away, leaving the paper with the invalid.
The drummer was amused at this emotion in Gumersindo, which he did not
understand, but his sickness had brought with it a certain pensiveness,
and he sat pondering on the springs of Gumersindo's enthusiasm. To
write a history that would be handed down to posterity! What was the
use of it? The American wondered what he would like to hand down to
posterity, and he thought of life-insurance. Strawbridge glanced
through his "Correo." Gumersindo had written six columns of closely
printed matter. The American folded the paper and laid it across his
lap.
The crowd in the plaza grew more interesting. Government dignitaries,
merchants, and professional men began to arrive. Men collected in knots
and conversed with excited gestures. Presently a great cheering went
up, and Strawbridge saw General Fombombo traversing the plaza, in the
presidential motor. At his side sat the peon girl Madruja. She held up
her chin like a queen, and the line of her olive throat against her
furs might have been a stroke of Raphael. Even in the brief glimpse
of their passage, Strawbridge got an impression that the general was
fondling her hand.
The outrage set up in the sick man's head vague fancies of liberating
Dolores. He thought of divorce. The Spanish girl ought to get a
divorce. She had every provocation. But of course there were no
divorces in Roman Catholic Rio Negro.
The sound of a chair being dragged close to his own caused Strawbridge
to glance around. He saw Lubito smiling and settling a chair in the
turf by his side. On the other side of Lubito, Esteban was unfolding
another chair. The peon youth seemed thinner and more care-worn than on
the night when he had attacked General Fombombo.
The bull-fighter was very cordial.
"_Caramba!_ I'm glad to see you alive, señor! I read in the paper how
badly you were wounded, and what a hero you were." At the drummer's
demurring gesture, he persisted with renewed force: "Oh, we know all
about it. I said to Esteban, 'You called Señor Tomas a _cobarde_
because he did not choose to assist you that night in the _palacio_.
Nothing could be farther from the truth.'"
The peon youth stopped his steady stare into the plaza, to ask:
"But why did he turn against me?"
Lubito shrugged and made a gesture.
"How should I know? Am I as deep as the sea? Perhaps to save you. Had
he not used his influence on _el Presidente_, no doubt you would have
been rotting to-day in La Fortuna; but instead he had you turned out,
and here you are, as free as a bird."
"I don't understand why he turned against me in a fight," repeated the
peon, doggedly.
"_Caramba!_ If you had a head to understand that, Esteban, you would
not need to sit here gnawing your fingers now. I am far brighter than
you, Esteban, but this Señor Strawbridge is a dark man to me. He moves
in his own way, Esteban. He is like a cayman in the Orinoco; no man can
tell when or where or at what he strikes."
The drummer followed this panegyric a little uncomfortably.
"Look here," he inquired: "how did I get such a swell reputation for
double-crossing?"
"How! _Caramba!_ Did you not despatch poor Lieutenant Rosales to his
death at the _casa fuerte_ in San Geronimo? He would have failed, but
you gave him the strength to go on--but how far?" The bull-fighter held
up a stubby forefinger and whispered an answer to his question: "Just
as far as you pleased that he should go--and then he fell. But you: did
any blame attach to you? None at all. You had a wealthy ship-owner sail
up the Orinoco and bribe the insurgents in your behalf. Oh, we have
heard everything, not through this paper, but--you know--from mouth to
mouth. _Caramba!_ this ship-owner poured out gold for you--box after
box. It was easy enough to see whose gold it was!"
"Whose?" cried Strawbridge, quite amazed at so grotesque a
misinterpretation of the facts.
"Whose! Whose! _Diantre_, Esteban! such a man! Why, señor, whose should
it be but your own! Would any ordinary sailor have so much gold to
fling about? No, it was your own gold, and only He who looks down upon
the doings of men--only He knows how many other ways you are reaching
out, raking this poor country of Rio Negro into your power. You had
poor Rosales killed; he would have been a rival of yours one day, for
he had the pride of Satan. You have a warm friend in Señor Tolliver,
and yet he has been the enemy of all _revolutionistas_ for years. You
have twisted _el Presidente_ around your finger, and--" Lubito paused
and winked delicately--"and I hear that _la señora_ is no bitter enemy
of yours, either! _Caramba!_ What a man!"
Strawbridge flushed and dropped his amused look.
"Say, just leave the señora out of this, will you?"
"How?"
"She is a lovely girl in the most painful position. I have done nothing
more than any gentleman would do if he had a spark of manhood."
Lubito looked at the American rather blankly.
"_Seguramente_, señor, any _caballero_ would do what you have done ...
if he had a spark of manhood. _Seguramente!_ I ... I hope you will
allow a friend to ... to.... _Cá!_ ... to congratulate you, señor."
This equivocal sentence brought the conversation to an impasse. The
drummer was on the verge of taking offense at the innuendo, when
Esteban interrupted in a very miserable voice:
"Señor Strawbridge, you are a wise man. Tell me what I can do to regain
Madruja."
The drummer was touched at the peon's unashamed desolation.
"Esteban," he said seriously, "I don't know what you can do. I have
been thinking over your very question--in a general way. There are no
courts to separate her from ... from him. There is no public opinion to
force him to give her up. There is no--"
"But, señor," interrupted the peon, "she--_mi Madruja adorata_--is not
with _el Presidente_ any more!"
Strawbridge leaned forward and peered around the bull-fighter at the
peon.
"Not with him any more? What do you mean, Esteban?"
The youth made a desperate gesture.
"May the lightning strike God, but he has flung her out into the
streets, señor!"
Strawbridge stared.
"Are you crazy, Esteban? I saw Madruja and the general drive past in a
motor, not ten minutes ago!"
Lubito interrupted:
"No, you did not, señor. That was another girl he has picked up.
Madruja is ... well, to speak plainly ... Madruja is growing heavy
after the manner of women, and really, now--" the bull-fighter shrugged
and opened a hand--"really, now, what could _el Presidente_ do but
turn her out?" He looked from one of his friends to the other and said
intimately, "Now, really.... I dare say we have all been fathers at one
time or another.... What else could he have done?"
Strawbridge did not hear this observation. He sat perfectly still in
his chair, and said in a shocked tone:
"He really did!"
Lubito answered again:
"_Ciertamente_, señor; but any one could have foretold that. Do you
not recall, Esteban, I told you that in advance? Do you not recall my
saying, 'Esteban, _mi bravo_, cheer up. Presently _el Presidente_ will
grow weary of your Madruja, and you will have her back'?"
The drummer sat pondering the facts, in a benumbed manner. Somehow this
Madruja affair touched him painfully. Presently he looked at Esteban
and asked:
"Well, ... did you get her back! Do you want her back?"
Lubito replied for his friend:
"_Diablo!_ no, he didn't get her back! _El Presidente_ has a way with
women. The poor girl is completely mad. She lives alone in a big house,
and weeps night and day. She says the general will come back to her as
soon as he grows weary of this new mistress. 'But, Madruja,' I argued
with her, 'he will always have a new mistress! He always has had. Now
take back poor Esteban. Look at him. See how he loves you. Your poor
Esteban!' But she curls up her pretty mouth. 'Esteban! Esteban!' she
says. 'Stupid as a donkey, dull as an old hound's tooth! Do you think
I would take a poor lout of a peon in this house which _el Presidente_
has given me?'
"'_Pues_,' I said, for I always did admire her, '_Pues_, take me!' She
gave me a straight look, for we were talking to her through the bars
of her window. 'You! What do you know, Señor Lubito, about the grand
super-civilization of the future republic of Rio Negro? Do you know
how to make all these wide sandy llanos bloom and bear fruit! Your
sword has never carved an empire--nothing but bulls!'" The bull-fighter
looked at the drummer in a puzzled fashion, shrugged, and finally
added, "She is utterly mad."