It would be the private opinion of Emma Ellis to her dying day that Miss
Vail had suppressed a good deal and had embellished a good deal, in that
dramatic way of hers. She had written so much fiction and lived so much
in her imagination that it was doubtful if she could (with the best
intentions) tell the exact and unadorned truth about anything. Besides,
even if things had happened exactly as she had chronicled them, it was
not a fair test anyway; it was a very different case from those of the
heroines in the two stories. Jane Vail knew she was Jane Vail, with an
assured position in the literary world and a large income, and that the
whole thing was only play-acting after all. But with Mr. Daragh entirely
convinced and more maudlinly worshipful than ever, what was the use of
saying anything? But she could _think_.
Jane swung happily into her fourth year in New York, flying home to Sarah
Farraday for Christmas, meeting the young year with high hopes and canny
plans, a definite part, now, of the confraternity of ink. Her circle
widened and widened; important persons came down from their heights of
achievement to make much of her, and the late spring saw the successful
launching of another gay little play, and early fall found her
deep--head, hands, and heart--in her first serious novel, but she found
amazing margins of time for Rodney Harrison, for Hope House, for Michael
Daragh.
Sarah Farraday, resigned but never reconciled, shared vicariously in the
life-more-abundantly which had come to her best friend, and she always
said, with a small sigh, that nothing Jane did or said could ever
surprise her again, but she was nevertheless startled, after a long
silence, to receive a fat letter bearing a Mexican stamp.
_On a Meandering Train, bound, more or less for Guadalajara_, it began,
and was dated December the seventh.
SALLY DEAR,
You must be thinking me quite mad at last, not hearing from me for
weeks, and then--this! Like the old woman in the fairy tale,--"Can
this be I?"
I decided all in a wink to fly to California and visit my mother's
cousins, the Budders. I needed a drastic change, Sally. I haven't had
a real play-time for a year, and it's four years and a month since I
left home for New York--can you realize it? Four lucky, beautiful,
shining years. But oh, I'm tired, old dear! So tired that my brain
creaks. I think there comes a time, in creative work, for playing
hooky. Write and run away and live to write another day. So I wired
the Budders I was coming and took the train the same day, and when I
reached San Francisco I found them all packed up for this Mexican
trip,--indeed, they were sitting on their trunks with a tentative
ticket for me in their hands. And I was pleased pink to come. The
Budders (doesn't Budder sowd as if I ad a code id by ed?) are nice,
comfortable creatures,--the sort who are called the salt of the earth
but in reality aren't anything so piquant. They're the boiled
potatoes and graham bread and rice pudding. You, now, Sally darling,
are the angel cake, and there's not half enough of you; I'm the
olives and anchovies and caviar ... a little goes a long way ... and
Michael Daragh is the rich and creamy milk of human kindness, always
being skimmed by a needy, greedy world.
Behold me, then, ambling through Mexico, a Spanish phrase book in my
lap and peace in my heart.
_Adiós!_
JANE.
P.S. I have just read this over, Sarah. Fiction of purest ray serene.
I'm not tired. I don't need to play. It was a very bad time for me to
leave,--my work screamed after me all across the continent. I had to
fly for my life and liberty.
Sally, friend of my youth, patient receptacle of all my moods and
tenses, I was falling in love. At least, I felt myself slipping. All
these four years I have intended Michael Daragh to be an interesting
character part in my drama of New York, down in the cast as "her best
friend." He is threatening to take the lead, and it isn't going to do
at all. Sally, the man's goodness is simply ghastly; I couldn't
endure having a husband so incontestibly better than I am. Why, you
know that all my life I've been "a wonderful influence for good" with
_man_kind! Didn't I always coax sling shots away from bad little
boys and make them sign up for the S.P.C.A.? And wasn't I always
getting bad big boys to smoke less and drink less and pass ex'es and
dance with wallflowers and write to their mothers? Really, when I
think of the twigs I've bent and the trees I've inclined, I feel that
there should be a tablet erected to me somewhere. But the woman who
weds Michael Daragh, I don't care who she is (lie: I care
enormously!) will always be burning incense to him in her lesser
soul, always straining on tiptoe to breathe the air in which he lives
and moves and has his being.
Michael Daragh, that time he renounced the flesh-pots and "took to
bride the Ladye Povertye with perfect blithenesse," did it so
thoroughly that any literal spouse will be only a sort of morganatic
wife, anyway. I don't mean that he might not adore her and be
wonderful to her _after_ he'd ministered unto a drove of sticky
immigrants and a Settlement full of drab down-and-outs and an Agnes
Chatterton Home full of Fallen Sisters, but he would really expect
her to _prefer_ having him assist at the arrival of the eleventh
little Lascanowitz in a moldy cellar to keeping a birthday dinner
date with her.
Now, Sally dear, in these four years since I left my village home
(soft chords) I have labored somewhat, and I confess that I have
frankly looked forward to matrimony as a sort of glorified vacation.
I couldn't ever give up my work, of course,--it wouldn't give me
up--and I don't crave to "sit on a cushion and sew a fine seam and
live upon strawberries, sugar and cream" exclusively, but somewhere
in the middle ground between that and washing dishes and "feeding the
swine," I did visualize a sort of gracious lady leisure, with a
vague, worshipful being in the background making me "take care of
myself."
Therefore, feeling myself melting unduly on the Irish question, I fly
while there is yet time.
Much love, old dear!
JANE.
_December 8th._
That was a silly screed, yesterday, Sally dearest, but getting it off
my chest was a great relief. And at that it wasn't a complete
confession. There was another reason for a strategic retreat. The
other reason was Rodney Harrison. Yes, the House of Harrison has
capitulated, handsomely, lavishly, Mater and Pater as well, but I'm
very sure that I can never be theirs. Just as I feel that Michael
Daragh is too good for me, so do I feel that Rodney Harrison is not
quite good enough! I mean by that not quite concerned enough with
drying the world's tears. With--as G.B.S. says--"a character that
needs looking after as much as my own," I feel I should have some one
a little less Philistine than the cheerful Rodney. At any rate, I
needed perspective on the whole situation, and who knows but I shall
meet my nice new fate on this romantic pilgrimage? (Sounds more like
eighteen than twenty-eight, doesn't it?) But, seriously, I've been so
constantly with Michael Daragh and Rodney in these four years that I
know every dip and spur, every line and leaf of their mental scenery;
fresh fields and pastures new are what I need. And "one meets so many
delightful people in traveling--" as witness the good Budders and
their niece, Miss Vail ('sh ... they say she's a _writer_!)
Something, which is to say, some_body_, may turn up at any moment.
Yours, Micawber-ing,
J.
P.S. I trust you won't expect to glean any useful information or
statistics about Mexico from these chronicles? The Budders are deep
in histories and guidebooks but I know not whether the _Chichimecs_
were people or pottery and I hope I never shall!
P.S. II. Cousin Dudley, having just returned from the smoker, reports
chatting with a most interesting young civil engineer----
_December 9th._
We are now so late, Sally dear, that we have lost all social
standing; we slink into sidings and wait in shame for prompt and
proper trains to bustle by. But I don't mind. At this rate I shall be
able to converse rippingly in Spanish by the time we reach
Guadalajara. Cousin Dudley knows a professor person there who will
help us to plan our trip.
Spanish is deliciously easy. It seems rather silly to make it a
regular study in our schools.
I adore the stations, especially at night,--black velvet darkness
studded with lanterns and torches and little leaping fires; old blind
minstrels whining their ballads; the mournful voices of the sweetmeat
venders chanting--"_Dulce de Morelia!_"--"_Cajeta de Celaya!_" These
candies, by the way, are the most----
_December 11th._
Alas, _muy_ Sally _mia_, when I meant to add a few paragraphs to
this letter diary every day! I was interrupted just there by Cousin
Dudley who came in with his civil engineer, and there hasn't seemed
to be any spare time since. (How is that for a demonstration of Mr.
Burroughs' well-known theory about folding your hands and waiting
and having your own come to you?)
He is an _extremely_ civil engineer and very easy to look at. He
has close-cropped, bronzy brown hair and gentian-blue eyes and his
skin is burned to a glowing copper luster. He is just idling about,
slaying time during a vacation too brief to warrant his going home to
Virginia, and he shows strong symptoms of willingness to act as
guide, philosopher and friend to wandering Touri. We are actually
going to reach Guadalajara tomorrow! Some one must be giving us a
tow.
_Adiós, muy amiga mía!_
JUANA.
P.S. The C.E. is going to hear my Spanish lesson now.
P.S. II. Isn't NETZAHUALCOYOTL a cunning word?
_Guadalajara,
December 12th._
QUERIDA SARITA,
We sight-saw all morning in this lovely, languid, ladylike city, and
this afternoon we called on Cousin Dudley's friend, Professor
Morales and his family. They were expecting us and as our _coche_
drew up at the curb, the door flew open and _el profesor_ flew out,
seized Cousin Ada's hand, held it high, and led her into the house,
minuet fashion. The _señora_, a mountainous lady with a rather
striking mustache and the bosom of her black gown sprinkled with a
snow fall of powder which couldn't find even standing room on her
face, conducted Cousin Dudley in the same manner, and I fell to the
lot of a beautiful youth.
The _sala_ was crazy with what-nots and knick-knacks and bamboo
furniture and running over with people--plump, furrily powdered
_señoritas_ with young mustaches, cherubs with gazelle eyes and
weak-coffee-colored skin, and the oldest woman ever seen out of a
pyramid.
There was an agonizing time getting us all introduced and a still
more agonizing time of stage wait afterward. Then Cousin Dudley (I
thirsted for his gore) said chirpily, "My niece has learned to speak
Spanish, you know."
My dear, it made the Tower of Babel seem like "going into the
silence." Everybody in that room talked to me at once. In my frantic
boast and foolish word about the easiness of Spanish it had never
occurred to me that people would talk to _me_! If the fiends had
only held their tongues and let _me_ ask _them_ to have the kindness
to do me the favor to show me which way was the cathedral, or
whether it was the silk handkerchief of the rich Frenchman which the
young lady's old sick father required, all would have been well, but
instead--a madhouse!
Then came rescue. The sweetest, softest pussy willow of a girl with a
delicious accent said, "So deed I also feel, in the conevent, when
they all at once spik _inglés_!" She was in pearl gray, no powder,
no mustache, slim as a reed. Her gentle name is Maria de Guadalupe
Rosalia Merced Castello, but they call her "Lupe" ("Loopie," Sally,
not Loop!) She is a penniless orphan, just visiting her kin at
present, but lives with an uncle in Guanajuato (where delves my C.E.
at his mine) and she is in disgrace because of an undesirable love
affair, so the _señora_ told Cousin Ada. They are taking us to the
_Plaza_ to-night, and meanwhile we sup.
Delightedly,
JANE.
P.S. 11.30 P.M. The _Plaza_ is still the parlor in Guadalajara and
it's enchanting! The staid background of the chaperones in _coches_,
the slow procession of youths and maidens, two and two, boys in one
line, girls in another, the eager, forward looks, the whisper at
passing, the note slipped from hand to hand, the backward glances,
all classes, and over all, through all, the pleading, pulsing call
of the music.
Sarah, never did you make melody like that, decent New Englander that
you are! It's so poignantly searching-sweet, so _sin verguenza_
(without shame!) _El profesor_ had them play _La Golondrina_, their
national anthem, really, which means merely The Swallow, to start
with, but everything else a hungry heart can pack into it. Lupe and
I walked together and she was pouring out her dewy young confidences
before we'd been twice round the circle. Montagues and Capulets! The
rich uncle who has reared her is the bitterest enemy of her Emilo's
papa who is a general of revolutionary tendencies. "Me," she said
with a shrug, "I can never marry! _Vestiré los santos!_" (Which
means, "I shall dress the saints!" Old maids having unlimited time
for church work!)
_Buenas noches_,
J.
_December 14th._
DEAREST SALLY,
The loveliest idea came and sat on my chest in the pearly dawn! I'm
going to take María de Guadalupe Rosalía Merced Castello with me on
this tour as Spanish teacher! She accepted with tears of joy and
the Morales family bore up bravely. They will be frankly glad of
a few nights' sleep,--Lupe's gallants come nightly to "make a
serenade,"--not a lone guitar but the tenor from the opera house and
a piano trundled through the streets. The more costly the musical
ingredients, the greater the swain's devotion!
To-day we went with various members of the Morales clan to visit the
_Hospicio_ (see the Budders for dates and data!). I only remember a
girl of twelve who sat by herself in the playground, the small,
cameo, clear face with its sorrowing eyes, the pathetic arrogance in
the lift of the chin, her withdrawal from the other noisy little
orphans. I knew she must have a story, and when I asked the pretty
sister in charge, she burst into eager narrative.
Twelve years ago, approximately, a young physician was called at
night to the _peon_ quarter, and to his amazement found that his
patient was a lady, a girl whose patrician manner was proof against
all her terror and suffering. She utterly refused to look at her
child and threatened to smother it if he left it within her reach.
He took it to the _Hospicio_ to be cared for temporarily, and a few
days later, going as usual to attend the young mother, he found her
vanished. There was a lavish fee left for him, and a note, bidding
him insolently to banish the whole matter from his memory. The
neighbors knew only that they had heard a _coche_ in the dead of
night. The child, whom they named in their mournful fashion Dolores
Tristeza--sorrows and sadness--was always the doctor's protegée. One
day he came in great excitement to tell the pretty sister the
sequel. He had been summoned the night before to the bedside of a
dying man,--one of the great names of the city. The family was
grouped about the father and among the weeping daughters he espied
his mysterious patient! Afterward, when he was leaving, she looked
him squarely in the eye and said, "You are a newcomer in
Guadalajara? You must be, for _I have never seen you before_!" He
told no one but the sister at the _Hospicio_ and not even to her did
he divulge the name, but two days later, in a lonely suburb of the
city, he was shot and killed.
Sarah, doesn't that make your scalp creep? Dolores Tristeza! "Sorrows
and Sadness!" I dashed out and bought her a gorgeous doll and she
gave me a gracious smile but she was not at all overcome. She clearly
feels her quality. Loads of people have wanted to adopt her but she
would never go with them.
And to-morrow we are off to Querétaro to drop a silent tear on
Maximilian's dressy little tomb, the Budders, Lupe, the C.E. and I.
We are gathering as we roll!
_Adíos, querida mia!_
J.
_Queretaro._
I've paid proper tribute to that poor pawn of Empire who lived so
poorly and who died so well, but the real zest of this journey is
Lupe! Fresh every hour! Her mental processes are delicious. I was
lamenting her frank delight in bull-fights and she said, "Oh, the
firs' time I see horse keel,' I am ver' seek. _Now_ they keel four,
seven, eleven horse,' I like ver' moach!" When I tried to make
her realize the enormity of her taste, she turned on me like a
flash--"But you American girl, you go see you' brawther get keel' in
football game!"
"Pussy willow," I said, "it's not a parallel case. Our brothers are
free agents,--they adore doing it. They're toiling and sweating and
praying for the chance--perhaps for years,--and they're heroes, and
thousands are making the welkin ring with their names!"
She shrugged. "Oh--_eef_ you care more for some ol' horse than you'
_brawther_----"
The C.E. (although he could dispense with her society very
cheerfully) helps me to understand her, and through her, Mexico,
this sad, bad, pitiful, charming, lovable, hateful land!
Lupe's Emilio is by way of being a poet, it seems, and he has sent
her a little song, which we have translated, and I put it into rhyme,
and the C.E.--who has a very decorative voice indeed--hums it to a
lonesome little tune distantly related to La Golondrina. Here it is:
"Thro' the uncolored years before I knew you
My days were just a string of wooden beads;
I told them dully off, a weary number ...
The silly cares, the foolish little needs.
"But now and evermore, because I've known you,
They've turned to precious pearls and limpid jade,
Clear amethysts as deep as seas eternal,
And heart's-blood rubies that will never fade.
"You never knew, and now you never will know;
Some joys are given; mine were only lent.
You see, I do not reckon years or distance;
Somewhere I know you _are_; I am content.
"I do not need your pity or your presence
To bridge the widening gulf of now and then;
It is enough for me to know my jewels
Can never turn to wooden beads again."
Of course, to be tiresomely exact, he's _always_ known her, and she
is entirely aware of his devotion, and he can reckon the time and
distance quite easily with the aid of a time-table, but, as the C.E.
says, "it listens well."
Off to La Ciudad de Mexico in the morning!
_Con todo mi corazon_,
JANE.
P.S. I might remark in passing that it's a perfectly good _corazon_
again, sane and sound and whole, and summons only dimly a memory of
New York....
_Mexico City._
SARAH, my dear, I've given up trying to date my letters. I've lost
count of time. We've been here for many golden days and silver
nights, in a land of warm eyes and soft words, where _peons_ take off
their _sombreros_ and step aside to let my Grace pass, and Murillo
beggar boys are named--"Florentino Buenaventura, awaiting your
commands!"
We sight-see so ardently that lazy little Lupe says she is "tired
until her bones!" and when she surrenders, we go on alone, the C.E.
and I. (Oh, yes, the Budders are still with us, but they are keener
on facts than fancies, and we deign but seldom to go with them and
improve our minds.) Yesterday, however, we consented to see Diaz'
model prison. My dear, after seeing how the people live at large, one
is convinced that here the wages of sin are sanitation and education.
I should think ex-convicts would be hugely in demand for all sorts of
positions. In the parlor we were fascinated with a display of the
skulls of prisoners who had been executed there. I saw one small,
round, innocent-looking one which couldn't possibly have ever
contained a harsh thought, I was sure, and I indignantly read the tag
to see what he had been martyred for. Sarah, the busy boy had done
twenty-one ladies to death!
We listen to melting music in the Alameda, we ride in the fashion
parade in the Calle San Francisco, we drive out along the beautiful
Paseo de la Reforma and drink chocolate in the shadow of the Castle
of Chapultepec--chocolate made with cinnamon and so rich and sweet it
almost bends the spoon to stir it. Miss Vail remembers with
difficulty that she is the heir of all the ages in the foremost files
of time, a self-supporting young business woman who beats bright
thoughts from a typewriter four earnest hours per diem ... or that
she was....
_Hoy_--to-day, is very satisfying; I forget _ayer_--yesterday;
_Mañana_--to-morrow, may never come!
Juana.
_Christmas Eve, Cuernavaca._
_Felisces Pascuas_, Sally dear! You in the snow and I in fairyland!
It's a comic opera Christmas here, but a very fetching one,--the
pretty processions of singing children through the streets, the gay,
grotesque _piñatis_--huge paper dolls filled with _dulces_, the
childish and merry little people, the color, the music, the smile
and the sob of it all!
I wish I could have little Dolores Tristeza with me. I sent her a box
of delights.
My pussy willow girl is star-eyed over a telegram and my much more
than civil engineer has told me what he wants for Christmas. If he
had told me on Fifth Avenue or at home, on Wetherby Ridge, I should
have said at once that I was sorry, and I liked him immensely, and so
on, but--but here, in Cuernavaca, in the Borda Gardens, beside the
crumbling pinky palace, where the ghosts of Maximilian and Carlotta
walk at the full of the moon, when he told me that all his days were
wooden beads before I came, and--I don't know, Sally! I don't know!
New York seems very far away ... Rodney Harrison and my St. Michael
seem palely unreal.... Can it be possible, in these gay little weeks,
that, as Lupe would say, "I have arrive'" to love this boy?
Distractedly,
JANE.