killed him. Very likely they would! Very likely! Awful, no?”
“They might have killed me too,” she said.
“Yes! Yes! They might!” he acquiesced.
Curious he was! With a sort of glaze of the ordinary world on top, and
underneath a black volcano with hell knows what depths of lava. And
talking half-abstractedly from his glazed, top self, the words came out
small and quick, and he was always hesitating, and saying: _No?_ It
wasn’t himself at all talking.
“What would you have done if they had killed Ramón?” she said,
tentatively.
“I?”--He looked up at her in a black flare of apprehension. The volcano
was rousing. “If they had killed him?--” His eyes took on that fixed
glare of ferocity, staring her down.
“Would you have cared very much?” she said.
“I? Would I?” he repeated, and the black suspicious look came into his
Indian eyes.
“Would it have meant _very_ much to you?”
He still watched her with a glare of ferocity and suspicion.
“To me!” he said, and he pressed his hand against the buttons of his
tunic. “To me Ramón is _more_ than life. _More_ than life.” His eyes
seemed to glare and go sightless, as he said it, the ferocity melting
in a strange blind, confiding glare, that seemed sightless, either
looking inward, or out at the whole vast void of the cosmos, where no
vision is left.
“More than anything?” she said.
“Yes!” he replied abstractedly, with a blind nod of the head.
Then abruptly he looked at her and said:
“You saved his life.”
By this he meant that _therefore_--But she could not understand the
therefore.
She went to change, and they set off to Jamiltepec. Cipriano made her a
little uneasy, sitting beside him. He made her physically aware of him,
of his small but strong and assertive body, with its black currents and
storms of desire. The range of him was very limited, really. The great
part of his nature was just inert and heavy, unresponsive, limited as
a snake or a lizard is limited. But within his own heavy, dark range
he had a curious power. Almost she could _see_ the black fume of power
which he emitted, the dark, heavy vibration of his blood, which cast a
spell over her.
As they sat side by side in the motor-car, silent, swaying to the
broken road, she could feel the curious tingling heat of his blood,
and the heavy power of the _will_ that lay unemerged in his blood. She
could see again the skies go dark, and the phallic mystery rearing
itself like a whirling dark cloud, to the zenith, till it pierced the
sombre, twilit zenith; the old, supreme phallic mystery. And herself
in the everlasting twilight, a sky above where the sun ran smokily, an
earth below where the trees and creatures rose up in blackness, and man
strode along naked, dark, half-visible, and suddenly whirled in supreme
power, towering like a dark whirlwind column, whirling to pierce the
very zenith.
The mystery of the primeval world! She could feel it now in all
its shadowy, furious magnificence. She knew now what was the black,
glinting look in Cipriano’s eyes. She could understand marrying him,
now. In the shadowy world where men were visionless, and winds of fury
rose up from the earth, Cipriano was still a power. Once you entered
his mystery the scale of all things changed, and he became a living
male power, undefined, and unconfined. The smallness, the limitations
ceased to exist. In his black, glinting eyes the power was limitless,
and it was as if, from him, from his body of blood could rise up that
pillar of cloud which swayed and swung, like a rearing serpent or a
rising tree, till it swept the zenith, and all the earth below was dark
and prone, and consummated. Those small hands, that little natural tuft
of black goats’ beard hanging light from his chin, the tilt of his
brows and the slight slant of his eyes, the domed Indian head with its
thick black hair, they were like symbols to her, of another mystery,
the bygone mystery of the twilit, primitive world, where shapes that
are small suddenly loom up huge, gigantic on the shadow, and a face
like Cipriano’s is the face at once of a god and a devil, the undying
Pan face. The bygone mystery, that has indeed gone by, but has not
passed away. Never shall pass away.
As he sat in silence, casting the old, twilit Pan-power over her, she
felt herself submitting, succumbing. He was once more the old dominant
male, shadowy, intangible, looming suddenly tall, and covering the sky,
making a darkness that was himself and nothing but himself, the Pan
male. And she was swooned prone beneath, perfect in her proneness.
It was the ancient phallic mystery, the ancient god-devil of the male
Pan. Cipriano unyielding forever, in the ancient twilight, keeping the
ancient twilight around him. She understood now his power with his
soldiers. He had the old gift of demon-power.
He would never woo; she saw this. When the power of his blood rose in
him, the dark aura streamed from him like a cloud pregnant with power,
like thunder, and rose like a whirlwind that rises suddenly in the
twilight and raises a great pliant column, swaying and leaning with
power, clear between heaven and earth.
Ah! and what a mystery of prone submission, on her part, this huge
erection would imply! Submission absolute, like the earth under the
sky. Beneath an over-arching absolute.
Ah! what a marriage! How terrible! and how complete! With the finality
of death, and yet more than death. The arms of the twilit Pan. And the
awful, half-intelligible voice from the cloud.
She could conceive now her marriage with Cipriano; the supreme
passivity, like the earth below the twilight, consummate in living
lifelessness, the sheer solid mystery of passivity. Ah, what an
abandon, what an abandon, what an abandon!--of so many things she
wanted to abandon.
Cipriano put his hand, with its strange soft warmth and weight, upon
her knee, and her soul melted like fused metal.
“En poco tiempo, verdad?” he said to her, looking into her eyes with
the old, black, glinting look, of power about to consummate itself.
“In a little while, no?”
She looked back at him, wordless. Language had abandoned her, and she
leaned silent and helpless in the vast, unspoken twilight of the Pan
world. Her self had abandoned her, and all her day was gone. Only she
said to herself:
“My demon lover!”
Her world could end in many ways, and this was one of them. Back to the
twilight of the ancient Pan world, where the soul of woman was dumb, to
be forever unspoken.
The car had stopped, they had come to Jamiltepec. He looked at her
again, as reluctantly he opened the door. And as he stepped out, she
realised again his uniform, his small figure in uniform. She had lost
it entirely. She had only known his face, the face of the supreme
god-demon; with the arching brows and slightly slanting eyes, and the
loose, light tuft of a goat-beard. The Master. The everlasting Pan.
He was looking back at her again, using all his power to prevent her
seeing in him the little general in uniform, in the worldly vision. And
she avoided his eyes, and saw nothing.
They found Ramón sitting in his white clothes in a long chair on the
terrace. He was creamy-brown in his pallor.
He saw at once the change in Kate. She had the face of one waking from
the dead, curiously dipped in death, with a tenderness far more new
and vulnerable than a child’s. He glanced at Cipriano. Cipriano’s face
seemed darker than usual, with that secret hauteur and aloofness of the
savage. He knew it well.
“Are you better?” Kate asked.
“Very nearly!” he said, looking up at her gently. “And you?”
“Yes, I am all right.”
“You are?”
“Yes, I think so.--I have felt myself all lost, since that day.
Spiritually, I mean. Otherwise I am all right. Are you healing well?”
“Oh, yes! I always heal quickly.”
“Knives and bullets are horrible things.”
“Yes--in the wrong place.”
Kate felt rather as if she were coming to, from a swoon, as Ramón spoke
to her and looked at her. His eyes, his voice seemed kind. Kind? The
word suddenly was strange to her, she had to try to get its meaning.
There was no kindness in Cipriano. The god-demon Pan preceded kindness.
She wondered if she wanted kindness. She did not know. Everything felt
numb.
“I was wondering whether to go to England,” she said.
“Again?” said Ramón, with a slight smile. “Away from the bullets and
the knives, is that it?”
“Yes!--to get away.” And she sighed deeply.
“No!” said Ramón. “Don’t go away. You will find nothing in England.”
“But _can_ I go on here?”
“Can you help it?”
“I wish I knew what to do.”
“How can one know? Something happens inside you, and all your decisions
are smoke.--Let happen what will happen.”
“I can’t _quite_ drift as if I had no soul of my own, can I?”
“Sometimes it is best.”
There was a pause. Cipriano stayed outside the conversation altogether,
in a dusky world of his own, apart and secretly hostile.
“I have been thinking so much about you,” she said to Ramón, “and
wondering whether it is worth while.”
“What?”
“What you are doing; trying to change the religion of these people. If
they have any religion to change. I don’t think they are a religious
people. They are only superstitious. I have no use for men and women
who go crawling down a church aisle on their knees, or holding up their
arms for hours. There’s something stupid and wrong about it. They never
worship a God. Only some little evil power. I have been wondering
so much if it is worth while giving yourself to them, and exposing
yourself to them. It would be horrible if you were really killed. I
have seen you _look_ dead.”
“Now you see me look alive again,” he smiled.
But a heavy silence followed.
“I believe Don Cipriano knows them better than you do. I believe he
knows best, if it is any good,” she said.
“And what does he say?” asked Ramón.
“I say I am Ramón’s man,” replied Cipriano stubbornly.
Kate looked at him, and mistrusted him. In the long run he was nobody’s
man. He was that old, masterless Pan-male, that could not even conceive
of service; particularly the service of mankind. He saw only glory; the
black mystery of glory consummated. And himself like a wind of glory.
“I feel they’ll let you down,” said Kate to Ramón.
“Maybe! But I shan’t let myself down. I do what I believe in. Possibly
I am only the first step round the corner of change. But: ce n’est que
le premier pas qui coute--Why will you not go round the corner with us?
At least it is better than sitting still.”
Kate did not answer his question. She sat looking at the mango trees
and the lake, and the thought of that afternoon came over her again.
“How did those two men get in; those two bandits on the roof?” she
asked wonderingly.
“It was a woman this time; a girl whom Carlota brought here from the
Cuna in Mexico, to be a sewing girl and to teach the peon’s wives to
sew and do little things. She had a little room at the end of the
terrace there--” Ramón pointed to the terrace projecting towards
the lake, opposite the one where his own room was, and the covered
balcony. “She got entangled with one of the peons; a sort of second
overseer, called Guillermo. Guillermo had got a wife and four children,
but he came to me to say could he change and take Maruca--the sewing
girl. I said no, he could stay with his family. And I sent Maruca back
to Mexico. But she had had a smattering of education, and thought she
was equal to anything. She got messages through to Guillermo, and he
ran away and joined her in Mexico, leaving wife and four children here.
The wife then went to live with another peon--the blacksmith--whose
wife had died and who was supposed to be a good match; a decent fellow.
“One day appeared Guillermo, and said: could he come back? I said not
with Maruca. He said he didn’t want Maruca, he wanted to come back.
His wife was willing to go back to him again with the children. The
blacksmith was willing to let her go. I said very well; but he had
forfeited his job as sub-overseer, and must be a peon again.
“And he seemed all right--satisfied. But then Maruca came and stayed in
Sayula, pretending to make her living as a dressmaker. She was in with
the priest; and she got Guillermo again.
“It seems the Knights of Cortes had promised a big reward for the
man who would bring in my scalp; secretly, of course. The girl got
Guillermo: Guillermo got those two peons, one from San Pablo and one
from Ahuajijic; somebody else arranged for the rest.
“The bedroom the girl used to have is that one, on the terrace not far
from where the stairs go up to the roof. The bedroom has a lattice
window, high up, looking out on the trees. There’s a big _laurel de
India_ grows outside. It appears the girl climbed on a table and
knocked the iron lattice of the window loose, while she was living
here, and that Guillermo, by taking a jump from the bough--a very risky
thing, but then he was one of that sort--could land on the window-sill
and pull himself into the room.
“Apparently he and the other two men were going to get the scalp and
pillage the house before the others could enter. So the first one, the
man I killed, climbed the tree, and with a long pole shoved in the
lattice of the window, and so got into the room, and up the terrace
stairs.
“Martin, my man, who was waiting on the other stairs, ready if they
tried to blow out the iron door, heard the smash of the window and
rushed round just as the second bandit--the one you shot--was crouching
on the window-sill to jump down into the room. The window is quite
small, and high up.
“Before Martin could do anything the man had jumped down on top of him
and stabbed him twice with his machete. Then he took Martin’s knife and
came up the stairs, when you shot him in the head.
“Martin was on the floor when he saw the hands of a third man gripping
through the window. Then the face of Guillermo. Martin got up and gave
the hands a slash with the heavy machete, and Guillermo fell smash back
down on to the rocks under the wall.
“When I came down, I found Martin lying outside the door of that room.
He told me--_They came through there. Patrón. Guillermo was one of
them._
“Guillermo broke his thigh on the rocks, and the soldiers found him. He
confessed everything, and said he was sorry, and begged my pardon. He’s
in the prison hospital now.”
“And Maruca?” said Kate.
“They’ve got her too.”
“There will always be a traitor,” said Kate gloomily.
“Let us hope there will also be a Caterina,” said Ramón
“But will you go on with it--your Quetzalcoatl?”
“How can I leave off? It’s my _métier_ now. Why don’t you join us? Why
don’t you help me?”
“How?”
“You will see. Soon you will hear the drums again. Soon the first day
of Quetzalcoatl will come. You will see. Then Cipriano will appear--in
the red sarape--and Huitzilopochtli will share the Mexican Olympus with
Quetzalcoatl. Then I want a goddess.”
“But will Don Cipriano be the god Huitzilopochtli?” she asked, taken
aback.
“First Man of Huitzilopochtli, as I am First Man of Quetzalcoatl.”
“Will you?” said Kate to Cipriano. “That horrible Huitzilopochtli?”
“Yes, Señora!” said Cipriano, with a subtle smile of hauteur, the
secret savage coming into his own.
“Not the old Huitzilopochtli--but the new,” said Ramón. “And then there
must come a goddess; wife or virgin, there must come a goddess. Why not
you, as the First Woman of--say Itzpapalotl, just for the sound of the
name?”
“I?” said Kate. “Never! I should die of shame.”
“Shame?” laughed Ramón. “Ah, Señora Caterina, why shame? This is a
thing that _must_ be done. There must be manifestations. We _must_
change back to the vision of the living cosmos; we _must_. The oldest
Pan is in us, and he will not be denied. In cold blood and in hot blood
both, we must make the change. That is how man is made. I accept the
_must_ from the oldest Pan in my soul, and from the newest _me_. Once
a man gathers his whole soul together and arrives at a conclusion, the
time of alternatives has gone. I _must_. No more than that. I _am_ the
First Man of Quetzalcoatl. I am Quetzalcoatl himself, if you like. A
manifestation, as well as a man. I accept myself entire, and proceed to
make destiny. Why, what else can I do?”
Kate was silent. His loss of blood seemed to have washed him curiously
fresh again, and he was carried again out of the range of human
emotion. A strange sort of categorical imperative! She saw now his
power over Cipriano. It lay in this imperative which he acknowledged in
his own soul, and which really was like a messenger from the beyond.
She looked on like a child looking through a railing; rather wistful,
and rather frightened.
Ah, the soul! The soul was always flashing and darkening into new
shapes, each one strange to the other. She had thought Ramón and she
had looked into each other’s souls. And now, he was this pale, distant
man, with a curious gleam, like a messenger from the beyond, in his
soul. And he was remote, remote from any woman.
Whereas Cipriano had suddenly opened a new world to her, a world of
twilight, with the dark, half-visible face of the god-demon Pan, who
can never perish, but ever returns upon mankind from the shadows. The
world of shadows and dark prostration, with the phallic wind rushing
through the dark.
Cipriano had to go to the town at the end of the lake, near the State
of Colima; to Jaramay. He was going in a motor-boat with a couple of
soldiers. Would Kate go with him?
He waited, in heavy silence, for her answer.
She said she would. She was desperate. She did not want to be sent back
to her own empty, dead house.
It was one of those little periods when the rain seems strangled,
the air thick with thunder, silent, ponderous thunder latent in the
air from day to day, among the thick, heavy sunshine. Kate, in these
days in Mexico, felt that between the volcanic violence under the
earth, and the electric violence of the air above, men walked dark and
incalculable, like demons from another planet.
The wind on the lake seemed fresh, from the west, but it was a running
mass of electricity, that burned her face and her eyes and the roots
of her hair. When she had wakened in the night and pushed the sheets,
heavy sparks fell from her finger-tips. She felt she could not live.
The lake was like some frail milk of thunder; the dark soldiers curled
under the awning of the boat, motionless. They seemed dark as lava and
sulphur, and full of a dormant, diabolic electricity. Like salamanders.
The boatman in the stern, steering, was handsome almost like the man
she had killed. But this one had pale greyish eyes, phosphorescent with
flecks of silver.
Cipriano sat in silence in front of her. He had removed his tunic, and
his neck rose almost black from his white shirt. She could see how
different his blood was from hers, dark, blackish, like the blood of
lizards among hot black rocks. She could feel its changeless surge,
holding up his light, bluey-black head as on a fountain. And she would
feel her own pride dissolving, going.
She felt he wanted his blood-stream to envelop hers. As if it could
possibly be. He was so still, so unnoticing, and the darkness of the
nape of his neck was so like invisibility. Yet he was always waiting,
waiting, waiting, invisibly and ponderously waiting.
She lay under the awning in the heat and light without looking out. The
wind made the canvas crackle.
Whether the time was long or short, she knew not. But they were coming
to the silent lake-end, where the beach curved round in front of them.
It seemed sheer lonely sunlight.
But beyond the shingle there were willow trees, and a low ranch-house.
Three anchored _canoas_ rode with their black, stiff lines. There were
flat lands, with maize half grown and blowing its green flags sideways.
But all was as if invisible, in the intense hot light.
The warm, thin water ran shallower and shallower, to the reach of
shingle beyond. Black water-fowl bobbed like corks. The motor stopped.
The boat ebbed on. Under the thin water were round stones, with thin
green hair of weed. They would not reach the shore--not by twenty yards.
The soldiers took off their huaraches, rolled their cotton trousers
up their black legs, and got into the water. The tall boatman did the
same, pulling forward the boat. She would go no farther. He anchored
her with a big stone. Then with his uncanny pale eyes, under the black
lashes, he asked Kate in a low tone if he could carry her ashore,
offering her his shoulder.
“No, no!” she said. “I’ll paddle.”
And hastily she took off her shoes and stockings and stepped into the
shallow water, holding up her thin skirt of striped silk. The man
laughed; so did the soldiers.
The water was almost hot. She went blindly forward, her head dropped.
Cipriano watched her with the silent, heavy, changeless patience of his
race, then when she reached the shingle he came ashore on the boatman’s
shoulders.
They crossed the hot shingle to the willow-trees by the maize-fields,
and sat upon boulders. The lake stretched pale and unreal, far, far
away into the invisible, with dimmed mountains rising on either side,
bare and abstract. The _canoas_ were black and stiff, their masts
motionless. The white motor-boat rode near. Black birds were bobbing
like corks, at this place of the water’s end and the world’s end.
A lonely woman went up the shingle with a water-jar on her shoulder.
Hearing a sound, Kate looked, and saw a group of fishermen holding a
conclave in a dug-out hollow by a tree. They saluted, looking at her
with black, black eyes. They saluted humbly, and yet in their black
eyes was that ancient remote hardness and hauteur.
Cipriano had sent the soldiers for horses. It was too hot to walk.
They sat silent in the invisibility of this end of the lake, the great
light taking sight away.
“Why am I not the living Huitzilopochtli?” said Cipriano quietly,
looking full at her with his black eyes.
“Do you feel you are?” she said, startled.
“Yes,” he replied, in the same low, secret voice. “It is what I feel.”
The black eyes looked at her with a rather awful challenge. And the
small, dark voice seemed to take all her will away. They sat in
silence, and she felt she was fainting, losing her consciousness for
ever.
The soldiers came, with a black Arab horse for him; a delicate thing;
and for her a donkey, on which she could sit sideways. He lifted her
into the saddle, where she sat only half-conscious. A soldier led the
donkey, and they set off, past the long, frail, hanging fishing nets,
that made long filmy festoons, into the lane.
Then out into the sun and the grey-black dust, towards the grey-black,
low huts of Jaramay, that lined the wide, desert road.
Jaramay was hot as a lava oven. Black low hut-houses with tiled roofs
lined the broken, long, delapidated street. Broken houses. Blazing sun.
A brick pavement all smashed and sun-worn. A dog leading a blind man
along the little black walls, on the broken pavement. A few goats. And
unspeakable lifelessness, emptiness.
They came to the broken plaza, with sun-decayed church and ragged palm
trees. Emptiness, sun, sun-decay, sun-delapidation. One man on a dainty
Arab horse trotting lightly over the stones, gun behind, big hat making
a dark face. For the rest, the waste space of the centre of life.
Curious how dainty the horse looked, and the horseman sitting erect,
amid the sun-roasted ruin.
They came to a big building. A few soldiers were drawn up at the
entrance. They saluted Cipriano as if they were transfixed, rolling
their dark eyes.
Cipriano was down from his horse in a moment. Emitting the dark rays of
dangerous power, he found the Jefe all obsequious; a fat man in dirty
white clothes. They put their wills entirely in his power.
He asked for a room where his _esposa_ could rest. Kate was pale and
all her will had left her. He was carrying her on his will.
He accepted a large room with a brick-tiled floor and a large, new
brass bed with a coloured cotton cover thrown over it, and with two
chairs. The strange, dry, stark emptiness, that looked almost cold in
the heat.
“The sun makes you pale. Lie down and rest. I will close the windows,”
he said.
He closed the shutters till only a darkness remained.
Then in the darkness, suddenly, softly he touched her, stroking her hip.
“I said you were my wife,” he said, in his small, soft Indian voice.
“It is true, isn’t it?”