When lunch was over, Ramón went to his room, to sleep
for an hour. It was a hot, still afternoon. Clouds were
standing erect and splendid, at the west end of the lake, like
messengers. Ramón went into his room and closed the
window-doors and the shutters, till it was quite dark, save
for yellow pencils of light that stood like substance on the
darkness, from the cracks of the shutters.
He took off his clothes, and in the darkness thrust his
clenched fists upwards above his head, in a terrible tension
of stretched, upright prayer. In his eyes was only darkness,
and slowly the darkness revolved in his brain, too, till he
was mindless. Only a powerful will stretched itself and
quivered from his spine in an immense tension of prayer.
Stretched the invisible bow of the body in the darkness
with inhuman tension, erect, till the arrows of the soul,
mindless, shot to the mark, and the prayer reached its goal.
Then suddenly, the clenched and quivering arms dropped,
the body relaxed into softness. The man had reached his
strength again. He had broken the cords of the world, and
was free in the other strength.
Softly, delicately, taking great care not to think, not to
remember, not to disturb the poisonous snakes of mental
consciousness, he picked up a thin, fine blanket, wrapped it
round him, and lay down on the pile of mats on the floor.
In an instant he was asleep.
He slept in complete oblivion for about an hour. Then
suddenly he opened his eyes wide. He saw the velvety
darkness, and the pencils of light gone frail. The sun had
moved. Listening, there seemed not a sound in the world:
there was no world.
Then he began to hear. He heard the faint rumble of
an ox wagon: then leaves in a wind: then a faint tapping
noise: then the creak of some bird calling.
He rose and quickly dressed in the dark, and threw open
the doors. It was mid-afternoon, with a hot wind blowing,
and clouds reared up dark and bronze in the west, the sun
hidden. But the rain would not fall yet. He took a big
straw hat and balanced it on his head. It had a round crest
of black and white and blue feathers, like an eye, or a sun,
in front. He heard the low sound of women talking. Ah,
the strange woman! He had forgotten her. And Carlota!
Carlota was here! He thought of her for a moment, and of
her curious opposition. Then, before he could be angry,
he lifted his breast again in the black, mindless prayer, his
eyes went dark, and the sense of opposition left him.
He went quickly, driftingly along the terrace to the stone
stairs that led down to the inner entrance-way. Going
through to the courtyard, he saw two men packing bales of
bananas upon donkeys, under a shed. The soldiers were
sleeping in the zaguan. Through the open doors, up the
avenue of trees, he could see an ox-wagon slowly retreating.
Within the courtyard there was the sharp ringing of metal
hammered on an anvil. It came from a corner where was
a smithy, where a man and a boy were working. In another
shed, a carpenter was planing wood.
Don Ramón stood a moment to look around. This was
his own world. His own spirit was spread over it like a
soft, nourishing shadow, and the silence of his own power
gave it peace.
The men working were almost instantly aware of his
presence. One after the other the dark, hot faces glanced
up at him, and glanced away again. They were men, and
his presence was wonderful to them; but they were afraid
to approach him, even by staring at him. They worked
the quicker for having seen him, as if it gave them new life.
He went across to the smithy, where the boy was blowing
the old-fashioned bellows, and the man was hammering a
piece of metal, with quick, light blows. The man worked on
without lifting his head, as the patrón drew near.
“It is the bird?” said Ramón, standing watching the
piece of metal, now cold upon the anvil.
“Yes, Patrón! It is the bird. Is it right?” And the
man looked up with black, bright, waiting eyes.
The smith lifted with the tongs the black, flat, tongue-shaped
piece of metal, and Ramón looked at it a long time.
“I put the wings on after,” said the smith.
Ramón traced with his dark, sensitive hand an imaginary
line, outside the edge of the iron. Three times he did it.
And the movement fascinated the smith.
“A little more slender—so!” said Ramón.
“Yes, Patrón! Yes! Yes! I understand,” said the man
eagerly.
“And the rest?”
“Here it is!” The man pointed to two hoops of iron, one
smaller than the other, and to some flat discs of iron, triangular
in shape.
“Lay them on the ground.”
The man put the hoops on the ground, one within the
other. Then, taking the triangular discs, he placed them
with quick, sensitive hands, so that their bases were upon
the outer circle, and their apices touched the inner. There
were seven. And thus they made a seven-pointed sun of
the space inside.
“Now the bird,” said Ramón.
The man quickly took the long piece of iron: it was the
rudimentary form of a bird, with two feet, but as yet
without wings. He placed it in the centre of the inner
circle, so that the feet touched the circle and the crest of
the head touched opposite.
“So! It fits,” said the man.
Ramón stood looking at the big iron symbol on the ground.
He heard the doors of the inner entrance: Kate and Carlota
walking across the courtyard.
“I take it away?” asked the workman quickly.
“Never mind,” Ramón answered quietly.
Kate stood and stared at the great wreath of iron on the
ground.
“What is it?” she asked brightly.
“The bird within the sun.”
“Is that a bird?”
“When it has wings.”
“Ah, yes! When it has wings. And what is it for?”
“For a symbol to the people.”
“It is pretty.”
“Yes.”
“Ramón!” said Doña Carlota, “will you give me the
key for the boat? Martin will row us out.”
He produced the key from under his sash.
“Where did you get that beautiful sash?” asked Kate.
It was the white sash with blue and brown-black bars,
and with a heavy red fringe.
“This?” he said. “We wove it here.”
“And did you make the sandals too?”
“Yes! They were made by Manuel. Later I will show
you.”
“Oh, I should like to see!—They are beautiful, don’t you
think, Doña Carlota?”
“Yes! Yes! It is true. But whether beautiful things
are wise things, I don’t know. So much I don’t know,
Señora. Ay, so much!—And you, do you know what is
wise?”
“I?” said Kate. “I don’t care very much.”
“Ah! You don’t care!—You think Ramón is wise, to
wear the peasants’ clothes, and the huaraches?” For once
Doña Carlota was speaking in slow English.
“Oh, yes!” cried Kate. “He looks so handsome!—Men’s
clothes are so hideous, and Don Ramón looks so
handsome in those!” With the big hat poised on his head,
he had a certain air of nobility and authority.
“Ah!” cried Doña Carlota, looking at the other woman
with intelligent, half-scared eyes, and swinging the key of
the boat. “Shall we go to the lake?”
The two women departed. Ramón, laughing to himself,
went out of the gate and across the outer yard, to where a
big, barn-like building stood near the trees. He entered
the barn, and gave a low whistle. It was answered from the
loft above, and a trap-door opened. Don Ramón went up
the steps, and found himself in a sort of studio and carpenter’s
shop. A fattish young man with curly hair, wearing
an artist’s blouse, and with mallet and chisels in his hand,
greeted him.
“How is it going?” asked Ramón.
“Yes—well—”
The artist was working on a head, in wood. It was larger
than life, conventionalised. Yet under the conventional
lines the likeness to Ramón revealed itself.
“Sit for me for half an hour,” said the sculptor.
Ramón sat in silence, while the other man bent over his
model, working in silent concentration. And all the time,
Ramón sat erect, almost motionless, with a great stillness
of repose and concentration, thinking about nothing, but
throwing out the dark aura of power, in the spell of which
the artist worked.
“That is enough,” he said at last, quietly rising.
“But give me the pose before you go,” said the artist.
Ramón slowly took off his blouse-skirt, and stood with
naked torso, the sash with its blue and black bars tight
round his naked waist. For some moments he stood gathering
himself together. Then suddenly, in a concentration of
intense, proud prayer, he flung his right arm up above his
head, and stood transfixed, his left arm hanging softly by
his side, the fingers touching his thigh. And on his face
that fixed, intense look of pride which was at once a prayer.
The artist gazed with wonder, and with an appreciation
touched with fear. The other man, large and intense, with
big dark eyes staring with intense pride, yet prayerful,
beyond the natural horizons, sent a thrill of dread and of
joy through the artist. He bowed his head as he looked.
Don Ramón turned to him.
“Now you!” he said.
The artist was afraid. He seemed to quail. But he met
Ramón’s eyes. And instantly, that stillness of concentration
came over him, like a trance. And then suddenly, out of the
trance, he shot his arm aloft, and his fat, pale face took on
an expression of peace, a noble, motionless transfiguration,
the blue-grey eyes calm, proud, reaching into the beyond,
with prayer. And though he stood in his blouse, with a
rather pudgy figure and curly hair, he had the perfect
stillness of nobility.
“It is good!” said Ramón, bowing his head.
The artist suddenly changed; Ramón held out his two
hands, the artist took them in his two hands. Then he lifted
Ramón’s right hand and placed the back of it on his brow.
“Adios!” said Ramón, taking his blouse again.
“Adios, señor!” said the artist.
And with a proud, white look of joy in his face, he turned
again to his work.
Ramón visited the adobe house, its yard fenced with
cane and overshadowed by a great mango tree, where Manuel
and his wife and children, and two assistants, were spinning
and weaving. Two little girls were assiduously carding white
wool and brown wool under a cluster of banana trees: the
wife and a young maiden were spinning fine, fine thread.
On the line hung dyed wool, red, and blue, and green. And
under the shed stood Manuel and a youth, weaving at two
heavy hand-looms.
“How is it going?” called Don Ramón.
“Muy bien! Muy bien!” answered Manuel, with that
curious look of transfiguration glistening in his black eyes
and in the smile of his face. “It is going well, very well,
Señor!”
Ramón paused to look at the fine white serape on the
loom. It had a zigzag border of natural black wool and
blue, in little diamonds, and the ends a complication of
blackish and blue diamond-pattern. The man was just
beginning to do the centre—called the boca, the mouth:
and he looked anxiously at the design that was tacked to
the loom. But it was simple: the same as the iron symbol
the smith was making: a snake with his tail in his mouth,
the black triangles on his back being the outside of the
circle: and in the middle, a blue eagle standing erect, with
slim wings touching the belly of the snake with their tips,
and slim feet upon the snake, within the hoop.
Ramón went back to the house, to the upper terrace, and
round to the short wing where his room was. He put a
folded serape over his shoulder, and went along the terrace.
At the end of this wing, projecting to the lake, was a square
terrace with a low, thick wall and a tiled roof, and a coral-scarlet
bignonia dangling from the massive pillars. The
terrace, or loggia, was strewn with the native palm-leaf
mats, petates, and there was a drum in one corner, with
the drum-stick upon it. At the far inner corner, went down
an enclosed stone staircase, with an iron door at the bottom.
Ramón stood a while looking out at the lake. The clouds
were dissolving again, the sheet of water gave off a whitish
light. In the distance he could see the dancing speck of a
boat, probably Martin with the two women.
He took off his hat and his blouse, and stood motionless,
naked to the waist. Then he lifted the drum-stick, and
after waiting a moment or two, to become still in soul, he
sounded the rhythmic summons, rather slow, yet with a
curious urge in its strong-weak, one-two rhythm. He had
got the old barbaric power into the drum.
For some time he stood alone, the drum, or tom-tom,
lifted by its thong against his legs, his right hand drumming,
his face expressionless. A man entered, bareheaded, running
from the inner terrace. He was in the white cotton clothes,
snow white, but with a dark serape folded on his shoulder,
and he held a key in his hand. He saluted Ramón by
putting the back of his right hand in front of his eyes for
a moment, then he went down the stone stairway and opened
the iron door.
Immediately men were coming up, all dressed alike, in
the white cotton clothes and the huaraches, each with a
folded serape over his shoulder. But their sashes were all
blue, and their sandals blue and white. The sculptor came
too, and Mirabal was there, also dressed in the cotton
clothes.
There were seven men, besides Ramón. At the top of
the stairs, one after another, they saluted. Then they took
their serapes, dark brown, with blue eyes filled with white,
along the edges, and threw them down along the wall, their
hats beside them. Then they took off their blouses, and
flung them on their hats.
Ramón left the drum, and sat down on his own serape,
that was white with the blue and black bars, and the scarlet
fringe. The drummer sat down and took the drum. The
circle of men sat cross-legged, naked to the waist, silent.
Some were of a dark, ruddy coffee-brown, two were white,
Ramón was of a soft creamy brown. They sat in silence for
a time, only the monotonous, hypnotic sound of the drum
pulsing, touching the inner air. Then the drummer began
to sing, in the curious, small, inner voice, that hardly
emerges from the circle, singing in the ancient falsetto of
the Indians:
“Who sleeps—shall wake! Who sleeps—shall wake!
Who treads down the path of the snake shall arrive at the
place; in the path of the dust shall arrive at the place and
be dressed in the skin of the snake—”
One by one the voices of the men joined in, till they
were all singing in the strange, blind infallible rhythm of
the ancient barbaric world. And all in the small, inward
voices, as if they were singing from the oldest, darkest recess
of the soul, not outwards, but inwards, the soul singing back
to herself.
They sang for a time, in the peculiar unison like a flock
of birds that fly in one consciousness. And when the drum
shuddered for an end, they all let their voices fade out, with
the same broad, clapping sound in the throat.
There was silence. The men turned, speaking to one
another, laughing in a quiet way. But their daytime voices,
and their daytime eyes had gone.
Then Ramón’s voice was heard, and the men were
suddenly silent, listening with bent heads. Ramón sat with
his face lifted, looking far away, in the pride of prayer.
“There is no Before and After, there is only Now,” he
said, speaking in a proud, but inward voice.
“The great Snake coils and uncoils the plasm of his folds,
and stars appear, and worlds fade out. It is no more than
the changing and easing of the plasm.
“I always am, says his sleep.
“As a man in a deep sleep knows not, but is, so is the
Snake of the coiled cosmos, wearing its plasm.
“As a man in a deep sleep has no to-morrow, no yesterday,
nor to-day, but only is, so is the limpid, far-reaching
Snake of the eternal Cosmos, Now, and forever Now.
“Now, and only Now, and forever Now.
“But dreams arise and fade in the sleep of the Snake.
“And worlds arise as dreams, and are gone as dreams.
“And man is a dream in the sleep of the Snake.
“And only the sleep that is dreamless breathes I Am!
“In the dreamless Now, I Am.
“Dreams arise as they must arise, and man is a dream
arisen.
“But the dreamless plasm of the Snake is the plasm of a
man, of his body, his soul, and his spirit at one.
“And the perfect sleep of the Snake I Am is the plasm of
a man, who is whole.
“When the plasm of the body, and the plasm of the soul,
and the plasm of the spirit are at one, in the Snake I Am.
“I am Now.
“Was-not is a dream, and shall-be is a dream, like two
separate, heavy feet.
“But Now, I Am.
“The trees put forth their leaves in their sleep, and
flowering emerge out of dreams, into pure I Am.
“The birds forget the stress of their dreams, and sing
aloud in the Now, I Am! I Am!
“For dreams have wings and feet, and journeys to take,
and efforts to make.
“But the glimmering Snake of the Now is wingless and
footless, and undivided, and perfectly coiled.
“It is thus the cat lies down, in the coil of Now, and the
cow curves round her nose to her belly, lying down.
“In the feet of a dream the hare runs uphill. But when
he pauses, the dream has passed, he has entered the timeless
Now, and his eyes are the wide I Am.
“Only man dreams, dreams, and dreams, and changes
from dream to dream, like a man who tosses on his bed.
“With his eyes and his mouth he dreams, with his hands
and his feet, with phallos and heart and belly, with body and
spirit and soul, in a tempest of dreams.
“And rushes from dream to dream, in the hope of the
perfect dream.
“But I, I say to you, there is no dream that is perfect, for
every dream has an ache and an urge, an urge and an ache.
“And nothing is perfect, save the dream pass out into the
sleep, I Am.
“When the dream of the eyes is darkened, and encompassed
with Now.
“And the dream of the mouth resounds in the last I Am.
“And the dream of the hands is a sleep like a bird on the
sea, that sleeps and is lifted and shifted, and knows not.
“And the dreams of the feet and the toes touch the core
of the world, where the Serpent sleeps.
“And the dream of the phallos reaches the great I Know
Not.
“And the dream of the body is the stillness of a flower in
the dark.
“And the dream of the soul is gone in the perfume of
Now.
“And the dream of the spirit lapses, and lays down its
head, and is still with the Morning Star.
“For each dream starts out of Now, and is accomplished
in Now.
“In the core of the flower, the glimmering, wakeless Snake.
“And what falls away is a dream, and what accrues is a
dream. There is always and only Now, Now and I Am.”
There was silence in the circle of men. Outside, the
sound of the bullock-wagon could be heard, and from the
lake, the faint knocking of oars. But the seven men sat
with their heads bent, in the semi-trance, listening inwardly.
Then the drum began softly to beat, as if of itself. And
a man began to sing, in a small voice:
“Listen!” said Ramón, in the stillness. “We will be
masters among men, and lords among men. But lords of
men, and masters of men we will not be. Listen! We are
lords of the night. Lords of the day and night. Sons of
the Morning Star, sons of the Evening Star. Men of the
Morning and the Evening Star.
“We are not lords of men: how can men make us lords?
Nor are we masters of men, for men are not worth it.
“But I am the Morning and the Evening Star, and lord of
the day and the night. By the power that is put in my
left hand, and the power that I grasp in my right, I am
lord of the two ways.
“And my flower on earth is the jasmine flower, and in
heaven the flower Hesperus.
“I will not command you, nor serve you, for the snake
goes crooked to his own house.
“Yet I will be with you, so you depart not from yourselves.
“There is no giving, and no taking. When the fingers that
give touch the fingers that receive, the Morning Star shines
at once, from the contact, and the jasmine gleams between
the hands. And thus there is neither giving nor taking, nor
hand that proffers nor hand that receives, but the star
between them is all, and the dark hand and the light hand
are invisible on each side. The jasmine takes the giving
and the receiving in her cup, and the scent of the oneness
is fragrant on the air.
“Think neither to give nor to receive, only let the jasmine
flower.
“Let nothing spill from you in excess, let nothing be
reived from you.
“And reive nothing away. Not even the scent from the
rose, nor the juice from the pomegranate, nor the warmth
from the fire.
“But say to the rose: Lo! I take you away from your
tree, and your breath is in my nostrils, and my breath is
warm in your depths. Let it be a sacrament between us.
“And beware when you break the pomegranate; it is
sunset you take in your hands. Say: I am coming, come
thou. Let the Evening Star stand between us.
“And when the fire burns up and the wind is cold and you
spread your hands to the blaze, listen to the flame saying:
Ah! Is it thou? Comest thou to me? Lo, I was going the
longest journey, down the path of the greatest snake. But
since thou comest to me, I come to thee. And where thou
fallest into my hands, fall I into thine, and jasmine flowers
on the burning bush between us. Our meeting is the burning
bush, whence the jasmine flowers.
“Reive nothing away, and let nothing be reived from
you. For reiver and bereaved alike break the root of the
jasmine flower, and spit upon the Evening Star.
“Take nothing, to say: I have it! For you can possess
nothing, not even peace.
“Nought is possessible, neither gold, nor land nor love,
nor life, nor peace, nor even sorrow nor death, nor yet
salvation.
“Say of nothing: It is mine.
“Say only: It is with me.
“For the gold that is with thee lingers as a departing
moon, looking across space thy way, saying: Lo! We are
beholden of each other. Lo! for this little while, to each
other thou and I are beholden.
“And thy land says to thee: Ah, my child of a far-off
father! Come, lift me, lift me a little while, that poppies
and wheat may blow on the level wind that moves between
my breast and thine! Then sink with me, and we will make
one mound.
“And listen to thy love saying: Beloved! I am mown by
thy sword like mown grass, and darkness is upon me, and
the tremble of the Evening Star. And to me thou art darkness
and nowhere. Oh thou, when thou risest up and goest
thy way, speak to me, only say: The star rose between us.
“And say to thy life: Am I thine? Art thou mine? Am I
the blue curve of day around thine uncurved night? Are
my eyes the twilight of neither of us, where the star hangs?
Is my upper lip the sunset and my lower lip the dawn, does
the star tremble inside my mouth?
“And say to thy peace: Ah! risen, deathless star!
Already the waters of dawn sweep over thee, and wash me
away on the flood!
“And say to thy sorrow: Axe, thou art cutting me down!
“Yet did a spark fly from out of thy edge and my
wound!
“Cut then, while I cover my face, father of the Star.
“And say to thy strength: Lo, the night is foaming up my
feet and my loins, day is foaming down from my eyes and
my mouth to the sea of my breast. Lo, they meet! My
belly is a flood of power, that races in down the sluice of
bone at my back, and a star hangs low on the flood, over a
troubled dawn.
“And say to thy death: Be it so! I, and my soul, we
come to thee, Evening Star. Flesh, go thou into the night.
Spirit, farewell, ’tis thy day. Leave me now. I go in last
nakedness now to the nakedest Star.”
