Written With My Left Hand

by Nugent Barker

  ‘I was born at Pontevedra, in the north-west corner of Spain. Our windows overlooked on every side my father’s sylvan property as far as the eye could reach. I grew restless. Professors came to the mansion, teaching me all they knew.

  ‘One day I became a grenadier in the service of the King; and the down was scarcely sprouting on my lip when I was awarded the cordon of chevalier. I served in seven garrisons.

  ‘Came now my father’s death; and because of the dignity of my title, I said farewell to my uniform. Many men are very excited to serve under others, especially where there is a uniform concerned, for then the world can see how near they are to the supreme command; but Pedro Alonzo Calleja was never like this. I said also farewell to my mother, whom I left, in the extreme of affluence, under the care of my aunt Maria Isabella; and then, with laughter on my lips, but—such is the way of nature, that when we come to the point, we sometimes almost collapse—tears in my heart, I betook myself to Rio de Janeiro, where the elegance and purity of my speech impressed themselves at once upon the business houses of that great metropolis. The wealth and reputation of my old Galician family were everywhere on the lips of the merchants. Many a partnership was I offered; I explained that I had no wish to absorb myself in so tiny a sphere. Very soon I had the chance to marry a dark Brazilian heiress—but what was that to me? I loved her not; I possessed a greater fortune of my own; the lady’s birth was obscure; and the honour that I would have brought upon her must soon have ceased to afford me satisfaction.

  ‘I plunged into the wildness of Brazil! I travelled north to distant Panama! In Nicaragua I busied myself with coffee and the cattle-rearing—for what is it that a one-time Señor Grenadier cannot do? I, who had served in seven garrisons! Let me tell you, señor,’ he said, dropping his voice, ‘of that little incident in Managua. I was wearing in those days the long black hair, the large beard—now cut small, as you see, and trimmed to a point—the great cape, enormous collar, and sometimes horn-rimmed spectacles for effect, the whole of me crowned with a wide-brimmed hat, all in the manner of Quevedo, that great sixteenth-century writer of whom Spain is so proud. On turning a corner of one of the streets of the capital—in the neighbourhood of the Palace—what did I see but three villainous Managuans, crouching in suspicious attitudes on the sun-swept Square? On beholding my tall and commanding figure, they threw up their hands, and fled; I rushed in their direction; and there is no doubt whatever that my action saved the life of the President. The matter was brought to his ears; and with tears in his eyes he pinned on my breast a medal for bravery, of the second class.

  ‘Now let me tell you what happened next in my life, señor,’ he proceeded, after a pause.

  ‘I travelled south to Pernambuco, where I turned my varied talents to the sugar trade; and from Pernambuco I hurried north again, to Guatemala, on the same business. Then one day I sailed for Cuba, cradle of the sweet Havana!

  ‘On the boat I met a Spanish noble named Perez. I cannot remember his rank. What does that matter? Is it not enough to say that I gave him my confidences? My rich Galician flavour captured his Andalusian heart! “Ah, tell me about my beloved Spain,” he whispered. Since thirty years he hadn’t seen her! I told him of Pontevedra, of my estates, and of my mother, the Marquese. When he heard of my successes with coffee, cattle, and sugar, he offered to take me into his tobacco business.

  ‘The firm of Perez and Van Cuyp became Perez, Van Cuyp, and Calleja. Perez was a widower, and Van Cuyp was dead. Perez had adopted Van Cuyp’s daughter, and very soon my delicately poised nature perceived the old man’s dearest wish—that the object of his paternal solicitudes should marry a Calleja.

  ‘Never do I let the grass grow under my feet. Plucking the strings of the Spanish guitar—a Panormo of the most exquisite tone—I sang to Grizelda lilting songs—songs of my own composing—“You are my Lady of Consolation!” “Grizelda, ere I wend my way!” “Grizelda, thou art plump and fair!” “Look into your heart, Grizelda!”—but even when she looked at the moon her Dutch orbs were without lustre. Why should one throw one’s youth away, señor? How can I love a woman plump and fair? I preferred to spend my hours alone, at my window, overlooking the Florida Straits—wielding my pen; and many were the satires, histories, compositions of music, and poems (amongst them my admired love-sequence, To Grizelda) that I committed to paper at that time. On reading them, Perez, who was a man of culture and experience, exclaimed: “To you, Marquis, I leave the expansion of our business!”

  ‘We flourished. The Flor de Calleja became our longest cigar. . . . My picture is on the lid, you observe, the work of a Cuban painter. You must try one now, señor. Dinner is a long way off.’

  We pinched the end of our cigars with reverence. The Marquis tossed the match on to the veranda.

  ‘Expansion! That is what I really needed! Too long I had tarried in the same spot! Old Perez could see nothing beyond his island plantations, his desk, and his adopted daughter. One day I walked round to the office and spoke to him of my intention to return for a short time to Spain to plant a kiss on my mother’s cheeks, and, after that, to open offices of the Calleja, Perez Company in Barcelona, Paris, London, St Petersburg. “Then you must visit my beautiful daughter,” he said, “my beautiful widowed daughter who ran away to marry so foolishly in Andalusia.” He gave me an address. A daughter in Andalusia? “I never mentioned her till now,” he said. “She never writes to me. I never write to her. It is very sad.” Even while old Perez was speaking, I saw that lovely Spanish province where the murmuring winds are forever shaking the fig-trees. With Grizelda Van Cuyp I closed my account. goodbye! goodbye!’ Bizarro kissed his hand. ‘On the next morning I set sail for Europe; for I must tell you that I have an eye for a picture, an ear for music, and a heart for romance.

  Pedro Alonzo Calleja, the Marqués de Bizarro, paused. He seemed to be contemplating the end of a period. ‘What an ash!’ he murmured, holding his Flor de Calleja in front of his eyes. ‘A masterpiece!’

  A slow breeze had begun to stir the larches. Bizarro’s horse was munching with a sound equally restful; but from the depths of the bungalow I heard again the busy clatter of crockery subdued by distance, the sudden ring of a glass. . . .

  The Marquis sighed, and said in a serious voice:

  ‘The pictures and the music that welcomed me at Pontevedra were mournful to the extreme, for it was broken to me by my aunt’s faint words that my mother had flown to heaven. Spring was now ablaze in Pontevedra, and our family chapel was buried in green; deeper than the chapel my spirits also were entombed; and in our spacious house I could never find them again.

  ‘My aged aunt, croaking in her black mantilla, conducted me, as though for the first time I was seeing them in my busy life, through our majestic rooms hung with faded tapestries.

  ‘You will have observed, señor, that I am a man who does not like to be mournful. I dressed myself in my grenadier’s uniform, but what a figure I struck in the glass, what a figure! In the morning, with my cloak flowing from my shoulders, I bade my aunt farewell, and started south across our dreamy, vigorous Spain for Andalusia. I would call on my partner’s daughter, pay my respects to her, and entrance her with my South American travels. I would tell her of our plans to open offices in Barcelona, Paris, London, St Petersburg. I would give her a box of my Flor de Callejas, and after that. . . . But in the end I never reached the village where old Perez’ daughter lived.

  ‘I stopped short of it by a matter of twenty miles. I climbed into a tiny town shadowed by the strong Andalusian sunlight. Singing came from the church at the top of the hill. Señor, I entered. I sat near the open door and sang to the music.

  ‘People took no notice of me. Would you believe it? I might have been one of themselves! Presently I saw four figures standing with their books in their hands near the altar rails. A glance was sufficient to show me that they were not humble persons. The sun was playing on the veiled hair and shoulders of the younger woman, who was standing between her large fe
male companion and the shorter of the two elderly men on her left. Whether my voice had reached her, who can say? She turned her head, and looked across the church, and our eyes met.

  ‘Let me tell you that it is not necessary to see a woman’s eyes, to know that they are looking at you: such attention is observed in the set of the head, in the stillness of a hand. Across the throbbing of the church I felt her lashes against mine.

  ‘The singing came to an end, and the young woman returned her book to her duenna. For a few moments I gazed at the narrow, pointed windows aflame with red, blue, and gold; then, scarcely able to contain my rapture, I hurried out into the sun.

  ‘ “Would you tell me,” I inquired of an old fellow standing by the entrance, “who are those four gentlefolk worshipping near the altar rails?”

  ‘ “Those, señor,” he replied, “are the Lord of Florinda, Pedro Alonzo del Ronzuelos, the famous warrior, with his daughter Plácida and his son-in-law Gaspar da Sousa, a Portuguese. The other lady is the señora’s duenna, as no doubt you have guessed. They come here once a year, on Ronzuelos’ birthday, and the Mayor himself gives up his seats for them!”

  ‘ “And on other days?”

  ‘ “They worship in the private chapel of the Castle, señor.”

  ‘While we were talking, the service came to an end, and the music wafted the object of my tender interest into the sunshine. As she was about to pass me, she hesitated, bowed in confusion, and looked away; and again let me tell you, it is at such moments, when beauty is withdrawn ere it has yet been seen, that the full marvel of it is to be imagined and accepted with complete confidence. She was beautiful; and as soon as I beheld the ugly, dull-witted, stunted Portuguese—he scarcely reached to my shoulder!—assisting with his arm the slow but upright warrior walking at her side, I knew that she was mine. Within the hour I discovered the names of my angel—they were Plácida Lola Dolores.’

  We helped ourselves to sherry.

  ‘I now began to rent a sunny room looking on to a patio. Señá Valdemoro, the proprietress, was able to tell me many things. From her I learnt that my Plácida was in the habit of attending early mass in the family chapel, sometimes alone, and at other times accompanied by her duenna, Donna Eulalia de Trastamara, an impoverished gentlewoman of ancient lineage. I obtained also from Señá Valdemoro further gossiping, for you will understand that my careful and cultured speeches were well suited to encourage this natural occupation of a thin woman with cracked lips. Learn, then, that two years previous to my entering the Andalusian scene the Lord of Florinda had sunk into poverty. Not only was he at his wits’ end to keep his daughter, his castle, and his lily gardens together, but he was in debt also, even to the extent of owing a little money to Donna Eulalia de Trastamara. It is true that he and his daughter’s duenna were of almost equal birth, and that this final levelling to an almost equal penury brought them still closer together, thus eliminating all personal embarrassment arising from the financial transaction; but when my landlady expressed surprise that the lonely widower had not offered her also his hand and heart, I pointed out that a true aristocrat would never do such a thing without offering money into the bargain; in addition to which, are not two empty stomachs, thus legally joined, more painful than one?

  ‘In this black atmosphere sank my poor Plácida. What would have happened if Gaspar da Sousa had not inflicted himself upon these humdrum lives, who can tell? His riches, pressed from Portuguese grapes, were immense. His desire, truly commendable, was to establish himself within the bosom of the Spanish aristocracy. For the sake of the old man’s honour, he laid his hand and heart at Plácida’s feet; Pedro Alonzo del Ronzuelos, who loved his daughter as dearly as she loved him, was as overjoyed as Plácida herself at saving the family shield; and for my own part, I saw very clearly, in the powerful sunlight of Señá Valdemoro’s patio, that there was no need to worry my head about a Portuguese interloper whose father-in-law was everything to him and his wife less than the dust.’

  My host broke his cigar ash delicately into a brass bowl.

  ‘Not many days I had to wait,’ he continued, staring into the deepening shadows of the larch wood, ‘before I spied her entering the chapel alone. I took up my position near the door; and when she emerged at last in all her wondrous beauty, and passed me by, with face averted, I knew that she dared not trust herself within reach of my arms. She was there again on the following day; and this time she came up to me, and laid her hand on my arm. “My friend,” she whispered, “you mustn’t come here.” It was as though she had said: “I love you!” Forthwith, in order that she might end her scruples in coming to me for protection, I began to pursue my plans with the subtlety that had attended all my dealings in wool, sugar, cattle rearing, coffee, and tobacco.

  ‘My landlady had a little dog named Cabanaquinta. His delight was in snapping at people’s heels; and to the end that I might employ him with dignity in this capacity I trained him with a little whip, and threw him titbits as an apology. After some days, instead of wishing to devour my heels, he took to licking them; and in due course, having spied out the land, I hid myself in a thicket at some distance from the chapel. Out came my sweet Plácida, with her duenna by her side; out rushed Cabanaquinta from the thicket. “To heel! To heel!” I thundered. Barking viciously, he gathered speed . . . and the duenna gave a scream. Señor, it was the sound of my life! I bounded forward to the rescue! I showered them with remorse! The ladies flowed with gratitude! I told them my name and title. They were enchanted!

  ‘As I had fully expected, on the next morning Plácida drew me to one side.

  ‘ “Since you are so persistent,” she whispered, putting her face as near to mine as she dared, and concealing her eyes with her long black lashes, “come to me this afternoon, in the silence. Search for me in the pine wood, amongst the statues.” A tryst.

  ‘It was clear to me that my lovely romance was proceeding apace.’

  The Marquis blew his great curved nose, emitting a fine, trumpeting sound.

  ‘I knew full well,’ he said, ‘the pinewood, rising beyond the castle gardens. Chance had already drawn me into its silence, where a bygone sculptor of wild genius had built his imaginations amidst the towering stems. Here tiptoed with extended nostrils sculptured lions; marble fauns endeavoured to spring away; satyrs and centaurs leered and postured, curving their heavy tails; and tall, white horses flashed at me on every hand from the purple shadows.

  ‘ “Decadence! I love the word, all shining with purple and gold!” That is what Verlaine said, but even he could not have loved it as strongly as a Calleja. I found my Plácida sitting on a horse in a gold and purple forest. What better place could I have wished for? I saw her looking down at me—my mocking, my beautiful one! Except for her dancing eyes, she was as still as the sculptured steed itself. I reached up my arms. And behold—the horse was real! She dug her heels into its flank; and with a flurry and a roll of pealing laughter the equestrian statue fled between the pines. Women are so elemental!

  ‘That was the first time I had seen her beautiful horse. I saw it again, on the following day, cropping grass near the chapel. Plácida was nowhere in sight. How heavy the morning seemed! Then Eulalia de Trastamara waddled up to me, and pushed a little note into my hand. To open it was but the work of a moment. “Persistent friend! Meet me in the castle gardens, this afternoon, by the lily ponds, and destroy this note as soon as you have kissed it.” “I do so now!” I exclaimed, tearing it into a thousand pieces, and laughing into Eulalia’s pleasant eyes.

  ‘So it happened that I was there, at our second tryst, in a garden of vermilion roses, lily ponds, massed violets, and shimmering trees. . . .’

  ‘And then, Marquis?’ I ventured, after a time.

  ‘The world was hardly big enough for us! No longer we were content with the castle grounds; but, walking, talking, riding, my dear and I went farther and farther afield in Andalusia. She had now on most occasions her white horse. Often Plácida would sit beside me on the
bank, and then it was that she began to learn of the variety of my conversation. I spoke to her of sugar and wool. I disclosed to her my mastery of the whole range of tobaccos. I revealed to her the splendour of my poems, so rich in their Galician flavour, and I sang her a song on the spur of the moment:

  O Plácida Lola Dolores,

  With your large dark eyes and your mouth purple-lipped!

  ‘We had our adventures; we had our dangers, too, though she realised it not. One day, near sunset, a bandit confronted us, a rough, impudent fellow, who went so far as to demand our money and to threaten our lives. Our horse, cropping the dark grass near us, took affright, and bounded away. Seizing Plácida by the arm, I sped after the fine, spirited beast; and the robber, who had found no more than the courage to lift his hand, fled.

  ‘Consider my amazement when Plácida turned on me with blazing eyes!

  ‘ “Why did you not go up to him—fight him?”

  ‘ “He had no one to protect besides himself,” I explained to her gently. “I had two people; and in protecting one, I protected the other. Do you not see, beloved?” She fell very pensive at these words.

  ‘I seized with both hands the halcyon days! One morning I found her waiting for me with two white horses. How my heart leapt when I beheld her gift! I need not tell you, señor, that I accepted it without hesitation, for Callejas never embarrass ladies of delicate feelings. I sprang at once on to the creature; and a moment later I observed how gratefully my generous nature had been received—for my beloved girl was putting up her face to be kissed.

  ‘Thus there began for us days without number, days without end, when, flying together horse to horse, we felt that all the miles behind us, once travelled, were struck from the earth. “I love you, I love you, Plácida!” “For how long, Alonzo?” “Forever!” . . . To think of those days,’ the Marquis told me, holding in front of his eyes the glowing Flor de Calleja, ‘is to think of a thousand years; to speak of them is but to murmur a few broken words between puffs of a Cuban cigar.’