“My husband and I accompanied my parents here for the month. My father and Anwar will be traveling to Egypt tomorrow, and my mother and I will remain here until they return. The Medicis are most generous with their hospitality.”
“Perhaps we will see one another again before you leave,” he said as Frieda approached, glancing from one to the other.
“Perhaps,” Isabella said, inexplicably. A Mona Lisa smile, a pale, almost indistinguishable blush.
CHAPTER 6
FOR THE PAST TWO PLUS YEARS, Justine had read many of the biographies and autobiographies of the central characters of Taos in the 1920’s and realized that Mabel Dodge Luhan would probably have known whether her great grandmother Isabella had visited Taos. If anyone knew how the stories all came together, Mabel would have. Yet, she hadn’t read anything about Isabella Hassouna in Mabel’s many autobiographies. If she had come to Taos and Mabel didn’t mention it, there would be a reason. What reason would cause her to conceal such information?
Justine had to ask herself a question that would arise many times in the year to come: Why did it matter if her great grandmother came to Taos? After all, she was in pursuit of what Lawrence found out about himself on the side of Lobo Mountain. But she knew the answer immediately, and would need to remind herself again and again. She was fascinated with everything about Lawrence. After all, as an anthropologist, she wanted the entire mosaic—every shade and fiber, every texture and color—of his life. Only then could she understand who he was, could she deduce how his mind and heart worked.
She knew that Mabel was much more than the wife of Taos native Tony Luhan. From a wealthy banking family in Buffalo, the young and attractive Mabel had made her way to New York City and Florence right after World War I. Mabel held salons with the flamboyant political and literary figures of the day in New York and, much like Justine’s mother Lucrezia, in Florence—activities that included a prolonged affair with communist John Reed and two men who would become her husbands.
By the time Mabel arrived in Taos with husband number three and her only child, John, she was determined to find the personal peace that had eluded her, as well as pursue her vision of how the world should work.
Her vision of such a world was not so different from mine, Justine mused. For Mabel, the individual draws insights from life’s experiences, enriches herself by attributing meaning to these experiences, and evolves into ever-expanding states of consciousness. She realized that this was not so different from Lawrence as well, who believed that the soul finds expression through the will, and emerges into social activism—fighting the human shallowness borne of capitalism.
“The noise of war,” Mabel pronounced in one of the columns she wrote for the Hearst papers, “violates the soul, for only in peace can individuals and societies attain higher forms of consciousness.” Further, in an expression especially dear to Justine, Mabel believed it was women who could best vocalize these essential, breathless truths. Soul, will, and intuition blended in this vision: the individual created community and in turn, community created the individual. “A reciprocity of tenderness,” Lawrence would later call it.
Eventually, Mabel would author several autobiographical volumes. Still craving a salon that would offer the intellectually rich conversations that Tony couldn’t offer, Mabel used her resources and personal will to gather key figures of the time around her: D.H Lawrence, Georgia O’Keeffe, Robinson Jeffers, John Marin, Willa Cather, Ansel Adams, Mary Austin. Friend Jaime de Angulo invited Carl Jung—and he came.
Deep in thought, Justine fixed her stare on the barbed wire fence, peripherally observing a man and his golden retriever moving slowly along the path, being passed by a woman, shoulders thrown back, marching militaristically with two brown and white terriers. While her eyes wandered along the horizon, her thoughts meandered among the letters and speculated about Mabel’s persona. Lawrence and Mabel had a conflicted relationship at best. More obsession on Mabel’s part, Justine suspected. After all, Mabel needed to be important to Lawrence—to be his muse. Can one be in love with another’s mind? I believe so. Certainly, in love with his worldview.
One of her many autobiographies, Lorenzo in Taos, included an exchange of letters that revealed a relationship between Mabel and D. H. to be both sympathetic and critical. While public opinion about Mabel’s talents varied, Justine admired her knack for self-revelation and examination, with occasional flares of fine writing. She pulled another letter to Isabella from the stack and removed the lavender post-it.
You ask of Mabel, Lawrence wrote. Her ego reins over her intellect and fills her with insistencies. Yet she is not without sympathies or generosities. I told you that she gave Frieda the Ranch in ‘24. Not that I didn’t want it for myself, but indebtedness to Mabel would not sit well with me. Frieda gave her Sons and Lovers in exchange. Worth a lot someday, I should imagine. She is married to a red man from the pueblo. Tony Luhan by name, Mabel’s red trophy. Tony has a quiet, sacred place inside his heart. I learn from him.
What did this passage tell her? Lawrence’s feelings about Mabel, the Ranch, the Sons and Lovers manuscript, Tony. She grinned at her great grandfather’s efficiency with words, a habit he rarely practiced in literary fiction.
She carefully stuffed the letters back into the peeling valise, opened the screen door and stepped back into the kitchen. She poured herself another cup of tea, dropped a slice of whole wheat bread into the toaster and peeled a banana. Leaning against the kitchen cabinet to eat, she pondered the dynamics that were part of those fiery relationships of the 20’s, many of them lasting into the 60’s, morphing into . . . what? Frieda, Mabel and Brett lived on in Taos for many decades after Lawrence died. Justine suspected that they grew into strong women together, confident in their own powers, without a need to compete. And, they were joined by other powerful women, Millicent Rogers and Alexandria Fechin, the wife of the Russian artist Nicolai Fechin, among them.
Justine stepped into a black and gray quilted skirt that promised to brush the tops of her buckskin boots as she moved, a white cotton blouse, silver belt and earrings for her drive to Mabel’s. She hadn’t been to the Luhan property as yet, although she’d been told at the Visitor’s Center how to find it. Stopping at Walgreen’s to pick up the Times, shampoo and toothpaste, Justine followed the leisurely line of Sunday traffic into the center of Taos and turned right onto Kit Carson Road.
The renowned home and museum of Kit Carson sat on the left and three blocks further east she found a small dirt road called Morada. “Morada” she knew, meant a small chapel used by the Penitents, a group of intense believers who sought to emulate the suffering of Jesus, especially at Easter. She had heard that they were very active in Northern New Mexico where they had kept the church alive, strengthening their numbers, after priests were withdrawn in the 1800s.
Following along the looming latilla fence of aspen poles for a quarter mile, she found the marked entrance to the Mabel Dodge Luhan properties, several acres scattered about with cottages for guests, a conference center built in the 70’s, and off to the right, a three-story structure that Tony had built as their personal home. Impressive, observed Justine, as she parked. This must have been considered a grand estate in the 20’s—the center of artistic life in Taos. Famed artists Ernest Blumenschein and Bert Phillips arrived before the war and put Taos on the map artistically, Blumy traveling back and forth until his wife came, yet it was Mabel who created the next wave of creative life here.
Justine briskly climbed the wooden stairs past an arbor, aging, peeling, furniture and a swing. A stone pathway led to the front of the house and connected a long line of single-story rooms extending south, all part of the original structure. Facing the end of the slender extension were four large storybook pigeon houses with scores of miniature windows and nearly as many pigeons. She observed the birds socializing in the morning sunlight, wondering what they had to say to one another. Turning back toward the house, her eyes followed the full length of the roof: wo
oden beams extending from the ochre adobe exterior.
Opening the lavishly carved yet exceptionally narrow front door, she stepped into the living room decorated with wine velvet-covered furniture and supported by mammoth pillars of twisted walnut rising like chocolate candy canes. Two pillars rose from the sides of a massive bench, undoubtedly hauled in from a nearby church. More steps took her up into a personal parlor opening to the west, with low ceilings, bookcases and family photographs. Mabel and Tony, as an aging couple, stared intently out from their seated positions in this room. Distinguished and self-assured, Mabel seemed to be asking, “You have a question?” In earlier photographs, she appeared less distinctive with her hair styled in a simple pageboy bobbing above loose gingham dresses that Justine remembered pleased D. H. Tony had grown quite heavy, yet his dignified, stoic face was unchanged. Justine glanced with pleasure at the Black Orchid poster by O’Keeffe above the bookcase. Then, unexpectedly, she found herself face to face with a diminutive woman of around sixty.
“May I help you?” asked the woman who introduced herself as Cheyenne. Her tanned, unadorned face showed laugh lines around her eyes and thin vertical lines above her upper lip. Vivid hazel eyes sparkled with an expression of earnest curiosity. A woman secure in herself, forthright. Approachable, thought Justine. “I’m looking for Mabel,” said Justine, distracted by her own observations.
“We all are,” grinned Cheyenne, “These days you’ll find her in the Kit Carson Cemetery. In the meantime, make yourself at home. There’s coffee, tea and muffins in the dining room.”
They laughed with ease, an immediate familiarity.
“Thanks,” said Justine, continuing to absorb this pleasant woman with a pencil behind her ear and a forefinger tucked into a copy of Mabel’s Winter in Taos. “Tell me, how did you make this house look like Mabel’s home again. I understand that Dennis Hopper and friends treated it quite roughly.”
“You’re right about Dennis. When he bought it from Mabel’s estate in the early 70’s, he hosted many visitors who had little regard for its history. Guests were hanging around like pigeons. I was one of them, I’m afraid. Dennis and I were quite an item for awhile.”
“You knew him? You knew him well?” Justine raised an eyebrow and waited for Cheyenne to continue.
“Very well, I’d say. We did leave the house in a bit of a mess. My work here now is a form of penance.” They both laughed. “However, the next owners refurbished the home and grounds for seminars on global education and the current owners host conferences and events about Mabel and her friends. So, it became Mabel’s home again. Many of the books and artifacts you see here came from Dorothy Brett’s home—given to us before everything was shipped off to the University of Texas. There are also a few of Frieda Lawrence’s possessions that she couldn’t part with. All three lived to become friends—eventually.”
“Nice to have that confirmed. Women seem to have a way of working things out, don’t you think? Even jealousies.” Justine perused the room with fresh eyes.
“That they do,” agreed Cheyenne, “although those years were not without struggles—often over little things.”
“Little things?”
“Oh, like who would drive Lady Brett. Who was invited to Millicent’s parties. Who was over- or under-dressed for an occasion.”
“Sounds like typical squabbles.”
“Just so.” Cheyenne paused and glanced back toward the office. “I need to finish up a couple of things. Come with me and then we’ll have tea.”
The dining hall might have been a western bunkhouse in a Roy Rogers movie: heavy multi-colored vigas painted to resemble a Navajo rug, clay and black tiled floor, red plaid table cloths in a room large enough for at least sixty ranch hands. Abstract paintings of Mabel and Tony guarded the entry while muted morning light caressed lace curtains, casting streamed shadows on the adobe walls below—an ethereal set re-enacting its glorious history. Dual French doors painted turquoise opened onto the tile-studded patio beyond. Justine could imagine Mabel and D. H. arguing fiercely over fresh geraniums. Frieda slowly stirring sugar into her coffee, ready to pounce if tension turned to intimacy.
Cheyenne and Justine walked to the long serving table and helped themselves. The blueberry muffins were still warm, although there weren’t other guests around to enjoy them. “This room is generous enough to hold large events,” Justine observed, filling a white ceramic coffee cup, topping it off with cream, and placing a warm muffin on a napkin, recognizing once again that if she ever gave up running she’d have to give up muffins too. They settled into two high-back wooden chairs facing the corner fireplace.
“Natalie Goldberg teaches her “Writing Down the Bones” here once a year,” said Cheyenne, concentrating on the blueberry muffin. “I’m trying to watch the sugar, but the cook here is merciless. In addition to Natalie,” she continued, “an array of other writers come and go. Occasionally a design workshop. Tee shirts to couture. In a few weeks, we’ll host a literary conference on D. H. Lawrence. And, the Taos Writing Conference has become a national event.”
“It looks as though my arrival in Taos is timed just right,” Justine said. “I attended Blue Lake ceremony at the Pueblo during the last two days.”
“Quite a show, I understand. I had to work or I’d have been there. I heard that Tony’s grandson spoke about his grandfather and the annoying white woman.”
“He did. But lovingly, pointing out how helpful some of Mabel’s guests had been in maintaining Taos lands and rights.”
“Just so.” She paused. “Tell me a little about yourself. What’s your interest in the history of Mabel and friends? Are you a writer?”
“No, not really. I keep a diary from time to time. And publish articles about my work. I came to Taos to accept a job with the New Mexico Office of Archaeology. I’m an anthropologist—and a bit of a historian—interested in Native Americans and the literary world of Taos. I like to know the history, the culture, wherever I am.” She had decided not to reveal her relationship to Lawrence as yet. That time would come.
“I’m surprised that you didn’t choose Santa Fe—most people do, especially if their office is there.”
“Understandable, but Taos history fascinates me more. I’m drawn to the Pueblo, Mabel—especially Lawrence. . . .” She let her voice trail off.
“I see,” said Cheyenne simply, smiling in recognition. “I’ve talked with hundreds of visitors who come here to visit Lawrence. Especially the Japanese in recent years. You’d be surprised at the number of people who live in Taos just because Lawrence is here. Or Kit Carson. Or Georgia O’Keeffe.”
“Why the Japanese?”
“In the 60’s there was a major obscenity trial in Japan over Lawrence’s works—and of course, that set off a run on the books! What I find surprising is that fifty years later the interest still remains.”
“Intriguing indeed! Why do you think Lawrence fans live here? Eighty years after his death??”
“I’m not really sure I know. We all have our reasons, yet all roads seem to lead to Taos. Art Bachrach owns the bookstore and is a Lawrence scholar. David Farmer compiled the Cambridge edition of Lawrence’s Women in Love. Dean Stockwell played the part of Lawrence in the original Sons and Lovers. Dennis Hopper was buried in Ranchos De Taos this past June.” Her voice trembled. She paused in her recitation.
Justine gazed at Cheyenne and waited.
After several moments, Cheyenne swallowed hard and continued. “Nearly the entire faculty of Black Mountain College came here when it closed in ’56. And, then there’s John Collier’s grandson, Robin. He’s planning a new radio station in town. I don’t know Sam Richardson’s story, but he will chair the Lawrence meeting. Biographers for Mabel, Frieda, and Brett come and go. Bill Haller ‘met’ Lawrence while in the Peace Corps in Africa. You must meet Bill; he’ll tell you the story. He works at Cid’s. Then there’s you . . . and hundreds before you . . . as there will be hundreds more.”
Justine was genuin
ely surprised. “The spirit of place? Lawrence thought the valley had a soul—a place where he found his own.” She opened the sugar-brushed muffin, watching the steaming blueberries to ooze out.
“Well put. Yes, this place definitely has a spirit, a life force. Some say Lawrence never left. We’ll go over to the pink house before you leave.”
Justine raised an eyebrow. “The Pink House?”
“That’s where the Lawrences lived before they got the ranch. It’s now owned by a sculptor and musician.”
“I’d love to see it! Why do you think Mabel really gave the ranch to the Lawrences? Hadn’t she already given it to her son?”
“She gave it to her son in ‘23, but took it back the same year. As you can imagine, John was not happy about that, but he knew that his mother often made abrupt and arbitrary decisions that were usually part of a larger agenda. She had wanted to give it to Lawrence. To keep him close.”
“But he wouldn’t take it?” Justine probed.
“He didn’t want to be beholden to Mabel. But Frieda had no such reservations.”
“And, of course, Lawrence came with Frieda.”
“As well as the idea of “community property” and the manuscript of Sons and Lovers.”
“Do you think either of them had any idea of the value of the manuscript?” asked Justine.
“I don’t. Even though Frieda behaved as though it was equal to the value of the ranch—and Mabel let her think it was—they both knew that the manuscript had nothing to do with the exchange. Or, so they say. I tend to think otherwise.”
“Why?”
“I’m not really sure. . . just a feeling I have from reading Frieda’s autobiography. The book is in the glass bookcase if you want to check it out.”
“I’ll do that. Thanks.” She paused. “I understand that Mabel gave the manuscript to her psychiatrist in New York. A man named A. A. Brill.”
A Rapture of Ravens: Awakening in Taos: A Novel (The Justine Trilogy) Page 4