Read The Other Nineteenth Century Online
Authors: Avram Davidson
The Other Nineteenth Century (30 page)
“Mr. Chen is angry. He says that you have made him lose much face by giving him the money in public as if he were a beggar. But he says you have lost face yourself by doing so.”
“Why didn’t you
tell
me how to do it?” Bill cried.
tell
me how to do it?” Bill cried.
He felt terrible. The old man cast him a reproachful look as he left, but Mr. Wong laughed and walked off with a swagger.
In his autobiographical sketch “The Great Coast of China” Davidson laments that he wrote so little of his stay in China at the close of the Second World War. The two Chinese fictions he crafted (“Dagon” and “Dragon Skin Drum”) are brilliant—rich in observed detail and arcane knowledge, and alert to the contrasts that postwar
China presented to an American. “Dragon Skin Drum” is a deftly rendered clash of cultures from which there emerge images and incidents of heart-stopping intensity—punctuated by the caustic remarks of Gunny Jack. “Dragon Skin Drum” is one of the few pieces by Davidson published in a “mainstream” literary journal, the
Kenyon Review.
In a 1991 letter to R. W. Odlin, Davidson wrote that
Kenyon Review
editor Robie Macauley “advanced to be fiction ed at
Playboy
and thence onto Houghton, Mifflin … and he never ceased to say of whatsoever story, ‘Not as good as the Dragon Skin Drum, of course.’”
China presented to an American. “Dragon Skin Drum” is a deftly rendered clash of cultures from which there emerge images and incidents of heart-stopping intensity—punctuated by the caustic remarks of Gunny Jack. “Dragon Skin Drum” is one of the few pieces by Davidson published in a “mainstream” literary journal, the
Kenyon Review.
In a 1991 letter to R. W. Odlin, Davidson wrote that
Kenyon Review
editor Robie Macauley “advanced to be fiction ed at
Playboy
and thence onto Houghton, Mifflin … and he never ceased to say of whatsoever story, ‘Not as good as the Dragon Skin Drum, of course.’”
—Henry Wessells
Ah, las islas encantadas! Ah, in fact, the visions which the name itself enconjures! How many other archipelagoes, some of them quite nonexistent, have borne that enchanted name, before it was finally settled on the group of islands in the South Atlantic … settled at least by some, that is. Perhaps these wild, wild islands had indeed not ever been visited by Da Gama, Vespucci, the brothers Pinzón, Sebastian Cabot, Ponce de Leon, Cartier, Drake, Sir Jno. Hawkins, and many another. And then, after all, perhaps they had. As Lope de Vega (¿Cervantes? ¿Calderón?) puts it in his dry, spare style, ¿Quien Sabe?
Not I.
My friend Diego had driven up with the Land Rover of his choice—a Safari Wagon, with space for twelve passengers and the driver (much good it would be without one), or, say, two people and lots and lots of baggage: a point which he made almost at once.
“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” I said, admiring the spare tire, and fancying myself … almost … in Kenya, with Papa.
“How would you like to drive down to the Straits of Magellan?”
“Sorry. I just washed my beard, and I can’t do a thing with it.”
“No, I am not joking; how would you like—”
“Diego. Please.”
And that was how I came to be driving down to the Straits of Magellan. Can one drive
up
to it? (them?) Certainly … if you start in Tierra del Fuego. Nothing to it, I suppose. Diego told me many stories of his boyhood, his family, his young manhood, his family, his country. And his family. After we crossed the Equator (I had crossed it twice, by sea, and was able to contain my enthusiasm this third time) the stories grew fewer, and his sighs more frequent. I do not wish to, indeed I can’t, dismiss the entire South American continent cavalierly (or, for that matter, in any other way)—but this is not that story. As we went further and further South, of course, it grew colder and colder. As for the land along the Straits of Magellan, I realized that they had never been fully developed as Summer resorts; they were, I understood, cold. Very cold. And very, very wet.
up
to it? (them?) Certainly … if you start in Tierra del Fuego. Nothing to it, I suppose. Diego told me many stories of his boyhood, his family, his young manhood, his family, his country. And his family. After we crossed the Equator (I had crossed it twice, by sea, and was able to contain my enthusiasm this third time) the stories grew fewer, and his sighs more frequent. I do not wish to, indeed I can’t, dismiss the entire South American continent cavalierly (or, for that matter, in any other way)—but this is not that story. As we went further and further South, of course, it grew colder and colder. As for the land along the Straits of Magellan, I realized that they had never been fully developed as Summer resorts; they were, I understood, cold. Very cold. And very, very wet.
After rising from sleep and sleeping bag one morning almost in slow motion, I faced not only the foothills of the Andes (I was looking westward), but the fact that I was not only no longer young, I was not even middle-aged any more. “Diego,” I said, “my osteopath told me there would be days like this: plain old degenerative osteoarthritis done got me. Leave me here to sink my bones into some hot bath, and catch me when you come back.” Although Diego gave me much sympathy, I felt that he was in some way rather relieved. Often and vividly as he had described to me his family, it was by now certain that he faced returning to them with something less than the wilder zeals. Folklore has prepared us for the Latin Americans with very many stereotypes, so that when they pick up their guitars and burst into
“¡Alla en rancho grande!’
—and sometimes they really do—we feel that this is all as it should be, and we are prepared for that. But folklore has not prepared us, in North America, with any stereotypes at all, really, for Latin Americans of the deep south of South American latitudes. Reunited with his family after many years in the United States, how would Diego react? How would his family react? And how would
I
react? Perhaps these considerations also engaged Diego’s mind, for, although he assured me that hot baths were available in his family home, his tone lacked something of its once-enthusiasm.
“¡Alla en rancho grande!’
—and sometimes they really do—we feel that this is all as it should be, and we are prepared for that. But folklore has not prepared us, in North America, with any stereotypes at all, really, for Latin Americans of the deep south of South American latitudes. Reunited with his family after many years in the United States, how would Diego react? How would his family react? And how would
I
react? Perhaps these considerations also engaged Diego’s mind, for, although he assured me that hot baths were available in his family home, his tone lacked something of its once-enthusiasm.
“At any rate,” he said at last, “I cannot simply leave you,” his arms swept the chill, sparse landscape,
“here.”
“here.”
“Well, in the next town or city, then.”
“No, no:
mucha bronca gente.
Ah!” his face lit up, “I shall leave you with people I know, in Ereguay! It is not far, no, no, not even so far as the distance between New York and Milwaukee. I know some people there very well, no, nonsense, they are very nice people, they will be very glad to have you.” All this (I thought to myself) was as it may be; but it was no time nor place for an argument; once there in that other country, about which I knew next to nothing, surely I could find what we used to call “reasonable accommodations”; Diego might assure me till his breath stopped smoking, but, face to face with the realities of the situation, he would accept my decision.
mucha bronca gente.
Ah!” his face lit up, “I shall leave you with people I know, in Ereguay! It is not far, no, no, not even so far as the distance between New York and Milwaukee. I know some people there very well, no, nonsense, they are very nice people, they will be very glad to have you.” All this (I thought to myself) was as it may be; but it was no time nor place for an argument; once there in that other country, about which I knew next to nothing, surely I could find what we used to call “reasonable accommodations”; Diego might assure me till his breath stopped smoking, but, face to face with the realities of the situation, he would accept my decision.
Gad! he’d better!
The rest of the trip, that is, of my trip to Ereguay, was rather painful, bodily; but the spirit or the journey seemed to have lightened with our common realization that, after all, Diego would not have to explain his family to me, and me to his family. That all the reproachful scenes beginning, “Far be it from me to reproach you, but,” could now do without the intrusive presence of an outsider and a foreigner,
de populo barbaro,
as it were. Pop
u
lo? Pop
o
lo? Oh, well.
de populo barbaro,
as it were. Pop
u
lo? Pop
o
lo? Oh, well.
Descriptions of the fertile vineyards, the empires of wheat, the plantations of yerba mat(t)e, herds of kine and swine: these I must leave to others: lo! are they not already waiting in the wings?
The weather grew warmer, though never hot. The suburb where my friend’s friends lived was old, and, I have imagined, Romansuburb-like, with many a well-tended vegetation, lots of well-kept walls, and even (the plant which I chiefly recognized) roses, roses; the señores Murphy were at home—what? yes, Murphy. It would be indeed charming to write they still, after three, or who knows maybe more, generations, still spoke English with a lovely brogue; not so. No brogue at all? No brogue at all, he had brought me to Murphys with no brogue at all. Of course, yes, they did speak English,
only English did they speak as soon as it was realized that this was my language; it was a rather flattened-out English, you would never in a million years have guessed, had you met them in, say, Switzerland, what part of the world they were from. And they expressed no surprise at all on learning that Diego proposed to deposit me with them; evidently this was, really was, the way things were done down there. Diego lingered three days, so it was scarcely that he was dropping me abruptly. And, as we waved him off, laden with gifts for his parents, I seemed to be part of the family which belonged in that villa, in that never-before-heard-of-by-me suburb of Ciudad Ereguay—of which, in fact, I had hardly heard of, itself, until then. A papal person had not long before said, publicly, that he was there to represent church interests in Paraguay, Uruguay, Ereguay, “and every other kind of-guay” (i.e. “woe”); it was curious how very suddenly the Vatican had need of him at home, after all. I make no claim that I saw “the real Ereguay,” indeed, even the unreal Ereguay I scarcely saw outside the very far-stretching walls of the villa where, twice a day, a hot bath was drawn for me, and where I received every conceivable creature comfort and every conceivable courtesy. In very little time the youngest children climbed into my lap, and even the next to youngest also came over and gave me a good morning and a goodnight kiss. Beside my ample bed, a
“matrimonial”
in the grand old style, upon the nightstand were laid such items as an English-language newspaper (rather thin, as though the fat had been stripped off it), an elderly novel by Michael Arlen, but one which I had never read, and a fairly recent copy of the
Illustrated London News.
only English did they speak as soon as it was realized that this was my language; it was a rather flattened-out English, you would never in a million years have guessed, had you met them in, say, Switzerland, what part of the world they were from. And they expressed no surprise at all on learning that Diego proposed to deposit me with them; evidently this was, really was, the way things were done down there. Diego lingered three days, so it was scarcely that he was dropping me abruptly. And, as we waved him off, laden with gifts for his parents, I seemed to be part of the family which belonged in that villa, in that never-before-heard-of-by-me suburb of Ciudad Ereguay—of which, in fact, I had hardly heard of, itself, until then. A papal person had not long before said, publicly, that he was there to represent church interests in Paraguay, Uruguay, Ereguay, “and every other kind of-guay” (i.e. “woe”); it was curious how very suddenly the Vatican had need of him at home, after all. I make no claim that I saw “the real Ereguay,” indeed, even the unreal Ereguay I scarcely saw outside the very far-stretching walls of the villa where, twice a day, a hot bath was drawn for me, and where I received every conceivable creature comfort and every conceivable courtesy. In very little time the youngest children climbed into my lap, and even the next to youngest also came over and gave me a good morning and a goodnight kiss. Beside my ample bed, a
“matrimonial”
in the grand old style, upon the nightstand were laid such items as an English-language newspaper (rather thin, as though the fat had been stripped off it), an elderly novel by Michael Arlen, but one which I had never read, and a fairly recent copy of the
Illustrated London News.
But if I were to go into detail we should never get anywhere, so let us gel to a sort of small garden party, no, not a party, an informal gathering, well, it was in the garden; it was only a few days that I had been a guest, I was sure that I had yet to meet every single member of the extended Murphy family, let alone very many members of the English-speaking population of Ciudad Ereguay. There was a señora Angela de Something, whose husband was Someone in the civil service,
un burócrata,
as it was, I thought, succinctly put; a
doctora Maria del Pilar Guzman, I am not certain of the area of her doctorate—gastroenterology perhaps, early colonial rent-rolls perhaps, you can’t tell any more, men or women; however—I am aware of opening myself to all sorts of attacks, but nevertheless I shall make this statement: I seldom saw a woman of the upper middle or upper classes there who did not have lines of discontent around the mouth, and I seldom saw a woman of the working class there who was not happy and smiling and laughing. Spit on me, stone me, that’s the way I saw it. There was an older man all in black and white, who at first glimpse I thought was a priest, but upon further attention was revealed to be an attorney; and there was a younger man, lighthaired, in open shirt and khakis, whom I did not assess: he turned out to be a priest. Presently there entered a young man who was not introduced, he had rather longish and very brown hair, a farmer or perhaps a hunter by the look of him, and I don’t recall that he said three words all the time he was there. And also someone was there, a doña Alberta, certain to be recognized everywhere as a Universal Grandmother; she was a moderately well-known British novelist on a visit from her home in the Isle of Wight. There were one or two others. I do not remember.
un burócrata,
as it was, I thought, succinctly put; a
doctora Maria del Pilar Guzman, I am not certain of the area of her doctorate—gastroenterology perhaps, early colonial rent-rolls perhaps, you can’t tell any more, men or women; however—I am aware of opening myself to all sorts of attacks, but nevertheless I shall make this statement: I seldom saw a woman of the upper middle or upper classes there who did not have lines of discontent around the mouth, and I seldom saw a woman of the working class there who was not happy and smiling and laughing. Spit on me, stone me, that’s the way I saw it. There was an older man all in black and white, who at first glimpse I thought was a priest, but upon further attention was revealed to be an attorney; and there was a younger man, lighthaired, in open shirt and khakis, whom I did not assess: he turned out to be a priest. Presently there entered a young man who was not introduced, he had rather longish and very brown hair, a farmer or perhaps a hunter by the look of him, and I don’t recall that he said three words all the time he was there. And also someone was there, a doña Alberta, certain to be recognized everywhere as a Universal Grandmother; she was a moderately well-known British novelist on a visit from her home in the Isle of Wight. There were one or two others. I do not remember.
Someone had politely asked doña Alberta something, and she said, “I am always interested in hearing of the legends and folklore wherever I am.
Vin du pays,
one might say. Won’t someone please tell me something of that?” She was a courageous woman; very often one is told fairly crisply that there are no legends, no folklore, all such things have passed quite away. But now, almost at once, licenciado Huebner said, “Ah, of course! We have the tragical tale of
la llorona,
” and he proceeded to tell us, in great detail and with much local color, the story of The Weeping Woman, which is found wherever Spanish is spoken and mis-spoken throughout the world; right at this moment in your city someone is telling it
now,
and naming the very neighborhood, through which you have unwittingly passed, where the unfortunate events occurred. I purposely do not tell it here; let it come, perhaps, as a surprise.
Vin du pays,
one might say. Won’t someone please tell me something of that?” She was a courageous woman; very often one is told fairly crisply that there are no legends, no folklore, all such things have passed quite away. But now, almost at once, licenciado Huebner said, “Ah, of course! We have the tragical tale of
la llorona,
” and he proceeded to tell us, in great detail and with much local color, the story of The Weeping Woman, which is found wherever Spanish is spoken and mis-spoken throughout the world; right at this moment in your city someone is telling it
now,
and naming the very neighborhood, through which you have unwittingly passed, where the unfortunate events occurred. I purposely do not tell it here; let it come, perhaps, as a surprise.
Someone said,
“Muy tragico.”
Heads were nodded. And then
someone else said, “Well, we have also the legend of
el vilvoy de las islas.”
“Muy tragico.”
Heads were nodded. And then
someone else said, “Well, we have also the legend of
el vilvoy de las islas.”
The novelist asked, “Did you say ‘veal boy’? Or ‘beel voy’?”
Our host spelled it for her (and for me, too), “V-i-l-v-o-y,” and added, “We pronounce it—”
But I did not then hear how they pronounced it, because before the attorney had more than begun, the young priest—not meaning, I am sure, to be impolite, merely he was a bit emphatic—said, “‘El Vilvoy,’ but that is surely a collection of nonsense!”
The attorney said, very calmly, and as one certain of his facts, “Sometimes we provincials, with all our naif enthusiasm, nevertheless arrive at a conclusion more veridical than the sophisticates of the metropolis.”
“Oh, but surely I did not say ‘provincials’; and if, by ‘the metropolis,’ you mean Spain, or Madrid in particular, certainly I am a Madrileno, but—”
A servant approached with a tray. “‘El
vilvoy
,’” repeated Mrs. Phlux (her real name), the novelist. “But what does that
mean?”
More than one person began, perhaps, to reply.
vilvoy
,’” repeated Mrs. Phlux (her real name), the novelist. “But what does that
mean?”
More than one person began, perhaps, to reply.
Our host, taking advantage of the abrupt silence which fell after several people had realized that they were all speaking at once, said, in a rather musing voice, “It is certainly rather curious, indeed coincidental, but … just this morning I was in the library, looking through some old volumes, especially a set of Dickens which I suppose my grandfather had had bound as it had his rubrico embossed on the covers, when I found a sort of scrapbook which had been maintained on this subject. Here is Ruy with the chocolate for which his wife is famous, and I shall ask him to bring the scrapbook while we are sipping some of it.”
The chocolate well deserved that she should be famous, it was excellent (Lina had made it. Her name was Lina), it was miraculous. And while Alberta Morris (her maiden- and pen-name) was drinking it, her eyes seemed to grow larger and larger. She gave a perceptible smack as she took the cup away from her mouth, and then she said, “‘El
vilvoy
’! But what does that
mean?”
vilvoy
’! But what does that
mean?”
From La Voz de la Nación, With Seccion in ingles:
What a storm of outrage swept through the streets and houses of our Ciudad Ereguay when one heard yesterday night that affront had been offered to our well-known and well-beloved mis Brethe ohara by a bruto whose name will shortly be discovered by our conscientious polis who all night sourced the meaner streets and alliedways which do no honour to us. The dear mis Vertha the grand daughter of capitan Monserrat our great Patriotic Hero had been delayed on some errand of merci to an umble casa near the port section of «town» when coming out en route to the awaiting carriage of her Papa the inglis coronel OHara (the idiom ingles does not contain of the letter R, hence coronel
=colonel
and Londres
=London,
how curious) when from the penumbrous area of some copse of trees there emerged that criminal Typico with pistole in hand who seized this innocent Mis roughly by one arm and exclaimed,—I will have at least jour money and ¡perhaps more!
=colonel
and Londres
=London,
how curious) when from the penumbrous area of some copse of trees there emerged that criminal Typico with pistole in hand who seized this innocent Mis roughly by one arm and exclaimed,—I will have at least jour money and ¡perhaps more!
In the opinion of some people (in fact, of lots), a little of such style goes a long way. A very long way. And yet … someone many years ago told me, as regards “more accurate” translations of the Bible, that he would rather read
Arise, O Lord
than
Get up, God.
And although we are dealing here with an entirely secular text, yet there is a something in the flavor of the Basic Form of it which appeals to me more than a smoother version might. Readers who disagree will still, I hope, excuse me if some more of the original from time to time seeps through.
Arise, O Lord
than
Get up, God.
And although we are dealing here with an entirely secular text, yet there is a something in the flavor of the Basic Form of it which appeals to me more than a smoother version might. Readers who disagree will still, I hope, excuse me if some more of the original from time to time seeps through.
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