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Updated: May 23, 2025
Their grace, too, the dancing about which they made such a stir, not to compare it with La Clavel's but with no better than Pilar's was hardly more than a rapid clumsy posturing. Where was the young man now who could dance for two hours without stopping on a spot scarcely bigger than the rim of his silk hat? Where, indeed, was the silk hat!
La Clavel's face was as blanched as the officer's was dark, her eyes were wide-open and set, as though she were in a galvanic trance. Again and again Santacilla tried to tear away her arms, to release himself from the constriction at his neck. His fingers dug red furrows through her flesh, they tormented and outraged her. A palm closed upon her countenance, and blood ran from under it.
Yet he was forced to admit to himself that all she had said was reasonable; at bottom it didn't contradict his generalization, for it was based on a reality, on La Clavel's long resentment, on indignities to her pride, on, as she had said, the innate freedom of the mountain spirit. If she were honest, any possible attachment to Cuba might result from her hatred of Spain, of Sevilla and Madrid.
Charles Abbott was still, pale and remote; and the heat of La Clavel's words died before the vision of an eternal empire of souls irrevocably judged. She sank forward again, the knotted fringe of her mantón spread out beyond the rug, upon the stone. After a little he told her that her courage, her daring and patience, were magnificent. But she replied that they were cold virtues.
But that space, he reminded himself, short at best, was, in him, to terminate almost at once. All his philosophy of resistance, of strength, was built upon the final dignity of a supreme giving. His thoughts went back to Narcisa as he sat in La Clavel's room in the St. Louis, watching a hairdresser skilfully build up the complicated edifice of the dancer's hair.
It was so fortunately, evidently, haphazard, that they continued together while Charles related the circumstances of the tragedy in La Clavel's room. The others were filled with wonder, bravos, at her strength and courage. Someday, Remigio swore, when Cuba was free, he would put up a monument to her in India Park.
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