House on the Lagoon by Rosario Ferré Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Rosario Ferré
rest of the world. That is why I believe your work is so important. You could teach us about modern art.”
The young men and women from well-to-do families who came to Rebecca’s salon were the jeunesse dorée of San Juan, and they had the same tastes she did. Far from belonging to San Juan’s demimonde, where the struggling artists came from, they had traveled widely in Europe, knew the best wines and cheeses, could play a Shubert impromptu on the piano, spoke French fluently, and above all did not have to work for a living. They wanted to lead beautiful lives, both inside and out, wear beautiful clothes, visit beautiful places, and occupy their minds with beautiful thoughts.
This type of existence unfortunately was not conducive to the disciplines of learning, so their compositions—the light dramas, boudoir vignettes, and playful piano pieces they put together—were never very good. Some believed that to write a poem or a musical composition one had to slave for hours learning difficult techniques, but Rebecca’s friends didn’t agree. Like Rebecca herself, who thought one could learn to dance simply by “imitating nature,” they subscribed to the Muses’ inspiration. They loved to go to the beach, buy expensive jewelry and clothes, and were fervent admirers of Rubén Darío, the modernist poet then in vogue in Puerto Rico.
While in Argentina and Peru the rising stars were avant-garde writers such as Vicente Huidobro and César Vallejo, in the backwater of Alamares Lagoon the modernist poets Darío and Herrera y Reissig, who sang the beauties of the bejeweled Art Nouveau world, were still the darlings of the moment. In Europe as well as in Latin America, rhyme and meter were passé and poetry now strove to express the conflicts of modern civilization—the loneliness of the city, the protests of the exploited masses, the loss of religious belief. The world was bursting at the seams, but in Rebecca’s literary salon poets still sang of gardens full of roses, ponds skimmed by snow-white swans, and foam-crested waves spilling over the beach like lace-hemmed gowns.
Rebecca thought maybe Pavel could change all this. He was a cultivated man. In Chicago he had led an intense life, having made contact with the cultural elite there. He was well versed in the latest artistic movements from Europe: Expressionism, Constructivism, Cubism. He understood her when she talked about modern art.
Rebecca had been feeling more and more estranged from her husband. Buenaventura had begun to pay less attention to her, so preoccupied was he with business matters. After the First World War the price of sugar had soared, and the well-to-do were living in style. They often gave parties at home and wine and champagne flowed like water. Buenaventura was very busy at the warehouse, since he was in charge of sales.
As she walked with Pavel by the water’s edge, Rebecca told him about her life. There were no ballet schools in San Juan, so when she returned to the island with her grandparents, she decided she would learn to dance on her own. “Isadora Duncan never had professional training, either,” Rebecca said to Pavel. “She became a dancer by identifying with nature. That’s why I like to spend as much time as I can in the garden. I’d like to reach, through nature, the divine expression of the human spirit.
“When I came back from my trip to Europe, I began to dress in flowing robes and I read everything I could get my hands on about her. My parents were worried, and started to invite young people to the house often. They took me to picnics, concerts, as many social events as they could think of. Finally they contacted the committee of the Spanish Casino and offered to foot the carnival’s bill that year if I was elected queen. They hoped the social activities would take my mind off my supposedly bizarre interests. The ladies’ committee complied and suggested a newly arrived stranger—a Spaniard from Extremadura—as my
The young men and women from well-to-do families who came to Rebecca’s salon were the jeunesse dorée of San Juan, and they had the same tastes she did. Far from belonging to San Juan’s demimonde, where the struggling artists came from, they had traveled widely in Europe, knew the best wines and cheeses, could play a Shubert impromptu on the piano, spoke French fluently, and above all did not have to work for a living. They wanted to lead beautiful lives, both inside and out, wear beautiful clothes, visit beautiful places, and occupy their minds with beautiful thoughts.
This type of existence unfortunately was not conducive to the disciplines of learning, so their compositions—the light dramas, boudoir vignettes, and playful piano pieces they put together—were never very good. Some believed that to write a poem or a musical composition one had to slave for hours learning difficult techniques, but Rebecca’s friends didn’t agree. Like Rebecca herself, who thought one could learn to dance simply by “imitating nature,” they subscribed to the Muses’ inspiration. They loved to go to the beach, buy expensive jewelry and clothes, and were fervent admirers of Rubén Darío, the modernist poet then in vogue in Puerto Rico.
While in Argentina and Peru the rising stars were avant-garde writers such as Vicente Huidobro and César Vallejo, in the backwater of Alamares Lagoon the modernist poets Darío and Herrera y Reissig, who sang the beauties of the bejeweled Art Nouveau world, were still the darlings of the moment. In Europe as well as in Latin America, rhyme and meter were passé and poetry now strove to express the conflicts of modern civilization—the loneliness of the city, the protests of the exploited masses, the loss of religious belief. The world was bursting at the seams, but in Rebecca’s literary salon poets still sang of gardens full of roses, ponds skimmed by snow-white swans, and foam-crested waves spilling over the beach like lace-hemmed gowns.
Rebecca thought maybe Pavel could change all this. He was a cultivated man. In Chicago he had led an intense life, having made contact with the cultural elite there. He was well versed in the latest artistic movements from Europe: Expressionism, Constructivism, Cubism. He understood her when she talked about modern art.
Rebecca had been feeling more and more estranged from her husband. Buenaventura had begun to pay less attention to her, so preoccupied was he with business matters. After the First World War the price of sugar had soared, and the well-to-do were living in style. They often gave parties at home and wine and champagne flowed like water. Buenaventura was very busy at the warehouse, since he was in charge of sales.
As she walked with Pavel by the water’s edge, Rebecca told him about her life. There were no ballet schools in San Juan, so when she returned to the island with her grandparents, she decided she would learn to dance on her own. “Isadora Duncan never had professional training, either,” Rebecca said to Pavel. “She became a dancer by identifying with nature. That’s why I like to spend as much time as I can in the garden. I’d like to reach, through nature, the divine expression of the human spirit.
“When I came back from my trip to Europe, I began to dress in flowing robes and I read everything I could get my hands on about her. My parents were worried, and started to invite young people to the house often. They took me to picnics, concerts, as many social events as they could think of. Finally they contacted the committee of the Spanish Casino and offered to foot the carnival’s bill that year if I was elected queen. They hoped the social activities would take my mind off my supposedly bizarre interests. The ladies’ committee complied and suggested a newly arrived stranger—a Spaniard from Extremadura—as my