“No, no! Nada, nada! Vayase, vayase! Aburr-r!”
The formula was effective, for she stared at me with an expression of petticoat dignity and pop-eyed wonder which said plainer than words, “There is no fool like an old fool,” and walked out. She must have thought that changing garments was a public ceremony, like snoring and seasickness. It was the last time I was caught with my door unlocked.
After securing the door, I talked to the looking-glass and washstand until I was dressed. I wondered if the terrifying loneliness of the arctic regions was as hard on the nerves as the terrible sociability of the tropics. I found myself arguing with poor Weininger, who committed suicide at the age of twenty-three. He said that woman was mere matter that could assume any shape. But this one was merely a mass of petticoat that couldn’t assume any shape. Another man, who has not yet committed suicide, said that woman’s face was the most beautiful thing in the world—he had not seen them all.
All of the officials and local celebrities excepting President Amador, Mr. Wallace and Mr. Barrett were in the habit of stopping at the hotel on their way, or out of their way, home after business hours, or on their way from home after dinner, thus rendering the hotel corridor and barroom quite animated, and, of course, quite interesting to a stranger; so I went down-stairs to seek solace and safety in a crowd. After listening awhile to General Jeffries, who had fought in nearly all of the Central American republics, and who had the right of way in Panama; and to an American contract agent who was attending to the building up of Central America and Cuba on North American lines; as well as to other more distinctly local celebrities, discuss the conditions and prospects of the little republic, I was invited to take a bottle of beer with one of those typical United States old gentleman whom I had found ordering eggs for their early breakfast on the first morning after my arrival and who were making things so lively for the waiters. It was the quiet one who had allowed his large, formidable, rheumatic friend to fight the “Battle of the Eggs” for him. But it was now his turn to complain. The eggs had done their work, and the problem was how to get rid of eggs instead of how to get eggs. He had not lived as Panamanians did, and was not willing to die as they did when they transgressed. I should have been much more willing to advise him if he had drunk my beer instead of making me drink it, but I could not offend him by refusing the most expensive treat next to champagne and, to my thinking, a better (?), pleasanter and less poisonous one. I really wanted to take imported bottled water, but I feared to offend him by making him pay fifty cents for a drink of water, when beer could be had for the same price. I gave him the prescription of my old professor, Dr. N. S. Davis, who lived to be eighty-five years old and always used it upon himself when similarly affected, viz., “R. Take neither food nor medicine until your stomach is all right again.” Doctor Davis included all alcoholics in this prohibition of medicine, but I said nothing to my patient about that. It would have disgusted him with me.
Pretty soon Doctor Echeverría and Señor McGill appeared, and we dutifully proceeded to take an aperitif preparatoire, for it was half after six and we would have to face a formidable bill of fare at seven. In a colder climate active exercise would have been considered a better appetizer for a hearty meal, but in hot climates an alcoholic stimulant is considered more enjoyable and quite efficacious. Señor McGill had even less the figure and fogosity of a high-liver than he had of a warrior, but he took something genuine, and went out to dinner with us and did himself honor, drinking iced claret in place of water. After dinner we returned to the hotel corridor and barroom and spent the evening talking and treating—all three of us, excepting Doctor Echeverría and myself, smoking cigarets.
“Ubi tres medici, ibi duo athei.”
I learned that on Thursday evenings from eight to ten o’clock a public concert was given in the open air at Plaza Santa Ana, and one on Sunday evenings in the Parque del Catedral in front of our hotel. On other evenings there were about three things for the Panamanians to choose between, viz., to stay at home, undress and keep cool; to go to one of the clubs and play cards; or to lounge about the hotel and talk and drink alcoholic liquors or syrupy soft drinks (frescoes) at regular intervals. I met Doctor Cook of Panama; Doctor Calvo, the secretary of the Panamanian Medical Congress; Doctor Tomaselli, one of the busiest of the local practitioners, and other physicians, as well as a few non-professional citizens, and noticed that these physicians, as well as a few unprofessional citizens, avoided the barroom. They usually remained in the hotel corridor and did not remain long. Nearly all of the temperance men, however, drank soft drinks, and they were real men as far as externals indicated.
About nine o’clock Doctor Echeverría went out to call upon some friends, and I went across the street into the park and cooled off. The mosquitoes soon began to congregate, however, and I sneaked up to my bedroom, escaping the argus-eyed bell boy and bully girl. I locked the door quickly, undressed in the dark and after carefully tucking in the edges of the mosquito bar, crawled under it, thinking of Bryant’s stanzas addressed to the mosquito.
Beneath the rushes was thy cradle swung,
And when at length thy gauzy wings grew strong,