The Purple Land Read online

  CHAPTER VII

  Early next morning I left Tolosa and travelled the whole day in asouth-westerly direction. I did not hurry, but frequently dismounted togive my horse a sip of clear water and a taste of green herbage. I alsocalled during the day at three or four _estancia_ houses, but failed tohear anything that could be advantageous to me. In this way I coveredabout thirty-five miles of road, going always towards the eastern partof the Florida district in the heart of the country. About an hourbefore sunset I resolved to go no farther that day; and I could not havehoped to find a nicer resting-place than the one now before me--a neat_rancho_ with a wide corridor supported by wooden pillars, standingamidst a bower of fine old weeping-willows. It was a calm, sunshinyafternoon, peace and quiet resting on everything, even bird and insect,for they were silent, or uttered only soft, subdued notes; and thatmodest lodge, with its rough stone walls and thatched roof, seemed tobe in harmony with it all. It looked like the home of simple-minded,pastoral people that had for their only world the grassy wilderness,watered by many clear streams, bounded ever by that far-off, unbrokenring of the horizon, and arched over with blue heaven, starry by nightand filled by day with sweet sunshine.

  On approaching the house I was agreeably disappointed at having no packof loud-mouthed, ferocious dogs rushing forth to rend the presumptuousstranger to pieces, a thing one always expects. The only signs of lifevisible were a white-haired old man seated within the corridor smoking,and a few yards from it a young girl standing under a willow-tree. Butthat girl was a picture for one to gaze long upon and carry about inhis memory for a lifetime. Never had I beheld anything so exquisitelybeautiful. It was not that kind of beauty so common in these countries,which bursts upon you like the sudden south-west wind called _pampero_,almost knocking the breath out of your body, then passing as suddenlyaway, leaving you with hair ruffled up and mouth full of dust. Itsinfluence was more like that of the spring wind, which blows softly,scarcely fanning your cheek, yet infusing through all your system adelicious, magical sensation like--like nothing else in earth or heaven.She was, I fancy, about fourteen years old, slender and graceful infigure, and with a marvellously clear white skin, on which this brightOriental sun had not painted one freckle. Her features were, I think,the most perfect I have ever seen in any human being, and her goldenbrown hair hung in two heavy braids behind, almost to her knees. As Iapproached, she looked up to me out of sweet, grey-blue eyes; therewas a bashful smile on her lips, but she did not move or speak. Onthe willow-branch over her head were two young doves; they were, itappeared, her pets, unable yet to fly, and she had placed them there.The little things had crept up just beyond her reach, and she was tryingto get them by pulling the branch down towards her.

  Leaving my horse, I came to her side.

  "I am tall, senorita," I said, "and can perhaps reach them."

  She watched me with anxious interest while I gently pulled her birdsfrom their perch and transferred them to her hands. Then she kissedthem, well-pleased, and with a gentle hesitation in her manner asked mein.

  Under the corridor I made the acquaintance of her grandfather, thewhite-haired old man, and found him a person it was very easy to get onwith, for he agreed readily with everything I said. Indeed, even beforeI could get a remark out he began eagerly assenting to it. There, too,I met the girl's mother, who was not at all like her beautiful daughter,but had black hair and eyes, and a brown skin, as most Spanish-Americanwomen have. Evidently the father is the white-skinned, golden-hairedone, I thought. When the girl's brother came in, by and by, he unsaddledmy horse and led him away to pasture; this boy was also dark, darkereven than his mother.

  The simple spontaneous kindness with which these people treated me had aflavour about it the like of which I have seldom experienced elsewhere.It was not the common hospitality usually shown to a stranger, but anatural, unstrained kindness, such as they might be expected to show toa beloved brother or son who had gone out from them in the morning andwas now returned.

  By and by the girl's father came in, and I was extremely surprised tofind him a small, wrinkled, dark specimen, with jet-black, bead-likeeyes and podgy nose, showing plainly enough that he had more than a dashof aboriginal Charrua blood in his veins. This upset my theory about thegirl's fair skin and blue eyes; the little dark man was, however, quiteas sweet-tempered as the others, for he came in, sat down, and joinedin the conversation, just as if I had been one of the family whom he hadexpected to find there. While I talked to these good people on simplepastoral matters, all the wickedness of Orientals--the throat-cuttingwar of Whites and Reds, and the unspeakable cruelties of the ten years'siege--were quite forgotten. I wished that I had been born amongst themand was one of them, not a weary, wandering Englishman, overburdenedwith the arms and armour of civilisation, and staggering along, likeAtlas, with the weight of a kingdom on which the sun never sets on hisshoulders.

  By and by this good man, whose real name I never discovered, for hiswife simply called him Batata (sweet potato), looking critically at hispretty girl, remarked: "Why have you decked yourself out like this, mydaughter--it is not a Saint's day?"

  His daughter indeed! I mentally ejaculated; she is more like thedaughter of the evening star than of such a man. But his words wereunreasonable, to say the least of it; for the sweet child, whose namewas Margarita, though wearing shoes, had no stockings on, while herdress--very clean, certainly--was a cotton print so faded that thepattern was quite undistinguishable. The only pretence of finery of anydescription was a narrow bit of blue ribbon tied about her lily-whiteneck. And yet, had she been wearing richest silks and costliest gems,she could not have blushed and smiled with a prettier confusion.

  "We are expecting Uncle Anselmo this evening, _papita_," she replied.

  "Leave the child, Batata," said the mother. "You know what a craze shehas for Anselmo: when he comes she is always prepared to receive himlike a queen."

  This was really almost too much for me, and I was powerfully temptedto jump up and embrace the whole family on the spot. How sweet was thisprimitive simplicity of mind! Here, doubtless, was the one spot on thewide earth where the golden age still lingered, appearing like the lastbeams of the setting sun touching some prominent spot, when elsewhereall things are in shadow. Ah, why had fate led me into this sweetArcadia, since I must presently leave it to go back to the dull world oftoil and strife.

  That vain low strife Which makes men mad, the tug for wealth and power, The passions and the cares that wither life And waste its little hour?

  Had it not been for the thought of Paquita waiting for me over therein Montevideo, I could have said, "O good friend Sweet Potato, and goodfriends all, let me remain for ever with you under this roof, sharingyour simple pleasures, and, wishing for nothing better, forget thatgreat crowded world where all men are striving to conquer Nature anddeath and to win fortune; until, having wasted their miserable lives intheir vain endeavours, they drop down and the earth is shovelled overthem!"

  Shortly after sunset the expected Anselmo arrived to spend the nightwith his relations, and scarcely had he got down from his horse beforeMargarita was at his side to ask the avuncular blessing, at the sametime raising his hand to her delicate lips. He gave his blessing,touching her golden hair; then she lifted her face bright with newhappiness.

  Anselmo was a fine specimen of the Oriental gaucho, dark and withgood features, his hair and moustache intensely black. He wore costlyclothes, while his whip-handle, the sheath of his long knife, and otherthings about him were of massive silver. Of silver also were his heavyspurs, the pommel of his saddle, his stirrups, and the headstall of hisbridle. He was a great talker; never, in fact, in the whole course of myvaried experience have I encountered anyone who could pour out such anincessant stream of talk about small matters as this man. We all sattogether in the social kitchen, sipping _mate_; I taking little part inthe conversation, which was all about horses, scarcely even listeningto what the others were saying. Reclining against the wall, I occupi
edmyself agreeably watching the sweet face of Margarita, which in herhappy excitement had become suffused with a delicate rosy colour. Ihave always had a great love for the beautiful: sunsets, wild flowers,especially verbenas, so prettily called margaritas in this country; andbeyond everything the rainbow spanning the vast gloomy heavens, with itsgreen and violet arch, when the storm-cloud passes eastward over the wetsun-flushed earth. All these things have a singular fascination for mysoul. But beauty when it presents itself in the human form is even morethan these things. There is in it a magnetic power drawing my heart;a something that is not love, for how can a married man have a feelinglike that towards anyone except his wife? No, it is not love, but asacred ethereal kind of affection, resembling love only as the fragranceof violets resembles the taste of honey and the honey-comb.

  At length, some time after supper, Margarita, to my sorrow, rose toretire, though not without first once more asking her uncle's blessing.After her departure from the kitchen, finding that the inexhaustibletalking-machine Anselmo was still holding forth fresh as ever, I lit acigar and prepared to listen.