The Purple Land: Chapter 14
Chapter 14
The girl I have mentioned, whose name was Monica, and the child, called
Anita, were the only persons there besides myself who were not carried
away by the warlike enthusiasm of the moment. Monica, silent, pale,
almost apathetic, was occupied serving _mat�_ to the numerous
guests; while the child, when the shouting and excitement was at its
height, appeared greatly terrified, and clung to Alday's wife, trembling
and crying piteously. No notice was taken of the poor little thing,
and at length she crept away into a corner to conceal herself behind
a faggot of wood. Her hiding-place was close to my seat, and after a
little coaxing I induced her to leave it and come to me. She was a
most forlorn little thing, with a white, thin face and large, dark,
pathetic eyes. Her mean little cotton frock only reached to her knees,
and her little legs and feet were bare. Her age was seven or eight;
she was an orphan, and Alday's wife, having no children of her own,
was bringing her up, or, rather, permitting her to grow up under her
roof. I drew her to me, and tried to soothe her tremors and get her
to talk. Little by little she gained confidence, and began to reply
to my questions; then I learnt that she was a little shepherdess,
although so young, and spent most of the time every day in following
the flock about on her pony. Her pony and the girl Monica, who was
some relation--cousin, the child called her--were the two beings she
seemed to have the greatest affection for.
"And when you slip off, how do you get on again?" I asked.
"Little pony is tame, and I never fall off," she said. "Sometimes I
get off, then I climb on again."
"And what do you do all day long--talk and play?"
"I talk to my doll; I take it on the pony when I go with the sheep."
"Is your doll very pretty, Anita?"
No answer.
"Will you let me see your doll, Anita? I know I shall like your doll,
because I like you."
She gave me an anxious look. Evidently doll was a very precious being
and had not met with proper appreciation. After a little nervous
fidgeting she left me and crept out of the room; then presently she
came back, apparently trying to screen something from the vulgar gaze
in her scanty little dress. It was her wonderful doll--the dear
companion of her rambles and rides. With fear and trembling she allowed
me to take it into my hands. It was, or consisted of, the forefoot of
a sheep, cut off at the knee; on the top of the knee part a little
wooden ball wrapped in a white rag represented the head, and it was
dressed in a piece of red flannel--a satyr-like doll, with one hairy
leg and a cloven foot. I praised its pleasing countenance, its pretty
gown and dainty little boots; and all I said sounded very precious to
Anita, filling her with emotions of the liveliest pleasure.
"And do you never play with the dogs and cats and little lambs?" I
asked.
"Not with the dogs and cats. When I see a very little lamb asleep I
get down and go softly, softly and catch it. It tries to get away;
then I put my finger in its mouth, and it sucks, and sucks; then it
runs away."
"And what do you like best to eat?"
"Sugar. When uncle buys sugar, aunt gives me a lump. I make doll eat
some, and bite off one small piece and put it in pony's mouth."
"Which would you rather have, Anita--a great many lumps of sugar, or
a beautiful string of beads, or a little girl to play with?"
This question was rather too much for her neglected little brain, which
had fed itself with such simple fare; so I was obliged to put it in
various ways, and at last, when she understood that only one of the
three things could be chosen, she decided in favour of a little girl
to play with.
Then I asked her if she liked to hear stories; this also puzzled her,
and after some cross-questioning I discovered that she had never heard
a story, and did not know what it meant.
"Listen, Anita, and I will tell you a story," I said. "Have you seen
the white mist over the Y� in the morning--a light, white mist that
flies away when the sun gets hot?"
Yes, she often saw the white mist in the morning, she told me.
"Then I will tell you a story about the white mist and a little girl
named Alma."
"Little Alma lived close to the River Y�, but far, far from here,
beyond the trees and beyond the blue hills, for the Y� is a very long
river. She lived with her grandmother and with six uncles, all big
tall men with long beards; and they always talked about wars, and
cattle, and horse-racing, and a great many other important things that
Alma could not understand. There was no one to talk to Alma and for
Alma to talk to or to play with. And when she went out of the house
where all the big people were talking, she heard the cocks crowing,
the dogs barking, the birds singing, the sheep bleating, and the trees
rustling their leaves over her head, and she could not understand one
word of all they said. At last, having no one to play with or talk to,
she sat down and began to cry. Now, it happened that near the spot
where she sat there was an old black woman wearing a red shawl, who
was gathering sticks for the fire, and she asked Alma why she cried.
"'Because I have no one to talk to and play with,' said Alma. Then the
old black woman drew a long brass pin out of her shawl and pricked
Alma's tongue with it, for she made Alma hold it out to be pricked.
"'Now,' said the old woman, 'you can go and play and talk with the
dogs, cats, birds, and trees, for you will understand all they say,
and they will understand all you say.'
"Alma was very glad, and ran home as fast as she could to talk to the
cat.
"'Come, cat, let us talk and play together,' she said.
"'Oh no,' said the cat. 'I am very busy watching a little bird, so you
must go away and play with little Niebla down by the river.'
"Then the cat ran away among the weeds and left her. The dogs also
refused to play when she went to them; for they had to watch the house
and bark at strangers. Then they also told her to go and play with
little Niebla down by the river. Then Alma ran out and caught a little
duckling, a soft little thing that looked like a ball of yellow cotton,
and said:
"'Now, little duck, let us talk and play.'
"But the duckling only struggled to get away and screamed, 'Oh, mamma,
mamma, come and take me away from Alma!'
"Then the old duck came rushing up, and said:
"'Alma, let my child alone: and if you want to play, go and play with
Niebla down by the river. A nice thing to catch my duckie in your
hands--what next, I wonder!'
"So she let the duckling go, and at last she said, 'Yes, I will go and
play with Niebla down by the river.'
"She waited till she saw the white mist, and then ran all the way to
the Y�, and stood still on the green bank close by the water with the
white mist all round her. By and by she saw a beautiful little child
come flying towards her in the white mist. The child came and stood
on the green bank and looked at Alma. Very, very pretty she was; and
she wore a white dress--whiter than milk, whiter than foam, and all
embroidered with purple flowers; she had also white silk stockings,
and scarlet shoes, bright as scarlet verbenas. Her hair was long and
fluffy, and shone like gold, and round her neck she had a string of
big gold beads. Then Alma said, 'Oh, beautiful little girl, what is
your name?' to which the little girl answered:
"'Niebla.'
"'Will you talk to me and play with me?' said Alma.
"'Oh, no,' said Niebla, 'how can I play with a little girl dressed as
you are and with bare feet?'
"For you know poor Alma only wore a little old frock that came down
to her knees, and she had no shoes and stockings on. Then little Niebla
rose up and floated away, away from the bank and down the river, and
at last, when she was quite out of sight in the white mist, Alma began
to cry. When it got very hot she went and sat down, still crying, under
the trees; there were two very big willow-trees growing near the river.
By and by the leaves rustled in the wind and the trees began talking
to each other, and Alma understood everything they said.
"'Is it going to rain, do you think?' said one tree.
"'Yes, I think it will--some day,' said the other.
"'There are no clouds,' said the first tree.
"'No, there are no clouds to-day, but there were some the day before
yesterday,' said the other.
"'Have you got any nests in your branches?' said the first tree.
"'Yes, one,' said the other. 'It was made by a little yellow bird, and
there are five speckled eggs in it.'
"Then the first tree said, 'There is little Alma sitting in our shade;
do you know why she is crying, neighbour?'
"The other tree answered, 'Yes, it is because she has no one to play
with. Little Niebla by the river refused to play with her because she
is not beautifully dressed.'
"Then the first tree said, 'Ah, she ought to go and ask the fox for
some pretty clothes to wear. The fox always keeps a great store of
pretty things in her hole.'
"Alma had listened to every word of this conversation. She remembered
that a fox lived on the hillside not far off; for she had often seen
it sitting in the sunshine with its little ones playing round it and
pulling their mother's tail in fun. So Alma got up and ran till she
found the hole, and, putting her head down it, she cried out, 'Fox!
Fox!' But the fox seemed cross, and only answered, without coming out,
'Go away, Alma, and talk to little Niebla. I am busy getting dinner
for my children and have no time to talk to you now.'
"Then Alma cried, 'Oh, Fox, Niebla will not play with me because I
have no pretty things to wear. Oh, Fox, will you give me a nice dress
and shoes and stockings and a string of beads?'
"After a little while the fox came out of its hole with a big bundle
done up in a red cotton handkerchief and said, 'Here are the things,
Alma, and I hope they will fit you. But you know, Alma, you really
ought not to come at this time of day, for I am very busy just now
cooking the dinner--an armadillo roasted and a couple of partridges
stewed with rice, and a little omelette of turkeys' eggs. I mean
plovers' eggs, of course; I never touch turkeys' eggs.'
"Alma said she was very sorry to give so much trouble.
"'Oh, never mind,' said the fox. 'How is your grandmother?'
"'She is very well, thank you,' said Alma, 'but she has a bad headache.'
"'I am very sorry to hear it,' said the fox. 'Tell her to stick two
fresh dock-leaves on her temples, and to drink a little weak tea made
of knot-grass, and on no account to go out in the hot sun. I should
like to go and see her, only I do not like the dogs being always about
the house. Give her my best respects. And now run home, Alma, and try
on the things, and when you are passing this way you can bring me back
the handkerchief, as I always tie my face up in it when I have the
toothache.'
"Alma thanked the fox very much and ran home as fast as she could, and
when the bundle was opened she found in it a beautiful white dress,
embroidered with purple flowers, a pair of scarlet shoes, silk
stockings, and a string of great golden beads. They all fitted her
very well; and next day when the white mist was on the Y� she dressed
herself in her beautiful clothes and went down to the river. By and
by little Niebla came flying along, and when she saw Alma she came and
kissed her and took her by the hand. All the morning they played and
talked together, gathering flowers and running races over the green
sward: and at last Niebla bade her good-bye and flew away, for all the
white mist was floating off down the river. But every day after that
Alma found her little companion by the Y�, and was very happy, for now
she had someone to talk to and to play with."
After I had finished the story Anita continued gazing into my face
with an absorbed expression in her large, wistful eyes. She seemed
half scared, half delighted at what she had heard; but presently,
before the little thing had said a word, Monica, who had been directing
shy and wondering glances towards us for some time, came, and, taking
her by the hand, led her away to bed. I was getting sleepy then, and,
as the clatter of talk and warlike preparation showed no signs of
abating, I was glad to be shown into another room, where some
sheep-skins, rugs, and a couple of _ponchos_ were given to me for
a bed.
During the night all the men took their departure, for in the morning,
when I went into the kitchen, I only found the old woman and Alday's
wife sipping bitter _mat�_. The child, they informed me, had
disappeared from the house an hour before, and Monica had gone out to
look for her. Alday's wife was highly indignant at the little one's
escapade, for it was high time for Anita to go out with the flock.
After taking _mat�_ I went out, and, looking towards the Y�, veiled in a
silvery mist, I spied Monica leading the culprit home by
the hand, and went to meet them. Poor little Anita! her face stained
with tears, her little legs and feet covered with clay and scratched
by sharp reeds in fifty places, her dress soaking wet with the heavy
mist, looked a most pitiful object.
"Where did you find her?" I asked the girl, beginning to fear that I
had been the indirect cause of the poor child's misfortunes.
"Down by the river looking for little Niebla. I knew she would be there
when I missed her this morning."
"How did you know that?" I asked. "You did not hear the story I told
her."
"I made her repeat it all to me last night," said Monica.
After that little Anita was scolded, shaken, washed and dried, then
fed, and finally lifted on to the back of her pony and sent to take
care of the sheep. While undergoing this treatment she maintained a
profound silence, her little face puckered up into an expression that
boded tears. They were not for the public, however, and only after she
was on the pony, with the reins in her little mites of hands and her
back towards us, did she give way to her grief and disappointment at
having failed to find the beautiful child of the mist.
I was astonished to find that she had taken the fantastic little tale
invented to amuse her as truth; but the poor babe had never read books
or heard stories, and the fairy tale had been too much for her starved
little imagination. I remember that once on another occasion I told
a pathetic story of a little child, lost in a great wilderness, to a
girl about Anita's age, and just as unaccustomed to this kind of mental
fare. Next morning her mother informed me that my little listener had
spent half the night sobbing and begging to be allowed to go and look
for that lost child I had told her about.
Hearing that Alday would not return till evening or till the following
day, I asked his wife to lend or give me a horse to proceed on my
journey. This, however, she could not do; then she added, very
graciously, that while all the men were away my presence in the house
would be a comfort to her, a man always being a great protection. The
arrangement did not strike me as one very advantageous to myself, but,
as I could not journey very well to Montevideo on foot, I was compelled
to sit still and wait for Alday's return.
It was dull work talking to those two women in the kitchen. They were
both great talkers, and had evidently come to a tacit agreement to
share their one listener fairly between them, for first one, then the
other would speak with a maddening monotony. Alday's wife had six
favourite, fine-sounding words--_elements, superior, division,
prolongation, justification,_ and _disproportion_. One of these
she somehow managed to drag into every sentence, and sometimes she
succeeded in getting in two. Whenever this happened the achievement
made her so proud that she would in the most deliberate cold-blooded
way repeat the sentence again, word for word. The strength of the old
woman lay in dates. Not an occurrence did she mention, whether it
referred to some great public event or to some trivial domestic incident
in her own _rancho_, without giving the year, the month, and the
day. The duet between these two confounded barrel-organs, one grinding
out rhetoric, the other chronology, went on all the morning, and often
I turned to Monica, sitting over her sewing, in hopes of a different
tune from her more melodious instrument, but in vain, for never a word
dropped from those silent lips. Occasionally her dark, luminous eyes
were raised for a moment, only to sink abashed again when they
encountered mine. After breakfast I went for a walk along the river,
where I spent several hours hunting for flowers and fossils, and amusing
myself as best I could. There were legions of duck, coot, rosy
spoonbills, and black-necked swans disporting themselves in the water,
and I was very thankful that I had no gun with me, and so was not
tempted to startle them with rude noises, and send any of them away
to languish wounded amongst the reeds. At length, after having indulged
in a good swim, I set out to walk back to the _estancia_.
When still about a mile from the house as I walked on, swinging my
stick and singing aloud in lightness of heart, I passed a clump of
willow-trees, and, looking up, saw Monica under them watching my
approach. She was standing perfectly motionless, and, when I caught
sight of her, cast her eyes demurely down, apparently to contemplate
her bare feet, which looked very white on the deep green turf. In one
hand she held a cluster of stalks of the large, crimson, autumnal
lilies which had just begun to blossom. My singing ceased suddenly,
and I stood for some moments gazing admiringly at the shy, rustic
beauty.
"What a distance you have walked to gather lilies, Monica!" I said,
approaching her. "Will you give me one of your stalks?"
"They were gathered for the Virgin, so I cannot give away any of these,"
she replied. "If you will wait here under the trees I will find one
to give you."
I agreed to wait for her; then, placing the cluster she had gathered
on the grass, she left me. Before long she returned with a stalk,
round, polished, slender, like a pipe-stem, and crowned with its cluster
of three splendid crimson flowers.
When I had sufficiently thanked her and admired it, I said, "What boon
are you going to ask from the Virgin, Monica, when you offer her these
flowers--safety for your lover in the wars?"
"No, se�or; I have no offering to make, and no boon to ask. They are
for my aunt; I offered to gather them for her, because--I wished to
meet you here."
"To meet me, Monica--what for?"
"To ask for a story, se�or," she replied, colouring and with a shy
glance at my face.
"Ah, we have had stories enough," I said. "Remember poor Anita running
away this morning to look for a playmate in the wet mist."
"She is a child; I am a woman."
"Then, Monica, you must have a lover who will be jealous if you listen
to stories from a stranger's lips in this lonely spot."
"No person will ever know that I met you here," she returned--so
bashful, yet so persistent.
"I have forgotten all my stories," I said.
"Then, se�or, I will go and find you another _ramo_ of lilies
while you think of one to tell me."
"No," I said, "you must get no more lilies for me. Look, I will give
you back these you gave me." And, saying that, I fastened them in her
black hair, where by contrast they looked very splendid, and gave the
girl a new grace. "Ah, Monica, they make you look too pretty--let me
take them out again."
But she would not have them taken. "I will leave you now to think of
a story for me," she said, blushing and turning away.
Then I took her hands and made her face me. "Listen, Monica," I said.
"Do you know that these lilies are full of strange magic? See how
crimson they are; that is the colour of passion, for they have been
steeped in passion, and turn my heart to fire. If you bring me any
more of them, Monica, I shall tell you a story that will make you
tremble with fear--tremble like the willow-leaves and turn pale as the
mist over the Y�."
She smiled at my words; it was like a ray of sunlight falling through
the foliage on her face. Then, in a voice that was almost a whisper,
she said, "What will the story be about, se�or? Tell me, then I shall
know whether to gather lilies for you or not."
"It will be about a stranger meeting a sweet, pale girl standing under
the trees, her dark eyes cast down, and red lilies in her hand; and
how she asked him for a story, but he could speak to her of nothing
but love, love, love."
When I finished speaking she gently withdrew her hands from mine and
turned away amongst the trees, doubtless to fly from me, trembling at
my words, like a frightened young fawn from the hunter.
So for a moment I thought. But no, there lay the lilies gathered for
a religious purpose at my feet, and there was nothing reproachful in
the shy, dark eyes when they glanced back for a moment at me; for, in
spite of those warning words, she had only gone to find more of those
perilous crimson flowers to give me.
Not then, while I waited for her return with palpitating heart, but
afterwards in calmer moments, and when Monica had become a pretty
picture in the past, did I compose the following lines. I am not so
vain as to believe that they possess any great poetical merit, and
introduce them principally to let the reader know how to pronounce the
pretty name of that Oriental river, which it still keeps in remembrance
of a vanished race.
Standing silent, pale her face was,
Pale and sweet to see:
'Neath the willows waiting for me,
Willow-like was she,
Smiling, blushing, trembling, bashful
Maid of Y�.Willow-like she trembled, yet she
Never fled from me;
But her dove-like eyes were downcast,
On the grass to see
White feet standing: white thy feet were,
Maid of Y�.Stalks of lilies in her hands were:
Crimson lilies three,
Placed I in her braids of black hair--
They were bright to see!
Lift thy dark eyes, for I love thee,
Maid of Y�!
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