The Purple Land: Chapter 21

Chapter 21

After my terrible adventure I did not rest badly that night, albeit
I slept on an empty stomach (the sardines counting as nothing), and
under the vast, void sky, powdered with innumerable stars. And when
I proceeded next day on my journey, _God's light_, as the pious
Orientals call the first wave of glory with which the rising sun floods
the world, had never seemed so pleasant to my eyes, nor had earth ever
looked fresher or lovelier, with the grass and bushes everywhere hung
with starry lace, sparkling with countless dewy gems, which the
_epeiras_ had woven overnight. Life seemed very sweet to me on
that morning, so softening my heart that when I remembered the murderous
wretch who had endangered it I almost regretted that he was now probably
blind and deaf to nature's sweet ministrations.

Before noon I came to a large, thatched house, with clumps of shady
trees growing near it, also surrounded with brushwood fences and sheep
and cattle enclosures.

The blue smoke curling peacefully up from the chimney and the white
gleam of the walls through the shady trees--for this _rancho_
actually boasted a chimney and whitewashed walls--looked exceedingly
inviting to my tired eyes. How pleasant a good breakfast, with a long
siesta in the shade after it, would be, thought I; but, alas! was I
not pursued by the awful phantoms of political vengeance? Uncertain
whether to call or not, my horse jogged straight on towards the house,
for a horse always knows when his rider is in doubt and never fails
at such times to give his advice. It was lucky for me that on this
occasion I condescended to take it. "I will, at all events, call for
a drink of water and see what the people are like," I thought, and in
a few minutes I was standing at the gate, apparently an object of great
interest to half a dozen children ranging from two to thirteen years
old, all staring at me with wide-open eyes. They had dirty faces, the
smallest one dirty legs also, for he or she wore nothing but a small
shirt. The next in size had a shirt supplemented with a trousers-like
garment reaching to the knees; and so on, progressively, up to the
biggest boy, who wore the cast-off parental toggery, and so, instead
of having too little on, was, in a sense, overdressed. I asked this
youngster for a can of water to quench my thirst and a stick of fire
to light my cigar. He ran into the kitchen, or living-room, and by and
by came out again without either water or fire. "_Papita_ wishes
you to come in to drink _mat�_," said he.

Then I dismounted, and, with the careless air of a blameless,
non-political person, strode into the spacious kitchen, where an immense
cauldron of fat was boiling over a big fire on the hearth; while beside
it, ladle in hand, sat a perspiring, greasy-looking woman of about
thirty. She was engaged in skimming the fat and throwing the scum on
the fire, which made it blaze with a furious joy and loudly cry out
in a crackling voice for more; and from head to feet she was literally
bathed in grease--certainly the most greasy individual I had ever seen.
It was not easy under the circumstances to tell the colour of her skin,
but she had fine large Juno eyes, and her mouth was unmistakably
good-humoured, as she smiled when returning my salutation. Her husband
sat on the clay floor against the wall, his bare feet stretched straight
out before him, while across his lap lay an immense surcingle, twenty
inches broad at least, of a pure white, untanned hide; and on it he
was laboriously working a design representing an ostrich hunt, with
threads of black skin. He was a short, broad-shouldered man with
reddish-grey hair, stiff, bristly whiskers and moustache of the same
hue, sharp blue eyes, and a nose decidedly upturned.

He wore a red cotton handkerchief tied on his head, a blue check shirt,
and a shawl wound round his body in place of the _chirip�_ usually
worn by native peasants. He jerked out his _"Buen dia"_ to me in
a short, quick, barking voice, and invited me to sit down.

"Cold water is bad for the constitution at this hour," he said. "We
will drink _mat�."_

There was such a rough, burr-like sound in his speech that I at once
concluded he was a foreigner, or hailed from some Oriental district
corresponding to our Durham or Northumberland.

"Thank you," I said, "a _mat�_ is always welcome. I am an Oriental
in that respect if in nothing else." For I wished everyone I met to
know that I was not a native.

"Right, my friend," he exclaimed. _"Mat�_ is the best thing in
this country. As for the people, they are not worth cursing."

"How can you say such a thing," I returned. "You are a foreigner, I
suppose, but your wife is surely an Oriental."

The Juno of the grease-pot smiled and threw a ladleful of tallow on
the fire to make it roar; possibly this was meant for applause.

He waved his hand deprecatingly, the bradawl used for his work in it.

"True, friend, she is," he replied. "Women, like horned cattle, are
much the same all the world over. They have their value wherever you
find them--America, Europe, Asia. We know it. I spoke of men."

"You scarcely do women justice--

_La mujer es un angel del cielo,"_

I returned, quoting the old Spanish song.

He barked out a short little laugh.

"That does very well to sing to a guitar," he said.

"Talking of guitars," spoke the woman, addressing me for the first
time; "while we are waiting for the _mat�,_ perhaps you will sing
us a ballad. The guitar is lying just behind you."

"Se�ora, I do not play on it," I answered. "An Englishman goes forth
into the world without that desire, common to people of other nations,
of making himself agreeable to those he may encounter on his way; this
is why he does not learn to perform on musical instruments."

The little man stared at me; then, deliberately disencumbering himself
of surcingle, threads, and implements, he got up, advanced to me, and
held out his hand.

His grave manner almost made me laugh. Taking his hand in mine, I said:

"What am I to do with this, my friend?"

"Shake it," he replied. "We are countrymen."

We then shook hands very vigorously for some time in silence, while
his wife looked on with a smile and stirred the fat.

"Woman," he said, turning to her, "leave your grease till tomorrow.
Breakfast must be thought of. Is there any mutton in the house?"

"Half a sheep--only," she replied.

"That will do for one meal," said he. "Here, Teofilo, run and tell
Anselmo to catch two pullets--fat ones, mind. To be plucked at once.
You may look for half a dozen fresh eggs for your mother to put in the
stew. And, Felipe, go find Cosme and tell him to saddle the roan pony
to go to the store at once. Now, wife, what is wanted--rice, sugar,
vinegar, oil, raisins, pepper, saffron, salt, cloves, cummin seed,
wine, brandy--"

"Stop one moment," I cried. "If you think it necessary to get provisions
enough for an army to give me breakfast, I must tell you that I draw
the line at brandy. I never touch it--in this country."

He shook hands with me again.

"You are right," he said. "Always stick to the native drink, wherever
you are, even if it is black draught. Whisky in Scotland, in the Banda
Orient�l rum--that's my rule."

The place was now in a great commotion, the children saddling ponies,
shouting in pursuit of fugitive chickens, and my energetic host ordering
his wife about.

After the boy was despatched for the things and my horse taken care
of, we sat for half an hour in the kitchen sipping _mat�_ and
conversing very agreeably. Then my host took me out into his garden
behind the house to be out of his wife's way while she was engaged
cooking breakfast, and there he began talking in English.

"Twenty-five years I have been on this continent," said he, telling
me his history, "eighteen of them in the Banda Orient�l."

"Well, you have not forgotten your language," I said. "I suppose you
read?"

"Read! What! I would as soon think of wearing trousers. No, no, my
friend, never read. Leave politics alone. When people molest you,
shoot 'em--those are my rules. Edinburgh was my home. Had enough
reading when I was a boy; heard enough psalm-singing, saw enough
scrubbing and scouring to last me my lifetime. My father was a bookseller
in the High Street, near the Cowgate--you know! Mother, she was
pious�they were all pious. Uncle, a minister, lived with us. That
was all worse than purgatory to me. I was educated at the High
School--intended for the ministry, ha, ha! My only pleasure was to
get a book of travels in some savage country, skulk into my room, throw
off my boots, light a pipe, and lie on the floor reading--locked up from
everyone. Sundays just the same, They called me a sinner, said I was
going to the devil--fast. It was my nature. They didn't understand--kept
on ding-donging in my ears. Always scrubbing, scouring--you might have
eaten your dinner off the floor; always singing psalms--praying--
scolding. Couldn't bear it; ran away at fifteen, and have never heard a
word from home since. What happened? I came here, worked, saved, bought
land, cattle; married a wife, lived as I liked to live--am happy. There's
my wife--mother of six children--you have seen her yourself, a woman for
a man to be proud of. No ding-donging, black looks, scouring from Monday
to Saturday--you couldn't eat your dinner off my kitchen floor. There are
my children, six of 'em, all told, boys and girls, healthy, dirty as
they like to be, happy as the day's long; and here am I, John
Carrickfergus--Don Juan all the country over, my surname no native can
pronounce--respected, feared, loved; a man his neighbour can rely on to
do him a good turn; one who never hesitates about putting a bullet in any
vulture, wild cat, or assassin that crosses his path. Now you know all."

"An extraordinary history," I said, "but I suppose you teach your
children something?"

"Teach 'em nothing," he returned, with emphasis. "All we think about
in the old country are books, cleanliness, clothes; what's good for
soul, brain, stomach; and we make 'em miserable. Liberty for
everyone--that's my rule. Dirty children are healthy, happy children.
If a bee stings you in England, you clap on fresh dirt to cure the
pain. Here we cure all kinds of pain with dirt. If my child is ill I
dig up a spadeful of fresh mould and rub it well--best remedy out. I'm
not religious, but I remember _one_ miracle. The Saviour spat on
the ground and made mud with the spittle to anoint the eyes of the
blind man. Made him see directly. What does that mean? Common remedyof
the country, of course. _He_ didn't need the clay, but followed
the custom, same as in the other miracles. In Scotland dirt's
wickedness--how'd they reconcile that with Scripture? I don't say
_Nature_, mind, I say, _Scripture_, because the Bible's the
book they swear by, though they didn't write it."

"I shall think over what you say about children, and the best way to
rear them," I returned. "I needn't decide in a hurry, as I haven't any
yet."

He barked his short laugh and led me back to the house, where the
arrangements for breakfast were now completed. The children took their
meal in the kitchen, we had ours in a large, cool room adjoining it.
There was a small table laid with a spotless white cloth, and real
crockery plates and real knives and forks. There were also real glass
tumblers, bottles of Spanish wine, and snow-white _pan creollo_.
Evidently my hostess had made good use of her time. She came in
immediately after we were seated, and I scarcely recognized her; for
she was not only clean now, but good-looking as well, with that rich
olive colour on her oval face, her black hair well arranged, and her
dark eyes full of tender, loving light. She was now wearing a white
merino dress with a quaint maroon-coloured pattern on it, and a white
silk kerchief fastened with a gold brooch at her neck. It was pleasant
to look at her, and, noticing my admiring glances, she blushed when
she sat down, then laughed. The breakfast was excellent. Roast mutton
to begin, then a dish of chickens stewed with rice, nicely flavoured
and coloured with red Spanish _pimenton_. A fowl roasted or boiled,
as we eat them in England, is wasted, compared with this delicious
_guiso de potto_ which one gets in any _rancho_ in the Banda
Orient. After the meats we sat for an hour cracking walnuts,
sipping wine, smoking cigarettes, and telling amusing stories; and I
doubt whether there were three happier people in all Uruguay that
morning than the un-Scotched Scotchman, John Carrickfergus, his
un-ding-donging native wife, and their guest, who had shot his man on
the previous evening.

After breakfast I spread my _poncho_ on the dry grass under a
tree to sleep the siesta. My slumbers lasted a long time, and on waking
I was surprised to find my host and hostess seated on the grass near
me, he busy ornamenting his surcingle, she with the _mat�_-cup
in her hand and a kettle of hot water beside her. She was drying her
eyes, I fancied, when I opened mine.

"Awake at last!" cried Don Juan pleasantly. "Come and drink _mat�_.
Wife just been crying, you see."

She made a sign for him to hold his peace.

"Why not speak of it, Candelaria?" he said. "Where is the harm? You
see, my wife thinks you have been in the wars--a Santa Coloma man
running away to save his throat."

"How does she make that out?" I asked in some confusion and very much
surprised.

"How! Don't you know women? You said nothing about where you had
been--prudence. That was one thing. Looked confused when we talked of
the revolution--not a word to say about it. More evidence. Your
_poncho_, lying there, shows two big cuts in it. 'Torn by thorns,'
said I. 'Sword-cuts,' said she. We were arguing about it when you
woke."

"She guessed rightly," I said, "and I am ashamed of myself for not
telling you before. But why should your wife cry?"

"Woman like--woman like," he answered, waving his hand. "Always ready
to cry over the beaten one--that is the only politics they know."

"Did I not say that woman is an angel from heaven," I returned; then,
taking her hand, I kissed it. "This is the first time I have kissed
a married woman's hand, but the husband of such a wife will know better
than to be jealous."

"Jealous--ha, ha!" he laughed. "It would have made me prouder if you
had kissed her cheek."

"Juan--a nice thing to say!" exclaimed his wife, slapping his hand
tenderly.

Then while we sipped _mat�_ I told them the history of my campaign,
finding it necessary, when explaining my motives for joining the rebels,
to make some slight deviations from the strictest form of truth. He
agreed that my best plan was to go on to Rocha to wait there for a
passport before proceeding to Montevideo. But I was not allowed to
leave them that day; and, while we talked over our _mat�_,
Candelaria deftly repaired the tell-tale cuts in my _poncho_.

I spent the afternoon making friends with the children, who proved to
be very intelligent and amusing little beggars, telling them some
nonsensical stories I invented, and listening to their bird's-nesting,
armadillo-chasing, and other adventures. Then came a late dinner, after
which the children said their prayers and retired, then we smoked and
sang songs without an accompaniment, and I finished a happy day by
sinking to sleep in a soft, clean bed.

I had announced my intention of leaving at daybreak next morning; and
when I woke, finding it already light, I dressed hastily, and, going
out, found my horse already saddled standing, with three other saddled
horses, at the gate. In the kitchen I found Don Juan, his wife, and
the two biggest boys having their early _mat�_. My host told me
that he had been up an hour, and was only waiting to wish me a
prosperous journey before going out to gather up his cattle. He at
once wished me good-bye, and with his two boys went off, leaving me
to partake of poached eggs and coffee--quite an English breakfast.

I then rose and thanked the good se�ora for her hospitality.

"One moment," she said, when I held out my hand, and, drawing a small
silk bag from her bosom, she offered it to me. "My husband has given
me permission to present you with this at parting. It is only a small
gift, but while you are in this trouble and away from all your friends
it perhaps might be of use to you."

I did not wish to take money from her after all the kind treatment I
had received, and so allowed the purse to lie on my open hand where
she had placed it.

"And if I cannot accept it----" I began.

"Then you will hurt me very much," she replied. "Could you do that
after the kind words you spoke yesterday?"

I could not resist, but, after putting the purse away, took her hand
and kissed it.

"Good-bye, Candelaria," I said, "you have made me love your country
and repent every harsh word I have ever spoken against it."

Her hand remained in mine; she stood smiling, and did not seem to think
the last word had been spoken yet. Then, seeing her there looking so
sweet and loving, and remembering the words her husband had spoken the
day before, I stooped and kissed her cheek and lips.

"Adieu, my friend, and God be with you," she said.

I think there were tears in her eyes when I left her, but I could not
see clearly, for mine also had suddenly grown dim.

And only the day before I had felt amused at the sight of this woman
sitting hot and greasy over her work, and had called her Juno of the
grease-pot! Now, after an acquaintance of about eighteen hours, I had
actually kissed her--a wife and the mother of six children, bidding
her adieu with trembling voice and moist eyes! I know that I shall
never forget those eyes, full of sweet, pure affection and tender
sympathy, looking into mine; all my life long shall I think of
Candelaria, loving her like a sister. Could any woman in my own
ultra-civilised and excessively proper country inspire me with a feeling
like that in so short a time? I fancy not. Oh, civilisation, with your
million conventions, soul and body withering prudishnesses, vain
education for the little ones, going to church in best black clothes,
unnatural craving for cleanliness, feverish striving after comforts
that bring no comfort to the heart, are you a mistake altogether?
Candelaria and that genial runaway John Carrickfergus make me think
so. Ah, yes, we are all vainly seeking after happiness in the wrong
way. It was with us once and ours, but we despised it, for it was only
the old, common happiness which Nature gives to all her children, and
we went away from it in search of another grander kind of happiness
which some dreamer--Bacon or another--assured us we should find. We
had only to conquer Nature, find out her secrets, make her our obedient
slave, then the earth would be Eden, and every man Adam and every Woman
Eve. We are still marching bravely on, conquering Nature, but how weary
and sad we are getting! The old joy in life and gaiety of heart have
vanished, though we do sometimes pause for a few moments in our long
forced march to watch the labours of some pale mechanician seeking
after perpetual motion and indulge in a little dry, cackling laugh at
his expense.

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