The Purple Land: Chapter 22

Chapter 22

After leaving John and Candelaria's home of liberty and love, nothing
further worth recording happened till I had nearly reached the desired
haven of the Lomas de Rocha, a place which I was, after all, never
destined to see except from a great distance. A day unusually brilliant
even for this bright climate was drawing to a close, it being within
about two hours of sunset, when I turned out of my way to ascend a
hill with a very long, ridge-like summit, falling away at one end,
appearing like the last sierra of a range just where it dies down into
the level plain; only in this instance the range itself did not exist.
The solitary hill was covered with short tussocks of yellow, wiry
grass, with occasional bushes, while near the summit large slabs of
sandstone appeared just above the surface, looking like gravestones
in some old village churchyard, with all their inscriptions obliterated
by time and weather. From this elevation, which was about a hundred
feet above the plain, I wished to survey the country before me, for
I was tired and hungry, so was my horse, and I was anxious to find a
resting-place before night. Before me the country stretched away in
vast undulations towards the ocean, which was not, however, in sight.
Not the faintest stain of vapour appeared on the immense crystalline
dome of heaven, while the stillness and transparency of the atmosphere
seemed almost preternatural. A blue gleam of water, south-east of where
I stood and many leagues distant, I took to be the lake of Rocha; on
the western horizon were faint blue cloud-like masses with pearly
peaks. They were not clouds, however, but the sierras of the range
weirdly named _Cuchilla de las Animas_--Ghost-haunted Mountains.
At length, like a person who puts his binocular into his pocket and
begins to look about him, I recalled my vision from its wanderings
over illimitable space to examine the objects close at hand. On the
slope of the hill, sixty yards from my standpoint, were some deep
green, dwarf bushes, each bush looking in that still brilliant sunshine
as if it had been hewn out of a block of malachite; and on the pale
purple solanaceous flowers covering them some humble-bees were feeding.
It was the humming of the bees coming distinctly to my ears that first
attracted my attention to the bushes; for so still was the atmosphere
that at that distance apart--sixty yards--two persons might have
conversed easily without raising their voices. Much farther down, about
two hundred yards from the bushes, a harrier hawk stood on the ground,
tearing at something it had captured, feeding in that savage, suspicious
manner usual with hawks, with long pauses between the bites. Over the
harrier hovered a brown milvago hawk, a vulture-like bird in its habits,
that lives by picking up unconsidered trifles. Envious at the other's
good fortune, or fearing, perhaps, that not even the crumbs or feathers
of the feast were going to be left, it was persecuting the harrier by
darting down at intervals with an angry cry and aiming a blow with its
wing. The harrier methodically ducked its head each time its tormentor
rushed down at it, after which it would tear its prey again in its
uncomfortable manner. Farther away, in the depression running along
at the foot of the hill, meandered a small stream so filled with aquatic
grasses and plants that the water was quite concealed, its course
appearing like a vivid green snake, miles long, lying there basking
in the sunshine. At the point of the stream nearest to me an old man
was seated on the ground, apparently washing himself, for he was
stooping over a little pool of water, while behind him stood his horse
with patient, drooping head, occasionally switching off the flies with
its tail. A mile farther on stood a dwelling, which looked to me like
an old _estancia_ house, surrounded by large shade trees growing
singly or in irregular clumps. It was the only house near, but after
gazing at it for some time I concluded that it was uninhabited. For
even at that distance I could see plainly that there were no human
beings moving about it, no horse or other domestic animal near, and
there were certainly no hedges or enclosures of any description.

Slowly I went down the hill, and to the old man sitting beside the
stream. I found him engaged in the seemingly difficult operation of
disentangling a luxuriant crop of very long hair, which had
somehow--possibly from long neglect--got itself into great confusion.
He had dipped his head into the water, and with an old comb, boasting
about seven or eight teeth, was laboriously and with infinite patience
drawing out the long hairs, a very few at a time. After saluting him,
I lit a cigarette, and, leaning on the neck of my horse, watched his
efforts for some time with profound interest. He toiled away in silence
for five or six minutes, then dipped his head in the water again, and,
while carefully wringing the wet out, he remarked that my horse looked
tired.

"Yes," I replied; "so is his rider. Can you tell me who lives in that
_estancia_?"

"My master," he returned laconically.

"Is he a good-hearted man--one who will give shelter to a stranger?"
I asked.

He took a very long time to answer me, then said:

"He has nothing to say about such matters."

"An invalid?" I remarked.

Another long pause; then he shook his head and tapped his forehead
significantly; after which he resumed his mermaid task.

"Demented?" said I.

He elevated an eyebrow and shrugged his shoulders, but said nothing.

After a long silence, for I was anxious not to irritate him with too
much questioning, I ventured to remark:

"Well, they will not set the dogs on me, will they?"

He grinned, and said that it was an establishment without dogs.

I paid him for his information with a cigarette, which he took very
readily, and seemed to think smoking a pleasant relief after his
disentangling labours.

"An _estancia_ without dogs, and where the master has nothing to
say--that sounds strange," I remarked tentatively, but he puffed on
in silence.

"What is the name of the house?" I said, after remounting my horse.

"It is a house without a name," he replied; and after this rather
unsatisfactory interview I left him and slowly went on to the
_estancia_.

On approaching the house I saw that there had formerly been a large
plantation behind it, of which only a few dead stumps now remained,
the ditches that had enclosed them being now nearly obliterated. The
place was ruinous and overgrown with weeds. Dismounting, I led my horse
along a narrow path through a perfect wilderness of wild sunflowers,
horehound, red-weed, and thorn-apple, up to some poplar trees where
there had once been a gate, of which only two or three broken posts
remained standing in the ground. From the old gate the path ran on,
still through weeds, to the door of the house, which was partly of
stone and partly of red brick, with a very steep, sloping, tiled roof.
Beside the ruined gate, leaning against a post, with the hot afternoon
sun shining on her uncovered head, stood a woman in a rusty-black
dress. She was about twenty-six or twenty-seven years old, and had an
unutterably weary, desponding expression on her face, which was
colourless as marble, except for the purple stains under her large,
dark eyes. She did not move when I approached her, but raised her
sorrowful eyes to my face, apparently feeling little interest in my
arrival.

I took off my hat to salute her, and said:

"Se�ora, my horse is tired, and I am seeking for a resting-place; can
I have shelter under your roof?"

"Yes, _caballero_; why not?" she returned in a voice even more
significant of sorrow than her countenance.

I thanked her, and waited for her to lead the way; but she still
remained standing before me with eyes cast down, and a hesitating,
troubled look on her face.

"Se�ora," I began, "if a stranger's presence in the house would be
inconvenient--"

"No, no, se�or, it is not that," she interrupted quickly. Then, sinking
her voice almost to a whisper, she said: "Tell me, se�or, have you
come from the department of Florida? Have you--have you been at San
Paulo?"

I hesitated a little, then answered that I had.

"On which side?" she asked quickly, with a strange eagerness in her
voice.

"Ah, se�ora," I returned, "why do you ask me, only a poor traveller
who comes for a night's shelter, such a question--"

"Why? Perhaps for your good, se�or. Remember, women are not like
men--implacable. A shelter you shall have, se�or; but it is best that
I should know."

"You are right," I returned, "forgive me for not answering you at once.
I was with Santa Coloma--the rebel."

She held out her hand to me, but, before I could take it, withdrew it
and, covering her face, began to cry. Presently recovering herself and
turning towards the house, she asked me to follow.

Her gestures and tears had told me eloquently enough that she too
belonged to the unhappy Blanco party.

"Have you, then, lost some relation in this fight, se�ora?" I asked.

"No, se�or," she replied; "but if our party had triumphed, perhaps
deliverance would have come to me. Ah, no; I lost my relations long
ago--all except my father. You shall know presently, when you see him,
why our cruel enemies refrained from shedding _his_ blood."

By that time we had reached the house. There had once been a verandah
to it, but this had long fallen away, leaving the walls, doors, and
windows exposed to sun and rain. Lichen covered the stone walls, while,
in the crevices and over the tiled roof, weeds and grass had flourished;
but this vegetation had died with the summer heats and was now parched
and yellow. She led me into a spacious room, so dimly lighted from the
low door and one small window that it seemed quite dark to me coming
from the bright sunlight. I stood for a few moments trying to accustom
my eyes to the gloom, while she, advancing to the middle of the
apartment, bent down and spoke to an aged man seated in a leather-bound
easy-chair.

"Papa," she said, "I have brought in a young man--a stranger who has
asked for shelter under our roof. Welcome him, papa."

Then she straightened herself, and, passing behind the chair, stood
leaning on it, facing me.

"I wish you good day, se�or," I said, advancing with a little
hesitation.

There before me sat a tall, bent old man, wasted almost to a skeleton,
with a grey, desolate face and long hair and beard of a silver
whiteness. He was wrapped in a light-coloured _poncho_, and wore
a black skull-cap on his head. When I spoke he leant back in his seatand
began scanning my face with strangely fierce, eager eyes, all the
time twisting his long, thin fingers together in a nervous, excited
manner.

"What, Calixto," he exclaimed at length, "is this the way you come
into my presence? Ha, you thought I would not recognise you! Down--down,
boy, on your knees!"

I glanced at his daughter standing behind him; she was watching my
face anxiously, and made a slight inclination with her head.

Taking this as an intimation to obey the old man's commands, I went
down on my knees, and touched my lips to the hand he extended.

"May God give you grace, my son," he said, with tremulous voice. Then
he continued: "What, did you expect to find your old father blind then?
I would know you amongst a thousand, Calixto. Ah, my son, my son, why
have you kept away so long? Stand, my son, and let me embrace you."

He rose up tottering from his chair and threw his arm about me; then,
after gazing into my face for some moments, deliberately kissed me on
both cheeks.

"Ha, Calixto," he continued, putting his trembling hands upon my
shoulders and gazing into my face out of his wild, sunken eyes, "do
I need ask where you have been? Where should a Peralta be but in the
smoke of the battle, in the midst of carnage, fighting for the Banda
Orient�l? I did not complain of your absence, Calixto--Demetria will
tell you that I was patient through all these years, for I knew you
would come back to me at last wearing the laurel wreath of victory.
And I, Calixto, what have I worn, sitting here? A crown of nettles!
Yes, for a hundred years I have worn it--you are my witness, Demetria,
my daughter, that I have worn this crown of stinging-nettles for a
hundred years."

He sank back, apparently exhausted, in his chair, and I uttered a sigh
of relief, thinking the interview was now over. But I was mistaken.
His daughter placed a chair for me at his side. "Sit here, se�or, and
talk to my father, while I have your horse taken care of," she
whispered, and then quickly glided from the room. This was rather hard
on me, I thought; but while whispering those few words she touched my
hand lightly and turned her wistful eyes with a grateful look on mine,
and I was glad for her sake that I had not blundered.

Presently the old man roused himself again and began talking eagerly,
asking me a hundred wild questions, to which I was compelled to reply,
still trying to keep up the character of the long-lost son just returned
victorious from the wars.

"Tell me where you have fought and overcome the enemy," he exclaimed,
raising his voice almost to a scream. "Where have they flown from you
like chaff before the wind?--where have you trodden them down under
your horses' hoofs?--name--name the places and the battles to me,
Calixto?"

I felt strongly inclined just then to jump up and rush out of the room,
so trying was this mad conversation to my nerves; but I thought of his
daughter Demetria's white, pathetic face, and restrained the impulse.
Then in sheer desperation I began to talk madly as himself. I thought
I would make him sick of warlike subjects. Everywhere, I cried, we had
defeated, slaughtered, scattered to the four winds of heaven, the
infamous Colorados. From the sea to the Brazilian frontier we have
been victorious. With sword, lance, and bayonet we have stormed and
taken every town from Tacuaremb� to Montevideo. Every river from the
Yaguaron to the Uruguay had run red with Colorado blood. In forests
and sierras we had hunted them, flying like wild beasts from us; we
had captured them in thousands, only to cut their throats, crucify
them, blow them from guns, and tear them limb by limb to pieces with
wild horses.

I was only pouring oil on the blazing fire of his insanity.

"Aha!" he shouted, his eyes sparkling, while he wildly clutched my arm
with his skinny, claw-like hands, "did I not know--have I not said it?
Did I not fight for a hundred years, wading through blood every day,
and then at last send you forth to finish the battle? And every day
our enemies came and shouted in my ears, 'Victory--victory!' They told
me you were dead, Calixto--that their weapons had pierced you, that
they had given your flesh to be devoured of wild dogs. And I shouted
with laughter to hear them. I laughed in their faces, and clapped my
hands and cried out, 'Prepare your throats for the sword, traitors,
slaves, assassins, for a Peralta--even Calixto, devoured of wild
dogs--is coming to execute vengeance! What, will God not leave one
strong arm to strike at the tyrant's breast--one Peralta in all this
land! Fly, miscreants! Die, wretches! He has risen from the grave--he
has come back from hell, armed with hell-fire to burn your towns to
ashes--to extirpate you utterly from the earth!'"

His thin, tremulous voice had risen towards the close of this mad
speech to a reedy shriek that rang through the quiet, darkening house
like the long, shrill cry of some water-fowl heard at night in the
desolate marshes.

Then he loosened his hold on my arm and dropped back moaning and
shivering into his seat. His eyes closed, his whole frame trembled,
and he looked like a person just recovering from an epileptic fit;
then he seemed to sink to sleep. It was now getting quite dark, for
the sun had been down some time, and it was with the greatest relief
that I saw Do�a Demetria gliding like a ghost into the room. She touched
me on the arm and whispered, "Come, se�or, he is asleep now."

I followed her out into the fresh air, which had never seemed so fresh
before; then, turning to me, she hurriedly whispered, "Remember, se�or,
that what you have told me is a secret. Say not one word of it to any
other person here."

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