The Purple Land: Chapter 28

Chapter 28

I was soon back in Montevideo after that. When I bade Demetria good-bye
she appeared reluctant to part with me, retaining my hand in hers for
an unusual time. For the first time in her life, probably, she was
about to be left in the company of entire strangers, and for many days
past we had been much to each other, so that it was only natural she
should cling to me a little at parting. Once more I pressed her hand
and exhorted her to be of good courage, reminding her that in a very
few days all trouble and danger would be over; still, however, she did
not release my hand. This tender reluctance to lose me was affecting
and also flattering, but slightly inopportune, for I was anxious to
be in the saddle and away. Presently she said, glancing down at her
rusty habiliments, "Richard, if I am to remain concealed here till I
go to join you on board, then I must meet your wife in these poor
garments."

"Oh, _that_ is what you are thinking about, Demetria!" I exclaimed.

At once I called in our kind hostess, and when this serious matter was
explained to her she immediately offered to go to Montevideo to procure
the necessary outfit, a thing I had thought nothing about, but which
had evidently been preying on Demetria's mind.

When I at length reached the little suburban retreat of my aunt (by
marriage), Paqu�ta and I acted for some time like two demented persons,
so overjoyed were we at meeting after our long separation. I had
received no letters from her, and only two or three of the score I had
written had reached their destination, so that we had ten thousand
questions to ask and answers to make. She could never gaze enough at
me or finish admiring my bronzed skin and the respectable moustache
I had grown; while she, poor darling! looked unusually pale, yet withal
so beautiful that I marvelled at myself for having, after possessing
her, considered any other woman even passably good-looking. I gave her
a circumstantial account of my adventures, omitting only a few matters
I was in honour bound not to disclose.

Thus, when I told her the story of my sojourn at the _estancia_
Peralta, I said nothing to betray Demetria's confidence; nor did I
think it necessary to mention the episode of that wicked little sprite,
Cleta; with the result that she was pleased at the chivalrous conduct
I had displayed throughout the whole of that affair, and was ready to
take Demetria to her heart.

I had not been back twenty-four hours in Montevideo before a letter
from the Lomas de Rocha storekeeper came to justify my caution in
having left Demetria at some distance from the town. The letter informed
me that Don Hilario had quickly guessed that I had carried off his
unhappy master's daughter, and that no doubt was left in his mind when
he discovered that, on the day I left the _estancia_, a person
answering to my description in every particular had purchased a horse
and side-saddle and had ridden off towards the _estancia_ in the
evening. My correspondent warned me that Don Hilario would be in
Montevideo even before his letter, also that he had discovered something
about my connection with the late rebellion, and would be sure to place
the matter in the hands of the government, so as to have me arrested,
after which he would have little difficulty in compelling Demetria to
return to the _estancia_.

For a moment this intelligence dismayed me. Luckily, Paqu�ta was out
of the house when it came, and fearing that she might return and
surprise me while I was in that troubled state, I rushed out; then,
skulking through back streets and narrow lanes, peering cautiously
about in fear of encountering the minions of the law, I made my escape
out of the town. My only desire just then was to get away into some
place of safety where I would be able to think over the position
quietly, and if possible devise some plan to defeat Don Hilario, who
had been a little too quick for me. Of many schemes that suggested
themselves to my mind, while I sat in the shade of a cactus hedge about
a mile from town, I finally determined, in accordance with my old and
well-tried rule, to adopt the boldest one, which was to go straight
back to Montevideo and claim the protection of my country. The only
trouble was that on my way thither I might be caught, and then Paqu�ta
would be in terrible distress about me, and perhaps Demetria's escape
would be prevented. While I was occupied with these thoughts I saw a
closed carriage pass by, driven towards the town by a tipsy-looking
coachman. Coming out of my hiding-place, I managed to stop him and
offered him two dollars to drive me to the British Consulate. The
carriage was a private one, but the two dollars tempted the man, so
after securing the fare in advance, he allowed me to get in, and then
I closed the windows, leant back on the cushion, and was driven rapidly
and comfortably to the house of refuge. I introduced myself to the
Consul, and told him a story concocted for the occasion, a judicious
mixture of truth and lies, to the effect that I had been unlawfully
and forcibly seized and compelled to serve in the Blanco army, and
that, having escaped from the rebels and made my way to Montevideo,
I was amazed to hear that the government proposed arresting me. He
asked me a few questions, looked at the passport which he had sent me
a few days before, then, laughing good-humouredly, put on his hat and
invited me to accompany him to the War Office close by. The secretary,
Colonel Arocena, he informed me, was a personal friend of his, and if
we could see him it would be all right. Walking by his side I felt
quite safe and bold again, for I was, in a sense, walking with my hand
resting on the superb mane of the British Lion, whose roar was not to
be provoked with impunity. At the War Office I was introduced by the
Consul to his friend, Colonel Arocena, a genial old gentleman with a
bald head and a cigarette between his lips. He listened with some
interest and a smile, slightly incredulous I thought, to the sad story
of the ill-treatment I had been subjected to at the hands of Santa
Coloma's rebellious rascals. When I had finished he pushed over a sheet
of paper on which he had scrawled a few words to me, with the remark,
"Here, my young friend, take this, and you will be safe in Montevideo.
We have heard about your doings in Florida, also in Rocha, but we do
not propose going to war with England on your account."

At this speech we all laughed; then when I had pocketed the paper,
which bore the sacred seal of the War Office on the margin and requested
all persons to refrain from molesting the bearer in his lawful outgoings
and incomings, we thanked the pleasant old Colonel and retired. I spent
half an hour strolling about with the Consul, then we separated. I had
noticed two men in military uniform at some distance from us when we
were together, and now, returning homewards, I found that they were
following me. By and by they overtook me, and politely intimated their
intention of making me their prisoner. I smiled, and, drawing forth
my protection from the War Office, handed it to them. They looked
surprised, and gave it back, with an apology for having molested me,
then left me to pursue my way in peace.

I had, of course, been very lucky throughout all this adventure; still,
I did not wish to attribute my easy escape entirely to luck, for I
had, I thought, contributed a good deal towards it by my promptness
in acting and in inventing a plausible story on the spur of the moment.

Feeling very much elated, I strolled along the sunny streets, gaily
swinging my cane, when, turning a corner near Do�a Isidora's house,
I suddenly came face to face with Don Hilario. This unexpected encounter
threw us both off our guard, he recoiling two or three paces backwardand
turning as pale as the nature of his complexion would allow. I
recovered first from the shock. So far I had been able to baffle him,
and knew, moreover, many things of which he was ignorant; still, he
was there in the town with me and had to be reckoned with, and I quickly
resolved to meet him as a friend, affecting entire ignorance of his
object in coming to Montevideo.

"Don Hilario--you here! Happy the eyes that behold you," I exclaimed,
seizing and shaking his hand, pretending to be overjoyed at the meeting.

In a moment he recovered his usual self-possessed manner, and when I
asked after Do�a Demetria he answered after a moments hesitation that
she was in very good health.

"Come, Don Hilario," I said, "we are close to my aunt Isidora's house,
where I am staying, and it will give me great pleasure to present you
to my wife, who will be glad to thank you for your kindness to me at
the _estancia_."

"Your wife, Don Ricardo! Do you tell me that you are married?" he
exclaimed in amazement, thinking probably that I was already the husband
of Demetria.

"What, did I not tell you before!" I said. "Ah, I remember speaking
to Do�a Demetria about it. Strange that she has not mentioned it to
you. Yes, I was married before coming to this country--my wife is an
Argentine. Come with me and you shall see a beautiful woman, if that
is an inducement."

He was without doubt astonished and mystified, but he had recovered
his mask, and was now polite, collected, watchful.

When we entered the house I presented him to Do�a Isidora, who happened
to be in the way, and left her to entertain him. I was very glad to
do so, knowing that he would seize the opportunity to try and discover
something from the garrulous old lady, and that he would discover
nothing, since she had not been let into our secrets.

I found Paqu�ta lying down in her room having a siesta; and while she
arrayed herself at my express desire in her best dress--a black velvet
which set off her matchless beauty better than anything else, I told
her how I wished her to treat Don Hilario. She knew all about him, of
course, and hated him with all her heart, looking on him as a kind of
evil genius from whose castle I had carried off the unhappy Demetria;
but I made her understand that our wisest plan was to treat him
graciously. She readily consented, for Argentine women can be more
charmingly gracious than any other women on the globe, and what people
do well they like to be called on to do.

The subtle caution of our snaky guest did not serve to hide from my
watchful eyes that he was very much surprised when he beheld her. She
placed herself near him and spoke in her sweetest, artless manner of
the pleasure my return had given her, and of the gratitude she had
felt towards him and all the people at the _estancia_ Peralta for
the hospitable treatment I had received there. He was, as I had
foreseen, completely carried away by her exquisite beauty and the charm
of her manner towards him. He was flattered, and exerted himself to
be agreeable, but at the same time he was very much puzzled. The baffled
expression was more apparent on his face every moment, while his
restless glances darted here and there about the room, yet ever
returned, like the doomed moth to the candle, to those lustrous violet
eyes overflowing with hypocritical kindness. Paqu�ta's acting delighted
me, and I only hoped that he would long suffer from the effect of the
subtle poison she was introducing into his system. When he rose to go
I was sure that Demetria's disappearance was a greater mystery to him
than ever; and as a parting shot I warmly invited him to come and see
us frequently while he remained in the capital, even offering him a
bed in the house; while Paqu�ta, not to be behindhand, for she had
thoroughly entered into the fun of the thing, entrusted him with a
prettily worded, affectionate message to Demetria, a person whom she
already loved and hoped some day to meet.

Two days after this adventure I heard that Don Hilario had left
Montevideo. That he had discovered nothing I was positive; it was
possible, however, that he had left some person to watch the house,
and, as Paqu�ta was now anxious to get back to her own country, I
determined to delay our departure no longer.

Going down to the harbour, I found the captain of a small schooner
trading between Montevideo and Buenos Ayres, and, learning that he
intended leaving for the last port in three days' time, I bargained
with him to take us, and got him also to consent to receive Demetria
on board at once. I then sent a message to Mr. Barker, asking him to
bring his guest up to town and put her on board the schooner without
coming near me. Two days later, early in the morning, I heard that she
was safe on board; and, having thus baffled the scoundrel Hilario, on
whose ophidian skull I should have been very pleased to set my heel,
and having still an idle day before me, I went once more to visit the
mountain, to take from its summit my last view of the Purple Land where
I had spent so many eventful days.

When I approached the crest of the great, solitary hill I did not gaze
admiringly on the magnificent view that opened before me, nor did the
wind, blowing fresh from the beloved Atlantic, seem to exhilarate me.
My eyes were cast down and I dragged my feet like one that was weary.
Yet I was not weary, but now I began to remember that on a former
occasion I had on this mountain spoken many vain and foolish things
concerning a people about whose character and history I was then
ignorant. I also remembered with exceeding bitterness that my visit
to this land had been the cause of great and perhaps lasting sorrow
to one noble heart.

How often, said I to myself, have I repented of those cruel, scornful
words I addressed to Dolores at our last interview; and now once more
"I come to pluck the berries harsh and crude" of repentance and of
expiation, to humble my insular pride in the dust and unsay all the
unjust things I formerly spoke in my haste.

It is not an exclusively British characteristic to regard the people
of other nationalities with a certain amount of contempt, but with us,
perhaps, the feeling is stronger than with others, or else expressed
with less reserve. Let me now at last rid myself of this error, which
is harmless and perhaps even commendable in those who stay at home,
and also very natural, since it is a part of our unreasonable nature
to distrust and dislike the things that are far removed and unfamiliar.
Let me at last divest myself of these old English spectacles, framed
in oak and with lenses of horn, to bury them for ever in this mountain,
which for half a century and upwards has looked down on the struggles
of a young and feeble people against foreign aggression and domestic
foes, and where a few months ago I sang the praises of British
civilisation, lamenting that it had been planted here and abundantly
watered with blood, only to be plucked up again and cast into the sea.
After my rambles in the interior, where I carried about in me only a
fading remnant of that old time-honoured superstition to prevent the
most perfect sympathy between me and the natives I mixed with, I cannot
say that I am of that opinion now. I cannot believe that if this country
had been conquered and re-colonised by England, and all that is crooked
in it made straight according to our notions, my intercourse with the
people would have had the wild, delightful flavour I have found in it.
And if that distinctive flavour cannot be had along with the material
prosperity resulting from Anglo-Saxon energy, I must breathe the wish
that this land may never know such prosperity. I do not wish to be
murdered; no man does; yet rather than see the ostrich and deer chased
beyond the horizon, the flamingo and black-necked swan slain on the
blue lakes, and the herdsman sent to twang his romantic guitar in Hades
as a preliminary to security of person, I would prefer to go about
prepared at any moment to defend my life against the sudden assaults
of the assassin.

We do not live by bread alone, and British occupation does not give
to the heart all the things for which it craves. Blessings may even
become curses when the gigantic power that bestows them on us scares
from our midst the shy spirits of Beauty and of Poesy. Nor is it solely
because it appeals to the poetic feelings in us that this country
endears itself to my heart. It is the perfect republic: the sense of
emancipation experienced in it by the wanderer from the Old World is
indescribably sweet and novel. Even in our ultra-civilised condition
at home we do periodically escape back to nature; and, breathing the
fresh mountain air and gazing over vast expanses of ocean and land,
we find that she is still very much to us. It is something more than
these bodily sensations we experience when first mingling with our
fellow-creatures, where all men are absolutely free and equal as here.
I fancy I hear some wise person exclaiming, "No, no, no! In name only
is your Purple Land a republic; its constitution is a piece of waste
paper, its government an oligarchy tempered by assassination and
revolution." True; but the knot of ambitious rulers all striving to
pluck each other down have no power to make the people miserable.
Theunwritten constitution, mightier than the written one, is in the heart
of every man to make him still a republican and free with a freedom
it would be hard to match anywhere else on the globe. The Bedouin
himself is not so free, since he accords an almost superstitious
reverence and implicit obedience to his sheikh. Here the lord of many
leagues of land and of herds unnumbered sits down to talk with the
hired shepherd, a poor, bare-footed fellow in his smoky _rancho_,
and no class or caste difference divides them, no consciousness of
their widely different positions chills the warm current of sympathy
between two human hearts. How refreshing it is to meet with this perfect
freedom of intercourse, tempered only by that innate courtesy and
native grace of manner peculiar to Spanish Americans! What a change
to a person coming from lands with higher and lower classes, each with
its innumerable hateful subdivisions--to one who aspires not to mingle
with the class above him, yet who shudders at the slouching carriage
and abject demeanour of the class beneath him! If this absolute equality
is inconsistent with perfect political order, I for one should grieve
to see such order established. Moreover, it is by no means true that
the communities which oftenest startle us with crimes of disorder and
violence are morally worse than others. A community in which there are
not many crimes cannot be morally healthy. There were practically
_no_ crimes in Peru under the Inca dynasty; it was a marvellous
thing for a person to commit an offence in that empire. And the reason
for this most unnatural state of things was this--the Inca system of
government was founded on that most iniquitous and disastrous doctrine
that the individual bears the same relation to the State as a child
to its parents, that its life from the cradle to the grave must be
regulated for it by a power it is taught to regard as omniscient--a
power practically omnipresent and almighty. In such a state there could
be no individual will, no healthy play of passions, and consequently
no crime. What wonder that a system so unspeakably repugnant to a being
who feels that his will is a divinity working within him fell to pieces
at the first touch of foreign invasion, or that it left no vestige of
its pernicious existence on the continent it had ruled! For the whole
state was, so to speak, putrid even before dissolution, and when it
fell it mingled with the dust and was forgotten. Poland, before its
conquest by Russia, a country ill-governed and disorderly as the Banda
Orient�l, did not mingle with dust like that when it fell--the
implacable despotism of the Czar was unable to crush its fierce spirit;
its _Will_ still survived to gild dreary oppression with hallowed
dreams, to make it clutch with a fearful joy the dagger concealed in
its bosom. But I had no need to go away from this Green Continent to
illustrate the truth of what I have said. People who talk and write
about the disorderly South American republics are fond of pointing to
Brazil, that great, peaceful, progressive empire, as setting an example
to be followed. An orderly country, yes, and the people in it steeped
to their lips in every abominable vice! Compared with these emasculated
children of the equator, the Orientals are Nature's noblemen.

I can very well imagine some over-righteous person saying, "Alas, poor
deluded soul, how little importance can we attach to your specious
apologies of a people's lawlessness, when your own personal narrative
shows that the moral atmosphere you have been breathing has quite
corrupted you! Go back over your own record, and you will find that
you have, according to _our_ notions, offended in various ways
and on divers occasions, and that you are even without the grace to
repent of all the evil things you have thought, said, and done."

I have not read many books of philosophy, because when I tried to be
a philosopher "happiness was always breaking in," as someone says;
also because I have loved to study men rather than books; but in the
little I have read there occurs a passage I remember well, and this
I shall quote as my answer to anyone who may call me an immoral person
because my passions have not always remained in a quiescent state,
like hounds--to quote the simile of a South American poet--slumbering
at the feet of the huntsman resting against a rock at noon. "We should
regard the perturbations of the mind," says Spinoza, "not in the light
of vices of human nature, but as properties just as pertinent to it
as are heat, storms, thunder, and the like, to the nature of the
atmosphere, which phenomena, though inconvenient, are yet necessary,
and have fixed causes by means of which we endeavour to understand
their nature, and the mind has just as much pleasure in seeing them
aright as in knowing such things as flatter the senses." Let me have
the phenomena which are inconvenient as well as the things which flatter
the senses, and the chances are that my life will be a healthier and
happier one than that of the person who spends his time on a cloud
blushing at Nature's naughtiness.

It is often said that an ideal state--a Utopia where there is no folly,
crime, or sorrow--has a singular fascination for the mind. Now, when
I meet with a falsehood, I care not who the great persons who proclaim
it may be, I do not try to like it or believe it or mimic the
fashionable prattle of the world about it. I hate all dreams of
perpetual peace, all wonderful cities of the sun, where people consume
their joyful, monotonous years in mystic contemplations, or find their
delight, like Buddhist monks, in gazing on the ashes of dead generations
of devotees. The state is one unnatural, unspeakably repugnant: the
dreamless sleep of the grave is more tolerable to the active, healthy
mind than such an existence. If Signor Gaudentio di Lucca, still keeping
himself alive by means of his marvellous knowledge of the secrets of
Nature, were to appear before me now on this mountain to inform me
that the sacred community he resided with in Central Africa was no
mere dream, and should offer to conduct me to it, I should decline to
go with him. I should prefer to remain in the Banda Orient�l, even
though by so doing I should grow at last to be as bad as any person
in it, and ready to "wade through slaughter" to the Presidential Chair.
For even in my own country of England, which is not so perfect as old
Peru or the Pophar's country in Central Africa, I have been long divided
from Nature, and now in this Oriental country, whose political misdeeds
are a scandal alike to pure England and impure Brazil, I have been
reunited to her. For this reason I love her with all her faults. Here,
like Santa Coloma, I will kneel down and kiss this stone, as an infant
might kiss the breast that feeds it; here, fearless of dirt, like John
Carrickfergus, I will thrust my hands into the loose brown soil to
clasp the hands, as it were, of dear mother Nature after our long
separation.

Farewell, beautiful land of sunshine and storm, of virtue and of crime;
may the invaders of the future fare on your soil like those of the
past and leave you in the end to your own devices; may the chivalrous
instinct of Santa Coloma, the passion of Dolores, the loving-kindness
of Candelaria still live in your children to brighten their lives with
romance and beauty; may the blight of our superior civilisation never
fall on your wild flowers, or the yoke of our progress be laid on your
herdsman--careless, graceful, music-loving as the birds--to make him
like the sullen, abject peasant of the Old World!

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