The Purple Land: Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Early next morning I left Tolosa and travelled the whole day in a
south-westerly direction. I did not hurry, but frequently dismounted
to give my horse a sip of clear water and a taste of green herbage.
I also called during the day at three or four _estancia_ houses,
but failed to hear anything that could be advantageous to me. In this
way I covered about thirty-five miles of road, going always towards
the eastern part of the Florida district in the heart of the country.
About an hour before sunset I resolved to go no farther that day; and
I could not have hoped to find a nicer resting-place than the one now
before me--a neat _rancho_ with a wide corridor supported by
wooden pillars, standing amidst a bower of fine old weeping-willows.
It was a calm, sunshiny afternoon, peace and quiet resting on
everything, even bird and insect, for they were silent, or uttered
only soft, subdued notes; and that modest lodge, with its rough stone
walls and thatched roof, seemed to be 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, unbroken ring of the horizon, and arched over
with blue heaven, starry by night and filled by day with sweet sunshine.

On approaching the house I was agreeably disappointed at having no
pack of loud-mouthed, ferocious dogs rushing forth to rend the
presumptuous stranger to pieces, a thing one always expects. The only
signs of life visible 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. But that girl was a picture for one to gaze long upon
and carry about in his memory for a lifetime. Never had I beheld
anything so exquisitely beautiful. 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 suddenly away, leaving you with hair
ruffled up and mouth full of dust. Its influence was more like that
of the spring wind, which blows softly, scarcely fanning your cheek,
yet infusing through all your system a delicious, magical sensation
like--like nothing else in earth or heaven. She was, I fancy, about
fourteen years old, slender and graceful in figure, and with a
marvellously clear white skin, on which this bright Oriental sun had
not painted one freckle. Her features were, I think, the most perfect
I have ever seen in any human being, and her golden brown hair hung
in two heavy braids behind, almost to her knees. As I approached, she
looked up to me out of sweet, grey-blue eyes; there was a bashful smile
on her lips, but she did not move or speak. On the willow-branch over
her head were two young doves; they were, it appeared, 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 trying to get them by pulling
the branch down towards her.

Leaving my horse, I came to her side.

"I am tall, se�orita," I said, "and can perhaps reach them."

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

Under the corridor I made the acquaintance of her grandfather, the
white-haired old man, and found him a person it was very easy to get
on with, for he agreed readily with everything I said. Indeed, even
before I 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-American women have. Evidently the father is the
white-skinned, golden-haired one, I thought. When the girl's brother
came in, by and by, he unsaddled my horse and led him away to pasture;
this boy was also dark, darker even than his mother.

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

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

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

His daughter indeed! I mentally ejaculated; she is more like the
daughter of the evening star than of such a man. But his words were
unreasonable, to say the least of it; for the sweet child, whose name
was Margarita, though wearing shoes, had no stockings on, while her
dress--very clean, certainly--was a cotton print so faded that the
pattern was quite undistinguishable. The only pretence of finery of
any description was a narrow bit of blue ribbon tied about her
lily-white neck. 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 she
has for Anselmo: when he comes she is always prepared to receive him
like a queen."

This was really almost too much for me, and I was powerfully tempted
to jump up and embrace the whole family on the spot. How sweet was
this primitive simplicity of mind! Here, doubtless, was the one spot
on the wide earth where the golden age still lingered, appearing like
the last beams of the setting sun touching some prominent spot, when
elsewhere all things are in shadow. Ah, why had fate led me into this
sweet Arcadia, since I must presently leave it to go back to the dull
world of toil 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 Paqu�ta waiting for me over there
in Montevideo, I could have said, "O good friend Sweet Potato, and good
friends all, let me remain for ever with you under this roof,
sharing your simple pleasures, and, wishing for nothing better, forget
that great crowded world where all men are striving to conquer Nature
and death and to win fortune; until, having wasted their miserable
lives in their vain endeavours, they drop down and the earth is
shovelled over them!"

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

Anselmo was a fine specimen of the Oriental gaucho, dark and with good
features, his hair and moustache intensely black. He wore costly
clothes, while his whip-handle, the sheath of his long knife, and other
things about him were of massive silver. Of silver also were his heavy
spurs, the pommel of his saddle, his stirrups, and the headstall of
his bridle. He was a great talker; never, in fact, in the whole course
of my varied experience have I encountered anyone who could pour out
such an incessant stream of talk about small matters as this man. We
all sat together in the social kitchen, sipping _mat�_; I taking
little part in the conversation, which was all about horses, scarcely
even listening to what the others were saying. Reclining against the
wall, I occupied myself agreeably watching the sweet face of Margarita,
which in her happy excitement had become suffused with a delicate rosy
colour. I have always had a great love for the beautiful: sunsets,
wild flowers, especially verbenas, so prettily called margaritas in
this country; and beyond everything the rainbow spanning the vast
gloomy heavens, with its green and violet arch, when the storm-cloud
passes eastward over the wet sun-flushed earth. All these things have
a singular fascination for my soul. But beauty when it presents itself
in the human form is even more than 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 feeling like that towards anyone except his
wife? No, it is not love, but a sacred ethereal kind of affection,
resembling love only as the fragrance of violets resembles the taste
of honey and the honey-comb.

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

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