When morning came I was too stiff and sore to move, and not until the
following day was I able to creep out to sit in the shade of the trees.
My old host, whose name was Nuflo, went off with his dogs, leaving
the girl to attend to my wants. Two or three times during the day she
appeared to serve me with food and drink, but she continued silent and
constrained in manner as on the first evening of seeing her in the hut.
Late in the afternoon old Nuflo returned, but did not say where he had
been; and shortly afterwards Rima reappeared, demure as usual, in her
faded cotton dress, her cloud of hair confined in two long plaits.
My curiosity was more excited than ever, and I resolved to get to
the bottom of the mystery of her life. The girl had not shown herself
responsive, but now that Nuflo was back I was treated to as much talk as
I cared to hear. He talked of many things, only omitting those which
I desired to hear about; but his pet subject appeared to be the
divine government of the world--“God’s politics”--and its manifest
imperfections, or, in other words, the manifold abuses which from time
to time had been allowed to creep into it. The old man was pious, but
like many of his class in my country, he permitted himself to indulge in
very free criticisms of the powers above, from the King of Heaven down
to the smallest saint whose name figures in the calendar.
“These things, senor,” he said, “are not properly managed. Consider my
position. Here am I compelled for my sins to inhabit this wilderness
with my poor granddaughter--”
“She is not your granddaughter!” I suddenly interrupted, thinking to
surprise him into an admission.
But he took his time to answer. “Senor, we are never sure of anything in
this world. Not absolutely sure. Thus, it may come to pass that you will
one day marry, and that your wife will in due time present you with
a son--one that will inherit your fortune and transmit your name
to posterity. And yet, sir, in this world, you will never know to a
certainty that he is your son.”
“Proceed with what you were saying,” I returned, with some dignity.
“Here we are,” he continued, “compelled to inhabit this land and do not
meet with proper protection from the infidel. Now, sir, this is a crying
evil, and it is only becoming in one who has the true faith, and is a
loyal subject of the All-Powerful, to point out with due humility that
He is growing very remiss in His affairs, and is losing a good deal of
His prestige. And what, senor, is at the bottom of it? Favoritism. We
know that the Supreme cannot Himself be everywhere, attending to each
little trick-track that arises in the world--matters altogether beneath
His notice; and that He must, like the President of Venezuela or the
Emperor of Brazil, appoint men--angels if you like--to conduct His
affairs and watch over each district. And it is manifest that for this
country of Guayana the proper person has not been appointed. Every
evil is done and there is no remedy, and the Christian has no more
consideration shown him than the infidel. Now, senor, in a town near the
Orinoco I once saw on a church the archangel Michael, made of stone, and
twice as tall as a man, with one foot on a monster shaped like a cayman,
but with bat’s wings, and a head and neck like a serpent. Into this
monster he was thrusting his spear. That is the kind of person that
should be sent to rule these latitudes--a person of firmness and
resolution, with strength in his wrist. And yet it is probable that this
very man--this St. Michael--is hanging about the palace, twirling his
thumbs, waiting for an appointment, while other weaker men, and--Heaven
forgive me for saying it--not above a bribe, perhaps, are sent out to
rule over this province.”
On this string he would harp by the hour; it was a lofty subject on
which he had pondered much in his solitary life, and he was glad of an
opportunity of ventilating his grievance and expounding his views. At
first it was a pure pleasure to hear Spanish again, and the old man,
albeit ignorant of letters, spoke well; but this, I may say, is a common
thing in our country, where the peasant’s quickness of intelligence and
poetic feeling often compensate for want of instruction. His views also
amused me, although they were not novel. But after a while I grew tired
of listening, yet I listened still, agreeing with him, and leading him
on to let him have his fill of talk, always hoping that he would come at
last to speak of personal matters and give me an account of his history
and of Rima’s origin. But the hope proved vain; not a word to enlighten
me would he drop, however cunningly I tempted him.
“So be it,” thought I; “but if you are cunning, old man, I shall be
cunning too--and patient; for all things come to him who waits.”
He was in no hurry to get rid of me. On the contrary, he more than
hinted that I would be safer under his roof than with the Indians, at
the same time apologizing for not giving me meat to eat.
“But why do you not have meat? Never have I seen animals so abundant and
tame as in this wood.” Before he could reply Rima, with a jug of water
from the spring in her hand, came in; glancing at me, he lifted his
finger to signify that such a subject must not be discussed in her
presence; but as soon as she quitted the room he returned to it.
“Senor,” he said, “have you forgotten your adventure with the snake?
Know, then, that my grandchild would not live with me for one day longer
if I were to lift my hand against any living creature. For us, senor,
every day is fast-day--only without the fish. We have maize, pumpkin,
cassava, potatoes, and these suffice. And even of these cultivated
fruits of the earth she eats but little in the house, preferring certain
wild berries and gums, which are more to her taste, and which she picks
here and there in her rambles in the wood. And I, sir, loving her as I
do, whatever my inclination may be, shed no blood and eat no flesh.”
I looked at him with an incredulous smile.
“And your dogs, old man?”
“My dogs? Sir, they would not pause or turn aside if a coatimundi
crossed their path--an animal with a strong odour. As a man is, so is
his dog. Have you not seen dogs eating grass, sir, even in Venezuela,
where these sentiments do not prevail? And when there is no meat--when
meat is forbidden--these sagacious animals accustom themselves to a
vegetable diet.”
I could not very well tell the old man that he was lying to me--that
would have been bad policy--and so I passed it off. “I have no doubt
that you are right,” I said. “I have heard that there are dogs in China
that eat no meat, but are themselves eaten by their owners after being
fattened on rice. I should not care to dine on one of your animals, old
man.”
He looked at them critically and replied: “Certainly they are lean.”
“I was thinking less of their leanness than of their smell,” I returned.
“Their odour when they approach me is not flowery, but resembles that
of other dogs which feed on flesh, and have offended my too sensitive
nostrils even in the drawing-rooms of Caracas. It is not like the
fragrance of cattle when they return from the pasture.”
“Every animal,” he replied, “gives out that odour which is peculiar to
its kind”; an incontrovertible fact which left me nothing to say.
When I had sufficiently recovered the suppleness of my limbs to walk
with ease, I went for a ramble in the wood, in the hope that Rima would
accompany me, and that out among the trees she would cast aside that
artificial constraint and shyness which was her manner in the house.
It fell out just as I had expected; she accompanied me in the sense of
being always near me, or within earshot, and her manner was now free and
unconstrained as I could wish; but little or nothing was gained by the
change. She was once more the tantalizing, elusive, mysterious creature
I had first known through her wandering, melodious voice. The only
difference was that the musical, inarticulate sounds were now less often
heard, and that she was no longer afraid to show herself to me. This for
a short time was enough to make me happy, since no lovelier being was
ever looked upon, nor one whose loveliness was less likely to lose its
charm through being often seen.
But to keep her near me or always in sight was, I found, impossible: she
would be free as the wind, free as the butterfly, going and coming at
her wayward will, and losing herself from sight a dozen times every
hour. To induce her to walk soberly at my side or sit down and enter
into conversation with me seemed about as impracticable as to tame
the fiery-hearted little humming-bird that flashes into sight, remains
suspended motionless for a few seconds before your face, then, quick as
lightning, vanishes again.
At length, feeling convinced that she was most happy when she had me out
following her in the wood, that in spite of her bird-like wildness she
had a tender, human heart, which was easily moved, I determined to try
to draw her closer by means of a little innocent stratagem. Going out in
the morning, after calling her several times to no purpose, I began to
assume a downcast manner, as if suffering pain or depressed with grief;
and at last, finding a convenient exposed root under a tree, on a spot
where the ground was dry and strewn with loose yellow sand, I sat down
and refused to go any further. For she always wanted to lead me on and
on, and whenever I paused she would return to show herself, or to chide
or encourage me in her mysterious language. All her pretty little arts
were now practiced in vain: with cheek resting on my hand, I still sat.
So my eyes fixed on that patch of yellow sand at my feet, watching how
the small particles glinted like diamond dust when the sunlight touched
them. A full hour passed in this way, during which I encouraged myself
by saying mentally: “This is a contest between us, and the most patient
and the strongest of will, which should be the man, must conquer. And if
I win on this occasion, it will be easier for me in the future--easier
to discover those things which I am resolved to know, and the girl must
reveal to me, since the old man has proved impracticable.”
Meanwhile she came and went and came again; and at last, finding that I
was not to be moved, she approached and stood near me. Her face, when I
glanced at it, had a somewhat troubled look--both troubled and curious.
“Come here, Rima,” I said, “and stay with me for a little while--I
cannot follow you now.”
She took one or two hesitating steps, then stood still again; and at
length, slowly and reluctantly, advanced to within a yard of me. Then
I rose from my seat on the root, so as to catch her face better, and
placed my hand against the rough bark of the tree.
“Rima,” I said, speaking in a low, caressing tone, “will you stay with
me here a little while and talk to me, not in your language, but in
mine, so that I may understand? Will you listen when I speak to you, and
answer me?”
Her lips moved, but made no sound. She seemed strangely disquieted, and
shook back her loose hair, and with her small toes moved the sparkling
sand at her feet, and once or twice her eyes glanced shyly at my face.
“Rima, you have not answered me,” I persisted. “Will you not say yes?”
“Yes.”
“Where does your grandfather spend his day when he goes out with his
dogs?”
She shook her head slightly, but would not speak.
“Have you no mother, Rima? Do you remember your mother?”
“My mother! My mother!” she exclaimed in a low voice, but with a sudden,
wonderful animation. Bending a little nearer, she continued: “Oh, she is
dead! Her body is in the earth and turned to dust. Like that,” and she
moved the loose sand with her foot. “Her soul is up there, where the
stars and the angels are, grandfather says. But what is that to me? I
am here--am I not? I talk to her just the same. Everything I see I point
out, and tell her everything. In the daytime--in the woods, when we are
together. And at night when I lie down I cross my arms on my breast--so,
and say: ‘Mother, mother, now you are in my arms; let us go to sleep
together.’ Sometimes I say: ‘Oh, why will you never answer me when I
speak and speak?’ Mother--mother--mother!”
At the end her voice suddenly rose to a mournful cry, then sunk, and at
the last repetition of the word died to a low whisper.
“Ah, poor Rima! she is dead and cannot speak to you--cannot hear you!
Talk to me, Rima; I am living and can answer.”
But now the cloud, which had suddenly lifted from her heart, letting me
see for a moment into its mysterious depths--its fancies so childlike
and feelings so intense--had fallen again; and my words brought no
response, except a return of that troubled look to her face.
“Silent still?” I said. “Talk to me, then, of your mother, Rima. Do you
know that you will see her again some day?”
“Yes, when I die. That is what the priest said.”
“The priest?”
“Yes, at Voa--do you know? Mother died there when I was small--it is so
far away! And there are thirteen houses by the side of the river--just
here; and on this side--trees, trees.”
This was important, I thought, and would lead to the very knowledge I
wished for; so I pressed her to tell me more about the settlement she
had named, and of which I had never heard.
“Everything have I told you,” she returned, surprised that I did not
know that she had exhausted the subject in those half-dozen words she
had spoken.
Obliged to shift my ground, I said at a venture: “Tell me, what do
you ask of the Virgin Mother when you kneel before her picture? Your
grandfather told me that you had a picture in your little room.”
“You know!” flashed out her answer, with something like resentment.
“It is all there in there,” waving her hand towards the hut. “Out here
in the wood it is all gone--like this,” and stooping quickly, she raised
a little yellow sand on her palm, then let it run away through her
fingers.
Thus she illustrated how all the matters she had been taught slipped
from her mind when she was out of doors, out of sight of the picture.
After an interval she added: “Only mother is here--always with me.”
“Ah, poor Rima!” I said; “alone without a mother, and only your old
grandfather! He is old--what will you do when he dies and flies away to
the starry country where your mother is?”
She looked inquiringly at me, then made answer in a low voice: “You are
here.”
“But when I go away?”
She was silent; and not wishing to dwell on a subject that seemed to
pain her, I continued: “Yes, I am here now, but you will not stay with
me and talk freely! Will it always be the same if I remain with you?
Why are you always so silent in the house, so cold with your old
grandfather? So different--so full of life, like a bird, when you are
alone in the woods? Rima, speak to me! Am I no more to you than your old
grandfather? Do you not like me to talk to you?”
She appeared strangely disturbed at my words. “Oh, you are not like
him,” she suddenly replied. “Sitting all day on a log by the fire--all
day, all day; Goloso and Susio lying beside him--sleep, sleep. Oh, when
I saw you in the wood I followed you, and talked and talked; still no
answer. Why will you not come when I call? To me!” Then, mocking my
voice: “Rima, Rima! Come here! Do this! Say that! Rima! Rima! It is
nothing, nothing--it is not you,” pointing to my mouth, and then, as if
fearing that her meaning had not been made clear, suddenly touching my
lips with her finger. “Why do you not answer me?--speak to me--speak to
me, like this!” And turning a little more towards me, and glancing at me
with eyes that had all at once changed, losing their clouded expression
for one of exquisite tenderness, from her lips came a succession of
those mysterious sounds which had first attracted me to her, swift
and low and bird-like, yet with something so much higher and more
soul-penetrating than any bird-music. Ah, what feeling and fancies, what
quaint turns of expression, unfamiliar to my mind, were contained in
those sweet, wasted symbols! I could never know--never come to her
when she called, or respond to her spirit. To me they would always
be inarticulate sounds, affecting me like a tender spiritual music--a
language without words, suggesting more than words to the soul.
The mysterious speech died down to a lisping sound, like the faint note
of some small bird falling from a cloud of foliage on the topmost bough
of a tree; and at the same time that new light passed from her eyes, and
she half averted her face in a disappointed way.
“Rima,” I said at length, a new thought coming to my aid, “it is true
that I am not here,” touching my lips as she had done, “and that
my words are nothing. But look into my eyes, and you will see me
there--all, all that is in my heart.”
“Oh, I know what I should see there!” she returned quickly.
“What would you see--tell me?”
“There is a little black ball in the middle of your eye; I should see
myself in it no bigger than that,” and she marked off about an eighth of
her little fingernail. “There is a pool in the wood, and I look down and
see myself there. That is better. Just as large as I am--not small
and black like a small, small fly.” And after saying this a little
disdainfully, she moved away from my side and out into the sunshine; and
then, half turning towards me, and glancing first at my face and then
upwards, she raised her hand to call my attention to something there.
Far up, high as the tops of the tallest trees, a great blue-winged
butterfly was passing across the open space with loitering flight. In a
few moments it was gone over the trees; then she turned once more to
me with a little rippling sound of laughter--the first I had heard from
her, and called: “Come, come!”
I was glad enough to go with her then; and for the next two hours we
rambled together in the wood; that is, together in her way, for though
always near she contrived to keep out of my sight most of the time. She
was evidently now in a gay, frolicsome temper; again and again, when I
looked closely into some wide-spreading bush, or peered behind a tree,
when her calling voice had sounded, her rippling laughter would come to
me from some other spot. At length, somewhere about the centre of the
wood, she led me to an immense mora tree, growing almost isolated,
covering with its shade a large space of ground entirely free from
undergrowth. At this spot she all at once vanished from my side; and
after listening and watching some time in vain, I sat down beside the
giant trunk to wait for her. Very soon I heard a low, warbling sound
which seemed quite near.
“Rima! Rima!” I called, and instantly my call was repeated like an echo.
Again and again I called, and still the words flew back to me, and I
could not decide whether it was an echo or not. Then I gave up calling;
and presently the low, warbling sound was repeated, and I knew that Rima
was somewhere near me.
“Rima, where are you?” I called.
“Rima, where are you?” came the answer.
“You are behind the tree.”
“You are behind the tree.”
“I shall catch you, Rima.” And this time, instead of repeating my words,
she answered: “Oh no.”
I jumped up and ran round the tree, feeling sure that I should find her.
It was about thirty-five or forty feet in circumference; and after going
round two or three times, I turned and ran the other way, but failing to
catch a glimpse of her I at last sat down again.
“Rima, Rima!” sounded the mocking voice as soon as I had sat down.
“Where are you, Rima? I shall catch you, Rima! Have you caught Rima?”
“No, I have not caught her. There is no Rima now. She has faded away
like a rainbow--like a drop of dew in the sun. I have lost her; I shall
go to sleep.” And stretching myself out at full length under the tree,
I remained quiet for two or three minutes. Then a slight rustling
sound was heard, and I looked eagerly round for her. But the sound
was overhead and caused by a great avalanche of leaves which began to
descend on me from that vast leafy canopy above.
“Ah, little spider-monkey--little green tree-snake--you are there!”
But there was no seeing her in that immense aerial palace hung with dim
drapery of green and copper-coloured leaves. But how had she got there?
Up the stupendous trunk even a monkey could not have climbed, and there
were no lianas dropping to earth from the wide horizontal branches that
I could see; but by and by, looking further away, I perceived that on
one side the longest lower branches reached and mingled with the shorter
boughs of the neighbouring trees. While gazing up I heard her low,
rippling laugh, and then caught sight of her as she ran along an exposed
horizontal branch, erect on her feet; and my heart stood still with
terror, for she was fifty to sixty feet above the ground. In another
moment she vanished from sight in a cloud of foliage, and I saw no more
of her for about ten minutes, when all at once she appeared at my side
once more, having come round the trunk of the mora. Her face had a
bright, pleased expression, and showed no trace of fatigue or agitation.
I caught her hand in mine. It was a delicate, shapely little hand, soft
as velvet, and warm--a real human hand; only now when I held it did she
seem altogether like a human being and not a mocking spirit of the wood,
a daughter of the Didi.
“Do you like me to hold your hand, Rima?”
“Yes,” she replied, with indifference.
“Is it I?”
“Yes.” This time as if it was small satisfaction to make acquaintance
with this purely physical part of me.
Having her so close gave me an opportunity of examining that light
sheeny garment she wore always in the woods. It felt soft and satiny to
the touch, and there was no seam nor hem in it that I could see, but it
was all in one piece, like the cocoon of the caterpillar. While I was
feeling it on her shoulder and looking narrowly at it, she glanced at me
with a mocking laugh in her eyes.
“Is it silk?” I asked. Then, as she remained silent, I continued: “Where
did you get this dress, Rima? Did you make it yourself? Tell me.”
She answered not in words, but in response to my question a new look
came into her face; no longer restless and full of change in her
expression, she was now as immovable as an alabaster statue; not a
silken hair on her head trembled; her eyes were wide open, gazing
fixedly before her; and when I looked into them they seemed to see and
yet not to see me. They were like the clear, brilliant eyes of a bird,
which reflect as in a miraculous mirror all the visible world but do not
return our look and seem to see us merely as one of the thousand small
details that make up the whole picture. Suddenly she darted out her
hand like a flash, making me start at the unexpected motion, and quickly
withdrawing it, held up a finger before me. From its tip a minute
gossamer spider, about twice the bigness of a pin’s head, appeared
suspended from a fine, scarcely visible line three or four inches long.
“Look!” she exclaimed, with a bright glance at my face.
The small spider she had captured, anxious to be free, was falling,
falling earthward, but could not reach the surface. Leaning her shoulder
a little forward, she placed the finger-tip against it, but lightly,
scarcely touching, and moving continuously, with a motion rapid as that
of a fluttering moth’s wing; while the spider, still paying out his
line, remained suspended, rising and falling slightly at nearly the same
distance from the ground. After a few moments she cried: “Drop down,
little spider.” Her finger’s motion ceased, and the minute captive fell,
to lose itself on the shaded ground.
“Do you not see?” she said to me, pointing to her shoulder. Just where
the finger-tip had touched the garment a round shining spot appeared,
looking like a silver coin on the cloth; but on touching it with my
finger it seemed part of the original fabric, only whiter and more shiny
on the grey ground, on account of the freshness of the web of which it
had just been made.
And so all this curious and pretty performance, which seemed instinctive
in its spontaneous quickness and dexterity, was merely intended to show
me how she made her garments out of the fine floating lines of small
gossamer spiders!
Before I could express my surprise and admiration she cried again, with
startling suddenness: “Look!”
A minute shadowy form darted by, appearing like a dim line traced across
the deep glossy more foliage, then on the lighter green foliage further
away. She waved her hand in imitation of its swift, curving flight;
then, dropping it, exclaimed: “Gone--oh, little thing!”
“What was it?” I asked, for it might have been a bird, a bird-like moth,
or a bee.
“Did you not see? And you asked me to look into your eyes!”
“Ah, little squirrel Sakawinki, you remind me of that!” I said, passing
my arm round her waist and drawing her a little closer. “Look into my
eyes now and see if I am blind, and if there is nothing in them except
an image of Rima like a small, small fly.”
She shook her head and laughed a little mockingly, but made no effort to
escape from my arm.
“Would you like me always to do what you wish, Rima--to follow you in
the woods when you say ‘Come’--to chase you round the tree to catch you,
and lie down for you to throw leaves on me, and to be glad when you are
glad?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Then let us make a compact. I shall do everything to please you, and
you must promise to do everything to please me.”
“Tell me.”
“Little things, Rima--none so hard as chasing you round a tree. Only to
have you stand or sit by me and talk will make me happy. And to begin
you must call me by my name--Abel.”
“Is that your name? Oh, not your real name! Abel, Abel--what is that? It
says nothing. I have called you by so many names--twenty, thirty--and no
answer.”
“Have you? But, dearest girl, every person has a name, one name he is
called by. Your name, for instance, is Rima, is it not?”
“Rima! only Rima--to you? In the morning, in the evening... now in this
place and in a little while where know I? ... in the night when you wake
and it is dark, dark, and you see me all the same. Only Rima--oh, how
strange!”
“What else, sweet girl? Your grandfather Nuflo calls you Rima.”
“Nuflo?” She spoke as if putting a question to herself. “Is that an
old man with two dogs that lives somewhere in the wood?” And then, with
sudden petulance: “And you ask me to talk to you!”
“Oh, Rima, what can I say to you? Listen--”
“No, no,” she exclaimed, quickly turning and putting her fingers on my
mouth to stop my speech, while a sudden merry look shone in her eyes.
“You shall listen when I speak, and do all I say. And tell me what to
do to please you with your eyes--let me look in your eyes that are not
blind.”
She turned her face more towards me and with head a little thrown back
and inclined to one side, gazing now full into my eyes as I had wished
her to do. After a few moments she glanced away to the distant trees.
But I could see into those divine orbs, and knew that she was
not looking at any particular object. All the ever-varying
expressions--inquisitive, petulant, troubled, shy, frolicsome had now
vanished from the still face, and the look was inward and full of a
strange, exquisite light, as if some new happiness or hope had touched
her spirit.
Sinking my voice to a whisper, I said: “Tell me what you have seen in my
eyes, Rima?”
She murmured in reply something melodious and inarticulate, then glanced
at my face in a questioning way; but only for a moment, then her sweet
eyes were again veiled under those drooping lashes.
“Listen, Rima,” I said. “Was that a humming-bird we saw a little while
ago? You are like that, now dark, a shadow in the shadow, seen for
an instant, and then--gone, oh, little thing! And now in the sunshine
standing still, how beautiful!--a thousand times more beautiful than
the humming-bird. Listen, Rima, you are like all beautiful things in the
wood--flower, and bird, and butterfly, and green leaf, and frond, and
little silky-haired monkey high up in the trees. When I look at you I
see them all--all and more, a thousand times, for I see Rima herself.
And when I listen to Rima’s voice, talking in a language I cannot
understand, I hear the wind whispering in the leaves, the gurgling
running water, the bee among the flowers, the organ-bird singing far,
far away in the shadows of the trees. I hear them all, and more, for
I hear Rima. Do you understand me now? Is it I speaking to you--have I
answered you--have I come to you?”
She glanced at me again, her lips trembling, her eyes now clouded with
some secret trouble. “Yes,” she replied in a whisper, and then: “No, it
is not you,” and after a moment, doubtfully: “Is it you?”
But she did not wait to be answered: in a moment she was gone round the
more; nor would she return again for all my calling.