(From _The Century_)
“L’Intransigeant” recently printed a short account of the failure of
the Franco-Brazilian ornithological expedition. Reading, you may have
caught a hint of tragedy in it; but it may have escaped you, because
our papers barely noticed the matter. I was specially interested
because of a conversation I had had with a stranger who knew Brazil
in a peculiar way.
Knowing Columbus, Ohio, you cannot fail to remember the place where
the C. D. & M. Traction crosses the main business street. It is
crowded at the corner, for a newspaper office is there, and bulletins
of the world happenings are posted every hour or so. On the day that
I have in mind, Hall and I paused there for a moment. A new bulletin
was being put up, which read:
_Franco-Brazilian expedition formed to explore upper Amazon
territory._
Hall made a remark laughingly as to new markets to exploit, and
hurried on his way to meet his investment broker; but I, gazing
upward, unaware of his disappearance, said:
“Yes, there are still spots on this little world untrodden by the
foot of man.”
Turning, I discovered his absence, while from another man who stood
where he had been came the words, very decidedly:
“I doubt it.”
“But why?” I asked, mildly interested.
“Good reason,” he replied, with a little shrug of his shoulders.
There was a moment of hesitation, then, simultaneously, we both
started off in the same direction, and for half a block walked
almost side by side. At a word it transpired that we were both bound
for the depot, for the Cincinnati train.
Later, on the train, he resumed the subject. “I know Brazil a
little,” he said, “and far out of the beaten track, but I know it
superficially. Others have been there--many others, and their lines
are crossed and crisscrossed.”
“White men?” I asked.
“Certainly, white men. That’s how I was surprised into the remark
I made there at the bulletin-board. Men poke everywhere about the
world.” The man sketched out roughly on the palm of his hand, and
with his pipe-stem, an imaginary map. “You recall the outline of
South America,” he went on, “nearly pear-shaped, an elongated pear.
Now, here is Peru, a little above the base of my thumb. Over here,
under the little finger, is Cape St. Roque. I have been here. Cut
across like this.” He drew a bold stroke entirely across his hand.
“That means Callao, into the Andes, and so north. North to strike
the head-waters of the Amazon, and then trouble, fever and hunger.
Wealth, too, in a way.”
“Love of adventure?” I hazarded.
He regarded me intently for a moment. I noticed his iron-gray hair
and queerly wrinkled face. He was not yet middle-aged.
“No. I never tried to analyze. I don’t know. I’m not really
adventurous. I like to be alone. Also, I drift, perhaps. When in
a crowd, nothing seems to be worth while, and one is an ant in a
hurrying mass. Alone, thoughts come with force. They strike one as
bluntly as seen things impress themselves. I can’t explain.”
I was unwilling to press him with questions. He was not the kind of
man that could be drawn out. When he spoke again there was a note of
quiet, pleasant excitement.
“By the way, in Prescott’s ‘Peru’ there is a passage somewhere
telling of one party of Spaniards crossing the Andes and discovering
silver. Then, being unable to get back, they built a boat and floated
down the Amazon, and presently turned up in Cuba again. It’s there
somewhere. Or in Irving. In Prescott, I think.”