Several days passed, and my second pair of boots had been twice resoled
before Doña Isidora's schemes for advancing my fortunes began to take
form. Perhaps she was beginning to think us a burden on her somewhat
niggardly establishment; anyway, hearing that my preference was for
a country life, she gave me a letter containing half a dozen lines of
commendation addressed to the Mayordomo of a distant cattle-breeding
establishment, asking him to serve the writer by giving her _nephew_--as
she called me--employment of some kind on the _estancia_. Probably she
knew that this letter would really lead to nothing, and gave it merely
to get me away into the interior of the country, so as to keep Paquíta
for an indefinite time to herself, for she had become extremely attached
to her beautiful niece. The _estancia_ was on the borders of the
Paysandù department, and not less than two hundred miles from
Montevideo. It was a long journey, and I was advised not to attempt it
without a _tropilla_, or troop of horses. But when a native tells you
that you cannot travel two hundred miles without a dozen horses, he only
means that you cannot do the distance in two days; for it is hard for
him to believe that one may be satisfied with less than one hundred
miles a day. I travelled on one horse, and it therefore took me several
days to accomplish my journey. Before I reached my destination, called
Estancia de la Virgin de los Desamparados, I met with some adventures
worth relating, and began to feel as much at home with the _Orientáles_
as I had long been with the _Argentinos_.
Fortunately, after I left the town, a west wind continued blowing all
day, bringing with it many light, flying clouds to mitigate the sun, so
that I was able to cover a good number of leagues before the evening. I
took the road northwards through Camelones department, and was well on
into the Florida department when I put up for the night at the solitary
mud _rancho_ of an old herdsman, who lived with his wife and children in
a very primitive fashion. When I rode up to the house, several huge dogs
rushed out to attack me: one seized my horse by the tail, dragging
the poor beast about this way and that, so that he staggered and could
scarcely keep his legs; another caught the bridle-reins in his mouth;
while a third fixed his fangs in the heel of my boot. After eyeing me
for some moments, the grizzled old herdsman, who wore a knife a yard
long at his waist, advanced to the rescue. He shouted at the dogs,
and finding that they would not obey, sprang forward and with a few
dexterous blows, dealt with his heavy whip-handle, sent them away
howling with rage and pain. Then he welcomed me with great courtesy, and
very soon, when my horse had been unsaddled and turned loose to feed,
we were sitting together enjoying the cool evening air and imbibing the
bitter and refreshing _maté_ his wife served to us. While we conversed
I noticed numberless fireflies flitting about; I had never seen them so
numerous before, and they made a very lovely show. Presently one of the
children, a bright little fellow of seven or eight, came running to us
with one of the sparkling insects in his hand, and cried:
“Look, _tatita_, I have caught a _linterna_. See how bright it is!”
“The Saints forgive you, my child,” said the father. “Go, little son,
and put it back on the grass, for if you should hurt it, the spirits
would be angry with you, for they go about by night, and love the
_linterna_ that keeps them company.”
What a pretty superstition, I thought; and what a mild, merciful heart
this old Oriental herdsman must possess to show so much tenderness
towards one of God's tiny creatures. I congratulated myself on my good
fortune in having fallen in with such a person in this lonely place.
The dogs, after their rude behaviour to me and the sharp punishment they
had suffered in consequence, had returned, and were now gathered around
us, lying on the ground. Here I noticed, not for the first time, that
the dogs belonging to these lonely places are not nearly so fond of
being noticed and caressed as are those of more populous and civilised
districts. On attempting to stroke one of these surly brutes on the
head, he displayed his teeth and growled savagely at me. Yet this
animal, though so truculent in temper, and asking for no kindness from
his master, is just as faithful to man as his better-mannered brother in
the more settled country. I spoke on that subject to my gentle herdsman.
“What you say is true,” he replied. “I remember once during the siege
of Montevideo, when I was with a small detachment sent to watch the
movements of General Rivera's army, we one day overtook a man on a
tired horse. Our officer, suspecting him to be a spy, ordered him to
be killed, and, after cutting his throat, we left his body lying on the
open ground at a distance of about two hundred and fifty yards from
a small stream of water. A dog was with him, and when we rode off we
called it to follow us, but it would not stir from its dead master's
side.
“Three days later we returned to the same spot, to find the corpse lying
just where we had left it. The foxes and birds had not touched it, for
the dog was still there to defend it. Many vultures were near, waiting
for a chance to begin their feast. We alighted to refresh ourselves
at the stream, then stood there for half an hour watching the dog. He
seemed to be half-famished with thirst, and came towards the stream
to drink; but before he got half-way to it the vultures, by twos and
threes, began to advance, when back he flew and chased them away,
barking. After resting a few minutes beside the corpse, he came again
towards the stream, till, seeing the hungry birds advance once more,
he again flew back at them, barking furiously and foaming at the mouth.
This we saw repeated many times, and at last, when we left, we tried
once more to entice the dog to follow us, but he would not. Two days
after that we had occasion to pass by that spot again, and there we saw
the dog lying dead beside his dead master.”
“Good God,” I exclaimed, “how horrible must have been the feelings you
and your companions experienced at such a sight!”
“No, señor, not at all,” replied the old man. “Why, señor, I myself put
the knife into that man's throat. For if a man did not grow accustomed
to shed blood in this world, his life would be a burden to him.”
What an inhuman old murderer! I thought. Then I asked him whether he had
ever in his life felt remorse for shedding blood.
“Yes,” he answered; “when I was a very young man, and had never before
dipped weapon in human blood; that was when the siege began. I was sent
with half a dozen men in pursuit of a clever spy, who had passed the
lines with letters from the besieged. We came to a house where, our
officer had been informed, he had been lying concealed. The master of
the house was a young man about twenty-two years old. He would confess
nothing. Finding him so stubborn, our officer became enraged, and bade
him step out, and then ordered us to lance him. We galloped forty yards
off, then wheeled back. He stood silent, his arms folded on his breast,
a smile on his lips. Without a cry, without a groan, with that smile
still on his lips, he fell pierced through with our lances. For days
afterwards his face was ever present to me. I could not eat, for my
food choked me. When I raised a jug of water to my lips I could, señor,
distinctly see his eyes looking at me from the water. When I lay down to
sleep, his face was again before me, always with that smile that seemed
to mock me on the lips. I could not understand it. They told me it was
remorse, and that it would soon leave me, for there is no ill that time
will not cure. They spoke truth, and when that feeling left me I was
able to do all things.”
The old man's story so sickened me that I had little appetite for
supper, and passed a bad night thinking, waking or sleeping, of that
young man in this obscure corner of the world who folded his arms
and smiled on his slayers when they were slaying him. Very early next
morning I bade my host good-bye, thanking him for his hospitality, and
devoutly hoping that I should never look upon his abhorred face again.
I made little progress that day, the weather proving hot, and my horse
lazier than ever. After riding about five leagues, I rested for a couple
of hours, then proceeded again at a gentle trot till about the middle
of the afternoon, when I dismounted at a wayside _pulpería_ or store
and public-house all in one, where several natives were sipping rum and
conversing. Standing before them was a brisk-looking old man--old, I
say, because he had a dark, dry skin, though his hair and moustache were
black as jet--who paused in the discourse he appeared to be delivering,
to salute me; then, after bestowing a searching glance on me out of his
dark, hawk-like eyes, he resumed his talk. After calling for rum and
water, to be in the fashion, I sat down on a bench, and, lighting
a cigarette, prepared to listen. He was dressed in shabby gaucho
habiliments--cotton shirt, short jacket, wide cotton drawers, and
_chiripa_, a shawl-like garment fastened at the waist with a sash, and
reaching down half-way between the knees and ankles. In place of a hat
he wore a cotton handkerchief tied carelessly about his head; his left
foot was bare, while the right one was cased in a colt's-skin stocking,
called _bota-de-potro_, and on this distinguished foot was buckled a
huge iron spur, with spikes two inches long. One spur of the kind would
be quite sufficient, I should imagine, to get out of a horse all the
energy of which he was capable. When I entered he was holding forth on
the pretty well-worn theme of fate _versus_ free will; his arguments
were not, however, the usual dry philosophical ones, but took the form
of illustration, chiefly personal reminiscences and strange incidents
in the lives of people he had known, while so vivid and minute were his
descriptions--sparkling with passion, satire, humour, pathos, and so
dramatic his action, while wonderful story followed story--that I was
fairly astonished, and pronounced this old _pulpería_ orator a born
genius.
His argument over, he fixed his keen eyes on me and said:
“My friend, I perceive you are a traveller from Montevideo: may I ask
what news there is from that city?”
“What news do you expect to hear?” said I; then it came into my thought
that it was scarcely proper to confine myself to more commonplace
phrases in replying to this curious old Oriental bird, with such ragged
plumage, but whose native woodnotes wild had such a charm in them. “It
is only the old story over again!” I continued. “They say there will
be a revolution some day. Some of the people have already retired into
their houses, after chalking in very big letters on their front doors,
'Please come into this house and cut the owner's throat for him, so that
he may rest at peace, and have no fear of what may happen.' Others have
climbed on to their roofs, and occupy themselves there looking at the
moon through spy-glasses, thinking that the conspirators are concealed
in that luminary, and only waiting for a cloud to obscure it, in order
to descend upon the city unobserved.”
“Hear!” cried the old man, rapping delighted applause on the counter
with his empty glass.
“What do you drink, friend?” I asked, thinking his keen appreciation
of my grotesque speech deserved a treat, and wishing to draw him out a
little more.
“Rum, friend, thank you. They say it warms you in winter, and cools you
in summer--what can you have better?”
“Tell me,” said I, when his glass had been refilled by the storekeeper,
“what I shall say when I return to Montevideo, and am asked what news
there is in the country?”
The old fellow's eyes twinkled, while the other men ceased talking, and
looked at him as if anticipating something good in reply to my question.
“Say to them,” he answered, “that you met an old man--a horse tamer
named Lucero--and that he told you this fable for you to repeat to the
townspeople: Once there was a great tree named Montevideo growing in
this country, and in its branches lived a colony of monkeys. One day one
of the monkeys came down from the tree and ran full of excitement across
the plain, now scrambling along like a man on all fours, then erect like
a dog running on its hind legs, while its tail, with nothing to catch
hold of, wriggled about like a snake when its head is under foot. He
came to a place where a number of oxen were grazing, and some horses,
ostriches, deer, goats, and pigs. 'Friends all,' cried the monkey,
grinning like a skull, and with staring eyes round as dollars, 'great
news! great news! I come to tell you that there will shortly be a
revolution.' 'Where?' said an ox. 'In the tree--where else?' said the
monkey. 'That does not concern us,' said the ox. 'Oh, yes, it does!'
cried the monkey, 'for it will presently spread about the country and
you will all have your throats cut.' Then the ox replied, 'Go back,
monkey, and do not molest us with your news, lest we get angry and go to
besiege you in your tree, as we have often had to do since the creation
of the world; and then, if you and the other monkeys come down to us, we
will toss you on our horns.'”
This apologue sounded very well, so admirably did the old man picture
to us with voice and gesture the chattering excitement of the monkey and
the majestic _aplomb_ of the ox.
“Señor,” he continued, after the laugh had subsided, “I do not wish any
of my friends and neighbours here present to fly to the conclusion that
I have spoken anything offensive. Had I seen in you a Montevidean I
should not have spoken of monkeys. But, señor, though you speak as we
do, there is yet in the pepper and salt on your tongue a certain foreign
flavour.”
“You are right,” I said; “I am a foreigner.”
“A foreigner in some things, friend, for you were doubtless born under
other skies; but in that chief quality, which we think was given by the
Creator to us and not to the people of other lands--the ability to be
one in heart with the men you meet, whether they are clothed in velvet
or in sheep-skins--in that you are one of us, a pure Oriental.”
I smiled at his subtle flattery; possibly it was only meant in payment
of the rum I had treated him to, but it pleased me none the less, and to
his other mental traits I was now inclined to add a marvellous skill in
reading character.
After a while he invited me to spend the night under his roof. “Your
horse is fat and lazy,” he said with truth, “and, unless you are a
relation of the owl family, you cannot go much farther before to-morrow.
My house is a humble one, but the mutton is juicy, the fire warm, and
the water cool there, the same as in another place.”
I readily accepted his invitation, wishing to see as much as I could
of so original a character, and before starting I purchased a bottle
of rum, which made his eyes sparkle so that I thought his
name--Lucero--rather an appropriate one. His _rancho_ was about two
miles from the store, and our ride thither was about as strange a gallop
as I ever took. Lucero was a _domador_, or horse-tamer, and the beast
he rode was quite unbroken and vicious as it could be. Between horse
and man a fierce struggle for mastery raged the whole time, the horse
rearing, plunging, buck-jumping, and putting into practice every
conceivable trick to rid itself of its burden; while Lucero plied whip
and spur with tremendous energy and poured out torrents of strange
adjectives. At one moment he would come into violent collision with my
old sober beast, at another there would be fifty yards of ground
between us; still Lucero would not stop talking, for he had begun a very
interesting story at starting, and he stuck to his narrative through
everything, resuming the thread after each tempest of execration vented
on his horse, and raising his voice almost to a shout when we were far
apart. The old fellow's staying powers were really extraordinary, and
when we arrived at the house he jumped airily to the ground, and seemed
fresh and calm as possible.
In the kitchen were several people sipping _maté_, Lucero's children and
grandchildren, also his wife, a grey old dame with dim-looking eyes.
But then my host was old in years himself, only, like Ulysses, he still
possessed the unquenched fire and energy of youth in his soul, while
time bestowed infirmities together with wrinkles and white hairs on his
helpmate.
He introduced me to her in a manner that brought the modest flame to
my cheeks. Standing before her, he said that he had met me at the
_pulpería_ and had put to me the question which a simple old countryman
must ask of every traveller from Montevideo--What the news was? Then,
assuming a dry, satirical tone, which years of practice would not enable
me to imitate, he proceeded to give my fantastical answer, garnished
with much original matter of his own.
“Señora,” I said, when he had finished, “you must not give me credit for
all you have heard from your husband. I only gave him brute wool, and he
has woven it for your delight into beautiful cloth.”
“Hear him! Did I tell you what to expect, Juana?” cried the old man,
which made me blush still more.
We then settled down to _maté_ and quiet conversation. Sitting in the
kitchen on the skull of a horse--a common article of furniture in an
Oriental _rancho_--was a boy about twelve years old, one of Lucero's
grandchildren, with a very beautiful face. His feet were bare and
his clothes very poor, but his soft dark eyes and olive face had that
tender, half-melancholy expression often seen in children of Spanish
origin, which is always so strangely captivating.
“Where is your guitar, Cipriano?” said his grandfather, addressing him,
whereupon the boy rose and fetched a guitar, which he first politely
offered to me.
When I had declined it, he seated himself once more on his polished
horse-skull and began to play and sing. He had a sweet boy's voice,
and one of his ballads took my fancy so much that I made him repeat
the words to me while I wrote them down in my notebook, which greatly
gratified Lucero, who seemed proud of the boy's accomplishment. Here are
the words translated almost literally, therefore without rhymes, and I
only regret that I cannot furnish my musical readers with the quaint,
plaintive air they were sung to:
O let me go--O let me go,
Where high are born amidst the hills
The streams that gladden all the south,
And o'er the grassy desert wide,
Where slakes his thirst the antlered deer,
Hurry towards the great green ocean.
The stony hills--the stony hills,
With azure air-flowers on their crags,
Where cattle stray unowned by man;
The monarch of the herd there seems
No bigger than my hand in size,
Roaming along the tall, steep summit.
I know them well--I know them well,
Those hills of God, and they know me;
When I go there they are serene,
But when the stranger visits them
Dark rain-clouds gather round their tops--
Over the earth goes forth the tempest.
Then tell me not--then tell me not
'Tis sorrowful to dwell alone;
My heart within the city pent
Pines for the desert's liberty;
The streets are red with blood, and fear
Makes pale and mournful women's faces.
O bear me far--O bear me far,
On swift, sure feet, my trusty steed:
I do not love the burial-ground,
But I shall sleep upon the plain,
Where long green grass shall round me wave--
Over me graze wild herds of cattle.