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, señorita,” 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 Paquíta 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 _maté_; 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.