She then led me to the kitchen at the end of the house. It was one
of those roomy, old-fashioned kitchens still to be found in a few
_estancia_ houses built in colonial times, in which the fireplace,
raised a foot or two above the floor, extends the whole width of the
room. It was large and dimly lighted, the walls and rafters black with
a century's smoke and abundantly festooned with sooty cobwebs; but a
large, cheerful fire blazed on the hearth, while before it stood a tall,
gaunt woman engaged in cooking the supper and serving _maté_. This was
Ramona, an old servant on the _estancia_.
There also sat my friend of the tangled tresses, which he had evidently
succeeded in combing well out, for they now hung down quite smooth on
his back and as long as a woman's hair. Another person was also seated
near the fire, whose age might have been anything from twenty-five to
forty-five, for he had, I think, a mixture of Indian blood in his veins,
and one of those smooth, dry, dark faces that change but little with
age. He was an undersized, wiry-looking man with a small, intensely
black moustache, but no whiskers or beard. He seemed to be a person of
some consequence in the house, and when my conductress introduced him to
me as “Don Hilario,” he rose to his feet and received me with a profound
bow. In spite of his excessive politeness I conceived a feeling of
distrust towards him from the moment I saw him; and this was because his
small, watchful eyes were perpetually glancing at my face in a furtive
manner, only to glance swiftly away again whenever I looked at him;
for he seemed quite incapable of meeting the gaze of another. We drank
_maté_ and talked a little, but were not a lively party. Doña Demetria,
though she sat with us, scarcely contributed a word to the conversation;
while the long-haired man--Santos by name, and the only peon on the
establishment--smoked his cigarette and sipped his _maté_ in absolute
silence.
Bony old Ramona at length dished up the supper and carried it out of the
kitchen; we followed to the large living-room, where I had been before,
and gathered round a small table; for these people, though apparently
poverty-stricken, ate their meals after the manner of civilised beings.
At the head of the table sat the fierce old white-haired man, staring at
us out of his sunken eyes as we entered. Half rising from his seat, he
mentioned to me to take a chair near him, then, addressing Don Hilario,
who sat opposite, he said, “This is my son Calixto, just returned from
the wars, where, as you know, he has greatly distinguished himself.”
Don Hilario rose and bowed gravely. Demetria took the other end of the
table, while Santos and Ramona occupied the two remaining seats.
I was greatly relieved to find that the old man's mood had changed;
there were no more wild outbursts like the one I had witnessed earlier
in the evening; only occasionally he would fix his strange, burning eyes
on me in a way that made me exceedingly uncomfortable. We began the
meal with broth, which we finished in silence; and while we ate, Don
Hilario's swift glances incessantly flew from face to face; Demetria,
pale and evidently ill at ease, keeping her eyes cast down all the time.
“Is there no wine this evening, Ramona?” asked the old man in querulous
tones when the old woman rose to remove the broth basins.
“The _master_ has not ordered me to put any on the table,” she replied
with asperity, and strongly emphasising the obnoxious word.
“What does this mean, Don Hilario?” said the old man, turning to his
neighbour. “My son has just returned after a long absence; are we to
have no wine for an occasion like this?”
Don Hilario, with a faint smile on his lips, drew a key from his pocket
and passed it silently to Ramona. She rose, muttering, from the table
and proceeded to unlock a cupboard, from which she took a bottle of
wine. Then, going round the table, she poured out half a tumblerful for
each person, excepting herself and Santos, who, to judge from his stolid
countenance, did not expect any.
“No, no,” said old Peralta, “give Santos wine, and pour yourself out a
glass also, Ramona. You have both been good, faithful friends to me, and
have nursed Calixto in his infancy. It is right that you should drink
his health and rejoice with us at his return.”
She obeyed with alacrity, and old Santos' wooden face almost relaxed
into a grin when he received his share of the purple fluid (I can
scarcely call it juice) which maketh glad the heart of man.
Presently old Peralta raised his glass and fixed his fierce, insane eyes
on me. “Calixto, my son, we will drink your health,” he said, “and may
the curse of the Almighty fall on our enemies; may their bodies lie
where they fall, till the hawks have consumed their flesh, and their
bones have been trodden into dust by the cattle; and may their souls be
tormented with everlasting fire.”
Silently they all raised their glasses to their lips, but when they set
them down again, the points of Don Hilario's black moustache were raised
as if by a smile, while Santos smacked his lips in token of enjoyment.
After this ghastly toast nothing more was spoken by anyone at the table.
In oppressive silence we consumed the roast and boiled meat set before
us; for I dared not hazard even the most commonplace remark for fear
of rousing my volcanic host into a mad eruption. When we had finished
eating, Demetria rose and brought her father a cigarette. It was the
signal that supper was over; and immediately afterwards she left the
room, followed by the two servants. Don Hilario politely offered me
a cigarette and lit one for himself. For some minutes we smoked in
silence, until the old man gradually dropped to sleep in his chair,
after which we rose and went back to the kitchen. Even that sombre
retreat now seemed cheerful after the silence and gloom of the
dining-room. Presently Don Hilario got up, and, with many apologies for
leaving me, explaining that he had been invited to assist at a dance at
a neighbouring _estancia_, took himself off. Soon afterwards, though it
was only about nine o'clock, I was shown to a room where a bed had been
prepared for me. It was a large, musty-smelling apartment, almost
empty, there being only my bed and a few tall, upright chairs bound with
leather and black with age. The floor was tiled, and the ceiling was
covered with a dusty canopy of cobwebs, on which flourished a numerous
colony of long-legged house-spiders. I had no disposition to sleep at
that early hour, and even envied Don Hilario, away enjoying himself with
the Rocha beauties. My door, looking out to the front, was standing wide
open; the full moon had just risen and was filling the night with its
mystic splendour. Putting out my candle, for the house was now all dark
and silent, I softly went out for a stroll. Under a clump of trees not
far off I found an old rustic bench, and sat down on it; for the place
was all such a tangled wilderness of great weeds that walking was
scarcely practicable and very unpleasant.
The old, half-ruined house in the midst of the dusky desolation began
to assume in the moonlight a singularly weird and ghost-like appearance.
Near me on one side was an irregular row of poplar-trees, and the long,
dark lines cast from them by the moon fell across a wide, open space
where the rank-growing thorn-apples predominated. In the spaces between
the broad bands made by the poplar-tree shadows, the foliage appeared
of a dim, hoary blue, starred over with the white blossoms of this
night-flowering weed. About these flowers several big, grey moths were
hovering, suddenly appearing out of the black shadows and when looked
for, noiselessly vanishing again in their mysterious ghost-like manner.
Not a sound disturbed the silence except the faint, melancholy trill
of one small night-singing cicada from somewhere near--a faint, aerial
voice that seemed to be wandering lost in infinite space, rising and
floating away in its loneliness, while earth listened, hushed into
preternatural stillness. Presently a large owl came noiselessly flying
by, and, perching on the topmost boughs of a neighbouring tree, began
hooting a succession of monotonous notes, sounding like the baying of a
bloodhound at a vast distance. Another owl by and by responded from
some far-off quarter, and the dreary duet was kept up for half an hour.
Whenever one bird ceased his solemn _boo-boo-boo-boo-boo_, I found
myself with stilled breath straining my sense to catch the answering
notes, fearing to stir lest I should lose them. A phosphorescent gleam
swept by close to my face, making me start at its sudden appearance,
then passed away, trailing a line of faint light over the dusky weeds.
The passing firefly served to remind me that I was not smoking, and the
thought then occurred to me that a cigar might possibly have the effect
of relieving me from the strange, indefinable feeling of depression that
had come over me. I put my hand into my pocket and drew out a cigar,
and bit the end off; but when about to strike a vesta on my matchbox, I
shuddered and dropped my hand.
The very thought of striking a loud, exploding match was unendurable to
me, so strangely nervous did I feel. Or possibly it was a superstitious
mood I had fallen into. It seemed to me at that moment that I had
somehow drifted into a region of mystery, peopled only by unearthly,
fantastic beings. The people I had supped with did not seem like
creatures of flesh and blood. The small, dark countenance of Don
Hilario, with its shifty glances and Mephistophelian smile; Demetria's
pale, sorrowful face; and the sunken, insane eyes of her old,
white-haired father--were all about me in the moonlight and amongst the
tangled greenery. I dared not move; I scarcely breathed; the very weeds
with their pale, dusky leaves were like things that had a ghostly life.
And while I was in this morbid condition of mind, with that irrational
fear momentarily increasing on me, I saw at a distance of about thirty
yards a dark object, which seemed to move, fluttering in an uncertain
way towards me. I gazed intently on it, but it was motionless now, and
appeared like a black, formless shadow within the shade of the trees.
Presently it came again towards me, and, passing into the clear
moonlight, revealed a human figure. It flitted across the bright space
and was lost in the shade of other trees; but it still approached, a
waving, fluttering figure, advancing and receding, but always coming
nearer. My blood turned cold in my veins; I could feel my hair standing
up on my head, until, unable to endure the terrible suspense longer,
I jumped up from my seat. A loud exclamation of terror came from the
figure, and then I saw that it was Demetria. I stammered out an apology
for frightening her by jumping up, and, finding that I had recognised
her, she advanced to me.
“Ah, you are not asleep, señor,” said she quietly. “I saw you from my
window come out here more than an hour ago. Finding you did not return,
I began to grow anxious, and thought that, tired with your journey, you
had fallen asleep out here. I came to wake you, and to warn you that
it is very dangerous to lie sleeping with your face exposed to the full
moon.”
I explained that I had felt restless and disinclined to sleep, regretted
that I had caused her anxiety, and thanked her for her thoughtful
kindness.
Instead of leaving me then, she sat quietly down on the bench. “Señor,”
she said, “if it is your intention to continue your journey to-morrow,
let me advise you not to do so. You can safely remain here for a few
days, for in this sad house we have no visitors.”
I told her that, acting on Santa Coloma's advice, given to me before
the fight, I was going on to the Lomas de Rocha to see a person named
Florentino Blanco in that place, who would probably be able to procure
me a passport from Montevideo.
“How fortunate it is that you have told me this!” she replied. “Every
stranger now entering the Lomas is rigorously examined, and you could
not possibly escape arrest if you went there. Remain with us, señor; it
is a poor house, but we are well disposed towards you. To-morrow Santos
shall go with a letter from you to Don Florentino, who is always ready
to serve us, and he will do what you wish without seeking you.”
I thanked her warmly and accepted the offer of a refuge in her house.
Somewhat to my surprise, she still remained seated on the bench.
Presently she said:
“It is natural, señor, that you should not be glad to remain in a house
so _triste_. But there will be no repetition of all you were obliged
to endure on first entering it. Whenever my father sees a young man, a
stranger to him, he receives him as he received you to-day, mistaking
him for his son. After the first day, however, he loses all interest in
the new face, becoming indifferent, and forgetting all he has said or
imagined.”
This information relieved me, and I remarked that I supposed the loss of
his son had been the cause of his malady.
“You are right; let me tell you how it happened,” she replied. “For this
_estancia_ must seem to you a place unlike all others in the world, and
it is only natural that a stranger should wish to know the reason of its
sad condition. I know that I can speak without fear of these things to
one who is a friend to Santa Coloma.”
“And to you, I hope, señorita,” I said.
“Thank you, señor. All my life has been spent here. When I was a child
my brother went into the army, then my mother died, and I was left here
alone, for the siege of Montevideo had begun and I could not go there.
At length my father received a terrible wound in action and was brought
here to die, as we thought. For months he lay on his bed, his life
trembling in the balance. Our enemies triumphed at last; the siege was
over, the Blanco leaders dead or driven into exile. My father had been
one of the bravest officers in the Blanco forces, and could not hope
to escape the general persecution. They only waited for his recovery
to arrest him and convey him to the capital, where, doubtless, he would
have been shot. While he lay in this precarious condition every
wrong and indignity was heaped upon us. Our horses were seized by the
commander of the department, our cattle slaughtered or driven off and
sold, while our house was searched for arms and visited every week by
an officer who came to report on my father's health. One reason for this
animosity was that Calixto, my brother, had escaped and maintained a
guerilla war against the government on the Brazilian frontier. At length
my father recovered so far from his wounds as to be able to creep out
for an hour every day leaning on someone for support; then two armed men
were sent to keep guard here to prevent his escape. We were thus living
in continual dread when one day an officer came and produced a written
order from the Comandante. He did not read it to me, but said it was an
order for every person in the Rocha department to display a red flag
on his house in token of rejoicing at a victory won by the government
troops. I told him that we did not wish to disobey the Comandante's
orders, but had no red flag in the house to hang up. He answered that he
had brought one for that purpose with him. He unrolled it and fastened
it to a pole; then, climbing to the roof of the house, he raised and
made it fast there. Not satisfied with these insults, he ordered me to
wake my father, who was sleeping, so that he also might see the flag
over his house. My father came out leaning on my shoulder, and when
he had cast up his eyes and seen the red flag he turned and cursed the
officer. 'Go back,' he cried, 'to the dog, your master, and tell him
that Colonel Peralta is still a Blanco in spite of your dishonourable
flag. Tell that insolent slave of Brazil that when I was disabled I
passed my sword on to my son Calixto, who knows how to use it, fighting
for his country's independence.' The officer, who had mounted his horse
by this time, laughed, and, tossing the order from the _comandancia_ at
our feet, bowed derisively and galloped away. My father picked up the
paper and read these words: 'Let there be displayed on every house in
this department a red flag, in token of joy at the happy tidings of a
victory won by the government troops, in which that recreant son of
the republic, the infamous assassin and traitor, Calixto Peralta, was
slain!' Alas, señor, loving his son above all things, hoping so much
from him, and enfeebled by long suffering, my poor father could not
resist this last blow. From that cruel moment he was deprived of reason;
and to that calamity we owe it that he was not put to death and that our
enemies ceased to persecute us.”
Demetria shed some tears when telling me this tragical story. Poor
woman, she had said little or nothing about herself, yet how great and
enduring must have been her grief. I was deeply moved, and, taking her
hand, told her how deeply her sad story had pained me. Then she rose and
bade me good night with a sad smile--sad, but the first smile that had
visited her grief-clouded countenance since I had seen her. I could well
imagine that even the sympathy of a stranger must have seemed sweet to
her in that dreary isolation.
After she left me I lit my cigar. The night had lost its ghostly
character and my fantastic superstitions had vanished. I was back
once more in the world of men and women, and could only think of the
inhumanity of man to man, and of the infinite pain silently endured by
many hearts in that Purple Land. The only mystery still unsolved in
that ruinous _estancia_ was Don Hilario, who locked up the wine and
was called _master_ with bitter irony by Ramona, and who had thought it
necessary to apologise to me for depriving me of his precious company
that evening.