LIMA OF TWO ASPECTS
The valley of the Rimac, where glisten the towers of Lima, is only one
of the river-ways which cross the desert. The river of the ancient
oracle Rimac, “he who speaks,” has given its name in perverted form to
Lima--the Spanish city. The temple of the speaker was in ruins long
before Spanish days.
Like other streams of the west coast, the great river Rimac has run
through the gamut of all zones. Hurrying down from the cordillera,
it spreads fertility far and wide over the dry shore-valley. As far
away as Chorillos, “little water jets,” the water of the Rimac filters
through, led astray for irrigation. But its own journey to the sea is
vain. The mountain water is so precious to the desert that by the time
the stream has reached the shore, it has not force enough left to make
an outlet across the beach into the ocean.
Irrigating ditches and crumbling mud walls divide gardens and
vineyards and orchards of wind-blown olive trees. Ruins of mud
accumulate dust. Luxuriant nasturtiums drape every dusty bank. Vestiges
of fortresses, temples, and grave-mounds of the three ancient cities
of the Rimac valley still terrify owners of the sugar-fields, for
the inhabitants of the sepulchers sometimes return at night to sit
beneath the grape-arbors and listen to the murmur of irrigation streams
which they made. Cajamarquilla, Armatambo, and Huadca were the names
of these cities, and the whirlwind was their most distinguished god.
His white-robed priests ate neither salt nor pepper, and tore out the
hearts of men and of animals to offer them to the gods on the platforms
of temples.
Sometimes, too, the Huguenot hermit who lived near the site of Huadca
and who was burned by the Inquisition returns to his little caves at
nightfall.
Lima is in the tropics. Its fruits and flowers are those of the
tropics. Yet it is neither hot nor cold. There is no rain and not
too much sun, a pleasant monotony interrupted only by earthquakes.
An umbrella merchant once tried to set up business in Lima. His act
brought forth an article in a local paper on rain, and how on one
occasion when it came suddenly people had to get out of bed to find
secure places. Editorials on umbrellas followed.
No, there is little to fear from changes of weather, not even thunder
and lightning. There is an endless summer, with streets under a
continuous awning; yet, after all, only a summer. The rainless desert
is soaked in mist all winter long. It falls suddenly like a veil over
the bare mountains and drenches the sunlight. A glimpse through it
shows a faint sheen, sharp cliffs hazy with hues of light-green velvet,
enameled on closer inspection with multitudes of differing flowers.
_Amancaes_ spring up dew-laden, those queer, greenish-yellow lilies
hanging on smooth, leafless stems, giving their name to whole valleys
which they fill. One such lies beyond the gardens of the Barefoot
Friars. A favorite retreat for Limaneans, it is called the National
Garden. But scorpions lie under the stones.
* * * * *
“A suggestive kind of picture used to hang in many a mediaeval church.
It was painted on both sides of a board. On one side were a pair
of lovers walking hand in hand in a meadow gay with spring. Flowers
blossomed about their feet; birds sang in the trees above their heads.
“On the reverse was the grim figure of Death, hour-glass and scythe in
hand. The thing, pendent from a single cord, hung free in a draughty
place, and the air twisted it about hither and thither, so that one
side and the other was seen in swift interchange.”
The Alameda, flanked with Norfolk Island pines and marble benches, had
in other days rows upon rows of orange trees, stone fountains, and
basins as well. At five in the afternoon gilded carriages streamed from
palace gardens, driving about so that their fair occupants could greet
their friends. Four thousand brocade-lined, gold-trimmed carriages and
innumerable chaises shimmered through the heavy odor of orange blossoms.
A traveler of the seventeenth century has described the lady of Lima,
clad not in linen, but in the most expensive lace of Flanders, slipped
over an underdress of cloth of gold.
[Illustration: GRAPES RAISED BY THE BAREFOOT FRIARS, (_LOS DESCALZOS_),
LIMA.]
She glittered with jewels from head to foot, her shoes were fastened
with diamond buckles, aigrettes of diamonds were in her hair--“a
splendor still the more astonishing as it is so very common,” he said.
Nay, she even scattered perfume through her nosegays. On great fête
days she tiptoed to church, enveloped all but one eye in a silk-lace
shawl. Beneath it glinted a flower-embroidered dress of rarest stuff,
fluttering a multitude of ribbons; under a petticoat of heavy brocade,
miniature golden feet peeped out, or slippers of peach-colored velvet.
The lady of Lima was famed for her wit, entrancing the visitor as she
sipped her Paraguay tea from a silver-mounted gourd.
Little is left of former splendor. The statues, the five rows of orange
trees, the sweet smells are gone. At the end of the long Alameda,
bordered with wind-blown trees and wrecks of marble benches, is a
fountain under palms and Norfolk Island pines. Across a shady space and
above a high, yellow plaster wall, is the monastery tower, where hangs
a clear-toned bell. Rugged hills rise abruptly. This is the home of
the Barefoot Friars. A labyrinth of paths leads to their orchards and
gardens and cells. Going every morning in pairs to the markets to beg
for food, they own nothing. They live entirely on alms.
Just before two o’clock each day, the lame, halt, and blind begin to
gather from all the town wards, each carrying a receptacle. One poor
woman with three or four babies seats herself upon the plaster shelf
skirting the wall, setting down her pottery jar by the brook to wait.
The bell strikes two long, clear tones. The whole space is filled. The
great monastery gate is flung open, and two brown-clad monks, sleeves
rolled up, bring out between them a steaming copper cauldron. The
famished multitude fall to their knees, many with difficulty, and a
prayer is intoned.
Then the procession begins: men, women, and children in various stages
of decrepitude. Beggars with old tin cans totter forward as to the
Mecca of a long, hard journey. Decent-looking women, very haughty,
conceal their pails under black _mantas_. Each receives two ladlefuls
of meat, soup, and vegetables. The kettle is filled again and
refilled, till all are served. After the little groups of people have
finished their _cazuela_, the heavy door clashes together.
Beyond the turn of the wall, far down the avenue of palms, the
Mendicant Friars emerge, four by four, and swing off across country for
their daily walk.