_This history of a house that had been was told in the shade, one
summer's day, by Nicandro, that old man to whom we all loved to listen,
since he could remember and properly narrate the life of every person
he had known in his native place, near to the lake of Chascomus, on the
southern pampas of Buenos Ayres._
In all this district, though you should go twenty leagues to this
way and that, you will not find a tree as big as this ombú, standing
solitary, where there is no house; therefore it is known to all as "the
ombú," as if but one existed; and the name of all this estate, which is
now ownerless and ruined, is El Ombú. From one of the higher branches,
if you can climb, you will see the lake of Chascomus, two thirds of a
league away, from shore to shore, and the village on its banks. Even
smaller things will you see on a clear day; perhaps a red line moving
across the water--a flock of flamingos flying in their usual way. A
great tree standing alone, with no house near it; only the old brick
foundations of a house, so overgrown with grass and weeds that you have
to look closely to find them. When I am out with my flock in the summer
time, I often come here to sit in the shade. It is near the main road;
travellers, droves of cattle, the diligence, and bullock-carts pass in
sight. Sometimes, at noon, I find a traveller resting in the shade, and
if he is not sleeping we talk and he tells me the news of that great
world my eyes have never seen. They say that sorrow and at last ruin
comes upon the house on whose roof the shadow of the ombú tree falls;
and on that house which now is not, the shadow of this tree came every
summer day when the sun was low. They say, too, that those who sit much
in the ombú shade become crazed. Perhaps, sir, the bone of my skull is
thicker than in most men, since I have been accustomed to sit here all
my life, and though now an old man I have not yet lost my reason. It
is true that evil fortune came to the old house in the end; but into
every door sorrow must enter--sorrow and death that comes to all men;
and every house must fall at last.
Do you hear the mangangá, the carpenter bee, in the foliage over
our heads? Look at him, like a ball of shining gold among the green
leaves, suspended in one place, humming loudly! Ah, señor, the years
that are gone, the people that have lived and died, speak to me thus
audibly when I am sitting here by myself. These are memories; but there
are other things that come back to us from the past; I mean ghosts.
Sometimes, at midnight, the whole tree, from its great roots to its
topmost leaves, is seen from a distance shining like white fire. What
is that fire, seen of so many, which does not scorch the leaves? And,
sometimes, when a traveller lies down here to sleep the siesta, he
hears sounds of footsteps coming and going, and noises of dogs and
fowls, and of children shouting and laughing, and voices of people
talking; but when he starts up and listens, the sounds grow faint, and
seem at last to pass away into the tree with a low murmur as of wind
among the leaves.
As a small boy, from the time when I was able, at the age of about
six years, to climb on to a pony and ride, I knew this tree. It was
then what it is now; five men with their arms stretched to their utmost
length could hardly encircle it. And the house stood there, where you
see a bed of nettles--a long, low house, built of bricks, when there
were few brick houses in this district, with a thatched roof.
The last owner was just touching on old age. Not that he looked aged;
on the contrary, he looked what he was, a man among men, a head taller
than most, with the strength of an ox; but the wind had blown a little
sprinkling of white ashes into his great beard and his hair, which
grew to his shoulders like the mane of a black horse. That was Don
Santos Ugarte, known to all men in this district as the White Horse,
on account of the whiteness of his skin where most men look dark; also
because of that proud temper and air of authority which he had. And
for still another reason--the number of children in this neighbourhood
of which he was said to be the father. In all houses, for many leagues
around, the children were taught to reverence him, calling him "uncle,"
and when he appeared they would run and, dropping on their knees
before him, cry out "_Bendicion mi tio._" He would give them his
blessing; then, after tweaking a nose and pinching an ear or two, he
would flourish his whip over their heads to signify that he had done
with them, and that they must quickly get out of his way.
These were children of the wind, as the saying is, and the desire of
his heart was for a legitimate son, an Ugarte by name, who would come
after him at El Ombú, as he had come after his father. But though he
had married thrice, there was no son born, and no child. Some thought
it a mystery that one with so many sons should yet be without a son.
The mystery, friend, was only for those who fail to remember that such
things are not determined by ourselves. We often say, that He who is
above us is too great to concern Himself with our small affairs. There
are so many of us; and how shall He, seated on his throne at so great
a distance, know all that passes in his dominions! But Santos was no
ordinary person, and He who was greater than Santos had doubtless had
his attention drawn to this man; and had considered the matter, and had
said, "You shall not have your desire; for though you are a devout
man, one who gives freely of his goods to the church and my poor, I am
not wholly satisfied with you." And so it came to pass that he had no
son and heir.
His first two wives had died, so it was said, because of his bitterness
against them. I only knew the third--Doña Mericie, a silent, sad woman,
who was of less account than any servant, or any slave in the house.
And I, a simple boy, what could I know of the secrets of her heart?
Nothing! I only saw her pale and silent and miserable, and because her
eyes followed me, I feared her, and tried always to keep out of her
way. But one morning, when I came to El Ombú and went into the kitchen,
I found her there alone, and before I could escape she caught me in
her arms, and lifting me off my feet strained me against her breast,
crying, _hijo de mi alma_, and I knew not what beside; and calling
God's blessing on me, she covered my face with kisses. Then all at
once, hearing Santo's voice without, she dropped me and remained like a
woman of stone, staring at the door with scared eyes.
She, too, died in a little while, and her disappearance made no
difference in the house, and if Santos wore a black band on his arm,
it was because custom demanded it and not because he mourned for her in
his heart.