PAMPAS LIFE
Every capital is a world in itself--a world in which national and
foreign elements blend; but to understand the life of a nation
one must go out into the country. A vast territory, ten times the
size of France, extending from Patagonia to Paraguay and Bolivia,
will naturally offer the greatest diversity of soil and climate,
representing differing conditions of labour as well as of customs
and sometimes of morals. Our ancient Europe can in the same way show
ethnical groups with sufficiently marked features (such as in our
French provinces) which a long history has not been able to destroy or
even to modify.
It is quite another matter when, on a continent with no history at
all, you get men of every origin spread over it, brought thither by
a community of interest and in the hope of cultivating the soil by
their labour. I have already said what racial characteristics subsist.
The colonist will, of course, at first do all he can to remain what
the land of his birth has made him; the first evidence of this is his
tendency to fall into groups and form national colonies. But the land
of his adoption will in time surely force upon him the inevitable
conditions of a new mode of life, the very necessity of adapting
himself to changed conditions making of him a new creature, to be later
definitely moulded by success.
The Pampas are not the Argentine. They form, however, so predominant
a part that they have shaped the man and the race by imposing on them
their organisation of agricultural labour and the development of their
natural resources. Whilst manufactures are still in a rudimentary state
and are likely to remain so for a long time to come owing to the lack
of coal, the Pampas from the Andes to the ocean offer an immense plain
of the same alluvial soil from end to end, ready to respond in the
same degree to the same effort of stock-raising or agriculture. An
identical stretch of unbroken ground, with identical surface, identical
pools of subterranean water, no special features to call for other than
the unchanging life of the _Campo_.
Naturally, the first experiments were made in the most rudimentary
fashion on the half-wild herds of cattle that could not be improved
unless the European market were thrown open. As soon as this outlet was
assured the whole effort of skill and money was directed towards the
improvement of stock, and the progress made in a few years of work far
exceeded the brightest hopes of those early days. And as at the same
time a powerful impetus was given to wheat-growing, the Pampas from
one end to the other of their vast extent immediately took on a dual
aspect: cattle farms (herds grazing on natural or artificial pastures),
and acres of grain (wheat, oats, maize, and flax)--this is the only
picture that the Pampas offer or ever can offer to the traveller. The
system of cattle-breeding, primitive in the extreme at a distance from
railroads, improves in proportion as the line draws nearer; wherever
the iron road passes there is an immediate development of land under
cultivation.
All this goes to make up a man of the _Campo_--the _estanciero_,
colonist, peon, _gaucho_, or whatever other name he may be called.
Certain conditions of living and working are forced upon him from which
there is no escape. Whether landed proprietor, farmer, servant, or
agricultural labourer, the vastness of the plain which opens in front
of him, the distance between inhabited dwellings, the roughness of the
roads, leave him no other means of communication but the horse, which
abounds everywhere and can be unceremoniously borrowed on occasion.
The man of the _Campo_ is a horseman. He is certainly not an elegant
horseman, whose riding would be appreciated at the Saumur Cavalry
School. No curb; only a plain bit is used, whose first effect is to
bring down the animal's head and throw him out of balance, whilst his
rider, to remedy this defect, raises his hands as high as his head. To
the unsightliness of this picture is added an unstable seat. As very
often happens in similar circumstances, instinct and determination more
or less making up for all mistakes, the rider manages approximately to
keep on his beast's back, thanks partly to the fact that the horse is
rarely required to go at more than a moderate pace over level ground.
The hoof never by any chance can strike on a stone, though it may be
caught in a hole; the active little _creole_ horse excels in avoiding
this danger. One can ask no more of him. (I shall have something to say
later of the way wild horses are broken in.)
On his enormous saddle of sheepskin, the peon or _gaucho_, his hat
pulled well down over his eyes, his shoulders draped in the folds
of the _poncho_,--a blanket with a hole in it for the head to pass
through,--is encumbered with a whip whose handle serves on occasion
as a mallet, and a lasso, with or without metal balls, coiled behind
his saddle. He makes a picturesque enough figure in the monotonous
expanse of earth and sky, where _rancho_ or tree, beast or man, stand
out in high relief against a background of glaring light. Without
sign or syllable, his eyes fixed on the empty horizon, the man passes
through the silence of infinite solitude, rising like a ghost from the
nothingness of the horizon at one point to sink again into nothingness
at another. When riding in a troop, they talk together in low tones.
There are none of those outbursts of fun that you might expect in a
land of sunshine. It is the gravity natural to men brought face to face
with Nature in the pitiless light of sky and earth where no fold or
break in the surface arrests the glance or fixes the attention.
Still, there are those gigantic herds of horned cattle or horses which
fill an appreciable portion of the melancholy plain--"green in winter,
yellow in summer." I say nothing of the great flocks of sheep because
there were none in the districts which I visited. When you talk of
a herd of ten thousand cows, you make some impression on even a big
farmer of the Charolais. Well, I can assure you that out in the Pampas
ten thousand head of cattle is a small affair. You see a dark shadow
that rises on the horizon that might be either a village or a group of
haycocks, until the vague shifting of the mass suggests to your mind
the idea of some form of life. The lines show clearer, groups break
off and stand out, pointed horns appear, and at last you find you are
watching the tranquil passage of a monstrous herd, whose outlines
are stencilled in black upon the whiteness of the sky-line like the
Chinese shadow pictures I saw on one occasion at the _Chat Noir_ (in
Montmartre) when the flocks of the patriarchs were flung upon the
sheet. So distinct are the shapes here that you lose the sense of
distance and are astonished at the harmony of nonchalant impulse, as
irresistible as slow, which can thus set in movement this huge living
mass and make it pass before us like a vision of Fate. The dream
fantasy is the more striking because it changes so rapidly. Withdraw
your eyes a moment from the picture, and it is entirely altered. The
heavy mass of migrating cattle seems now to have taken root at the
opposite extremity of the horizon, whilst in the depths of the luminous
distance shadowy patches of haze more or less distinct betoken further
living bodies, some stationary, some in motion. These are mirages
of the Pampas of which none takes any heed; but upon me they made a
powerful impression, for I saw in them the whole tragedy of this land,
from the tuft of grass on which the eyes of the beast first saw the
light down to the last step of that fateful journey which ends at the
slide of the slaughter-house.
The rapid travelling of the motor-car multiplies one's point of view.
The vast estates on the Pampas, which run from two to a hundred square
miles in extent, are further divided into large sections bounded
by wire fencing to limit the wandering of the herds. The roads are
marked out by a double row of wire. What dust and what mud may be
found thereon, according to weather conditions, may be imagined, since
there is not the smallest pebble to be found there. Yet vehicles
do, it appears venture along these paths, and even arrive at their
destination. You may also meet flocks of sheep and oxen on them, and
families of pigs engaged in breakfasting on a sheep that has been
relieved of its skin. In less than an hour its bones, picked clean,
are scattered along the way, where in process of time they will
contribute precious phosphates to the soil. Naturally, on such a
"road," the automobile does not yearn to travel; rather does it prefer
the green smoothness of the immense prairie. Here there are no police
regulations to annoy the motorist. No other law but your own fancy and
a certain thought for the savoury lunch that is awaiting you at the
next _estancia_. When you reach it you will discover that the monstrous
herds on the horizon were merely these gentle creatures, placid in
their happy ignorance of the fell designs that are the hidden causes
of man's kindness to them. Do we astonish them? Or are they wholly
indifferent? Their eyes are fixed on our panting machines as ours are
on the grazing beasts, and not a spark is struck by the meeting of the
two intelligences, the one so calmly definite and the other too soon
checked in its effort to understand. Obedient to the _rebenque_ (whip)
of the peon, the herd, which in motion looks so threatening, allows
itself to be stopped or led by the cries and rapid movements of the
horsemen going at a hand-gallop. The sight of any object that waves in
the wind (whether coat or _poncho_) is equally effectual.
If one expects the cows, which are penned for milking (three quarts a
day as an average), the only apparent relations between man and beast
consist in the easy use of this instrument of terror. Nothing is done
for the flock except to provide the mill which automatically feeds the
water-troughs, and to see to the safe arrival of the bulls intended to
improve the breed, and to select those from the herd destined for the
freezing machines; for all their other needs Providence is expected to
provide--quite a different _régime_ from that prevailing in our French
stock-farms. Of shelter against wind or sun there is none. The grass is
there when the drought has not burnt it up, also an ugly thistle which
no one troubles to pull up and which sometimes overruns the pasture.
Of Nature's scourges, the drought is the most to be feared, for it
falls with fearful suddenness on great stretches of the _Campo_. In the
absence of rain, neither turf nor forage nor harvest can be looked for;
for the cattle, death is certain. Winter in any case is a hard season
for them. Their coats lose their gloss, their flanks fall in, and their
pointed bones witness to their sufferings, which the icy breath of
the _pampero_ does nothing to assuage. With the spring comes the hope
of rain. But if this hope is betrayed, nothing can save innumerable
herds from starvation and death. Forage is always stored for the more
precious of the stock, but to feed the herd is out of the question.
The Pampas then become one vast cemetery where hundreds of thousands of
dead cattle are lying in heaps beyond all possibility of burial. It is
the custom to leave the body of the beast that dies by the way to the
tender mercies of the wind and the sun, the rain and the earth, into
whose wide-open pores the remains are little by little absorbed. The
birds of prey and dogs are valuable assistants but wholly insufficient.
One of my friends told me that it was by no means uncommon for the
dogs to return to the farm from the _Campo_ bearing a horrible smell
about them. For my part, if I was often revolted by the spectacle of
putrefying carcasses lying about the Pampas and seen either on my walks
or from the railway-train--some even lying festering in pools close
to dwelling-houses--I cannot say that my olfactory nerves were ever
troubled. I occasionally spoke of the danger of poisonous fly-bites,
but I got only vague replies.
In my personal experience, whenever I met something disagreeable on
my walks about the Pampas, the carcass was invariably completely
mummified, the skin being so thoroughly tanned that the object might
have been carefully prepared for a museum of comparative anatomy. But
when death was recent, and the summer season had set in, with its
attendant flies, I should certainly avoid the neighbourhood.
It will surprise no one to hear that I took the liberty of calling the
attention of two or three statesmen to the dangers of this unfortunate
custom and the detestable impression it is bound to make on travellers.
The reply invariably was that the Argentine was suffering, and would,
no doubt, continue to suffer for some time to come, from a lack of
hands and that the thousands of animals which under normal conditions
perished in the Pampas could never find grave-diggers. When, therefore,
a dry season killed off as many as ten thousand sheep on a single
ranch, there was no alternative but to bow to the inevitable.
We see that cattle-rearing in the Argentine has its ups and downs.
At every turn Nature intervenes with its elements of success or
disaster. Man's _rôle_ is to furnish a minimum of labour, and by the
force of circumstances, he is compelled to reckon on quantity for
his modicum of success; but the fact does not prevent his successful
efforts to improve the quality. As I have already said, he will give
any prize to secure a fine strain. It is naturally from England that
he gets his stock for breeding, since the customers for his meat are
chiefly English. On all hands I was told that the results were most
satisfactory. As regards their breed of horses, the result is manifest.
But as for the cattle, I take the liberty of disagreeing with those
who declare that the Argentine can send to our slaughter-houses at La
Villette meat as fine as our own at half its price. If, however, I am
firmly convinced that our palate would not readily be satisfied with
the frozen meat that seems to please the English, I am quite aware that
there is a distinction to be drawn between the choice beasts, generally
magnificent, that make such a show at exhibitions and the common run of
the average flock, amongst which truth compels me to admit there are
some very indifferent animals. It will require a long time and a change
of system on the cattle-rearing farms for the Argentine ever to equal
the fine products of our French breeders. It cannot be otherwise as
long as the young animal, bred somewhat at haphazard and born on the
open camp between the corpses of some of its relations, is left to grow
up as best it can, exposed to every change of temperature. Everywhere
I came upon young calves abandoned by their mothers as soon as born,
and only sought out when the time for feeding came round; it cannot be
said that the stock would bear comparison with the average produce of a
Norman or Charolais byre. Not all the quality of its mother's milk will
suffice to make up for the ground lost by neglect.
As I have said, the troops of horses seem to have lost the least.
I speak less of their appearance than of their action, which often
seemed to me remarkable. You cannot imagine the pleasure it is to glide
swiftly across the Pampas in a motor-car with a troop of young horses
on either side of you, neighing and galloping to keep up with the
machine. But do not, pray, call them "wild horses."
Tradition to the contrary notwithstanding, I believe there are no
wild horses in the Argentine. There are horses, and there are horsemen
who treat them brutally under the pretext of breaking them in. This
is a survival of ancient times which not even the universality of the
horse in civilised countries can destroy. Any English squire will get
more out of a young horse by quiet skill and kindness than can ever be
obtained by the useless and cruel lasso, to which I shall return later.
I have shown you the Pampas alive with the swarms of their new
civilisation. We are far enough from the romantic descriptions so dear
to story-tellers. We all know now that the redskin of North America
bears no resemblance to the portraits painted of him by Chateaubriand
or Fenimore Cooper. The Pampas, in full process of evolution, are
getting more human and losing their distinctive features. They were
once as bare, to quote the joke of a poet, now a member of the Académie
Française, "as the speech of an academician"; man has undertaken to
raise up orchards, groves, and even forests. Once they were the refuge
of more or less innocent beasts. The son of Adam, by the mere fact of
his presence, treads out all life that cannot be made of use to himself.
I said that the _ombu_ was the only tree that flourished in the Pampas,
for the simple reason that the locusts devour every other vegetable
product, including clover, crops, and trees of all sorts. The damage
caused by these insects, which descend in clouds and destroy in a
moment the harvest, is only too well known by our Algerian colonists.
Wherever the cloud descends vegetation vanishes. In a few hours every
leaf is gone from the tree, and only the kernel, clean and dry, is left
on the branch as a mute witness of the irreparable disaster. I did
not see the locusts, but I was shown the result of their work, most
conscientiously carried out. Men who have put long months of toil into
their land see, with impotent rage, all the fruit of their toil swept
off in the twinkling of an eye. The Government lays out some millions
yearly to assuage in some sort the mischief done. But the only remedy
applied up to the present consists in making such a din on the approach
of the baneful host as to induce them to go on farther and land at a
neighbour's. As altruism, this course is not above reproach. Another
way is to dig ditches in which to bury them alive, but this is mere
child's play. If you inquire the origin of the scourge you will get
the sulky reply that the pest comes from Chaco, and that some men have
travelled thither to verify the statement, but the country proving
impenetrable, the project has for the moment been abandoned. I hasten
to place these insufficient data before the European public.
Alone victorious over the locusts by the repugnance it inspires, and
over man by its glorious uselessness, the _ombu_ here and there spreads
its triumphant arms near some ranch; occasionally, on the pasturage of
the _Campo_, it may be seen extending its shelter to some quadruped
that shuns the rays of the sun. Around his _estancia_ the farmer plants
his orchard and his ornamental thicket, which will flourish or not at
the will of the insects. After the passage of the destructive horde it
requires at least two years for the country to recover. The eucalyptus,
owing to its rapid growth, gives very good results, but the favourite
tree in the Pampas is the _paraiso_--the Tree of Paradise--which is
admirable rather for its flower than its form, and withstands to some
extent the locust, through sheer force of resistance. Occasionally one
comes upon a small wood, in which the _ornevo_--the cardinal--sings and
the dove coos.
For the _Campo_ has a whole population of running or flying creatures,
whose principal virtue is that of being satisfied with little in the
shape of a shelter. The gardens and parks of the _estancias_ provide a
natural asylum for a world of winged songsters, in whom man, softened
by isolation, has not yet inspired terror.
But the Pampas in their nudity are not without signs of life. There is
the guanaco, smaller than the llama, larger than the stork, which has
already retreated far from Buenos Ayres. The grey ostrich, formerly
abundant, has been decimated by the lasso of the _gaucho_, who, at
the risk of getting a kick that may rip him open, attacks the beast
that struggles wildly in the bonds of the cruel rope, drags out his
handsomest feathers, and then lets him go. The really "wild" ostrich
has disappeared from the Pampas. Numbers may be seen from the window of
the train, but they are all confined in fenced parks, and are really
in captivity.
I cannot be expected to give a list of all the creatures that swarm on
or under the soil of the _Campo_. There is nothing to be said about
the prairie-dog, which has been systematically destroyed on account of
the damage it does. I must mention the _tatou_, a small creature with
a pointed muzzle, something between a lizard and a tortoise, and with
the shell of the latter. It burrows into the ground, as certain of
our European species do. The _gaucho_ considers its flesh excellent,
declaring that it tastes like pork. Perhaps the surest way of getting
the taste of pork is to address oneself to the pig himself, here
popularly known as the "creole pig," a lovable little black beast that
plays with the children in tiny muddy pools in the neighbourhood of the
ranches.
Passing by the hare (imported from Europe), the small partridge,
and the martinette (_tinamou_), to which I shall return presently,
I may mention the plover (abundant) and the birds of carrion, which
settle all disputes for the possession of the ground according to the
dictates of a boundless appetite, and the small owl, so tame that it
rises every few yards with a cheerful cry to come down again a few
yards farther on, following all your movements with a questioning eye.
At the mouth of its burrow, or on the stake that marks the boundary of
the ranch, its pretty form is a feature in the landscape. Finally, I
must not forget the _ornevo_, to be found near the _estancias_ and in
the woods, a charming, tame little bird, that chatters all the time
like a good many people, and builds a mud nest in the branches, in the
shape of an oven divided into two apartments, whose tiny door opens
always to the north, whence comes the warmth. If you lose yourself in
the forest you need no compass but this. The _gauchos_ hold the bird
in pious respect. Legend has it that he never works on Sundays at his
nest. Here is one who wants no legislation for a _repos hebdomadaire_
any more than he does for the regulation of the liquor sale. Oh, the
superiority of our "inferior brethren"!
I heard a good deal about the great lakes in which thousands of
black-necked swans and rose-pink flamingoes may be seen at play. I
was never able to visit these fascinating birds. To make up for this
M. Onelli presented me with two handsome black-throated swans, which,
however, were not able to stand the climate of Normandy.
Having thus sketched the principal features, it remains to fill in the
picture of the ranch and _estancia_. I have shown you the primitive
cabin of the Robinson Crusoe of the _Campo_. I have drawn a picture of
the colonist and the _gaucho_; it is not necessary to go back to him
again. I have shown the diverse elements of his existence. The railway
has not changed anything in it except by abolishing the interminable
rides of earlier days and the tiresome monotony of convoying freight
waggons to the town markets. The railway, moreover, brings within reach
of the ranch the conveniences of modern furniture.
In the huts of the half-castes, near Tucuman, the only piece of
furniture I saw was a pair of trestles, on which was laid the mat which
served as seat, bed, or table--the kitchen being always outside. In
the Pampas, dwellings that look modest, and even less than modest,
generally boast an easy-chair, a chest of drawers, with a clock, a
sewing-machine, and gramophone, which, when fortune comes, is completed
by a piano. The gramophone is the theatre of the Pampas. It brings with
it orchestra, song, words, and the whole equipment of "art" suited to
the æsthetic sense of its hearers. Thus on all sides dreadful nasal
sounds twang out, to the great joy of the youth of the colony.
The morals of the _Campo_ are what the conditions of life there have
made them. Men who are crowded together in large cities are exposed
to many temptations. When too far removed from the restraint of
public opinion, the danger is no less great. In all circumstances a
witness acts as a curb. In the Pampas as it used to be, the witness,
nine times out of ten, became an accomplice. Between the menace of
a distant and vague police force and the ever-present fear of the
Indian, the _gaucho_ became a soldier of fortune, prepared for any
bold stroke. With his dagger in his belt, his gun on his shoulder,
and the lasso on his saddle-bow, he rode over the eternal prairie
in search of adventures, and ready at any moment for the drama that
might be awaiting him. To his other qualities must be added a
generous hospitality, that dispensed to all comers his more or less
well-gotten goods; he had in him the material for an admirable leader
in revolutionary times. I saw no revolutions, and I hope the Argentine
has finished with them for ever; but the periodic explosions that have
taken place there are not so ancient but that an echo of them reached
my ear. I shall leave out of the question, of course, all more remote
circumstances that might serve at hazard to put a body of adventurers
in motion. You were on the side of General X or General Z, according to
the hopes of the party; but, in reality, that had little to do with it.
When the signal was once given a military force had to be organised,
and the means adopted were admirably simple. Any weapon that could be
of use in battle was picked up, and a band would present themselves at
the door of an _estancia_.
"We are for General X. All the peons here must follow us. To arms! To
horse!"
And the order would be obeyed; otherwise, the _estancia_ and its herds
would suffer. With such a system of recruiting, troops were quickly
collected, and a few such visits would suffice to bring together a very
respectable force of men. My friend Biessy, the artist, with whom I had
the pleasure of making the journey, witnessed just such a scene one
day at an _estancia_ which he was visiting. He was chatting with the
overseer when the man, hearing a suspicious sound, flung himself down
and put his ear to the ground. A moment later he rose, looking anxious.
"There are horsemen galloping this way. What can have happened?" And
sure enough, a minute later, there appeared a band of men so oddly
equipped that at first they were taken for masqueraders. It was
carnival time. The leader, however, came forward and called on the
overseer to place all his peons at the service of the revolutionaries.
Biessy himself only escaped by claiming the rights of a French citizen.
And do not imagine that all this was a comedy. The dominant sentiment
in their camp was by no means a respect for human life. On both sides
these brave peons fought furiously, asking no questions about the
party in whose cause they happened to be enrolled. The overseer of a
neighbouring _estancia_, who was talking with M. Biessy when called to
parley with the revolutionaries, was shot dead a few hours later for
having offered resistance to them.
If men are thus unceremoniously enrolled--I use the present tense
because one never knows what may happen--it may be imagined the horses
are borrowed still more freely. A curious thing is that when the war
is over, and these creatures are again at liberty, they find their way
back quite easily to their own pastures.
The overseer of one _estancia_ told me that the last revolution had
cost him 600 horses, of which 400, that had been taken to a distance
of from 200 to 300 kilometres, returned of their own accord. How they
contrive to steer their course over the Pampas, with their inextricable
tangle of wire fencing, I do not undertake to explain. When I inquired
of the overseer whether it were not possible to steal one of his horses
without being discovered, he replied, "Oh, it is like picking an apple
in Normandy! It often happens that a traveller on a tired horse lassoes
another to continue his journey. But on reaching his destination he
sets the animal at liberty, and he invariably makes his way back to the
herd."
I have already spoken of the time when the _gaucho_ would fell an ox
to obtain a steak for lunch. In some of the more remote districts it
is possible that the custom still subsists. But it is none the less
true that a growing civilisation and the railway, which is its most
effectual and rapid instrument, are changing the _gaucho_, together
with his surroundings and his sphere of action. The _gaucho_ on foot is
very like any other man. His flowing necktie of brilliant colour, once
the party signal, has been toned down. His _poncho_, admirably adapted
to the climatic conditions of camp life in the _Campo_, is now used by
the townsmen, who throw it over their arm or shoulder according to the
variations in the temperature. The sombrero, like the slashed breeches
or high boots, is no longer distinctive. There remains only the heavy
stirrup of romantic design, more or less artistically ornamented,
but now often replaced by a simple ring of rope or iron. The days of
roystering glamour are passed. The heavy roller of civilisation levels
all the elements of modern existence to make way for the utilitarian
but inæsthetic triumph of uniformity. Yet a little longer and the life
of the _Campo_ will be nothing but a memory, for with his picturesque
dress the type itself is disappearing.
The modern _gaucho_ has preserved from his ancestors the slowness
in speech, the reserved manner, and scrutinising eye of the man who
lives on the defensive. But to-day he is thoroughly civilised, and can
stroll down Florida Street, in Buenos Ayres, without attracting any
attention. It is in vain that the theatre seeks to reproduce the life
of the _Campo_, as I saw it attempted at the Apollo. What can it show
us beyond the eternal comedy of love, or the absurdities of the wife
of the _gaucho_ who has too suddenly acquired a fortune? Both subjects
belong to all times and all countries, in the same way as every dance
and every song are common to any assembly of young humanity. Long
before the gramophone was invented the guitar was the joy of Spanish
ears to the farthest confines of the Pampas. Between two outbreaks of
civil war, when men were rushing madly to meet death, joyous songs and
plaintive refrains alternated beneath the branches of the _ombu_,
where the youth of the district met, and the sudden dramas of the
ranch made them the more eager to drink deep of the pleasure they knew
to be fleeting. They danced the _Pericou_ and the _Tango_, as they
still do to-day; but the audacious gestures in which amorous Spain
gave expression to the ardour of its feelings have now passed into the
domain of history. The "Creole balls," where may be seen graceful young
girls in soft white draperies, dancing in a chain that resembles our
_Pastourelle_, have been reproduced on postcards and are familiar to
all. There are, there will ever be in the Pampas--at least, I fondly
hope so--graceful young girls dressed in white and destined to rouse
the love instinct which never seems to sleep in an Italian or Spanish
breast. But the trouble we take to reconstruct on the stage, for the
edification of travellers from Europe, the real _Tango_, in all the
antique effrontery of its ingeniousness, proves that the heroic age,
made up of the _naïf_ and the barbarous, is fast losing its last
vestiges of character in the wilderness of civilised monotony. The
_Tango_ is disappearing rapidly. On the other hand, at Rio de Janeiro,
in the flower of my seventieth year, I actually figured in the official
quadrille of the President of the Republic, to the shame of French
choregraphy. Alas! alas!