ROSARIO AND TUCUMAN
The traveller with only a few weeks at his disposal in this immense
country of overflowing activity cannot pretend to make a very profound
and detailed study of it. I am here setting down only those things that
I saw, but, at the same time, I endeavour to show their significance,
and to give some idea of their social import, while leaving my readers
to judge for themselves. It is, of course, the subjective method, and
is full of pitfalls, but it is, also, useful inasmuch as it sheds much
light on the subject if used with discrimination. My friend Jules
Huret, who has been inspired to reveal to the criminally incurious
French public certain countries which they persistently ignore, takes
all the time he needs to collect a voluminous amount of material, which
he then proceeds to place before his readers in accordance with the
strictest canons of the objective method. We know how successful he
was with North America and Germany. He has marshalled before us so
orderly a procession of men and things, that to my mind he has defeated
his object, and left us no inducement to undertake the journey for
ourselves and to obtain first-hand impressions by the direct contact
which is worth all the books in the world. Huret is now publishing
in the _Figaro_ the result of a year's close study of the Argentine.
He has taught and will still teach me much, no doubt, and I strongly
recommend every one to read his admirable work. But in their way
I still venture to claim for my unpretentious notes the virtue of
creating in my readers a desire for further information, for the simple
reason that they will assuredly want to test my views in the light of
their own experience. Humanity, nowadays, is moving at high speed, and
the chief interest that most men attach to each day's events is the
opportunities they may afford for to-morrow's energy. But the real
value of the "event of the moment," to which the Press attributes more
and more importance, lies in the revelation it may bring of those
general laws that we must all understand. Hence the living appeal made
by cursory reflections, irrespective of what may be the verdict of the
future thereupon, since our "truths" of to-day can never be more than
successive eliminations of errors.
These generalities are intended to explain the spirit in which I
prepared to leave Buenos Ayres, and drew up an itinerary that was
necessarily curtailed by the limited time that remained to me. I had
been told: "At Cordoba you will find a city of monks; Mendoza affords
a charming picture of fine watercourses lined with poplars, vines
in profusion, and a remarkable equipment for the wine industry; at
Tucuman, there are fields of sugar-cane with dependent refineries and,
also, the beginnings of an extensive forest." With irrigation-works,
poplars, vines, monks even, I was already familiar: so without
hesitation I headed for Tucuman, with a brief halt at Rosario, the
second city of the Argentine Republic.
In its external aspect Rosario de Santa Fé differs but little from
Buenos Ayres. There is the same florid architecture, the same desire
to do things on a large scale, the same busy spirit, though naturally
on a smaller scale. Rosario exists by reason of its port, which
commands the Parana. The prodigious extension of the town is due to the
building of numerous railway lines, which have produced an enormous
development of agriculture in the provinces of Santa Fé, Cordoba, and
Santiago del Estero. The cereals grown in these provinces, representing
one half the total exported by the Argentine, are carried by these
railways, whilst the Parana furnishes a waterway several thousands of
kilometres in length for coasting vessels on the upper river and from
Paraguay as far as the mouth of the Rio. A volume might be written of
its docks, built by a French firm under the management of M. Flandrin,
a compatriot and native of my own Vendean village. There is a peculiar
charm about meetings of the sort. A journey of many days has brought
you to the unknown land, where, with the help of some imagination, any
strange event is possible. After sundry adventures, the curtain rises,
and the first face that meets your eye, the first voice you hear,
belong to your native place. Names, scenes, and memories rush in upon
the mind with a train of unexpected impressions and emotions.
To think I had come all this way to be confronted with that special
spot of earth to which through all travels and all life's changes we
remain so firmly bound! Far away in the distant Brazilian mountains, I
met a charming Vendean woman, whose tongue had kept that accent of the
_langue d'oil_ which belonged to Rabelais. When Sancho, from the height
of his waggon, beheld the earth no larger than a grain of millet, his
sense of proportion was truer than ours. Only, instead of being so many
hazel-nuts upon the millet, as Sancho thought, men are, in reality,
merely imperceptible particles in a restricted space, bound to collide
at the least movement.
My philosophy did not prevent my feeling great pleasure at meeting M.
Flandrin, who is as unpretentious as he is kind, and who is a credit
to his native land. We made a tour of inspection of the docks, and the
inevitable trip by boat round the harbour. All I can say of the port
thus hastily seen and already described in many technical publications
is that, in spite of tremendous natural difficulties, it has been
satisfactorily accomplished, thanks to the tenacity of the engineers
and the admirable method adopted.[29] Moored alongside the quays were a
number of English and German cargo-boats (amongst which, I saw but one
French, alas!) taking in grain at the rate of 800 tons per hour. The
docks were begun in 1902. They were designed to cope with an average
tonnage of 2,500,000, and it was at that time believed impossible to
attain that figure before some thirty years at least. By 1909, however,
it had been reached and passed, and a contract for their enlargement
was immediately given to a French firm. Under these conditions, it is
easy to understand how a town numbering 23,000 inhabitants in 1869
should, in 1910, contain nearly 200,000. This, also, explains a rivalry
that exists between the second city of the Republic and Santa Fé, the
historic capital of the province. Rosario complains, with some show
of reason, that the enormous fiscal contribution paid by her to the
national exchequer does not procure for her the advantages to which
her population entitles her. The deplorable deficiency of schools in
Rosario is more especially a subject of loud recrimination. I cannot
but think that this claim will be before long admitted. As for the
æsthetic future of the city, I can say nothing. When I saw it, it was
disfigured in every direction by extensive road-making operations,
thanks to which there will, in all probability, be open spaces enough,
one day, to arouse the admiration of visitors. An excellent and modern
hotel seems a good augury for the future. As usual, the welcome I
received far exceeded anything I could have expected. But the municipal
improvements scheme had occasioned a fever of speculation in land
values, and the one subject of conversation was the fabulous fortunes
to be realised in this way--so much so, indeed, that I was strongly
tempted to spend a few _sous_ on a plot of land which by now or a
little later perhaps might be worth a hundred millions.
If Rosario has made a fortune out of the incredible increase of
its corn harvests, it must not be supposed that cattle-rearing is
neglected in the province of Santa Fé. By a fortunate coincidence, I
arrived on the day of the opening of the great annual Cattle Show.
The President of the Agricultural Society happens to be one of the
most distinguished politicians, not only of the province but of the
Republic, and, by his kindness, I was able to glean much information
on general topics, and, at the same time, inspect some samples of
agricultural produce that would not have been out of place in the
first of our European shows. The surrounding provinces, including
that of Buenos Ayres, had sent up some of their finest specimens of
horses and horned cattle. As usual, there was a superabundance of
British breeds to be seen; but our Norman horses were well represented,
too. To tell the truth, the dual capacity of my guide, who was no
less eminent as statesman than as cattle-breeder, caused politics to
somewhat overshadow agriculture in our talk, and I found out that Señor
Lisenadro de la Torre was the leader of a party that is aiming at the
overthrow of the Cabinet now in power, whose majority, he informed
me, was based on those very administrative abuses that I had already
noted. The tendency is to use and even abuse authority to coerce the
electors, who are unorganised for the defence of the public interests
against private ambitions,[30] "an evil that spreads terror," as may
truly be said, and one of which Rosario does not hold a monopoly. On
this theme the clear-headed politician, with his concise manner of
speech and decided tones, gave me a rapid sketch of the situation by a
brief examination of the enemy's country. And I rejoiced to see that
abuses common, more or less, in all old countries, and whose remedy
lies only in private endeavour, have in this new community of the
Argentine provoked the same keen intelligence and determination as
others which I noted. Under whatever form of government, the worth of
a country lies in its men--that is, in its sum total of disinterested
activity. A race that can show the development of intelligence and
character that have so struck me in the course of this journey can
afford to await with tranquil courage the solutions of the future.
As it is my desire to leave no dark corners unexplored, I must make a
reference to the strange hints of revolution that I heard at Rosario
and, later, at Tucuman. "A certain military leader would be displeased
if full satisfaction were not given him. There was every reason to fear
a movement. Dispatches from the Government recommended a careful guard
over rifle magazines," etc. I was, however, pretty soon convinced that
all these rumours were but the expiring echo of a bygone condition with
very little foundation in actual fact.
Here in Rosario we are not far removed from the life of Buenos Ayres.
To-day the distance from one city to the other (300 kilometres) can be
covered in five hours. The last part of the journey, which terminates
at Tucuman (1100 kilometres from the capital), gives us the impression
of a complete change of country. At daybreak, in full sunshine, the
first discovery I made was that we were travelling through a cloud
of dust that entirely concealed the landscape. With a kindness for
which I can never be sufficiently grateful the President of the
Republic, Señor Figueroa Alcorta, had lent me his own coach for the
journey. I slept in an excellent bed, with windows carefully closed
and blinds drawn. But the Argentine dust knows no obstacles. For this
reason the prophecy in the Book that we shall all return to dust
seems to me already fulfilled. My beautiful bedroom, my luxurious
dressing-room, with its welcome douche, my clothes, my luggage, and
my person, all were wrapped in a thick veil of fine red dust, ugly in
appearance and dangerous to respiration. Yes, while I was sleeping
in all confidence, the imperious dust had taken possession of train,
passengers, and all that was visible to their dust-filled eyes. The
stations: merely a stack of red dust; man: a vermilion-coloured walking
pillar; the horseman, or vehicle: a whirlwind of dust. Horror! to my
wrath a beautiful white shirt was discovered blushing rosy as a young
girl surprised. I washed with red soap and dried with red towels my
carmine-coloured face. Here is the explanation of the complexion of the
Indian!
Tucuman is in sight--Tucuman, the land of Cacombo, the faithful servant
of Candide. None can have forgotten that the Governor of Buenos Ayres,
moved by the beauty of the lovely Cunégonde, was on the point of
despatching Candide when he was saved by Cacombo. But what follows
marks the difference between Candide's times and our own, for Candide
and Cacombo in their flight paused in "a beautiful meadow traversed by
streams of water," where befell the double adventure of the monkeys
and the mumps, whereas for us meadow, rivulets, monkeys, and mumps all
resolve themselves into universal dust. I strain my eyes to discern
some features of the country: a dismantled forest is dying in the dust;
some lean cattle are grazing, on clay apparently; enormous cactuses,
like trees; flocks of small white birds with pink beaks, known as
"widows" (_viudas_); and, from time to time, the beauty of a flight
of cackling parrots, making in the sunlight flashes of emerald in the
dusty air.
The _Marseillaise_! the Tricolor! the Governor, the French
colony!--this is Tucuman's reception of me. Handshakes, salutes,
welcoming words with affectionate references to the distant
fatherland. An admirable official motor-car, but execrable roads where
the best of _pneus_ finds so many obstacles to jump that it becomes
quite dizzy, as is shown by its continued stagger.
The first impression given by Tucuman after the jolting and shaking
of the road is that of a colonial land. Everywhere the "half-house,"
hastily put up, but rendered charming by its _patio_, and comfortable
by the disposition of its rooms to take advantage of the shade. The
Indian half-caste is king in Tucuman, "the Garden of the Republic,"
whose women, they say, are more beautiful than flowers. Everywhere, in
fact, one sees bronzed faces in which two impassive black eyes shine
with the brilliance of the diamond. A long, lingering glance which
says, I know not what, but something that is totally un-European.
Simplicity, dignity, with few words, slow gestures, an imposing harmony
of bearing. I know not whether one day the dominant race will succeed
in modifying or effacing the native traits. At present, nothing seems
to touch the indelible imprint of American blood. A few of the women
are very handsome. The French colony in Tucuman is larger than I
thought. I shall see it when I return from Santa Ana, where I am going
to visit M. Hilleret's manor. As we pass, I notice broad avenues well
laid out: the Place de l'Indépendance, on which there stands the
statue of General Belgrano, in remembrance of the battle of Tucuman
(1812), and the new palace of the Governor, which is impressive.
From sixty to eighty thousand inhabitants. The town very commercial.
The country broken, with high mountains. Fertile plain suitable for
growing sugar-cane, tobacco, oranges, and the most beautiful flowers.
Large and noble forests that are being ruthlessly devastated to supply
fuel for factory furnaces. Uninterrupted cane-raising all the way to
Santa Ana, where M. Hilleret, who came to the Argentine as a labourer
on the railway, set up a sugar factory,[31] thanks to which--and to
Protection--he was able, at his death, to leave a fortune of a hundred
millions. We were magnificently received in a hospitable mansion that
betrayed the taste of a Parisian architect.[32] A park and garden
bearing traces of a recent attack from locusts. Specially beautiful
were the tufts of bamboo, and the false cotton plants with their big
balls of white down, amid which a tiny grey dove cooed softly like a
wailing child.
What can I say of the factory that has not already been said? It
is admirably managed. The cane is automatically flung on a slope
down which it drops beneath heavy rollers. Two thousand workmen are
employed, half-castes for the most part--a few are pure Indians,--and
a small number of French foremen. There is a picturesque scene in
the town of a morning, when troops of women, old and young, followed
by a procession of children, come to market and fill their wooden or
earthenware bowls with provisions, balancing them on their heads; their
parti-coloured rags, gaily patched, add a piquant touch to the faces,
whose firm lines seem set in bronze, all vitality and expression being
concentrated in the dark fire of their eyes. The workmen's quarters
are indescribable slums. On both sides of a wide avenue there are rows
of tiny low houses from which the most rudimentary notions of hygiene
or of comfort are, apparently, carefully banished--dens rather than
dwellings, to speak accurately, so destitute are they of furniture.
Women and old men sit immovable in the dust, the _bombilla_ between
their lips, in an ecstasy of _maté_. Children moving about on all
fours are scarcely distinguishable from the little pigs which are
grubbing in the rubbish-heaps. Ineffable smells issue from boiling
cauldrons and stewpans, whilst in the darkness of the doorway the
nobly draped figure of the guardian of the hearth stands, speechless
and motionless, surveying the scene. According to European ideas,
these folk are wretched indeed. Yet the climate renders existence easy
and they appear to find quiet pleasure in it. We may be permitted to
imagine for them a happier future and higher stage of civilisation,
which they will achieve when they draw a larger share of remuneration
from the monument of labour their hands have helped to put up. Laws
for the protection of labour are unknown in the Argentine, which is
explained by the backwardness of industry there. Although life beneath
this beautiful sky must undoubtedly offer many conveniences, and
although the mill-owners whom I met seemed to me both humanely and
generously inclined, factories such as those I visited can scarcely
exist much longer without the labour question being brought before
the legislators. Members of Parliament with whom I discussed the
point appeared favourably disposed, though inclined to defer remedies
indefinitely.
The fields of sugar-cane can be visited without fatigue by train. We
passed teams of six or nine mules--up to their knees in dust--on their
way to the factory with loads of cane grown at a distance from the
railway. The drivers, sitting postilion-wise on their leaders, raised
their whips with threatening cries that made the lash unnecessary.
But who could have imagined that it took so much dust to manufacture
sugar! Out in the fields the peons, armed with the long knife that is
always stuck in the back of their belts, cut the cane and with two
dexterous turns of the blade divide it into lengths for the presses,
leaving the foliage and part of the stalk for the cattle. At the
wayside station there were five or six dilapidated cabins, in which
the numerous progeny of the cane-cutters seemed to be thriving. In
appearance they formed a temporary encampment, nothing more. The huts
are made out of odds and ends picked up at haphazard, and follow a
simple principle of architecture which requires a space of some twenty
or thirty centimetres between the floor and the palisade--for it can
scarcely be called a wall--to insure a circulation of air. Thus, one
could, at a pinch, sleep in the place without arousing the smallest
envy in the four-footed beasts that are happily slumbering under the
starry heavens. Children, pigs, and donkeys live together in friendly
promiscuity. Women, bearing in their arms their latest-born, appear on
their threshold dumbfounded, apparently, at the sight of strangers.
In my own language, I ask one of them for permission to glance at the
interior of her hut. She stands aside, and I look in, not venturing
more than a single step. The only attempt at furniture is planks
laid across trestles, with rags of clothing (incredibly dirty) doing
duty for mattress or blanket. A movable stove adapted to open-air
cooking, and four stakes in the earth, on which are laid bits of
anything that comes handy, with tree trunks for seats--this constitutes
a rough-and-ready dining-room. Scattered about on the ground are
different utensils for the use of man and beast. Then a commotion. A
naked baby, who is sucking a sugar-cane, suddenly sees its treasure
carried off by a lively little black pig. A fight and loud screams.
Biped and quadruped come to blows, and the effect of excitement on
the dormant functions of infant life is such that it is the child
who succeeds in worsting the pig. The latter noisily protests. Then,
there being no such thing as Justice on earth, it is the child who is
carried off and set on the heap of rags whose odorous dampness will at
nightfall soothe its sleep.
M. Edmond Hilleret, the eldest son of the founder of the factory
of Santa Ana, had invited us to a tapir-hunt. To camp out in the
forest for three days did not in the least daunt us, but a member
of the Society for the Protection of Animals having urged upon me
the shamefulness of letting dogs loose upon so inoffensive a beast,
and Providence, with the same intention probably, having smitten our
hunter-in-chief with appendicitis, followed by an operation, our
shooting was directed humbly against the parrots. I speak for my
companions; as for my own part, I announced the most pacific intentions
towards the birds of the forest.
Peons on horseback and light carts start off in an ocean of dust.
The only way is to get in front of the procession and leave to your
friends the duty of swallowing your dust. As a lack of altruism on the
part of my comrades had inflicted this experience on me as we went, I
took care to return the compliment on the way back. The forest, which
belongs to the factory, is generally denominated "virgin" for the sake
of effect. But my regard for truth compels me to state that it was not
even _demi-vierge_, for there are herds grazing in the clearings, peons
keeping watch, and woodcutters and colonists unceasingly busy dragging
away its veils with a brutality that is never slaked. Such as it is,
however, with its inextricable wildnesses, through which only the axe
can clear a way, with its tall, flowering groves, its ancient trees
covered with a luxuriant parasite growth that flings downwards to earth
and upwards to heaven its showers of lovely colour, it is marvellously
beautiful. The wonder of it is this haze of parasites, so varied in
species, in colour, and in growth, with their invincible determination
to live at all costs, which wrap the giant tree from root to highest
twig in a monstrous profusion of new forms of life. The dead branch
on which we trample has preserved, even in decomposition, the frail
yet tenacious creeper whose blossoms had crowned it high aloft. The
tree is no longer a tree: it is a Laocoön twisted in a fury of rage
beneath the onslaught of an ocean of lives whose torrents recognise
no barriers. Whichever way one looks, hairy monsters are agonising
in despairing contortions, victims of a drama of dumb violence; and
the spectacle conveys a keen realisation of the eternal struggle for
life that is going on all around us, from the summits of these verdant
heights to the subterranean depths whence issues this living force.
And, as episodes in the universal tragedy, the brilliant colouring
of lovely birds lights up the gloomy enchantment of the silent tumult
of anguished lives whose effort after mastery can only end in death.
Having not yet learnt to know man's baseness, the royal magpies of
Paraguay, with their startling plumage, pause on the branches close
beside our path to gaze on us in, perhaps, the same astonishment as we
on them. But already in the great clearing shots resound, betokening
the salute of the first arrivals to the denizens of the forest. Now, my
parrot friends, make for the fields as fast as you can, out of reach of
the horde of enemies!
But it is precisely these clearings that the parrot loves, for here
he, like us, can satisfy his appetite. When his tribe descends upon an
orchard, good-bye to the fruit harvest. We were in a vast clearing,
inhabited by a small colony of farmers, whose huts are built along a
rivulet on the slope of a meadow. Here are fields of maize covered
with dead stalks. The cattle wander freely where they will. In an
orchard stands an orange-tree, the tallest I have seen, full of golden
balls. Hard by a well, on a wooden post, there sits a green parrot,
with red poll, his plumage ruffled, his eye full of contempt for the
human race. Attracted by the noise, two women come out from a dark hut.
Gossips probably, though what they can find to talk about in such a
spot it would be hard to guess. One of them attracts attention by the
beauty of her form, the nobility of her pose, and the warm, coppery
tint of her face. She is a Creole equally removed from the two races.
Her thick hair, intensely black, falls in a plait upon her shoulders.
Instinctively she has twisted pink ribbon--found, probably, in a box
of biscuits--in her hair, where it makes a line of light in the night
of her tresses. Erect in the simplicity of the semi-savage, without a
word, without the least acknowledgment of our presence, and without
a trace of embarrassment or affectation, she stands looking at us,
desiring, apparently, no better occupation. Her features are regular
and delicate, according to the canons of European æsthetics. Two or
three pock-marks make a startling patch. All the soul of the native
race is visible in the dark light of her eyes, heavy with feelings that
belong to an epoch too primitive to be comprehended, even dimly, by
our aged and vulgar civilisation. That surprising pink ribbon and the
shyness--like remorse for some unknown crime--expressed through the
ingenuous and compelling eyes, are probably the secret of her charm.
Whatever it springs from, the effect is the same. Whether girl or woman
it would be hard to tell. This uncertainty often gives its brilliance
to feminine power.
I tear myself from contemplation of the lady and wander into the forest
in the wake of the chattering birds, carrying with me, by way of
viaticum, an orange whose freshness and perfume have left me a souvenir
no less delicious than that of the charm of the young beauty. I was
slowly returning to the glaring sunshine of the clearing, absorbed in
admiration of a flight of bright-plumaged parrots, when a vexatious
gunshot brought me back to the realities of our sinful race. One of
our party had concealed himself among the brushwood at the foot of
the tree in which the birds were holding their parliament. The danger
of the institution was instantly apparent, for five birds fell to
the murderous lead. I still hold with parliaments, however, and with
parrots which debate in the branches. I know not what they find to
talk about, but, judged by the criterion of noise adopted at home, it
must be of great importance. When we teach them to speak our language,
I am aware they utter the words but attach no meaning to them. I have
known humans to do the same without the birds' excuse. Moreover, a very
remarkable trait in the parrot's character is that he is altruistic
in the last degree, and will face any danger to assist a friend in
distress by voice and gesture. When one is wounded, the rest, who have
at first flown off in alarm, return with loud cries to the scene,
abusing the sportsman and calling on deaf gods for justice. If further
volleys make fresh victims, the flock will not give up its work of
pity, thus exposing themselves to further slaughter.
All this is to explain how it was that, on my return to the place I
started from, I saw on the ground a beautiful green parrot with a
crimson head, lying now in the stillness of death, while two or three
of his friends limped and fluttered round him, hurling maledictions at
the human race. I fear they all figured later on the supper-table of
the colony. The young woman with the pink ribbon, for whom the scene
probably offered nothing new, stood and gazed at us as if we were the
curiosity of the moment. One of the wounded birds had climbed a stump
beside her, and, without any preliminaries, had nestled up against her
like a child. The woman took no notice. Her questioning eyes seemed
to be seeking forms in which to clothe her thoughts, but her tongue
could give no assistance. I, too, would have liked to speak to her, to
learn something of her story, of her notions about the world, and the
ideas that influenced her actions. But I knew of no signs in which to
clothe such questions, and not a word of either Spanish or _Guarani_
(the name of a small tribe now applied to the relics of their language,
which is that of the natives). With a rhythmic walk she returned to her
hut, emerging once more to join our circle, with a tiny grey parrot
perched on her shoulder, by way, perhaps, of a conversational opening.
The bird, fluttering its wings, stepped down as far as her fingers,
which were slim and coloured as though with henna, and I ventured to
tease him. The long, red hand came slowly forward, accompanying the
movements of the bird, without a shadow of a smile on her impassive
face; and so, the time for our departure having come, we parted for
ever with all our questions unasked.
On the following day we drove to the _Salto_, another clearing in the
forest, enlivened by a waterfall. We fired at some hawks that we took
for eagles. Large blue birds flew mocking above our heads, and our
hunters ended by shooting at imaginary fish. They thought a walk in the
forest absurd, so whilst I and two comrades ventured a little way, they
chose the most natural occupation in the world for men who have come
from the ends of the earth to see an almost virgin forest, and made up
a game of poker. Oh, the joys of modern travelling, undreamed of by the
early explorers!
Meantime, I wandered straight before me through the woods, at the risk
of losing my way. Once I thought I was going to know the pleasures,
which are not unmixed, of being hopelessly lost. Already I saw myself
reduced to the necessity of hunting for an _ornero's_ nest, the opening
of which is always in the north side; but one of the party pointed out
a line of bluish-grey lichen on every tree-trunk, which indicated
clearly, without the help of the birds, from which direction blows the
north--naturally the warm--wind. Finally, by way of putting a finishing
touch to my education, he assumed that I was thirsty, and leading me to
a creeper growing parasitically on a large branch at the height of a
man above the ground, he dexterously inserted his knife into the joint
of the leaves, and there burst forth a jet of water slightly aromatic
in taste, like the fine juice of some grass. The traveller's sherbet!
A few minutes later we came upon a peon mounted on his mule, who, more
surely than either bird or lichen, set us on the right path.
The first sugar factory founded by M. Hilleret was at Lulès. There we
found a fine forest, wilder still than that of Santa Ana, with gorgeous
great trees bearing bouquets of flowers, some white, some pale violet,
and some pink. Fine gardens, and a park where, under the management
of a French gardener, every fruit-tree of the subtropical zone may be
found, from the banana and coffee-plant to the mango and _chirimaya_,
beside a thousand other strangely named growths better calculated
to surprise the eyes than charm the palate. Of an evening there was
dancing in the garden. Though national in character, dancing here is
much what it is elsewhere, since there is but one way to move the arms
and legs. The most striking part of the picture was the attitude of
the dancers when resting. In our countries these assemblies of young
people would have been the excuse for jokes and laughter, often,
probably, carried to a riotous excess. Here the immovable gravity of
the native does not lend itself to merriment. Young men and young
women exchange, now and then, a few words uttered in a low voice with
the utmost composure. On the invitation of her partner, the young
girl rises in exactly the same way that she would move to perform
some household duty, and goes through the rites of the dance with its
rhythmic measures without the vestige of a smile or a ripple of gaiety
on her expressionless face. It is not, however, for lack of enjoyment,
for no opportunity is missed of dancing, and the balls are prolonged
indefinitely into the night. We must only see in this deportment a
conception of dignity and of conduct that is not our own.
On my return to Tucuman a great reception was given by the French
colony in my honour. I went to call--as, indeed, it behoved me--at the
House of Independence, more modest but no less glorious than that of
Philadelphia. It was here that the first national Congress was held,
and here that the Oath of Independence was taken (July 9, 1816). In
order to preserve the humble house, now an object of public veneration,
it has been built into a large edifice, which will preserve it from
decay in the future. There is no decoration--some commemorative tablets
only--but it is enough. When the heart responds readily to the call of
duty, an unobtrusive reminder is all that is necessary.
I was infinitely touched by the grandiose reception given me by
the French colony. In a fine theatre, which is their own property,
the Frenchmen of Tucuman extended the warmest of welcomes to their
fellow-countryman. I found a surprise in store for me. It was arranged
that I should lay the foundation-stone of the new French school of
Tucuman, and, if I am to believe the inscription on the silver trowel
that remains in my possession, given me for the purpose of spreading
the cement, the school will bear the name of him who was thus its first
mason. This honour, which is wholly unmerited, sprang, of course, from
the natural longing to attach themselves in any way to France. Not
a word was spoken that was not an invocation of our country, of its
fight against ignorance, source of all human woes. There was a numerous
and fashionable company present, whose large befeathered hats proved
that Tucuman is not so very far from Paris after all. The ceremony
was concluded by a pretty march-past of small boys and girls carrying
the Argentine and French flags, and singing the national hymn, the
_Marseillaise_. The little people put a world of spirit into their
song. One little girl, about two feet high and gaily beribboned, was
very determined to vanquish "tyranny." How congratulate her? I tried to
express the very sincere pleasure the scene had given me, and remarked
that these little Argentine tongues had a slightly Argentine accent in
the _Marseillaise_.
"That is not surprising," said their proud master. "They do not know a
word of French."
Then what about that charming baby's loudly expressed hatred of
tyranny? It is true the significance of the hymn lies rather in the
music than in its phraseology, now a century old. Children, begin by
learning French, and do not wait for the opening of the school whose
first stone I have just laid. All things shall be added unto you.
FOOTNOTES:
[29] To give an idea of the capacity of the port: there are 5
kilometres of quays and 81 kilometres of railroad to serve the docks.
The large elevator measures 3000 cubic metres. It can handle 50 tons
from the Parana and 500 tons from the railway per hour.
[30] Speaking of a recent election, a well-known leader in the province
of Buenos Ayres said: "I have been reproached with spending money. I
silenced my enemies by asking them what other means of action they had
left me." Making due allowance for exaggeration natural enough in the
circumstances, the words contain a hint that may be usefully retained.
[31] The sugar industry in the Argentine is but fifty years old. There
are 70,000 hectares now under cane, with 31 refineries, the majority of
which are in Tucuman. The total output is estimated at 130,000 tons.
[32] Was it not surprising to find in the hall of a Tucuman house casts
of some of the best busts of the Louvre and Comédie Française?