The Purple Land
Page 9
CHAPTER IX
Early next morning Anselmo took his departure, but I was up in timeto say good-bye to the worthy spinner of interminable yarns leading tonothing. I was, in fact, engaged in performing my morning ablutions ina large wooden bucket under the willows when he placed himself in thesaddle; then, after carefully arranging the drapery of his picturesquegarments, he trotted gently away, the picture of a man with a tranquilstomach and at peace with the whole world, even neighbour Gumesindaincluded.
I had spent a somewhat restless night, strange to say, for my hospitablehostess had provided me with a deliciously soft bed, a very unusualluxury in the Banda Oriental, and when I plunged into it there wereno hungry bedfellows waiting my advent within its mysterious folds. Ithought about the pastoral simplicity of the lives and character of thegood people slumbering near me; and that inconsequent story of Anselmo'sabout Manuel and Pascuala caused me to laugh several times. Finally mythoughts, which had been roaming around in a wild, uncertain manner,like rooks "blown about the windy skies," settled quietly down to theconsideration of that beautiful anomaly, that mystery of mysteries, thewhite-faced Margarita. For how, in the name of heredity, had she gotthere? Whence that pearly skin and lithesome form; the proud, sweetmouth, the nose that Phidias might have taken for a model; the clear,spiritual, sapphire eyes, and the wealth of silky hair, that if unboundwould cover her as with a garment of surpassing beauty? With such aproblem vexing my curious brain, what sleep could a philosopher get?
When Batata saw me making preparations for departure, he warmly pressedme to stay to breakfast. I consented at once, for, after all, themore leisurely one does a thing the sooner will it beaccomplished--especially in the Banda Oriental. One breakfasts hereat noon, so that I had plenty of time to see, and renew my pleasure inseeing, pretty Margarita.
In the course of the morning we had a visitor; a traveller who arrivedon a tired horse, and who slightly knew my host Batata, having, I wastold, called at the house on former occasions. Marcos Marco was hisname; a tall, sallow-faced individual about fifty years old, slightlygrey, very dirty, and wearing threadbare gaucho garments. He hada slouching gait and manner, and a patient, waiting, hungry animalexpression of face. Very, very keen were his eyes, and I detected himseveral times watching me narrowly.
Leaving this Oriental tramp in conversation with Batata, who withmisplaced kindness had offered to provide him with a fresh horse, I wentout for a walk before breakfast. During my walk, which was along a tinystream at the foot of the hill on which the house stood, I found avery lovely bell-shaped flower of a delicate rose-colour. I plucked itcarefully and took it back with me, thinking it just possible that Imight give it to Margarita should she happen to be in the way. On myreturn to the house I found the traveller sitting by himself under thecorridor, engaged in mending some portion of his dilapidated horse-gear,and sat down to have a chat with him. A clever bee will always be ableto extract honey enough to reward him from any flower, and so I did nothesitate tackling this outwardly very unpromising subject.
"And so you are an Englishman," he remarked, after we had had someconversation; and I, of course, replied in the affirmative.
"What a strange thing!" he said. "And you are fond of gathering prettyflowers?" he continued, with a glance at my treasure.
"All flowers are pretty," I replied.
"But surely, senor, some are prettier than others. Perhaps you haveobserved a particularly pretty one growing in these parts--the whitemargarita?"
Margarita is the Oriental vernacular for verbena; the fragrant whitevariety is quite common in the country; so that I was justified inignoring the fellow's rather impudent meaning. Assuming as wooden anexpression as I could, I replied, "Yes, I have often observed the floweryou speak of; it is fragrant, and to my mind surpasses in beauty thescarlet and purple varieties. But you must know, my friend, that I ama botanist--that is, a student of plants--and they are all equallyinteresting to me."
This astonished him; and, pleased with the interest he appeared to takein the subject, I explained, in simple language, the principles on whicha classification of plants is founded, telling him about that _linguafranca_ by means of which all the botanists in the world of all nationsare able to converse together about plants. From this somewhat drysubject I launched into the more fascinating one of the physiologyof plants. "Now, look at this," I continued, and with my penknife Icarefully dissected the flower in my hand, for it was evident that Icould not now give it to Margarita without exposing myself to remarks.I then proceeded to explain to him the beautiful complex structure bymeans of which this campanula fertilises itself.
He listened in wonder, exhausting all the Spanish and Orientalequivalents of such expressions as "Dear me!" "How extraordinary!""Lawks a mussy!" "You don't say so!" I finished my lecture, satisfiedthat my superior intellect had baffled the rude creature; then,tossingaway the fragments of the flower I had sacrificed, I restored thepenknife to my pocket.
"These are matters we do not often hear about in the Banda Oriental,"he said. "But the English know everything--even the secrets of a flower.They are also able to do most things. Did you ever, sir botanist, takepart in acting a comedy?"
After all, I had wasted my flower and scientific knowledge on the animalfor nothing! "Yes, I have!" I replied rather angrily; then, suddenlyremembering Eyebrows' teaching, I added, "and in tragedy also."
"Is that so?" he exclaimed. "How amused the spectators must have been!Well, we can all have our fill of fighting presently, for I see the_White Flower_ coming this way to tell us that breakfast is ready.Batata's roast beef will give something for our knives to do; I onlywish we had one of his own floury namesakes to eat with it."
I swallowed my resentment, and when Margarita came to us, looked upinto her matchless face with a smile, then rose to follow her into thekitchen.