The Purple Land

by W. H. Hudson

  CHAPTER XXI

  After my terrible adventure I did not rest badly that night, albeit Islept on an empty stomach (the sardines counting as nothing), andunder the vast, void sky, powdered with innumerable stars. And when Iproceeded next day on my journey, _God's light_, as the pious Orientalscall the first wave of glory with which the rising sun floods the world,had never seemed so pleasant to my eyes, nor had earth ever lookedfresher or lovelier, with the grass and bushes everywhere hung withstarry lace, sparkling with countless dewy gems, which the _epeiras_had woven overnight. Life seemed very sweet to me on that morning, sosoftening my heart that when I remembered the murderous wretch who hadendangered it I almost regretted that he was now probably blind and deafto nature's sweet ministrations.

  Before noon I came to a large, thatched house, with clumps of shadytrees growing near it, also surrounded with brushwood fences and sheepand cattle enclosures.

  The blue smoke curling peacefully up from the chimney and the whitegleam of the walls through the shady trees--for this _rancho_ actuallyboasted a chimney and whitewashed walls--looked exceedingly inviting tomy tired eyes. How pleasant a good breakfast, with a long siesta in theshade after it, would be, thought I; but, alas! was I not pursued by theawful phantoms of political vengeance? Uncertain whether to call or not,my horse jogged straight on towards the house, for a horse always knowswhen his rider is in doubt and never fails at such times to give hisadvice. It was lucky for me that on this occasion I condescended to takeit. "I will, at all events, call for a drink of water and see what thepeople are like," I thought, and in a few minutes I was standing at thegate, apparently an object of great interest to half a dozen childrenranging from two to thirteen years old, all staring at me with wide-openeyes. They had dirty faces, the smallest one dirty legs also, for heor she wore nothing but a small shirt. The next in size had a shirtsupplemented with a trousers-like garment reaching to the knees; and soon, progressively, up to the biggest boy, who wore the cast-off parentaltoggery, and so, instead of having too little on, was, in a sense,overdressed. I asked this youngster for a can of water to quench mythirst and a stick of fire to light my cigar. He ran into the kitchen,or living-room, and by and by came out again without either water orfire. "_Papita_ wishes you to come in to drink _mate_," said he.

  Then I dismounted, and, with the careless air of a blameless,non-political person, strode into the spacious kitchen, where an immensecauldron of fat was boiling over a big fire on the hearth; while besideit, ladle in hand, sat a perspiring, greasy-looking woman of aboutthirty. She was engaged in skimming the fat and throwing the scum onthe fire, which made it blaze with a furious joy and loudly cry out in acrackling voice for more; and from head to feet she was literally bathedin grease--certainly the most greasy individual I had ever seen. It wasnot easy under the circumstances to tell the colour of her skin, but shehad fine large Juno eyes, and her mouth was unmistakably good-humoured,as she smiled when returning my salutation. Her husband sat on the clayfloor against the wall, his bare feet stretched straight out before him,while across his lap lay an immense surcingle, twenty inches broad atleast, of a pure white, untanned hide; and on it he was laboriouslyworking a design representing an ostrich hunt, with threads of blackskin. He was a short, broad-shouldered man with reddish-grey hair,stiff, bristly whiskers and moustache of the same hue, sharp blue eyes,and a nose decidedly upturned.

  He wore a red cotton handkerchief tied on his head, a blue check shirt,and a shawl wound round his body in place of the _chiripa_ usually wornby native peasants. He jerked out his _"Buen dia"_ to me in a short,quick, barking voice, and invited me to sit down.

  "Cold water is bad for the constitution at this hour," he said. "We willdrink _mate."_

  There was such a rough, burr-like sound in his speech that I at onceconcluded he was a foreigner, or hailed from some Oriental districtcorresponding to our Durham or Northumberland.

  "Thank you," I said, "a _mate_ is always welcome. I am an Oriental inthat respect if in nothing else." For I wished everyone I met to knowthat I was not a native.

  "Right, my friend," he exclaimed. _"Mate_ is the best thing in thiscountry. As for the people, they are not worth cursing."

  "How can you say such a thing," I returned. "You are a foreigner, Isuppose, but your wife is surely an Oriental."

  The Juno of the grease-pot smiled and threw a ladleful of tallow on thefire to make it roar; possibly this was meant for applause.

  He waved his hand deprecatingly, the bradawl used for his work in it.

  "True, friend, she is," he replied. "Women, like horned cattle, are muchthe same all the world over. They have their value wherever you findthem--America, Europe, Asia. We know it. I spoke of men."

  "You scarcely do women justice--

  _La mujer es un angel del cielo,"_

  I returned, quoting the old Spanish song.

  He barked out a short little laugh.

  "That does very well to sing to a guitar," he said.

  "Talking of guitars," spoke the woman, addressing me for the first time;"while we are waiting for the _mate,_ perhaps you will sing us a ballad.The guitar is lying just behind you."

  "Senora, I do not play on it," I answered. "An Englishman goes forthinto the world without that desire, common to people of other nations,of making himself agreeable to those he may encounter on his way; thisis why he does not learn to perform on musical instruments."

  The little man stared at me; then, deliberately disencumbering himselfof surcingle, threads, and implements, he got up, advanced to me, andheld out his hand.

  His grave manner almost made me laugh. Taking his hand in mine, I said:

  "What am I to do with this, my friend?"

  "Shake it," he replied. "We are countrymen."

  We then shook hands very vigorously for some time in silence, while hiswife looked on with a smile and stirred the fat.

  "Woman," he said, turning to her, "leave your grease till tomorrow.Breakfast must be thought of. Is there any mutton in the house?"

  "Half a sheep--only," she replied.

  "That will do for one meal," said he. "Here, Teofilo, run and tellAnselmo to catch two pullets--fat ones, mind. To be plucked at once. Youmay look for half a dozen fresh eggs for your mother to put in the stew.And, Felipe, go find Cosme and tell him to saddle the roan pony to go tothe store at once. Now, wife, what is wanted--rice, sugar, vinegar, oil,raisins, pepper, saffron, salt, cloves, cummin seed, wine, brandy--"

  "Stop one moment," I cried. "If you think it necessary to get provisionsenough for an army to give me breakfast, I must tell you that I draw theline at brandy. I never touch it--in this country."

  He shook hands with me again.

  "You are right," he said. "Always stick to the native drink, whereveryou are, even if it is black draught. Whisky in Scotland, in the BandaOriental rum--that's my rule."

  The place was now in a great commotion, the children saddling ponies,shouting in pursuit of fugitive chickens, and my energetic host orderinghis wife about.

  After the boy was despatched for the things and my horse taken care of,we sat for half an hour in the kitchen sipping _mate_ and conversingvery agreeably. Then my host took me out into his garden behindthe house to be out of his wife's way while she was engaged cookingbreakfast, and there he began talking in English.

  "Twenty-five years I have been on this continent," said he, telling mehis history, "eighteen of them in the Banda Oriental."

  "Well, you have not forgotten your language," I said. "I suppose youread?"

  "Read! What! I would as soon think of wearing trousers. No, no, myfriend, never read. Leave politics alone. When people molest you, shoot'em--those are my rules. Edinburgh was my home. Had enough readingwhen I was a boy; heard enough psalm-singing, saw enough scrubbing andscouring to last me my lifetime. My father was a bookseller in the HighStreet, near the Cowgate--you know! Mother, she was pious--they wereall pious. Uncle, a minister, lived with us. That was all worse thanpurgatory to me. I was educated at
the High School--intended for theministry, ha, ha! My only pleasure was to get a book of travels in somesavage country, skulk into my room, throw off my boots, light a pipe,and lie on the floor reading--locked up from everyone. Sundays just thesame, They called me a sinner, said I was going to the devil--fast. Itwas my nature. They didn't understand--kept on ding-donging in my ears.Always scrubbing, scouring--you might have eaten your dinner off thefloor; always singing psalms--praying--scolding. Couldn't bear it;ran away at fifteen, and have never heard a word from home since. Whathappened? I came here, worked, saved, bought land, cattle; married awife, lived as I liked to live--am happy. There's my wife--mother of sixchildren--you have seen her yourself, a woman for a man to be proudof. No ding-donging, black looks, scouring from Monday to Saturday--youcouldn't eat your dinner off my kitchen floor. There are my children,six of 'em, all told, boys and girls, healthy, dirty as they like to be,happy as the day's long; and here am I, John Carrickfergus--Don Juan allthe country over, my surname no native can pronounce--respected, feared,loved; a man his neighbour can rely on to do him a good turn; one whonever hesitates about putting a bullet in any vulture, wild cat, orassassin that crosses his path. Now you know all."

  "An extraordinary history," I said, "but I suppose you teach yourchildren something?"

  "Teach 'em nothing," he returned, with emphasis. "All we think about inthe old country are books, cleanliness, clothes; what's good for soul,brain, stomach; and we make 'em miserable. Liberty for everyone--that'smy rule. Dirty children are healthy, happy children. If a bee stings youin England, you clap on fresh dirt to cure the pain. Here we cure allkinds of pain with dirt. If my child is ill I dig up a spadeful offresh mould and rub it well--best remedy out. I'm not religious, but Iremember _one_ miracle. The Saviour spat on the ground and made mud withthe spittle to anoint the eyes of the blind man. Made him see directly.What does that mean? Common remedyof the country, of course. _He_ didn'tneed the clay, but followed the custom, same as in the other miracles.In Scotland dirt's wickedness--how'd they reconcile that with Scripture?I don't say _Nature_, mind, I say, _Scripture_, because the Bible's thebook they swear by, though they didn't write it."

  "I shall think over what you say about children, and the best way torear them," I returned. "I needn't decide in a hurry, as I haven't anyyet."

  He barked his short laugh and led me back to the house, where thearrangements for breakfast were now completed. The children took theirmeal in the kitchen, we had ours in a large, cool room adjoining it.There was a small table laid with a spotless white cloth, and realcrockery plates and real knives and forks. There were also real glasstumblers, bottles of Spanish wine, and snow-white _pan creollo_.Evidently my hostess had made good use of her time. She came inimmediately after we were seated, and I scarcely recognized her; for shewas not only clean now, but good-looking as well, with that rich olivecolour on her oval face, her black hair well arranged, and her dark eyesfull of tender, loving light. She was now wearing a white merino dresswith a quaint maroon-coloured pattern on it, and a white silk kerchieffastened with a gold brooch at her neck. It was pleasant to look at her,and, noticing my admiring glances, she blushed when she sat down, thenlaughed. The breakfast was excellent. Roast mutton to begin, then a dishof chickens stewed with rice, nicely flavoured and coloured with redSpanish _pimenton_. A fowl roasted or boiled, as we eat them in England,is wasted, compared with this delicious _guiso de potto_ which one getsin any _rancho_ in the Banda Orient. After the meats we sat for an hourcracking walnuts, sipping wine, smoking cigarettes, and telling amusingstories; and I doubt whether there were three happier people in allUruguay that morning than the un-Scotched Scotchman, John Carrickfergus,his un-ding-donging native wife, and their guest, who had shot his manon the previous evening.

  After breakfast I spread my _poncho_ on the dry grass under a tree tosleep the siesta. My slumbers lasted a long time, and on waking I wassurprised to find my host and hostess seated on the grass near me, hebusy ornamenting his surcingle, she with the _mate_-cup in her hand anda kettle of hot water beside her. She was drying her eyes, I fancied,when I opened mine.

  "Awake at last!" cried Don Juan pleasantly. "Come and drink _mate_. Wifejust been crying, you see."

  She made a sign for him to hold his peace.

  "Why not speak of it, Candelaria?" he said. "Where is the harm? You see,my wife thinks you have been in the wars--a Santa Coloma man runningaway to save his throat."

  "How does she make that out?" I asked in some confusion and very muchsurprised.

  "How! Don't you know women? You said nothing about where you hadbeen--prudence. That was one thing. Looked confused when we talkedof the revolution--not a word to say about it. More evidence. Your_poncho_, lying there, shows two big cuts in it. 'Torn by thorns,' saidI. 'Sword-cuts,' said she. We were arguing about it when you woke."

  "She guessed rightly," I said, "and I am ashamed of myself for nottelling you before. But why should your wife cry?"

  "Woman like--woman like," he answered, waving his hand. "Always ready tocry over the beaten one--that is the only politics they know."

  "Did I not say that woman is an angel from heaven," I returned; then,taking her hand, I kissed it. "This is the first time I have kissed amarried woman's hand, but the husband of such a wife will know betterthan to be jealous."

  "Jealous--ha, ha!" he laughed. "It would have made me prouder if you hadkissed her cheek."

  "Juan--a nice thing to say!" exclaimed his wife, slapping his handtenderly.

  Then while we sipped _mate_ I told them the history of my campaign,finding it necessary, when explaining my motives for joining the rebels,to make some slight deviations from the strictest form of truth. Heagreed that my best plan was to go on to Rocha to wait there for apassport before proceeding to Montevideo. But I was not allowed to leavethem that day; and, while we talked over our _mate_, Candelaria deftlyrepaired the tell-tale cuts in my _poncho_.

  I spent the afternoon making friends with the children, who proved tobe very intelligent and amusing little beggars, telling them somenonsensical stories I invented, and listening to their bird's-nesting,armadillo-chasing, and other adventures. Then came a late dinner, afterwhich the children said their prayers and retired, then we smoked andsang songs without an accompaniment, and I finished a happy day bysinking to sleep in a soft, clean bed.

  I had announced my intention of leaving at daybreak next morning; andwhen I woke, finding it already light, I dressed hastily, and, goingout, found my horse already saddled standing, with three other saddledhorses, at the gate. In the kitchen I found Don Juan, his wife, and thetwo biggest boys having their early _mate_. My host told me that he hadbeen up an hour, and was only waiting to wish me a prosperous journeybefore going out to gather up his cattle. He at once wished me good-bye,and with his two boys went off, leaving me to partake of poached eggsand coffee--quite an English breakfast.

  I then rose and thanked the good senora for her hospitality.

  "One moment," she said, when I held out my hand, and, drawing a smallsilk bag from her bosom, she offered it to me. "My husband has given mepermission to present you with this at parting. It is only a small gift,but while you are in this trouble and away from all your friends itperhaps might be of use to you."

  I did not wish to take money from her after all the kind treatment I hadreceived, and so allowed the purse to lie on my open hand where she hadplaced it.

  "And if I cannot accept it----" I began.

  "Then you will hurt me very much," she replied. "Could you do that afterthe kind words you spoke yesterday?"

  I could not resist, but, after putting the purse away, took her hand andkissed it.

  "Good-bye, Candelaria," I said, "you have made me love your country andrepent every harsh word I have ever spoken against it."

  Her hand remained in mine; she stood smiling, and did not seem to thinkthe last word had been spoken yet. Then, seeing her there looking sosweet and loving, and remembering the words her husband had spoken theday before
, I stooped and kissed her cheek and lips.

  "Adieu, my friend, and God be with you," she said.

  I think there were tears in her eyes when I left her, but I could notsee clearly, for mine also had suddenly grown dim.

  And only the day before I had felt amused at the sight of this womansitting hot and greasy over her work, and had called her Juno of thegrease-pot! Now, after an acquaintance of about eighteen hours, I hadactually kissed her--a wife and the mother of six children, bidding heradieu with trembling voice and moist eyes! I know that I shall neverforget those eyes, full of sweet, pure affection and tender sympathy,looking into mine; all my life long shall I think of Candelaria,loving her like a sister. Could any woman in my own ultra-civilised andexcessively proper country inspire me with a feeling like that inso short a time? I fancy not. Oh, civilisation, with your millionconventions, soul and body withering prudishnesses, vain educationfor the little ones, going to church in best black clothes, unnaturalcraving for cleanliness, feverish striving after comforts that bring nocomfort to the heart, are you a mistake altogether? Candelaria and thatgenial runaway John Carrickfergus make me think so. Ah, yes, we are allvainly seeking after happiness in the wrong way. It was with us onceand ours, but we despised it, for it was only the old, common happinesswhich Nature gives to all her children, and we went away from it insearch of another grander kind of happiness which some dreamer--Bacon oranother--assured us we should find. We had only to conquer Nature, findout her secrets, make her our obedient slave, then the earth would beEden, and every man Adam and every Woman Eve. We are still marchingbravely on, conquering Nature, but how weary and sad we are getting!The old joy in life and gaiety of heart have vanished, though we dosometimes pause for a few moments in our long forced march to watchthe labours of some pale mechanician seeking after perpetual motion andindulge in a little dry, cackling laugh at his expense.