Green Mansions: A Romance of the Tropical Forest

  CHAPTER VIII

  When morning came I was too stiff and sore to move, and not until thefollowing day was I able to creep out to sit in the shade of the trees.My old host, whose name was Nuflo, went off with his dogs, leavingthe girl to attend to my wants. Two or three times during the day sheappeared to serve me with food and drink, but she continued silent andconstrained in manner as on the first evening of seeing her in the hut.

  Late in the afternoon old Nuflo returned, but did not say where he hadbeen; and shortly afterwards Rima reappeared, demure as usual, in herfaded cotton dress, her cloud of hair confined in two long plaits.My curiosity was more excited than ever, and I resolved to get tothe bottom of the mystery of her life. The girl had not shown herselfresponsive, but now that Nuflo was back I was treated to as much talk asI cared to hear. He talked of many things, only omitting those whichI desired to hear about; but his pet subject appeared to be thedivine government of the world--"God's politics"--and its manifestimperfections, or, in other words, the manifold abuses which from timeto time had been allowed to creep into it. The old man was pious, butlike many of his class in my country, he permitted himself to indulge invery free criticisms of the powers above, from the King of Heaven downto the smallest saint whose name figures in the calendar.

  "These things, senor," he said, "are not properly managed. Consider myposition. Here am I compelled for my sins to inhabit this wildernesswith my poor granddaughter--"

  "She is not your granddaughter!" I suddenly interrupted, thinking tosurprise him into an admission.

  But he took his time to answer. "Senor, we are never sure of anything inthis world. Not absolutely sure. Thus, it may come to pass that you willone day marry, and that your wife will in due time present you witha son--one that will inherit your fortune and transmit your nameto posterity. And yet, sir, in this world, you will never know to acertainty that he is your son."

  "Proceed with what you were saying," I returned, with some dignity.

  "Here we are," he continued, "compelled to inhabit this land and do notmeet with proper protection from the infidel. Now, sir, this is a cryingevil, and it is only becoming in one who has the true faith, and is aloyal subject of the All-Powerful, to point out with due humility thatHe is growing very remiss in His affairs, and is losing a good deal ofHis prestige. And what, senor, is at the bottom of it? Favoritism. Weknow that the Supreme cannot Himself be everywhere, attending to eachlittle trick-track that arises in the world--matters altogether beneathHis notice; and that He must, like the President of Venezuela or theEmperor of Brazil, appoint men--angels if you like--to conduct Hisaffairs and watch over each district. And it is manifest that for thiscountry of Guayana the proper person has not been appointed. Everyevil is done and there is no remedy, and the Christian has no moreconsideration shown him than the infidel. Now, senor, in a town near theOrinoco I once saw on a church the archangel Michael, made of stone, andtwice as tall as a man, with one foot on a monster shaped like a cayman,but with bat's wings, and a head and neck like a serpent. Into thismonster he was thrusting his spear. That is the kind of person thatshould be sent to rule these latitudes--a person of firmness andresolution, with strength in his wrist. And yet it is probable that thisvery man--this St. Michael--is hanging about the palace, twirling histhumbs, waiting for an appointment, while other weaker men, and--Heavenforgive me for saying it--not above a bribe, perhaps, are sent out torule over this province."

  On this string he would harp by the hour; it was a lofty subject onwhich he had pondered much in his solitary life, and he was glad of anopportunity of ventilating his grievance and expounding his views. Atfirst it was a pure pleasure to hear Spanish again, and the old man,albeit ignorant of letters, spoke well; but this, I may say, is a commonthing in our country, where the peasant's quickness of intelligence andpoetic feeling often compensate for want of instruction. His views alsoamused me, although they were not novel. But after a while I grew tiredof listening, yet I listened still, agreeing with him, and leading himon to let him have his fill of talk, always hoping that he would come atlast to speak of personal matters and give me an account of his historyand of Rima's origin. But the hope proved vain; not a word to enlightenme would he drop, however cunningly I tempted him.

  "So be it," thought I; "but if you are cunning, old man, I shall becunning too--and patient; for all things come to him who waits."

  He was in no hurry to get rid of me. On the contrary, he more thanhinted that I would be safer under his roof than with the Indians, atthe same time apologizing for not giving me meat to eat.

  "But why do you not have meat? Never have I seen animals so abundant andtame as in this wood." Before he could reply Rima, with a jug of waterfrom the spring in her hand, came in; glancing at me, he lifted hisfinger to signify that such a subject must not be discussed in herpresence; but as soon as she quitted the room he returned to it.

  "Senor," he said, "have you forgotten your adventure with the snake?Know, then, that my grandchild would not live with me for one day longerif I were to lift my hand against any living creature. For us, senor,every day is fast-day--only without the fish. We have maize, pumpkin,cassava, potatoes, and these suffice. And even of these cultivatedfruits of the earth she eats but little in the house, preferring certainwild berries and gums, which are more to her taste, and which she pickshere and there in her rambles in the wood. And I, sir, loving her as Ido, whatever my inclination may be, shed no blood and eat no flesh."

  I looked at him with an incredulous smile.

  "And your dogs, old man?"

  "My dogs? Sir, they would not pause or turn aside if a coatimundicrossed their path--an animal with a strong odour. As a man is, so ishis dog. Have you not seen dogs eating grass, sir, even in Venezuela,where these sentiments do not prevail? And when there is no meat--whenmeat is forbidden--these sagacious animals accustom themselves to avegetable diet."

  I could not very well tell the old man that he was lying to me--thatwould have been bad policy--and so I passed it off. "I have no doubtthat you are right," I said. "I have heard that there are dogs in Chinathat eat no meat, but are themselves eaten by their owners after beingfattened on rice. I should not care to dine on one of your animals, oldman."

  He looked at them critically and replied: "Certainly they are lean."

  "I was thinking less of their leanness than of their smell," I returned."Their odour when they approach me is not flowery, but resembles thatof other dogs which feed on flesh, and have offended my too sensitivenostrils even in the drawing-rooms of Caracas. It is not like thefragrance of cattle when they return from the pasture."

  "Every animal," he replied, "gives out that odour which is peculiar toits kind"; an incontrovertible fact which left me nothing to say.

  When I had sufficiently recovered the suppleness of my limbs to walkwith ease, I went for a ramble in the wood, in the hope that Rima wouldaccompany me, and that out among the trees she would cast aside thatartificial constraint and shyness which was her manner in the house.

  It fell out just as I had expected; she accompanied me in the sense ofbeing always near me, or within earshot, and her manner was now free andunconstrained as I could wish; but little or nothing was gained by thechange. She was once more the tantalizing, elusive, mysterious creatureI had first known through her wandering, melodious voice. The onlydifference was that the musical, inarticulate sounds were now less oftenheard, and that she was no longer afraid to show herself to me. This fora short time was enough to make me happy, since no lovelier being wasever looked upon, nor one whose loveliness was less likely to lose itscharm through being often seen.

  But to keep her near me or always in sight was, I found, impossible: shewould be free as the wind, free as the butterfly, going and coming ather wayward will, and losing herself from sight a dozen times everyhour. To induce her to walk soberly at my side or sit down and enterinto conversation with me seemed about as impracticable as to tamethe fiery-hearted little humming-bird that flashes into sight, remainssuspe
nded motionless for a few seconds before your face, then, quick aslightning, vanishes again.

  At length, feeling convinced that she was most happy when she had me outfollowing her in the wood, that in spite of her bird-like wildness shehad a tender, human heart, which was easily moved, I determined to tryto draw her closer by means of a little innocent stratagem. Going out inthe morning, after calling her several times to no purpose, I began toassume a downcast manner, as if suffering pain or depressed with grief;and at last, finding a convenient exposed root under a tree, on a spotwhere the ground was dry and strewn with loose yellow sand, I sat downand refused to go any further. For she always wanted to lead me on andon, and whenever I paused she would return to show herself, or to chideor encourage me in her mysterious language. All her pretty little artswere now practiced in vain: with cheek resting on my hand, I still sat.

  So my eyes fixed on that patch of yellow sand at my feet, watching howthe small particles glinted like diamond dust when the sunlight touchedthem. A full hour passed in this way, during which I encouraged myselfby saying mentally: "This is a contest between us, and the most patientand the strongest of will, which should be the man, must conquer. And ifI win on this occasion, it will be easier for me in the future--easierto discover those things which I am resolved to know, and the girl mustreveal to me, since the old man has proved impracticable."

  Meanwhile she came and went and came again; and at last, finding that Iwas not to be moved, she approached and stood near me. Her face, when Iglanced at it, had a somewhat troubled look--both troubled and curious.

  "Come here, Rima," I said, "and stay with me for a little while--Icannot follow you now."

  She took one or two hesitating steps, then stood still again; and atlength, slowly and reluctantly, advanced to within a yard of me. ThenI rose from my seat on the root, so as to catch her face better, andplaced my hand against the rough bark of the tree.

  "Rima," I said, speaking in a low, caressing tone, "will you stay withme here a little while and talk to me, not in your language, but inmine, so that I may understand? Will you listen when I speak to you, andanswer me?"

  Her lips moved, but made no sound. She seemed strangely disquieted, andshook back her loose hair, and with her small toes moved the sparklingsand at her feet, and once or twice her eyes glanced shyly at my face.

  "Rima, you have not answered me," I persisted. "Will you not say yes?"

  "Yes."

  "Where does your grandfather spend his day when he goes out with hisdogs?"

  She shook her head slightly, but would not speak.

  "Have you no mother, Rima? Do you remember your mother?"

  "My mother! My mother!" she exclaimed in a low voice, but with a sudden,wonderful animation. Bending a little nearer, she continued: "Oh, she isdead! Her body is in the earth and turned to dust. Like that," and shemoved the loose sand with her foot. "Her soul is up there, where thestars and the angels are, grandfather says. But what is that to me? Iam here--am I not? I talk to her just the same. Everything I see I pointout, and tell her everything. In the daytime--in the woods, when we aretogether. And at night when I lie down I cross my arms on my breast--so,and say: 'Mother, mother, now you are in my arms; let us go to sleeptogether.' Sometimes I say: 'Oh, why will you never answer me when Ispeak and speak?' Mother--mother--mother!"

  At the end her voice suddenly rose to a mournful cry, then sunk, and atthe last repetition of the word died to a low whisper.

  "Ah, poor Rima! she is dead and cannot speak to you--cannot hear you!Talk to me, Rima; I am living and can answer."

  But now the cloud, which had suddenly lifted from her heart, letting mesee for a moment into its mysterious depths--its fancies so childlikeand feelings so intense--had fallen again; and my words brought noresponse, except a return of that troubled look to her face.

  "Silent still?" I said. "Talk to me, then, of your mother, Rima. Do youknow that you will see her again some day?"

  "Yes, when I die. That is what the priest said."

  "The priest?"

  "Yes, at Voa--do you know? Mother died there when I was small--it is sofar away! And there are thirteen houses by the side of the river--justhere; and on this side--trees, trees."

  This was important, I thought, and would lead to the very knowledge Iwished for; so I pressed her to tell me more about the settlement shehad named, and of which I had never heard.

  "Everything have I told you," she returned, surprised that I did notknow that she had exhausted the subject in those half-dozen words shehad spoken.

  Obliged to shift my ground, I said at a venture: "Tell me, what doyou ask of the Virgin Mother when you kneel before her picture? Yourgrandfather told me that you had a picture in your little room."

  "You know!" flashed out her answer, with something like resentment.

  "It is all there in there," waving her hand towards the hut. "Out herein the wood it is all gone--like this," and stooping quickly, she raiseda little yellow sand on her palm, then let it run away through herfingers.

  Thus she illustrated how all the matters she had been taught slippedfrom her mind when she was out of doors, out of sight of the picture.After an interval she added: "Only mother is here--always with me."

  "Ah, poor Rima!" I said; "alone without a mother, and only your oldgrandfather! He is old--what will you do when he dies and flies away tothe starry country where your mother is?"

  She looked inquiringly at me, then made answer in a low voice: "You arehere."

  "But when I go away?"

  She was silent; and not wishing to dwell on a subject that seemed topain her, I continued: "Yes, I am here now, but you will not stay withme and talk freely! Will it always be the same if I remain with you?Why are you always so silent in the house, so cold with your oldgrandfather? So different--so full of life, like a bird, when you arealone in the woods? Rima, speak to me! Am I no more to you than your oldgrandfather? Do you not like me to talk to you?"

  She appeared strangely disturbed at my words. "Oh, you are not likehim," she suddenly replied. "Sitting all day on a log by the fire--allday, all day; Goloso and Susio lying beside him--sleep, sleep. Oh, whenI saw you in the wood I followed you, and talked and talked; still noanswer. Why will you not come when I call? To me!" Then, mocking myvoice: "Rima, Rima! Come here! Do this! Say that! Rima! Rima! It isnothing, nothing--it is not you," pointing to my mouth, and then, as iffearing that her meaning had not been made clear, suddenly touching mylips with her finger. "Why do you not answer me?--speak to me--speak tome, like this!" And turning a little more towards me, and glancing at mewith eyes that had all at once changed, losing their clouded expressionfor one of exquisite tenderness, from her lips came a succession ofthose mysterious sounds which had first attracted me to her, swiftand low and bird-like, yet with something so much higher and moresoul-penetrating than any bird-music. Ah, what feeling and fancies, whatquaint turns of expression, unfamiliar to my mind, were contained inthose sweet, wasted symbols! I could never know--never come to herwhen she called, or respond to her spirit. To me they would alwaysbe inarticulate sounds, affecting me like a tender spiritual music--alanguage without words, suggesting more than words to the soul.

  The mysterious speech died down to a lisping sound, like the faint noteof some small bird falling from a cloud of foliage on the topmost boughof a tree; and at the same time that new light passed from her eyes, andshe half averted her face in a disappointed way.

  "Rima," I said at length, a new thought coming to my aid, "it is truethat I am not here," touching my lips as she had done, "and thatmy words are nothing. But look into my eyes, and you will see methere--all, all that is in my heart."

  "Oh, I know what I should see there!" she returned quickly.

  "What would you see--tell me?"

  "There is a little black ball in the middle of your eye; I should seemyself in it no bigger than that," and she marked off about an eighth ofher little fingernail. "There is a pool in the wood, and I look down andsee myself there. That is
better. Just as large as I am--not smalland black like a small, small fly." And after saying this a littledisdainfully, she moved away from my side and out into the sunshine; andthen, half turning towards me, and glancing first at my face and thenupwards, she raised her hand to call my attention to something there.

  Far up, high as the tops of the tallest trees, a great blue-wingedbutterfly was passing across the open space with loitering flight. In afew moments it was gone over the trees; then she turned once more tome with a little rippling sound of laughter--the first I had heard fromher, and called: "Come, come!"

  I was glad enough to go with her then; and for the next two hours werambled together in the wood; that is, together in her way, for thoughalways near she contrived to keep out of my sight most of the time. Shewas evidently now in a gay, frolicsome temper; again and again, when Ilooked closely into some wide-spreading bush, or peered behind a tree,when her calling voice had sounded, her rippling laughter would come tome from some other spot. At length, somewhere about the centre of thewood, she led me to an immense mora tree, growing almost isolated,covering with its shade a large space of ground entirely free fromundergrowth. At this spot she all at once vanished from my side; andafter listening and watching some time in vain, I sat down beside thegiant trunk to wait for her. Very soon I heard a low, warbling soundwhich seemed quite near.

  "Rima! Rima!" I called, and instantly my call was repeated like an echo.Again and again I called, and still the words flew back to me, and Icould not decide whether it was an echo or not. Then I gave up calling;and presently the low, warbling sound was repeated, and I knew that Rimawas somewhere near me.

  "Rima, where are you?" I called.

  "Rima, where are you?" came the answer.

  "You are behind the tree."

  "You are behind the tree."

  "I shall catch you, Rima." And this time, instead of repeating my words,she answered: "Oh no."

  I jumped up and ran round the tree, feeling sure that I should find her.It was about thirty-five or forty feet in circumference; and after goinground two or three times, I turned and ran the other way, but failing tocatch a glimpse of her I at last sat down again.

  "Rima, Rima!" sounded the mocking voice as soon as I had sat down."Where are you, Rima? I shall catch you, Rima! Have you caught Rima?"

  "No, I have not caught her. There is no Rima now. She has faded awaylike a rainbow--like a drop of dew in the sun. I have lost her; I shallgo to sleep." And stretching myself out at full length under the tree,I remained quiet for two or three minutes. Then a slight rustlingsound was heard, and I looked eagerly round for her. But the soundwas overhead and caused by a great avalanche of leaves which began todescend on me from that vast leafy canopy above.

  "Ah, little spider-monkey--little green tree-snake--you are there!"But there was no seeing her in that immense aerial palace hung with dimdrapery of green and copper-coloured leaves. But how had she got there?Up the stupendous trunk even a monkey could not have climbed, and therewere no lianas dropping to earth from the wide horizontal branches thatI could see; but by and by, looking further away, I perceived that onone side the longest lower branches reached and mingled with the shorterboughs of the neighbouring trees. While gazing up I heard her low,rippling laugh, and then caught sight of her as she ran along an exposedhorizontal branch, erect on her feet; and my heart stood still withterror, for she was fifty to sixty feet above the ground. In anothermoment she vanished from sight in a cloud of foliage, and I saw no moreof her for about ten minutes, when all at once she appeared at my sideonce more, having come round the trunk of the mora. Her face had abright, pleased expression, and showed no trace of fatigue or agitation.

  I caught her hand in mine. It was a delicate, shapely little hand, softas velvet, and warm--a real human hand; only now when I held it did sheseem altogether like a human being and not a mocking spirit of the wood,a daughter of the Didi.

  "Do you like me to hold your hand, Rima?"

  "Yes," she replied, with indifference.

  "Is it I?"

  "Yes." This time as if it was small satisfaction to make acquaintancewith this purely physical part of me.

  Having her so close gave me an opportunity of examining that lightsheeny garment she wore always in the woods. It felt soft and satiny tothe touch, and there was no seam nor hem in it that I could see, but itwas all in one piece, like the cocoon of the caterpillar. While I wasfeeling it on her shoulder and looking narrowly at it, she glanced at mewith a mocking laugh in her eyes.

  "Is it silk?" I asked. Then, as she remained silent, I continued: "Wheredid you get this dress, Rima? Did you make it yourself? Tell me."

  She answered not in words, but in response to my question a new lookcame into her face; no longer restless and full of change in herexpression, she was now as immovable as an alabaster statue; not asilken hair on her head trembled; her eyes were wide open, gazingfixedly before her; and when I looked into them they seemed to see andyet not to see me. They were like the clear, brilliant eyes of a bird,which reflect as in a miraculous mirror all the visible world but do notreturn our look and seem to see us merely as one of the thousand smalldetails that make up the whole picture. Suddenly she darted out herhand like a flash, making me start at the unexpected motion, and quicklywithdrawing it, held up a finger before me. From its tip a minutegossamer spider, about twice the bigness of a pin's head, appearedsuspended from a fine, scarcely visible line three or four inches long.

  "Look!" she exclaimed, with a bright glance at my face.

  The small spider she had captured, anxious to be free, was falling,falling earthward, but could not reach the surface. Leaning her shouldera little forward, she placed the finger-tip against it, but lightly,scarcely touching, and moving continuously, with a motion rapid as thatof a fluttering moth's wing; while the spider, still paying out hisline, remained suspended, rising and falling slightly at nearly the samedistance from the ground. After a few moments she cried: "Drop down,little spider." Her finger's motion ceased, and the minute captive fell,to lose itself on the shaded ground.

  "Do you not see?" she said to me, pointing to her shoulder. Just wherethe finger-tip had touched the garment a round shining spot appeared,looking like a silver coin on the cloth; but on touching it with myfinger it seemed part of the original fabric, only whiter and more shinyon the grey ground, on account of the freshness of the web of which ithad just been made.

  And so all this curious and pretty performance, which seemed instinctivein its spontaneous quickness and dexterity, was merely intended to showme how she made her garments out of the fine floating lines of smallgossamer spiders!

  Before I could express my surprise and admiration she cried again, withstartling suddenness: "Look!"

  A minute shadowy form darted by, appearing like a dim line traced acrossthe deep glossy more foliage, then on the lighter green foliage furtheraway. She waved her hand in imitation of its swift, curving flight;then, dropping it, exclaimed: "Gone--oh, little thing!"

  "What was it?" I asked, for it might have been a bird, a bird-like moth,or a bee.

  "Did you not see? And you asked me to look into your eyes!"

  "Ah, little squirrel Sakawinki, you remind me of that!" I said, passingmy arm round her waist and drawing her a little closer. "Look into myeyes now and see if I am blind, and if there is nothing in them exceptan image of Rima like a small, small fly."

  She shook her head and laughed a little mockingly, but made no effort toescape from my arm.

  "Would you like me always to do what you wish, Rima--to follow you inthe woods when you say 'Come'--to chase you round the tree to catch you,and lie down for you to throw leaves on me, and to be glad when you areglad?"

  "Oh, yes."

  "Then let us make a compact. I shall do everything to please you, andyou must promise to do everything to please me."

  "Tell me."

  "Little things, Rima--none so hard as chasing you round a tree. Only tohave you stand or sit by me and talk will make me ha
ppy. And to beginyou must call me by my name--Abel."

  "Is that your name? Oh, not your real name! Abel, Abel--what is that? Itsays nothing. I have called you by so many names--twenty, thirty--and noanswer."

  "Have you? But, dearest girl, every person has a name, one name he iscalled by. Your name, for instance, is Rima, is it not?"

  "Rima! only Rima--to you? In the morning, in the evening... now in thisplace and in a little while where know I? ... in the night when you wakeand it is dark, dark, and you see me all the same. Only Rima--oh, howstrange!"

  "What else, sweet girl? Your grandfather Nuflo calls you Rima."

  "Nuflo?" She spoke as if putting a question to herself. "Is that anold man with two dogs that lives somewhere in the wood?" And then, withsudden petulance: "And you ask me to talk to you!"

  "Oh, Rima, what can I say to you? Listen--"

  "No, no," she exclaimed, quickly turning and putting her fingers on mymouth to stop my speech, while a sudden merry look shone in her eyes."You shall listen when I speak, and do all I say. And tell me what todo to please you with your eyes--let me look in your eyes that are notblind."

  She turned her face more towards me and with head a little thrown backand inclined to one side, gazing now full into my eyes as I had wishedher to do. After a few moments she glanced away to the distant trees.But I could see into those divine orbs, and knew that she wasnot looking at any particular object. All the ever-varyingexpressions--inquisitive, petulant, troubled, shy, frolicsome had nowvanished from the still face, and the look was inward and full of astrange, exquisite light, as if some new happiness or hope had touchedher spirit.

  Sinking my voice to a whisper, I said: "Tell me what you have seen in myeyes, Rima?"

  She murmured in reply something melodious and inarticulate, then glancedat my face in a questioning way; but only for a moment, then her sweeteyes were again veiled under those drooping lashes.

  "Listen, Rima," I said. "Was that a humming-bird we saw a little whileago? You are like that, now dark, a shadow in the shadow, seen foran instant, and then--gone, oh, little thing! And now in the sunshinestanding still, how beautiful!--a thousand times more beautiful thanthe humming-bird. Listen, Rima, you are like all beautiful things in thewood--flower, and bird, and butterfly, and green leaf, and frond, andlittle silky-haired monkey high up in the trees. When I look at you Isee them all--all and more, a thousand times, for I see Rima herself.And when I listen to Rima's voice, talking in a language I cannotunderstand, I hear the wind whispering in the leaves, the gurglingrunning water, the bee among the flowers, the organ-bird singing far,far away in the shadows of the trees. I hear them all, and more, forI hear Rima. Do you understand me now? Is it I speaking to you--have Ianswered you--have I come to you?"

  She glanced at me again, her lips trembling, her eyes now clouded withsome secret trouble. "Yes," she replied in a whisper, and then: "No, itis not you," and after a moment, doubtfully: "Is it you?"

  But she did not wait to be answered: in a moment she was gone round themore; nor would she return again for all my calling.