CHAPTER XXIII
She then led me to the kitchen at the end of the house. It was oneof those roomy, old-fashioned kitchens still to be found in a few_estancia_ houses built in colonial times, in which the fireplace,raised a foot or two above the floor, extends the whole width of theroom. It was large and dimly lighted, the walls and rafters black witha century's smoke and abundantly festooned with sooty cobwebs; but alarge, cheerful fire blazed on the hearth, while before it stood a tall,gaunt woman engaged in cooking the supper and serving _mate_. This wasRamona, an old servant on the _estancia_.
There also sat my friend of the tangled tresses, which he had evidentlysucceeded in combing well out, for they now hung down quite smooth onhis back and as long as a woman's hair. Another person was also seatednear the fire, whose age might have been anything from twenty-five toforty-five, for he had, I think, a mixture of Indian blood in his veins,and one of those smooth, dry, dark faces that change but little withage. He was an undersized, wiry-looking man with a small, intenselyblack moustache, but no whiskers or beard. He seemed to be a person ofsome consequence in the house, and when my conductress introduced him tome as "Don Hilario," he rose to his feet and received me with a profoundbow. In spite of his excessive politeness I conceived a feeling ofdistrust towards him from the moment I saw him; and this was because hissmall, watchful eyes were perpetually glancing at my face in a furtivemanner, only to glance swiftly away again whenever I looked at him;for he seemed quite incapable of meeting the gaze of another. We drank_mate_ and talked a little, but were not a lively party. Dona Demetria,though she sat with us, scarcely contributed a word to the conversation;while the long-haired man--Santos by name, and the only peon on theestablishment--smoked his cigarette and sipped his _mate_ in absolutesilence.
Bony old Ramona at length dished up the supper and carried it out of thekitchen; we followed to the large living-room, where I had been before,and gathered round a small table; for these people, though apparentlypoverty-stricken, ate their meals after the manner of civilised beings.At the head of the table sat the fierce old white-haired man, staring atus out of his sunken eyes as we entered. Half rising from his seat, hementioned to me to take a chair near him, then, addressing Don Hilario,who sat opposite, he said, "This is my son Calixto, just returned fromthe wars, where, as you know, he has greatly distinguished himself."
Don Hilario rose and bowed gravely. Demetria took the other end of thetable, while Santos and Ramona occupied the two remaining seats.
I was greatly relieved to find that the old man's mood had changed;there were no more wild outbursts like the one I had witnessed earlierin the evening; only occasionally he would fix his strange, burning eyeson me in a way that made me exceedingly uncomfortable. We began themeal with broth, which we finished in silence; and while we ate, DonHilario's swift glances incessantly flew from face to face; Demetria,pale and evidently ill at ease, keeping her eyes cast down all the time.
"Is there no wine this evening, Ramona?" asked the old man in queruloustones when the old woman rose to remove the broth basins.
"The _master_ has not ordered me to put any on the table," she repliedwith asperity, and strongly emphasising the obnoxious word.
"What does this mean, Don Hilario?" said the old man, turning to hisneighbour. "My son has just returned after a long absence; are we tohave no wine for an occasion like this?"
Don Hilario, with a faint smile on his lips, drew a key from his pocketand passed it silently to Ramona. She rose, muttering, from the tableand proceeded to unlock a cupboard, from which she took a bottle ofwine. Then, going round the table, she poured out half a tumblerful foreach person, excepting herself and Santos, who, to judge from his stolidcountenance, did not expect any.
"No, no," said old Peralta, "give Santos wine, and pour yourself out aglass also, Ramona. You have both been good, faithful friends to me, andhave nursed Calixto in his infancy. It is right that you should drinkhis health and rejoice with us at his return."
She obeyed with alacrity, and old Santos' wooden face almost relaxedinto a grin when he received his share of the purple fluid (I canscarcely call it juice) which maketh glad the heart of man.
Presently old Peralta raised his glass and fixed his fierce, insane eyeson me. "Calixto, my son, we will drink your health," he said, "and maythe curse of the Almighty fall on our enemies; may their bodies liewhere they fall, till the hawks have consumed their flesh, and theirbones have been trodden into dust by the cattle; and may their souls betormented with everlasting fire."
Silently they all raised their glasses to their lips, but when they setthem down again, the points of Don Hilario's black moustache were raisedas if by a smile, while Santos smacked his lips in token of enjoyment.
After this ghastly toast nothing more was spoken by anyone at the table.In oppressive silence we consumed the roast and boiled meat set beforeus; for I dared not hazard even the most commonplace remark for fearof rousing my volcanic host into a mad eruption. When we had finishedeating, Demetria rose and brought her father a cigarette. It was thesignal that supper was over; and immediately afterwards she left theroom, followed by the two servants. Don Hilario politely offered mea cigarette and lit one for himself. For some minutes we smoked insilence, until the old man gradually dropped to sleep in his chair,after which we rose and went back to the kitchen. Even that sombreretreat now seemed cheerful after the silence and gloom of thedining-room. Presently Don Hilario got up, and, with many apologies forleaving me, explaining that he had been invited to assist at a dance ata neighbouring _estancia_, took himself off. Soon afterwards, though itwas only about nine o'clock, I was shown to a room where a bed had beenprepared for me. It was a large, musty-smelling apartment, almostempty, there being only my bed and a few tall, upright chairs bound withleather and black with age. The floor was tiled, and the ceiling wascovered with a dusty canopy of cobwebs, on which flourished a numerouscolony of long-legged house-spiders. I had no disposition to sleep atthat early hour, and even envied Don Hilario, away enjoying himself withthe Rocha beauties. My door, looking out to the front, was standing wideopen; the full moon had just risen and was filling the night with itsmystic splendour. Putting out my candle, for the house was now all darkand silent, I softly went out for a stroll. Under a clump of trees notfar off I found an old rustic bench, and sat down on it; for the placewas all such a tangled wilderness of great weeds that walking wasscarcely practicable and very unpleasant.
The old, half-ruined house in the midst of the dusky desolation beganto assume in the moonlight a singularly weird and ghost-like appearance.Near me on one side was an irregular row of poplar-trees, and the long,dark lines cast from them by the moon fell across a wide, open spacewhere the rank-growing thorn-apples predominated. In the spaces betweenthe broad bands made by the poplar-tree shadows, the foliage appearedof a dim, hoary blue, starred over with the white blossoms of thisnight-flowering weed. About these flowers several big, grey moths werehovering, suddenly appearing out of the black shadows and when lookedfor, noiselessly vanishing again in their mysterious ghost-like manner.Not a sound disturbed the silence except the faint, melancholy trillof one small night-singing cicada from somewhere near--a faint, aerialvoice that seemed to be wandering lost in infinite space, rising andfloating away in its loneliness, while earth listened, hushed intopreternatural stillness. Presently a large owl came noiselessly flyingby, and, perching on the topmost boughs of a neighbouring tree, beganhooting a succession of monotonous notes, sounding like the baying of abloodhound at a vast distance. Another owl by and by responded fromsome far-off quarter, and the dreary duet was kept up for half an hour.Whenever one bird ceased his solemn _boo-boo-boo-boo-boo_, I foundmyself with stilled breath straining my sense to catch the answeringnotes, fearing to stir lest I should lose them. A phosphorescent gleamswept by close to my face, making me start at its sudden appearance,then passed away, trailing a line of faint light over the dusky weeds.The passing firefly served to remind me that I was not smoking, and thethought
then occurred to me that a cigar might possibly have the effectof relieving me from the strange, indefinable feeling of depression thathad come over me. I put my hand into my pocket and drew out a cigar,and bit the end off; but when about to strike a vesta on my matchbox, Ishuddered and dropped my hand.
The very thought of striking a loud, exploding match was unendurable tome, so strangely nervous did I feel. Or possibly it was a superstitiousmood I had fallen into. It seemed to me at that moment that I hadsomehow drifted into a region of mystery, peopled only by unearthly,fantastic beings. The people I had supped with did not seem likecreatures of flesh and blood. The small, dark countenance of DonHilario, with its shifty glances and Mephistophelian smile; Demetria'spale, sorrowful face; and the sunken, insane eyes of her old,white-haired father--were all about me in the moonlight and amongst thetangled greenery. I dared not move; I scarcely breathed; the very weedswith their pale, dusky leaves were like things that had a ghostly life.And while I was in this morbid condition of mind, with that irrationalfear momentarily increasing on me, I saw at a distance of about thirtyyards a dark object, which seemed to move, fluttering in an uncertainway towards me. I gazed intently on it, but it was motionless now, andappeared like a black, formless shadow within the shade of the trees.Presently it came again towards me, and, passing into the clearmoonlight, revealed a human figure. It flitted across the bright spaceand was lost in the shade of other trees; but it still approached, awaving, fluttering figure, advancing and receding, but always comingnearer. My blood turned cold in my veins; I could feel my hair standingup on my head, until, unable to endure the terrible suspense longer,I jumped up from my seat. A loud exclamation of terror came from thefigure, and then I saw that it was Demetria. I stammered out an apologyfor frightening her by jumping up, and, finding that I had recognisedher, she advanced to me.
"Ah, you are not asleep, senor," said she quietly. "I saw you from mywindow come out here more than an hour ago. Finding you did not return,I began to grow anxious, and thought that, tired with your journey, youhad fallen asleep out here. I came to wake you, and to warn you thatit is very dangerous to lie sleeping with your face exposed to the fullmoon."
I explained that I had felt restless and disinclined to sleep, regrettedthat I had caused her anxiety, and thanked her for her thoughtfulkindness.
Instead of leaving me then, she sat quietly down on the bench. "Senor,"she said, "if it is your intention to continue your journey to-morrow,let me advise you not to do so. You can safely remain here for a fewdays, for in this sad house we have no visitors."
I told her that, acting on Santa Coloma's advice, given to me beforethe fight, I was going on to the Lomas de Rocha to see a person namedFlorentino Blanco in that place, who would probably be able to procureme a passport from Montevideo.
"How fortunate it is that you have told me this!" she replied. "Everystranger now entering the Lomas is rigorously examined, and you couldnot possibly escape arrest if you went there. Remain with us, senor; itis a poor house, but we are well disposed towards you. To-morrow Santosshall go with a letter from you to Don Florentino, who is always readyto serve us, and he will do what you wish without seeking you."
I thanked her warmly and accepted the offer of a refuge in her house.Somewhat to my surprise, she still remained seated on the bench.Presently she said:
"It is natural, senor, that you should not be glad to remain in a houseso _triste_. But there will be no repetition of all you were obligedto endure on first entering it. Whenever my father sees a young man, astranger to him, he receives him as he received you to-day, mistakinghim for his son. After the first day, however, he loses all interest inthe new face, becoming indifferent, and forgetting all he has said orimagined."
This information relieved me, and I remarked that I supposed the loss ofhis son had been the cause of his malady.
"You are right; let me tell you how it happened," she replied. "For this_estancia_ must seem to you a place unlike all others in the world, andit is only natural that a stranger should wish to know the reason of itssad condition. I know that I can speak without fear of these things toone who is a friend to Santa Coloma."
"And to you, I hope, senorita," I said.
"Thank you, senor. All my life has been spent here. When I was a childmy brother went into the army, then my mother died, and I was left herealone, for the siege of Montevideo had begun and I could not go there.At length my father received a terrible wound in action and was broughthere to die, as we thought. For months he lay on his bed, his lifetrembling in the balance. Our enemies triumphed at last; the siege wasover, the Blanco leaders dead or driven into exile. My father had beenone of the bravest officers in the Blanco forces, and could not hopeto escape the general persecution. They only waited for his recoveryto arrest him and convey him to the capital, where, doubtless, he wouldhave been shot. While he lay in this precarious condition everywrong and indignity was heaped upon us. Our horses were seized by thecommander of the department, our cattle slaughtered or driven off andsold, while our house was searched for arms and visited every week byan officer who came to report on my father's health. One reason for thisanimosity was that Calixto, my brother, had escaped and maintained aguerilla war against the government on the Brazilian frontier. At lengthmy father recovered so far from his wounds as to be able to creep outfor an hour every day leaning on someone for support; then two armed menwere sent to keep guard here to prevent his escape. We were thus livingin continual dread when one day an officer came and produced a writtenorder from the Comandante. He did not read it to me, but said it was anorder for every person in the Rocha department to display a red flagon his house in token of rejoicing at a victory won by the governmenttroops. I told him that we did not wish to disobey the Comandante'sorders, but had no red flag in the house to hang up. He answered that hehad brought one for that purpose with him. He unrolled it and fastenedit to a pole; then, climbing to the roof of the house, he raised andmade it fast there. Not satisfied with these insults, he ordered me towake my father, who was sleeping, so that he also might see the flagover his house. My father came out leaning on my shoulder, and whenhe had cast up his eyes and seen the red flag he turned and cursed theofficer. 'Go back,' he cried, 'to the dog, your master, and tell himthat Colonel Peralta is still a Blanco in spite of your dishonourableflag. Tell that insolent slave of Brazil that when I was disabled Ipassed my sword on to my son Calixto, who knows how to use it, fightingfor his country's independence.' The officer, who had mounted his horseby this time, laughed, and, tossing the order from the _comandancia_ atour feet, bowed derisively and galloped away. My father picked up thepaper and read these words: 'Let there be displayed on every house inthis department a red flag, in token of joy at the happy tidings of avictory won by the government troops, in which that recreant son ofthe republic, the infamous assassin and traitor, Calixto Peralta, wasslain!' Alas, senor, loving his son above all things, hoping so muchfrom him, and enfeebled by long suffering, my poor father could notresist this last blow. From that cruel moment he was deprived of reason;and to that calamity we owe it that he was not put to death and that ourenemies ceased to persecute us."
Demetria shed some tears when telling me this tragical story. Poorwoman, she had said little or nothing about herself, yet how great andenduring must have been her grief. I was deeply moved, and, taking herhand, told her how deeply her sad story had pained me. Then she rose andbade me good night with a sad smile--sad, but the first smile that hadvisited her grief-clouded countenance since I had seen her. I could wellimagine that even the sympathy of a stranger must have seemed sweet toher in that dreary isolation.
After she left me I lit my cigar. The night had lost its ghostlycharacter and my fantastic superstitions had vanished. I was backonce more in the world of men and women, and could only think of theinhumanity of man to man, and of the infinite pain silently endured bymany hearts in that Purple Land. The only mystery still unsolved inthat ruinous _estancia_ was Don Hilario, who locked up the wine andwas cal
led _master_ with bitter irony by Ramona, and who had thought itnecessary to apologise to me for depriving me of his precious companythat evening.