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Purple Land

<h2> CHAPTER XIV </h2> The girl I have mentioned, whose name was Monica, and the child, called Anita, were the only persons there besides myself who were not carried away by the warlike enthusiasm of the moment. Monica, silent, pale, almost apathetic, was occupied serving maté to the numerous guests; while the child, when the shouting and excitement was at its height, appeared greatly terrified, and clung to Alday's wife, trembling and crying piteously. No notice was taken of the poor little thing, and at length she crept away into a corner to conceal herself behind a faggot of wood. Her hiding-place was close to my seat, and after a little coaxing I induced her to leave it and come to me. She was a most forlorn little thing, with a white, thin face and large, dark, pathetic eyes. Her mean little cotton frock only reached to her knees, and her little legs and feet were bare. Her age was seven or eight; she was an orphan, and Alday's wife, having no children of her own, was bringing her up, or, rather, permitting her to grow up under her roof. I drew her to me, and tried to soothe her tremors and get her to talk. Little by little she gained confidence, and began to reply to my questions; then I learnt that she was a little shepherdess, although so young, and spent most of the time every day in following the flock about on her pony. Her pony and the girl Monica, who was some relation—cousin, the child called her—were the two beings she seemed to have the greatest affection for. “And when you slip off, how do you get on again?” I asked. “Little pony is tame, and I never fall off,” she said. “Sometimes I get off, then I climb on again.” “And what do you do all day long—talk and play?” “I talk to my doll; I take it on the pony when I go with the sheep.” “Is your doll very pretty, Anita?” No answer. “Will you let me see your doll, Anita? I know I shall like your doll, because I like you.” She gave me an anxious look. Evidently doll was a very precious being and had not met with proper appreciation. After a little nervous fidgeting she left me and crept out of the room; then presently she came back, apparently trying to screen something from the vulgar gaze in her scanty little dress. It was her wonderful doll—the dear companion of her rambles and rides. With fear and trembling she allowed me to take it into my hands. It was, or consisted of, the forefoot of a sheep, cut off at the knee; on the top of the knee part a little wooden ball wrapped in a white rag represented the head, and it was dressed in a piece of red flannel—a satyr-like doll, with one hairy leg and a cloven foot. I praised its pleasing countenance, its pretty gown and dainty little boots; and all I said sounded very precious to Anita, filling her with emotions of the liveliest pleasure. “And do you never play with the dogs and cats and little lambs?” I asked. “Not with the dogs and cats. When I see a very little lamb asleep I get down and go softly, softly and catch it. It tries to get away; then I put my finger in its mouth, and it sucks, and sucks; then it runs away.” “And what do you like best to eat?” “Sugar. When uncle buys sugar, aunt gives me a lump. I make doll eat some, and bite off one small piece and put it in pony's mouth.” “Which would you rather have, Anita—a great many lumps of sugar, or a beautiful string of beads, or a little girl to play with?” This question was rather too much for her neglected little brain, which had fed itself with such simple fare; so I was obliged to put it in various ways, and at last, when she understood that only one of the three things could be chosen, she decided in favour of a little girl to play with. Then I asked her if she liked to hear stories; this also puzzled her, and after some cross-questioning I discovered that she had never heard a story, and did not know what it meant. “Listen, Anita, and I will tell you a story,” I said. “Have you seen the white mist over the Yí in the morning—a light, white mist that flies away when the sun gets hot?” Yes, she often saw the white mist in the morning, she told me. “Then I will tell you a story about the white mist and a little girl named Alma.” “Little Alma lived close to the River Yí, but far, far from here, beyond the trees and beyond the blue hills, for the Yí is a very long river. She lived with her grandmother and with six uncles, all big tall men with long beards; and they always talked about wars, and cattle, and horse-racing, and a great many other important things that Alma could not understand. There was no one to talk to Alma and for Alma to talk to or to play with. And when she went out of the house where all the big people were talking, she heard the cocks crowing, the dogs barking, the birds singing, the sheep bleating, and the trees rustling their leaves over her head, and she could not understand one word of all they said. At last, having no one to play with or talk to, she sat down and began to cry. Now, it happened that near the spot where she sat there was an old black woman wearing a red shawl, who was gathering sticks for the fire, and she asked Alma why she cried. “'Because I have no one to talk to and play with,' said Alma. Then the old black woman drew a long brass pin out of her shawl and pricked Alma's tongue with it, for she made Alma hold it out to be pricked. “'Now,' said the old woman, 'you can go and play and talk with the dogs, cats, birds, and trees, for you will understand all they say, and they will understand all you say.' “Alma was very glad, and ran home as fast as she could to talk to the cat. “'Come, cat, let us talk and play together,' she said. “'Oh no,' said the cat. 'I am very busy watching a little bird, so you must go away and play with little Niebla down by the river.' “Then the cat ran away among the weeds and left her. The dogs also refused to play when she went to them; for they had to watch the house and bark at strangers. Then they also told her to go and play with little Niebla down by the river. Then Alma ran out and caught a little duckling, a soft little thing that looked like a ball of yellow cotton, and said: “'Now, little duck, let us talk and play.' “But the duckling only struggled to get away and screamed, 'Oh, mamma, mamma, come and take me away from Alma!' “Then the old duck came rushing up, and said: “'Alma, let my child alone: and if you want to play, go and play with Niebla down by the river. A nice thing to catch my duckie in your hands—what next, I wonder!' “So she let the duckling go, and at last she said, 'Yes, I will go and play with Niebla down by the river.' “She waited till she saw the white mist, and then ran all the way to the Yí, and stood still on the green bank close by the water with the white mist all round her. By and by she saw a beautiful little child come flying towards her in the white mist. The child came and stood on the green bank and looked at Alma. Very, very pretty she was; and she wore a white dress—whiter than milk, whiter than foam, and all embroidered with purple flowers; she had also white silk stockings, and scarlet shoes, bright as scarlet verbenas. Her hair was long and fluffy, and shone like gold, and round her neck she had a string of big gold beads. Then Alma said, 'Oh, beautiful little girl, what is your name?' to which the little girl answered: “'Niebla.' “'Will you talk to me and play with me?' said Alma. “'Oh, no,' said Niebla, 'how can I play with a little girl dressed as you are and with bare feet?' “For you know poor Alma only wore a little old frock that came down to her knees, and she had no shoes and stockings on. Then little Niebla rose up and floated away, away from the bank and down the river, and at last, when she was quite out of sight in the white mist, Alma began to cry. When it got very hot she went and sat down, still crying, under the trees; there were two very big willow-trees growing near the river. By and by the leaves rustled in the wind and the trees began talking to each other, and Alma understood everything they said. “'Is it going to rain, do you think?' said one tree. “'Yes, I think it will—some day,' said the other. “'There are no clouds,' said the first tree. “'No, there are no clouds to-day, but there were some the day before yesterday,' said the other. “'Have you got any nests in your branches?' said the first tree. “'Yes, one,' said the other. 'It was made by a little yellow bird, and there are five speckled eggs in it.' “Then the first tree said, 'There is little Alma sitting in our shade; do you know why she is crying, neighbour?' “The other tree answered, 'Yes, it is because she has no one to play with. Little Niebla by the river refused to play with her because she is not beautifully dressed.' “Then the first tree said, 'Ah, she ought to go and ask the fox for some pretty clothes to wear. The fox always keeps a great store of pretty things in her hole.' “Alma had listened to every word of this conversation. She remembered that a fox lived on the hillside not far off; for she had often seen it sitting in the sunshine with its little ones playing round it and pulling their mother's tail in fun. So Alma got up and ran till she found the hole, and, putting her head down it, she cried out, 'Fox! Fox!' But the fox seemed cross, and only answered, without coming out, 'Go away, Alma, and talk to little Niebla. I am busy getting dinner for my children and have no time to talk to you now.' “Then Alma cried, 'Oh, Fox, Niebla will not play with me because I have no pretty things to wear. Oh, Fox, will you give me a nice dress and shoes and stockings and a string of beads?' “After a little while the fox came out of its hole with a big bundle done up in a red cotton handkerchief and said, 'Here are the things, Alma, and I hope they will fit you. But you know, Alma, you really ought not to come at this time of day, for I am very busy just now cooking the dinner—an armadillo roasted and a couple of partridges stewed with rice, and a little omelette of turkeys' eggs. I mean plovers' eggs, of course; I never touch turkeys' eggs.' “Alma said she was very sorry to give so much trouble. “'Oh, never mind,' said the fox. 'How is your grandmother?' “'She is very well, thank you,' said Alma, 'but she has a bad headache.' “'I am very sorry to hear it,' said the fox. 'Tell her to stick two fresh dock-leaves on her temples, and to drink a little weak tea made of knot-grass, and on no account to go out in the hot sun. I should like to go and see her, only I do not like the dogs being always about the house. Give her my best respects. And now run home, Alma, and try on the things, and when you are passing this way you can bring me back the handkerchief, as I always tie my face up in it when I have the toothache.' “Alma thanked the fox very much and ran home as fast as she could, and when the bundle was opened she found in it a beautiful white dress, embroidered with purple flowers, a pair of scarlet shoes, silk stockings, and a string of great golden beads. They all fitted her very well; and next day when the white mist was on the Yí she dressed herself in her beautiful clothes and went down to the river. By and by little Niebla came flying along, and when she saw Alma she came and kissed her and took her by the hand. All the morning they played and talked together, gathering flowers and running races over the green sward: and at last Niebla bade her good-bye and flew away, for all the white mist was floating off down the river. But every day after that Alma found her little companion by the Yí, and was very happy, for now she had someone to talk to and to play with.” After I had finished the story Anita continued gazing into my face with an absorbed expression in her large, wistful eyes. She seemed half scared, half delighted at what she had heard; but presently, before the little thing had said a word, Monica, who had been directing shy and wondering glances towards us for some time, came, and, taking her by the hand, led her away to bed. I was getting sleepy then, and, as the clatter of talk and warlike preparation showed no signs of abating, I was glad to be shown into another room, where some sheep-skins, rugs, and a couple of ponchos were given to me for a bed. During the night all the men took their departure, for in the morning, when I went into the kitchen, I only found the old woman and Alday's wife sipping bitter maté. The child, they informed me, had disappeared from the house an hour before, and Monica had gone out to look for her. Alday's wife was highly indignant at the little one's escapade, for it was high time for Anita to go out with the flock. After taking maté I went out, and, looking towards the Yí, veiled in a silvery mist, I spied Monica leading the culprit home by the hand, and went to meet them. Poor little Anita! her face stained with tears, her little legs and feet covered with clay and scratched by sharp reeds in fifty places, her dress soaking wet with the heavy mist, looked a most pitiful object. “Where did you find her?” I asked the girl, beginning to fear that I had been the indirect cause of the poor child's misfortunes. “Down by the river looking for little Niebla. I knew she would be there when I missed her this morning.” “How did you know that?” I asked. “You did not hear the story I told her.” “I made her repeat it all to me last night,” said Monica. After that little Anita was scolded, shaken, washed and dried, then fed, and finally lifted on to the back of her pony and sent to take care of the sheep. While undergoing this treatment she maintained a profound silence, her little face puckered up into an expression that boded tears. They were not for the public, however, and only after she was on the pony, with the reins in her little mites of hands and her back towards us, did she give way to her grief and disappointment at having failed to find the beautiful child of the mist. I was astonished to find that she had taken the fantastic little tale invented to amuse her as truth; but the poor babe had never read books or heard stories, and the fairy tale had been too much for her starved little imagination. I remember that once on another occasion I told a pathetic story of a little child, lost in a great wilderness, to a girl about Anita's age, and just as unaccustomed to this kind of mental fare. Next morning her mother informed me that my little listener had spent half the night sobbing and begging to be allowed to go and look for that lost child I had told her about. Hearing that Alday would not return till evening or till the following day, I asked his wife to lend or give me a horse to proceed on my journey. This, however, she could not do; then she added, very graciously, that while all the men were away my presence in the house would be a comfort to her, a man always being a great protection. The arrangement did not strike me as one very advantageous to myself, but, as I could not journey very well to Montevideo on foot, I was compelled to sit still and wait for Alday's return. It was dull work talking to those two women in the kitchen. They were both great talkers, and had evidently come to a tacit agreement to share their one listener fairly between them, for first one, then the other would speak with a maddening monotony. Alday's wife had six favourite, fine-sounding words—elements, superior, division, prolongation, justification, and disproportion. One of these she somehow managed to drag into every sentence, and sometimes she succeeded in getting in two. Whenever this happened the achievement made her so proud that she would in the most deliberate cold-blooded way repeat the sentence again, word for word. The strength of the old woman lay in dates. Not an occurrence did she mention, whether it referred to some great public event or to some trivial domestic incident in her own rancho, without giving the year, the month, and the day. The duet between these two confounded barrel-organs, one grinding out rhetoric, the other chronology, went on all the morning, and often I turned to Monica, sitting over her sewing, in hopes of a different tune from her more melodious instrument, but in vain, for never a word dropped from those silent lips. Occasionally her dark, luminous eyes were raised for a moment, only to sink abashed again when they encountered mine. After breakfast I went for a walk along the river, where I spent several hours hunting for flowers and fossils, and amusing myself as best I could. There were legions of duck, coot, rosy spoonbills, and black-necked swans disporting themselves in the water, and I was very thankful that I had no gun with me, and so was not tempted to startle them with rude noises, and send any of them away to languish wounded amongst the reeds. At length, after having indulged in a good swim, I set out to walk back to the estancia. When still about a mile from the house as I walked on, swinging my stick and singing aloud in lightness of heart, I passed a clump of willow-trees, and, looking up, saw Monica under them watching my approach. She was standing perfectly motionless, and, when I caught sight of her, cast her eyes demurely down, apparently to contemplate her bare feet, which looked very white on the deep green turf. In one hand she held a cluster of stalks of the large, crimson, autumnal lilies which had just begun to blossom. My singing ceased suddenly, and I stood for some moments gazing admiringly at the shy, rustic beauty. “What a distance you have walked to gather lilies, Monica!” I said, approaching her. “Will you give me one of your stalks?” “They were gathered for the Virgin, so I cannot give away any of these,” she replied. “If you will wait here under the trees I will find one to give you.” I agreed to wait for her; then, placing the cluster she had gathered on the grass, she left me. Before long she returned with a stalk, round, polished, slender, like a pipe-stem, and crowned with its cluster of three splendid crimson flowers. When I had sufficiently thanked her and admired it, I said, “What boon are you going to ask from the Virgin, Monica, when you offer her these flowers—safety for your lover in the wars?” “No, señor; I have no offering to make, and no boon to ask. They are for my aunt; I offered to gather them for her, because—I wished to meet you here.” “To meet me, Monica—what for?” “To ask for a story, señor,” she replied, colouring and with a shy glance at my face. “Ah, we have had stories enough,” I said. “Remember poor Anita running away this morning to look for a playmate in the wet mist.” “She is a child; I am a woman.” “Then, Monica, you must have a lover who will be jealous if you listen to stories from a stranger's lips in this lonely spot.” “No person will ever know that I met you here,” she returned—so bashful, yet so persistent. “I have forgotten all my stories,” I said. “Then, señor, I will go and find you another ramo of lilies while you think of one to tell me.” “No,” I said, “you must get no more lilies for me. Look, I will give you back these you gave me.” And, saying that, I fastened them in her black hair, where by contrast they looked very splendid, and gave the girl a new grace. “Ah, Monica, they make you look too pretty—let me take them out again.” But she would not have them taken. “I will leave you now to think of a story for me,” she said, blushing and turning away. Then I took her hands and made her face me. “Listen, Monica,” I said. “Do you know that these lilies are full of strange magic? See how crimson they are; that is the colour of passion, for they have been steeped in passion, and turn my heart to fire. If you bring me any more of them, Monica, I shall tell you a story that will make you tremble with fear—tremble like the willow-leaves and turn pale as the mist over the Yí.” She smiled at my words; it was like a ray of sunlight falling through the foliage on her face. Then, in a voice that was almost a whisper, she said, “What will the story be about, señor? Tell me, then I shall know whether to gather lilies for you or not.” “It will be about a stranger meeting a sweet, pale girl standing under the trees, her dark eyes cast down, and red lilies in her hand; and how she asked him for a story, but he could speak to her of nothing but love, love, love.” When I finished speaking she gently withdrew her hands from mine and turned away amongst the trees, doubtless to fly from me, trembling at my words, like a frightened young fawn from the hunter. So for a moment I thought. But no, there lay the lilies gathered for a religious purpose at my feet, and there was nothing reproachful in the shy, dark eyes when they glanced back for a moment at me; for, in spite of those warning words, she had only gone to find more of those perilous crimson flowers to give me. Not then, while I waited for her return with palpitating heart, but afterwards in calmer moments, and when Monica had become a pretty picture in the past, did I compose the following lines. I am not so vain as to believe that they possess any great poetical merit, and introduce them principally to let the reader know how to pronounce the pretty name of that Oriental river, which it still keeps in remembrance of a vanished race. Standing silent, pale her face was, Pale and sweet to see: 'Neath the willows waiting for me, Willow-like was she, Smiling, blushing, trembling, bashful Maid of Yí. Willow-like she trembled, yet she Never fled from me; But her dove-like eyes were downcast, On the grass to see White feet standing: white thy feet were, Maid of Yí. Stalks of lilies in her hands were: Crimson lilies three, Placed I in her braids of black hair— They were bright to see! Lift thy dark eyes, for I love thee, Maid of Yí! <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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