 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For further information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Far away and long ago by W. H. Hudson Chapter 8 The Tyrants Fall and What Followed At the end of the last chapter, when describing my one sight of the famous Jester, Don Eusebio, in his glory, attended by a bodyguard with drawn swords, who were ready to cut down any one of the spectators who failed to remove his hat or laughed at the show, I said it was on the eve of the fall of the president of the Republic, or dictator, the tyrant, as he was called by his adversaries, when they didn't call him the Nero of South America, or the Tiger of Palermo, this being the name of a park on the north side of Buenos Aires, where Rosas lived in a white, stuccoed house called his palace. At that time, the portrait in colours of the great man occupied the post of honour above the mantelpiece in our Sulla or drawing room, the picture of a man with fine, clear-cut, regular features, light reddish-brown hair and side whiskers and blue eyes. He was sometimes called Englishman on account of his regular features and blonde complexion. That picture of a stern, handsome face with flags and cannon and olive branch, the arms of the Republic, in its heavy gold frame was one of the principal ornaments of the room and my father was proud of it, since he was, for reasons to be stated by and by, a great admirer of Rosas, an out-and-out Rosista, as the loyal ones were called. This portrait was flanked by two others, one of Dona Encarnacion, the wife long dead of Rosas, a handsome, proud-looking young woman, with a vast amount of black hair piled up on her head in a fantastic fashion, surmounted by a large, tortoiseshell comb. I remember that as small children we used to look with a queer, almost uncanny sort of feeling at this face under its pile of black hair, because it was handsome, but not sweet nor gentle, and because she was dead and had died long ago. Yet it was like the picture of one alive when we looked at it, and those black, unloving eyes gazed straight back into ours. Why did those eyes, unless they moved, which they didn't, always look back into ours, no matter in what part of the room we stood, a perpetual puzzle to our childish, uninformed brains. On the other side was the repellent, truculant countenance of the Captain General, Orquita, who was the dictator's right-hand man, a ferocious cutthroat, if ever there was one, who had upheld his authority for many years in the rebellious upper provinces, but who had just now raised the standard of revolt against him, and in a little while, with the aid of a Brazilian army, would succeed in overthrowing him. The central portrait inspired us with a kind of awe and reverential feeling, since even as small children, we were made to know that he was the greatest man in the Republic, that he had unlimited power over all men's lives and fortunes, and was terrible in his anger against evil doers, especially those who rebelled against his authority. Two more portraits of the famous men of the Republic of that date adorned the same wall. Next to Orquita was General Oribe, commander of the army sent by Rossus against Montevideo, which maintained the siege of that city for the space of ten years. On the other side, next to Dona Encarnacion, was the portrait of the Minister of War, a face which had no attraction for us children, as it was not coloured like that of the dictator, nor had any romance or mystery in it like that of his dead wife. Yet it served to bring all these pictured people into our actual world, to make us realise that they were the counterfeit presentments of real men and women. For it happened that this same Minister of War was in a way a neighbour of ours, as he owned an Estancia, which he sometimes visited, about three leagues from us, on that part of the plain to the east of our place, which I have described in a former chapter, as being covered with the dense growth of the bluish-gray wild artichoke, the Cardo de Castilla, as it is called in the vernacular. Like most of the Estancia houses of that day, it was a long low building of brick with thatched roof, surrounded by an enclosed quinta or plantation, with rows of century-old Lombardy poplars conspicuous at a great distance, and many old acacia, peach, quints and cherry trees. It was a cattle and horse-breeding establishment, but the beasts were of less account to the owner than his peacocks, a fowl for which he had so great a predilection that he could not have too many of them. He was always buying more peacocks to send out to the estate, and they multiplied until the whole place swarmed with them, and he wanted them all for himself, so that it was forbidden to sell or give even an egg away. The place was in the charge of a major domo, a good-natured fellow, and when he discovered that we liked peacock's feathers for decorative purposes in the house, he made it accustomed to send us each year at the molting-time, large bundles, whole armfuls of feathers. Another curious thing in the Estancia was a large room set apart for the display of trophies sent from Buenos Aires by the minister's eldest son. I've already given an account of a favourite pastime of the young gentleman of the capital, that of giving battle to the night watchmen and resting their staffs and lanterns from them. Our minister's heir was a leader in this sport, and from time to time sent consignments of his trophies to the country place, where the walls of the room were covered with staffs and festoons of lanterns. Once or twice as a small boy, I had the privilege of meeting this young gentleman and looked at him with an intense curiosity, which has served to keep his image in my mind till now. His figure was slender and graceful, his features good, and he had a rather long Spanish face. His eyes were grey-blue, and his hair and moustache are reddish-golden-brown. It was a handsome face, but with a curiously repelling, impatient, reckless, almost devilish expression. I was at home again, back in the plantation among my beloved birds, glad to escape from the noisy, dusty city into the sweet green silences, with a great green plain glittering with the false water of the mirage spreading around our shady oasis, and the fact that war, which for the short period of my own little life, and for many long years before I was born, had not visited our province, thanks to Roses, the tyrant, the man of blood and iron, had now come to us, did not make the sunshine less sweet and pleasant to behold. Our elders, it is true, showed anxious faces, but they were often anxious about matters which did not affect us children, and therefore didn't matter. But by and by even we little ones were made to realise that there was a trouble in the land which touched us too, since it deprived us of the companionship of the native boy who was our particular friend and guardian during our early horseback rambles on the plain. This boy, Medardo or Dardo, was the 15-years-old son, illegitimus of course, of the native woman our English shepherd had made his wife. Why he had done so was a perpetual mystery and marvel to everyone on account of her person and temper. The very thought of this poor Natalia or Don Yanata, as she was called, long dead and turned to dust in that far pamper, troubles my spirit even now and gives me the uncomfortable feeling that in putting her portrait on this paper I am doing a mean thing. She was an excessively lean creature, careless and even dirty in her person, with slippers but no stockings on her feet, an old dirty gown of a coarse blue cotton stuff, and a large coloured cotton handkerchief or piece of calico wound turban-wise about her head. She was of a yellowish parchment colour, the skin tight drawn over the small bony aquiline features, and it would have seemed and it would have seemed like the face of a corpse or mummy, but for the deeply sunken jet-black eyes burning with a troubled fire in their sockets. There was a tremor and strangely pathetic note in her thin, high-pitched voice, as of a woman speaking with effort between half suppressed sobs, or like the mournful cry of some wild bird of the marshes. Voice and face were true indications of her anxious mind. She was in a perpetual state of worry over some trifling matter, and when real trouble came, as when our flock got mixed with a neighbour's flock, and four or five thousand sheep had to be parted, sheep by sheep, according to their earmarks, or when her husband came home drunk and tumbled off his horse at the door instead of dismounting in the usual manner. She would be almost out of her mind and ring her hands and shriek and cry out that such conduct would not be endured by his long-suffering master, and they would no longer have a roof over their heads. Poor anxious-minded Nata, who moved us both to pity and repulsion, it was impossible not to admire her efforts to keep her stolid, inarticulate husband in the right path, and her intense, wild, animal-like love of her children, the three dirty-faced English-looking offspring of her strange marriage, and Dardo, her first-born, the son of the wind. He, too, was an interesting person. Small or short for his years, he was thick, and had a curiously solid, mature appearance, with a round head, wide open, startlingly bright eyes, and aquiline features, which gave him a resemblance to a sparrow-hawk. He was mature in mind, too, and had all the horse-law of the seasoned gaucho, and at the same time he was like a child in his love of fun and play, and wanted nothing better than to service as a perpetual playmate. But he had his work, which was to look after the flock when the shepherd's services were required elsewhere, an easy task for him on his horse, especially in summer, when for long hours the sheep would stand motionless on the plain. Dardo, who was teaching us to swim, would then invite us to go to the river, to one of the two streams within half an hour's ride from home, where there were good bathing-pools. But always before starting he would have to go and ask his mother's consent. Mounting my pony, I would follow him to the puesto, or shepherd's ranch, only to be denied permission. No, you are not to go today. You must not think of such a thing. I forbid you to take the boys to the river this day. Then Dardo, turning his horse's head, would exclaim, Oh Karambambamba! And she, seeing him going, would rush out after us, shrieking, Don't Karambambamba me. You are not to go to the river this day. I forbid it. I know if you go to the river this day there will be a terrible calamity. Listen to me, Dardo, rebel, devil that you are. You shall not go bathing today. And the cries would continue until breaking into a gallop. We would quickly be out of earshot. Then Dardo would say, Now we go back to the house for the others, and go to the river. You see, she made me kneel before the crucifix and promise never to take you to bathe without asking her consent. And that's all I've got to do. I never promise to obey her commands, so it's all right. These pleasant adventures with Dardo on the plain were suddenly put a stop to by the war. One morning a number of persons on foot and on horseback were seen coming to us over the green plain from the shepherd's ranch. And as they drew nearer, we recognized our old Alcalde on his horse as the leader of the procession, and behind him walked Don Yanata, holding her son by the hand, then followed others on foot, and behind them all rode four old gauchos, the Alcalde's henchmen wearing their swords. What matter of tremendous importance had brought this crowd to our house. The Alcalde, Don Amaro Avalos, was not only the representative of the authorities in our parts, police officer, petty magistrate of sorts, and several other things besides, but a grand old man in himself, and he looms large in memory among the old gaucho patriarchs in our neighbourhood. He was a big man, about six feet high, exceedingly dignified in manner, his long hair and beard of a silvery whiteness. He wore the gaucho costume with a great profusion of silver ornaments, including ponderous silver spurs weighing about four pounds and heavy silver whip handle. As a rule, he rode on a big black horse which admirably suited his figure and the scarlet colour and silver of his costume. On arrival, Don Amaro was conducted to the drawing room, followed by all the others, and when all were seated, including the four old gauchos wearing swords, the Alcalde addressed my parents and informed them of the object of the visit. He had received an imperative order from his superiors, he said, to take at once and send to headquarters twelve more young men as recruits for the army from his small section of the district. Now most of the young men had already been taken, or had disappeared from the neighbourhood in order to avoid service, and to make up this last twelve, he had even to take boys of the age of this one, and Medardo would have to go. But this woman would not have her boy taken, and after spending many words in trying to convince her that she must submit he had at last to satisfy her, consented to accompany her to her master's house to discuss the matter again in her master and mistress's presence. It was a long speech, pronounced with great dignity. Then, almost before it finished, the distracted mother jumped up and threw herself on her knees before my parents, and in her wild, tremulous voice began crying to them, imploring them to have compassion on her and help her to save her boy from such a dreadful destiny. What would he be? she cried, a boy of his tender years dragged from his home, from his mother's care, and thrown among a crowd of old, hardened soldiers and of evil-minded men, murderers, robbers and criminals of all descriptions, drawn from all the prisons of the land to serve in the army. It was dreadful to see her on her knees, wringing her hands and to listen to her wild, lamentable cries, and again and again, while the matter was being discussed between the old Alcaldet and my parents, she would break out and plead with such passion and despair in her voice and words that all the people in the room were affected to tears. She was like some wild animal, trying to save her offspring from the hunters. Never exclaimed my mother when the struggle was over, had she passed so painful, so terrible an hour, and the struggle had all been in vain, and Dardo was taken from us. One morning, some weeks later, the dull roar from distant big guns came to our ears, and we were told that a great battle was being fought, that Rosas himself was at the head of his army. A poor little force of 25,000 men got together in hot haste to oppose a mixed Argentine and Brazilian force of about 40,000 men commanded by the traitor Urquitha. During several hours of that anxious day, the dull, heavy sound of firing continued, and was like distant thunder. Then in the evening came the tidings of the overthrow of the defending army, and of the march of the enemy on Buenos Aires City. On the following day, from dawn to dark, we were in the midst of an incessant stream of the defeated men, flying to the south, in small parties of two or three to half a dozen men, with some larger bands, all in their scarlet uniforms, and armed with lances and carbines and broadswords, many of the bands driving large numbers of horses before them. My father was warned by the neighbours that we were in great danger, since these men were now lawless and would not hesitate to plunder and kill in their retreat, and that all riding horses would certainly be seized by them. As a precaution, he had the horses driven in, and concealed in the plantation, and that was all he would do. Oh no, he said with a laugh, they won't hurt us. And so we were all out and about, all day, with the front gate and all doors and windows standing open, from time to time a band on tired horses rode to the gate, and without dismounting shouted a demand for fresh horses. In every case, he went out and talked to them, always with a smiling, pleasant face, and after assuring them that he had no horses for them, they slowly and reluctantly took their departure. About three o'clock in the afternoon, the hottest hour of the day, a troop of ten men rode up at a gallop, raising a great cloud of dust, and coming in at the gate drew rain before the veranda. My father as usual went out to meet them, whereupon they demanded fresh horses in loud menacing voices. In doors we were all gathered in the large sitting room, waiting the upshot in a state of intense anxiety, for no preparations had been made, and no means of defence existed in the event of a sudden attack on the house. We watched the proceedings from the interior, which was too much in shadow for our dangerous visitors to see that they were only women and children there, and one man, a visitor, who had withdrawn to the further end of the room, and sat leaning back in an easy chair, trembling and white as a corpse, with a naked sword in his hand. He explained to us afterwards, when the danger was all over, that fortunately he was an excellent swordsman, and that having found the weapon in the room, he had resolved to give a good account of the ten ruffians, if they had made a rush to get in. My father replied to these men, as he had done to the others, assuring them that he had no horses to give them. Meanwhile we, who were indoors, all noticed that one of the ten men was an officer, a beardless young man of about twenty-one or two, with a singularly engaging face. He took no part in the proceedings, but sat silent on his horse, watching the others with a peculiar expression half contemptuous and half anxious on his countenance. And he alone was unarmed, a circumstance which struck us as very strange. The others were all old veterans, middle-aged and oldish men with grizzled beards, all in scarlet jacket and scarlet chiripa, and a scarlet cap of the quaint form then worn, shaped like a boat turned upside down, with a horn-like peak in front, and behind the peak a brass plate, on which was the number of the regiment. The men appeared surprised at the refusal of horses, and stated plainly that they would not accept it, in which my father shook his head and smiled. One of the men then asked for water to quench his thirst. Someone in the house then took out a large jug of cold water, and my father, taking it, handed it up to the man. He drank, then passed the jug on to the other thirsty ones, and after going its rounds the jug was handed back, and the demand for fresh horses renewed in menacing tones. There was some water left in the jug, and my father began pouring it out in a thin stream, making little circles and figures on the dry, dusty ground. Then once more shook his head and smiled very pleasantly on them. Then one of the men, fixing his eyes on my father's face, bent forward and suddenly struck his hand violently on the hilt of his broadsword, and rattling the weapon, half drew it from its sheath. This nerve-trying experiment was a complete failure, its only effect being to make my father smile up at the man even more pleasantly than before, as if the little practical joke had greatly amused him. The strange thing was that my father was not playing a part, that it was his nature to act in just that way. It is a curious thing to say of any person that his highest or most shining qualities were nothing but defects, since, apart from these same singular qualities, he was just an ordinary person with nothing to distinguish him from his neighbours, excepting perhaps that he was not anxious to get rich and was more neighbourly or more brotherly towards his fellows than most men. The sense of danger, the instinct of self-preservation supposed to be universal, was not in him, and there were occasions when this extraordinary defect produced the keenest distress in my mother. In hot summers we were subject to thunderstorms of an amazing violence, and at such times when thunder and lightning were nearest together and most terrifying to everybody else, he would stand out of doors gazing calmly up at the sky as if the blinding flashes and world-shaking thundercrashes had some soothing effect like music on his mind. One day just before noon it was reported by one of the men that the saddle-horses could not be found, and my father, with his spy-glass in his hand, went out and ran up the wooden stairs to the Mirador, or lookout constructed at the top of the big barn-like building used for storing wool. The Mirador was so high that standing on it one was able to see even over the tops of the tall plantation trees, and to protect the looker out there was a high wooden railing round it, and against this the tall flagstaff was fastened. When my father went up to the lookout a terribly violent thunderstorm was just bursting on us. The dazzling, almost continuous lightning appeared to be not only in the black cloud over the house, but all around us, and crash quickly followed crash, making the doors and windows rattle in their frames, while there, high above us, in the very midst of the awful tumult stood my father, calm as ever, not satisfied that he was high enough on the floor of the lookout, he had got up on the topmost rail and standing on it with his back against the tall pole, he surveyed the open plain all round through his spy-glass in search of the lost horses. I remember that indoors my mother, with white terror-stricken face, stood gazing out at him, and that the whole house was in a state of terror, expecting every moment to see him strapped by lightning and hurled down to the earth below. A second, and in its results a more disastrous shining quality, was a childlike trust in the absolute good faith of every person with whom he came into business relations, things being what they are this inevitably led to his ruin. To return to our unwelcome visitors, on this occasion my father's perfectly cool, smiling demeanor, resulting from his foolhardiness, served him and the house well. It deceived them, for they could not believe that he would have acted in that way, if they had not been watched by men with rifles in their hands from the interior, who would open fire on the least hostile movement on their part. Suddenly the scowling spokesman of the troop, with a shouted, Bamos, turned his horse's head, and followed by all the others, rode out and broke into a gallop. We too then hurried out, and from the screen of poplar and black acacia trees, growing at the side of the moat, watched their movements and saw, when they had got a few hundred yards from the gate, the young unarmed officer break away from them, and start off at the greatest speed he could get out of his horse. The others quickly gave chase, and at length disappeared from sight in the direction of the Alcaldes, or local petty magistrates' house, about a mile and a half away. It was a long, low, thatched ranch without trees, and could not be seen from our house as it stood behind a marshy lake, all overgrown with bullrushes. While we were straining our eyes to see the result of the chase, and after the hunted man and his pursuers had vanished from sight among the herds of cattle and horses grazing on the plain, the tragedy was being carried out in exceedingly painful circumstances. The young officer, whose home was more than a day's journey from our district, had visited the neighbourhood on a former occasion, and remembering that he had relations in it, and when he broke away from the man, divining that it was their intention to murder him, he made for the old Alcaldes house. He succeeded in keeping ahead of his pursuers until he arrived at the gate, and throwing himself from his horse and rushing into the house, and finding the old Alcaldes surrounded by the women of the house, addressed him as uncle, and claimed his protection. The Alcaldes was not, strictly speaking, his uncle, but was his mother's first cousin. It was an awful moment. The nine armed ruffians were already standing outside, shouting to the owner of the place to give them up their prisoner, and threatening to burn down the house and kill all the inmates, if he refused. The old Alcaldes stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by a crowd of women and children. His own two handsome daughters aged about twenty and twenty-two, respectively, among them, fainting with terror and crying for him to save them, while the young officer on his knees implored him for the sake of his mother's memory, and of the mother of God, and of all he held sacred, to refuse to give him up to be slaughtered. The old man was not equal to the situation. He trembled and sobbed with anguish, and at last faltered out that he could not protect him, that he must save his own daughters and the wives and children of his neighbours who had sought refuge in his house. The men outside, hearing how the argument was going, came to the door, and finally seizing the young man by the arm, led him out and made him mount his horse again and ride with them. They rode back the way they had gone for half a mile towards our house, then pulled him off his horse and cut his throat. On the following day a mulatto boy who looked after the flock and went on errands for the Alcaldes, came to me and said that if I would mount my pony and go with him, he would show me something. It was not seldom this same little fellow came to me to offer to show me something, and it usually turned out to be a bird's nest, an object which keenly interested us both. I gladly mounted my pony and followed. The broken army had ceased passing our way by now, and it was peaceful and safe once more on the great plain. We rode about a mile, and he then pulled up his horse and pointed to the turf at our feet, where I saw a great stain of blood on the short, dry grass. Here he told me was where they had cut the young officer's throat. The body had been taken by the Alcalde to his house, where it had been lying since the evening before, and it would be taken for burial next day to our nearest village, about eight miles distant. The murder was the talk of the place for some days, chiefly on account of the painful facts of the case, that the old Alcalde, who was respected and even loved by everyone, should have failed in so pitiful a way to make any attempt at saving his young relation. But the mere fact that the soldiers had cut the throat of their officer surprised no one. It was a common thing in the case of a defeat in those days for the men to turn upon and murder their officers, nor was the throat cutting a mere custom or convention. To the old soldier, it was the only satisfactory way of finishing off your adversary or prisoner of war, or your officer who had been your tyrant on the day of defeat. Their feeling was similar to that of the man who is inspired by the hunting instinct in its primitive form, as described by Richard Jeffries. To kill the creatures with bullets at a distance was no satisfaction to him. He must, with his own hands, drive the shaft into the quivering flesh. He must feel its quivering, and see the blood gush up beneath his hand. One smiles at a vision of the gentle Richard Jeffries' slaughtering wild cattle in the Paleolithic way, but that feeling and desire which he describes with such passion in his story of my heart, that survival of the past, is not uncommon in the hearts of hunters, and if we were ever to drop out of our civilisation, I fancy we should return rather joyfully to the primitive method. And so in those dark times in the Argentine Republic, when during half a century of civil strife, which followed on casting off the Spanish yoke, as it was called, the people of the plains had developed an amazing ferocity. They loved to kill a man, not with a bullet, but in a manner to make them know and feel that they were really and truly killing. As a child, those dreadful deeds did not impress me, since I did not witness them myself, and after looking at that stain of blood on the grass, the subject faded out of my mind. But as time went on, and I heard more about this painful subject, I began to realise what it meant. The full horror of it came only a few years later, when I was big enough to go about to the native houses and amongst the gauchos in their gatherings, at cattle partings and brandings, races, and on other occasions. I listened to the conversation of groups of men whose lives had been mostly spent in the army, as a rule in guerrilla warfare, and the talk turned with surprising frequency to the subject of cutting throats. Not to waste powder on prisoners was an unwritten law of the Argentine army at that period, and the veteran gaucho, clever with the knife, took delight in obeying it. It always came as a relief, I heard them say, to have as victim a young man with a good neck, after an experience of tough, scraggy, old throats. With a person of that sort, they were in no hurry to finish the business. It was performed in a leisurely, loving way. Darwin, writing in praise of the gaucho in his voyage of a naturalist, says that if the gaucho cuts your throat, he does it like a gentleman. Even as a small boy, I knew better, that he did his business rather like a hellish creature, reveling in his cruelty. He would listen to all his captive could say to soften his heart, all his heart-rending prayers and pleadings, and would reply, Ah, friend, or little friend, or brother, your words pierce me to the heart, and I would gladly spare you for the sake of that poor mother of yours who fed you with her milk, and for your own sake, too, since in this short time I have conceived a great friendship towards you. But your beautiful neck is your undoing, for how could I possibly deny myself the pleasure of cutting such a throat? So shapely, so smooth, and soft, and so white, think of the sight of warm red blood gushing from that white column, and so on, with wavings of the steel blade before the captive's eyes, until the end. When I heard them relate such things, and I am quoting their very words, remembered all these years only too well, laughingly, gloating over such memories, such a loathing and hatred possessed me, that ever afterwards the very sight of these men was enough to produce a sensation of nausea, just as when in the dog days one inadvertently rides too near the putrid carcass of some large beast on the plane. As I have said, all this feeling about throat-cutting and the power to realise and visualise it came to me by degrees long after the sight of a bloodstain on the turf near our home, and in light manner the significance of the tyrant's fall and the mighty changes it brought about in the land only came to me long after the event. People were in perpetual conflict about the character of the great man. He was abhorred by many, perhaps by most. Others were on his side, even for years after he had vanished from their ken, and amongst these were most of the English residents of the country, my father among them. Quite naturally I followed my father, and came to believe that all the blood shed during a quarter of a century, all the crimes and cruelties practised by Rosas, were not like the crimes committed by a private person, but were all for the good of the country, with the result that in Buenos Aires and throughout our province there had been a long period of peace and prosperity, and that all this ended with his fall, and was succeeded by years of fresh revolutionary outbreaks and bloodshed and anarchy. Another thing about Rosas, which made me ready to fall in with my father's high opinion of him, was the number of stories about him which appealed to my childish imagination. Many of these related to his adventures, when he would disguise himself as a person of humble status and prowl about the city by night, especially in the squalid quarters, where he would make the acquaintance of the very poor in their hovels. Most of these stories were probably inventions, and need not be told here, but there was one which I must say something about, because it is a bird story, and greatly excited my boyish interest. I was often asked by our goucho neighbours when I talked with them about birds, and they all knew that that subject interested me above all others, if I had ever heard El Canto or El Cuento del Bien Tevello, that is to say the ballad or tale of the Bien Tevello, a species of tyrant bird quite common in the country, with a brown back and sulphur yellow under parts, a crest on its head, and face barred with black and white. It is a little larger than our butcher bird, and like it is partly rapacious in its habits. The barred face and long kingfisher like beak give it a peculiarly knowing or cunning look, and the effect is heightened by the long tricelabic call constantly uttered by the bird, from which it derives its name of Bien Tevello, which means I can see you. He is always letting you know that he is there, that he has got his eye on you, so that you had better be careful about your actions. The Bien Tevello, I need hardly say, was one of my feathered favourites, and I begged my gouch of friends to tell me this Cuento, but although I met scores of men who had heard it, not one remembered it, they could only say that it was very long, very few persons could remember such a long story, and I further gathered that it was a sort of history of the bird's life, and his adventures among the other birds, but the Bien Tevello was always doing clever, naughty things, and getting into trouble, but invariably escaping the penalty. From all I could hear it was a tale of the reynard the fox order, or like the tales told by the gouchos of the armadillo, and how that quaint little beast always managed to fool his fellow animals, especially the fox, who regarded himself as the cleverest of all the beasts, and who looked on his honest, dull-witted neighbour the armadillo as a born fool. Old gouchos used to tell me that twenty or more years ago, one often met with a reciter of ballads who could relate the whole story of the Bien Tevello. Good reciters were common enough in my time. At dances it was always possible to find one or two to amuse the company with long poems and ballads in the intervals of dancing, and first and last I questioned many who had this talent, but failed to find one who knew the famous bird ballad, and in the end I gave up the quest. The story invariably told was that a man convicted of some serious crime and condemned to suffer the last penalty, and left as the custom then was for long months in the jail in Buenos Aires, amused himself by composing the story of the Bien Tevello, and thinking well of it, he made a present of the manuscript to the jailer in acknowledgment of some kindness he had received from that person. The condemned man had no money and no friends to interest themselves on his behalf, but it was not the customer at that time to execute a criminal as soon as he was condemned. The prison authorities preferred to wait until there were a dozen or so to execute. These would then be taken out, ranged against a wall of the prison, opposite a file of soldiers with muskets in their hands, and shot. The soldiers, after the first discharge, reloading their weapons, and going up to the fallen men to finish off those who were still kicking. This was the prospect our prisoner had to look forward to. Meanwhile his ballad was being circulated and read with immense delight by various persons in authority, and one of these who was privileged to approach the dictator, thinking it would afford him a little amusement, took the ballad and read it to him. Rossas was so pleased with it that he pardoned the condemned man and ordered his liberation. All this I conjectured must have happened at least twenty years before I was born. I also concluded that the ballad had never been printed, otherwise I would most probably have found it, but some copies in writing had evidently been made and it had become a favourite composition with reciters at festive gatherings, but had now gone out and was hopelessly lost. These, as I have already intimated, were but the little things that touched a child's fancy. There was another romantic circumstance in the life of Rossas which appealed to everybody, adult as well as child. He was the father of Donya Manuela, known by the affectionate diminutive Manuelita throughout the land and loved and admired by all, even by her father's enemies, for her compassionate disposition. Perhaps she was the one being in the world for whom he, a widower and a lonely man, cherished a great tenderness. It is certain that her power of him was very great and that many lives that would have been taken for state reasons were saved by her interposition. It was a beautiful and fearful part that she, a girl, was called on to play on that dreadful stage, and very naturally it was said that she, who was the very spirit of Mercy incarnate, could not have acted as the loving, devoted daughter to one who was the monster of cruelty his enemies proclaimed him to be. Here, in conclusion to this chapter, I had intended to introduce a few sober reflections on the character of Rossas, certainly the greatest and most interesting of the South America Caldíos or leaders who rose to absolute power during the long stormy period that followed on the War of Independence, reflections which came to me later in my teens when I began to think for myself and form my own judgments. This I now perceive would be a mistake if not an impertinence, since I have not the temper of mind for such exercises, and should give too much importance to certain singular acts on the dictator's part, which others would perhaps regard as political errors or due to sudden fits of passion or petulance rather than as crimes. And some of his acts are inexplicable, as for instance the public execution in the interests of religion and morality of a charming young lady of good family and her lover, the handsome young priest who had captivated the town with his eloquence. Why he did it will remain a puzzle for ever. There were many other acts which to foreigners and to those born in later times might seem the result of insanity, but which were really the outcome of a peculiar, sardonic and somewhat primitive sense of humour on his part, which appeals powerfully to the men of the plains, the Gauchos amongst whom Rossas lived from boyhood when he ran away from his father's house, and by whose aid he eventually rose to supreme power. All these things do not much affect the question of Rossas as a ruler and his place in history. Time, the old god, says the poet, invests all things with honour and makes them white. The poet-prophet is not to be taken literally, but his words so undoubtedly contain a tremendous truth. And here, then, one may let the question rest. If, after half a century and more, the old god is still sitting, chin on hand, revolving this question, it would be as well to give him, say, another fifty years to make up his mind and pronounce a final judgment. CHAPTER IX. OUR NEIGHBORS AT THE POPPLERS. In a former chapter on the aspects of the plain, I described the groves and plantations which marked the sights of the Estancia houses, as appearing like banks or islands of trees, blue in the distance, on the vast, flat, sea-like plain. Some of these were many miles away and were but faintly visible on the horizon. Others nearer, and the nearest of all was but two miles from us, on the hither side of that shallow river to which my first long walk was taken, where I was amazed and enchanted with my first sight of flamingos. This place was called Los Alamos, or the poplars, a name which would have suited a large majority of the Estancia houses with trees growing about them, seeing that the tall Lombardi poplar was almost always there in long rows towering high above all other trees and a landmark in the district. It is about the people dwelling at Los Alamos I have now to write. When I first started on my riding rambles about the plain, I began to make the acquaintance of some of our nearest neighbors, but at first it was a slow process. As a child, I was excessively shy of strangers, and I also greatly feared the big savage house dogs that would rush out to attack anyone approaching the gate. But a house with a grove or plantation fascinated me, for where there were trees, there were birds, and I had soon made the discovery that you could sometimes meet with birds of a new kind in a plantation quite near to your own. Little by little I found out that the people were invariably friendly towards a small boy, even the child of an alien and heretic race. Also, that the dogs, in spite of all their noise and fury, never really tried to pull me off my horse and tear me to pieces. In this way, thinking of and looking only for the birds, I became acquainted with some of the people individually, and as I grew to know them better from year to year, I sometimes became interested in them too, and in this, and three or four succeeding chapters, I will describe those I knew best or that interested me the most. Not only as I first knew, or began to know them in my seventh year, but in several instances I shall be able to trace their lives and fortunes for some years further on. When outriding, I went oftenest in the direction of Los Alamos, which was west of us, or as the Gauchos would say, on the side where the sun sets. For just behind the plantation, enclosed in its rows of tall old poplars, was that bird-haunted stream which was an irresistible attraction. The side of running water, too, was a never-failing joy, also the odors which greeted me in that moist green place. Odors earthy, erby, fishy, flowery, and even birdy, particularly that peculiar musky odor given out on hot days by large flocks of the glossy ibis. The person, owner or tenant, I forget which, who lived in the house was an old woman named Donia Pasquala, whom I never saw without a cigar in her mouth. Her hair was white and her thousand wrinkled face was as brown as the cigar, and she had fun-loving eyes, a loud authoritative voice, and a masterful manner, and she was esteemed by her neighbors as a wise and good woman. I was shy of her and avoided the house while anxious to get peeps into the plantation to watch the birds and look for nests, as whenever she caught sight of me she would not let me off without a sharp cross-examination as to my motives and doings. She would also have a hundred questions besides about the family, how they were, what they were all doing, and whether it was really true that we drank coffee every morning for breakfast. Also, if it was true that all of us children, even the girls, when big enough were going to be taught to read the almanac. I remember once when we had been having a long spell of wet weather and the low-lying plain about Los Alamos was getting flooded, she came to visit my mother and told her reassuringly that the rain would not last much longer. St. Anthony was the saint she was devoted to, and she had taken his image from its place in her bedroom and tied his string round its legs and let it down the well and left it there with its head in the water. He was her own saint, she said, and after all her devotion to him and all the candles and flowers, this was how he treated her. It was all very well, she told her saint, to amuse himself by causing the rain to fall for days and weeks just to find out whether men would be drowned or turn themselves into frogs to save themselves. Now she, Doña Pascuala, was going to find out how he liked it. There, with his head in the water, he would have to hang in the well until the weather changed. Four years later in my tenth year, Doña Pascuala moved away and was succeeded at Los Alamos by a family named Barbosa, strange people. Half a dozen brothers and sisters, one or two married, and one the head and leader of the tribe or family, a big man aged about forty with fierce eagle-like eyes, under bushy black eyebrows that looked like tufts of feathers. But his chief glory was an immense crow-black beard, of which he appeared to be excessively proud and was usually seen stroking it in a slow deliberate manner. Now with one hand, then with both, pulling it out, dividing it, then spreading it over his chest to display its full magnificence. He wore at his waist, in front, a knife, or facón, with a sword-shaped hilt and a long-herved blade about two-thirds the length of a sword. He was a great fighter. At all events he came to our neighbourhood with that reputation, and I at that time, at the age of nine, like my elder brothers, had come to take a keen interest in the fighting gaucho. A duel between two men with knives, their punches wrapped around their left arms and used as shields, was a thrilling spectacle to us. I had already witnessed several encounters of this kind, but these were fights of ordinary or small men, and were very small affairs compared with the encounters of the famous fighters, about which we had news from time to time. Now that we had one of the genuine big ones among us, it would perhaps be our great good fortune to witness a real big fight. For sooner or later, some champion duelist from a distance would appear to challenge our man, or else some one of our own neighbours would rise up one day to dispute his claim to be cock of the walk. But nothing of the kind happened, although on two occasions I thought the wished moment had come. The first occasion was at a big gathering of gauchos, when Barbosa was asked and graciously consented to sing a decima, a song or ballad consisting of four ten-line stanzas. Now Barbosa was a singer, but not a player on the guitar, so that an accompanist had to be called for. A stranger at the meeting quickly responded to the call. Yes, he could play to any man singing, any tune he liked to call. He was a big, loud-voiced, talkative man, not known to any person present. He was a passerby, and seeing a crowd at a rancho had written up and joined them, ready to take a hand in whatever work or games might be going on. Taking the guitar he settled down by Barbosa's side and began tuning the instrument and discussing the question of the air to be played. And this was soon settled. Here I must pause to remark that Barbosa, although almost as famous for his decimas as for his sanguinary duels, was not what one would call a musical person. His singing voice was inexpressibly harsh, like that, for example, of the carrion crow when that bird is most vocal in its love season and makes the woods resound with its prolonged, grating, metallic calls. The interesting point was that his songs were his own composition, and were recitals of his strange adventures, mixed with his thoughts and feelings about things in general, his philosophy of life. Probably if I had these compositions before me now in Manuscript they would strike me as dreadfully crude stuff. Nevertheless, I am sorry I did not write some of them down and that I can only recall a few lines. The decima he now started to sing related to his early experiences, and swaying his body from side to side and bending forward until his beard was all over his knees, he began in his raucous voice. In el año 1840, cuando citaron todos los enrolados, which roughly translated means, 1840 was the year when all the enrolled were cited to appear. Thus far he had got when the guitarist, smiting angrily on the strings with his palm, leaped to his feet, shouting, no, no, no more of that. What do you sing to me of 1840, that cursed year? I refuse to play to you. Nor will I listen to you, nor will I allow any person to sing of that year and that event in my presence. Naturally, everyone was astonished and the first thought was, what will happen now? Blood would assuredly flow, and I was there to see, and how my elder brothers would envy me. Barbosa rose scowling from his seat and dropping his hand on the hilt of his facón said, Who is this who forbids me, Basilio Barbosa, to sing of 1840? I forbid you shouted this stranger in a rage and smiting his breast. Do you know what it is to me to hear that date, that fatal year? It is like the stab of a knife. I, a boy, was of that year, and when the fifteen years of my slavery and misery were over there was no longer a roof to shelter me, nor father, nor mother, nor land, nor cattle. Everyone instantly understood the case of this poor man, half crazed at the sudden recollection of his wasted and ruined life, and it did not seem right that he should bleed and perhaps die for such a cause, and all at once there was a rush and the crowd thrust itself between him and his antagonist, and hustled him a dozen yards away. Then one in the crowd, an old man, shouted, Do you think, friend, that you are the only one in this gathering who lost his liberty, and all he possessed on earth in that fatal year? I too suffered as you have suffered. And I, and I shouted others, and while this noisy demonstration was going on, some of those who were pressed in closer to the stranger began to ask him if he knew who the man was he had forbidden to sing of 1840. Had he never heard of Barbosa, the celebrated fighter who had killed so many men in fights. Perhaps he had heard and did not wish to die just yet. At all events, a change came over his spirit. He became more rational and even apologetic, and Barbosa graciously accepted the assurance that he had no desire to provoke a quarrel. And so there was no fight after all. The second occasion was about two years later, a long period during which there had been a good many duels with knives in our neighbourhood, but Barbosa was not in any of them. No person had come forward to challenge his supremacy. In his commonly said among the Gauchos that when a man has proved his prowess by killing a few of his opponents, he is thereafter permitted to live in peace. One day I attended a cattle-marking at a small native Estancia a few miles from home, owned by an old woman whom I used to think the oldest person in the world, as she hobbled about supporting herself with two sticks, bent nearly double, with her half-blind, colourless eyes always fixed on the ground. But she had granddaughters living with her who were not bad looking, the eldest, Antonia, a big, loud-faced young woman known as the white mare on account of the whiteness of her skin and large size, and three others. It was not strange that cattle-branding at this Estancia brought all the men and youths for leagues around to do a service to the venerable Donia Lucia del Ombu. That was what she was called because there was a solitary grand old Ombu tree, growing about a hundred yards from the house, a well-known landmark in the district. There were also half a dozen weeping willows close to the house, but no plantation, no garden, and no ditch or enclosure of any kind. The old mud-built rancho, fast with rushes, stood on the level-naked plain. It was one of the old decayed establishments, and the cattle were not many, so that by midday the work was done and the men numbering about forty or fifty trooped to the house to be entertained at dinner. As the day was hot and the indoor accommodation insufficient, the tables were in the shade of the willows, and there we had our feast of roast and boiled meat with bread and wine and big dishes of arroz con leche, rice boiled in milk with sugar and cinnamon. Next to come and seed, cinnamon is the spice best loved of the gaucho. He will ride long leagues to get it. The dinner over and tables cleared, the men and youths disposed themselves on the benches and chairs and on their spread ponchos on the ground, and started smoking and conversing. A guitar was produced, and Barbosa being present, surrounded as usual by a crowd of his particular friends or parasites, all eagerly listening to his talk, and applauding his salads with burst of laughter, he was naturally first asked to sing. The accompanist in this case was Goyo Montes, a little thick-set gaucho with round, staring blue eyes set in a round, pinky-brown face, and the tune agreed on was one known as La Lechera, the milkmaid. Then, while the instrument was being tuned and Barbosa began to sway his body about and talking ceased, a gaucho named Marcos, but usually called El Rengo, on account of his lameness, pushed himself into the crowd surrounding the great man and seated himself on a table and put his foot of his lame leg on the bench below. El Rengo was a strange being, a man with remarkably fine aquiline features, piercing black eyes and long black hair. As a youth, he had distinguished himself among his fellow gauchos by his daring feats of horsemanship, mad adventures, and fights. Then he met with the accident which blamed him for life and at the same time saved him from the army, when, at a cattle parting, he was thrown from his horse and gored by a furious bull, the animal's horn having been driven deep into his thigh. From that time, Marcos was a man of peace and was liked and respected by everyone as a good neighbor and a good fellow. He was also admired for the peculiarly amusing way of talking he had, when in the proper mood, which was usually when he was a little exhilarated by drink. His eyes would sparkle in his face light up and he would set his listeners laughing at the queer way in which he would play with his subject, but there was always some mockery and bitterness in it which served to show that something of the dangerous spirit of his youth still survived in him. On this occasion, he was in one of his most wilful, mocking, reckless moods, and was no sooner seated than he began smilingly in his quiet conversational tone to discuss the question of the singer and the tune. Yes, he said, the milk maid was a good tune, but another name to it would have suited the subject better. Oh, the subject, anyone might guess what that would be. The words mattered more than the air. For here we had before us not a small sweet singer, a gold finch and a cage, but a cock, a fighting cock with well-trimmed comb and tail and a pair of sharp spurs to its feet. Listen, friends, he is now about to flap his wings and crow. I was leaning against the table in which he sat and began to think it was a dangerous place for me, since I was certain that every word was distinctly heard by Barbosa, yet he made no sign, but went on swaying from side to side as if no mocking word had reached him, then launched out in one of his most atrocious decimals, autobiographical and philosophical. In the first stanza, he mentions that he had slain eleven men, but using a poet's license, he states the fact in a roundabout way, saying that he slew six men, and then five more, making eleven and all. Seis muertes e echo y cinco son once, which may be prayer-phrased thus. Six men had I sent to Hades or heaven, then added five more to make them eleven. The stanza ended. Marcos resumed his comments. What I had desired to know, said he, is why, eleven. It is not the proper number in this case. One more is wanted to make the full dozen. He who rests said eleven has not completed his task, and should not boast of what he has done. Here am I at his service, here is a life worth nothing to anyone waiting to be taken if he is willing and has the power to take it. This was a challenge direct enough, yet strange to say no sudden furious action followed, no flashing of steel and blood splashed on table and benches, nor was there the faintest sign of emotion in the singer's face, or any tremor or change in his voice when he resumed his singing. And so it went on to the end, boastful stanza and insulting remarks from Marcos. And by the time the Decima ended, a dozen or twenty men had forced themselves in between the two so that there could be no fight on this occasion. Among those present was an old Gaucho who took a peculiar interest in me on account of my bird lore, and who used to talk and expound Gaucho philosophy to me in a fatherly way. Meeting him a day or two later, I remarked I did not think Barbosa deserving of his fame as a fighter. I thought him a coward. No, he said, he was not a coward. He could have killed Marcos but he considered that it would be a mistake, since it would add nothing to his reputation and would probably make him disliked in the district. That was all very well, I replied, but how could anyone who was not a paltrune endure to be publicly insulted and challenged without flying into a rage and going for his enemy? He smiled and answered that I was an ignorant boy and would understand these things better some day, after knowing a good many fighters. There were some, he said, who were men of fiery temper, who would fly at and kill anyone for the slightest cause, an idle or imprudent word perhaps. There were others of a cool temper whose ambition it was to be great fighters, who fought and killed people not because they hated or were in a rage with them, but for the sake of the fame it would give them. Barbosa was one of this cool kind who when he fought killed and he was not to be drawn into a fight by any ordinary person or any fool who thought proper to challenge him. Thus spake my mentor and did not wholly remove my doubts, but I must now go back to the earlier date when this strange family were newly come to our neighborhood. All of the family appeared proud of their strangeness and of the reputation of their fighting brother, their protector and chief. No doubt he was an unspeakable Ruffian and although I was accustomed to Ruffians even as a child and did not find that they differed much from other men, this one with the fierce piercing eyes and cloud of black beard and hair somehow made me uncomfortable, and I accordingly avoided Los Alamos. I disliked the whole tribe except a little girl of about eight, a child it was said of one of the unmarried sisters. I never discovered which of her aunts as she called all these tall white-faced heavy browed women was her mother. I used to see her almost every day for though a child she was out on horseback early and late, riding barebacked in boy fashion flying about the plane, now to drive in the horses now to turn back the flock when it was getting too far afield, then the cattle and finally to ride on errands to neighbors' houses or to buy groceries at the store. I can see her now at full gallop on the plane barefooted and barelegged in her thin old cotton frock her raven black hair flying loose behind. The strangest thing in her was her whiteness, her beautifully chiseled face was like alabaster without a freckle or trace of color in spite of the burning hot sun and wind she was constantly exposed to. She was also extremely lean and strangely serious for a little girl, she never laughed and rarely smiled. Her name was Angela and she was called Angelita, the affectionate diminutive, but I doubt that much affection was ever bestowed on her. To my small boy's eyes she was a beautiful being with a cloud on her and I wished it had been in my power to say something to make her laugh and forget, though but for a moment the many cares and anxieties which made her so unnaturally grave for a little girl. Nothing proper to say ever came to me and if it had come it would no doubt have remained unspoken. Boys are always in articulate where their deepest feelings are concerned, however much they may desire it they cannot express kind and sympathetic feelings. In a halting way they may sometimes say a word of that nature to another boy or pal, but before a girl, however much she may move their compassion they remain dumb. I remember when my age was about nine the case of a quarrel about some trivial matter I once had with my closest friend, a boy of my own age who, with his people, used to come yearly on a month's visit to us from Buenos Aires. For three whole days we spoke not a word and took no notice of each other, whereas before we had been inseparable. Then he all at once came up to me and holding out his hand said, Let's be friends. I seized the proffered hand and was more grateful to him than I have ever felt towards anyone since, just because by approaching me first I was spared the agony of having to say those three words to him. Now that boy, that is to say the material part of him, is but a handful of gray ashes long, long ago at rest. But I can believe that if the other still living part should by chance be in this room now peeping over my shoulder to see what I am writing, he would burst into his hardy a laugh as a ghost is capable of at this ancient memory, and to say to himself that it took him all his courage to speak those three simple words. And so it came about that I said no gentle word to white faced Angelita, and in due time she vanished out of my life with all that queer tribe of hers. The bloody uncle included to leave an enduring image in my mind which has never quite lost a certain disturbing effect. End of Chapter 9. Recording by Steph Heather in La Merada, California on October 21st, 2007. Chapter 10. Far away and long ago. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This reading by Lucy Burgoyne. Far away and long ago by W. H. Hudson. Chapter 10. Our nearest English neighbour. One of the most important estanciers in our neighbourhood, at all events to us, was called Casa Cantigua. And that it was an ancient dwelling place in that district appeared likely enough, since the trees were the largest and had an appearance of extreme age. It must, however, be remembered that in speaking of ancient things on the Panthers we mean things a century or two old. Not many hundreds or thousands of years as in Europe. Three centuries in that part of South America takes us back to prehistoric times. These Lombardi poplars planted in long rows were the largest I had seen. They were very tall, many of them appeared to be dying of old age, and all had enormous, rough-bucked, buttress trunks. The other shade trees were also old and gnarled, some of them dying. The house itself did not look ancient and was built of unburned bricks and thatched, and had a broad corridor supported by wooden posts or pillars. The Casa Cantigua was situated about six miles from our house, but looked no more than three on account of the great height of the trees, which made it appear large and conspicuous on that wide-level plain. The land for miles round it was covered with the dense growth of cardoon thistles. Now the cardoon is the European artichoke run wild and its character somewhat altered in a different soil and climate. The large deep cut leaves are of a paleish-gray-green color. The stilocks covered with a whitish gray down and the leaves and stems thickly set with long yellow spines. It grows in thick bushes, and the bushes grow close together to the exclusion of grasses and most other plant life, and produces purple blossoms big as a small boy's head on stems four or five feet high. The stilocks, which are about as thick as a man's wrist, were used when dead and dry as firewood, and this indeed was the only fuel obtainable at that time in the country, except cowchips from the grazing lands and peat from the sheepfold. At the end of summer in February the firewood gatherers would set to work gathering the cardoon stalks. Their hands and arms protected with sheepskin gloves, and at that season our carters would bring in huge loads to be stacked up in piles high as a house for the year's use. The land where the cardoon grows so abundantly is not good for sheep, and at Casa Antigua all the land was of this character. The tenant was an Englishman, a Mr George Roy, and it was thought by his neighbours that he had made a serious mistake which would perhaps lead to disastrous consequences when investing his capital in the expensive fine wool breeds to put them on such land. All this I heard years afterwards. At that time I only knew that he was our nearest English neighbour, and more to us on that account than any other. We certainly had other English neighbours. Those who lived half a day's journey on horseback from us were our neighbours there, English, Welsh, Irish, Scotch, but they were not like Mr Royd. These others however prosperous, and some were the owners of large estates, came mostly from the working or lower middle class in their own country and were interested solely in their own affairs. Mr Royd was of a different order. He was about forty-five when my years were seven, a handsome, clean shaved man with bright blue, humorous eyes and brown hair. He was an educated man and loved to meet with others of like mind with himself, with whom he could converse in his own language. There was no English in his house. He had a bright, genial disposition, a love of fun, and a hearty ringing laugh. It was a pleasure to hear. He was an enthusiast about his sheep farming, always full of fine projects, always dreaming of the things he intended doing and of the great results which would follow. One of his pet notions was that cheeses made with sheep's milk would be worth any price he liked to put on them, and he accordingly began to make them under very great difficulties. Since the sheep had to be broken to it and they yielded but a small quantity compared with the sheep of certain districts in France and other countries where they had been milked for many generations and have enlarged their udders. Worst of all, his native servants considered it a degradation to have to stoop to milk such creatures as sheep. Why not milk the cats? They scornfully demanded. However, he succeeded in making cheeses, and very nice they were, far nicer in fact than any native cheeses made from cow's milk we had ever tasted. But the difficulties were too great for him to produce them in sufficient quantity for the market, and eventually the sheep milking came to an end. Unfortunately Mr. Royd had no one to help him in his schemes or to advise and infuse a little more practicality into him. His family could never have been anything but a burden and drag on him in his struggle, and his disaster probably resulted from his romantic and over-sanguine temper, which made him the husband of his wife and caused him to dream of a fortune built on cheeses made from sheep's milk. His wife was the native, in other words, a lady of Spanish blood, of a good family, city-born and bred. They had met in Buenos Aires when in their bloom at the most emotional period of life, an in spite of opposition from her people and of the tremendous difficulties in the way of a union between one of the faith and a heretic in those religious days. They were eventually made man and wife. As a girl she had been beautiful. Now, aged about forty, she was only fat, a large fat woman, with an extremely white skin, raven black hair and eyebrows, and velvet black eyes. That was Donna Mercedes as I knew her. She did no work in the house and never went for a walk or a ride on horseback. She spent her time in an easy chair, always well-dressed, and in warm weather, always with a fan in her hand. I can hear the rattle of that fan now as she played with it, producing a secession of graceful waving motions and rhythmic sounds as an accompaniment to the endless torrent of small talk which she pulled out, for she was an exceedingly valuable person. And to assist in making the conversation more lively, there were always two or three screaming parrots on their perches near her. She also liked to be surrounded by all the other females in the house. Her two daughters and the indoor servants, four or five in number, all full-blooded negroses, black but comely, fat, pleasant looking, laughing young and middle-aged women, all as a real dressed in white. They were unmarried, but two or three of them were the mothers of certain small darkies, to be seen playing about and rolling in the dust near the servants' quarters at the far end at the Longlowe House. The eldest daughter, Eulodia, was about fifteen as I first remember her. A tall, slim, handsome girl with blue-black hair, black eyes, coral red lips, and a remarkably white skin without a trace of red colour in it. She was no doubt just like what her mother had been when the dashing impressionable young George Royd had first met her and lost his heart and soul. The younger sister, about eight at the time, was the perfect contrast to Eulodia. She had taken after her father an in-colour and appearance generally was a perfect little English girl of the usual angel type, with long shining golden hair, worn in curls, eyes of the purest turquoise blue, and a complexion like the petals of a wild rose. Adelina was her pretty name, and to us, Adelina was the most beautiful human being in the world, especially when seen with her dusky little playmate, Liberata, who was of the same age and height and was the child of one of the black servants. These two had grown fond of each other from the cradle, and so Liberata had been promoted to Adelina's constant companion in the house and to wear pretty dresses. Being a malatitta, she was dark or dusky skinned with a reddish tinge in the duskiness, purple red lips, and liquid black eyes with orange brown reflections in them, the eyes called tortoiseshell in America. Her crisp past iron coloured hair was born like a fleece round her small head, and her features were so refined one could only suppose that her father had been as singularly handsome as well as a white man. Adelina and Liberata were inseparable, except at mealtimes, when the dusky little girl had to go back among her own tribe on the mother's side, and they formed an exquisite picture as one often saw them, standing by the Sonora's chair with their arms round each other's necks. The pretty dark-skinned child and the beautiful white child was shining hair and blue, forget-me-not eyes. Adelina was her father's favourite, but he was fond of all his people, the black servants included and they of him, and the life of Cazza and Twigua, appeared to be an exceedingly happy and harmonious one. Looking back at this distance of time it strikes me when I come to think of it, and it was a most extraordinary manage, a collection of the most incongruous beings it would be possible to bring together a sort of happy family in the zoological sense. It did not seem so at the time, when in any house on the wide panthers one would meet with people whose lives and characters would be regarded in civilised countries as exceedingly odd and almost incredible. It was a red-letter day to us children when, about once a month, we were packed into a trap and driven with our parents to spend a day at Cazza and Twigua. The dinner at noon was the most gorgeous affair of the kind we knew. One of Mr. Roy's enthusiasm was cookery, the making of rare and delicate dishes, and the servants had been taught so well that we used to be amazed at the richness and profusion of the repast. These dinners were to us like the collations and feasts so minutely and lovingly described in the Arabian Nights, especially the dinner of many courses given by the barmaside to his hungry guest, which followed the first tantalising imaginary one. The wonder was that any man in the position of a sheep farmer in a semi-barbarious land far from any town could provide such dinners for his visitors. After dinner my best time would come when I would steal off to look the Estonyslo, the young native horseman who was only too enthusiastic about wildlife and spent more time hunting reese than in attending to his duties. When I see an ostrich he would say, I leave the flock and drop my work no matter what it is. I would rather lose my place on the Estancia than not chase it. But he never lost his place, since it appeared that no one could do anything wrong on the Estancia and not be forgiven by its master. Then Estonyslo, a big fellow in Goat's Address, wearing a red handkerchief tied round his head in place of hat, and a mass or cloud of blackish crinkled hair on his neck and shoulders would take me round the plantation to show me any nests he had found and any rare birds that happened to be about. Towards evening we would be bundled back into the trap and driven home. Then when the day came round for the return visit Mr. Roy would bundle his family into their carriage, which he, without being a carriage builder or even a carpenter, had made with his own hands. It had four solid wooden wheels, about a yard in diameter, and upright wooden sides about four or five feet high. It was springless and without seats, and had a long pole to which two horses were fastened, and Estancilio, mounted on one, would thrash them into a gallop and carry the thing bounding over the roadless plain. The fat lady and other passengers were saved from being bumped to death by several mattresses, pillows, and cushions heaped inside. It was the strangest, most primitive conveyance I ever saw, except the one commonly used by a goucho to take his wife on a visit to a neighbour's house when she was in a delicate condition or too timid to ride on a horse, or not well enough off to own a side saddle. This was a well-stretched, dried horse hide, with the lasso attached at one end to the head, or four part, of the hide, and the other end to the goucho's horse, as a reel to the sekingo. A stool or cushion was placed in the centre of the big hide for the lady to sit on, and when she had established her self-honour, the man would whip up his horse and away he would gallop, dragging the strange conveyance after him, a sight which filled the foreigner with amazement. Our intimate happy relations with the Royd family continued till about my twelfth year, then came rather suddenly to an end. Mr Royd, who had always seen one of the brightest, happiest men we knew, all at once fell into a state of profound melancholy. No one could guess the cause, as he was quite well and appeared to be prosperous. He was at length persuaded by his friends to go to Buenos Aires to consult a doctor, and went alone and stayed in the house of an Anglo-Argentine family who were also friends of ours. By and by the dreadful news came that he had committed suicide by cutting his throat with a razor. His wife and daughters then left the Casa Antigua, and not long afterwards Donna Mercedes wrote to my mother that they were left penniless, that their flocks and other possessions at the Estancia were to be sold for the benefit of their creditors, and that she and her daughters were living on the charity of some of her relations who were not well off. Her only hope was that her two daughters, being good-looking girls, would find husbands and be in a position to keep her from want. Her one word about her dead husband, the lovable, easy-going George Royd, the bright-handsome English boy who had wooed and won her so many years before, was that she looked upon her meeting with him in girlhood as the great calamity of her life, that in killing himself and leaving his wife and daughters to poverty and suffering he had committed an unpardonable crime. So ends the story of our nearest English neighbour. End of Chapter 10. Chapter 11 of Far Away and Long ago. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Christine Blashford. Far Away and Long ago by W. H. Hudson. Chapter 11. A Breeder of Pie Bolds. When standing by the front gate of our home, we looked out to the north over the level plain, and let our eyes rove west from the tall Lombardi poplars of Casa Antigua, they presently rested on another pile or island of trees, blue in the distance, marking the site of another Estancia house. This was the Estancia called La Taperra, with whose owner we also had friendly relations during all the years we lived in that district. The owner was Don Gregorio Gendara, a native and like our nearest English neighbour Mr. Royd, an enthusiast, and was also like him in being the husband of a fat, indolent wife who kept parrots and other pet animals, and the father of two daughters. In this case too there were no sons. There, however, all resemblance ceased, since two men more and like in their appearance, character, and fortune it would not be easy to find. Don Gregorio was an extraordinary person to look at. He had a round or barrel-shaped body, short bow-legs and a big round head, which resembled a ball fashioned out of a block of dark-coloured wood, with a coarse human face and huge ears rudely carved on it. He had a curly head, the crisp dark hair growing as knobs which gave his round skull the appearance of being embossed like the head of a curly retriever. The large brown eyes were extremely prominent, with a tremendous staring-power in them, and the whole expression was one of toad-like gravity. But he could laugh on occasion, and his laugh to us children was the most grotesque and consequently the most delightful thing about him. Whenever we saw him ride up and dismount, and after fastening his magnificently comparisoned horse to the outer gate, come in to make a call on our parents, we children would abandon our sports or whatever we were doing and joyfully run to the house, then distributing ourselves about the room on chairs and stools, sit, silent and meek, listening and watching for Don Gregorio's laugh. He talked in a startlingly emphatic way, almost making one jump when he assented to what was being said with his loud, sudden, c-c-c-c-c, and when he spoke, bringing out his sentences two or three words at a time, sounding like angry barks. And by and by something would be said to touch his risable faculties, which would send him off in a sort of fit, and throwing himself back in his chair, closing his eyes and opening wide his big mouth, he would draw his breath in with a prolonged wailing or sibilant sound, until his lungs were too full to hold any more, and it would then be discharged with a rush, accompanied by a sort of wild animal scream, something like the scream of a fox. Then instantly, almost before the scream was over, his countenance would recover its preternatural gravity and intense staring attention. Our keen delight in this performance made it actually painful since the feeling could not be expressed, since we knew that our father knew that we were only too liable to explode in the presence of an honoured guest, and nothing vexed him more. While in the room we dared not change glances or even smile, but after seeing and hearing the wonderful laugh a few times we would steal off, and going to some quiet spot, sit in a circle and start imitating it, finding it a very delightful pastime. After I had learned to ride, I used sometimes to go with my mother and sisters for an afternoon's visit to La Taperra. The wife was the biggest and fattest woman in our neighbourhood, and stood ahead and shoulders taller than her barrel-shaped husband. She was not, like Donna Mercedes, a lady by birth, more an educated person, but resembled her in her habits and tastes. She sat always in a large cane-easy chair, outdoors or in, invariably with four hairless dogs in her company, one on her broad lap, another on a lamb-skin rug at her feet, and one on rugs at each side. The three on the floor were ever patiently waiting for their respective turns to occupy the broad warm lap when the time came to remove the last favoured one from that position. I had an invincible dislike to these dogs with their shiny blue-black-naked skins, like the bald head of an old negro, and their long white-scattered whiskers. These white-stiff hairs on their faces and their dim, blinking eyes gave them a certain resemblance to very old, ugly men with black blood in them, and made them all the more repulsive. The two daughters, both grown to womanhood, were named Marcellina and Demetria, the first big, brown jolly and fat like her mother, the other with better features, a pale olive skin, dark melancholy eyes, and a gentle pensive voice and air which made her seem like one of a different family in race. The daughters would serve mate to us, a beverage which as a small boy I did not like, but there was no chocolate or tea in that house for visitors, and in fruit time I was always glad to get away to the orchard. As at our own home the old peach-trees grew in the middle part of the plantation, the other parts being planted with rows of lombardy-popplers and other large shade-trees. A tame ostrich or rea was kept at the house, and as long as we remained indoors or seated in the veranda he would hang about close by, and would follow us as soon as we started off to the orchard. He was like a pet dog and could not endure to be left alone, or in the uncongenable company of other domestic creatures—dogs, cats, fowls, turkeys, and geese. He regarded men and women as the only suitable associates for an ostrich, but was not allowed in the rooms on account of his inconvenient habit of swallowing metal objects such as scissors, spoons, thimbles, bodkins, copper coins, and anything of the kind he could snatch up when no one was looking. In the orchard when he saw us eating peaches he would do the same, and if he couldn't reach high enough to pluck them for himself he would beg of us. It was great fun to give him half a dozen or more at a time, then when they had been quickly gobbled up, watched their progress as the long row of big round lumps slowly travelled down his neck, and disappeared one by one as the peaches passed into his crop. Gandara's great business was horse-breeding, and as a rule he kept about a thousand brood-mears so that the herds usually numbered about three thousand head. Strange to say they were nearly all pie-bolts. The gaucho from the poorest worker on horseback to the largest owner of lands and cattle has, or had in those days, a fancy for having all his riding-horses of one colour. Every man as a rule had his tropella, his own half a dozen or a dozen or more saddle-horses, and he would have them all as nearly alike as possible, so that one man had chestnuts, another browns, bays, silver or iron-grays, duns, fawns, cream-noses or blacks or whites, or pie-bolts. On some estances the cattle too were all of one colour, and I remember one estate where their cattle, numbering about six thousand, were all black. Our neighbour's fancy was for pie-bold horses, and so strong was it that he wished not to have any one-coloured animals in his herd, despite the fact that he bred horses for sale, and that pie-bolts were not so popular as horses of a more normal colouring. He would have done better if, sticking to one colour, he had bred iron-grays, cream-noses, chestnuts or fawns or duns, all favourite colours, or better still if he had not confined himself to any one colour. The stallions were all pie-bolts, but many of the brewed mares were white, as he had discovered that he could get as good if not better results from keeping white as well as pie-bold mares. Nobody quarreled with Gandhara on account of his taste in horses. On the contrary, he and his vast party-coloured herds were greatly admired, but his ambition to have a monopoly in pie-bolts was sometimes a cause of offence. He sold two-year-old geldings only, but never a mare unless for slaughter, for in those days the half-wild horses of the Pampas were annually slaughtered, in vast numbers just for the hides and grease. If he found a white or pie-bold mare in a neighbour's herd he would not rest until he got possession of it, and by giving double its value in money or horses he seldom found any difficulty in getting what he wanted. But occasionally some poor goucho with only a few animals would refuse to part with a pie-bold mare, either out of pride or cussedness, as an American would say, or because he was attached to it, and this would stir Gandhara's soul to its deepest depth and bring up all the blackness in him to the surface. What do you want, then, he would shout, sitting on his horse and making violent gestures with his right hand and arm, barking out his words? Have I not offered you enough? Listen, what is a white mare to you, to you, a poor man, more than a mare of any other colour? If your riding horses must be of one colour, tell me the colour you want, black or brown or beige or chestnut, or what, look, you shall have two young unbroken geldings of two years in exchange for the mare. Could you make a better exchange, were you ever treated more generously? If you refuse it, will be out of spite, and I shall know how to treat you. When you lose your animals and are broken, when your children are sick with fever, when your wife is starving, you shall not come to me for a horse to ride on, nor for money, nor meat, nor medicine, since you will have me for an enemy instead of a friend. That, they say, was how he raged and bullied when he met with a repulse from a poor neighbour. Sayfond was Don Gregorio of his pie-bolds that he spent the greater part of every day on horseback with his different herds of mares, each led by its own proud pie-bold stallion. He was perpetually waiting and watching with anxious interest for the appearance of a new foal. If it turned out not a pie-bold, he cared nothing more about it, no matter how beautiful in colour it might be, or what good points it had, it was to go as soon as he could get rid of it. But if a pie-bold he would rejoice, and if there was anything remarkable in its colouring, he would keep a sharp eye on it, to find out later, perhaps, that he liked it too well to part with it. Eventually, when broken, it would go into his private tropilla, and in this way he would always possess three or four times as many saddle-horses as he needed. If you met Gandhara every day for a week or two, you would see him each time on a different horse, and every one of them would be more or less a surprise to you on account of its colouring. There was something fantastic in this passion. It reminds one of the famous eighteenth century miller of Newhaven, described by Mark Antony Lowe in his book about the strange customs and quaint characters in the Sussex of the old days. The miller used to pay weekly visits on horseback to his customers in the neighbouring towns and villages, his horse originally a white one, having first been painted some brilliant colour, blue, green, yellow, orange, purple, or scarlet. The whole village would turn out to look at the miller's wonderful horse, and speculate as to the colour he would exhibit on his next appearance. Gandhara's horses were strangely coloured by nature, aided by artificial selection, and I remember that as a boy I thought them very beautiful. Sometimes it was a black or brown, or bayon white, or a chestnut, or silver grey, or strawberry red and white, but the main point was the pleasing arrangement and shading of the dark colour. Some of his best selected specimens were iron, or blue, grey, and white. Others finer still, fawn and white, and den and white, and the best of all, perhaps, white, and a metallic, tawny yellow, the colour the natives call bronze, or brassy, which I never see in England. Horses of this colour have the ears edged and tipped with black, the muzzle, fetlocks, mane, and tail also black. I do not know if he ever succeeded in breeding a tortoise shell. Gandhara's pride in the horses he rode himself, the rare blooms selected from his equine garden, showed itself in the way in which he decorated them with silver headstalls and bit, and the whole gear sparkling with silver, while he was careless of his own dress, going about in an old rusty hat, unpolished boots, and a frayed old Indian poncho, or cloak, over his goucho garments. Probably the most glorious moment of his life was when he rode to a race meeting, or cattle-marking, or other gathering of the goucho population of the district, when all eyes would be turned to him on his arrival. Dismounting he would hobble his horse, tie the glittering reins to the back of the saddle, and leave him proudly champing his big native bit, and tossing his decorated head, while the people gathered round to admire this strangely coloured animal, as if it had been a pegasus just alighted from the skies to stand for a while, exhibiting itself among the horses of the earth. My latest recollections of Latapera are concerned more with Demetria than the pie-bolts. She was not an elegant figure, as was natural in a daughter of the grotesque Don Gregorio, but her countenance, as I have said, was attractive on account of its colour and gentle, wistful expression, and being the daughter of a man rich in horses, she did not want for lovers. In those far-off days the idle, gay, well-dressed young gambolos always a girl's fest, and often most successful wooer, but at Latapera the young lovers had to reckon with one who, incredible as it seemed in a gaucho, hated gambling, and kept a hostile and rather terrifying eye on their approaches. Eventually Demetria became engaged to a young stranger from a distance who had succeeded in persuading the father that he was an eligible person and able to provide for a wife. Now it happened that the nearest priest in our part of the country lived a long distance away, and to get to him in his little thatched chapel one had to cross a swamp two miles wide in which one's horse would sink belly-deep in mirey holes at least a dozen times before one could get through. In these circumstances the Gandara family could not go to the priest, but managed to persuade him to come to them. And as Latapera was not considered a good enough place in which to hold so important a ceremony, my parents invited them to have the marriage in our house. The priest arrived on horseback about noon on a sultry day, hot and tired and well-splashed with dried mud, and in a rather bad temper. They must also have gone against him to unite these young people in the house of heretics, who were doomed to a dreadful future after their rebellious lives had ended. However, he got through with the business and presently recovered his good temper, and grew quite genial and talkative when he was led into the dining-room, and found a grand wedding breakfast with wine and plenty on the table. During the breakfast I looked often and long at the faces of the newly married pair, and pitted our nice gentle Demetria, and wished she had not given herself to that man. He was not a bad-looking young man, and was well-dressed in the Gaucho costume, but he was strangely silent and ill at ease the whole time, and did not win our regard. I never saw him again. It soon came out that he was a gambler and had nothing but his skill with a pack of cards to live by, and Don Gregorio in a rage told him to go back to his native place. And go he did very soon, leaving poor Demetria on her parents' hands. Shortly after this unhappy experience, Don Gregorio bought a house in Buenos Aires for his wife and daughters, so that they could go and spend a month or two when they wanted a change. And I saw them on one or two occasions when in town. He himself would have been out of his element in such a place, shut up in a closed room, or painfully waddling over the rough boulder stones of the narrow streets on his bow legs. Life for him was to be on the back of a piebald horse on the wide green plain, looking after his beloved animals. End of Chapter 11