IX
I rose the next morning at daybreak. The flush that was outlining in the east the peaks of the central Cordillera was gilding a few light clouds that hung round the mountains, and that now began to separate, slowly move away, and disappear. The green meadows and woods of the valley appeared as if seen through blue-tinted glass, and among them one caught sight of white cabins, spiral clouds of smoke rolling up the mountains recently burned over, and here and there the gleam of a river. The western cordillera, with its folds and hollows, looked like a succession of dark blue velvet mantles held at their centres by the hands of genii hidden by the clouds. In front of my window the roses and the leaves of the trees in the garden seemed to dread the first breeze that would come to brush off the dew now glistening upon them. It all struck me with a sense of sadness. I took my rifle; gave a signal to Mayo, the trusty dog who was seated on his hind-legs watching me fixedly, his forehead wrinkled in the excess of his anxiety to perceive the first order; leaped over the stone wall, and took the mountain path.
The mountain was fresh and tremulous under the caresses of the last night-breezes. The herons were leaving their sleeping-places, forming in their flight undulating lines silvered by the sun, like a sash abandoned to the caprices of the wind. Thick flocks of parrots rose from the reedy growths, on their way to the neighboring cornfields; and from the heart of the range, the diostedé hailed the day with his sad and monotonous song.
I went down to the precipitous bank of the river by the same path I had followed so many times six years before. The thunder of the current began to grow louder, and presently I discovered the waters eager to plunge over the falls; once over, they were changed into whirling foam, then became smooth and glassy in the quiet stretches of the river; always the same bed of rocks shaggy with moss, the same fringe on the bank of iracales, ferns, and reeds with yellow shoots, silky plumes, and purple flowers.
I paused in the middle of the bridge—a gigantic cedar flung there by a hurricane. Flowering parasitic plants grew out of the slime, and bluebells and heliotropes swung down in festoons beneath my feet to dip in the water. The luxuriant and towering vegetation at times arched the river completely, and the rays of the rising sun broke through it as if through the broken roof of an abandoned Indian temple. Mayo howled in cowardly fashion on the bank I had just left, but on my urging, at last made out to cross the fantastic bridge; then he was off at once ahead of me up the path which led to the cabin of old José, who was expecting my visit of greeting that day.
Passing along a dark and sloping ridge, and leaping over the heaps of dead trees thrown down by the last mountain-slides, I came out into the little plot planted with vegetables, from which I could see the smoke of the hut, situated in the midst of green hills; though, when I last saw it, it was in an unbroken forest. The cows, of fine shape and markings, were lowing for their calves at the gate of the corral.
The poultry were noisily eating their morning meal. In the neighboring palm groves, which had been spared by the axe, the clamorous goldhammers quarrelled in their hanging nests, and, in the midst of their pleasant chatter, one could hear now and then the shrill cry of the bird-catcher, who, from his moat and barbican, struck terror into the hungry macaws swooping down upon the cornfield.
The fierce dogs announced my arrival by their barking. Mayo was afraid of them, and kept by me whining. José came out to greet me, his axe in one hand, and hat in the other.
The little dwelling proclaimed industry, thrift, and neatness; everything was plain but convenient, and nothing was out of its place. The best room, which was scrupulously swept, had bamboo rush-bottomed seats scattered about, covered with bearskins; some sheets of colored paper with pictures of saints on them were pinned with thorns to the unwhitened walls; on the right was José’s bedroom, and on the left the girls’. The kitchen, built of strips of cane, and with a roof of the leaves of the same plant, was separated from the house by a little garden, where parsley, camomile, pennyroyal, and basil mingled their odors.
The women were dressed with more than usual care. Lucía and Tránsito, the girls, wore petticoats of violet-colored chintz, and fine white chemises; their collars were of lace, tied with black ribbon, and under them their rosaries were partly visible; their necklaces were of opal-colored glass. Their thick, jet-black hair was arranged in braids, which danced upon their shoulders at every movement of their bare, agile feet. They addressed me with the greatest timidity; and their father, observing this, encouraged them, saying, “Do you think it isn’t the same boy because he has come back from college such a wise young man?”
Then they became more smilingly at ease; we were drawn to each other in the most friendly manner by the remembrance of games together as children—a remembrance which has great power over the imagination of a poet, or of a woman.
With advancing age José’s face had gained much; although he did not let his beard grow, his countenance had an appearance almost patriarchal—as has that of almost all old men of good habits in the land where he was born. Abundant gray hair shaded his broad and sunburn
