CHAPTER XIV.
A WINTER IN SAN JUAN.
As soon as I arrived at San Juan, I made inquiries for parties who were about crossing the mountains; but owing to a most severe snow storm that set in, the clouds of which were plainly visible from the town, I was forced to the disagreeable necessity of remaining until the snows melted. The people told me that the winter had proved to be the most severe of any season within the last thirty years. They said that after ten dry or mild winters there always succeeded a similar number of wet or severe seasons, and that the present was the first of the hard series. The apparently settled weather that greeted me was but the precursor of most severe storms in the mountains. They said I could not cross; to attempt it would be madness.
While the time hung heavily on my hands, I heard much about a strange person, yclept Don Guillermo Buenaparte, a North American by birth, and a second father to the poorer classes of his immediate vicinity. So many were the charitable deeds of this man, and so frequent were the eulogies pronounced upon his character by the natives, that I felt a desire to visit him in his own castle, which he had constructed of mud and sticks, some eight or nine miles distant, in a small villa called Causete.
Before I could find an opportunity of going, I was favored with a call from the gentleman himself, who rode into the patio of my dwelling one evening, mounted upon a powerful white horse, and covered with a long poncho, which, with a broad sombrero, gave him a truly patriarchal appearance.
Don Guillermo, having heard of my arrival in San Juan, had come to invite me to his estate in Causete, where he carried on a little flour mill, and followed a number of other occupations. A day was appointed for the visit, and when it came around I set out with a peon for a guide for the villa. We soon, on leaving the town, came upon a plain which gave support to a few stunted trees, peculiar to the travesia. With the soil was mingled the peculiar saline mineral described in a former chapter, which, with the dryness of the atmosphere (for it seldom rains in this part of the republic), made our journey a disagreeable one.
In crossing this tract the reflections of the sun’s rays upon the white surface affected my sight, and obliged me to follow the practice of my guide, and, like him, cover the face with a large cotton handkerchief, à la gaucho. The first human habitation that I saw was a rancho built of cornstalks; and here reposed a peon with his wife, children, and dogs, while a huge buck goat, with a formidable pair of horns, stood at the entrance as if to receive us.
I soon came to a place where a liberty pole was standing; and knowing that such a thing could not be the work of the natives, I concluded that I must be near the residence of my new acquaintance. I was not mistaken, for he soon appeared over a little rising ground. After greeting me cordially, he led me across the canal, that furnished his mill with water, to his house, where he introduced me to his wife and four children, the youngest of whom could not yet lisp its father’s name.
I remained through the day with them, and when night came on, so interesting had been Don Guillermo’s recital of nine years’ residence in the Argentine Republic, that I was easily prevailed upon to remain until morning. The next day came and passed, but still I was an inmate of my countryman’s house, and finally was persuaded to promise that I would not leave it until the snows began to melt upon the Cordilleras, when I must hasten to Chili, and from its principal port, Valparaiso, sail for home.
I accepted the offer of Don Guillermo’s hospitality only upon the condition that I should be of service to him by taking charge of his mill; for the natives were so dishonest that he dared not employ one in any office of trust, and I felt that it would be but a pleasure for me to aid him. I was accordingly installed, after fifteen minutes’ teaching, as molinero, or chief miller.
I felt proud of my office, though it was but a humble one. My mind was fully occupied, and I became contented. When opportunities offered, I took an old condemned English musket, which I charged with powder and a few pebbles, and made explorations in the surrounding country for the purpose of making collections in its fauna. I often captured many a rare specimen, and laid the foundation of an ornithological collection; but although I had no difficulty in getting specimens and preparing them,—for taxidermy was familiar to me,—I found one great obstacle to their preservation that I could not surmount. As my readers doubtless know, arsenic is very essential for preserving the skins of birds and mammals, and I found I could do but little without it. So one day I mounted my horse,—a present from Don Guillermo,—and galloped into town in quest of the mineral; but not one of the druggists would sell me an ounce of poison; it was a crime to vend the article. I applied to the physicians, but to no avail. I next tried some of the officers of the government, but failed again. I even offered three dollars for one pound. The doctors and officers exclaimed, “What does the boy want? He’s mad! Where did he come from?” &c.
Despondingly I returned to the mill, and my fine collection, intended for a scientific society at home, was destroyed in a short time by a minute species of red ants, which ate the skins almost entirely.
A pair of burrowing owls, a dove, a stilt, and a few eggs were all that I succeeded in bringing home with me.
At the mill the season proved to be a busy one. Merchants from other provinces visited San Juan, and after disposing of their goods, generally invested their returns in wheat, which was sent to the mill to be ground. There were no water privileges in the interior, and the merchants and farmers of Cordova and San Luis frequently sent wheat three or four hundred miles by troops of mules. My office, therefore, proved an advantageous one, as I was enabled to have direct intercourse with people from several of the northern and eastern provinces. Among the numbers that I became acquainted with were the old-fashioned Riojano, who came from his distant home to the north of the desert, clothed in a heavy frasada, manufactured from wool of his own shearing by the industry of his wife or daughter. Sometimes the Indian-looking Santiaguenian, or Catamarean, and the crafty yet polite Cordovese, traded at the mill; and many were the little gifts that the most respectable portion of my customers brought me from their estates far back in the irrigated travesia, or along the bases of the Andes. The press of business demanded that the mill should be run night and day. This compelled the poorer classes that came from a distance to sleep in the mill. And at night, when all was quiet, save the restless hum of the revolving stone, it was a curious sight to peep in at the door, and behold the ground covered with sleeping forms of men, women, and children of many types and complexions—here the offspring of the negro and Indian; there the child of a Spanish father and Indian mother. It was a study worthy the attention of a profound ethnologist to separate and classify the various crosses and mixtures of the different races of the genus homo that came to the mill of Don Guillermo Buenaparte.
Leaving the dusty atmosphere of the mill, I frequently wandered out into the night air to gaze upon nature by moonlight. The canal that watered the district of Causete branched off in a different direction from the main acquia, and could be traced, as it wound along the travesia, by the willows and clumps of reeds that grew upon its banks. The Andes towered above the plains a few miles to the west, while on the east the solid range of the mountains of Cordova, stretching far to the north, gave an additional grandeur to the scene. The nights were bland and lovely, excepting when the wind called the zonda (a sort of sirocco) came from the Andes, when the natives suffered from its parching heat, and those affected with diseases of the heart trembled in expectation of sudden death.
While I strolled along the banks of the canal the mill hummed on as usual, for Don Guillermo had constructed an ingenious method of alarm, by means of which the absent or sleepy miller was warned of the state of affairs within the building.
Such was the delight that I took in these rambles upon the travesia, that duty was in one or two instances neglected, and I found, on returning to the mill, that some villanous male or degraded female was stealing the “millings” from the miller’s box, or purloining flour from the hide sack of some countryman who was fast in the embrace of the drowsy god. Once or twice, on such occasions, I became so vexed as to attempt clearing the room of the thievish fellows; but to accomplish this required a stronger arm than mine, and one attempt almost resulted in a general mélée; but as the female customers always took sides with the gringo, I came off in good condition, and attained my object: thus the good name of the mill was not forfeited.
The gauchos love to gamble, and while waiting for the mill to do its work, they generally spent the time in playing their favorite games, always staking small sums of money upon the chances in order to make the time pass more profitably. But whatever might have been the rules of the other mills, Don Guillermo soon put a stop to what he called a degenerating practice, and by various small skirmishes with the gaucho peons, he fully demonstrated that his was a North American institution, and that, therefore, gambling could not be permitted upon his premises. The peons remonstrated, but the don was firm. They threatened to ruin his business by patronizing the other mills in preference to his own; but as their masters respected the policy of my friend, they were restrained from carrying out their designs. Thus law and order were firmly established, and North American principles were triumphant. It requires no small degree of firmness and knowledge of human nature to carry on the flour and grain business in the Argentine Republic.
Peace and quiet did not last long before a second innovation was attempted, although upon a new plan. A band of thieves and loafers erected a hut of cornstalks and briers upon the opposite side of the canal, in the district of Anjuaco, and the place was once more disturbed by midnight revels, and by frequent raids upon the grounds of neighboring farmers. Sheep, calves, and, even horses, disappeared in a mysterious manner. At length Don Guillermo became exasperated, and watching an opportunity when the rascals were absent, he attacked the shanty, levelled it to the ground, and, collecting the ruins into one pile, set fire to it, and burned it to ashes.
The party returned, and, on seeing the condition of their house, would, in their rage, have demolished the buildings of the don, had not fear prevented them; for they well knew that the law-and-order man possessed fire-arms, dogs, and a stout heart.
During my stay at the mill I occasionally visited the town of San Juan, and passed a few hours with some acquaintances. I found, to my surprise, among the wealthier citizens, a class of society, which, for dignity of deportment, strictness in etiquette, and generous hospitality, would favorably compare with any class that I have met in the United States or in Europe. The young men were intelligent and full of generous ardor, and the maidens—how shall I describe them? Since returning to North America, my friends have sometimes asked if they resembled our Indian women!
“Most certainly not,” I have almost indignantly answered. The higher classes of San Juan boast of a pure descent from the old Spaniards or Portuguese. The fine, clear atmosphere of the Andes provinces has affected favorably the complexion, and most of these people have a skin as light as that of the inhabitants of the southern states of the Union.
Many of the females, particularly the younger ones, have complexions that, in clearness and beauty, would rival the blondes of the north. In addition to personal beauty, the ladies of San Juan can boast of varied attractions. The guitar is used with a grace and skill that give evidence of careful study and long practice. Many play upon the piano, using instruments that have been carted a thousand miles over the pampas, from the port of Buenos Ayres.
All can embroider with skill and elegance. Poetry appears to be assiduously cultivated among them, and many specimens of true inspiration came to my notice that would be considered worthy of the name of Tennyson or Longfellow.
Altogether I know of no situation more pleasant, or containing more elements of interest and romance, than San Juan. It combines every description of scenery, from the arid plain of the travesia to the sublime alpine ranges; and it has a climate, during many months of the year, of surpassing loveliness.
The San Juaninos are a most hospitable people; and when the remembrance of their unaffected and genial kindness comes to my mind, I feel the keenest regret that we are so widely separated.
The town is said to contain about nine thousand inhabitants; but I think the estimate high, although many persons have given a larger population. It certainly, in numbers, falls below Mendoza. The town is laid out in the same manner as was Mendoza, and is watered by the canals that run from the River San Juan, a stream rising in the Cordillera.
No goitre exists in this vicinity. I saw only one case of it during my stay, and the subject had lived many years in Mendoza.
About the town are large pastures of clover, which serve to fatten the numerous herds of cattle that pass through the town on the way to Copiapo or Coquimbo, in Chili. Soap, raisins, and cattle are among the exports to the latter named state. Flour is forwarded to the pampa towns, and to the villages on the travesia. Wine is made in large quantities, but does not now pay a sufficient profit if sent to any considerable distance, although it was exported largely in by-gone years. All the fruits that grow in Mendoza thrive better in this province. The oranges of Mendoza seemed to possess an acrid taste, but I did not detect this in any of the fruits of San Juan. The vineyards surpass anything that I have ever seen,—not in the culture of the grape, as but little is done to the vines, but in the quality of the fruit. I distinguished eleven kinds of grapes in the quintas around San Juan.
The iron plough and other improved implements of agriculture were unknown, and when I described to the quinteros the facility with which the celebrated Prouty and Mears centre draught plough is handled, they fairly overwhelmed me with questions, which had, at least, the merit of artlessness.
There is at San Juan a Board of Water Commissioners, who have charge of the irrigating department. These officials are seven in number. They have labored hard to extend the main canals beyond the villas of Causete and Anjaco, even to the very base of the Pié de palo, or wooden foot—a sierra some fourteen miles east of San Juan. By these means the sterile saline travesia is gradually becoming clothed with verdure, and spreading pastures of clover, surrounded by poplars and willows, cover spots that three years since were occupied only by scattered thorn-bushes.
As I have already mentioned, the situation of miller, that I filled, was the means of giving me many opportunities for meeting and studying different phases of character.
One of my customers, whom I have set down in my journal as Don José, the penitent, was indeed a study. He was a large-limbed, long-winded, courageous old fellow, of the pure Spanish stock, and descended from the original conquerors of the Argentine Republic. I had frequently heard his name mentioned by the gauchos, one or two of whom delighted in telling of his prowess during the last revolution. The town of San Juan had been taken by an armed band while the illustrious Benavides was outside the place, and Don José, who was then an arriero, or muleteer, felt it his duty to rescue it from what he considered the wrong political party. The cuartel had been taken, and no soldiers could be enlisted for the purpose; but Don José’s energy did not fail. He scoured the country about San Juan, and collected twenty-five gauchos, who followed him to the town. The precipitate entry made by the gallant little party struck fear and consternation into the revolutionists, and Don José was hailed as deliverer for many weeks.
The rich people, who had never before noticed him, now touched their sombreros, and honored him with their praise and approbation. But, as Don José said, this did not give him money, and he therefore was no better in station than before the revolution. He was still a peon. After the excitement had died away, and rich dons no longer doffed their hats as he passed, he sat soberly down and meditated upon how he could raise money enough to rent him a farm, for he well knew that his industry would soon make him independent, provided he could hire a spot of land fit for cultivation. Nobody would loan him a peso.
Our hero, nevertheless, did not despond. He sought relief in religion, but in a different manner from that which is usually practised. The don knew that several of the churches of the town had large endowments. People dying, and wishing to enter a better world, there to enjoy a life of bliss, had left sums of money to the church, surely not to be applied to charitable purposes, for the priests generally require nine dollars for saying mass over the body of the poorest child of the church. The priests will sometimes lend these moneys upon good security, and to pious people, at the low rate of five per cent.; and we may well call this a low rate, when, in business transactions, the people of the interior towns rarely charge less than eighteen per cent.
The don, knowing that he had not attended mass regularly, did not feel satisfied that his application for money to the priests would meet with success, and he therefore commenced a plan that, if carried out, would insure him all the money that his wants required. He resolved to become a penitent. He looked back over his past life with sorrow. “I have sinned—have sinned more than all others,” he said to the other penitents. “I am resolved to change my mode of life, and now I will live for some good purpose.”
Each day his phiz lengthened. “How solemn he looks!” said the friends of his family; “poor Don José!” He lost flesh rapidly, and the brave deliverer of the town became feeble as a woman. He attended church regularly, was always at the masses, and never absent from the confessional. He was, in short, a model church member. The priests were his friends,—not the jolly, fat, laughing padres, but the frizzle-headed, stern old fellows, that rarely smiled, and then only at the follies of the world. Don José fasted a great deal, and then, after advising with his confessor, determined to scourge himself, and to pass three days in solitary confinement. He bade adieu to his friends, and locked himself into a little domicile that belonged to the church. Here, in communion with himself, he passed three long days and nights without food. With a short piece of raw hide he chastised his body,—vicariously, probably, after the example of his illustrious Manchegan countryman,—and spots of blood (from the arteries of an ox) were observed upon the floor and walls of the chamber when good Father R. entered, and who declared that his son had done his duty nobly.
Don José had accomplished his object. He could be trusted by the clergy now, and it was with pleasure that the treasurer-padre gave the sum required by our hero. With the borrowed money he rented a farm, and I can so far attest to the success of his operations, that as I passed his residence I often filled my saddlebag with the fruits of his penitence, which I took to the mill to make happy the little cherubs of Don Guillermo.