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A few days later the schooner that was to take my father to the coast of New Granada set sail in Montego Bay. The light ship was testing her white wings, as a heron of our forests tests his wings before taking a long flight. Solomon came into my father's room, who had just finished mending his shipboard suit, carrying Esther seated in one of his arms, and hanging on the other a chest containing the child's luggage: she held out her little arms to her uncle, and Solomon, placing her in those of his friend, dropped sobbing on the little boot. That child, whose precious head had just bathed with a shower of tears the baptism of sorrow rather than the religion of Jesus, was a sacred treasure; my father knew it well, and never forgot it. Solomon was reminded by his friend, as he jumped into the boat that was to separate them, of a promise, and he answered in a choked voice: "My daughter's prayers for me, and mine for her and her mother, shall go up together to the feet of the Crucified.
I was seven years old when my father returned, and I disdained the precious toys he had brought me from his journey, to admire that beautiful, sweet, smiling child. My mother showered her with caresses, and my sisters showered her with tenderness, from the moment my father laid her on his wife's lap, and said, "This is Solomon's daughter, whom he has sent to you.
During our childish games her lips began to modulate Castilian accents, so harmonious and seductive in a pretty woman's mouth and in the laughing mouth of a child.
It must have been about six years ago. As I entered my father's room one evening, I heard him sobbing; his arms were folded on the table, and his forehead resting on them; near him my mother was weeping, and Mary was leaning her head on her knees, not understanding his grief, and almost indifferent to her uncle's lamentations; it was because a letter from Kingston, received that day, gave the news of Solomon's death. I remember only one expression of my father's on that afternoon: "If all are leaving me without my being able to receive their last farewells, why should I return to my country? Alas! his ashes should rest in a strange land, without the winds of the ocean, on whose shores he frolicked as a child, whose immensity he crossed young and ardent, coming to sweep over the slab of his grave the dry blossoms of the blossom trees and the dust of the years!
Few people who knew our family would have suspected that Maria was not my parents' daughter. She spoke our language well, was kind, lively and intelligent. When my mother stroked her head at the same time as my sisters and me, no one could have guessed which one was the orphan there.
She was nine years old. The abundant hair, still of a light brown colour, flowing loose and twirling about her slender, movable waist; the chatty eyes; the accent with something of the melancholy that our voices did not have; such was the image I carried of her when I left my mother's house: such she was on the morning of that sad day, under the creepers of my mother's windows.
Chapter VIII
Early in the evening Emma knocked at my door to come to table. I bathed my face to hide the traces of tears, and changed my dresses to excuse my lateness.
Mary was not in the dining-room, and I vainly imagined that her occupations had delayed her longer than usual. My father noticing an unoccupied seat, asked for her, and Emma excused her by saying that she had had a headache since that afternoon, and was asleep. I tried not to be impressed; and, making every effort to make the conversation pleasant, spoke with enthusiasm of all the improvements I had found in the estates we had just visited. But it was all to no purpose: my father was more fatigued than I was, and retired early; Emma and my mother got up to put the children to bed, and see how Maria was, for which I thanked them, and was no longer surprised at the same feeling of gratitude.
Though Emma returned to the dining-room, the conversation did not last long. Philip and Eloise, who had insisted on my taking part in their card-playing, accused my eyes of drowsiness. He had asked my mother's permission in vain to accompany me to the mountain the next day, and had retired dissatisfied.
Meditating in my room, I thought I guessed the cause of Maria's suffering. I recollected the ma
Chapter IX
I got up at dawn the next day. The gleams that outlined the peaks of the central mountain range to the east, gilded in a semicircle above it some light clouds that broke away from each other to move away and disappear. The green pampas and jungles of the valley were seen as if through a bluish glass, and in the midst of them, some white huts, smoke from the freshly burnt mountains rising in a spiral, and sometimes the churns of a river. The mountain range of the West, with its folds and bosoms, resembled cloaks of dark blue velvet suspended from their centres by the hands of genii veiled by the mists. In front of my window, the rose bushes and the foliage of the orchard trees seemed to fear the first breezes that would come to shed the dew that glistened on their leaves and blossoms. It all seemed sad to me. I took the shotgun: I signalled to the affectionate Mayo, who, sitting on his hind legs, was staring at me, his brow furrowed with excessive attention, awaiting the first command; and jumping over the stone fence, I took the mountain path. As I entered, I found it cool and trembling under the caresses of the last auras of the night. The herons were leaving their roosts, their flight forming undulating lines that the sun silvered, like ribbons left to the whim of the wind. Numerous flocks of parrots rose from the thickets to head for the neighbouring cornfields; and the diostedé greeted the day with its sad and monotonous song from the heart of the sierra.
I descended to the mountainous plain of the river by the same path by which I had done so many times six years before. The thunder of its flow was increasing, and before long I discovered the streams, impetuous as they rushed over the falls, boiling into boiling foam in the falls, crystal clear and smooth in the backwaters, always rolling over a bed of moss-covered boulders, fringed on the banks by iracales, ferns and reeds with yellow stems, silky plumage and purple seed-beds.
I stopped in the middle of the bridge, formed by the hurricane with a stout cedar, the same where I had once passed. Flowery parasites hung from its slats, and blue and iridescent bells came down in festoons from my feet to sway in the waves. A luxuriant and haughty vegetation vaulted the river at intervals, and through it a few rays of the rising sun penetrated, as through the broken roof of a deserted Indian temple. Mayo howled cowardly on the bank I had just left, and at my urging resolved to pass over the fantastic bridge, taking at once, before me, the path that led to the possession of old José, who was expecting from me that day the payment of his welcome visit.
After a little steep and dark slope, and after skipping over the dry trees from the last felling of the highlander, I found myself in the little place planted with vegetables, from where I could see the little house in the midst of the green hills, which I had left among seemingly indestructible woods, smoking. The cows, beautiful in their size and colour, bellowed at the corral gate in search of their calves. The domestic fowls were in an uproar, receiving their morning ration; in the palm trees near by, which had been spared by the axe of the husbandmen, the oropendolas swayed noisily in their hanging nests, and in the midst of such a pleasant hubbub, one could sometimes hear the shrill cry of the birdcatcher, who, from his barbecue and armed with a slingshot, shooed away the hungry macaws that fluttered over the cornfield.