Descriptions, however graphic1 or faithful, are for the most part misleading and ineffective. Who ever went to a town or a region, and found it to resemble the picture of it which had been previously2 painted on his imagination by description?
For an account of Buenos Ayres we refer the inquiring reader to other books.
Our business at present is with Quashy and “Sooz’n.”
That sable3 and now united couple stand under the shade of a marble colonnade4 watching with open-mouthed interest the bustle5 of the street in which men and women of many nations—French, Italian, Spanish, English, and other—are passing to and fro on business or pleasure.
This huge, populous6 town was not only a new sight, but an almost new idea to the negroes, and they were lost alike in amusement and amazement7.
“Hi!” exclaimed Quashy in his falsetto, “look, look dar, Sooz’n—das funny.”
He pointed8 to a little boy who, squatted9 like a toad10 on a horse’s back, was galloping11 to market with several skins of milk slung12 on either side of the saddle, so that there was no room for his legs.
They were indeed notable pumpkins—so large that five of them completely filled a wagon14 drawn15 by two oxen.
“But come, Sooz’n, da’ling,” said Quashy, starting as if he had just recollected16 something, “you said you was gwine to tell me suffin as would make my hair stan’ on end. It’ll be awrful strong if it doos dat, for my wool am stiff, an’ de curls pritty tight.”
“Yes, I comed here wid you a-purpose to tell you,” replied the bride, “an’ to ax your ’pinion. But let’s go ober to dat seat in de sun. I not like de shade.”
“Come along, den17, Sooz’n. It’s all one to me where we goes, for your eyes dey make sunshine in de shade, an’ suffin as good as shade in de sunshine, ole gurl.”
“Git along wid your rubbish!” retorted Susan as they crossed the street. It was evident, however, that she was much pleased with her gallant18 spouse19.
“Now, den dis is what I calls hebben upon art’,” said Quashy, sitting down with a contented20 sigh. “To be here a-frizzlin’ in de sunshine wid Sooz’n a-smilin’ at me like a black angel. D’you know, Sooz’n,” he added, with a serious look, “it gibs me a good deal o’ trouble to beliebe it.”
“Yes, it am awrful nice,” responded Susan, gravely, “but we’s not come here to make lub, Quashy, so hol’ your tongue, an’ I’ll tell you what I heared.”
She cleared her throat here, and looked earnest. Having thus reduced her husband to a state of the most solemn expectancy21, she began in a low voice—
“You know, Quashy, dat poor Massa Lawrie hab found nuffin ob his fadder’s fortin.”
“Well, den—”
“No, Sooz’n, it’s ill den.”
“Quashy!” (remonstratively.)
“Yes?” (interrogatively.)
“Hol’ your tongue.”
“Yes, da’ling.”
“Well, den,” began Susan again, with serious emphasis, “don’ ’trupt me agin, or I’ll git angry. Well, massa, you know, is so honoribic dat he wouldn’t deceive nobody—not even a skeeter.”
“I knows dat, Sooz’n, not even a nigger.”
“Ob course not,” continued Susan; “so what does massa do, but goes off straight to Kurnel Muchbunks, an’ he says, says he, ‘Kurnel, you’s a beggar.’”
“Right, Quashy. You’s allers right,” returned the bride, with a beaming smile. “I made a ’stake—das all. I should hab said dat massa he said, says he, ‘Kurnel Muchbunks,’ says he, ‘I’s a beggar.’”
“Dat was a lie, Sooz’n,” said Quashy, in some surprise.
“Well, an’ what says de kurnel to dat?” asked the saddened negro, with a sigh.
“Oh! he beliebed it, an’ he says, says he, ‘I’s griebed to hear it, Mis’r Amstrung, an’ ob course you cannot ’spect me to gib my consent to my darter marryin’ a beggar!’ O Quash, w’en I hears dat—I—bu’sted a’most! I do beliebe if I’d bin25 ’longside o’ dat kurnel at dat momint I hab gib him a most horrible smack26 in de face.”
“Nuffin happen. Only poor massa he look bery sad, an’ says, says he, ‘Kurnel, I’s come to say farewell. I would not t’ink ob asking your consent to such a marriage, but I do ask you to hold out de hope dat if I ebber comes back agin wid a kumpitincy, (don’ know ’zactly what dat is, but dat’s what he called it)—wid a kumpitincy, you’ll not forbid me payin’ my ’dresses to your darter.’ What he wants to pay her dresses for, an’ why he calls dem his dresses, is more nor I can guess, but das what he say, an’ de kurnel he says, says he, ‘No, Mis’r Amstrung, I’ll not hold out no sich hope. It’s time enough to speak ob dat when you comes back. It’s bery kind ob you to sabe my darter’s life, but—’ an’ den he says a heap more, but I cou’n’t make it rightly out, I was so mad.”
“When dey was partin’, he says, says he, ‘Mis’r Amstrung, you mus’ promise me not to ’tempt to meet my darter before leaving.’ I know’d, by de long silence and den by de way he speak dat Massa Lawrence no like dat, but at last he says, says he, ‘Well, kurnel, I do promise dat I’ll make no ’tempt to meet wid her,’ an’ den he hoed away. Now, Quashy, what you t’ink ob all dat?”
“I t’ink it am a puzzler,” replied the negro, his face twisted up into wrinkles of perplexity. “I’s puzzled to hear dat massa tell a big lie by sayin’ he’s a beggar, an’ den show dat it’s a lie by offerin’ to pay for de kurnel’s darter’s dresses. It’s koorious, but white folk has sitch koorious ways dat it’s not easy to understan’ dem. Let’s be t’ankful, Sooz’n, you an’ me, that we’re bof black.”
“So I is, Quash, bery t’ankful, but what’s to be dooed? Is massa to go away widout sayin’ good-bye to Miss Manuela?”
“Cer’nly not,” cried the negro, with sudden energy, seizing his wife’s face between his hands, and giving her lips a smack that resounded28 over the place—to the immense delight of several little Gaucho29 boys, who, clothed in nothing but ponchos30 and pugnacity31, stood gazing at the couple.
Quashy jumped up with such violence that the boys in ponchos fled as he hurried along the street with his bride, earnestly explaining to her as he went, his new-born plans.
At the same moment that this conversation was taking place, Lawrence Armstrong and Pedro—alias Conrad of the Mountains—were holding equally interesting and perhaps more earnest converse32 over two pots of coffee in a restaurant.
“I have already told you, senhor,” said Pedro, “that old Ignacio followed us thus hotly, and overtook us as it happened so opportunely33, for the purpose of telling me of a piece of good fortune that has just been sent to me.”
“True,” returned Lawrence, “and in the bustle of the moment when you told me I forgot to congratulate you, whatever the good fortune may be. What was it?”
“Good old Ignacio little knew,” continued Pedro, sipping34 his coffee with an air of supreme35 contentment, “what glad news I had in store for himself about my little Mariquita—the light of my eyes, the very echo of her mother! The good fortune he had to tell me of was but as a candle to the sun compared with what I had to reveal to him, for what is wealth compared with love? However, the other piece of good news is not to be sneezed at.”
“But what is this good news, Pedro?” asked Lawrence, with a touch of impatience36, for his curiosity was aroused, and Pedro’s mode of communicating glad tidings was not rapid.
Before he could reply their attention was attracted by the noisy and self-assertive entrance of two jovial37 British sailors, who, although not quite drunk, were in that condition which is styled by some people “elevated”—by others, debased. Whatever view may be taken of their condition, there could be only one opinion as to their effusive38 good-humour and universal good-will—a good-will which would probably have expanded at once into pugnacity, if any one had ventured to suggest that the couple had had more than enough of strong drink.
“Now then, Bill,” cried one, smiting39 the other with facetious40 violence on the back, “what’ll you have?” Then, without waiting for a reply, he added, to the waiter, “Let’s have some brary-an’-warer!”
The brandy and water having been supplied, Bill nodded his head, cried, “Here’s luck, Jim,” and drained his first glass. Jim responded with the briefer toast, “Luck!” and followed the other’s draining example.
“Now, I’ll tell you wot it is, Jim,” said Bill, setting down his glass and gazing at the brandy bottle with a solemnly virtuous41 look, “I wouldn’t go for to see another bull-fight like that one we saw just before we left Monte Video, no, not if you was to give me a thousan’ pound down.”
“No more would I,” responded Jim, regarding the water-jug with a virtuously42 indignant air.
“Such dis-gusting cruelty,” continued Bill. “To see two strong men stand up o’ their own accord an’ hammer their two noses into somethin’ like plum duff, an’ their two daylights into one, ain’t more nor a or’nary seaman43 can stand; but to see a plucky44 little bull set to gore45 an’ rip up a lot o’ poor blinded horses, with a lot o’ cowardly beggars eggin’ it on, an’ stickin’ darts46 all over it, an’ the place reekin’ wi’ blood, an’ the people cheerin’ like mad—why—it—it made me a’most sea-sick, which I never was in my life yet. Bah! Pass the bottle, Jim.”
“You’re right, Bill,” assented Jim, passing the bottle, “an’ it made poor young Ansty sick altogether. Leastwise, I saw his good-lookin’ face turn a’most green as he got up in a hurry like an’ left the place, for you know, big an’ well made as he is, an’ able to hold his own wi’ the best, Dick Ansty has the heart of a woman for tenderness. His only fault is that he’s a tee-totaller.”
“Ay, a g–great fault that,” said Bill, pouring out and spilling most of another glass. “I wouldn’t give much for him.”
“You couldn’t help likin’ him, though, if you’d sailed with him as I’ve done,” returned Jim. “He’s a reg’lar brick, though he don’t smoke neither.”
“Don’t smoke?” exclaimed Bill, aghast. “Then he ain’t fit for this world! Why, what does he think ’baccy was made for?”
“I dun know as to that, Bill, but I do know that he’s goin’ to leave us. You see, he’s only a sort of half-hand—worked his passage out, you know, an’ well he did it too, though he is only a land-lubber, bein’ a Cornishman, who’s bin lookin’ arter mines o’ some sort ever since he was a boy. He says he’s in great luck, havin’ fallen in wi’ a party as is just agoin’ to start for the west under a feller they call Conrad o’ the Mountains.”
Lawrence and Pedro, who had been trying to ignore the presence of the sailors, and to converse in spite of their noise, became suddenly interested at this point, and the former glanced inquiringly at the latter.
“Listen,” said Pedro, in a low voice, and with a nod of intelligence.
“It’s a queer story,” continued Jim. “I heard all about it this very mornin’ from himself. He’d bin givin’ some on us a lot o’ good advice. You see, he’s a sort of edicated chap, an’ got a tremendjous gift o’ the gab47, but none of us could take offence at ’im, for he’s such a quiet, modest feller—although he is big! Well, you must know that—that—what was I sayin’?”
“P–pash th’ bottle,” said Bill.
“No, that’s not what I was— Oh yes, I was goin’ to say he’d bin givin’ us good advice, ‘because you must know, shipmates,’ says he, ‘that I’ve bin in good luck on shore, havin’ fallen in with a most interestin’ man, whose right name I don’t know yet, because everybody speaks of him as Conrad of the Mountains, though some calls him Pedro, and others the Rover of the Andes, and a good lot say he’s a robber. But I don’t care twopence what they say, for I’ve seen him, and believe him to be a first-rate feller. Anyhow, he’s a rich one, and has bin hirin’ a few men to help him to work his silver-mine, and as I know somethin’ about mining, he has engaged me to superintend the underground work.’
“You may be sure we was surprised as well as pleased to hear all this, an’ we pumped him, in course, a good deal, an’ he told us that the mine was in the Andes somewheres, at a place called Murrykeety Valley, or some such name. This Conrad had discovered the mine a good while ago, and had got an old trapper an’ a boy to work it, but never made much of it till a few months back, when the old man an’ the boy came suddenly on some rich ground, where the silver was shovelled48 up in buckets. In course I don’t rightly know what like silver is when first got hold on. It ain’t in ready-made dollars, I dare say, but anyhow, they say this Conrad’ll be as rich as a nabob; an’ he’s got a pretty darter too, as has bin lost the most of her life, and just turned up at the same time wi’ the silver. I don’t rightly know if they dug her up in the mine, but there she is, an’ she’s goin’ up to the mountains too, so young Ansty will be in good company.”
“Jim,” said Bill at this point, looking with unsteady solemnity at his comrade, and speaking slowly, “I d–don’ b–b’lieve a single word on’t. Here, give us a light, an’—an’—pash th’ borle.”
Rising at this point, Lawrence and Pedro left those jovial British tars49 to their elevating occupations.
“Well, senhor,” said the latter as they walked away, “you have heard it all, though not just in the way I had intended!”
“But tell me, Pedro, is this all true?”
“Substantially it is as you have heard it described, only I have had more people than old Ignacio and his boy to work my silver-mine. I have had several men at it for a long time, and hitherto it has paid sufficiently50 well to induce me to continue the works; but when Ignacio visited it a few weeks ago, in passing on his way here to meet me, he found that a very rich lode51 had been found—so rich, indeed, and extensive, that there is every reason to expect what men call ‘a fortune’ out of it. There is a grave, as you know, which dims for me the lustre52 of any fortune, but now that it has pleased the Almighty53 to give me back my child, I will gladly, for her sake, try to extract a little more than the mere54 necessaries of life out of my silver-mine. Now, my friend,” added Pedro, suddenly stopping and confronting our hero with a decided55 air, and an earnest look, “will you join me in this venture? I would not give up my life’s work here for all the mines in Peru. In order to raise the people and improve the condition of this land, I must continue to be a Rover of the Andes to the end of my days. So, as I cannot superintend extensive mining operations at the same time, I must have a manager, and I know of no one whom I should like to have associated with me half so well as Senhor Lawrence Armstrong. Will you go with me to the Mariquita Valley?”
Lawrence paused a minute, with his eyes on the ground, before answering.
“I am flattered by your good opinion, Pedro,” he said at length, “and will give you an answer to-morrow, if that will do. I never take any important step in haste. This afternoon I have an appointment with Quashy, and as the hour is near, and I promised to be very punctual, you will excuse my leaving you now.”
“Certainly—to-morrow will do,” said Pedro, “I hope to take Quashy also with me. He is a queer fellow.”
“He is particularly queer just now,” returned Lawrence. “I think his marriage with Susan has turned his brain. So, good-bye, Pedro—till to-morrow.”
That same afternoon Quashy paid a formal visit to Manuela at her father’s residence in the suburbs of Buenos Ayres, and told her, with a visage elongated57 to the uttermost, and eyes in which solemnity sat enthroned, that a very sick man in the country wanted to see her immediately before he died.
“Dear me, Quashy,” said Manuela, an expression of sympathy appearing at once on her fine eyebrows58, “who is it? what is his name? and why does he send for me?”
“I can’t tell you his name, miss. I’s not allowed. But it’s a bad case, an’ it will be awrful if he should die widout seein’ you. You’d better be quick, miss, an’ I’ll promise to guide you safe, an’ take great care ob you.”
“That I know you will, Quashy. I can trust you. I’ll order my horse im—”
“De hoss am at de door a’ready, miss. I order ’im afore I come here.”
Manuela could not restrain a little laugh at the cool presumption59 of her sable friend, as she ran out of the room to get ready.
A few minutes more and the pair were cantering through the streets in the direction of the western suburbs of the town.
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1
graphic
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| adj.生动的，形象的，绘画的，文字的，图表的 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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sable
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| n.黑貂；adj.黑色的 | |
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colonnade
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| n.柱廊 | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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populous
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| adj.人口稠密的，人口众多的 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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squatted
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的过去式和过去分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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toad
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| n.蟾蜍，癞蛤蟆 | |
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galloping
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| adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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pumpkins
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| n.南瓜( pumpkin的名词复数 )；南瓜的果肉，南瓜囊 | |
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wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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spouse
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| n.配偶(指夫或妻) | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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expectancy
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| n.期望，预期，（根据概率统计求得）预期数额 | |
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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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dough
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| n.生面团；钱，现款 | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bin
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| n.箱柜；vt.放入箱内；[计算机] DOS文件名:二进制目标文件 | |
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smack
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| vt.拍，打，掴；咂嘴；vi.含有…意味；n.拍 | |
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clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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resounded
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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gaucho
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| n. 牧人 | |
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ponchos
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| n.斗篷( poncho的名词复数 ) | |
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pugnacity
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| n.好斗，好战 | |
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converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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opportunely
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| adv.恰好地，适时地 | |
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sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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effusive
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| adj.热情洋溢的；感情(过多)流露的 | |
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smiting
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的现在分词 ) | |
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facetious
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| adj.轻浮的，好开玩笑的 | |
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virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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virtuously
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| 合乎道德地，善良地 | |
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seaman
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| n.海员，水手，水兵 | |
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plucky
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| adj.勇敢的 | |
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gore
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| n.凝血，血污；v.（动物）用角撞伤，用牙刺破；缝以补裆；顶 | |
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darts
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| n.掷飞镖游戏；飞镖( dart的名词复数 )；急驰，飞奔v.投掷，投射( dart的第三人称单数 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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gab
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| v.空谈，唠叨，瞎扯；n.饶舌，多嘴，爱说话 | |
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shovelled
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| v.铲子( shovel的过去式和过去分词 )；锹；推土机、挖土机等的)铲；铲形部份 | |
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tars
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| 焦油，沥青，柏油( tar的名词复数 ) | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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lode
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| n.矿脉 | |
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lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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56
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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57
elongated
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| v.延长，加长( elongate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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59
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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