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. Have you forgotten the blondest of the children that you loved somuch? My little Emma! he exclaimed with a deep cry.And embracingme, he lifted me with his robust arms up to his face to take a goodlook at mine. My little Emma! he repeated, putting me back down on theground.And resting his face on my head, he cried bitterly.Then he grabbed my shoulders and stretched me out at arm slength to look at me. Yes, he said, you are my girl, alright! But why has your blondhair turned black? Why has your smiling countenance grown sad? As he said this, he suddenly started, and looked around him. And the others? he said, more with the expression in his eyesthan with his voice. Where are your brothers and sisters? I bent my head down and did not answer.He must have understood, for he moved away from me and went Gubi Amaya | 179to lean against an old column, where he covered his head with thelong folds of his poncho.He was crying!Every once in a while doleful sobs reached me through the silenceof the night.Oh! He did not know that of those children whom heloved so much, the happiest were the ones who were already restingin peace !Miguel s horse seemed to grow restless at its owner s long absenceand called out for him with a loud neighing.When he heard his friend s voice, Miguel raised his head slowly,and came toward me. My companion grows impatient, he said, and wants to return tothe other shore. He is not quite like the Lobuno, 4 he added with a sigh, but he isgood and strong, and he runs faster than most.Look at him, if you donot believe me! He showed me from a distance his magnificent and well-harnessed reddish-brown steed, with its long mane and very fine legs.The moonlight reflected off the large silver medals on its bit andbreast band. I miss the other one, though, my poor, old Lobuno! But he wasless resilient than I.When he saw that instead of wading through theford of the river to come to Sala, I wanted to take him at night tofight the Federals, and that the joyful voices of the children werereplaced by rifle shots and the harsh screams of the fiends we werefighting, he would go no further, and died of grief. This one also comes every night, but there is no one to pet him,and the only cries he hears are those of the owl on top of the tower. Then he looked up at the sky. It is getting late, he said, as he used to say before, a long timeago. Orion s Belt and the Southern Cross are about to set.You havenot forgotten that that means it is time for bed, have you?4Lobuno is a nickname used in Argentina to refer to a horse that has long hair and some-what resembles a wolf.It literally means wolfish in Spanish. Trans. 180 | Dreams and Realities Let us go home. How sweet were those words to my heart! It had been so longsince I had heard anyone say them! It had been so long since I hadhad a home, and since my father s home had been reduced to a pile ofashes!All of a sudden, the fantastic silhouettes of two riders appearedatop a mound of debris, black against the deep blue of the sky.The ethereal wanderers looked around anxiously.Then, believingthemselves to be alone, they jumped to the ground and went forMiguel s horse, which neighed in distress, trying to shake itself free ofthe ties of its hobbling straps.Miguel saw the riders, wrapped his poncho around his right arm,brandished his dagger in his left, and charged toward them all in asingle instant.Miguel, in fact, was completely eclipsed.He wasreplaced by Gubi Amaya, appearing in all his somber magnificence.When the thieves, who had at first prepared to hold their ground,saw the herculean figure his angry eyes shining in the dark likeburning embers they retreated, terrified.They jumped on theirhorses with unexpected agility, and rode off, yelling: It is the necromancer! The necromancer! Miguel tore the hobbling straps off of his horse and jumped on hisfast Sebruno, racing after them with lightning quickness.The threeriders disappeared in the shadows like a mysterious whirlwind, leav-ing me where I was, paralyzed by surprise and terror.When I came out of my stupor, the moon was starting to growpale in the first light of dawn.I found myself alone, sitting on the slabof the column where Miguel had told me his dark story; the dewfrom the night moistened my hair, and around me there was not eventhe slightest trace of the strange scenes that had passed before myeyes.I would have thought them the ravings of a delirious mind ifMiguel s large figure had not come to stamp on them a seal of realitywith its imposing emphasis. Gubi Amaya | 181viiI found myself once again alone in the middle of the ruins; myfantastic protagonist had disappeared with the night.But I could stillhear his words in my ears; they seemed like a deep wake connectingback to the somber torrents of the past.I felt a strange split in my souland in my body, as if I had lived two separate realities that night.Istretched out several locks of hair to see if they had turned gray.But as I left behind the area of debris where I had passed the nightand came down from the high plain, the pleasant scene that openedbefore my eyes while it did not erase the memory of Miguel and histerrible story brought to my mind a new set of impressions.The blooming turcales and the line of tall trees that marks thecourse of the creek were turning gold under the first joyful rays of thesun.The pungent fragrances of spring perfumed the air with theirvoluptuous scents.Bands of mountain hens sang to each other in theclearing under the foliage, and outside the immense corrals thatextend behind the house, hundreds of cows mooed for their calves,locked inside the yards of the dairy.In the distance, the farm handsran after the cattle in the forest while singing mournful laments intheir magnificent voices, improvising with fervent inspiration.Theslight trill with which they make the notes vibrate is one of thecharming aspects of those plaintive melodies.When I returned to the house, I found new guests had arrived.Anold military man, who had been expected since the day before, hadarrived in the middle of the night accompanied by his daughter.Hewas a colonel, an old comrade of San Martín, one of the few bravemen who survived the immortal campaign that liberated Chile andPerú.5His daughter was an angel of beauty.Her name was Azucena Ros-alba.Fair-skinned, blond, and slender, there was something in her5José de San Martín (1778 1850), commander-in-chief of the revolutionary army of theAndes in the wars for independence from Spain; considered Argentina s national hero. Ed. 182 | Dreams and Realitieslight blue eyes, as in her entire person something ethereal andsupernatural that invaded my heart when I saw her, like a sad fore-boding.Oh! I was not wrong.Azucena was under the attack of thatinexorable illness that tends especially to consume the young and thebeautiful; that illness that rolls along slowly like lava from a volcano,but inevitably catches and devours its victim.Born along the Río de la Plata, Azucena had breathed its fragrantbreezes in vain hoping for relief from her suffering.So the doctorshad ordered her to go north for the change in air.Her father, who hadheard speak of the wonderful climate of M , had brought herhere, driven by the hope to which his soul clung [ Pobierz caÅ‚ość w formacie PDF ]
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. Have you forgotten the blondest of the children that you loved somuch? My little Emma! he exclaimed with a deep cry.And embracingme, he lifted me with his robust arms up to his face to take a goodlook at mine. My little Emma! he repeated, putting me back down on theground.And resting his face on my head, he cried bitterly.Then he grabbed my shoulders and stretched me out at arm slength to look at me. Yes, he said, you are my girl, alright! But why has your blondhair turned black? Why has your smiling countenance grown sad? As he said this, he suddenly started, and looked around him. And the others? he said, more with the expression in his eyesthan with his voice. Where are your brothers and sisters? I bent my head down and did not answer.He must have understood, for he moved away from me and went Gubi Amaya | 179to lean against an old column, where he covered his head with thelong folds of his poncho.He was crying!Every once in a while doleful sobs reached me through the silenceof the night.Oh! He did not know that of those children whom heloved so much, the happiest were the ones who were already restingin peace !Miguel s horse seemed to grow restless at its owner s long absenceand called out for him with a loud neighing.When he heard his friend s voice, Miguel raised his head slowly,and came toward me. My companion grows impatient, he said, and wants to return tothe other shore. He is not quite like the Lobuno, 4 he added with a sigh, but he isgood and strong, and he runs faster than most.Look at him, if you donot believe me! He showed me from a distance his magnificent and well-harnessed reddish-brown steed, with its long mane and very fine legs.The moonlight reflected off the large silver medals on its bit andbreast band. I miss the other one, though, my poor, old Lobuno! But he wasless resilient than I.When he saw that instead of wading through theford of the river to come to Sala, I wanted to take him at night tofight the Federals, and that the joyful voices of the children werereplaced by rifle shots and the harsh screams of the fiends we werefighting, he would go no further, and died of grief. This one also comes every night, but there is no one to pet him,and the only cries he hears are those of the owl on top of the tower. Then he looked up at the sky. It is getting late, he said, as he used to say before, a long timeago. Orion s Belt and the Southern Cross are about to set.You havenot forgotten that that means it is time for bed, have you?4Lobuno is a nickname used in Argentina to refer to a horse that has long hair and some-what resembles a wolf.It literally means wolfish in Spanish. Trans. 180 | Dreams and Realities Let us go home. How sweet were those words to my heart! It had been so longsince I had heard anyone say them! It had been so long since I hadhad a home, and since my father s home had been reduced to a pile ofashes!All of a sudden, the fantastic silhouettes of two riders appearedatop a mound of debris, black against the deep blue of the sky.The ethereal wanderers looked around anxiously.Then, believingthemselves to be alone, they jumped to the ground and went forMiguel s horse, which neighed in distress, trying to shake itself free ofthe ties of its hobbling straps.Miguel saw the riders, wrapped his poncho around his right arm,brandished his dagger in his left, and charged toward them all in asingle instant.Miguel, in fact, was completely eclipsed.He wasreplaced by Gubi Amaya, appearing in all his somber magnificence.When the thieves, who had at first prepared to hold their ground,saw the herculean figure his angry eyes shining in the dark likeburning embers they retreated, terrified.They jumped on theirhorses with unexpected agility, and rode off, yelling: It is the necromancer! The necromancer! Miguel tore the hobbling straps off of his horse and jumped on hisfast Sebruno, racing after them with lightning quickness.The threeriders disappeared in the shadows like a mysterious whirlwind, leav-ing me where I was, paralyzed by surprise and terror.When I came out of my stupor, the moon was starting to growpale in the first light of dawn.I found myself alone, sitting on the slabof the column where Miguel had told me his dark story; the dewfrom the night moistened my hair, and around me there was not eventhe slightest trace of the strange scenes that had passed before myeyes.I would have thought them the ravings of a delirious mind ifMiguel s large figure had not come to stamp on them a seal of realitywith its imposing emphasis. Gubi Amaya | 181viiI found myself once again alone in the middle of the ruins; myfantastic protagonist had disappeared with the night.But I could stillhear his words in my ears; they seemed like a deep wake connectingback to the somber torrents of the past.I felt a strange split in my souland in my body, as if I had lived two separate realities that night.Istretched out several locks of hair to see if they had turned gray.But as I left behind the area of debris where I had passed the nightand came down from the high plain, the pleasant scene that openedbefore my eyes while it did not erase the memory of Miguel and histerrible story brought to my mind a new set of impressions.The blooming turcales and the line of tall trees that marks thecourse of the creek were turning gold under the first joyful rays of thesun.The pungent fragrances of spring perfumed the air with theirvoluptuous scents.Bands of mountain hens sang to each other in theclearing under the foliage, and outside the immense corrals thatextend behind the house, hundreds of cows mooed for their calves,locked inside the yards of the dairy.In the distance, the farm handsran after the cattle in the forest while singing mournful laments intheir magnificent voices, improvising with fervent inspiration.Theslight trill with which they make the notes vibrate is one of thecharming aspects of those plaintive melodies.When I returned to the house, I found new guests had arrived.Anold military man, who had been expected since the day before, hadarrived in the middle of the night accompanied by his daughter.Hewas a colonel, an old comrade of San Martín, one of the few bravemen who survived the immortal campaign that liberated Chile andPerú.5His daughter was an angel of beauty.Her name was Azucena Ros-alba.Fair-skinned, blond, and slender, there was something in her5José de San Martín (1778 1850), commander-in-chief of the revolutionary army of theAndes in the wars for independence from Spain; considered Argentina s national hero. Ed. 182 | Dreams and Realitieslight blue eyes, as in her entire person something ethereal andsupernatural that invaded my heart when I saw her, like a sad fore-boding.Oh! I was not wrong.Azucena was under the attack of thatinexorable illness that tends especially to consume the young and thebeautiful; that illness that rolls along slowly like lava from a volcano,but inevitably catches and devours its victim.Born along the Río de la Plata, Azucena had breathed its fragrantbreezes in vain hoping for relief from her suffering.So the doctorshad ordered her to go north for the change in air.Her father, who hadheard speak of the wonderful climate of M , had brought herhere, driven by the hope to which his soul clung [ Pobierz caÅ‚ość w formacie PDF ]