Part 7
Even when apparently absorbed with other things, De Soto's whole mind was centred on planning how to discover the gold which he had been told could be found in such large quantities in the territory belonging to the princess. Always a diplomat, he spoke carelessly of the pearls which she had given him, asked whether she also owned any yellow and white metals similar to the rings and other ornaments he showed her. As always when she talked with him Cofachiqui's eyes sparkled, and her whole nature seemed to go out to him in confidence and interest.
"Indeed, yes," she made answer through her interpreter, "on my land there is an abundance of metals, both white and yellow."
De Soto's eyes gleamed at the statement. Then she summoned an Indian, and directed him to go at once and bring to her specimens of both kinds of metals. With ill-concealed impatience De Soto waited for the messenger's return, and almost snatched the small lumps from his hands, as the messenger brought them to the princess. With radiant joy she handed them to De Soto, glad to give another proof of her friendship. One look was enough, the yellow metal was only copper, the shining white specimen was a worthless kind of quartz!
Glancing at De Soto with eyes full of pride in the products of her realm, Cofachiqui's expression changed to one of surprise and fear, for on the face before her she saw such rage and hatred that she knew something dangerous had happened; and trembled lest revenge should be visited on her guiltless people. In a gently soothing voice she hastily said, pointing with a graceful wave of her hands to a spot in the distance, "Yonder is the burial place of our village warriors. There you will find our pearls. Take what you wish, and if you wish more, not far from here there is a village which was the home of my forefathers. Its temple is larger than this. You will find there so many pearls that even if you loaded all your horses with them, and yourselves with as much as you could carry you would not come to the end of them. Many years have my people been collecting and storing pearls. Take all and if you still want more, we can get even more for you from the fishing place of my people."
What an offer! It could be no other than evidence of a heart's real devotion, or of deep rooted fear, when an Indian princess offers to rob the burial place,--the treasure house of her ancestors!
While Cofachiqui, with appealing eyes, made the offer as a substitute for what De Soto had evidently been disappointed in finding, the Spaniard's hopes revived, and with a quick reassuring gesture he took and kissed the hand of the princess in his most courtly manner, which courtesy she received with proud dignity, and gave no further evidence that her heart had ever been touched by the fascinating general.
De Soto lost no time in accepting the offer made by Cofachiqui, and two days later, with a large number of his officers, and escorted by some of the household of the princess, who made no promise which she did not carry out to the full, De Soto visited the temple of which she had spoken. During the three mile trip, they passed through such wonderfully fertile country, saw such luxuriant vegetation, picked so much luscious fruit hanging in profusion from the fruit trees on the way, that the cavaliers felt this to be truly the promised land and again begged their commanding general to make a settlement here, but he only responded by silence and by marching on. At last the temple was reached. Impressively the Indians threw back the massive doors and on the threshold the Spaniards stood, spell-bound by the beauty and the majesty of what they saw, so the historian of the party tells us.
Twelve gigantic wooden statues confronted them, counterfeiting life with such ferocity of expression and such audacity, of posture, as could not but awe them. Six stood on one side and six on the other side of the door, as if to guard it, and to forbid anyone to enter. Those next the door were giants about twelve feet high, the others diminished in size by regular gradation. Each pair held a different kind of weapon and stood in attitude to use it.
Passing between the lines of monsters, the foreigners entered a great room. Overhead were rows of lustrous shells such as covered the roof, and strands of pearls interspersed with strings of bright feathers all seemed to be floating in the air in a bewildering tapestry. Along the upper sides of the four walls ran two rows of statues, figures of men and women in natural size, each placed on a separate pedestal. The men held various weapons, and each weapon was ornamented with a string of pearls. The burial chests were placed on benches around the four sides of the room, and in the centre, on the floor were also rows of caskets placed one on top of the other. All the caskets were filled with pearls, and the pearls were distributed according to size, the largest in the large caskets, the smaller seed pearls in the smallest caskets. In all there was such a quantity of pearls that the Spaniards confessed to the truth of the statement of Cofachiqui, that if they loaded themselves with as many as they could carry, and loaded their three hundred horses with them, too, there would still be hundreds of bushels left. And, too, there were in the room great heaps of handsome deerskins dyed in different colours, and skins of other animals. Opening out of this great room were eight small rooms filled with all sorts of weapons. In the last room were mats of cane so finely woven that few of the Spanish crossbowmen could have put a bolt through them.
The Spaniards were greatly elated with the discovery of such a store of treasure, and it is said that De Soto dipped his joined hands, made into a receptacle for the purpose, into the piles of pearls, and gave handfuls to each cavalier, saying that they were to make rosaries of, to say prayers on for their sins. For some strange reason, however, most of the jewels were left undisturbed, perhaps in the same way that fortunes are left in a bank, to be drawn on at will. Sure we are, from the true account of the historian, that the Spaniards were fully aware of the value of the pearls given to them by Cofachiqui, and sure it is also that De Soto must have exulted with a passion of triumph at being the lawful owner of such treasures. But his desire for gold, his greed for gain, was insatiable. Having examined his newly acquired store house of possessions he eagerly inquired of the Indians if they knew of any still richer land farther west. This question gave Cofachiqui's chiefs the chance they had been hoping for to rid themselves of him whom they now knew as a treacherous guest, and they hastily assured De Soto that farther on to the north was a more powerful chief ruling over a far richer country, called Chiaha. The news delighted De Soto and he determined to march on at once. In vain his men pleaded to remain where they had found such treasure, had been shown such kindness--his reply was that there were not enough provisions in the province to support their army much longer, and that by continuing their march they might be repaid by finding the longed-for gold. But he added, cannily, should their quest be unsuccessful they could return, by which time the Indians would have replanted their fields and there would be abundance of food. As usual, he had his way, and the tidings were brought to the princess that the foreigners were to take up their march for Chiaha, on the fourth of May. Doubtless she was not sorry, for during the latter part of their stay, their treachery and cruelty had been so evident, that whatever feeling of comradeship with them she had before felt, must have been rudely dissipated, and seeing evidence of her changed sentiments De Soto was so uneasy lest like her mother she should flee from him, that he appointed a guard who kept watch over her by day and by night, so she could not by any possibility escape. To the cavalier who was appointed to this task, no menial labour could have been more humiliating, and he accepted it under protest, but the lady of Cofachiqui over whom he was obliged to keep guard showed no signs of being disturbed at her position, but with proud and haughty glances went calmly about her daily tasks as though it was a common thing for her to have a keeper. Then came the day of De Soto's leave-taking, and masking her joy at the event, Cofachiqui stood proudly to receive his farewell, with as much grace and dignity as on the day when she had received him and his men. But suddenly her eyes flashed with anger, her throat parched with humiliation, a frenzy of proud horror and rebellion filled her--she heard the man who had before kissed her hand so chivalrously, who had so fascinated her, give the stern command that she, _La Sanora_, Queen of the realm, was to accompany the Spaniards on foot with her retinue of women attendants!
"_And what is this for?_" she flung out the question with an imperious challenge, but De Soto vouchsafed no answer, and the army took up its march with the little band of Indian women safely guarded at the rear. Cofachiqui soon found out why she had been carried on the expedition, for De Soto obliged her to make use of her influence in controlling the Indians along his line of march, so that his army not only was not attacked, on account of the protecting presence of the gracious ruler for whom her people had such a deep affection, but also at her command they supplied De Soto with guides, as well as with men to carry baggage and provisions, while travelling through her territory.
For a week, another and still a third, Cofachiqui was dragged in the vanguard of the Spanish army, a prisoner, and with the passing of each day in captivity to these traitorous white men on whom she had formerly looked with such reverence, her heart grew faint with apprehension, deep shadows came beneath her lustrous eyes, and there was never a sound of her silvery laughter as of old.
But these were the only visible signs of the effect of her subjection. To the Spaniards she was still courageous, calm and dignified, whatever she may have felt.
Then came a wild night of storm in the forest, torrents of rain and mighty wind that roared and thundered through the great trees, shaking them as if they had been saplings. While the tempest was at its height Cofachiqui, by a signal known only to her tribe, summoned one of her faithful women to her side,--by signs told her what she had to tell,--then the woman crept stealthily back to her forest bed, and there was no sound in the encampment but the roar of the wind and rain.
The next day dawned cloudless, and at an early hour all the Spaniards were busily at work, repairing the severe damage done by the storm. In replacing a tent a woman's deft hand was needed, and Cofachiqui's name echoed through the forest. No answer came, and an impatient cavalier himself ran to summon her. At the door of her tent he stood as if turned to marble. Cofachiqui was not there! Not a bead, an ornament, an article of clothing, was to be found! No, nor the casket of wonderful pearls entrusted to her care by De Soto. _La Sanora_, queen of many provinces, lady of the land she had ruled over so wisely and so well, had fled, and all her women with her!
Never again, despite De Soto's frenzied and persistent search, despite the added efforts of the united Spanish army, did they discover any trace of the brave, beautiful young girl who had received such treacherous treatment in return for her gracious hospitality.
Clever Cofachiqui! Where she fled, or how she fled, or when she fled, will always be a mystery, but her name has come down to us on the pages of historic legend, not as fairy-tale but as fact, and she stands with the lime-light of ages thrown on her clear-cut character as a girl sweet, brave and loyal--the most precious relic bequeathed to the New World by De Soto and his cavaliers.
JENNY LIND:
The Swedish Nightingale
IN the City of Stockholm there is one street leading up to the Church of St. Jacob, on which in years gone by there was a constant succession of pedestrians and vehicles. In fact in 1830, it was one of the most lively streets in the city, and often a passer would stop to look up at a window where every day a little girl sat, holding a big cat decorated with a blue ribbon. To this pet the child sang constantly, sang bits of operas or popular airs which she had heard, and the childish voice was so clear and sweet and true even in very high notes, that it attracted quite a crowd of listeners, and it became a regular habit with many persons to pause for a moment and listen to the song poured out for the benefit of pussy with the blue bow!
Among those who saw the pretty picture and heard the song was the maid of a Mademoiselle Lundberg, a dancer at the Royal Opera House. She was told such an ecstatic story of the child's beautiful voice, that she became deeply interested, and having found out that the little singer's name was Jenny Lind wrote a note asking the child's mother, Fru Lind, to bring Jenny to her home that she might hear her sing.
Fru Lind acceded to the request and when she took Jenny to pay the promised visit, and the child's voice had been tried, Mademoiselle Lundberg clasped her hands in rapture, exclaiming:
"She is a genius. You must have her educated for the stage."
The words meant nothing to Jenny, but they struck terror to the heart of the mother, to whose old-fashioned notions the stage was another name for ruin. In vain the actress pleaded that it would be a sin to allow such talent to be wasted,--still Fru Lind shook her head, and the actress diplomatically argued no more, but by eager questions learned the history of Jenny's family.
Being the wife of an amiable and good-natured man who was unable to support his family, Fru Lind was obliged to keep a small school in Stockholm to eke out expenses, and as she had not time to take care of Jenny as well as teach, the child had for three years been boarded out with a church organist's family not far from the city, but had finally been brought back, to become a pupil in her mother's school, being cared for mainly by her grandmother, to whom Jenny was devotedly attached. All this Mademoiselle Lundberg learned from answers to her questions, and seeing her keen interest, the mother continued her narrative, "It was my mother who first noticed Jenny's voice," she said. "Some street musicians had been playing in front of the house and the child must have heard them and listened closely, for as soon as they were gone, she went to the piano and played and sang the air she had heard. My mother in the next room, hearing the music, thought Jenny's half sister was at the piano, and called out, 'Amalia, is that you?' Jenny, evidently fearing she had done something to be punished for, crept under the piano, where my mother found her and pulling her out, exclaimed, 'Why, child, was that _you_?'" Jenny said that it was, and as soon as Fru Lind came in, the grandmother gleefully told her daughter the incident, adding, "Mark my words, that child will bring you help," and the mother, struggling so hard to make ends meet, devoutly hoped that the prediction might come true.
Soon after that as her school did not pay, Fru Lind became a governess, and the grandmother went to the Widows' Home, taking Jenny with her. The child, who was too young to realise what such a step meant, was as happy as could be there; as she said afterwards, "I sang with every step I took, and with every jump my feet made," and when she was not jumping or stepping, she sat in the window singing to her big pet pussy cat. All this the mother told Mademoiselle Lundberg, who again begged that Jenny at least be taught to sing correctly, to which Fru Lind agreed, and the actress at once wrote a letter of introduction to Herr Croelius, the court Secretary, and singing master at the Royal Theatre, and gave it to Fru Lind. Off went mother and daughter to present it, but when they reached the Opera House and were about to mount its steps, Fru Lind shook her head, and turned back--she could not launch her child on any such career.
But here Jenny became insistent, for from all the conversation she had heard between her mother and the actress, she had gathered that mounting those steps would mean something new and interesting, and at last she had her way. They sought and found the studio of Croelius, and Jenny sang for him a bit from one of Winter's operas, and the teacher, deeply moved by the purity and strength of the child's voice, at once set a date for her first lesson with him.
After only a few lessons, Croelius became so proud of his pupil that he took her to sing for Count Pücke, manager of the Court Theatre, hoping that this powerful man might be so impressed with the child's voice that he would do something to push her forward quickly into public notice. One can picture the interview between Count Pücke, businesslike and abrupt, and little Jenny, then plainly dressed and awkward, far from pretty, and too bashful even to lift her eyes to meet the keen glance of the Count. Looking coldly from her to Croelius, the Count asked:
"How old is she?"
"Nine years old," answered Croelius.
"Nine!" echoed the Count. "Why, this is not a nursery. It is the king's theatre."
Then with another glance at Jenny he asked coldly, "What should we do with such an ugly creature? See what feet she has, and then her face! She will never be presentable. Certainly we can't take such a scarecrow."
Croelius, indignant at such brutality, put a protecting arm around the girl and said proudly, "If you will not take her, I, poor as I am, will myself have her educated for the stage," and turning, was about to leave the room when the Count commanded him to remain and let him hear what the child could do.
Trembling with fear of the result, Jenny sang the simplest song she knew, and when she finished the Count was silent, for the lovely quality of the voice he had just heard, had deeply moved him. Rising, he shook hands with both teacher and pupil, and as quick in his generosity as in his brusqueness, he at once announced that she was to be admitted into the theatrical school connected with the Royal Theatre, and to be placed under the special instruction of the operatic director, Herr Berg, and his assistant, the Swedish composer, Lindblad.
Small wonder that Jenny left the building in a flutter of excitement, or that Croelius was as beaming now as he had been depressed before, and he lost no time in seeing that his little pupil was placed according to the instructions of the great Count Pücke.
It was the custom of the Royal Theatre to board its pupils out, and as Jenny's mother was no longer a governess and had returned to Stockholm, the girl lived at home, together with several other pupils of the Royal Theatre, and for two years worked so hard and accomplished such wonders in the development of her voice that she became known as a musical prodigy.
During the year she entered the Royal Theatre she acted in a play called "The Polish Mine," and the next year in another, and the press spoke of her acting as showing fire and feeling far beyond her years. She also sang in concerts, in that way helping to pay for her board and clothes.
At the theatre she was taught all branches necessary to her profession, and not only did she have an exquisite voice, but whatever rôle she undertook was conceived with bold originality of style. Then when a golden future of triumph seemed stretching out before her, came a crushing disaster. All of a sudden her glorious voice was gone!
Whatever may have been the cause, the fact remained, and Jenny at twelve showed her fineness of character by the way she faced the cruel disappointment, and continued with her instrumental work, and with such exercises as were fitted to the remnant of voice she still possessed. Faithfully, persistently, she worked for four long years, only hoping now for smaller rewards instead of the great operatic triumph which had been her earlier ambition, trying to achieve results as conscientiously as before.
Herr Berg was supervising a grand concert to be given at the Court Theatre, and was in a dilemma. The fourth act of _Robert le Diable_ was to be given, but all his singers refused to take the part of Alice, because it included only one solo. The Herr Direktor was distracted, but finally thought of his unlucky pupil, Jenny Lind, whose voice could be trusted in such a minor part, and calling her to his room, he offered her the part. Without demur she accepted it, and practised feverishly, but on the night of the performance she was so nervous for fear her voice would fail, that those near the stage could see her slender form tremble with fright and excitement. Perhaps the tension and the passion with which she was labouring wrought the miracle. At all events, she sang the aria of her part with such wonderful beauty and richness of tone that the audience were beside themselves with admiration. Jenny's voice had come out fuller, finer than ever! The recently despised young singer became instantly the heroine of the hour, while Herr Berg, watching behind the scenes, was spell-bound with surprise and joy.
The next day he called her to his room and offered her the rôle of Agatha in Weber's _Der Freischutz_.
Ever since Jenny first began to study and to hear operatic music, this rôle had been in secret her highest ambition, and one can picture her standing before the Direktor, her blue eyes flashing with excitement, her mobile face expressing a dozen varying degrees of joy while her slender girlish figure looked almost too slight for the task, as she joyfully accepted the responsibility.
At once she began rehearsing, and one day when she put forth every effort to express emotion in the way her dramatic teacher wished, the effort was met with silence.
"Am I then so incapable," she thought. Then glancing at her teacher she saw tears in the eyes of the older woman, who exclaimed:
"My child, I have nothing to teach you--do as nature tells you,"--and Jenny knew that her supreme effort had not been wasted.
It is said that she studied the part of Agatha with all the intensity of her enthusiastic nature and at the last rehearsal sang with such intense feeling and fire that the orchestra, to a man, laid down their instruments and applauded loudly. The next day, before the performance, she was very nervous and worried, but the moment she appeared on the stage every bit of apprehension vanished, and as Fredrika Bremer said, "She was fresh, bright and serene as a morning in May, peculiarly graceful and lovely in her whole appearance. She seemed to move, speak and sing without effort or art. Her singing was distinguished especially by its purity and the power of soul which seemed to swell in her tones." Jenny herself said afterwards, "I got up that morning one creature. I went to bed another creature. I had found my power."
During her entire after life she kept that anniversary, the seventh of March, in grateful remembrance of her triumph, as a sort of second birthday.
For the next year and a half she worked indefatigably, and her success as an operatic singer seemed assured; she became the star of the Stockholm opera, as well as the most popular singer in Sweden, and was called the "Swedish Nightingale."