### Chapter XV
Jacques Paganel’s Spanish

Robert had no sooner escaped one terrible danger than he ran the risk of another scarcely less formidable. He was almost crushed by the hugs of his friends, who were so overjoyed at the sight of him, that in spite of his weak state, none of them would be satisfied without giving him an embrace. However, it seems that good rough hugging does not hurt sick people; at any rate it did not hurt Robert, but quite the contrary.

But when the first joy of Robert’s deliverance was past, the next thought was for the deliverer. Of course it was the Major who looked around first. Fifty paces from the river a very tall man was standing motionless on the lowest crags at the foot of the mountain. He was resting the butt of his long gun on the ground.

The Patagonian, Thalcave

He had broad shoulders, and long hair bound together with leather thongs. He was over six feet tall. His bronzed face was red between the eyes and mouth, black by the lower eyelids, and white on the forehead. Dressed in the manner of the Patagonians of the frontiers, he wore a splendid cloak, ornamented with scarlet arabesques, made of the underside skins of the guanaco, sewn together with rhea1 tendons, and with the silky wool turned outward. Under this mantle was a garment of fox-skin, fastened around the waist, and coming down to a point in front. A little bag hung from his belt, containing the colours he used for painting his face. His boots were made from ox hide, fastened around the ankles by crossed straps.

This Patagonian had a splendid face, indicating real intelligence, despite the mixture of colours that decorated it. His waiting pose was full of dignity; indeed, to see him standing, grave and motionless on his pedestal of rocks, one might have taken him for a statue of self control.

As soon as the Major saw him, he pointed him out to Glenarvan, who ran to him. The Patagonian came two steps forward to meet him, and Glenarvan caught hold of his hand and pressed it in his own. It was impossible to mistake the meaning of the action, for the face of the Scottish lord so beamed with gratitude that no words were needed. The stranger bowed slightly in return, and said a few words that neither Glenarvan nor the Major could understand.

Seeing their lack of comprehension, the Patagonian spoke again in another language. But this second idiom was no more intelligible than the first. Certain words, however, caught Glenarvan’s ear as sounding like Spanish, of which he knew a few phrases.

Español?” he asked.

The Patagonian nodded in reply, a movement of the head which has an affirmative significance among all people.

“That’s good!” said the Major. “Our friend Paganel will be the very man for him. It is lucky for us that he took it into his head to learn Spanish.”

Paganel was called. He came at once, and saluted the stranger with all the grace of a Frenchman. But his compliments were lost on the Patagonian, for he did not understand a single syllable. The learned geographer was made aware of the situation.

“Perfect,” he said. He opened his mouth wide to better enunciate the words.

“Vos sois um homen de bem!.”2 The native listened, but made no reply.

“He doesn’t understand,” said the geographer.

“Perhaps you haven’t the right accent,” said the Major.

“That’s just it! Diable d’accent!”

Once more Paganel repeated his compliment, but with no better success.

“I’ll change the phrase,” he said, and in slow, deliberate tones he went on, “Sem duvida, um patagâo.”3

Still no response.

“Dizeime!”4 said Paganel.

But no answer came.

“Vos compriendeis?”5 shouted Paganel, at the very top of his voice, as if he would burst his throat.

Evidently the Indian did not understand, for he replied in Spanish,

“No comprendo.”6

It was Paganel’s turn now to be amazed. He pushed his spectacles right down over his nose, as if greatly irritated, and said “I’ll be hanged if I can make out one word of his infernal patois. It is Araucanían, that’s certain!”

“No,” said Glenarvan. “He certainly answered in Spanish.” And turning to the Patagonian, he repeated the word, “Español?”

“Si, si!”7 replied the Indian.

Paganel’s surprise became absolute stupefaction. The Major and Glenarvan looked at each other out of the corners of their eyes.

“Ah, my learned friend.” A half smile was drawn to MacNabbs’ lips. “Is this another of your misadventures? You seem to have quite a monopoly of them.”

“What!” said Paganel, pricking up his ear.

“Yes, it’s clear enough the man speaks Spanish.”

“Him!”

“Yes, he certainly speaks Spanish. Perhaps it is some other language you have been studying all this time instead of—”

But Paganel would not allow him to proceed. He squared his shoulders, and said stiffly “You go a little too far, Major.”

“Well, how is it that you don’t understand him then?”

“I do not understand him, because the man speaks badly,” said the learned geographer, who was beginning to grow impatient

“That is to say, he speaks badly, because you can’t understand him,” returned the Major calmly.

“Come, come, MacNabbs,” said Glenarvan, “your supposition is quite inadmissible. However absent minded our friend Paganel is, we can not assume that his distraction went so far as learning one language for another!”

“Then, my dear Edward, or rather you, my brave Paganel, explain to me what is going on here.”

“I explain nothing.” said Paganel. “Here is the book I use daily, to practice the difficulties of the Spanish language. Examine it for yourself, Major, and see if I am mistaken!”

That said, Paganel fumbled in his many pockets. After a few minutes of searching, he drew out a volume in very bad condition, and presented it with an assured air. The major took the book and looked at it.

“And what’s the name of this book?” asked the Major.

“These are the Lusiades,8 an admirable epic, which—”

“The Lusiades!” exclaimed Glenarvan.

“Yes, my friend, the Lusiades of the great Camões, neither more nor less.”

“Camões!” repeated Glenarvan; “but Paganel, my unfortunate fellow, Camões was Portuguese! It is Portuguese you have been studying for the last six weeks!”

“Camões! Lusiades! Portuguese!” Paganel could not say more. His eyes flickered beneath his glasses, while a Homeric burst of laughter sounded in his ears from his companions around him.

The Patagonian did not stare; he waited patiently for an explanation of an incident absolutely incomprehensible to him.

“I'm a fool! An idiot!” said Paganel. “Is it really a fact? You are not joking with me? Is that what I have actually been doing? Why, it is a second confusion of tongues, like Babel. Ah, my friends, my friends, what is to become of me? To start for India and arrive in Chile! To learn Spanish and talk Portuguese! Why, if I go on like this, some day I shall be throwing myself out of the window instead of my cigar!”

To hear Paganel bemoan his misadventures and see his comical discomfiture, would have made anyone laugh. Besides, he set the example himself. “Laugh away, my friends, laugh as loud as you like; you can’t laugh at me half as much as I laugh at myself!” And he uttered the greatest laugh to ever come out of a scientist’s mouth.

“But, I say,” said the Major, after a minute, “this doesn’t alter the fact that we have no interpreter.”

“Oh, don’t distress yourself about that,” said Paganel, “Portuguese and Spanish are so much alike that I made a mistake; but this very resemblance will be a great help toward rectifying it. In a very short time I shall be able to thank the Patagonian in the language he speaks so well.”

Paganel was right. He soon managed to exchange a few words with the stranger, and even found out that his name was Thalcave, a word that meant “The Thunderer” in Araucanían. This nickname had, no doubt, come from his skill in handling firearms.

But what rejoiced Glenarvan most was to learn that he was a guide by occupation, and, moreover, a guide across the Pampas. To his mind, the meeting with him was so providential, that he could not doubt now of the success of their enterprise. The deliverance of Captain Grant seemed an accomplished fact.

When the party went back to Robert, the boy held out his arms to the Patagonian, who silently laid his hand on his head, and proceeded to examine him with the greatest care, gently feeling each of his aching limbs. Then he went down to the river, and gathered a few handfuls of wild celery, which grew on the banks, with which he rubbed the patient’s body. Under this massage, done with infinite delicacy, the child felt his strength return, and it was obvious that a few hours of rest would be enough to set him right.

It was decided that the rest of the day and the following night would be spent at the camp. Two important questions had to be settled: where to get food, and transport. Provisions and mules were both lacking. Fortunately, they had Thalcave. This guide, accustomed to taking travellers along the Patagonian frontiers, and one of the most intelligent baqueanos in the country, undertook to supply Glenarvan with all that was missing from his little troop. He offered to take him to a tolderia of Indians, four miles off at most, where he could get everything they needed. This proposition was partly made by gestures, and partly by a few Spanish words which Paganel managed to make out. His offer was accepted, and Glenarvan and his learned friend started off with him at once.

Overhead, hundreds of birds were chasing each other around the sky, rending the air with their shrieks

They walked at a good pace for an hour and a half, and had to make great strides to keep up with the giant Thalcave. The path lay through a beautiful fertile region, abounding in rich pastures; where a hundred thousand cattle might have fed comfortably. Large ponds, connected by an intricate labyrinth of rivers, amply watered these plains and produced their greenness. Black-headed swans whirled capriciously in the water, disputing possession with the numerous rheas which gambolled over the llanos. The brilliantly plumed and feathered tribes came in a marvellous variety and made a deafening noise. The isacus — a graceful sort of dove with grey feathers streaked with white — and the yellow cardinals were flitting about in the trees like living flowers. Overhead, pigeons, sparrows, chingolos, jilgueros, and monjitas were chasing each other around the sky, rending the air with their shrieks.

Jacques Paganel walked from wonder to wonder, and he had nearly exhausted his vocabulary of adjectives in his loud exclamations, to the astonishment of the Patagonian, who thought it quite natural that there were birds in the air, swans on the ponds, and grass in the meadows. The learned geographer was so lost in delight, that it seemed to him that they had hardly started before they came in sight of the Indian camp.

The tolderia occupied a narrow valley between the foothills of the Andes. About thirty nomadic Indians were living there in huts made of branches, pasturing immense herds of cows, sheep, oxen, and horses. They went from one pasture to another, always finding a well-spread table for their four-footed guests.

These nomads were a hybrid type of Araucans, Pehuenches, and Aucas. These Ando-Peruvians, had olive skin, medium stature and massive form, with a low forehead, almost circular face, thin lips, high cheek-bones, effeminate features, and cold countenance. They would not have offered to the eyes of an anthropologist the character of the pure races. In short, they were uninteresting natives. However, it was their herds Glenarvan wanted, not themselves. As long as he could get beef and horses, he asked for nothing else.

Thalcave did the bargaining

Thalcave did the bargaining. It did not take long. In exchange for seven little Argentinian horses, all harnessed, a hundred pounds of charqui, or dried meat, some measures of rice, and leather bottles for water, the Indians agreed to take twenty ounces of gold9 as they could not get wine or rum, which they would have preferred — though they were perfectly acquainted with the value of gold. Glenarvan wished to purchase an eighth horse for the Patagonian, but he gave him to understand that it was not necessary.

When the bargain was done, Glenarvan took leave of his new “suppliers,” as Paganel put it, and returned to the camp in less than half an hour. His arrival was hailed with acclamations by the whole party or rather the provisions and horses were. They were all hungry, and ate heartily. Robert took a little food with the rest. He was fast recovering strength.

The close of the day was spent in rest, and conversation. They spoke a little bit about everything: their dear loved ones back on the Duncan, Captain John Mangles and his crew. And they spoke of Harry Grant, who was perhaps not as far away.

Paganel never left the Indian’s side. It was not that he was so glad to see a real Patagonian, beside whom he looked like a dwarf — a Patagonian who might have almost rivalled the Emperor Maximii, and that Congo negro seen by the learned Van der Brock, both eight feet tall — but he caught up Spanish phrases from the Indian and studied the language without a book this time, gesticulating at a great rate all the grand sonorous words that fell on his ear.

“If I have an unusual accent,” he said to the Major, “it won’t be my fault. But if someone had told me that it would be a Patagonian who would teach me Spanish one day, I wouldn't have believed him!”

1. Verne has "ostrich" here, but those birds aren't found in South America. — DAS

2. You are a brave man!

3. A Patagonian, no doubt.

4. Answer me!

5. Do you understand?

6. I do not understand.

7. Yes, yes!

8. The Lusiades by Luís Vaz de Camões is an epic poem celebrating the discovery of a sea route around Africa to India by Vasco de Gama. — DAS

9. 1,630 francs. (325 dollars — DAS)