Speeding along over the lordly plateau beyond Caracas, through a country where the faintest effort on the part of man to cultivate the earth, the least scratch with the hoe, meets with more than abundant response, where, even in the high mountain altitude, sweet fields of cane and coffee bring restful green and delicious shades in the ever-pervading sunlight, we were entertained by some of the party, who were prophesying a hard day and a hot day with a relish which was quite enviable. Why is it that there must always be those who are constantly anticipating hot weather? It seems to be out of the question to escape them; they either predict that it will be, must be, unbearably hot, or unbearably cold, according to the latitude in which they happen to be found. There seems to be no way of getting along comfortably with the present. So we listened while dire forebodings were omened for Valencia, and worse for Puerto Cabello.
In the meantime one of our friends,—Mrs. M—— from Boston,—was suffering with a severe headache, and the Doctor, who had been in the seat ahead of us, was asked if, in that small, black, professional-looking valise, there was not something to relieve her pain. And then the Doctor broke forth once more:
“There’s no use. I can’t stand this any longer. I was called up last night for the sick man in the after-deck stateroom; after each port I am asked to prescribe for men suffering from swizzle jags, and I’m routed out at all hours, and buttonholed by nervous women I don’t know. I wish I could help Mrs. M——; nothing would make me happier. But to tell the truth, I’m not a doctor. I am only a plain business man—a manufacturer. Somehow, when the passenger-list was made up, I was put in as ‘Doctor S——’ and the list was printed and circulated before I knew of my title. Then every one called me ‘Doctor,’ and it was such an easy name to catch that I thought I’d just let it go, and I’ve been ‘Doctor’ to every one ever since; but when it comes to setting a leg or curing a headache, I must put an end to it.”
But the name had become fixed. It was there to stay, so the Doctor was the “Doctor” in spite of his lack of diploma, and, in one sense, by his good cheer, his readiness to join in fun, his stock of good stories, and his consideration for others, he was quite as beneficial to our sometimes weary selves, as if he carried his pockets full of bitter tonic and invigorating elixirs.
IV.
In front of us sat the Doctor; back of us sat a young South American from “up country,” with whom we entered into conversation, and from whom we learned much to confirm our rapidly forming opinions of his great country—Venezuela. He spoke English well, having been educated partially in England, partially in New York. He came from the Province of Colombo, to me a very indefinite, remotely hidden-away place somewhere in the Andes, accessible only by two or three days’ journey from Caracas, partly by mule and partly by boat up the Maracaibo River. By the way, we are told that Colombo is the native state of that peppery little dictator—the present President Castro.
This South American gentleman had been sent to Caracas to interview Castro and his ministers with regard to a loan of twenty thousand dollars in horses, cattle, and provisions made during the last revolution to the faction which had placed Castro in power; the transaction had evidently been dignified by the soothing name of “a loan” because the quondam cowboy leader Castro had ended as a self-elected President. Just what our fellow traveller’s success had been, we were unable to learn or he to tell, for this same General Castro is a wily bird and keeps many an honest Venezuelan guessing. He told us what we already knew,—that Venezuela needs peace—peace—peace, and that, until she is assured of peace, her great hands must be idle. We needed no words to assure us of her greatness. It was there before us. The idle hands were clasping rich harvests unsown, rich treasures in gold and silver glittered upon her fingers, and following the sweep of her green mantle, there was a race of warm-hearted children, within whose being there was the making of great men and women. But there must be peace. For, when there is war, her great men go to the front, her brave men are killed; but in some unfortunate way her political schemers and professional revolutionists survive, and are always ready to make new trouble. “He who fights and runs away will live to fight another day.”
And so they run away—the unsuccessful ones—to Curaçao, to Paris, or to some of the neighbouring South American states, but their dirty shadows ever hang imminent on the horizon.
V.
During the conversation with our South American friends, we had reached the end of the plateau, and the descent began into the great valley below. It was not until we reached that point that we realised the wonder of this Venezuelan railroad, or that we understood the reason of its being called the “Great Venezuelan Railway”—Gran Ferrocarril de Venezuela. Like the greater portion of all the business enterprises in South America and the West Indies, the railroad was built by Germans. Krupp, of gun fame, was named as the head of the company, and too much cannot be said of the courage and skill of men who undertook to build a road under such difficulties. There are railways of difficult construction all over the world, indeed, but never, in our experience, were we more impressed with the magnitude of an undertaking than we were with the construction of this masterful road; though one might well criticise the business judgment of men who would thus put millions of dollars into an enterprise that apparently can never be self-supporting. Think of it, eighty-seven tunnels through rocky mountain spurs, one hundred and twenty heavy steel bridges between Caracas and Valencia, miles of rock-cutting and costly filling, and all this to carry a handful of passengers and a few tons of freight each day—altogether not enough to load one of our “mixed trains” in the States!