CHALCHUIH TLATONAC.
This is a country of magic; for, lo! in the heat of the noontide,
Silent and lone is the city, no footfall is heard in the highways,
Only the grasshopper shrilling, the tinkle of water clear gushing,
And rarely the sigh of the breezes, that stir the white dust on
the pavements.
Magic! no magic but custom; for this is the time of siesta;
When sinks the sun, then the city will waken to love and to
laughter;
Lightly the gay senoritas will dance in the cold-shining moonbeams,
Flirt fan, flash eyes, and beckon, to lovers who long for their
kisses,
Then will the castanets rattle, the little feet dance the bolero,
And serenades sigh at the windows, in scorning of jealous duennas.
Magic is not of the noonday; when glimmers the amorous twilight,
Then is the time of enchantment, of love, and of passionate
lovers.
Cocom was completely ignorant of his real age. He might have been a
hundred, and he certainly looked as though he had completed his
century. Long ago he had left off counting the flying years and
meditating on the mutability of human life. In fact, he had changed so
little that it is doubtful whether he believed in mutability at all.
Wrinkled he was, it is true, and slightly bent, but his black eyes
twinkled with the fire of youth, and he enjoyed his meals. These things
argue juvenility, and, as Cocom possessed them, he evidently knew the
secret of immortality. Perhaps he had found that fountain of youth
spoken of by Ponce de Leon. If so, it had affected his soul not his
body. He looked like Methuselah.
Yet he was wonderfully active considering his years, and undertook to
introduce Peter to the butterflies of Central America. Arrayed in his
white cotton drawers and shirt, with his pink zarape gracefully draped
over his bent shoulders, he smoked a long black cigar, and waited the
orders of the "Americanos" in stolid silence.
Peter was affectionately handling his butterfly-net, Tim was finishing
his breakfast, and Jack, in a smart riding-dress, was slashing his high
boots with his whip, impatient to get away. They were looking at Cocom,
who had just arrived, and waiting for Philip, who, as usual, was late
for breakfast.
"He looks too old to be of much use," said the doctor, disconsolately;
"why couldn't Don Miguel send me a man instead of a mummy?"
"Perhaps the mummy is well up in entomology!"
"He ought to be that same!" cried Tim, with his mouth full; "he's had
plenty of time to learn, anyhow. Ask the old cocoanut his age, Jack."
"Don't you take liberties with his name, Tim. Cocom was a king of
Mayapan; and this, I presume, is his descendant."
"Royalty out at elbows!" said Peter, blandly.
"It's a king, is it?" remarked Tim, staring at the Indian. "He looks a
mighty second-hand sort of article. I should be a king myself. Wasn't
one of my ancestors King of Cork?"
"Good morning, gentlemen," said Philip, entering at this moment; "where
did you pick up Methuselah?"
"This is Cocom, my guide," said the doctor, proudly introducing Cocom,
who removed his sombrero with a graceful sweep.
"Oh, you are going to hunt the ferocious beetle, are you not? What is
he, Jack? An Aztec?"
"No; a descendant of the Mayas."
"A dethroned king--no less."
"You know the country round here, Cocom?" said Philip, taking no notice
of Tim's joke.
"Yes, Señor Americano; all! all!" replied Cocom, with grave dignity.
"Don Pedro will be safe with me."
"You can show him butterflies?"
"Señor, I can show him butterflies, ants, beetles, wasps; all the Señor
desires to behold."
"That being so, Peter, you had better get away," said Jack,
impatiently. "I want to be off, and must see you started first; you
can't be trusted to run the show on your own account."
"I'm quite ready. Good-bye, boys; I will see you this afternoon."
"Not me," said Duval, brusquely; "I'm off to Maraquando's estancia."
"Take care of the sun, Peter," warned Philip, kindly; "your head isn't
over strong."
Peter indignantly repudiated this imputation on his cranium, and
forthwith followed Cocom out of the house, gleefully looking forward to
a pleasant day. His ideas of pleasure were singularly limited.
"He's quite safe, isn't he, Jack?" said Philip anxiously. "I don't want
Peter to get into trouble."
"Oh, Cocom will look after him. I know the old man well. He is devoted
to Don Miguel, who once saved his life. Cocom will sit on a bank and
watch Peter gasping after butterflies. The exercise will do the
doctor's liver good."
"You are off yourself now, I suppose?"
"Yes, I've been waiting for you. Really, Philip, you are the laziest
man I know."
"This house that Jack built is the castle of indolence," explained
Philip, sitting down to table. "Go, my friend, and kiss Dolores for
me!"
"I'll do nothing of the sort. I'll kiss her for my own sake! Adios
caballeros."
"When will you return, Jack?"
"To-morrow! Meanwhile Don Miguel will look after you both. Take care of
yourselves."
"Con dios va usted mi amigo!" said Cassim, graciously. "Now go away,
and let me eat my breakfast."
Jack departed, and Tim went to the window to see him ride down the
street.
"He is a fine boy," he said, returning to the breakfast-table. "Doña
Dolores ought to be proud of having such a lover."
"I have no doubt she is, Tim. It is to be hoped the course of true love
will run smooth with Jack; but what with Don Hypolito and the harlequin
opal I have my doubts. What are your plans, Timothy?"
"It's writing I'll be, all day!"
"Nonsense. Come and see Tlatonac."
"I can't. Isn't my chief waiting a letter from me?"
"Such industry! Tim, you make me feel ashamed of myself."
"The devil I do. Then you write my letter, Philip and I'll flirt with
Doña Eulalia. I'm a white-headed boy with the female sex."
"No, thank you. It's not a fair exchange."
"Ah, she's a dark-eyed colleen, Philip. You have lost your heart
there."
"No," said Philip, a trifle doubtfully. "I have seen too many pretty
faces to be captured at first sight by a new one. I have other things
to think of besides marriage."
"You have, but you won't," retorted Tim, ungrammatically. "Now get away
with you, and leave me to my writing."
"I'll be back in two hours."
"If you are not, I'll come and look you up at the Don's. Make love to
Doña Eulalia while you can, Philip, for it's mighty little time you'll
have when the row starts.
"Do ye hear the cannon's rattle? do ye smell the smoke av battle,
Whin the Irish bhoys are ridin' down the inimy so bould?
Do ye see the bullets flyin'? and your faithful Patrick dyin',
Wid ne'er a sowl beside him dear, to kiss his forehead cowld?"
Tim, with that sudden transition from mirth to melancholy so
characteristic of the Celtic race, threw so much pathos into the last
two lines that Philip could not trust himself to reply, and went
hastily out of the room. He drew a long breath of relief when he found
himself in the hot sunshine, for that unexpected note of sorrow from
jovial Tim touched him more nearly than he cared to confess. In spite
of his cold demeanour and reserve, Philip was of a very emotional
nature, and that melancholy strain had reached his heart. He was by no
means prone to superstition, but at that moment a sudden question
stirred his self-complacency. Never before had he heard Tim sing so
pathetically, and the unexpectedness of the thing startled him. It
seemed to hint at future sorrows. Poor Tim!
"Confound that Banshee song," he said, with a shiver, as he strolled
along towards the Calle Otumba; "it makes me think of death and the
grave. These Irishmen take one at a disadvantage. I won't shake off the
feeling the whole day."
He forgot all about it, however, when he reached Maraquando's house,
for in the patio he found Eulalia, who greeted him with a brilliant
smile. The charm of her society banished the melancholy engendered by
Tim's pessimism, and, chatting gaily to this strongly vitalised being,
who restlessly flashed round the court like a humming-bird, he
recovered his usual spirits. There is more in juxtaposition than people
think.
"And where are your friends, Don Felipe?" asked Eulalia, standing on
tip-toe to pluck a gorgeous tropical blossom.
"Allow me to get you that flower, Señora," replied Philip, eagerly. "My
friends," he added, as he presented her with the bud, "are variously
employed. Don Pedro is out after butterflies with Cocom. Señor
Corresponsal is writing for his 'diario,' and Don Juan----"
"I know where Don Juan is, Señor. Yes; my father told me of his
kindness. He will bring back from the estancia Doña Serafina."
"And Doña Dolores?"
Eulalia flung open her fan with a coquettish gesture, and raising it to
her face, looked over the top of it at Philip.
"You know, then, Señor, what you know."
"Assuredly," replied the baronet, tickled at this delicate way of
putting it. "I know that my friend wishes to marry your cousin."
"Ay de mi. It can never be."
"He is not rich enough."
"He is not a Spaniard. My father will never consent. And then," she
dropped her voice, and looked round fearfully. "The Chalchuih
Tlatonac!"
"I know about that also. But it has nothing to do with this marriage."
"It has everything to do with it. The Indians look on my cousin as one
of themselves, and, if she married an Americano, she would leave the
country. Then there would be no guardian of the stone, and their god
would be angry."
"Is your cousin, then, to marry as they please?"
"She must marry one of her own people. An Indian or a Mestizo."
"But suppose she does not?"
"The Indians will carry her to their forest temple, and keep her there
in captivity."
"Impossible! How could they seize her in Tlatonac?"
Doña Eulalia nodded her head wisely.
"You do not know how strong are the Indians, Señor. They are
everywhere. If they want Dolores at their temple, they will be sure to
capture her if they choose."
"By force?"
"No, by stratagem! They could take her away at any moment, and none of
us would see her again."
"But what does Don Hypolito say to all this?"
Eulalia spread out her little hands with a look of disgust.
"Don Hypolito wants to marry Dolores because of the Chalchuih Tlatonac!
He is a Mestizo; so the Indians would not mind such a marriage. But she
hates him, and loves Don Juan. Let your friend beware, Señor."
"Of whom! Of Don Hypolito?"
"Yes; and of the Indians. It is much feared that Don Hypolito is no
good Catholic--that he has been to the forest temple and seen--oh," she
broke off with a shudder. "I do not know what he has seen. But he hates
Don Juan, and, if he captures him, will put him to death. Señor----"
At this moment, before she could say more, Don Miguel entered the
patio. Whereupon Eulalia whirled away like a black-and-amber bird.
Philip looked after her for a second, thinking how graceful she was,
then turned to greet Don Miguel. That gentleman was as lean and dry and
as solemn as ever. How he ever came to be the parent of this fairy of
midnight, Philip could not quite understand. But doubtless she took
after her mother--the female side of a family generally does, in looks.
"I was just conversing with Doña Eulalia," said Philip, responding to
Maraquando's stately greeting "Your daughter, Señor."
"She is yours also, Señor," was Miguel's startling reply.
"Egad! I wish she was mine," thought Cassim, who knew this Spanish
formula too well to be astonished. "By the way, Señor, my friend Don
Pedro thanks you for sending Cocom," he added politely.
"Don Pedro is welcome a thousand times to my poor services. And where
is the Señor Correspoñsal?"
"Writing for his diario."
"Bueno, Señor. And Don Juan?"
"He is now on his way to your estancia."
"I am his servant, for such kindness," said Maraquando, gravely. "Will
you take some pulque, Señor Felipe?"
"I thank you, no," replied Philip, remembering his former experience of
the drink. "If not troubling you too much, I would like to see
Tlatonac."
"I am at your service, Señor. Shall we depart at once?"
Philip signified his acquiescence, though he would rather have stayed
in the cool patio, and flirted with Doña Eulalia. He knew, however,
that Spanish fathers are not the most amiable parents in the world, and
resent too much attention being paid by foreigners to their womankind;
therefore he took leave of the young lady and departed with Don Miguel.
Before Philip parted from that gentleman, he had explored the city
thoroughly, and was quite worn out.
The Jefe Politico was a most conscientious cicerone. He took Philip to
every building of any note, and gave him a minute history of all events
connected therewith, from the earliest period to the present time.
Fortunately, Tlatonac was not very old, or he would have gone on for a
week without stopping. As it was, he took nearly all day in directing
Philip's attention to dates, Aztec idols, ruins of teocallis, sites of
palaces, to battle-fields, and many other things too numerous to
mention. This information was accurate but wearisome, and Philip felt
it to be so. Maraquando was Prescott and Bancroft rolled into one, as
regards knowledge of history, and, having found a willing listener,
took full advantage of the opportunity. Cassim was too polite to
object, but he heartily wished that Don Miguel would hold his tongue.
The most pathetic part of the whole affair was that the poor man
thought he was amusing his guest.
Tlatonac is built partly on the seashore and partly on a hill. Within
the walls of the forts frowning over the waters are the dwellings of
the flat portion inhabited by peons and leperos, with a sprinkling of
low-caste mestizos. From thence the houses rise up to the top of the
hill, which is crowned by the cathedral in the Plaza de los Hombres
Ilustres. This is the heart of Tlatonac, the aristocratic quarter, and
commands a splendid view of the surrounding country.
The Plaza was a very large square, fenced in on three sides by the
houses of the Cholacacan aristocracy, on the fourth by the great
cathedral. In the centre was the zocalo, a green oasis of verdure laid
out in winding walks and brilliant flower-beds. Herein the aristocracy
took their walks when the band played in the cool of the evening, using
it as a kind of alameda, wherein to meet their friends and gossip. It
was indeed a charming spot, and its green arcades afforded a grateful
shade from the hot sun which blazed down on the white stones of the
square outside. On leaving the zocalo, they entered the church
dedicated to Nuestra Señora de la Concepcion, which once gave its name
to the town now more generally known by its Indian appellation of
Tlatonac.
"The cathedral, Señor," said Don Miguel, as they stood beneath the
glory of the great cupola, "is built on the site of a famous teocalli."
"That dedicated to the Chalchuih Tlatonac?"
"To the false god Huitzilopochtli, Señor," corrected the Spaniard,
gravely. "I see you know the story. Yes, it was here that the son of
Montezuma's daughter came with the shining precious stone which gives
its name to the city. He worshipped his barbaric deities after the
fashion of his mother, and built here a teocalli to the war-god,
wherein was preserved the devil stone. Many years after, when the
Conquistadores--our ancestors, Señor--arrived, the then possessor of
the opal fled with it into the impenetrable forests, and thus the jewel
was lost to the Crown of Spain. The Conquistadores pulled down the
teocalli and built thereon this church to the glory of Our Lady, at the
command of Fray Medina, who afterwards became the first Bishop of
Tlatonac. Is it not beautiful, Señor? and all for the glory of God and
the true cross."
It was indeed a beautiful old church, mellowed into restful beauty by
the lapse of years. The floor was of marquetry, hued like a dim rainbow
owing to the different coloured woods. Slender porphyry pillars sprang
from the floor to the groined ceiling in two long rows, and at the far
end, under a firmament of sun and stars and silver moons, with
ascending saints and wide-winged angels, arose the glory of the great
altar, sparkling in the dusky atmosphere like a vast jewel. Before it
burned a silver lamp like a red star. Tapestries, richly worked,
depended between the pillars, gorgeous brocades were here, faded silken
draperies there, and everywhere faces of saint, angel, cherubim, and
seraphim. Gilt crosses, pictures of the Virgin, statues of the Virgin,
side altars laden with flowers, silver railings, steps of Puebla
marble, like alabaster, and throughout a dim religious light as the
rays of the sun pierced the painted windows. The fumes of incense
permeated the building; there was a sound of muttered prayers, and here
and there a dark figure prostrate before a shrine or kneeling at the
confessional.
All this magnificence was toned down by time to delicate hues, which
blended the one with the other and made a harmonious whole. Dingy and
old as it was, the whole edifice was redolent of sacred associations,
and it required some imagination to conceive that where now reigned
this quiet and holy beauty once arose a heathen temple, where the
victims shrieked on the altar of a fierce deity. Religion did not seem
very flourishing in Cholacaca, for on this day in the cathedral there
were few worshippers--no priests.
"We have few priests now, Señor," explained Don Miguel, gravely, as
they left the great building. "The Jesuits were once powerful in
Cholacaca, but they were expelled some years ago. The priests
_would_ meddle with politics, and when the Church clashes with the
Government, well, Señor--one must go to the wall."
"So the Jesuits went?"
"Yes. They were unwilling to go, for Cholacaca is one of the richest
mission fields. Not that I think they have done much good, for though
the Indians are outwardly converted, yet I know for certain that they
still secretly worship Huitzilopochtli and the Chalchuih Tlatonac."
"What makes you think so, Don Miguel?"
"Little things! The straws which show the wind's course. On the summit
of some of these ruined teocallis beyond the walls, I have often seen
fresh wreaths of flowers. Nay, in my own patio, before those statues of
Coatlicue, Quetzalcoatli, and Teoyamiqui, I have found offerings of
flowers and fruit. 'Tis also said, Señor," pursued Maraquando, dropping
his voice, "that in the hidden Temple of the Opal the Indians still
sacrifice human victims to the war-god. But this may be false."
"Very probably! I cannot conceive such horrors," replied Philip, with a
shudder; "but, as regards priests, there are still some here, I
presume?"
"Assuredly; but not of the Society of Jesus--save one. Yes, Padre
Ignatius is still here. He was, and is, so beloved by all that the
President had not the heart to banish him. So he yet works for the
Faith in our midst."
"I should like to meet Father Ignatius?"
"You shall do so, Señor. He is a great friend of mine, and the
confessor of my children. Often does he come to my poor house. But let
us walk on, Señor. There are many things to see. El Palacio Nacional,
where dwells his excellency; the Market Place, and the alameda. We are
proud of our alameda, Señor."
Thus talked on Don Miguel, and, amused by the novelty of the scene,
Philip stared round him with great pleasure. They passed the
pulquerias, which are the public-houses of Tlatonac, saw the Palacio
Nacional, a huge stone building, above which flaunted the yellow flag
of the Republic, with its device of a white stone, darting rays of red,
yellow, green, and blue, in allusion to the opal, explored the prison,
which held a fine collection of ruffians, and ultimately arrived at the
Market Place.
It was the prettiest sight in Tlatonac, and Philip was sorry he had not
the power to transfer the scene with all its varied hues and
picturesque figures to paper. A square, little less large than the
great Plaza, surrounded on all sides by gaily tinted houses. Reds,
greens, yellows, pinks, the Plaza was girdled by a perfect rainbow, and
under the gay awnings before these sat the dealers and their wares.
Here were tropical fruits from the tierras calientes, comprising
oranges, bananas, pineapples, melons, peaches, and an infinite variety
of others, all piled in picturesque confusion on the stalls. As to
flowers, the whole place was a mass of blossom, from gorgeous red
cactus buds to modest bunches of violets. Owing to the geography of
Mexico and Central America, the products of both temperate and tropical
zones can be found flourishing at one and the same time. Hence the
violets, which Philip had scarcely expected to see. They put him in
mind of English woods--of the day when in the Isle of Wight, Jack told
him about Dolores.
"Yes, the Indians are fond of flowers," said Don Miguel, when Philip
expressed his surprise at the profusion of blossoms. "It is a taste
they inherit from their ancestors. The Aztecs, you know, were famous
for floriculture. We love flowers just as passionately; and, go where
you will in Tlatonac, you will find blooming gardens gay with flowers."
"It is a graceful taste, and one which the climate enables you to
gratify to the full."
"Without doubt, Señor. We possess three climates in which flourish
different products of Nature. Tlatonac is in the tierra calienti, or
hot country. Higher up, on the table-lands it is less tropical, and is
called the tierra templada, while the snow-clad mountain peaks, where
flourish pine trees, oaks, and hemlocks, is known by the name of the
tierra fria. Thus, you see, in our country we possess all the climates
of the world."
"A rare advantage. Central America is a favoured country."
"In all save its rulers," sighed Maraquando, regretfully. "Nor is its
population what it should be. I tell you, Señor, this land should be
the most powerful in the world. It is the most favoured spot on
earth--the garden of Paradise; but what with our incessant civil wars,
our incompetent governors, and, of late, the tyranny of the Church, the
whole continent is demoralised. Ah, if we but had the man who could
weld all our foolish Republics into one great nation! Then, indeed,
would we be the glory of the earth."
"Don Hypolito Xuarez evidently looks upon himself as that man."
"Don Hypolito!" echoed Maraquando, scornfully. "No, Señor; he has the
instincts of a tyrant. He would grind down the people as the
Conquistadores did their ancestors. Were he pure minded and noble in
his ambition, I--even I, Miguel Maraquando--would support him. I would
lay aside all prejudices to aid him to make our country great. But I
know the man, Don Felipe. He is a half-bred, a treacherous scoundrel,
who wants to be the Santa Anna of the Republic. Let him beware of
Iturbide's fate!"
"At all events, he intends to become Emperor," persisted Philip,
calmly.
"No! The Junta has decided that he is to be banished from Cholacaca.
Already the fleet is a Acauhtzin to arrest him, and to-morrow we send
up a special message that he is to be brought to Tlatonac at once."
"Suppose he refuses to come?"
"He will be brought by force."
"Always provided the fleet do not support his cause."
"You, too, Señor," said Maraquando, thoughtfully; "so said Don Juan
last night. It may be so, and yet I hope, for the sake of the country,
that the affair may be ended at once. I believe the navy will continue
faithful. My own son, Don Rafael, is in command of one ship; yet I
mistrust Xuarez and his oily tongue. Yes, Señor, I have thought much
since Don Juan and the Señor Corresponsãl spoke to me last night. I
have conferred with His Excellency, the President. Therefore have we
decided to send up a message to-morrow, ordering the return of the
fleet with or without Xuarez. It does not do to trust him."
"You have another man-of-war, then, to go to Acauhtzin."
"No; we have a small steamer. But she is quick, and will go there and
return in no time."
"That is if she is permitted to do so," thought Philip; but he did not
say this aloud, lest Don Miguel should grow angry.
"Still, even if the fleet does revolt, we will have the torpederas,"
said the Jefe, cheerfully. "They are now on their way from England. His
Excellency received a telegram yesterday."
"If you have the torpederas, you can do a good deal," replied Philip,
lighting a cigarette: "and if there is a war, Don Miguel, my yacht is
at the service of the Government."
"A thousand, thousand thanks, Señor!" said Miguel, smiling gratefully;
"but I hope and trust there will be no occasion for us to ask you to
make such a sacrifice. However, we shall soon know--in three days at
the most. If the fleet are true to us, they will bring back Don
Hypolito. If not, we shall know what steps to take to defend Tlatonac
from being bombarded."
"By the way, Señor," said Cassim, thoughtfully, "you have a
telegraph-station here. In which direction do the wires run?"
"Why do you ask, Señor?"
"Because the Señor Corresponsãl wishes constant communication with
England, should there be a war. Now, if the wires go north to
Acauhtzin, they can be cut by Don Hypolito."
"That is true, Don Felipe. Fortunately they do _not_ run north. No; the
wires run south to Janjalla which town will certainly remain faithful
to the Government. From thence all messages can with ease be
transmitted to England."
Philip was pleased at this, as he saw that Tim would be enabled to
transmit messages to England with the greatest ease, and thus cover
himself with glory. They conversed for a few minutes on the subject,
and then left the market for the alameda.
It was a most delightful promenade. High trees on either side, whose
branches formed a green arcade above the heads of the promenaders. Beds
of roses in profusion--brilliant tropical plants, bronze statues,
marble statues, and plenty of pleasantly situated seats. One portion
was reserved for those who chose to walk, another for horses and their
riders. Hither came all the aristocracy of the city, when they grew
weary of the zocala of the Plaza de los Hombres Ilustres, and on this
day the alameda was crowded.
In a gaily decorated bandstand, an excellent company of musicians
played bright music, mostly airs from comic operas, and Philip was
amused to hear Offenbachian frivolities sounding in this spot. They
seemed out of place. The musicians had no sense of the fitness of
things. They should have played boleros fandangos--the national music
of Spain--instead of which they jingled the trashy airs of minor
musicians.
The alameda was thronged by a motley crowd, presenting more varied
features than are to be seen in any other part of the world. Indian
women squatting at the corners selling fruit and pulque, beautiful
señoritas with black mantillas and eloquent fans, gay young cavaliers
dashing along on spirited horses, in all the bravery of the national
costume, and not seldom a sour-looking duenna, jealously watching her
charge. Occasionally a priest in shovel-hat and black cassock--but
these were very rare. The army was also represented by a number of
gaily-dressed officers who smoked cigarettes, smiled at the señoritas,
and clanked their huge spurs ostentatiously together. It was a gay
scene, and Philip admired it greatly.
"I have never seen such a mixed crowd anywhere," he said, lightly,
"save in the Strada Reale in Valetta."
"Well!" said Maraquando, after a pause, "and what do you think of
Tlatonac?"
"It is a terrestrial Paradise," replied Philip, "and Hypolito is the
serpent."