LITTLE BLUE BOOK NO. 803
Edited by E. Haldeman-Julius
Costa Rican Tales
Ricardo Fernández Guardia
Introduction by Isaac Goldberg
HALDEMAN-JULIUS COMPANY
GIRARD, KANSAS
Copyright, 1925,
Haldeman-Julius Company
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
COSTA RICAN TALES
CONTENTS
Page
A Miraculous Saint 8
Politics 20
Chivalry 51
INTRODUCTION
These tales are selected, with minor changes in a few places, from the
English version of _Cuentos Ticos_ published in Boston in 1905 and
translated by Gray Casement; Mr. Casement prefixed a generous foreword
upon Costa Rica and revealed himself as a sensitive interpreter of the
people among whom he had been. He had nothing, however, to say of the
author, Señor Ricardo Fernández Guardia, and, indeed, in one of the most
recent literary anthologies to come out of little Costa Rica I find this
illuminating sentence: “Twenty-five years have not yet gone by, and
_Hojarascas_, together with _Cuentos Ticos_ are already two unknown
books.” If, then, Costa Ricans themselves have been negligent of tales
that have won for their country honor in other tongues, we cannot wholly
wonder that Señor Fernández Guardia was left out of Coester’s _A
Literary History of Spanish America_.
At any event, he presents an interesting case of literary dualism. Born
in the province of Alejuela in 1867, he went to Paris at the age of six,
returning to Costa Rica in 1878 with a French education. In fact, he had
to learn his native tongue all over again. Early, he entered the
diplomatic career followed by his father, serving his country here and
abroad.
It is characteristic of his career that his first essay was written in
French, and that it was, as Señor Sotela has said, “an extravagant
drama of American adventure ... inspired by the novels of Fenimore
Cooper.” In 1891, as a result of an article upon Seville, where he had
lived for some time, he won the esteem of Rubén Darío, the great
Nicaraguan poet, who had recently arrived in Costa Rica.
This auspicious beginning was strengthened when, in 1894, upon the
appearance of _Hojarascas_, he was lucky enough to win the kind words of
Manuel Gutíerrez-Nájera, the great Mexican poet and prosateur. After an
interval spent in the Legation at Paris he returned and wrote--just to
prove he was not merely a Frenchified stylist--those _Cuentos Ticos_ to
which he owes his reputation. There are other historical writings; he
has edited, too, his father’s works. Then, in 1921, came his _Crónicas
Coloniales_.
The collected tales derive their name (as the author tells us) from the
sobriquet _tico_ applied to Costa Ricans, just as the inhabitants of
Guatemala are known as _chopines_, those of Nicaragua as _nicos_ or
_pinolios_ and those of Salvador and Honduras, _guanacos_. _Cuentos
Ticos_ therefore means “Costa Rican Tales.” In these, the Parisian
aristocrat becomes the Costa Rican regionalist. He professed to believe
that his tales touched no circumference reaching beyond Central America,
yet they are better known outside of his native land than any other of
its literary products. They are, on the whole, simple, direct
transcriptions of the national life,--its politics, its religious creed
and superstitions, its folk lore, its peculiarities. Yet in three such
tales as I have chosen, they easily attain a wider significance. _The
Miraculous Saint_ is a piece of irony that makes fine use of the
religious and political background; it even has a hint for United States
bootleggers, _Anno Domini_, 1924; _Politics_ shows that ironical vein in
a more satirical, almost cynical aspect, while _Chivalry_, far from
being exclusively Costa Rican, reminded me long ago of Artzibasheff’s
later tale about the Russian doctor.
Señor Rogelio Sotela has written sympathetically and in scholarly
fashion of his nation’s letters, in two books that deal with the same
material: _Valores Literarios de Costa Rica_ (1920) _and_ _Escritores y
Poetas de Costa Rica_ (1923). It is in the foreword to the second of
these that he has given, as the salient traits of Costa Rican letters, a
certain joviality, optimism and measure. There is no passionate debating
of “schools” and “movements.” Something of this equability may be found
in Fernández Guardia’s tales.
He is not the only Costa Rican writer of recent times that deserves a
wider audience. Among others, I hope to present such admirable gentlemen
as Señores Joaquin García Monje and Roberto Brenes Mesén.
ISAAC GOLDBERG.
Roxbury, Massachusetts.
COSTA RICAN TALES
A MIRACULOUS SAINT
In a short time the fame of a certain miraculous image of San Jerónimo,
of which extraordinary things, one might say miracles, were related, had
spread through a part of the province of Alajuela. The residents of San
Pedro de la Calabaza and of La Sabanilla showed especial enthusiasm, and
the reputation of the saint already extended to the very capital of the
province, where, to tell the truth, it met with considerable skepticism;
but it must not be forgotten that the people of Alajuela are hardened
unbelievers.
Whether the fellow citizens of Juan Santa María were right or not in
showing their unbelief in respect to San Jerónimo, it is certain that
now there was not a rosary, a candle burned in honor of a saint, nor any
other festival at which one would not find the sainted image present.
Everybody disputed for the notable honor of entertaining it, even though
it were not more than a few hours. Its frequent journeys were triumphal,
in the midst of a brilliant following, the splendor of which the music,
sky-rockets and fire-crackers did not diminish. At first sight the image
did not present any marked peculiarity. It was a crude sculpture of
wood, painted and varnished, of little more than a metre in height. The
saint, dressed in an ordinary habit, trimmed with silver braid, was far
from having the appearance of an ascetic; he rather resembled one of
those corpulent, incontinent monks whom the Catalonian lithographs have
made familiar. But this detail, which only some critical and
evil-disposed persons of the city of Alajuela had noticed, did not
affect in the least the devotion of his adorers, who never tired of
making festivals in his honor, nor of kissing his feet.
The peregrinations of San Jerónimo finally attracted the attention of
the authorities and even caused them alarm; but not on account of the
manifestations of gross fanaticism which the image called forth from the
country people, as in the matter there is always much tolerance. What
worried the provincial authorities was something more serious; it was
the increasing number of disorders and quarrels which arose on the
passing of the saint, who left behind him a trail of blood. Any festival
where he was present was sure to have a bad ending; with machete strokes
and dagger thrusts almost always. In the criminal court several trials
for homicide were in progress; the wounded were numerous, the bruised
ones legion. The governor then resolved to take rigorous measures,
ordering the _jefes politicos_[1] and the other subordinate officials to
arrest San Jerónimo by all means and without loss of time; but their
zeal was in vain. The saint disappeared like smoke after each one of
his journeys, to reappear after some days, now in one place, now in
another, when he was least expected. The disorders, the drunkenness and
the machete strokes continued. Furious on account of all this, the
governor did not cease from telegraphing the subordinate authorities to
stimulate their zeal, and they now had no rest from their search for San
Jerónimo.
Such was the situation when Pedro Villalta, a corporal of the custom
guard, just as he was preparing to set out on a campaign with his fellow
guards one afternoon, said to the governor:
“Don’t you worry, Señor; I intend to bring you that rascally little
saint.”
On hearing this, the harassed official saw the heavens opening and was
on the point of embracing Pedro Villalta; for the corporal was an old
dog and most sagacious. That very night the governor announced, in the
club which he frequented, that the capture of the saint was about to
take place, a statement that was received with much incredulity,
provoking many jokes and much chaff. “This San Jerónimo doesn’t exist,”
declared Doctor Pradera. “It is a yarn of the San Pedro people to put
you on the run.”
The governor, somewhat nettled, replied: “You may laugh and say what you
please, but I invite you all to pay a visit to the saint in the police
barracks.”
“Then, I’ll bet you a supper that you won’t,” exclaimed the commandant
of the plaza, merrily.
“Accepted,” said the governor.
* * * * *
While the chief authority of the province was giving unmistakable proofs
of his confidence in the ability of Pedro Villalta, that veteran and his
comrades were riding silently along the high road to Puntarenas. They
had ostentatiously taken that direction on setting out from Alajuela at
night-fall, but when they had gone about half the distance to the little
village of San José[2] the corporal reined in his horse and gave the
order to turn back. The guards accustomed to these manoeuvres, obeyed
without grumbling. In returning they kept away from the city, following
deserted lanes and by-ways, and making a circuit, finally arrived at the
river of La Maravilla. Once on the other side of the bridge, the
corporal said: “Now to La Sabinalla!” After riding some distance, Juan
Rodríguez, a frank and good-natured Hercules, asked a question:
“Corporal, if we are going to La Sabinalla, why have we made this big
circuit?”
Some laughter was heard, but Villalta, who liked Juan Rodríguez for his
staunchness and courage, kindly explained to him that their detour was
made so that the contraband liquor-makers might not be advised of the
arrival of the guard. Juan, who was a new recruit, felt himself filled
with admiration at the astuteness of his chief.
“Those people have spies and friends everywhere,” continued Villalta.
“But with me they get fooled, for I know all their tricks. This time I
expect to bring in the still of the Arias.” On hearing this name the
guards pricked up their ears.
The Arias were no less than the most feared contrabandists of the whole
country. Of the three brothers, José, Ramón and Antonio, one could not
tell which was the worst. They had all made themselves famous by
committing unheard of crimes and by giving proofs of their reckless
courage in their encounters with the customs guard and in the numberless
affrays which they stirred up wherever they went. There were those who
said that more than a dozen men, guards and others, had gone to their
eternal sleep on their account. In spite of so many atrocities, nobody
was able to lay hands on them, and the three brothers continued
tranquilly in their profitable industry, which was not only the
distilling of brandy in an inaccessible ravine of La Sabanilla, but also
the smuggling of great quantities of cognac, revolvers and ammunition,
passing the packages through the very beards of the customs guards of
the San Carlos.[3]
“Who are these Arias?” asked Juan Rodríguez again.
“The Arias are the worst bandits in Costa Rica. May God save you from
ever meeting them,” replied one of the guards.
“I’m not afraid of anybody,” replied the good-natured Hercules, simply.
“I like that, Juan,” said the corporal, who knew the courage of his
subordinate. “But with the Arias it is not enough to be very brave and
strong; one has also to be very quick on the trigger, for they are worse
than the Old Nick himself.”
Amusing themselves with this kind of talk, they reached Itiquis about
nine o’clock in the evening. The corporal, who brought up the rear with
Juan Rodríguez, heard the hoof-beats of a horse that seemed to be
overtaking them and which was soon abreast of the party. Villalta
accosted the horseman, whose presence was felt, but whom it was
impossible to distinguish, such was the darkness of the night.
“Where are you going, my friend?”
“I’m going to La Sabanilla; and you?”
“We are going just a little beyond here.”
“What a pity! We ought to ride together to the vela[4] of ’Nor[5] Juan
Carvajal.”
“Then ’Nor Juan has a vela on for tonight?”
“Yes, and they say it’s going to be very fine. Good night, señores,”
added the horseman, starting on.
“May God take you safely, friend,” replied Villalta.
When the stranger had gone he added between his teeth: “Tonight we’re
going to catch something. That old dolt of a Juan Carvajal isn’t the
first fox that’s tried to fool me.”
The “vela” of ’Nor Juan Carvajal was very fine, as were all the
festivals celebrated in his house, for besides being rich he was fond of
display; that night, however, he wished to outdo even himself in honor
of San Jerónimo, who was resplendent upon an improvised altar, adorned
with long wax candles and artificial flowers. At night-fall, they had
commenced to set off firecrackers in the corridor of the house and
outside, the sky-rockets went up with a great rush, tracing a line of
red gold in the sky and finally bursting high above with a sharp noise
which reverberated through valleys and mountains, proclaiming for
leagues around the glory of San Jerónimo and the splendor of his
festival.
When the prayers, which were long, had been said, the ball commenced
with a mazurka, played by a weird kind of an orchestra, composed of a
trombone, a clarionette and a sackbut, which made one of those noises
that once heard can never be forgotten. Not less than twenty couples
were dancing in the large room, which was decorated with branches of
“uruca” and plantain leaves in the doors and windows. In the adjoining
room, upon a table covered with a spotless cloth, was a great quantity
of crackers, rosquetes[6], quesadillas, and sweet bread, not to mention
two large trays full of biscuits and meat pies. While the young people
were dancing, the older ones, who had prayed enough to satisfy their
consciences, began to satisfy their stomachs with various delicacies and
an accompaniment of coffee and chocolate. Many of them had made a
regular day’s journey to come from their homes to that of ’Nor Juan,
situated in a thinly inhabited district at considerable distance from
any populated place; the women in oxcarts, the men on horseback or on
foot.
When the mazurka was ended, ’Na Dominga, the wife of ’Nor Juan, went
around with a small tray loaded with white paper cigarettes, and the
dancers of both sexes began to smoke. Immediately afterwards an
extraordinary ceremony commenced.
“Señores,” said the master of the house, “let us adore the saint.”
Suiting the deed to the word, he went up to the image and prostrating
himself before it, kissed its feet for a long time. All the men, one
after another, did the same. The women showed themselves much less
devout and there were only four or five who kissed the feet of San
Jerónimo.
A waltz followed the mazurka, and after that came a second mazurka, the
dances alternating with an equal number of adorations of the saint; and,
an unheard of thing! the men began to get tipsy without drinking, for in
all the house there were scarcely three bottles of diluted “Guaro”[7]
for the women.
Among the women present four or five had more than their share of good
looks, but none of them could rival María Carvajal, the niece of ’Nor
Juan. One could not find a more beautiful girl in all La Sabanilla, nor
in San Pedro. Dressed in a low-necked camisa[8] covered with spangles,
and a blue woolen skirt trimmed with braid, she was as fresh and dainty
as a peach. All the young men present were hovering about her like bees
around a flower, but hardly any of them succeeded in drawing very near,
because the sweetheart of the girl was there beside her, a jealous man
and of “few fleas,”[9] who permitted her to dance only with his intimate
friends, keeping her for himself most of the time.
For the fourth time he was dancing with her to the tune of an awful
composition, in the midst of which one could recognize bits of a Strauss
waltz, when of a sudden the music ceased with a sad wail from the
clarionette.
“Halt with the dancing,” cries an individual, standing with an insolent
air in one end of the room. His right hand grasped the clarionette,
which he had just snatched from the astonished musician. The newcomer,
who seemed to be about twenty-seven years old, was a tall, robust young
fellow, and would have been handsome had his face not been disfigured by
the deep scar of a terrible machete stroke. His eyes, of an indefinite
color, looked about with disquieting insolence. He wore a short riding
jacket and had a red silk handkerchief knotted about his neck. Somebody
pronounced his name: “José Arias,” while he, quite calmly, was surveying
all the women. He soon came to a decision, returned the clarionette to
the terrified musician, went straight to María Carvajal, and, pushing
aside her sweetheart without any preamble, embraced the girl with his
sinewy arms and shouted: “Now the music, bandmaster!”
The musicians did not wait for a second order and began to play with
ill-directed zeal, while the terrible contrabandist and María Carvajal
circled about in the middle of the room, which became deserted before
one could say amen. The women crossed themselves and called on their
patron saints. The men, burning with wrath, went in search of their
machetes.
The presence of José Arias at the “vela” was entirely casual, as no
inhabitant of that region would have cared to have such a guest in his
house for many reasons; one of them, because when José Arias took it
into his head to carry off a girl on the crupper of his horse, he
carried her, and there was no help for it.
That night he was passing that way with a comrade in adventures, when he
heard the music and saw the lights of the “vela.”
His first idea was to ride in on horseback, as he was in the habit of
doing in these affairs, but as he was not in a hurry, he thought it was
better to act decently, limit himself to one dance with the prettiest
girl, and then continue his journey. Having taken this peaceful
resolution, he told his companion to wait for him a moment, dismounted,
took off his spurs and as he was not intending to start a brawl, hung
them on the pommel of his saddle, together with the long, cross-hilted
machete which he unfastened from his belt. We have already seen what
José Arias considered good behavior. His fierce and half-savage nature
did not recognize any formalities, and he knew only how to act on the
impulse of his desires and caprices. Thus it was that he did not
understand the extent of his aggressive act and was surprised to see
several men enter with unsheathed machetes.
“Ah, you coyotes!” he shouted, letting go of the girl who was trembling
with fear. “Now you’ll see who José Arias is.”
With the quick decision of a man who feels no fear, he cast a glance
about in search of a weapon with which to defend himself. Seeing nothing
better he darted to the altar and pulled off the image with one jerk.
San Jerónimo was terribly heavy, but the contrabandist, who was
exceptionally strong, raised it with both hands, and without waiting for
his adversaries, started forward to attack them. These now hesitated in
their assault, all except the sweetheart of María Carvajal, who aimed a
blow at him that fell like an axe-stroke upon the head of the saint.
“The Guards! The Guards” shouted several voices from outside.
As if by magic, the enemies of the contrabandist slipped away. At that
moment Juan Rodríguez entered, revolver in hand; but he scarcely had
time to say “Surrender,” when the poor fellow fell with his head
battered by a tremendous saint-stroke. With the agility of a deer José
Arias passed between the surprised guards. A moment afterwards, he was
galloping away saluted by the shots that Villalta and his men fired
after him; and as some of them wanted to follow him to avenge Juan
Rodríguez, the corporal, who knew what kind of horses the bandit rose,
said tersely:
“There’s no use, boys. Let us stay here, for a bird in the hand is worth
more than a hundred flying.”
And what a fat bird the guards had trapped! Nothing less than the
elusive San Jerónimo, who lay at full length upon poor Juan Rodríguez,
whose companions helped him to get up. The corporal became absorbed in
examining the saint. Suddenly he gave a shout of joy.
“Now I see the trick! Now I see the trick!” he exclaimed, at the same
time moving an ingenious mechanism, concealed in one of the toes on the
left foot of the image, and from which a little stream of contraband
brandy spurted forth. San Jerónimo was bleeding brandy.
Pedro Villalta, more pleased than if he had discovered the Americas,
raised the image and putting it again upon the altar said to his
wonderstruck companions:
“Boys, let us adore the saint,” and in order to set the example he
kissed with devotion the foot of the blessed one.
* * * * *
On the following night, while San Jerónimo, with his head broken, lay in
his prison, the governor of Alajuela and his friends supped merrily,
invited by the commandant of the plaza, who had lost his bet.
POLITICS
By the dying light of a tallow candle, stuck in a bottle, Evaristo was
reading with difficulty the leaflet which had been given him that
morning on the streets of San José.
Seated in a large leather covered armchair, his father, old ’Nor Juan
Alvarez, gamonal[10] of the village of San Miguel, listened to the
reading of the leaflet, which was a violent diatribe of a coarse nature
against the candidate of the progressive party for the next presidential
campaign. The anonymous author heaped rhetorical injuries upon him, and
called his followers traitors and slaves. These virulent expressions of
campaign parlance did not make much of an impression on the mind of the
old man; all of that jargon was little less than Greek to him; but when
Evaristo came to the part where it was said that the candidate was a
heretic who never went to mass and would close up the churches if he
came into power, he knit his eyebrows, disturbed and disgusted. The
article ended with a hyperbolical eulogy of the candidate of the
opposing faction called the Nationalist party, and the enumeration of
the advantages and benefits which would accrue to the country on his
coming to the presidency, among which shone in the first line the
liberty to make brandy and plant tobacco.[11] Guaro and tobacco free!
This was the “in hoc signo vinces” of the party.
“What a fine thing!” exclaimed Evaristo enthusiastically. “It probably
isn’t true,” replied the old man, who was skeptical, as is natural to
old age. “I don’t believe what these papers say.”
“Well, I believe every bit of it,” said the young man. “Don Manuel told
me this morning, when I was paying him the money I owed him, that the
National party is the good one.”
Don Manuel was a pharmacist of San José, to whom Evaristo took his
doubts.
“And I tell you that you mustn’t believe all that about free guaro and
tobacco.”
Evaristo shook his head obstinately. The old man continued: “I have
already told you that the licenciado Castrillo, who knows more than Don
Manuel because he is a lawyer, said to me last week that everything the
Nationalists are telling is a lie, and that one mustn’t pay any
attention to it.”
The young man did not dare to keep on replying, but the arguments of his
father did not convince him, for the reason that he considered them
partial, because the old man was a progressist.
Some months before the birth of the new party which was now making such
a disturbance, the old man was passing one morning in front of the
office of the _jefe politico_,[12] when the latter spied him and made
him come into his sanctum, where he said to him: “Now Juan, you are an
honest, industrious and orderly man; everybody in San Miguel respects
and likes you; for that reason, and on account of the good feeling I
have for you, I want you to be the first to sign the list of adherents
to the progressist candidate.”
The old man, disagreeably surprised, did not know what to answer.
Motionless, with his eyes fastened on the feet of the official, his
opposition was evident, for, like a true country man, he was suspicious
and did not like to make promises, and even less to sign any agreement.
The politician persisted:
“Our candidate is a perfect gentleman, good and honorable, who will work
for the well being of the country. You know very well that I am
incapable of giving you bad advice.”
As the old man still kept silent, inspecting the floor, the official
added, after a pause:
“Well, some other day we’ll talk it over more at leisure, but now let’s
go and take a drink like good friends.” And without giving him time to
reply, he took the gamonal’s arm familiarly and led him to La Sirena,
the best and most elegant _pulpería_[13] of San Miguel. One hour later,
’Nor Juan returned to his house with his ideas considerably twisted from
oft-repeated glasses of rum, not so much so however that he could not
remember that he had returned with the politician to his office and that
his signature was there inscribed on a sheet of paper, below certain
written lines, which he could not read for the very good reason that he
did not know how. And in this wise ’Nor Juan Alvarez had become a
progressist. With the bait of the gamonal’s signature, the _jefe
politico_ was able to ensnare all the leading citizens of San Miguel,
because ’Nor Juan always brought over the opinions of his fellow
citizens, among whom he enjoyed the reputation of a prudent and honest
man.
Thus it was that when afterwards the first emissaries of the opposing
party arrived, they soon returned disappointed saying that nothing could
be done in that village, so unanimously progressist in sentiment. But
their labors were not on that account entirely fruitless. The seed sown
sprung up in the end. There were two or three citizens of independent
and rebellious spirit who enrolled themselves in the Nationalist ranks,
and little by little those who did not like the _jefe politico_ began to
join them, forming altogether a small but turbulent group who carried on
an active campaign; but as ’Nor Juan remained immovable, the majority of
the village remained equally firm, with a few exceptions.
Among these was the son of the gamonal, Evaristo, who had allowed
himself to be seduced by the promises and flattery of the apostles of
the new party; and although he continued among the progressists out of
consideration of his father, in his inmost soul he was a Nationalist.
The priest, closely watched by the _jefe politico_, was very cautious at
the beginning. Neither did the women show any great interest in the
affairs of politics.
Nevertheless there came a time when one could notice signs of agitation
among them, especially in the guild of church workers, these symptoms
coinciding with certain rumors that the progressist candidate was
nothing less than the Antichrist.
As soon as he had learned of these fabulous stories, the _jefe
politico_, who was not slow, hastened to inform his superiors, that the
priest of San Miguel was working in favor of the Nationalist candidate.
One day the gamonal’s wife and his two daughters, Agapita and Ester,
came home very much scandalized by what they had heard in the street
from their friends and village gossips, that the progressists were lost
to salvation; that they were all Masons; that it was not possible that
their husband and father, so religious and so good, could be one of
those heretic liberals, etc.
The old man, disturbed by these things which the alarmed women told him,
took advantage of an occasion when he wanted to sell some corn to go to
San José and consult with the licenciado Castrillo, the man who had his
complete confidence. Castrillo was a progressist and one can understand
that ’Nor Juan came out of his house somewhat more tranquil. He made
this evident to his family when he returned at night saying that they
were not to give credit to any of those tales of Masons and of shutting
the churches.
Evaristo did not say a word. Agapita and Ester looked with significance
at their mother, to incite her to answer. After a moment of silence, ’Na
Mercedes spoke: “Of course, it must be true, as that gentleman has said
so, but what I know is that the people of the Centers[14] haven’t any
religion.” The gamonal made no reply, but his silence indicated that his
wife’s remark had struck home. On seeing him thus, so wrapped in
thought, the women believed that the moment had arrived for making a
decisive attack on the vacillating mind of the head of the family, and
they hinted to him that he ought to break away from the progressist
party so as not to lose his soul.
“I won’t change,” shouted the old man, striking the table, on which he
was leaning, with his fist. “I have already given my signature and it is
settled.”
On hearing the blow, the women betook themselves to the kitchen in two
jumps, and after that scene there was no more talk of parties nor of
politics, until the day when Evaristo brought the leaflet from San José,
after the reading of which the gamonal remained much preoccupied, asking
himself if, after all, what was said in it might not be true, and doubts
began to assail his soul. Agapita and Ester, who came in with the
supper for the two men, succeeded in arousing their father from the
profound meditation in which he was submerged. Behind them came José, a
little boy of five years, son of Agapita, who was a widow. His
grandfather, who was very fond of him, gave him a caress and seated
himself at the table in silence.
“Ave María purissima,”[15] said a voice from outside at that moment.
“En Gracia concebida,”[16] replied the women. In the doorway was
outlined the silhouette of a man.
“Does Señor Juan Alvarez live here?” asked the voice.
“Yes, Señor. Come in,” answered ’Na Mercedes, who came from the kitchen.
“May God give you a very good night,” said the new arrival, entering the
house. “May the Lord make you all saints.”
“Amen,” responded the family in chorus.
“Have the goodness to be seated, Señor,” said the widow, drawing up an
armchair for the sweet-tongued unknown.
“Many thanks, Señora, but first I wish to know one thing: this house, is
it of God or of the devil?”
“Of God, Señor!” exclaimed the frightened women.
“Very well, then you are of the Nationalist party.”
A painful silence followed this assertion, and Evaristo turned to look
at the old man, who lowered his head before the cold glance of the
unknown one, who continued:
“A Christian as honorable as Señor Juan Alvarez can not be with the
Masons, who are going to burn the churches.”
The gamonal felt terrified on hearing this. Then it was all true!
“And of what party are you?” ’Na Mercedes mustered courage to ask.
“I? Of the party of Our Lord. Now you may see my candidate--” and on
saying this he drew a crucifix out of his breast pocket, the feet of
which he kissed with devotion. The whole family remained awe-struck
before that act of piety, and José, to see better what he had in his
hand, ran and placed himself between the knees of the stranger.
“What a beautiful child!” exclaimed the latter, on seeing him. “What an
intelligent little face he has. I don’t know why, but I have a feeling
that he is going to be a priest.”
Agapita felt like crying out for pure gratitude, and none of them had
eyes enough to contemplate that extraordinary man of such a venerable
aspect. ’Nor Juan forgot to eat his supper. In his clean-shaven,
weather-beaten face, of the old Castilian type, to which he belonged by
descent, was painted the inward conflict which he was carrying on. The
gamonal belonged to the old race of honest country people, who never
were false to what they had once promised by tracing a cross and pulling
out a hair from the beard; and he had not only promised the _jefe
politico_ to support the progressist candidate, but had also
mechanically signed “Juan Alvarez” on the list of adherents, and that
signature he considered as sacred. Yet, on the other hand, how was it
possible that he, such a good Catholic, so god-fearing, would contribute
his vote to the bringing into power of a man who proposed to make an end
of religion? All the fanaticism of his race rose up in revolt at the
sting of this thought. While the gamonal was absorbed in such intricate
problems, the man of the crucifix was chatting pleasantly with the
women, and made them presents of scapularies, with which he was well
provided. Into the mouth of José he put a gumdrop, and the child, with
the curiosity natural to his years, asked what his name was. He, giving
him a kiss on his dirty face, told it to him; Simeón García.
“Ah, you are Don Simeón!” exclaimed the widow, opening wide her eyes.
“Everybody says you are a saint.”
“I am no more than a poor sinner, who does not want the people to be
cheated,” modestly responded Don Simeón.
In the next room a child began to cry. It was the youngest son of
Agapita, only six months old, who had been born after the death of his
father, which was caused by a hydropathic cure. To carry out the
directions of a doctor, who had prescribed a dozen sea baths, the man
set out for Puntarenas, having his oxcart loaded with coffee. Scarcely
had he delivered it at the warehouse when he took religiously one after
another and on the same day the dozen baths. A little remittent bilious
fever then undertook to complete the cure.
Don Simeón manifested a great desire to see the child, and went into
ecstacies over his angelic beauty, although in truth he was sufficiently
ugly. The mother took the child in her arms to quiet him, while ’Na
Mercedes in a low tone implored Don Simeón to use his influence with her
husband, obstinately determined to remain a progressist. Agapita also
put in her oar: “Por Dios! Don Simeón, tell ‘tata’[17] to change.”
“Here is one who is all powerful,” replied the holy man, drawing out the
crucifix again.
When he returned to the room where the gamonal had remained, the latter
invited him very cordially to supper. Scarcely had he accepted, when the
women hastened to bring out the very best of their good cheer to serve
to so illustrious a guest. Ester brought some frijoles[18] that had a
delicious odor, and some hot tortillas, ’Na Mercedes a foamy cup of
chocolate, which she herself had beaten up, and a loaf of sweet bread.
When supper was over, the two men conversed a long while alone. In the
kitchen, ’Na Mercedes, Evaristo and Esther whispered, awaiting the
result of the interview, while the widow lulled the baby with a
monotonous song:
“Arrurru niñito,
Cabeza de ayote.
Si no te dormis
Te come el coyote.”
When the conference was finished, ’Nor Juan called his wife and
children. When they came in he said to them: “Don Simeón wishes that we
say the rosary.”
The following day was Sunday. From eight o’clock in the morning the
people who were going to attend the principal mass began to arrive at
the church. The men wore their new jackets, Panama hats, and trousers
supported at the hips by colored sashes. The women were gay in their
rebozos[19] of bright colored silk, their starched petticoats rustling
loudly beneath skirts of alpaca or chintz, nicely ironed with much care.
Those who came from distant points had their heads covered with wide
brimmed Panama hats, and some carried parasols. From time to time one
might see the wife and daughters of some prominent villager,
majestically displaying pañolones[20] of black silk embroidered with
pink flowers, and large necklaces and ear-rings of silver-plated
filigree.
At the second tolling of the bells Don Simeón arrived, very lavish with
his smiles and salutations. A little after him came the family of ’Nor
Juan, the widow in deep mourning. Ester fresh and pretty as a rosebud, a
nice little morsel for a priest, as the _jefe politico_, who was an
unbelieving libertine, irreverently remarked. The mass lasted an hour.
Don Simeón edified everybody by his beautiful piety.
At the moment of lifting the host the blows that he gave himself in the
breast resounded throughout the whole church. There was no doubt of it,
that man was a saint.
The gamonal and Evaristo, seated behind him, could not admire enough the
devout air with which he listened to the sermon, which that day was very
pointed, touching upon the obligation which was incumbent on all the
faithful to defend their religion menaced by liberals and Masons. The
priest had resolutely taken off his mask.
At the doors of the church various individuals distributed leaflets to
the people as they came out from mass; some of the progressist party,
others of the national. Two groups of seed-sowers, sent out by the rival
political clubs, had taken possession of the plaza, each having a corner
to itself, where the orators who were to speak were standing ready upon
tables lent by enthusiastic partisans. The speakers of each party had
the floor in turn, and the large crowd of citizens of San Miguel kept
moving about to hear first one and then the other. Little or nothing did
the good countrymen understand of all those harangues, delivered with so
much enthusiasm by the young delegates of the central clubs; but as the
Nationalists were the ones entrusted with the defence of their religion,
everything that they said seemed right, above all when they threw out
such bits of flattery as “the people whose sovereignty must be
re-established, breaking the chains of twenty years of dictatorship,
etc.” The last one to speak was a progressist of much eloquence, who in
concluding said:
“What our party desires is to raise the country to the heights of modern
civilization, continuing the work of former administrations which have
already made so much progress. They tell you that we wish to destroy
religion. It is false. In the first place we respect all religious
beliefs, and above all the Catholic religion, which is that of our
fathers. You must not allow yourselves to be deceived by these absurd
and ridiculous stories which hypocritical and evil disposed persons have
undertaken to spread abroad. Because, señores, if the progressist party
were what they say, there would not be with us such honorable and
religious men as Señor Juan Alvarez, here present.”
At that moment the gamonal was the mark for all glances. Wedged in among
the listeners, he tried to hide himself to conceal his confusion. Then,
as the crowd began to disperse, the melodious voice of Don Simeón was
heard saying:
“Señores, you have already heard the arguments of these young gentlemen.
Now let us put them to the proof. I ask those who wish to form part of
the Nationalist club of San Miguel to have the goodness to follow me.”
Three-quarters of the group of citizens followed after Don Simeón, who
on seeing that ’Nor Juan Alvarez, surrounded by a few faithful ones,
did not move, added, addressing himself to him in an incisive tone:
“Don’t you wish to accompany us, señor?”
The gamonal’s face grew red and he did not answer. The nationalist group
waited. It was a terrible struggle that raged in the breast of the old
countryman during those moments.
“Yes, Don Simeón,” he finally answered. Behind him came all the rest of
the people.
“Viva, ’Nor Juan Alvarez!” cried an enthusiast.
“Viva!” responded the retinue of Don Simeón, with a ringing shout.
About the progressists only ten or twelve individuals remained, among
whom was the village school-master.
“Miserable flock of sheep!” exclaimed one of the young liberals, who
could not contain himself.
“They were born to be sheared,” murmured another.
Then as there was nothing to be done there now they went to drown their
chagrin in “La Sirena” with some of the campaign funds.
From the memorable day on which he deserted the flag of the enemies of
the church, ’Nor Juan was more than ever the king of his village.
Elected president of the Nationalist club of San Miguel, his prestige
was now considerably increased in proportion to the honor which his
fellow citizens had conferred on him. Every little while pamphlets and
packages of printed matter arrived for him, directed to Don Juan
Alvarez, President, etc., etc., and when he went to the city the leading
gentlemen of the party received him with much consideration, and even
slapped him on the back, saying:
“Victory is ours. What is wanted is great firmness.” To which he
invariably replied:
“Don’t worry about that. The people are solid for our candidate.” And
this was the truth. Yet that which finally gave the people of San Miguel
such a great idea of the importance of their gamonal, was the visit
which he paid the candidate in company with Don Simeón. There was not
one citizen, great or small, who did not know about the memorable
interview with all its details; the glass of beer and the cigar which
the future chief executive had given him and the affectionate words he
had said to him.
Nevertheless the new position of the gamonal was not all flowers. There
was no lack of adversities to embitter his triumph; one of the most
serious of which was the amount of money that his presidency cost him;
dollars here to aid the campaign, dollars there to celebrate the
happenings, favorable to the cause, more dollars to get a friend out of
the straits caused by his political enthusiasm, credit to fellow
partisans with few scruples. In short, not a day passed that he did not
have to loosen the strings of his purse. Another mortification was the
_jefe politico_, whose ironical glance he could not endure. He avoided
meeting him, because, in spite of everything, an internal voice
reproached him for his conduct. The imperturbable confidence of the
official in the final triumph of his cause occasioned him uneasiness;
his mocking little smile when he heard the harangues and threats of the
excited partisans he considered a bad omen, and, on account of what
might happen, he always evaded replying to the cutting sarcasms which
his former friend directed at him. He did not believe it prudent to
break off entirely with that man who went often to the capital, who
talked with the governor, with the minister, and even the president
himself. But not all the citizens of San Miguel had the same diplomacy
as the gamonal. More than one, made courageous by numerous libations in
honor of the candidate, had allowed himself to utter shouts and
expressions prejudicial to the principal authority of the people. The
punishment was not long in coming. Those who made the most disturbance
went to reside in the barracks.
Evaristo, thanks to the position which his father had always occupied in
the village and the consideration which the authorities had for him on
that account, had not yet served his time in the army, and he imagined
that the time for shouldering a gun would never arrive for him. Vain
illusion! One day a corporal presented himself at the house and carried
away the youth, with five or six others. That night ’Nor Juan lay awake
thinking that such a misfortune would not have happened in the days when
he was on friendly terms with the _jefe politico_.
The absence of Evaristo, who was his right arm, the time which his
duties as president of the club required, and the many expenses which
the position caused him, brought great disorder to the business affairs
of the gamonal, usually so well managed. Thus it was that as an
important note, in favor of a bank, was about to become due, ’Nor Juan
found with dismay that it would not be possible for him to pay it at the
stipulated time, a thing which would happen for the first time in his
life. Much worried, he went to consult the lawyer Castrillo, to ask his
aid in getting out of the difficulty. The latter calmed him, advising
him to request a renewal of the note, a thing which would not be
difficult to obtain, considering the good reputation which his signature
and that of his surety, Toribio Cascante, had always enjoyed.
The gamonal went to the bank with considerable dread, for he considered
it a dishonor to ask for a renewal. The manager, who always had treated
him with much deference, as is customary in banks when dealing with
persons who have money, received him this time with coldness and
reserve. ’Nor Juan explained the situation to him, making plain that his
financial distress was but temporary, but the manager, who had listened
to him absent-mindedly, cut him short, saying dryly: “I am very sorry,
Señor Alvarez, but it is impossible. You understand that the bank is
obliged to be very prudent, in view of the disagreeable aspect political
affairs are assuming.” These last words were said with a certain
significant tone. The countryman went out ashamed and with tears in his
eyes: still, as it was necessary to pay, he had to seek for the money in
another direction. A coffee buyer promised it to him, but it was not
possible to finish the matter, because Toribio Cascante did not wish to
continue acting as security for his friend, whom he reproached for going
into politics, which was a bad thing, he said. There was then no other
remedy than to go to a money lender, who let him have the money on a
mortgage at a very high rate of interest.
“If you hadn’t been so stupid as to go into politics”--the lawyer said
to him, when they went out of the money lender’s house--“the thing could
have been arranged in the bank; but, my friend, you have allowed
yourself to be foolishly deceived by the Nationalists, and now you must
take the consequences.”
These words made the gamonal discern that, if politics for a certain few
is a source of profit and satisfaction, for the minority it brings only
sorrows and tribulations. The joy of triumph came to sweeten somewhat
the bitterness caused him by the misfortunes which have been related. It
is true that Evaristo remained in the barracks and a ruinous mortgage
weighed upon his coffee plantation, La Lima, but, on the other hand, it
was a great pleasure to have conquered, to have saved religion, the
supremacy of the people, menaced by those bandits of progressists. And
what a splendid victory was that of the National party in San Miguel! In
vain were all the efforts and threats of the _jefe politico_. It was of
no avail that the progressists, who were in the majority at the
electoral table, took the first two days of the elections to inscribe
the fourteen votes which remained to their party in the village. The
mass of the good people, who, restrained by organized force, were
awaiting their turn with impatience, was finally able to reach the table
on the last day, drowning in an instant with the tide of their votes the
poor little fourteen of their adversaries. And what tenacity those
enemies of God had, for did they not try to take by force that which the
ballot-boxes had denied them? When this happened, ’Nor Juan Alvarez was
one of the first to rush to the defense of the imperilled reward at the
head of the men of San Miguel, and passed a whole night laying siege to
the capital, disposed to make the constitution respected and also to run
away should the troops draw near. Still, one could not ask more of a man
armed only with a machete.
At last came the great day of the final triumph. The gamonal, who was
ordinarily very self-contained, could not resist the desire to celebrate
worthily the advent of the executive of his choice. When at night he
returned to San Miguel, after the illuminations and fireworks, in
company with his faithful fellow villagers he entered the village like a
mad man, shouting and executing pirouettes on horseback. In one of these
the animal slipped and fell, breaking one of his master’s legs. ’Nor
Juan was laid up more than three months and spent a considerable sum of
money on doctor’s visits, only to remain lame after all.