"I knew those people by sight," General Santierra would tell his guests
at the dining-table. "I mean the people with whom Gaspar Ruiz found
shelter. The father was an old Spaniard, a man of property ruined by the
revolution. His estates, his house in town, his money, everything he had
in the world had been confiscated by proclamation, for he was a bitter
foe of our independence. From a position of great dignity and influence
on the Viceroy's Council he became of less importance than his own negro
slaves made free by our glorious revolution. He had not even the means
to flee the country, as other Spaniards had managed to do. It may be
that, wandering ruined and houseless, and burdened with nothing but
his life, which was left to him by the clemency of the Provisional
Government, he had simply walked under that broken roof of old tiles. It
was a lonely spot. There did not seem to be even a dog belonging to the
place. But though the roof had holes, as if a cannon-ball or two had
dropped through it, the wooden shutters were thick and tight-closed all
the time.
"My way took me frequently along the path in front of that miserable
rancho. I rode from the fort to the town almost every evening, to sigh
at the window of a lady I was in love with, then. When one is young, you
understand. . . . She was a good patriot, you may believe. Caballeros,
credit me or not, political feeling ran so high in those days that I
do not believe I could have been fascinated by the charms of a woman of
Royalist opinions. . . ."
Murmurs of amused incredulity all round the table interrupted the
General; and while they lasted he stroked his white beard gravely.
"Senores," he protested, "a Royalist was a monster to our overwrought
feelings. I am telling you this in order not to be suspected of the
slightest tenderness towards that old Royalist's daughter. Moreover,
as you know, my affections were engaged elsewhere. But I could not help
noticing her on rare occasions when with the front door open she stood
in the porch.
"You must know that this old Royalist was as crazy as a man can be. His
political misfortunes, his total downfall and ruin, had disordered his
mind. To show his contempt for what we patriots could do, he affected to
laugh at his imprisonment, at the confiscation of his lands, the burning
of his houses, and at the misery to which he and his womenfolk were
reduced. This habit of laughing had grown upon him, so that he would
begin to laugh and shout directly he caught sight of any stranger. That
was the form of his madness.
"I, of course, disregarded the noise of that madman with that feeling of
superiority the success of our cause inspired in us Americans. I suppose
I really despised him because he was an old Castilian, a Spaniard born,
and a Royalist. Those were certainly no reasons to scorn a man; but for
centuries Spaniards born had shown their contempt of us Americans, men
as well descended as themselves, simply because we were what they
called colonists. We had been kept in abasement and made to feel our
inferiority in social intercourse. And now it was our turn. It was safe
for us patriots to display the same sentiments; and I being a young
patriot, son of a patriot, despised that old Spaniard, and despising
him I naturally disregarded his abuse, though it was annoying to my
feelings. Others perhaps would not have been so forbearing.
"He would begin with a great yell--'I see a patriot. Another of them!'
long before I came abreast of the house. The tone of his senseless
revilings, mingled with bursts of laughter, was sometimes piercingly
shrill and sometimes grave. It was all very mad; but I felt it incumbent
upon my dignity to check my horse to a walk without even glancing
towards the house, as if that man's abusive clamour in the porch
were less than the barking of a cur. Always I rode by preserving an
expression of haughty indifference on my face.
"It was no doubt very dignified; but I should have done better if I
had kept my eyes open. A military man in war time should never consider
himself off duty; and especially so if the war is a revolutionary war,
when the enemy is not at the door, but within your very house. At such
times the heat of passionate convictions passing into hatred, removes
the restraints of honour and humanity from many men and of delicacy and
fear from some women. These last, when once they throw off the timidity
and reserve of their sex, become by the vivacity of their intelligence
and the violence of their merciless resentment more dangerous than so
many armed giants."
The General's voice rose, but his big hand stroked his white beard twice
with an effect of venerable calmness. "Si, Senores! Women are ready to
rise to the heights of devotion unattainable by us men, or to sink into
the depths of abasement which amazes our masculine prejudices. I am
speaking now of exceptional women, you understand. . . ."
Here one of the guests observed that he had never met a woman yet who
was not capable of turning out quite exceptional under circumstances
that would engage her feelings strongly. "That sort of superiority in
recklessness they have over us," he concluded, "makes of them the more
interesting half of mankind."
The General, who bore the interruption with gravity, nodded courteous
assent. "Si. Si. Under circumstances. . . . Precisely. They can do an
infinite deal of mischief sometimes in quite unexpected ways. For who
could have imagined that a young girl, daughter of a ruined Royalist
whose life was held only by the contempt of his enemies, would have had
the power to bring death and devastation upon two flourishing provinces
and cause serious anxiety to the leaders of the revolution in the very
hour of its success!" He paused to let the wonder of it penetrate our
minds.
"Death and devastation," somebody murmured in surprise: "how shocking!"
The old General gave a glance in the direction of the murmur and went
on. "Yes. That is, war--calamity. But the means by which she obtained
the power to work this havoc on our southern frontier seem to me, who
have seen her and spoken to her, still more shocking. That particular
thing left on my mind a dreadful amazement which the further experience
of life, of more than fifty years, has done nothing to diminish." He
looked round as if to make sure of our attention, and, in a changed
voice: "I am, as you know, a republican, son of a Liberator," he
declared. "My incomparable mother, God rest her soul, was a Frenchwoman,
the daughter of an ardent republican. As a boy I fought for liberty;
I've always believed in the equality of men; and as to their
brotherhood, that, to my mind, is even more certain. Look at the fierce
animosity they display in their differences. And what in the world do
you know that is more bitterly fierce than brothers' quarrels?"
All absence of cynicism checked an inclination to smile at this view of
human brotherhood. On the contrary, there was in the tone the melancholy
natural to a man profoundly humane at heart who from duty, from
conviction, and from necessity, had played his part in scenes of
ruthless violence.
The General had seen much of fratricidal strife. "Certainly. There is no
doubt of their brotherhood," he insisted. "All men are brothers, and
as such know almost too much of each other. But"--and here in the
old patriarchal head, white as silver, the black eyes humorously
twinkled--"if we are all brothers, all the women are not our sisters."
One of the younger guests was heard murmuring his satisfaction at the
fact. But the General continued, with deliberate earnestness: "They are
so different! The tale of a king who took a beggar-maid for a partner of
his throne may be pretty enough as we men look upon ourselves and upon
love. But that a young girl, famous for her haughty beauty and, only
a short time before, the admired of all at the balls in the Viceroy's
palace, should take by the hand a guasso, a common peasant, is
intolerable to our sentiment of women and their love. It is madness.
Nevertheless it happened. But it must be said that in her case it was
the madness of hate--not of love."
After presenting this excuse in a spirit of chivalrous justice, the
General remained silent for a time. "I rode past the house every day
almost," he began again, "and this was what was going on within. But how
it was going on no mind of man can conceive. Her desperation must
have been extreme, and Gaspar Ruiz was a docile fellow. He had been an
obedient soldier. His strength was like an enormous stone lying on the
ground, ready to be hurled this way or that by the hand that picks it
up.
"It is clear that he would tell his story to the people who gave him
the shelter he needed. And he needed assistance badly. His wound was not
dangerous, but his life was forfeited. The old Royalist being wrapped up
in his laughing madness, the two women arranged a hiding-place for the
wounded man in one of the huts amongst the fruit trees at the back of
the house. That hovel, an abundance of clear water while the fever was
on him, and some words of pity were all they could give. I suppose
he had a share of what food there was. And it would be but little: a
handful of roasted corn, perhaps a dish of beans, or a piece of bread
with a few figs. To such misery were those proud and once wealthy people
reduced."