The same; also Blanca, who has broken open the door.
B.: (Addressing Sancho.) You lie! You do not abhor me!
V.: Blanca!
S.: (Pointing at Blanca.) Look at her--! look at her--! She was
_there_--! (Indicating his inner apartments, where she was.) And when,
soon, you die at my hand, Viceroy of Mexico, you will _have suffered two
deaths_!
V.: (To Blanca.) And is it true----?
B.: Sancho! Save me from this dishonor!
S.: (Paying no attention to her; to the Viceroy.) When finally a father
meets----
V.: (Trying to stop Sancho’s mouth.) Silence, cursed wretch,
silence----!
S.: Blanca; this is not your guardian, he is--your father!
V.: Ah----!
B.: My father! (The viceroy and Blanca stand as if stupefied.)
S.: (Contemplating them.) And how much a father’s heart must suffer in
presenting himself with this sacred title for the first time, to a
daughter’s heart. She cannot let him kiss her brow--no, she cannot.
B.: (Supplicatingly.) Sancho!
S.: He cannot feel his eyes wet with tears of joy--but only with tears
of vengeance! How much she must suffer and how much he!
V.: Infamy.
S.: Infamy, no! because her suffering is multiplied a hundred-fold in
yours.
V.: (Drawing his sword.) Blanca, you die!
B.: (Shrinking, horrified.) Ah!
S.: (Throwing himself upon the viceroy.) Do not touch her; look at
her--she is innocent! Love has robbed me of my prey. I love her so much
that my love conquered my vengeance. (Joy appears on the face of the
viceroy.) But do not rejoice, Viceroy. You who rob women of their honor,
and assassinate old men, do not rejoice. Only God and you and I know
that she is pure. I have not dared to outrage her by a single glance;
but, tomorrow----
V.: Ah!
S.: Tomorrow the whole court shall know that she’s your daughter.
V.: No!
S.: And that she passed the night here. (Pointing to the inner rooms.)
V.: Thou shalt die.
S.: My squire knows it----
V.: (Drawing his sword.) Enough!--blood!--what thirst so frightful----!
S.: (Unsheathing.) ’Tis less than mine!
B.: Señors, hold! Sancho, is this possible?
S.: Her voice again--again the cry of her love here in my heart!
Withdraw your glance from me Blanca, since at its influence my heart
fails and the coward steel trembles in my hand.
B.: Sancho! enough!
S.: Hear it----! Hear it, my father! She asks it----! Have pity on me,
since, now that the hour has come for avenging thee, the pardon
struggles to issue from my lips! My father, pardon!
V.: Your father, you have said! Who was your father? What is your name?
S.: My name is Juan de Paredes.
V.: You--you are the son of Don Diego and Doña Mencia?
S.: Why do you remind me of it? Why do you summon before me their bloody
spirits? Yes, I am--I am he, whom you have robbed of all.
V.: You, who dishonored _her_!
S.: Yes.
V.: It seems as if Satan possesses you and hell inspires your words!
B.: What does he say?
S.: What do you say?
V.: Unhappy being, know that those secret _amours_ with Doña Mencia bore
fruit and that fruit is----
S.: She! oh cursed love! She is my sister----! Oh, almighty God!
* * * * *
JOSÉ MARÍA ROA BÁRCENA.
[Illustration]
José María Roa Bárcena was born at Jalapa, State of Vera Cruz, on
September 3, 1827. His father, José María Rodriguez Roa, was long and
helpfully engaged in local politics. The son entered upon a business
life, and literary work was, for him, at first, but a relaxation. His
youthful writings, both in prose and poetry, attracted much attention.
In 1853 he removed to the City of Mexico, at that time a center of great
political and literary activity, where he devoted himself to a
politico-literary career. As a contributor or editor he was associated
with important periodicals,--_El Universal_, _La Cruz_, _El Eco
Nacional_ and _La Sociedad_. He favored the French Intervention and the
Imperial establishment. Soon disapproving of Maximilian’s policy, he
came out strongly against that ruler and refused appointments at his
hands. When the Empire fell, he returned to business life, but was
arrested and detained for several months in prison.
Señor Roa Bárcena has ever been associated with the conservative party,
but has always commanded the respect of political foes by his firm
convictions and regard for the calls of duty. He is eminently patriotic
and in his writings deals with Mexican life and customs, national
history, and the lives and works of distinguished Mexicans. His writings
are varied. His poetry has been largely the product of his early years
and of his old age; his prose has been written in his middle life.
Of his early poems _Ithamar_ and _Diana_ were general favorites. In 1875
his _Nuevas Poesias_ (New Poems) appeared, in 1888 and 1895, two volumes
of “last lyric poems”--_Ultimas Poesias liricas_. In 1860 he published
an elementary work upon Universal Geography; in 1863 an _Ensayo de una
Historia anecdotica de Mexico_ (Attempt at an Anecdotal History of
Mexico). This _Ensayo_ was in prose and was divided into three parts,
covering ancient Mexican history to the time of the Conquest. In 1862,
in _Leyendas Mexicanos_ (Mexican Legends) he presented much the same
matter in verse. These three charmingly written books, while
conscientious literary productions, were intended for youth. Of stronger
and more vigorous prose are his political novel, _La Quinta modelo_ (The
Model Farm) and his famous biographies of _Manuel Eduardo Gorostiza_ and
_José Joaquin Pesado_. Of the latter, often considered his masterpiece,
one writer asserts, it shows “rich style, vast erudition, admirable
method, severe impartiality in judgment, profound knowledge of the epoch
and of the man.” Famous is the _Recuerdos de la invasion Norte-Americana
1846-1847_ (Recollections of the American Invasion: 1846-1847), which
appeared first in the columns of the periodical _El Siglo_ XIX, and was
reprinted in book form only in 1883. But it is in his short stories that
Roa Bárcena appears most characteristically. His _Novelas, originales y
traducidas_ (Novels, original and translated) appeared in 1870. They are
notable for delicacy of expression, minute detail in description and
action, some mysticism, and a keen but subtle humor. In his translations
from Dickens, Hoffman, Byron, Schiller, our author is wonderfully exact
and faithful both to sense and form.
COMBATS IN THE AIR.
Some of Roa Bárcena’s characteristics are well illustrated in the little
sketch, _Combates en el aire_ (Combats in the air). An old man recalls
the fancies and experiences of his boyhood. To him, as a child, kites
had character and he associated individual kites with persons whom he
knew; they had emotions and passions; they spoke and filled him with joy
or terror. One great kite, a bully in disposition, was, for him, a surly
neighbor, whom all feared. This dreadful kite had ruined many of the
cherished kite possessions of his young companions. Once his teacher,
the boy himself, and some friends, fabricated a beautiful kite. In its
first flight it is attacked by the bully and the battle is described.
* * * * *
The preliminaries of the sport began with the manufacture of the kite.
The kinds most used were _pandorgas_, parallelograms of paper or cloth,
according to size and importance, with the skeleton composed of strong
and flexible cane, called _otate_, with hummers of gut or parchment or
rag, at the slightly curved top or bottom--or they bore the name of
_cubos_ (squares), made with three small crossed sticks covered with
paper and with a broad fringe of paper or cloth at the sides. Both kinds
usually displayed the national colors or bore figures of Moors and
Christians, birds and quadrupeds. The tails were enormously long and
were forms of tufts of cloth, varying in size, tied crosswise of the
cord, which ended in a bunch of rags; in the middle of the cord were the
‘cutters,’ terribly effective in battles between kites; they were two
cockspur-knives of steel, finely sharpened, projecting from the sides of
a central support of wood, with which the bearer cut the string of his
opponent, which, thus abandoned to its fate on the wings of the wind,
went whirling and tumbling through the air, to fall at last to the
ground, at a considerable distance. Night did not end the sport; they
had messengers or paper lanterns, hanging from a great wheel of
cardboard, through the central opening in which the kite-string passed,
and which, impelled by the wind, went as far as the check-string and
whirled there, aloft, with its candles yet lighted.
* * * * *
A neighbor of gruff voice, harsh aspect, and the reputation of a surly
fellow, was, for me, represented by a great _pandorga_, with powerfully
bellowing hummer, which on every windy day sunk--if we may use the
term--some eight or ten unfortunate _cubos_, thus being the terror of
all the small boys of our neighborhood. It was made of white cloth,
turned almost black by the action of sun and rain; its long tail twisted
and writhed like a great serpent, and even doubled upon itself midway,
at times, on account of the weight of its large and gleaming cutters.
Its hoarse and continuous humming could be heard from one end of the
town to the other and sounded to me like the language of a bully.
* * * * *
Just then was heard a bellowing, as of a bull, and, black and
threatening, the well known _pandorga_ bully appeared in the air, more
arrogant than ever, glowering with malicious eyes upon its unexpected
rival and preparing to disembowel it, at the least. For a moment the
members of our little company shuddered, because, in the anxiety and
haste to raise the _cubo_, we had forgotten to attach the cutters. To
lower it then, in order to arm it, would have looked like lowering a
flag, which was not to Martínez’s taste. Trusting, then, to his own
dexterity, he prepared for the defence, intending to entangle the cord
of our _cubo_ in the upper part of the tail of the enemy, which would
cause the kite and its tail to form an acute angle riding upon our
attaching cord, and would hurl it headlong to the earth.... The bully
rose to the north, in order to fall almost perpendicularly, on being
given more string, upon the cord of the _cubo_, and then, on ascending
again with all possible force, to cut it. Once, twice, three times it
made the attempt, but was foiled by our giving the _cubo_ extra cord,
also, at the decisive moment. Raging and bellowing, the enemy drew much
nearer, and taking advantage of a favorable gust, risked everything in a
desperate effort to cut us. As its sharp set tail, keen as a Damascus
blade, grazed our cord, the watchful Martínez gave this a sudden, sharp
jerk against the tail itself, causing both it and the kite to double and
plunge. In its headlong dash, it cut loose the _cubo_, which, alone, and
whirling like a serpent through the air, went to fall a quarter of a
league away. But the aggressor too fell, and fell most ignominiously.
Thrown and whirled by the treacherous cord of its victim, it could not
regain its normal attitude, and like the stick of an exhausted rocket,
fell almost vertically to the earth, landing in the center of our court,
where it was declared a just prisoner.
NEAR THE ABYSS.
In _Noche al raso_, the coach from Orizaba to Puebla breaks down a
little before reaching its destination. The passengers beguile the night
hours with stories. The story told by “the Captain” is entitled _Á dos
dedos del Abismo_ (At two fingers from the abyss). An exquisite, Marquis
del Veneno, is the hero. Of good birth and well connected, with no
special wealth or prospects, frequenting good society, he has never
yielded to feminine charms. A young lady, Loreto, daughter of an aged
professor of chemistry, is beautiful and socially attractive, but a
blue-stocking, fond of mouthing Latin, of poetry and of science. The
Marquis has no idea of paying attentions to Loreto, in fact he despises
her pedantry. But gossip connects their names and a series of curious
incidents give color to the report that they are betrothed. The aged
chemist clinches the matter, despite desperate efforts on the part of
the Marquis to explain, and the engagement is announced. In his dilemma
the Marquis seeks advice and aid from his _padrino_, General Guadalupe
Victoria, and from his friend, the famous Madame Rodriguez. All,
however, seems in vain. Just as he decides to accept the inevitable, an
escape presents itself. The passages selected are those which describe
the interview between the old chemist and the Marquis and the opening of
a way of escape.
* * * * *
Somewhat disquieted as to the purport of such an appointment, del
Veneno, after many turns, back and forth, in his chamber, was inclined
to believe that reports of his supposed relations having come to the
ears of Don Raimundo, the old man proposed to hear from his own lips the
facts. Basing himself on this supposition, the Marquis, whose conscience
was entirely clear, decided to be frank and loyal with the old
gentleman, explaining fully his own conduct in the matter, and
endeavoring to dissipate any natural vexation which the popular gossip
had caused him;--gossip, for which the Marquis believed he had given no
cause. Having decided upon this procedure, he succeeded in falling
asleep and the following day, with the most tranquil air in the world,
he directed himself, at the hour set, to the place of appointment,
feeling himself, like the Chevalier Bayard, without fear and without
reproach.
... He installed himself at one of the least conspicuous tables of the
café and soon saw Don Raimundo, who saluted him, and seating himself at
his side, spoke to him in these terms:
“Dissimulation is useless, my friend, in matters so grave and
transcendental as that which you and my daughter have in hand; I do not
mean that I disapprove the prudence and reserve with which you have both
acted. It is true that you, as Loreto, have carried dissimulation and
secrecy to such an extreme, that----”
“Permit me to interrupt you, Don Raimundo, to say that I do not
understand to what matter you refer----”
“My friend, you young people believe that, in placing your fingers over
your eyes you blot out the sun for the rest of us. But, we old folks, we
see it all! We decompose and analyze; further--what will not a father’s
insight and penetration discover? From the beginning of your love for
Loreto----”
“But, sir, if there has not been----”
“Nothing indecorous, no scandal will come from the relations between
you--that I know right well; it could not be otherwise in a matter
involving a finished gentleman, to whom propriety and nobility of
character have descended from both lines, and a young lady who, though
it ill becomes me to say it, has been perfectly educated, has read much,
and knows how to conduct herself in society. I tell you, friend
Leodegario, that for months past no one has needed to whisper in my ear,
‘These young people love each other,’ because the thing was evident and
had not escaped me. Accustomed, from my youth, to decomposition and
analysis, I have questioned my wife, ‘Do they love each other?’ and she
has answered, ‘I believe they do.’ I then inquired, ‘Have you spoken
with Loreto about it?’ and she replied, ‘Not a word.’ Days pass and your
mutual passion----”
“It is my duty, Don Raimundo, to inform you----”
“It is your duty to hear me without interrupting me. Days pass and your
mutual passion, arrived at its height, enters the crucible of test. You
withdraw from Loreto and she pretends not to notice it. Thoughtless
people say, ‘They have broken with each other’; but I say, ‘Like sheep
they separate for a little, to meet again with the greater joy.’ Others
say, ‘The Marquis is fickle and changeable’; but I say, ‘He gives
evidence of greater chivalry and nobility than I believed him to
possess.’ Friend Leodegario, what do not the eyes of a father discover?
What, in the moral as in the physical world, can resist decomposition
and analysis? With a little isolation and examination of the elements
composing such an affair, the truth is precipitated and shows itself at
the bottom of the flask! I know it all; I see it, just as if it were a
chemical reaction! You--delicate and honorable to quixotism, knowing
that the grocer Ledesma is attentive to Loreto, and considering yourself
relatively poor, have said to yourself, ‘I will not stand in the way of
the worldly betterment of this young lady,’ and have abruptly left the
field. Loreto, in her turn, offended that you should believe her capable
of sacrificing you upon the altar of her self-interest, has determined
to arouse your jealousy by pretending to accept the attentions which
Ledesma offers in the form of raisins, almonds, codfish and cases of
wine. I repeat that this is all very plain; but it is a sort of trifling
that can not be prolonged without peril, and which I have ended so far
as my daughter is concerned. Your future and hers might both suffer from
the rash actions of irritated love; no, my dear sir: let Ledesma keep
his wealth, or lavish it upon some Galician countrywoman; and let
respectable financial mediocrity, accompanied by the noble character and
the delicacy and chivalry which distinguish you, triumphantly bear away
the prize. A bas Galicia! viva Mexico!”
“The complete mistake under which you labor----”
“My friend, one who, like myself, decomposes and analyzes everything,
rarely or never makes mistakes! Last night, I brought my wife and
daughter together and, to assure myself of the state of mind of the
latter, made use of this stratagem: ‘Loreto,’ I said, ‘Don Leodegario
has asked me for your hand; what shall I answer him?’ Immediately both
mother and daughter flushed as red as poppies and embraced each other.
Loreto then replied, ‘I am disposed to whatever you may determine.’ ‘But
do you love him?’ I asked. ‘Yes, I love him,’ she answered with downcast
eyes. With this, my friend, the mask fell and these things only remained
to be done, what I have done this morning and what I am doing now; to
wit: to intimate to Señor Ledesma that he desist from his aspirations
regarding a young lady who is to marry another within a few days, and to
tell you that Loreto’s parents, duly appreciative of the noble conduct
of the aspirant for their daughter’s hand, yield her to him, sparing all
explanations and steps unpleasant to one’s self-respect, and desiring
for you both, in your marriage relation, a life longer than Methuselah’s
and an offspring more numerous than Jacob’s.”
“But, sir, Don Raimundo----”
“Neither buts nor barrels avail.[19] You were marvelously
self-controlled, in believing yourself unworthy of Loreto, and in
refusing the happiness for which your heart longed; but I am also
master[20] of my daughter’s lot and I desire to unite her to you and
render you happy perforce. Come, friend Leodegario, there is no escape.
Dr. Román has promised to marry you in the church; I have ordered my
wife to announce the approaching marriage to her lady friends and I am
making the announcement to the gentlemen. Everyone cordially
congratulates me upon my selection of a son-in-law.”
* * * * *
With this object, he took up his hat and gloves. Just then he heard a
noise and voices in altercation in the corridor; the door opened
violently and Don Raimundo entered the room in his shirt sleeves and a
cap, his face pallid, and a breakfast roll in his hand. He entered, and
saying nothing to the Marquis beyond the words, “They pursue me,” ran to
hide himself under the bed, frightened and trembling.
Seeing this, the young man seized a sword from the corner of the room
and set forth to meet the pursuers of Don Raimundo.
He found, in the next room, Fabian, Don Raimundo’s servant, almost as
old as his master himself. With him were two porters, bearing no arms
more serious than their carry-straps. The Marquis having asked Fabian
what this meant, the faithful old servant took him to one side and said,
“The master has left home, against the doctor’s orders, and we have come
to fetch him, as my lady and her daughter do not wish him wandering
alone on the streets.”
Without yet understanding the enigma, del Veneno further questioned
Fabian and learned that Don Raimundo, after some days of symptoms of
mental disturbance, had become absolutely deranged and, for a week back,
had been locked up in the house.
Immediately the Marquis understood the conduct of his
father-in-law-to-be toward himself and a gleam of hope appeared. But,
moved by sympathy and without thinking of his own affairs, he tried to
persuade the old man to leave with Fabian, which, with great difficulty,
he at last did.
He then hastened to the house of Madame Rodriguez, where he was received
almost gaily. “I was about to send for you,” said that lady, “because I
have most important matters to communicate to you. Perhaps you know that
the unfortunate Don Raimundo is hopelessly insane. Ah, well, Loreto and
her mamma, after cudgelling their brains vainly to explain why you never
whispered a word about the wedding, of which Don Raimundo only spoke,
as soon as they knew the old man was deranged, understood everything
else, and I have confirmed them in their conclusions. It is needless to
dwell upon the mortification the matter has caused them: you can imagine
it; but, fulfilling the commission which they have intrusted to me, I
tell you that they consider you free from all compromise and that they
are greatly pleased at the prudence and chivalry you have displayed in
so unpleasant and disagreeable a matter.”
“But I am not capable,” impetuously exclaimed the Marquis, “of leaving
such a family in a ridiculous position. No, my dear lady, pray tell
Loreto that, decidedly and against all wind and sea, I _will_ marry her,
and that in the quickest possible time.”
“Marquis! tempt not God’s patience! Now that a door is opened, escape by
it without looking back and consider yourself lucky. Moreover, although
Loreto babbles in Latin and writes distiches, she is not so stupid as
you think, and knows well how to take care of herself. She has
understood conditions perfectly and knows her advantage; a single glance
has sufficed to draw to her feet the grocer, more attentive and enamored
than ever.”
“How, madam? Is it possible that Loreto would----”
“Loreto marries Ledesma within a week.”
Who can know the chaos of the human heart? The Marquis, who a moment
before had been supremely happy at the mere idea of his release, now
felt vexed and humiliated in knowing that Loreto so promptly replaced
him. His pupils grew yellow, his nervous attack returned and this,
without doubt, was all that prevented his hovering about Loreto’s house
as a truly enamored swain and challenging Ledesma to the death.
JUSTO SIERRA.
[Illustration]
Justo Sierra was born January 26, 1848, at Campeche, the capital city of
the State of the same name. The son of a man known in the world of
letters, he early showed himself interested in literary pursuits.
Determining to follow the career of law, he was licensed to practice at
the age of twenty-three. Chosen a member of the Chamber of Deputies, he
promptly gained a reputation as an orator. He became one of the
justices of the Supreme Court. At present he is Sub-Secretary of Public
Instruction and has been connected with all recent progress in Mexican
education. For some years he was professor of general history in the
_Escuela Nacional Preparatoria_ (National Preparatory School). Among his
works are _Cuentos románticos_ (Romantic Tales), _En Tierra Yankee_ (In
Yankee Land), and _México y su evolución social_ (Mexico and its Social
Evolution). In style Sierra is poetical and highly fantastic, with a
strain of humor rare in Mexicans. Our selection is a complete story from
_Cuentos románticos_.
THE STORY OF STAREI: A LEGEND OF YELLOW FEVER.
Examining a volume, pretentiously styled _Album de Viaje_ (Album of
Travel), which lay amid the sympathetic dust, which time accumulates in
a box of long-forgotten papers, I encountered what my kind readers are
about to see.
We were in the _diligencia_ coming from Vera Cruz, a German youth,
Wilhelm S.--with flaxen hair and great, expressionless, blue eyes,--and
myself. We had not well gained the summit of the Chiquihuite, when the
storm burst upon us. The coach halted, in order not to expose itself to
the dangers of the descent over slopes now converted into rivers. I
neared my face to the window, raising the heavy leather curtain, which
the wind was beating against the window-frame; it looked like night.
Above us, the tempest, with its thousand black wings, beat against
space; its electric bellowings, rumbled from the hills to the sea, and
the lightning, like a gleaming sword tearing open the bosom of the
clouds, revealed to us, within, the livid entrails of the storm.
We were literally in the midst of a cataract, which, precipitating
itself from the clouds, rebounded from the mountain summit, and rushed,
with torrential fury, down the slopes.
“I am drenched in oceans of perspiration,” said my companion to me in
French, “and I have an oven inside of me.”
“Go to sleep,” I replied, “and all this will pass,” and, joining example
to counsel, I wrapped myself in my cloak and closed my eyes.
Two hours later the tempest had passed, drifting to the west, over the
wooded heights. It was five in the evening and the declining sun was
nearing the last low-lying patches of cloud. The light, penetrating
through the exuberant vegetation, colored everything with a marvelous
variety of hues, which melted into a glow of gold and emerald. To the
east an infinite sheet of verdure extended itself, following all the
folds and irregularities of the mountain mass, flecked here and there
with the delicate and brilliant green of banana patches, and undulating
over that stairway of giants, became blue with distance and broke like
a sea against the broad strip of sand of the Vera Cruz coast. The road
which we had followed in our ascent, wound like a serpent among trees,
which scarcely distinguished their foliage masses amid the dense curtain
of vines and creepers, passed over a lofty bridge, descended in broad
curves to a little settlement of wooden buildings, and went, between
dense and tangled patches of briers, to confound itself with the bit of
railroad which led from the foot of the mountain to the port. At the
bottom of the picture, there, where the sea was imagined, were rising
superb cloud masses against whose blue-gray ground were defined the
black and immovable streaks of stratus, seeming a flock of seabirds
opening their enormous wings to the wind, which delayed its blowing.
The German slept as one much fatigued and from his panting bosom issued
heavy sobs; he seemed afflicted with intense suffering; a suspicion
crossed my mind; if he should----!
The branches of a neighboring tree projected, through an open window,
into the _diligencia_, which was standing still, until the torrents
should have spent something of their force. Upon a yellowed leaf
trembled a raindrop, the last tear of the tempest. Preoccupied by the
dismal fear which the condition of my companion caused me, I looked
attentively at that bead of crystal liquid. This is what I saw:
The drop of water was the Gulf of Mexico, bordered by the immense curve
of hot coast and cut off, on the east, by two low breakwaters, crusted
with flowers and palms,--Florida and Yucatan, between which, in flight,
extended a long string of seabirds, the Antilles, headed by the royal
heron, Cuba, slave served by slaves.
In the midst of the Gulf, surmounted by a yellow crown, which gilded the
sea around like an enormous sunflower which reflects itself in a flower
of water, arose a barren island of the color of impure gold, where
currents deposited the seaweeds like the wrappings which swathe Egyptian
mummies. Above that rocky mass the sun gleamed like copper, the rapid
moon passed veiled by livid vapors, and on days of tempest the
storm-birds described wide circles around it, uttering direful
croakings. A voice, infinitely sad, like the voice of the sea, sounded
in that lost island; listen, it said to me.
The very year in which the sons of the sun arrived at the islands, there
lived in Cuba a woman of thirteen years, named Starei (star). She was
very beautiful; black were her eyes and intoxicatingly sweet like those
of the Aztecs; her skin firm and golden as that of those who bathe in
the Meschacebé; celestial her voice as that of the _shkok_, which sings
its serenades in the zapote groves of Mayapán; and her little feet were
as graceful and fine as those of Antillean princesses, who pass their
lives swinging in hammocks, which seem to be woven by fairies. When
Starei appeared one morning on the strand, seated on the red shell of a
sea-turtle, she seemed a living pearl and all adored her as a daughter
of god, of Dimivan-caracol. The priestess of the tribe prayed all night
near the sacred fire, in which smouldered leaves of the intoxicating
tobacco, and at last heard the divine voice, which resounded within the
heart of the great stone fetish, saying: “Kill her not; guard and
protect her; she is the daughter of the Gulf and the Gulf was her
cradle; God grant that she return there.”
Starei completed her thirteen years and the old and the young, prophets
and warriors, caciques and slaves, abandoned their villages, temples,
and hearths, to run after her on the seashore. All were crazy with love,
but, if one of them approached her, the Gulf thundered hoarsely and the
storm-bird flew screaming across the sky.
Starei sang like the Mexican _zenzontl_, and her song soothed like the
seabreeze which kisses the palms in hot evenings, and in laughing she
opened her red lips like the wings of the _ipiri_ and her bosom rose and
let fall in enticing folds, the fine web of cotton that covered it. Men
on seeing her wept, kneeling, and women wept also, seeing their palm
huts deserted and their beds of rushes chilled and untouched.
One stormy night, the divine Starei returned to the village, after one
of her rambles on the shore, in which she passed hours watching the
waves, as if waiting for something; those who followed her determined to
heap high their dead and bury them; the aged who had died from weariness
in the pursuit of the Gulf’s daughter, the youths who had thrown their
hearts at her feet, the mothers who had died of grief and the wives who
had died of despair.
It was a night of tempest; Hurakan, the god of the Antilles, reigned
with unwitnessed fury. The priests spoke of a new deluge and of the
legendary gourd in which were the ocean and the sea-monsters, which, one
day, broke and inundated the earth, and, terrified, they ascended to the
summit of their temple-pyramid and took refuge in the shadow of their
gods of stone, which trembled on their pedestals. The people of the
island, overwhelmed with terror, forgot Starei. All the night was passed
in prayer and sacrifice; but at daybreak, they ran, infatuated, to where
the song of the maiden called them.
Starei was on the shore, seated on the trunk of one of the thousands of
palm trees, which the wind had uprooted and thrown upon the sand; upon
her knees rested the head of a white man, who appeared to be a corpse.
The beauty of that face was sweet and manly at once and the just
appearing beard indicated the youthfulness of the man, whom Starei
devoured with eyes bathed in tears.
“Whoever saves him,” she exclaimed, “shall be my husband, my life
companion.”
“He is dead,” solemnly replied an aged priest.
“He lives,” cried a man, opening his way through the crowd.
The astonished Indians fell away from him; never had they seen so
strange a being among them. He was tall and strong; his hair, the color
of corn-silk, rose rigidly above his broad and bronzed forehead and
dividing into two masses fell thick and straight upon his shoulders; his
eyebrows were two delicate red lines, which joined at the root of his
aquiline nose; his mouth, of the purple hue of Campeche wood, bent
upward at the tips, in a sensual and cruel arch. The oval of his face,
unbroken by even a trace of beard, did not so much attract attention as
his eyes, of the color of two coins of purest gold, set in black
circles. He was naked, but splendidly tattooed with red designs; from
the gold chain that encircled his waist hung a skirt, deftly woven of
the feathers of the huitzitl, the humming-bird of Anahuac.
That man, who, many believed, came from Hayti, approached that which
seemed to be a corpse, without paying attention to the glance, of
profound anger, of Starei. He laid one hand upon the icy brow of the
white man, and, on placing the other to the heart, instantly withdrew it
as if he had touched a glowing brand; rapidly he tore open the
still-drenched shirt of linen, which covered the youth’s breast and
seized an object that hung at the neck. This object Starei snatched from
him. Was it a Talisman? When that singular man no longer had beneath his
hand that, which had, doubtless, been to him a hindrance, he placed it
upon the stilled heart of the shipwrecked stranger and said to the
maiden, “Kiss him on the lips,” and had scarcely been obeyed when the
supposed dead man recovered and, taking the piece of wood from Starei’s
hand, knelt, placing it against his lips and bathing it in tears. It was
a cross.
“Adieu, Starei,” said he of the eyes of gold; “yonder is the hut of
Zekom (fever) among the palms; there is our nuptial couch; I await you
because you have promised.”
The daughter of the Gulf could not restrain a cry of anger at hearing
the words of the son of Heat; she approached the Christian, clasped his
neck in her arms and covered his mouth and eyes with kisses. “No! no!
leave me, thou loved of Satan,” cried the youth, trying to release
himself from the beautiful being. Starei took him by the hand, led him
to her hut, and said to him, in expressive pantomime, “Here we two will
live.”
Then her companion replied in the language of those of Hayti, which was
perfectly understood in Cuba:
“I cannot be thy husband; I will be thy brother.”
“Why not? Who are you?”
“I am from far, far beyond the sea. I come from Castile. With many
others, I arrived, some months ago, at Hayti, and knowing that this,
your isle, had not been visited by Christians, we desired to visit it,
but were shipwrecked in the fearful tempest of last night and I was
about to perish, when thy hand seized me amid the waves and brought me
to the shore.”
“And why do you not wish to be my husband?”
“Because I am a priest and my god, who is the only god, orders his
priests not to marry; he orders us to preach love. I come to preach it
here, but not the love of the world,” added the Spaniard, sighing.
“This cannot be; it is not true,” replied the island woman, with vigor,
“remain here with me in my hut, and we will be the rulers of the island
and our children will be heirs of all.”
“I will be thy brother,” replied the missionary.
And the Indian woman left, weeping. In the way she met Zekom, who fixed
his terrible yellow glance upon her.
“Comest to my hut, Starei?” he asked her.
“Never,” she answered firm and brave.
“We will be the rulers of all the islands of the seas and our children
will be gods on earth, because we are children of the gods; the Gulf
begot you in a pearlshell; the glowing Tropic begot me in a reef of gold
and coral.”
Starei paused; she was upon the summit of a rock, from which the whole
coast was visible.
“Look,” continued Zekom, “this will be our kingdom.” And before the
fascinated eye of the daughter of the Gulf there was spread out a
surprising panorama. In the midst of an emerald prairie, a _cu_ or
_teocalli_ reared its high pyramid of gold, which shed its light around,
even to the distant horizon. Over that gleaming plain were prostrated
innumerable people with fear depicted on their faces. Genii, clad in
marvelous garments, discharged upon these people, innumerable flaming
arrows, the touch of which caused death. And upon the summit of the
_cu_, she stood erect, as on a pedestal, more beautiful than the sun of
springtime. The daughter of the Gulf remained long in silent ecstasy.
“Come, Starei,” murmured Zekom in her ear, “tomorrow I await thee in my
hut.”
Starei departed thinking, dreaming. When the new day dawned, she saw the
Spaniard, hidden in the forest, kneeling, with his eyes turned
heavenward. At seeing him, the Indian maiden felt all her love
rekindled; she threw herself, anew, upon him and clasping him within her
arms, repeated:
“Love me; love me, man of the cold land. I will adore thy god, who
cannot curse us because we fulfil his law, the law of life. Come to my
nuptial hut; I will be thy slave; we will pray together and I will be
as humble and as cowardly as thou; but love me as I love you.”
“I will be thy brother,” replied the missionary, pale with emotion.
“Cursed art thou!” said Starei, and fled.
The priest made a movement, as if to follow her, but restrained himself,
casting one sublime glance of grief toward heaven.
Again, through all that night, the Gulf thundered frightfully. At break
of day, Zekom and Starei issued from the nuptial hut, but as the maiden
received the first rays of the sun in her languid eyes, they lost their
luminous blackness like that of the night and turned yellow with the
color of gold, like those of her lover. He cast a stone into the sea and
instantly there appeared, in the west, a black pirogue, which neared the
shore impelled by the hurricane, which filled its blood-red sails.
“Come to be my queen,” said Zekom to the daughter of the Gulf and they
entered into the bark, which instantly gained the horizon.
Then the missionary appeared upon the shore, crying:
“Come, Starei, my sister, I love thee.”
The silhouette of the pirogue, like a black wing, was losing itself in
the indistinct line where the sea joins the sky. Starei had joined
herself in marriage to the devil.
And the voice which resounded, sad and melancholy, from the rock,
continued--this is the centre of the domain of Starei; from here her
eternal vengeance against the whites radiates. The missionary died soon
after, of a strange disease, and his cold body turned horribly yellow,
as if from it were reflected the eyes of gold of Zekom. Since then every
year Starei weeps for him, disconsolate, and her tears evaporated by the
tropic heat poison the atmosphere of the Gulf, and woe for the sons of
the cold land.
The raindrop fell to the ground; the coach proceeded on its way, and I
turned to glance at my friend; he was insensible; a livid, yellow hue
was invading his skin and his eyes seemed to start from their orbits. “I
die, I die, oh, my mother,” said the poor boy. I did not know what to
do. I clasped him in my arms trying to sooth his sufferings, to give him
courage. We reached Cordoba. The poor fevered patient said: “Look at
her--the yellow woman.” “Who? Is it Starei?” I asked him. “Yes. It is
she,” he answered.
It was necessary for me to leave him. On arriving at Mexico I read this
paragraph in a Vera Cruz paper: “The young German, Wilhelm S., of the
house of Watermayer & Co., who left this city in apparent health, has
died of yellow fever at Cordoba, R. I. P.”
VICTORIANO SALADO ÁLBAREZ.
[Illustration]
Victoriano Salado Álbarez was born at Teocaltoche, in the State of
Jalisco, September 30, 1867. He studied law in the _Escuela de
Jurisprudencia_ in the city of Guadalajara, taking his title of
_Abogado_, on August 30, 1890. He has long been engaged in journalistic
work, serving as editor of various periodicals. For three years past he
has lived in the City of Mexico and has represented the State of Sonora
in the Chamber of Deputies of the National Congress. He is also
professor of the Spanish language in the _Escuela Nacional
Preparatoria_ (National Preparatory School). He is a member of the
Mexican Academy.
In literature, Señor Álbarez stands for the careful and discriminating
use of pure Spanish, and for the treatment of truly Mexican themes in a
characteristically Mexican way. He is an uncompromising antagonist of
the present tendency, in Mexico, to copy and imitate the “modern” (and
quite properly called “decadent”) French writings. His _De mi cosecha_
(From My Harvest) is a little volume of reviews and criticisms, in which
he assails this modern school and pleads for a sane and truly national
literature. _De autos_ (From Judicial Records), is a collection of
tales, original and reworked. His largest work so far in print is _De
Santa Anna á la Reforma_ (From Santa Anna to the Reform), an anecdotal
treatment of that period of the national history. His latest work, _La
Intervencion y el Imperio_ (The Intervention and the Empire) is now
being published in Barcelona, Spain. It is of similar character to the
preceding, but deals with the time of Maximilian. The two first parts of
this, _Las ranas pidiendo rey_ (The Frogs Begging for a King) and
_Puebla_, are in press as this notice is being written.
Our selections are from _De autos_ and _De mi cosecha_.
DE AUTOS.
In the village of Huizache, on the twentieth day of February, one
thousand nine hundred, having received the accompanying summons, we went
to the place known by the name of _Corral de Piedra_, situated about one
kilometre distant, and held an inquest upon the body of a man about
twenty-two years of age, tall, dark, with a light down on his upper lip,
with black hair, eyebrows, and eyes; he showed, in the precardial
region, an opening produced by the entrance of a bullet, which had its
hole of exit in the left scapula, and another wound, produced by a
sabre, in the forehead, the wound measuring eleven centimetres in
length, by one centimetre in breadth, the depth not being ascertainable
for lack of suitable instruments for its examination. With the body were
found a red serape sprinkled with blood, a leather pouch containing
cigarettes, twenty-two cents in copper, twenty-five cents in silver, a
copy of the religious print known as the _anima sola_, and a
recommendation signed by Manuel Tames, of Guadalajara, in which the good
character of a person, whose name cannot be made out, is attested. After
the inquest, it was ordered that the corpse should be buried in the
village cemetery, after first being exposed to public view, clad in the
garments in which it was found--which are white drill pantaloons, calico
shirt, sash, sandals, a palm hat--for possible recognition. Near the
spot, where it is supposed that the deed was committed, a piece of a
sabre was found, which is believed to be one of the weapons used in the
attack.
Thus stands the record, signed by the Alcalde, and the other witnesses,
as, also, the citizen, Gregorio López, practising physician, forty years
of age, married, citizen of a neighboring town, there being no licensed
physician in this jurisdiction. No autopsy was ordered, there being no
suitable instruments for making it.
* * * * *
On this date appears a complainant, who after being duly sworn, says
that she is named Damiana Pérez, married, without vocation, seventy
years of age, native and inhabitant of Guadalajara; that the corpse here
present is that of her son, Ignacio Almeida, twenty years old,
carpenter, son of deponent and her husband Pedro Almeida; that said
mentioned son died by the police force of this place, the matter
occurring as follows: That for some time past the said mentioned son
maintained honorable relations with Marta Ruiz, resident in the same
house with the complainant in Guadalajara, which house is the
_alcaiceria_[21] called _La Calavera_, that, as the parents of the Ruiz
girl unreasonably opposed the relation of the lovers, Ignacio arranged
to carry the girl away, which he did, coming to this village, where he
proposed to work at his trade; that the deponent, being acquainted with
the whole matter, and having gained consent of the parents of the Ruiz
girl, who is a minor, desired to legalize the marriage and, for that
purpose, had come to Huizache, where she learned that Ignacio had been
put in prison and that he had afterward been killed; that this is all
that she has to declare and that Don Juan Cortes, his employer, Don
Manuel Tames, and many others who knew him can testify to the good
character and conduct of her son.
* * * * *
This same day, appears a witness, who stated, after the customary oath,
that he was named Antonio Vera, married, fifty-five years of age, native
of Ixtlan, and now chief of police of this place; that the body present
is that of a person, who yesterday morning was sent to him by the
municipal President, to be conducted to the capital of the district,
accused, if he does not remember wrongly, of vagrancy, disorderly
conduct, and abduction of a girl, who accompanied him; that, as is
known, these accusations were made to the Señor President by Señor Don
Pedro Gómez Gálvez, owner of the Hacienda de San Buenaventura, who also
made complaint against the now defunct, that he had lost from one of his
pastures two horses, which were there enclosed, one of them being known
by the name of _El Resorte_, and the other being called _El Jaltomate_,
as well as twenty pesos in money, and other objects which had
disappeared from the general store on his place; that, this morning at
dawn, he commanded his subordinates that they should saddle and mount
their horses, which they did, and lead the prisoner, who walked bound
with cords, between them riding in two files; that on reaching the place
known as _Corral de piedra_, the now defunct, who had succeeded in
loosening his cords, on account of the darkness, tried to escape, crying
“_Viva la libertad de los hombres_; chase me, if you wish,” for which
reason, those who accompanied the deponent, discharged their arms
against him who was escaping, ceasing their attack when they saw that
the prisoner fell dead; that Almeida, in attempting to escape fired two
shots, of which one pierced the hat worn by one of the police and the
other imbedded itself in deponent’s saddle; that he did not know how the
prisoner could have secured the revolver, nor where he threw it when he
ran; that he was equally ignorant as to how the body received the gash
which it showed, as none of his subordinates used his sabre against the
accused.
The declaration having been read, he approved it, not knowing how to
sign his name.
* * * * *
(Similar declarations of the four auxiliaries.)
Thereupon the coroner was shown a gray hat, with brim and crown pierced
by a shot, apparently of a fire-arm, and a cowboy’s saddle with signs of
a bullet shot in the horn.
* * * * *
On the twenty-fourth of February appeared a witness, who, being duly
sworn, stated that she was named Marta Ruiz, unmarried, sixteen years of
age, without vocation, native and inhabitant of Guadalajara; that she
knew Ignacio Almeida, with whom she had lived in illicit relations for
six months, having before been in honorable relations with the purpose
of contracting marriage; not succeeding in their desires, on account of
the opposition of deponent’s parents, they agreed to run away together,
intending to marry later; that, arriving at this place, and being
without work, Almeida sought and secured it at the Hacienda de San
Buenaventura, situated a half league’s distance from here; that, at
first they lived there content; but that, soon, the Señor Don Pedro
Gómez Gálvez, owner of that place, began to pay attention to her, urging
her to abandon Almeida, and that she resisted; that Don Pedro was
angered and threatened her to incriminate her lover, which he afterward
did, since, about two weeks later Almeida was taken prisoner, without
deponent’s having succeeded in seeing him meantime; that it is false
that Ignacio had a pistol, and, more so, that he had shot at anyone;
that she knows that the hat and the saddle (given in evidence at the
inquest) are shown in all the cases similar to this, to prove that they
were pierced; but that said marks are ancient, as she had been told
that, in the inquest held two years ago on the death of Perfecto
Sánchez, they were in evidence; that three days since, on the death of
her lover being known in San Buenaventura, the Señor Gómez Gálvez came
to her and said “Now, ingrate, you see what has happened. You may blame
yourself for this.” And, that then he attempted to embrace her and when
deponent resisted him, the Señor Don Pedro ordered that they should put
her off the place, which was done without permitting her to remove her
possessions.
The declaration having been read, she approved it, not knowing how to
sign her name.
* * * * *
On the fourteenth of June, when it was known that Señor Don Pedro Gómez
Gálvez was there, the personnel of the court went to the house of said
person, for the purpose of interrogating him. After the affirmation
prescribed by law, he stated that he was married, forty years of age,
native of the Hacienda de San Buenaventura and inhabitant of
Guadalajara; that he knew Ignacio Almeida, carpenter, who worked on his
place for the space of six months; that, finally, having lost various
animals from San Buenaventura, as well as money and other things, and
having suspicion that the thief might be Almeida, he had informed the
Municipal President, who ordered the arrest of the criminal; that he
knows the said Almeida was killed by his guards, when attempting escape,
at the place called _Corral de piedra_, and that he shot a pistol at the
said policemen; that he does not know Marta Ruiz, nor has ever made love
advances to her, nor was this the motive of his denunciation of Almeida,
but the desire to recover the property, which he had lost.
* * * * *
On this date, the preceding deponent was confronted with the witness
Marta Ruiz (who was brought by force from her house), on account of the
discrepancies found in their statements. The Ruiz woman, greatly
excited, said to Señor Gálvez, “You demanded my love and told me, if I
gave you no encouragement, you would incriminate Ignacio.” The Señor
Gómez Gálvez replied to the Ruiz woman, “It is false: I do not even know
you.”
It was impossible to proceed further in the matter, as the Ruiz woman
could not reply, having suffered a nervous attack; the investigation was
therefore held as closed; the presiding Judge, the Alcalde, and the
witnesses signed the records.
* * * * *
Huizache, July 1, 1900. No grounds for proceeding against any specific
person, having resulted from the investigation, these records may be
placed in the archives. It is so ordered. Thus decreed the first
constitutional Judge, acting in accord with the assisting witnesses.
FEDERICO GAMBOA.
If I must confess the truth, Don Federico Gamboa was not agreeable, as a
writer, to me. His book, _Del Natural_, seemed to me the effort, not
always well sustained, of a beginner of promise; his _Aparencias_, I
considered a translated and adapted novel, after the fashion of the
dramas and comedies which formerly were “adapted” for the Mexican stage;
his _Impresiones y Recuerdos_, in which the author describes and
discusses the time when he smoked his first cigarette, the color of the
eyes of his first sweetheart, the ferrule with which his teacher
punished his boyish pranks, and other equally interesting matters, made
on me the impression of an immense exhibition of personal vanity, in
which the writer announced his _res et gesta_, with the gravity with
which a Goncourt or a Daudet might make known what he had done in life.
Thus, then, his new book, _Suprema Ley_, surprised me agreeably,
constituted a revelation,--of a truthfulness so admirable, so vivid, so
passional, so full of that well-founded realism, which does not permit
a book to remain on the shelf of the bookseller, but places it upon the
table of the reader and in the memory of the lover of the beautiful.
If one did not see, at the close of the volume, the dates on which it
was begun and concluded, he might believe that it had sprung forth
complete, a spontaneous improvisation, a work of the instant, in which
neither art, nor trammels of execution, nor imperfections of detail had
had a part.
In the novel there is not a needless character, nor a useless incident,
nor a single page which does not contribute to the completing of the
action and which has not a direct relation to the plot. Even the
descriptions, in which our novelists are prodigal to the degree of
piling them up indiscriminately, are in _Suprema Ley_, only different
modes in which the subject is impressed by reality. In Gamboa’s work,
Belen, the Theatre, the Alameda--especially the Alameda--perform the
part of the chorus in Greek tragedy.
The characters are enchantingly real, to the degree that, after reading
the book, we feel that we have encountered, seen, and spoken with the
actors. Ortegal is a degenerate, whom we all know; Clothilde is a fallen
woman with a mask of sanctity, a profligate, who entered the world for
man’s undoing; Berón, Holas, even the Comendador and Don Francisco are
the very breath of life, are full of enchanting and noble realism.
One given to seek similarity between the old and the new would claim a
likeness between Dr. Pascual, the learned man of the Rongón Macquart and
the poor court writer, between Clothilde of Zola and the Clothilde of
Gamboa, between the first night which the lovers spent united and the
first night of Laurent and Therese Raquin, between the servant whose
type Gamboa barely sketches and the Juliana Conseira de Eça of Quieros.
These similarities may or may not exist, but no charge can be made
against Gamboa on account of them; he painted reality and the other
novelists painted reality, and nothing resembles itself more closely
than truth.
Gamboa does not possess what I will call the epic faculty, that is, the
faculty of describing external nature, as Delgado for instance; as
little does he have, as Campo, the privilege of retaining, in memory,
phrases and gestures; nor does he possess a vein of humor, as these
writers and as Cuellar; he is, before all and beyond all, an analyst, a
dissector of souls who sees to the bottom of hearts, who seeks the lust
that dishonors, the meanness that kills, the hatred that causes horror.
For this reason, in my opinion, he will never be popular, while his
luckier fellows will gain proselytes and friends as long as they write.
This is not saying that his book lacks attractive characters. Prieto is
a well depicted jester, Chucho an admirably cut figure, Don Eustaquio,
though somewhat melodramatic and somewhat out of place in that
collection of beings of flesh and bone, is the providence which, dressed
in jeans and working in clay, is brought in to give some outlet from the
tangle; but, above all, the family of Ortegal is of the most delicate
and tender which has been here described. Lamartine and Daudet might
well have drawn the picture, if Lamartine and Daudet had dedicated
themselves to painting Mexican types of the humbler class.
There is no doubt that the world of Gamboa is, as that of Carlyle, a
heap of fetid filth, shadowed by a leaden sky, where only groans and
cries of desperation are heard; but, as in the terrible imagination of
the British thinker, flashes of kindliness bringing counsel and
resignation, cleave the sky of this Gehenna.
In fine, _Suprema Ley_ is a great success, a success which compensates
for many failures and, by it, Señor Gamboa has placed himself among the
first Mexican novelists--not, indeed, first of all, because for me,
Delgado and _Micros_ hold yet a higher place.
IRENEO PAZ.
[Illustration]
Ireneo Paz was born at Guadalajara, on July 3, 1836. His father died,
when Ireneo was a child, leaving the widow in poverty. When a boy of
thirteen years, he began his studies at the _Seminario_, laboring for
his support throughout his course. By diligence and earnestness, he made
an excellent record, gaining the respect and esteem of teachers and
fellow-students. Graduating from the _Seminario_ in 1851, he took his
baccalaureate in philosophy at the University in 1854, and was licensed
as a lawyer in 1861. In his youth he wrote verse “as a tree sprouts
leaves.” Identifying himself with the liberal party, he soon became
prominent in politics. He was also a Captain in the national guard.
During this period he published _El Independiente_ (The Independent),
_El Dia_ (The Day), and _Sancho Panza_.
When the Imperial forces, in 1863, took possession of Guadalajara,
Ireneo Paz withdrew to Colima, where he was editor of the Official
Periodical of that State, and Magistrate of the Court of Justice. A year
later, the approach of the Imperialists forced him to abandon these
offices. He was with the Federal forces of the coast until their rout at
Zapotlan, when he was one of the three to arrange the terms of
capitulation with General Oroñoz. He was kept under surveillance at
Guadalajara, where he, nevertheless, dedicated himself to the Republican
cause, establishing _El Payaso_ (The Clown), which vigorously combatted
monarchical ideas, with audacity and satire--replacing it later by _El
Noticioso_ (The Well-Informed). Maximilian himself was impressed by the
little sheet and ordered that a full set should be secured for him. On
the occasion of an operatic triumph, at Guadalajara, by the prima donna,
Angela Peralta,--Ireneo Paz gave vent to some democratic sentiments,
which led to his arrest and imprisonment on November 12, 1866. His stay
there was brief, as the Republican forces gained possession of the
town, one month later. With the full re-establishment of the Republic,
he was appointed in 1867 Secretary of State for Sinaloa. A few months
later, he was again actively interested, against Juarez, in favor of the
ideas of Diaz. The opposition failed and Paz was again in prison, this
time in Santiago Tlaltelolco; he was later transferred to La Députacion.
During his eleven months in prison, he vigorously assailed the Juarez
regime in the popular anti-administration journal, _El Padre Cobos_
(Father Cobos). After his release, he continued his attacks in newspaper
articles, in popular clubs, and in the secret plottings preceding the
revolution known as La Noria. Notwithstanding all the efforts against
him, Juarez was re-elected in 1871, but shortly died. Ireneo Paz was
active in the revolution of La Noria and in that of Tuxtepec, four years
later--supporting Diaz on both occasions and suffering imprisonment
twice.
The mere list of the books written by Ireneo Paz is too long for quoting
here. Many of them are historical novels dealing with Mexican themes. He
has written too much for all of it to have great literary merit, but he
is widely read and well known. His style is often tedious and prolix,
but many interesting, and even thrilling, passages occur in his works.
He has a quiet and dry humor and, sometimes, keen satire. His _Algunas
Campañas_ (Some Campaigns), is practically a history of events in which
he himself has participated. Our quotations are from it. In poetry Paz
ranges from satire to love, from humor to philosophy.
Ireneo Paz has long lived in the City of Mexico, where he has been a
member of Congress, in both houses and a Regidor. He has been, and is,
editor of _La Patria_ (The Fatherland). He has been president of the
_Prensa Asociada_ (Associated Press) and of the _Liceo Hidalgo_. He was
a Commissioner from Mexico to the World’s Columbian Exposition, and as a
result of his visit to our country wrote _La Exposicion de Chicago_ (The
Chicago Exposition).
THE AGREEMENT OF EL ZACATE GRULLO.
In an hacienda, situated on the Autlan road, with an obscure name,
which, nevertheless became famous in the annals of the period, we, the
troops under command of the Generals Anacleto Herrera y Cairo, Antonio
Neri and Toro Manuel, including a whole regiment of officers and some
few common soldiers, pulled ourselves together, though truly in a
pitiable state.
The name of this afterward celebrated hacienda deserves special
mention--_El Zacate Grullo_.
At the hacienda of El Zacate Grullo we planned to impart some
organization to those forces, the scanty remnants of what had been the
Army of the Centre. It was agreed that, for the time, they should bear
the name of the United Brigades. But, promptly, this other question had
to rise--who was to command them?
The regular leaders at once fixed their eyes upon the valiant and
sympathetic General Herrera y Cairo; but the chief obstacle to his
taking command was in the great preponderance of irregulars. Would Rojas
and his companions submit to the command of a man of fine manners and
good education? The next thought was of Rojas or of Julio García; it was
certain that two State Governors would not place themselves at the
orders of the former, even though he had the greater forces,
particularly as he had, among the French, the reputation of a bandit,
for which reason they had declared him an outlaw and had proposed
pursuing him and treating him as other bandits. Don Julio had the
friendship of all and possessed qualities, which connected him with both
of these opposite factions. He had been a companion of Rojas, he
understood pillage, and he also knew how, at the proper time, to assert
his dignity as a public man, rising above his antecedents; but no one
gave him credit for military ability. That Don Julio was a sort of bond
of union between the two leaders mentioned, served for nought then, in
that emergency.
But to continue with the facts.
The Generals Herrera, García and Rojas, assisted by Aristeo Moreno, who
was the secretary of the first and the very intimate friend of the
last, passed the whole day in private conference. I supposed, and my
supposition was later confirmed, that Rojas had refused to permit my
presence in that council.
A general order was issued, that after the six o’clock roll-call, all
the leaders and officers should present themselves at the lodgings of
General Rojas, in order to be informed of what had been decided in the
council of generals.
We all hastened to the meeting, hoping that from the discussion had
flashed out the ray of light so much needed in escaping from the
difficulties, in which we were entangled. Rojas occupied the centre of a
table placed at one end of the main saloon of the hacienda. At the sides
were Generals García and Herrera y Cairo, and at the end, near six
candlesticks with lights was Aristeo Moreno, surrounded by papers. I do
not know whether because the candles were of tallow, or because of the
state of agitation in which our spirits were, we observed that the faces
of those at the table appeared extremely pale.
When the hundred and more officers, of the grade of Lieutenant and
upward, of which the United Brigades boasted, were gathered together in
the hall, we observed that five hundred _galeanos_ surrounded the
hacienda house. We were, then, to deliberate under pressure of five
hundred bandits, who could pulverize us at the least signal from their
chief.
Rojas solemnly said: “Mr. Secretary, read the agreement which we have
made.”
Aristeo Moreno read the considerations of that abortion, which
terminated with the following articles:
Article 1. The undersigned solemnly bind themselves, under oath, to
defend the Republic against all intervention, battling, if need be,
until death.
Art. 2. All those who do not approve the present compact, showing
themselves indifferent to the national defense, will be considered
enemies and shot.
Art. 3. Those who, in any manner whatever, shall be unfaithful to the
Republic, and shall make alliance with the Empire, shall be shot.
Art. 4. Populations where the Republican forces are not received with
rejoicing, open hospitality being refused, shall be burned and their
inhabitants shall be compelled to fight as common soldiers or to be
shot, according to the gravity of their offense.
Art. 5. All prisoners taken from the enemy, of whatever category they
may be, will be immediately shot, without the necessity of personal
identification.
Art. 6. All individual property becomes the property of the United
Brigades; consequently all who refuse to furnish rations, fodder,
money, or whatever else may be demanded, shall be shot.
Art. 7. All who compose the United Brigades are free to sign this
agreement or not, but once having signed it, he who does not support it,
or who shall commit the crime of desertion, shall be shot.
Given in the Hacienda del Zacate Grullo, etc.
When Aristeo Moreno had finished reading, General Rojas with a voice
apparently calm, but with the black rings about his eyes unusually dark
and deep, a certain sign that he was breathing out hatred and that bad
sentiments animated him, said, addressing those of us who were in the
hall:
“That is what I and my companions have sworn to sustain. Those who are
in accord with the plan may come to sign it. Those, who are not, are
free to ask for their passports.”
The profoundest silence reigned.
“Does no one wish his passport?” he asked.
And as an equal silence reigned, he said in a voice less abrupt: “Very
well, let them come to sign.”
Some started to the table in order to sign, but as others vacillated or
remained near the door, Rojas spoke again:
“No one can leave the hacienda, unless accompanied by one of my aides,
after he has signed. That is the order I have given the guard which is
watching the doors.”
In fact, the _galeones_ were watching the door from the hall to the
corridor, that of the street, and all the other exits; there seemed no
possible means of escape without placing one’s signature to the shameful
document. Nudgings with the arms, joggings with the feet, and words said
so low that they seemed rather the buzzing of a fly, were the only
protests which worthy and honorable leaders, there present, dared make.
Rojas signed, and his secretary who was an insignificant Indian, signed;
Herrera y Cairo followed, his secretary, Aristeo Moreno signing beside
him; General Julio García was called and I felt a shiver run through me
from head to foot, because I ought to follow him as his secretary, and,
no less, the secretary of the republican government of Colima.... In
that moment of supreme anxiety, I felt it the height of folly to
publicly oppose the signing of that infernal abortion, which would be
the same as to provoke an undesirable quarrel in which the probabilities
were that we who were decent men, being few, would perish at the hands
of the bandits, who were many. Fortunately three copies had to be
signed; Don Julio wrote slowly and I had time to climb, unobserved,
through a small window, which opened from the hall into the inner rooms
of the hacienda, which served us as lodgings, where I arrived, greatly
agitated, and, promptly undressing, went to bed. As a precaution, which
served me well, I bound a white cloth around my head and surrounded
myself with medicines.
Scarcely had I done all this, when an adjutant entered my room and asked
if I were there.
“What is wanted?” I asked him.
“The generals need you.”
“Tell them to excuse me; my head aches terribly and you see that I am
lying down.”
“Are you not coming to sign?” he asked.
“No,” I replied, rolling myself up in the bed.
“Why?”
“Because I do not wish to dishonor myself, even more in the eyes of my
fellow-patriots than in those of the enemy.”
“Then you believe we have done badly in signing it?”
“Yes, sir; very badly.”
“Then you will not sign it?”
“No, sir.”
“But, what shall I say to Rojas?”
“That he may order me shot.”
“Very well,” he said and withdrew, annoyed.
Three copies were signed, one for each general, and when the act was
concluded my room was filled with leaders and officers, who desired to
know my opinion about that absurd agreement. I said to them all that it
was unworthy and that I would not sign it.
Some said that there ought to be an uprising, others desired to fly,
though they saw this pact, like an anathema, which would follow them
everywhere, a sentence of death. Death and dishonor if they fulfilled
it; death and dishonor if they did not. There were some who wept with
rage. I attempted to console them as well as I could and gradually they
departed until, finally, only Crispin Medina and Juan Valadéz were with
me.
“Did you sign?” I asked them.
“Unfortunately yes, but only on one of the copies.”
“On which?”
“On that of Don Julio.”
At that moment, he entered.
“Are you still talking of that unhappy document?” he asked us.
“Yes, sir.”
“And what do you think?”
“We think, General,” I said to him, “as every worthy man, who respects
himself and who desires an honorable career in politics, must think;
this agreement is absurd because impracticable; it is hateful because it
wars against all the good sentiments of mankind; and it is monstrous,
immoral, iniquitous, because it orders destruction and slaughter.”
“You are right,” he answered. “I ought not to have agreed so far with
Rojas, and for my part, the compact is broken from this moment.”
He drew forth his copy and tore it to pieces.
The next day on taking up our line of march, Rojas said to me: “You not
only do not sign yourself but breed disaffection among the other
leaders.”
I frankly told him my opinion, which he heard with interest. When I had
finished he added:
“I am not shooting you now, because Julio and his people forbid it....
But, we will see later.... We have a lot of unsettled accounts.”
He cast a sinister glance at me and then left, urging his horse to a
gallop.
JOSÉ LÓPEZ-PORTILLO Y ROJAS.
[Illustration]
José López-Portillo y Rojas was born at Guadalajara May 26, 1850. His
father was an eminent lawyer and teacher in the law school. Son of
wealthy parents, the young man was given every opportunity for study,
first in his home city and later at the capital. His final studies in
law were made at Guadalajara, where, in 1871, he became _licenciado_.
His parents then gave him an opportunity for foreign travel. He visited
the United States, Great Britain and Ireland, France and Italy, Egypt
and the Holy Land. On his return he published his _Impresiones de viaje_
(Impressions of Travel). Since that time Señor López-Portillo y Rojas,
has practiced law, represented his state in the National Congress,
taught in the law school and done important work in journalism. His
writings are always clear, direct and marked by a literary style of
unusual grace and purity. Besides his scattered articles and the book
already mentioned, he has edited--with notable scholarship--the
interesting _Cronica de Jalisco_ (Chronicle of Jalisco) of Fray Antonio
Tello, and written a novel, _La Parcela_ (The Piece of Land). It is from
this last work that our selections are taken.
In _La Parcela_ the author presents a sketch of characteristic country
life. The novel has for purpose the illustration of the strong, almost
morbid, affection for land felt by the native proprietor.
Don Pedro Ruiz is a wealthy and progressive _haciendero_ of pure Indian
blood. He is noble-hearted, thoughtful, shrewd, intelligent and a man of
resources. A widower, he is devotedly attached to his only son, Gonzalo,
a fine young fellow of twenty-three years. The owner of the adjoining
property, Don Miguel Diaz, has been a life-long friend, and between them
exists the artificial relation of _compadre_. His wife, Doña Paz, is a
cousin of Don Pedro; there is one daughter, a beautiful, gentle but
rather weak lady named Ramona. The two young persons--Gonzalo and
Ramona--have grown up like brother and sister; their childish affection
has ripened into love, and at the beginning of the story they are
engaged to be married. Don Pedro is by far the richest man of all the
district. Don Miguel is also wealthy, but has seen with some jealousy
and dissatisfaction the constantly increasing difference between their
fortunes. This dissatisfaction, encouraged by a scheming lawyer, leads
to his claiming a worthless bit of property on the borders of his and
Don Pedro’s lands. The value of the land is but a trifle to either
party; but Don Pedro, sure that right is on his side, refuses to yield
to the unjust demands of his neighbor.
Don Miguel at first seizes the property by force, but is dispossessed by
Don Pedro’s tenants. The bitter feeling aroused by this incident leads
to a battle between two tenants of the two masters; both of the fighters
are thrown into jail. Carried into the courts, the boundary line is
infamously determined by a corrupted judge; a higher court reverses the
decision and Don Pedro is supported in his rights. Furious with anger,
Don Miguel seeks to injure his neighbor. Through a wicked scheme plotted
with the local authority, the tenant of Don Pedro, who has been in jail,
is assassinated. A great dam, which holds back a mighty volume of water
for driving mills, irrigating the property, etc., is damaged by Don
Miguel’s orders, with the idea that the inundation will ruin the
property of Don Pedro.
Throughout these various exciting incidents--seizure, dispossession,
law-suit, appeal, assassination and diabolical destruction--the love
affairs of the young people are naturally more or less disturbed. Having
carried things to such a climax, the author brings about a sudden
reconciliation and the story ends.
EXTRACTS FROM LA PARCELA.
“Good morning, _compadre_ Don Miguel,” said Don Pedro as soon as he
recognized the horseman who arrived.
“Good morning, _compadre_,” replied the newcomer, checking his horse and
dismounting.
The servant who accompanied him quickly dismounted from his horse and
went to hold, by the bridle, that of his master. Then he bent to remove
his master’s spurs.
“No, Marcos,” said Don Miguel to him, “do not remove them. We shall go
on at once.”
“How! _compadre_,” said Don Pedro; “then you will not remain to take
breakfast with me?”
“No, not today, because I must arrive at Derramadero before 6, and it is
yet distant.”
“That is true, _compadre_; but there will be another day, will there
not? Pass in, pass in. Do you desire that we sit down here on the bench
to enjoy the fresh air, or shall we go into the office?”
“We are very well here. Do not trouble yourself.”
“Very well. What are you doing so early?”
“It does not please me to visit. I come to treat of our business.”
“What business?”
“That which we have pending.”
“But we have nothing pending.”
“How not? The Monte de los Pericos.”
“What about it?”
“I want you to decide whether you will yield it to me.”
“Why do we speak of this? A thousand times I have told you that the
Monte is mine.”
“That is what you say, but the truth is that it belongs to me.”
“_Compadre_, it is better that we talk of something else; leave this
matter. Are we not friends?”
“We are so; but that is not to say that you may deprive me of my things.
What sort of friendship is that?”
* * * * *
In fact, at a very short distance from where the group found itself,
there were seen down below, through the shrubbery, the four men of Don
Miguel. They were stretched out on the ground upon their blankets, and
in the shadow of the trees conversed without suspicion, with their eyes
fastened on the house of Palmar, which was visible from there. Their
horses, unbridled and fastened to the trees, were pasturing on the green
herbage.
“But man! How good was that blow?” said one of the _mozos_. “It still
gives me delight.”
“What a surprise for the poor _montero_!” exclaimed another.
“What will Don Pedro say?”
“He will have to calm his rage.”
And they laughed with their mouths open. Just then they heard the tramp
of horses, and turning their heads saw Don Pedro, followed by his men.
They tried to rise to draw their pistols.
“Do not stir!” said Don Pedro in a terrible voice, “or we will shoot
you.” And he and all his held their arms ready.
There was nothing to be done. The servants of Don Miguel comprehended
that all resistance was useless.
“Master, we are taken,” said one of them.
“Do you surrender at discretion?”
“There is no way to avoid it.”
“Then give up your arms. Look, Roque, dismount and take away from the
gentlemen their rifles, their pistols, their sabres and their cartridge
boxes.”
They gave up with trembling hands the pistols and the cartridge boxes.
The rifles were hanging from the saddles of their horses.
“Now,” continued Don Pedro, “tie their hands behind them and help them
to get onto their horses. Distribute their arms so that their weight
shall not be too great, and let each one take the halter of a horse in
order that he may lead it.”
All was done with the rapidity of lightning. The men of Don Pedro
strongly tied the hands of the conquered behind their backs with the
satisfaction of the tyrant characteristic of all conquerors. One of the
captured, Panfilo Vargas, was vexed and said:
“They gain advantage because they are more than we. Tie quickly for some
day you will know who I am. We are _arrieros_, and we go through the
country.”
“Shut your mouth, braggart!” said Don Pedro angrily. “How many were you
this morning? There were six of you to take the poor _montero_, who was
alone and not expecting anyone. As for you, you were left here to guard
and had the obligation of not permitting yourselves to be surprised. You
have lost because you are fools. Who told you to be careless? They shall
know that I do not sleep nor neglect mine own. Let him who jokes with me
be careful.” Then he turned to Oceguera, saying to him, “Where is the
_montero_ hidden?”
“Here am I, master,” replied the _montero_ himself, appearing from the
bushes.
“I was looking for you to order you to attend to your business in your
place. Have no fear. I shall send reinforcements. Do not move from here
until I tell you.”
“Very well, sir.”
“Let us go then,” ordered Ruiz. And the party put itself on the road to
the _hacienda_, just as the sun began to set and the great shadows from
the mountains were extending themselves across the valley.
* * * * *
Roque passed the _arroyo_ and entered the camp. Some time passed and he
did not return. Panfilo began to believe that he did not come to the
appointment because he was afraid; but soon he heard a whistle at the
foot of the slope and saw Roque on horseback, striking his chest
arrogantly, as if saying:
“Here you have me at your orders.”
On seeing him Panfilo hastened to meet him.
“Now yes,” said Roque, “here I am ready to serve you and give you all
you want.”
“Well, you know what I want; that we shall have a good tussle.”
“It seems to me that here we have a good place.”
“Well, then, do me the favor,” exclaimed the impetuous Panfilo, drawing
a revolver.
“Listen to me,” said Roque, drawing his also; “if really you desire that
we shall kill each other, don’t let us create an excitement. Put away
your pistol and take your machete.”
“I will do what I please. Are you afraid of the noise?”
“It is you who should be afraid of the noise, lest they hear us and come
to part us. If we do not succeed at the first shot nothing will come of
it, for they will come and separate us. Is that perhaps what you want?”
“You are right,” replied Panfilo. “Well, then, there is no time to lose.
Let us get at it.”
* * * * *
Soon they found themselves on foot, lame, covered with dust, pale,
horrible. They seemed not men, but fierce beasts.
* * * * *
The contest could not prolong itself for the combatants were exhausted.
They could scarcely move; but they did not wish to yield, since although
strength failed, anger more than abounded.
Chance finally settled the contest. When Roque raised his arm to deal a
blow with his machete upon Panfilo’s head, the latter by a quick
movement tried to parry the blow, to save his head from being cleft
open. But he parried it, not with his blade, but with the haft, and the
heavy weapon of his antagonist severed his smaller fingers. With this
there fell to the ground the sword and the amputated fingers; that
tinged with blood, these livid and convulsed.
“Now, yes, I have lost,” exclaimed the wounded man with a gesture of
grief.
“Yes, friend,” replied Roque, filled with consternation. “What need was
there of this?”
“It is a thing of bad luck; who may gain may lose. You have proved me a
man; you cannot deny that.”
“How have I to deny it? The truth is that you have much courage. Let me
bind your hand with this cloth to see if the blood can be staunched.”
Saying this Roque wrapped the hand with his great kerchief.
“Where do you desire that I take you?” he asked. “You cannot go alone.”
“Go and leave me; do not let them take you prisoner,” replied Panfilo.
“Though they take me to jail, I will not leave you.”
“Well, then, help me to get near to Chopo. When we are within sight of
the hacienda save yourself.”
“Wherever you wish; let us walk along.”
They started. Panfilo advanced with difficulty; he murmured and suffered
with thirst. He stopped frequently to drink in the _arroyos_ and Roque
gave him water in the hollow of his hand.
“Friend,” he said, “it gives me sorrow to see you so injured.”
“There is no reason; I am to blame.”
“It had been better that we had not fought.”
“Why do we speak of this? There is now no remedy.”
The wounded man was presently unable to walk. Supported on Roque’s arm
he progressed very slowly. Finally it was necessary to carry him like a
child. Thus they came in sight of Chopo. Panfilo did not wish Roque to
carry him farther.
“May God reward you,” he said to him. “Leave me upon this stone and
hurry away that they may not come to seize you.”
“Though they seize me, how can I leave you alone?”
“Every little while the _peons_ and their women pass; they will carry me
to my house. Go.”
“Good friend, since you wish it, I will go; but one thing is necessary
first; without it I will not go.”
“What?”
“That we may henceforth be good friends.”
“With much pleasure--from now on.”
“Do not hold hatred toward me and forget the things that have happened.”
“Why should I hold hatred?”
“Because of what I did.”
“You did it like a man; it needs naught said.”
“Then give me the good hand.”
“Here it is,” answered the wounded man, extending his hot left hand.
Roque grasped it with feeling.
“God grant that you may soon be well,” he murmured.
“With a maimed hand,” added the wounded man, his pallid and dry lips
contracted in a sad smile.
“God’s will be done,” said Roque, sympathetically.
At this moment a whistle was heard from near by.
“Indeed it is time that you go,” said Panfilo. “Do you not see that
persons are coming?”
He could scarcely speak; he was on the point of losing consciousness.
Roque hesitated.
“How leave you?” he said.
“Go, if you desire that we be friends; if not, remain.”
“Then I leave.”
“Farewell, and run fast that they may not overtake you.”
* * * * *
So urgent and impassioned was his request that the girl was moved in
spite of herself. To quench the sympathy which rose in her bosom she
recalled to herself that he who thus spoke was the nominal friend of
Gonzalo, and on remembering this she felt that for her budding pity was
substituted vexation and indignation. Thus this harsh reproach escaped
her lips:
“And you call yourself the friend of Gonzalo.”
Had a thunderbolt fallen at the feet of Luis it would not have produced
a more prostrating effect.
“Gonzalo is my friend, in fact,” he gasped.
“Not if he knew himself,” insisted Ramona, ironically. “If it were so
you could not have spoken as you have just done.”
“Then are you yet in relations with him?”
“You know it very well.”
“No,” replied the unfortunate youth, pale as a corpse; “I give you my
word as a gentleman that I did not know it. My father told me some days
past that he knew these relations were broken; only for this reason have
I forced myself to reveal to you my love. I may endure the fact that you
do not love me, since such is my lot, but I cannot be willing that you
should consider me disloyal. I desire that you should esteem me even if
you may not love me.”
* * * * *
The youth in the meantime had arrived at his home, mounted his horse and
immediately sallied forth to the house of Luis. He sent a message to his
former friend by a servant, begging him that he would come outside,
which Medina did immediately, well bred and polite as he was.
“Gonzalo!” said Medina, extending his hand.
“I come to arrange with you a very serious matter,” replied our youth,
without extending his.
“You have me at your orders,” replied Luis, exchanging the friendly
expression of his face for another more severe.
“Only we cannot do it here. Mount your horse and take your arms. I await
you.”
And by the contraction of his features and the pallor of his
countenance, Medina knew that Gonzalo had come on a warlike errand, and
was not slow in divining what was the cause of his annoyance. Without
replying a single word he entered the house and soon reappeared and
mounted his horse, with a pistol at his belt and a sword at the saddle.
“Here you have me,” he said to Gonzalo.
“Come,” replied Gonzalo, “let us go to the field.”
Together they took the street which most quickly would bring them to the
end of the village, and went a considerable stretch outside the town.
Leaving the road they went into the meadows and stopped at a little open
space formed by four immense _camichines_, which, extending over the
space, their broad, flat and immovable boughs projected a dense and
heavy shadow around.
“I have brought you to this spot,” said Gonzalo, stopping his horse,
“because it is retired and no one may see or hear us. It is unnecessary
to enter into explanations; you know how gravely you have offended me,
and in what way. That is sufficient. Now I desire that you shall give me
satisfaction with arms in hand.”
“Although I am not valiant, I have some dignity and never will I yield
before an enemy who challenges me,” answered Luis, tranquilly; “but I
have one remark to make to you, which is, that my conscience does not
reproach me with having done anything to offend you.”
“Yes, I was expecting that you would deny responsibility for your acts.
Anything else was impossible.”
“Moderate your words. Do not let us pass to a serious occasion without
some rational cause.”
“Pretext,” cried Gonzalo; “you do not desire to fight. You are a
coward.” Saying this he placed his hand upon his pistol for a moment.
Luis was livid and acted as if he would follow his example; but he
stopped and left his arm in place, recalling his promise to Ramona at
the ball.
“One moment,” he said, “only one moment; if you are a man and not a
brute, as you seem to be, you must first hear me. By my mother’s honor,
I assure you that I am disposed to fight; but not before we understand
each other. What is the matter?”
“You love Ramona. Deny that if you can.”
“God save me from committing such a vile act! It is true.”
“You have courted her.”
“That is true.”
“You danced with her the night of the _fiesta_.”
“That also is true.”
“You made a declaration of love to her.”
“I cannot deny that.”
“You are a shameless being, because you knew she was my sweetheart and
that we were engaged to be married.”
“That is not true.”
Gonzalo threw upon Luis a glance of infinite contempt on hearing these
words.
“You are a wretch,” he cried, “and it is necessary that I punish you.
Defend yourself.”
“Assassinate me if you wish; I will not draw my pistol until you have
heard me. Come, dispatch me; here you have me,” and he exposed his
breast to his challenger.
“There is nothing to do but hear you in order to quit you of every
excuse for your cowardice. Speak, and hurry, for I am impatient to
punish you.”
“I call God to witness that I believed your love relations with Ramona
were broken. Don Miguel had told my father that with absolute certainty.
Every one in Citala asserted the same. You did not come to town, and as
your father and Don Miguel were quarreling it seemed to me probable and
I believed it. For this reason I made love to Ramona. Had it not been
for this I would have remained silent, as I have been silent for so
many years, for my love to her is nothing new. I have always had it.
Ramona informed me of my error, and accused me of perversity and
treason, as you have just done. She herself can tell you how astonished
I was when I learned that it was not true that all was ended between you
and that you still loved each other. It caused me infinite grief. Now,”
pursued the youth, “that you have heard me, I have done, and am at your
orders.”
* * * * *
The caravan for some leagues journeyed silently, but seeing that the
storm approached, the sergeant neared himself to one of the soldiers and
said to him in a low voice:
“The storm is coming; here is a good place.”
“Yes, we have already gone six leagues and there has not been one person
on the road.”
“Well, then, let us at once to what we have to do; then let us get back
to the pueblo.”
“That is what I say,” responded the soldier.
“Go on then, you already know what you have to do; see if you can do it.
I pretend not to look; I will fall behind.”
“I go then to see what happens.”
The soldier drew near to Roque.
“What cheer, friend? How goes it?”
“Diabolically, friend. How do you expect it goes with me with these
cords?” replied the prisoner.
“Yes, it must go very unpleasantly. Why don’t you smoke a cigarette?”
“Friend, impossible. Don’t you see that I go tied?”
“‘Tis true, I see it with pity. Now you will see what we will do. At
last the sergeant has fallen behind and will not see us. I’m going to
untie you to give you a little rest.”
“But will not the sergeant see it? Thank you much; but will he not see?”
“Have no concern; anyway it is very dark.”
And the soldier leaned over and untied the knot which held Roque’s
hands.
“May God reward you, friend,” said he, stretching his arms in front of
him; “I was very tired. But tell me, why are your hands so cold? Are you
chilled?”
“Nothing is the matter with me. The air is damp. But, take a cigarette.
Here is the light;”--and he reined up.
The unsuspecting Roque rolled the cigarette and lighted it by that which
the soldier was smoking. They then went on, talking. After talking for a
little time of indifferent matters the gendarme said:
“Man, friend, I sympathize with you and it pains me that you are going
to jail.”
“There is no alternative, friend! Some day I will be out. Anyway the
jail does not eat people.”
“Good; but it is always atrocious to be a prisoner, and God knows for
how long. Why not escape. I will dissemble and you will run. I will
fire into the air and you race along into the country and no one can
find you.”
“I am afraid they will shoot me.”
“Don’t be afraid; I will help you.”
The unfortunate man fell into the snare.
“Do you say it seriously? Are you not fooling?”
“I advise you in earnest. All you need is courage.”
“But you tell me when.”
“Right now--race along before the sergeant comes.”
Roque gave rein to his horse and urged it with quick strokes of his
heels against its flanks, but he hardly succeeded in making it take a
slow and measured gallop. He had gone but a few steps when a report
sounded just behind him and a bullet passed, grazing the brim of his
_sombrero_.
“Zounds,” he murmured, “what a scare this man has aimed to give me.”
And instinctively he tried to place himself in the field at one side of
the road to hide himself in the brambles. But there was no time for
anything. For all his urging the horse would not do better than his
little gallop. He heard the nearing band of horses and various shots
sounded. Then he understood that he had fallen into a trap and that he
was about to lose his life through it. Impelled by the instinct of
self-preservation, he tried to dismount to seek shelter; but it was too
late. The gendarmes were upon him, firing with their rifles.
“Jesus help me! Mother receive my spirit!” he said in thought, and fell
penetrated by the bullets. Two had entered at the shoulders and emerged
at the chest, and the third entered at the neck and destroyed the skull.
* * * * *
What was it which the terrified Diaz then saw? Upon a plank, borne by
four peasants, tied down with coarse cords, was a corpse, rigid and
yellow. The miserable clothing which covered it, coarse cotton drawers
and shirt, was soaked with blood, principally upon the breast, where the
abundant and coagulated flow had darkened and become almost black. Above
the forehead, in the black harsh hair, matted and stiffened with blood,
were visible clots of red, mingled with whitish bits of brain. The livid
face, turned toward heaven, bore an expression of anguish which was
heart-rending; the eyes half opened and glazed fascinated by their
glance; and the opened mouth, dark and full of earth, seemed to exhale
inaudible groans and complaints.
The _gendarmes_ surrounded the body and the curious crowd followed it.
In the midst of the group a woman walked, weeping and uttering cries of
grief. She carried a babe at her breast--bearing it with her left arm,
and as well as she could led with her right another boy about four
years old, barefoot and tattered.
“Roque! my Roque! my husband,” cried the miserable woman. “They have
killed my husband! They have killed him! Children! My little ones! Poor
little ones! They are orphans! What shall I do? What shall I do? What
shall I do? Ay! Ay! Ay!”
In passing close to Don Miguel she saw him and said to him, sobbing:
“Señor Don Miguel, do you see? They have killed my husband! That is what
is there on the board! What shall I do Señor Don Miguel? What shall I
do? Ay! Ay! Ay!”
MANUEL SÁNCHES MÁRMOL.
[Illustration]
Manuel Sánches Mármol was born in the State of Tabasco. He displayed a
literary tendency very early, and, while still a student, collaborated
in such literary reviews as _La Guirnalda_ (The Garland), _El Album
Yucateco_ (The Yucatecan Album), and _El Repertorio pintoresco_ (The
Picturesque Repertoire). His first essays in the field of fiction were
_El Misionero de la Cruz_ (The Missionary of the Cross), and _La
Venganza de una injuria_ (The Revenge of an Injury).
At the time of the French Intervention, he joined the Republican forces.
He acted as Secretary of State of Tabasco, and aroused the patriotism of
his fellows by his writings. He founded _El Aguila Azteca_ (The Aztec
Eagle), a paper devoted entirely to the national cause. During this
period of disturbance he was a Deputy to the State Legislature,
Secretary of Colonel Gregorio Méndez, and his Auditor of War. The course
of local events during this stormy period was largely directed by him.
(See p. 148.)
After the war had passed, Manuel Sánches Mármol continued his activity
both in politics and letters. He has been Magistrate of the Supreme
Court of the State of Tabasco, several times member of the Federal
Congress, Director and Founder of the _Instituto Juarez_ of Tabasco. He
has constantly contributed to those periodicals which represent the most
pronounced liberal ideas--as _El Siglo XIX_ (The Nineteenth Century),
_La Sombra de Guerrero_ (The Shade of Guerrero), _El Radical_ and _El
Federalista_. He represented Mexico in the second Pan-American Congress,
which met in the City of Mexico in 1902. He is now Professor of History
in the _Escuela Nacional Preparatoria_ (National Preparatory School).
Besides his early essays in fiction, he has written the following
novels--_Pocahontas_, _Juanita Sousa_, and _Antón Pérez_ (titles
untranslatable, as being personal names). He has now in press _Piedad_
(Mercy), and is preparing three others.
Our selections are taken from _Antón Pérez_, a novel dealing with the
French Intervention in Tabasco. Antón Pérez was the son of poor but
decent parents, but was _pardo_ (“_dark_”), a fact certain to be to his
disadvantage, no matter what abilities he might possess. Having gone
through the public school of the village, he attracted the attention of
the priests, who had newly come to his town, the villa of Cunduacán.
Their school was below Antón’s needs but the good priests taught him
privately to the extent of their ability. He was their trusted protege
and they encouraged him to high hope of a brilliant future. In the
parochial school for girls was Rosalba del Riego. She was ugly and
unattractive but of good family and aristocratic connection. She adored
the big boy, handsome as a picture, who studied with the priests and
aided them in all ways, occupying quite a lofty place in their little
world, but her admiration merely irritated him, as it called down upon
him the laughter of the little school boys. When Antón had learned all
that his patrons could teach him they tried to secure for him a
scholarship at the _Seminario_, at Merida; the effort appeared likely to
be successful, but it failed;--a youth with more powerful influence
behind him securing the appointment. The blow was keenly felt by the
poor and ambitious boy. Soon after, his father died, the old priests
left for new fields, and two old aunts who have been to him in place of
mother depended upon him for support. The brilliant dreams of a career
faded; life’s realities fell upon the boy. He was equal, however, to the
demands and earned enough for their modest needs. He was busy, useful,
respected, and content. He was lieutenant of the local guard and had
some notions of military drill and practice. Meantime his little
admirer, Rosalba, completed her education outside the State, and, at
last, returned transformed. Beautiful as a dream, brilliant, educated,
she was immediately the centre of attraction in the town. Antón was
madly in love with her. But her childish admiration had given place
to--at least, apparent--aversion. She insulted him openly on account of
his inferior position. Rosalba had a maiden aunt, Doña Socorro
Castrejón. Just as Antón’s love for Rosalba arose, Doña Socorro saw the
boy, appreciated his handsome face and fine bearing, and was smitten
with an infatuation, which had only a passionate and unworthy basis. She
was a scheming and intriguing woman but not without charms and
brilliancy. When events were in this condition the French Intervention
took place. The foreign forces appeared in Tabasco; the governor,
Dueñas, traitorously yielded the capital; later, pretending to arrange
for local defense, he scattered the forces, so that they could present
no obstacle to the invader. One after another these separated bodies of
the national guard suffered defection. The Doña Socorro was an ardent
imperialist. Antón, at Cunduacán, was lieutenant of the yet loyal
forces, under Colonel Méndez. One day, while Colonel Méndez and his
brother, Captain Méndez, were breakfasting with a friend Doña Socorro
influenced Antón to “pronounce,” with his soldiers, in favor of the
Empire. His deed was represented, in brilliant colors to the young
commander of the Imperial forces, Arévalo, and Antón was rewarded. He
was the confidential friend and trusted adviser of Arévalo, and, for a
time, all their plans prospered. But Gregorio Méndez and Sánchez
Magellanes gathered a handful of loyal men and made a stand. A battle
was fought, the invading forces looking for an easy victory; they met
with dire defeat. Antón Pérez was mortally wounded. The death of the
youth, who had sacrificed loyalty, patriotism, and honor, to a foolish
love, is depicted in dreadful detail.
EXTRACTS FROM ANTÓN PÉREZ.
Doña Socorro was somewhat irritated, that the compliment for which she
sought was not given, and that only her niece was praised. She
controlled herself, however, merely saying inwardly--“what a fool the
boy is! he must be waked up.” Then she said aloud: