Readings from Modern Mexican Authors

by Unknown

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.

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.

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.

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:

“Well, since you do not care to stay, feel that I am interested in your welfare. I should like to see you at my house, tomorrow.”

“I will be there, madam,” Anton answered respectfully. And slipping, timidly, through the crowd of guests, directing a furtive glance at Rosalba, he went to his work at the humble desk in Ajágan’s shop.

But he could not keep track of the figures; sums and differences came out badly; everything was topsy-turvy; seven times six was forty-eight and five would not contain three. His head was in a whirl. That night he could not sleep.

In the morning, he performed his usual duties and at midday, his heart high with vague, happy hopes, he went to his appointment with Doña Socorro.

He was expected. The lady received him with expressive signs of affection, and seating him, said:

“I have invited you here for your own good. You are poor; I wish to aid you. Do not be ashamed; speak to me frankly. What are your resources for living? Go into full particulars.”

Antón lowered his eyes and turned his hat around and around in his hands, until the lady again encouraged him:

“Go on; don’t be brief. Speak! boy.”

“Well then, lady,” answered the young man, hesitatingly, “I can’t say that it is so bad; I earn my twenty-five pesos a month.”

“And from whom?”

“From what persons, you mean”—continued Antón, with somewhat greater frankness,—“why then, Don Ascencio Ajágan gives me ten pesos because, every night, I go there for a little while to make up his accounts and to write a letter or two. Master Collado pays me five pesos for the class in arithmetic, which I teach in the public school; another five, the receiver of taxes, who scarcely knows how to sign his name, pays me for balancing his accounts at the end of the month; and the other five the town treasurer gives me for doing the same.”

“That is not bad; but Collado and the collector pay you a miserable price.”

“The latter, perhaps, yes; but the other, no—he receives a salary of barely twenty-five. As much as I earn.”

“Ah, well! bid farewell to Master Collado and Ajágan, and the collector and the town treasurer, and enter my employ. La Ermita is wretchedly cared for; mayorsdomos succeed one another and all rob me. You shall go to La Ermita as manager, with house and table, horses for your use, servants to do your bidding—that is to say, as master, because you will command there; the twenty-five pesos per month, which you now earn by your varied labors, will continue to be paid you and in addition fifteen per cent of the annual income of the place. I am making you not a bad offer!”[22]

“No, indeed, lady! I appreciate that it is more than liberal; but, I cannot accept it.”

“Why not?” asked Doña Socorro, thoroughly vexed.

“Because, I must not abandon my good aunts.”

“You need not do so. La Ermita is only three leagues from here; a mere nothing. You can come here in the evenings, Saturdays, to spend Sundays, and Mondays you are at your duties again. Finally, in case they are not satisfied, take them out to the place.”

“They were not made for country life; still, for my good, they would make the sacrifice. But there is another—an insuperable—difficulty.”

“What?”

“I do not understand rural affairs and one who controls should know what he commands. I would not know where to begin; there would be neither head nor foot, and you would gain nothing, with your unhappy administrator.”

“What I gain or do not gain, does not concern you; it is not your affair. If you do not know rural affairs, I will instruct you, and, as you are not stupid, you will be, within two months, more dexterous than San Ysidro[23] himself. When shall we begin, come now?”

“But, lady, I am sorry; I believe I will not go. Agriculture does not attract me. The few studies I have made do not tend thither.”

“Ah! You aim at a literary career, to some public office!” replied Doña Socorro, sneeringly.

“Do not make sport of me, lady; I know right well, that I shall never fill the position of a general or a magistrate. You asked me to be frank, and I frankly admit that I have my aspirations.”

“Very good—what difficulty is that. Better and better. Go and fill this position, save money, put yourself in contact with people of consequence, and from La Ermita, you may go to be Regidor, or something higher. You know well that Alcaldes, and even Jefes Politicos, come from the country-places. What hinders?”

“Really, lady, speaking plainly, the position does not attract me in the least.”

“H’m!—You are not telling me the truth; at least, you are concealing something from me—something—what is the real cause of your refusal?”

Antón maintained silence: the lady urged him.

“Why are you not frank with me—who care so much for you?”

“It is”—he stammered—“the truth is that just now, less than ever, do I care to leave the town.”

“Come, come, tell it all”—insisted the lady, piqued with lively curiosity—“who is your sweetheart?”

“Sweetheart?—No; indeed I would rather——”

“Yes, indeed; who?”

“I say she is not my sweetheart—Perhaps——”

“Finish, man—perhaps what?”

“She may come to be——”

“And, who is the girl? Do I know her?”

“Very well.”

While Antón was silent, Doña Socorro thought over the riddle, and, after some minutes, declared:

“I’m sure I don’t know, child; give me a clew.”

“She is your relative.”

The lady passed over in her thought, to whom Antón could allude, and could not imagine which one of her relatives, the poor and obscure youth presumed to win. Suddenly, like a flash, came the remembrance of the words, which he had pronounced when she invited him to remain at the party; but it was a thing so unheard of, so unthinkable, that she dared not mention the name, but desired to assure herself, indirectly, that she was not on a false trail.

“Was she at the party last night?” she asked.

Antón replied by a nod of his head. The lady was confounded; her face lengthened, her eyes rounded, her mouth opened, and she exclaimed:

“Rosalba!—well, but, you are a fool!”

Antón was stupefied; it seemed as if the ground sank under him and he was raised into the air. Why, was he a fool?

Doña Socorro saw the boy’s emotion and something like pity stirred within her. Certain that, later, this senseless delirium would vanish, she said to him:

“Poor child! You will get over it. When you decide to accept my offer, you know that I am here. Think well over it. I wish only your own good.”

Antón, overwhelmed, could scarcely murmur a “thank you, madam,” rose half tremblingly and walked away, with bowed head.

Doña Socorro remained absorbed in reflection. “To think of it—but the child aims high—to aspire to Rosalba—he is handsome—who would have thought it—decidedly, he is a fool.”

---

Doña Socorro, attentive to what was passing in the Republican ranks, prompt to aid the triumph of her cause, had displayed all the resources of her astuteness to complete the demoralization of the remnants of the brigade and to foment desertion. Her efforts were meeting abundant success and in seeing the resources of war which had been grouped around Dueñas, completely disorganized, she was greatly rejoiced. Not content, however, with such signal successes, when she saw the companies of the coast guard,—the most loyal to the Republic—evacuate the villa, to the loyalty of which the Méndez brothers entrusted themselves for some hours, she had an inspiration, truly worthy of her brain. She conceived the idea of capturing the two officers, to offer to Arévalo, as a prized trophy. How to realize it? It was not beyond her power—capable as she was, of all in the domain of evil.

There was Antón Pérez; Rosalba would be the incentive.

“Paulina! Paulina!” she called, and a servant appeared.

“Run, at once, to the barracks; ask for Lieutenant Pérez, and urge him, from me, to come here immediately.”

Pauline departed, encountered Antón, and gave the message; the lieutenant shrugged his shoulders and replied, with evident dislike:

“I will come presently: I am busy, now.”

No more than five minutes had elapsed, when the servant returned with new and more urgent summons to Antón, who displayed no more interest than before, responding abruptly:

“I will come.”

Doña Socorro was dying with impatience; the moments seemed like hours to her and she paced restlessly to and from the door anxious for Antón’s coming; but, he came not.

Tired of waiting, she resolutely entered her room, threw a rebozo over her shoulders, and went directly to the door of the barracks. Without her having to announce herself, a soldier ran to give notice to the lieutenant of the presence of the lady; this time, unable to escape, he advanced to the encounter.

Doña Socorro, plainly desirous of losing no time, threw aside her natural pride, and without a word of reproach to Antón, said, with affected surprise:

“But, what are you doing! child? Now is your time.”

“I do not understand, madam.”

“Then you are not in this world. If you let this chance escape, farewell to your hopes.”

“But, I do not understand, madam.”

“Ah! come now! then you no longer think of Rosalba——”

“As God is my witness, madam; with greater desperation, now, than ever.”

“Then, today is when you ought not to despair; today your hopes are realized. Your fate is in your own hands.”

“In my hands?” exclaimed the astonished youth.

“In your own hands, boy; Rosalba will be yours.”

“Where is she?” he asked yet more surprised.

“Here in your barracks.”

Antón believed Doña Socorro was trifling with him, but she, without giving time for further surprises, hastened to explain herself.

“You know that our party, the Imperialist, is composed of the best people of the country. If you join it, you will come into contact with the most elevated classes. Rosalba does not respond to your love for sheer pride, not because she is not interested in you, not because she does not love you—it is I, who tell this to you,—when she sees that you are not the insignificant ‘pardo’ of the village but a personage of consequence, or even of importance, she will herself make the advances and will surrender herself to you. I tell you true. Come—now or never! Place yourself in the first line, become the chief authority in the town, and who knows what more.—Your happiness depends upon yourself; it is in your own hands. Enter your barracks, ‘pronounce’ yourself and your soldiers for the Empire, and that the blow may be decisive, that you may at a single bound reach the greatest height, go and seize the two Méndez brothers, who are breakfasting at the house of Sánchez, make them prisoners, and you will gain the full favor and protection of General Arévolo. Go! do not hesitate.”

Doña Socorro had launched this speech at one breath, accompanying her words with gestures and posturings which the most consummate elocutionist might envy.

Poor Antón felt his head whirl; he was taken by surprise and only ventured this one objection:

“Pronounce myself, yes; but capture my old chief, who has loved me well, madam, that is too much! I have not the bravado for such a thing.”

“But what harm are you going to do to him, innocent? Do you think he runs any danger with Arévalo?”

“Who can say that he does not?”

“No one; no one. Perhaps he will catch them in arms on the field? No; on the contrary, they will become great friends, and the two Méndez will join our party also. Above all, it is to your interest to raise yourself as nearly to Rosalba’s level as possible, to dazzle her——”

“Very well, madam,” murmured Antón, with a trembling voice.

Without further hesitation, he entered the barracks, spoke with the two sergeants of the dwindled company, bade them form it, rapidly exchanged words with his men, and, then, drawing his sword and facing the files, cried out—his voice still trembling:

“Boys! viva el Imperio!” (May the Empire live).

“Viva!” (may it live)—one soldier answered.

“Sergeant Beltran,” said Antón, “fifteen men with you to guard the barracks; twenty-five, with Sergeant Federico, may follow me.”

The order was carried out to the letter, and at the head of his twenty-five men, Antón marched to the house, where the two Méndez brothers were gaily breakfasting.

At the moment when the colonel exclaimed, “Impossible,” denying Don Vencho’s report, there was heard, on the walk in front, the sound of guns, on falling to rest.

“Sergeant Federico!” ordered Antón, “advance and order Colonel Méndez and the officers who accompany him to yield themselves prisoners.”

There was no necessity for the sergeant to enter, since Captain Méndez rushed out at once, and standing, from the opposite sidewalk, with hair bristling and eyes flashing, as if he were the personification of indignation, burst forth in these cries, which issued in a torrent from his frothing lips:

“Bravo! Lieutenant Pérez! Thus you fulfil the oath of fealty, which you swore to your flag! thus do you employ the arms which your country placed in your hands for her defence! Traitors! traitors to your native land! What do you seek here? What wish you, of us? Assassinate us! We shall not defend ourselves. Lieutenant Pérez, complete your crime, fulfil your part as assassins! Here, am I! let them kill,” and, saying this, he stepped forward and drawing back the lapel of his coat, bared his breast. “What delays them? Traitors! Assassins!”

At that moment a soldier among those who heard the violent and insulting reproach raised his gun. Antón Pérez saw it and drawing his sword, threw himself upon the soldier, crying:

“Lower that gun! The first man who attempts to aim, I will run him through.”

Captain Méndez continued:

“I prefer death to the ignominy of finding myself in your company. Traitors! Assassins!”

“Assassins, we are not, my captain, that you have already seen,” replied Antón.

“I am not the captain of bandit-traitors, ex-Lieutenant Pérez.”

“We are not traitors,” returned Pérez, “we desire to save our country, from Yankee usurpation.”

“To save it indeed! and give it over to the foreigner! noble patriots! famous Mexicans!” continued Méndez. “Would that I had no eyes to behold you! Would that I were a lightning-stroke to destroy you. Cursed race! race of scorpions, who repay our country, our sacred motherland, by stinging her to the heart. One last word, Lieutenant Pérez; in the name of our native land, in the name of that oath of fealty, which you swore to the flag, in the name of a man’s sacred duty, I implore you to fulfil your obligations as a soldier, as a Mexican, as a man. Lay down those arms which you are converting from sacred to infamous. Lieutenant Pérez; worthy fellows of Cunduacán, Viva la Republica.”

No one responded.

---

The moon, in its second quarter, shed a yellowing light through the trees and impressed upon the night an infinite sadness. When the beams of dawn came, that funereal light paled, until completely extinguished, and the sky became tinted with a rosy flush, which kindled in measure as the new day neared. A trembling of leaves agitated the branches at the awakening of the birds, which after shaking themselves, took silently to flight. Suddenly earth and trees appeared enveloped in dense fog, as if a night of whiteness had substituted itself for that, which had just ended. The fog, thinned little by little, until it seemed like heaps of spider webs, piled one on another, through the elastic meshes of which was seen a sun of polished silver. Suddenly the spider webs broke into a thousand tatters, falling to the ground, converted into a tenuous rain, and the day shone forth in full splendor. The trees gleamed in their beauteous verdure, the flowers of vines and the morningglories opened their chalices, sprinkled with dew drops, to the glowing and incestuous kisses of their father and lover, the regal star of day. Meantime Antón Pérez, in an agony, which seemed endless, lay at the foot of the oak-tree, which, indifferent, spread forth its broad and abundant leaves to the solar heat.

In fact, Antón Pérez, braced between the roots of the tree, in the immovableness of death, the life concentrated in his eyes, participated in his own torture, like those guilty immortals, whom Alighieri’s pitiless fancy created. Bloodless, annihilated, yet he felt himself living. Who ever had seen the gleam of his eyes, would have known that his conscience was accusing him. What implacable moral law had he broken, that his punishment should be so horribly prolonged, by his marvelous vitality? Was it because he had loved madly? that he had aspired to raise himself to a sphere higher than that, in which he had been born? that he had endured, perhaps disgracefully, the scorn and the disdain of the human being whom he had worshiped? Why had he not deserved Rosalba? Why had God made her so bewitching? Where was his sin? Perhaps that he had passed from the flag of the Republic to the Imperial standards? And was he, perchance, the only one? Were not a thousand distinguished Mexicans aiding and defending the new cause, shown to be pleasing to Heaven, by the rapidity with which it had spread and gained proselytes? Did not God’s ministers suggest it in the confessional and, even, preach it in the pulpit? Was not that cause, indeed, to be the savior of Mexico?—Where was his sin? Thus, in his moments of lucidity, the unhappy condemned being thought, and then fell into lethargies from which he again, presently, aroused himself. How slow and tedious the passage of the hours! And the sun continued to mount at its accustomed speed and, now, gained its greatest height. Piercing through the leafy branches, its rays designed odd patches of sunlight on the ground which every breeze complicated into fantastic deformations. The nymph of light amused herself at her fancy, with such sports.

At one moment, Antón raised his gaze, and before him, perched upon the pointed leaf of a cocoyol, found that he, at last, had a companion in that loneliness; it was a buzzard, which looked at him fixedly, moving his neck regularly, up and down, as one who meditates. The presence of that living being caused Antón a vague sensation of comfort; that, even, was much, at the end of so long and complete abandonment, to see in his last moments that he was not alone in the world. He then fell into a syncope,—condition which now came on more frequently and lasted, each time longer, sign that his agony was nearing its end. On returning to himself, he mechanically turned his gaze to the palm-tree and saw that now there was not only one, but three, of the buzzards, which with the same nodding movement of the neck, and with no less attention, looked at him. A sinister and dreadful thought shot through his sluggish brain; those birds were there, in expectation of his death, to devour him. Then, a horror of death seized him; a shudder of dread passed through his nerves, and he longed that his miserable existence might be prolonged, with the hope that some human being might draw near and discover him. The nervous disturbance, which that idea produced, provoked a new unconsciousness. On recovery, he could see that not three, but a considerable number of vultures had settled on the palm and on the neighboring trees. He believed they might take him for already dead, and to let them see that he was not, he attempted to raise and move his left arm, which, with enormous effort, he succeeded in doing. The scavengers seemed to understand their error since they looked at one another, exchanging guttural croakings. But night,—last refuge to which Antón trusted against the danger of being torn to pieces, while yet alive,—showed no signs of approach. It was now his duty to preserve the little remaining life. The vultures, on the contrary, ought to be impatient to gorge themselves with the banquet which they had before them, since others were constantly arriving, hovering, and settling, on the neighboring tree-tops, where they formed moving spots of black.

One, bolder than the rest, descended from the branch, on which he rested, to the ground and, like an explorer, was cautiously approaching Antón, who, divining, in his last gleams of lucidity, the purpose of the bird, renewed the effort, which he had made before, and continued to raise and, even, shake, his arm and to bend his undamaged leg, at the moments, when the buzzard stretched out his neck to give the first peck. The carrion-eater drew back his head and retreated a few steps, but did not take to flight. Encouraged by this his companions descended, one by one, from the tree and took possession of the space around, forming a semi-circle at the foot of the oak-tree.

Perhaps, through an instinctive respect to man’s superiority, felt by other animals, even though seeing him helpless, the line of vultures remained at a considerable distance from Antón and limited themselves to contemplating him, nodding and stretching out their heads, and repeatedly croaking. A Hoffmanesque fancy would have seen, in them, a group of zealots in prayer, making reverence.

But this did not last long. One of the vultures ventured to dash at the head of Antón, who still had enough energy to guard himself against the attack, raising his arm and striking the bird with his fist, so that it returned to stand on the ground again, though without any sign of fear. The effort Antón had made was so great that he fell into a new stupor. The same vulture again raised himself, but not to dash directly upon the dying man; he hovered a moment over his head and, then, hurling himself upon Antón’s face, tore out, at a single clutch, his right eye. The pain was so intense that the victim not only returned to consciousness but gave a cry of agony, which echoed like the last shriek of one who dies exhausted under torture. Yet, he could, by an instinctive sentiment of preservation, turn his head, so that the left eye was protected by the tree trunk. Then he felt that the crowd of vultures fell to tearing his clothing, doubtless to discover his wounds, to commence there with devouring him. So it happened. The shattered leg was the first to suffer tearing by the beaks, which tugged at the already lifeless tendons and muscles; his arm, though somewhat protected by the astrakan, which, finally, with no little difficulty, the vultures ripped open, was not long in suffering the same fate. Suddenly, Antón turned his face, which bore a frightful expression of pain, for which he had no sounds to express. A powerful beak had seized the anterior, branchial, muscle and was pulling furiously at it. The involuntary movement was fatal to Antón. Other vultures cast themselves upon the exposed face and dragged out the left eye. The last suffering of the unfortunate was only indicated by a convulsive trembling of all his members. He felt as if a black pall, very black, heavy, very heavy, fell upon him and then there came over him a sentiment of the profoundest joy—perhaps, that his nerves could no longer carry a sensation to his brain. The mouth opened, closed, and he lost himself, forever, in the night without end, in the loving bosom of Mother Nature, who received the remains of that organism, her creation, to decompose it into its component elements, and then to distribute these, as the materials of other organisms, in the endless chain of life.

Meantime, that other night, which with the sun engenders time and, with him, divides it, began to envelop the earth, and the carrion-eaters, not accustomed to eat in darkness, abandoned Antón’s corpse and perched themselves on the neighboring branches, to await the feast until the following day.

PORFIRIO PARRA.

Porfirio Parra was born in the State of Chihuahua. In 1869, when he was scarcely fourteen years of age, he was voted a sum of money by the State Legislature, to take him to the City of Mexico for purposes of study. From 1870 to 1872, he attended the Escuela Nacional Preparatoria (National Preparatory School), where he stood first in his classes and where his conduct was so exemplary, as to gain him state aid until the time of his graduation. In 1871, entering the competition for the Professorship of History in the Girls High School, he gained the second grade, although three eminent historians were among the contestants. Entering the Escuela Nacional de Medicina (National Medical School), in 1873, he maintained high rank there and took his degree in February, 1878. In March of that year, he was appointed Professor of Logic in the Escuela Nacional Preparatoria. In 1879, by competition, he received the Professorship of Physiology in the National School of Medicine, with which he has been associated in some capacity ever since. In 1880, by competition, he became Surgeon and Physician of the Juarez Hospital. In 1886, after a brilliant examination, he became a member of the Academia de Medicina de México (Academy of Medicine). In the Escuela Nacional de Agricultura y Veterinaria (National Agricultural and Veterinary School), he has held chairs of mathematics and zootechnology.

An alternate Deputy in 1882, he was in 1898 elected Deputy of the Federal Congress, and has been re-elected until the present time. He was made chairman of the House Committee on Public Instruction. In 1902 he was named Secretary of the Upper Council of Education. Dr. Parra has participated, officially, in several of the most important medical congresses held in Europe during recent years, sometimes as a delegate from his native State of Chihuahua, at others as delegate from the Mexican nation. In 1892, he was elected a member of the Mexican Academy.

Dr. Parra has written both in poetry and prose. Most of what he writes is in scientific lines. Even in poetry he is a scientist, and in a volume of his poems, we find odes to the mathematics and to medicine, a sonnet to a skull, and poems on the Death of Pasteur, Night, Water. Of very great importance is his Nueva Sistema de Logica, inductiva y deductiva (New System of Logic, Inductive and Deductive). He has written one novel, Pacotillas, in which the life of the medical student is depicted. It is from this work that we have drawn our selections.

López (Santa Anna), Robles (El Chango—“the monkey”), Albarez (Patillitas) and Tellez (Pacotillas), are fellow-students in the School of Medicine. They are friends but present four quite different types of character. Santa Anna figures least in the story and attends most strictly to business; Patillitas is a dandy, anxious to make feminine conquests; El Chango drops out of school before he has completed his course, toadies in politics, rapidly rising to importance as the private secretary of a departmental minister, and marries great wealth. Pacotillas, the hero, is an astonishing combination of strong and weak qualities. Of lofty ideals, of great firmness in announcing and supporting them, and of brilliant intellectual powers, he is cold, morose, lacking in initiative, easily depressed, and procrastinating. He smokes constantly and excessively and readily yields to drink. He loves a beautiful and amiable girl and lives with her without marriage; though he realizes the injustice this is to her, the injustice—excused at the time by poverty—is never atoned for in his days of comparative prosperity. Pacotillas and his beautiful Amalia suffer enormous trials of poverty; Paco finally secures a position on the force of an opposition paper. He antagonizes the government, is arrested and thrown in jail, where he dies of typhus. The book is an interesting picture of Mexican life, but it is a particularly difficult task to make brief selections from it for translation.

EXTRACTS FROM PACOTILLAS.

The next day the vigilant argus, accompanied by a faithful friend, was at his post from nine o’clock in the morning. He was not on beat but he warned his fellow policeman to pay no attention to what was about to take place at the house, since it concerned a personage of consequence, closely connected with the official world, whose plans it were best not to disturb; that the gentleman did not ask something for nothing and would not fail to reward him; that everything would go on behind closed doors, and was really no more than a joke; that it concerned a private matter, with no political bearings; that the woman living in the house badly repaid him who supported her, and that he merely wished to scare her and put her to shame.

The policeman on the beat permitted himself to be convinced by Pablo’s diplomatic arguments; he demanded, indeed, a guarantee that nothing serious should take place, that there should be no fight, wounds, shots, or other scandal.

No, comrade, answered Pablo, it only concerns giving a thrashing to a young fellow who is accustomed to enjoy women, whom other men support. Put yourself in the place of the deceived man; what would you do? What would any other decent man do, in such a case? Just what he is going to do. I shall not compromise you. You see that I am also one of the police-force. Further, this may help you, the gentleman we are helping is in with the government, and he does not expect service for nothing.

Completely convinced, the policeman agreed that, at a signal from Pablo, he would walk slowly toward the Plazuela del Carmen, to see what was going on there.

The astute Pablo had arranged for two stout fellows of evil mien to meet him at the corner pulqueria; they arrived at the place appointed at half-past-nine carrying heavy cudgels as walking sticks.

A little before ten the servant of Mercedes left the house; Pablo, who had already made her acquaintance, overtook her and said:

“Where are you going so fast, my dear?”

“I am going far; I am taking a message to the Arcade of Belem and from there to Sapo street, to the socursal.”

“Does not my pretty one want a drop?”

The pretty one did want a drop, entered the pulqueria, drank, submitted to various pinches, and left. Pablo at once said to his friend: “Run and call the General,” and he planted himself where he could see the house.

A little later poor Mercedes, who suspected nought of what was plotting for her undoing, opened the windows and looked out. It was the signal, arranged between her and Patillitas, indicating that there were no Moors on the coast and that the happy lover might enter. He was not slow in appearing, strutting pompously as if enjoying in anticipation the pleasure he was about to have. He caught sight of his sweetheart, which was equal to seeing the gates of paradise opening, saluted her with much elegance and cautiously entered the doors of the court-yard, which were ajar.

“The fish falls into the net! how easy! how easy!”[24] murmured the malicious Pablo, humming the accompanying tune in a low voice.

A quarter of an hour had passed when, by San Pedro y San Pablo St., the General was seen approaching, as grave, as correct, and as arrogant as ever, smoking his unfailing cigar, without hastening his pace or displaying the least emotion.

As soon as Pablo saw him, he spoke to the policeman on the beat, who at once walked slowly in the direction of the Plazuela, as he had promised. Then Pablo summoned his assistants from the pulqueria and all three joined the messenger, who had been sent to call the General and who had now returned; the whole party stopped on the sidewalk opposite Mercedes’ house.

The General, without quickening his pace, without looking at the men, nor making any signal to them, had already arrived before the house. When he had almost reached the gateway, the four men crossed the street and, when he entered, they cautiously followed.

López, with measured tread, crossed the court, followed by his men; he turned to the left and knocked at the house-door, which was fastened. No one responded, but noises of alarm were heard within, a sound as of a person running and finding some piece of furniture in his way, a stifled cry, and the murmur of troubled voices.

The General knocked a second, and a third time with briefer interval and with greater force. No one replied and now nothing was heard. The General knocked for the fourth time and said, in his stentorian voice, though without displaying anger or emotion: “Open, Mercedes, it is I.”

“I am coming,” shrilly answered a woman’s voice, “I am dressing; I was ill and had not yet risen.”

The General waited with the utmost calm. No escape was possible; from the hall one passed directly into the room, which was the scene of the guilty love and which received light by a grated window, that opened onto the patio of the next house. The General, who knew all the hiding places and the location of the pieces of furniture in the room, was delighted, imagining the little agreeable plight of the student, who had already, tremblingly, hidden himself under the bed.

After ten minutes waiting, Mercedes, visibly pale with chiquedores[25] on her temples, her head tied up in a handkerchief, and covered with a loose gown, which she was still hooking, finally opened the door, smiled at the General, and attempting to overcome her manifest uneasiness, said: “Ah, sir! what a surprise!”

“Good morning, madam,” said the General, abruptly entering the hall and then the inner room, followed by his four men, and paying no attention to Mercedes, who, following them all, exclaimed, each time more afflicted:

“What do you wish, sir? What are you looking for? Why have these men come here?”

Once in the room, the General stopped near the door, and, as he expected, saw under the bed the coiled up body of the student who would gladly have given his whiskers to be elsewhere.

“Drag out that shameless fellow,” said the General to his men, “and beat him for me.”

“Señor, for God’s sake!” cried Mercedes.

The four men obeyed the order. The unhappy student did not even try to escape. One took him by the feet and dragged him out into the middle of the room; the others began to discharge a hail of blows upon him, distributing them evenly over the shoulders, back, seat, and legs of that unfortunate, who squirmed upon the floor like an epileptic, writhing, screaming, and howling, with a choked voice:

“Ay! ay! they are killing me! ay! ay! help! Ay! ay! infamous fellows! assassins!”

Meantime the General looked on at that calamitous spectacle, without a word; when the flogging seemed to him sufficient he exclaimed—“Hold!” and then, addressing the man who had been flogged, added: “Be warned by this experience and let the women of other men alone.”

The maltreated Patillitas arose, hurled some insolence at the General, and threw himself upon him with his fists clenched; the floggers started to seize him, but the General said, “Leave him to me.” And, with the greatest calmness, he allowed him to deal his inoffensive blow, and, then, seizing his wrist, gave it such a wrench that the poor fellow suffered more than from the beating, and, notwithstanding all his efforts to the contrary, fell upon his knees before his conqueror, howling with pain.

“Listen well, jackanapes,” said the General, without loosening his hold, “get away from here at once; and, if you prefer the least complaint or cause the least scandal, I will put you into jail and afterwards send you into the army as a vagabond and mischief-maker.”

He loosed his prisoner who rose uttering suffocated groans and muttering inarticulate insolences. Limping, and with his dress disordered, he started to walk away; he took his hat, which one of the floggers, at a signal from the General, handed him. Pablo followed him and at reaching the hall door gave him a kick behind, saying with a hoarse laugh:

“There! take your deserts, you!”

“Now,” said the General, addressing Mercedes, who, huddled on the sofa, with her kerchief thrown over her head and covering her face, was sobbing violently, “indicate what you wish to take with you and get out into the street.”

“Keep it all, horrible old man, monster without heart or entrails of pity,” said the unhappy woman, drying her eyes; and, arranging her dress as best she could and wrapping up her head, she left.

When she had disappeared, the General, as pleased as if he had consummated some great act of justice, dismissed the floggers, after paying them; then, he went out onto the street with a lofty air, and, smoking his ever-present cigar, closed the gate of the court, put the key into his pocket, and walked away.

---

The Chango did not pronounce this long discourse at one breath, but interrupted himself from time to time to sip coffee or to ask Pacotillas incident questions, which he answered in his usual laconic style. He expressed himself somewhat more upon his matrimonial troubles and the faults of his wife’s parents. Then, changing his tone, he said:

“Now I have tired you in speaking of myself and my affairs; now you must reciprocate, as a good friend, and tell me all about yourself.”

“I can do that in a few words: I am slowly continuing my course of study and with more or less of difficulty and labor gain my bread.”

“Spartan! You do wrong not to confide in me. Am I to understand that you desire nothing? that you do not care to better your condition?”

“I do not say so; I desire many things; I desire to escape from poverty; but, I am content with my situation.”

“What a fool you are! I could do much for you, because I love you well, and I would willingly offer you more than one chance of improving your condition.”

“I thank you for your good will but I see no means of taking advantage of it.”

“See Paco, let us speak frankly; notwithstanding your assertion that you are content with your situation, I cannot believe it; the fact is that you are very proud, that you do not care to ask anything from anyone; that is all right with strangers, but when I, your school-fellow and friend, anticipate your desires and offer——”

“I thank you and beg you to respect my freedom of action.”

“What a hard-shell you are! Come, consent to this anyway—separate yourself from the Independiente; I promise to supply resources for you to found a paper of your own, which will bring you at least double what Don Marcos can pay you, and also to secure you a grant to aid you in your studies, and, if you desire more, you shall have more.”

“But, truly, I desire nothing; I owe consideration to Don Marcos and cannot treat him cavalierly,” said Paco, at the same time saying to himself, “Oho, now I see!”

“You are fearfully stubborn,” said the Chango, “but you are your own master and I will not insist further; but, now, I come to one favor, begging you affectionately, in the name of our old friendship, to grant it; do not continue to discuss, in your bulletins, the objectionable question upon which you have been writing.”

“In my soul, I regret that I cannot gratify you, since I have resolved to examine that matter in all its aspects.”

“You are more tenacious than a Biscayan! Don’t you understand that in this you do me a personal injury and expose me to public criticism?”

“I do not see why? I have never mentioned your name, nor shall I mention it; nor are you responsible for that contract.”

“Don’t be a ninny; although you do not mention me by name; although, legally, you do not treat of me; yet the odium of the transaction falls on me.”

“Whether the part you play is odious or not, I am not to blame; you have chosen it freely. You act, and I judge. We are both within our rights.”

“In fine, Paco, if you continue to write as heretofore, you do me an injury, you attack me.”

“That is not my intention, nor do I believe it the necessary result of my procedure.”

“Of course, if you attack me, you give me the right to defend myself.”

“Granted,” answered Paco, coldly.

“And you know that I have many means of doing it?”

“I know it and they have no terrors for me.”

“Paco, you despise me,” said the Chango with annoyance.

“No, I merely answer you,” replied Paco, coldly.

“For the last time I will sum up the situation. If you consent to withdraw from the Independiente you shall have whatever advantages you desire that I can give you; you shall have the same if you consent, at least, to speak no more of the contract. Do you agree?”

“I have already said no,” replied Paco with dignity.

“Very well; it is hard for me to proceed against a fellow-student, whom I have always esteemed for his talents and his brilliant promise; for that reason, I desired to speak with you beforehand and give you proofs of my friendship, but since you are obstinate, I warn you that I shall prosecute you criminally.”

“Thanks for the warning.”

“Do you reflect that you will be proceeded against, that you will be sent to jail, that you will be sentenced?”

“Yes, I consider all, and I am prepared for all; you will allow me to say that I appreciate the kindness and politeness, with which you have treated me; but now, as it seems your wish to induce me to maintain silence and to separate myself from the Independiente, and as I will never agree to this, I judge my further presence here to be useless and, with your permission, will leave.”

And the young man at once rose and left; the Chango followed him without a word; they went down the stairway, crossed the corridor, Pacotillas took his hat in the hall, and on saying adieu to Robles, the latter involuntarily moved by the dignity of Pacotillas, said to him: “Think yet, Paco.”

“I need not think; neither threats nor bribes can swerve me from what I believe to be my duty.”

EMILIO RABASA.

Emilio Rabasa was born in the pueblo of Ocozautla, State of Chiapas, on May 22, 1856. He studied law in the City of Oaxaca, being licensed to practice on April 4, 1878. He returned to his native State, where he was a Deputy to Congress and Director of the Institute during the years 1881 and 1882. He then removed to Oaxaca, where he was Judge of the Civil Court, Deputy to the State Legislature and Secretary to Governor Mier y Teran, during 1885 and 1886. Removing to the City of Mexico in 1886, he there filled various judicial and other offices. In 1891, he was elected Governor of Chiapas, which office he filled for two years, particularly interesting himself in improving the financial condition of the State. In 1894, he was elected Senator from the State of Sinaloa, an office which he still fills. He resides in the City of Mexico, where he is engaged in legal practice.

The work which has given him literary fame is a four volume novel, written under the nom-de-plume of Sancho Polo. These volumes bear special titles—La Bola (The Local Outbreak), La gran Ciencia (The Grand Science), El cuarto Poder (The Fourth Power), and Moneda falsa (False Money). These novels have their importance in Mexican literature. Victoriano Salado Álbarez, speaking of the notable advancement of the Mexican novel in recent years, says: “The works of Sancho Polo, precious studies,—initiated this truly fecund and permanent movement.” Luis Gonzáles Obregón says of these books: “These are notable for the correctness of their style, for masterly skill in description, most rich in precious details, for the perfect way in which those who figure in them are characterized, for the natural and unexpected development, as well as for many other beauties, which we regret not being able to enumerate here.” Emilio Rabasa’s active public life has prevented his following up his early success in literature. Since the Sancho Polo series, he has written but one brief novel, La Guerra de tres años (The Three Years War). In 1888, in connection with the well-known publisher, Reyes Spindola, he founded El Universal (The Universal), which is still published, and which really initiated a new era in Mexican journalism.

The hero in the Sancho Polo novels is a youth named Juan Quiñones. Born and reared in an obscure village, he loves a pretty girl who lives with her uncle, a man of common origin and mediocre attainments. Don Mateo is, however, a rising man, and, as he mounts, his ambitions for his niece mount also. The boy has real ability, but is petulant and precipitate, throwing himself into positions from which there should be no escape, and learning nothing by experience. He passes through a series of remarkable experiences—a local outbreak, a State revolution, anti-governmental journalism in the capital city, a discreditable love affair—finally, of course, gaining the girl.

THE DAY OF BATTLE.

I attempted in vain to restrain and reduce the uneasiness and disquietude, by which I was possessed and which Minga and her mother but increased, now dragging me away from the window, now preventing me from drawing the bolt to open the door, now bringing me back from the courtyard whither I had desired to go to escape their oversight.

“What a Don Abundio!” said Minga, jeeringly. “Trust him! But have no fear; he will not now let the girl go.”

Nevertheless, I sent the old woman back to see Felicia, to beg her, if preparations for the journey were not immediately discontinued, to send me word by her servant. And the good old woman, who was brave and fearless, started out again, cautioning her daughter not to allow me to commit any imprudence.

What a day was that for me. The sun ran its course with desperate slowness, but finally stood in mid-heaven. The old woman had not yet returned, nor had Don Mateo made his attack, nor had I news of any one. I do not understand how I could remain shut up all those hours, without breaking out and letting myself be killed.

While thus chafing, and more often than ever peeping from the window to catch a distant glimpse of the old woman, a choked and panting voice, at my shoulder, cried:

“They are coming.”

It was ‘Uncle Lucas,’ who seemed in that one day to exhaust all his remaining life’s force. He seated himself on Minga’s bed, with his mouth open, his chest puffing like a blacksmith’s bellows, his head nodding in time to his heavy breathing.

In spite of his breathlessness, I made him speak, although his words were broken by his gasps for air. Don Mateo and his force were organizing at half a league’s distance. Uncle Lucas had told the Colonel all that the Sindico[26] had said and had returned with the order to unite as many men as possible from our quarter of the town, in order to impede and disconcert Coderas’s force, when it should return to town, as probably it would only skirmish in the open field. Just as he arrived at the creek, Uncle Lucas saw five men on horseback, the advance guard of Coderas, descend from the terrace.

In fact, while he was speaking we heard the noise of horses running through the street and the clank of swords against the stirrups. Almost at the same moment the door opened and Minga’s mother burst into the room, her face pale, her eyes flashing fire.

“A little more and those dogs had had me!” she cried angrily and hurled forth a tirade which I cannot repeat.

“What is the matter?” I asked, agitated.

“What is it! If it were not for my nephew Matias, who was in the trenches by the church, they would not have let me go. Cursed wolves. When Pedro comes I will tell him that they would not let me go and the foul words they said to me. As I told you, were it not for Matias, I would still be there in the Plaza.”

“And what did Felicia say?” I interrupted, impatiently.

“The horses are all ready; but Don Abundio told her to tell you to have no concern; Remedios need not go. But remember, Juanito, this man has no shame.”

Keeping her to the point, I made her tell me all that could concern us. Coderas and Soria had agreed upon a plan of defense, believing that Don Mateo could not take the Plaza in several days; meantime the auxiliaries from the next district, whose Jefe politico was in communication with San Martin, could arrive. At the last moment, it had been decided that Coderas should sally with two hundred men, for a skirmish just outside the town, falling back upon the hundred, who remained in the Plaza with Soria; if fortune should prove averse to them, which the intrepid leader did not believe, they would withdraw to the best entrenchments, in order to force Don Mateo to attack them there.

“Now for the main thing,” said the old woman to me. “Remedios told me to say that they plan to take the prisoners from the jail and put them in the trenches, to terrify the other party, who cannot fire without killing their own friends and relatives.”

My hair stood on end, I felt a giddiness and almost fell, with my face convulsed with emotion and with shortened breath, I could scarcely turn to Uncle Lucas. Terrified, he rose and tried to detain me; but I promptly regained my self-control and assumed the voice of command which, in such cases, constitutes me a leader of those about me.

“Run!” I said to him quickly. “Immediately collect all those who last night promised to follow us and bring them here at once.”

My voice was so authoritative and commanding that I scarce awaited a reply. The old man made none and directed his way to the door; on opening it, he started violently.

“There they come! they come!” he said in a whisper.

Minga drew me violently back from the window, and Coderas and his force galloped down the road from the creek.

Some villagers followed the force from curiosity, others appeared in their doorways, and some few shut themselves in, cautiously barring their doors.

My wisdom and patience were now completely exhausted, and, my excitement depriving me of all prudence, I rushed forth with Uncle Lucas, ordering him to promptly meet me at that spot.

With no attempt at concealment, without precaution and without fear, I ran to Bermejo’s house, to the houses of the imprisoned regidors, to the houses of all those who were suffering in jail, alarming all with the terrible notice which I had received. In this house, I secured a man; in that one, some weapon; from here I led forth a terrified son; from there, a half-crazed father. Everywhere I carried terror and awakened the most violent manifestations of hatred and affliction.

Half an hour later, in Pedro Martin’s patio, I had collected some thirty men, who, worthy followers of a leader such as I, would fight like tigers and would not be sated with three hundred victims. One proposed hanging the wife and children of Coderas; another proposed dragging Soria through the streets and casting his lifeless body on the dungheap; another suggested sacking of the house of the Gonzagas, and another, cutting the throats of all who lived in the ward of Las Lomas, with a few exceptions. To me, this all appeared excellent and I energetically approved these savage propositions, while I distributed arms to those who had none and issued my orders to Uncle Lucas.

At that moment, the first discharge of the battle was heard; a cold chill ran through my body, mixture of terror and of impatience for the combat. I felt myself impelled toward the Plaza, and from my lips issued a torrent of foul words, which I was astonished at myself for knowing. Evil predominated in me; under the kindled passions of the bola, I was unconsciously transformed, my nature becoming that of the mass around me.

In such moments I had no idea of forming a plan of campaign. I only knew that I was going in defence of my mother, whose life was gravely imperilled, and that I ought to hasten to achieve my object. I did not think how I should attain it, nor did it occur to me to think. Uncle Lucas ventured to remind me that the Colonel’s plan was for us to hamper the enemy in his retreat.

“All follow me!” I cried with authority.

And all, with resolution equal to my own, followed me.

Passing behind Minga’s house, to the edge of the village, we took the road to the right and marched at quickstep up the street parallel to that which led to the Plaza. On arriving in front of this we halted, to the terror of the neighbors, and then cautiously advanced until the jail was in sight.

Not dreaming of enemies so near, the soldiers in the Plaza were listening to the fusillade which was taking place, almost on the banks of the creek. In front of us was a gentle slope, from the gully up to the Plaza and the prison door; at that place, which could scarcely be seen, because of the village corral which intervened, a sentinel was visible.

“They have not yet taken out the prisoners,” I said to my companions; “we will wait here until we see some movement showing that they are about to remove them.”

Among our arms was a single gun; the rest were machetes, darts, or knives tied to the end of staves. I nevertheless believed myself invincible.

The distant noise of musketry, which, to tell the truth, was not great or terrible, consequent on the small number of the combatants and the still smaller number of the firearms, became less at the end of a few minutes, and the few shots heard seemed to me to be already discharged within San Martin. I ordered my party to approach the foot of the slope, I myself remaining where I was so as not to lose sight of the jail; and I ran to join them, when the discharges from the entrenchments showed me that Soria had entered the Plaza and that Don Mateo was in front of it.

We mounted to the jail, before the sentinel could give the alarm and at the moment when Coderas and Soria repulsed Don Mateo in his first assault. Taken by surprise, the sentinel fled to the Plaza, and we, without thought of the imprudence of our hasty action, hurled ourselves against the prison door, and, after a few efforts, burst it in, broken into fragments.

LA BOLA.

How many then, as I, wept orphaned and cursed the bola! In that miserable village, which scarcely had enough men to till its soil, and in which the loftiness of citizenship was unknown, its victims had floods of tears and despair, instead of laurels, the reward of right. Here the father, love and support of the family, was mourned; there, a son, hope and stay of aged parents; there, again, a husband, torn from the fireside to be borne to a field of battle, which had not even tragic grandeur, but only the caricaturing ridiculousness of a low comedy.

And all that was called in San Martin a revolution! No! Let us not disgrace the Spanish language nor human progress. It is indeed time for some one of the learned correspondents of the Royal Academy to send for its dictionary, this fruit harvested from the rich soil of American lands. We, the inventors of the thing itself, have given it a name without having recourse to Greek or Latin roots, and we have called it bola. We hold the copyright; because, while revolution, as an inexorable law, is known in all the world, the bola can only be developed, like the yellow fever, in certain latitudes. Revolution grows out of an idea, it moves nations, modifies institutions, demands citizens; the bola requires no principles, and has none, it is born and dies within short space, and demands ignorant persons. In a word, the revolution is a daughter of the world’s progress and of an inexorable law of humanity; the bola is daughter of ignorance and the inevitable scourge of backward populations.

We know revolutions well, and there are many who stigmatize and calumniate them; but, to them we owe the rapid transformation of society and of institutions. They would be veritable baptisms of regeneration and advancement, if within them did not grow the weed of the miserable bola. Miserable bola? Yes! There operate in it as many passions as there are men and leaders engaged; in the one it is avenging ruin; in the other a mean ambition; in this one the desire to figure; in that one to gain a victory over an enemy. And there is not a single common thought, not a principle which gives strength to consciences. Its theatre is the corner of some outlying district; its heroes, men who perhaps at first accepting it in good faith, permit that which they had to be torn to tatters on the briers of the forest. Honorable labor is suspended, the fields are laid waste, the groves are set on fire, homes are despoiled, at the mere dictate of some brutal petty leader; tears, despair, and famine are the final harvest. And yet the population, when this favorite monster, to which it has given birth, appears, rushes after it, crying enthusiastically and insanely, bola! bola!

THE INDEPENDENT PRESS.

Albar came down into the editorial room and, approaching me, picked up, one by one, the yet fresh sheets. He was satisfied, extremely so.

“Very good,” he said to me, “this will cause a sensation, and will exalt your name yet more. Attack fearlessly.”

At twelve, he called me up to his writing-room, not without my feeling a strange fear, presentiment of danger.

“I want you to take one matter on yourself,” he said, “because this Escorroza is of no use sometimes. Besides, I know you are from the State of X—— and I suppose you know its men, its history, its conditions, better than anyone else on the force.”

“I think so,” I replied, trembling.

“It is so,” affirmed Albar. “Put special care on the articles relative to the matter, to which I refer; because it is of importance to me and I entrust it to you because you are the best man on the staff.”

“You are very kind——”

“Not at all; it is mere justice——”

“And the matter——”

“In a moment, in a moment; you shall hear.”

The interest of the Director must indeed be great, when he was so friendly and courteous with me. His dark skin wrinkled more violently and a forced smile incessantly contracted his lips, separating yet more widely from each other, the two halves of his typically Indian moustache.

We heard, sounding in the patio, the footsteps of several persons. My suspicions had grown with Albar’s words, my fears increased, and that noise caused me such disturbance that I was forced to rise from the sofa to conceal it.

In spite of my efforts to control myself, I felt that I turned pale, when Don Mateo entered the room, accompanied by Bueso and Escorroza. Instinctively, I stepped back a step or two and appeared to occupy myself with something lying on the table.

Don Mateo awkwardly saluted Albar, with scant courtesy, and passed with him and Bueso into an adjoining room. As he passed near me, I noticed that the General looked at me and hesitated a moment as if he wished to stop. Albar, who went last, indicated to Escorroza, by a sign, that he might retire, and when he, in turn, repeated the signal to me, Albar said, shortly, “Wait here; I will call you.”

Escorroza withdrew, casting at me a glance of terrible hatred, which in some degree compensated me for my anxieties, by the vain satisfaction it caused me; but, hearing the first phrases exchanged between the three men, I understood at once that Pepe was right in telling me that I had lost my cause. I should have fled from the place, on feeling myself so completely routed, at comprehending the event and its significance to me; but, I know not what painful desire to know the end, held me, as if bound, to the chair in which I had seated myself near the door.

At first Don Mateo himself desired to present the matter; but his rustic awkwardness, little suited to the presentation of so difficult a matter, overcame him, and it was necessary that Bueso should take up the conversation for him.

For some minutes his tranquil, unvarying, and unemotional voice was heard; for him, no matter was difficult of presentation, no circumlocutions were necessary to express the most delicate affairs. The General had seen, with surprise, a paragraph in El Cuarto Poder which demanded evidence proving what El Labaro had stated concerning him; that his surprise was the greater from the fact that he had before considered Albar as his friend, although they had had merely business relations through correspondence. All that was printed in El Labaro, and much more, was true, as could be testified by thousands of persons, who knew the General as their own hands. It could be proved (indeed it could!) with documents from State and Federal governments; with periodicals of different epochs which he had preserved; with this and with that——

But, why? Albar could not doubt the word of a gentleman. The important matter now is that the eminent Director should recognize in the General a good friend, and in place of raising doubts in regard to his glorious past, should strive, as a good friend, to make it well known, appreciated, and recompensed by the applause to which a man so distinguished as the General is entitled. While he understood this involved considerable expense, that was no obstacle.

At this critical point Albar interrupted Bueso with a grunt, which said neither yes nor no. It is not necessary to mention that; no, sir. The unlucky paragraph in question had crept into the paper, without the Director’s knowledge; but, as soon as he discovered it, he determined to apply the remedy; which would consist in publishing a complete biography of the General, stating that it had been written after inspection of convincing and authentic documents; and, even, that the portrait of the General should be printed in the paper, if he would have the kindness to furnish a photograph.

Clouds of blood, blinding me, passed before my eyes; my whole body trembled convulsively; with my contracted fingers I clutched the arms of the chair and dug my nails into the velvet upholstery. In the fury of my rage and anger, I scarcely heard some words about thirty subscriptions, which Don Mateo would send the following day, to be mailed to his friends in the State. Bueso asserted that this was important for the General, because the General was a man with a great political future, that he ought, therefore, to act promptly and vigorously, to augment his prestige and propagate his renown everywhere.

To me, nailed to my chair, that scene appeared for some minutes the horrible illusion of a cruel nightmare. I was perspiring and choked.

The door suddenly opened and the three actors in the comedy entered the writing-room. Trying to compose myself, and rising, I heard Albar, who, pointing at me, said:

“Here is the best pen on my staff; this young man will be charged with writing all relative to your life.”

Don Mateo and I faced each other, exchanging a glance of profound hatred; hatred, kneaded with the passion of purest love, as mud is kneaded with water from the skies.

I knew not what to say, much as I desired to speak, but Don Mateo, incapable of controlling himself, said insultingly:

“This young man going to write? And what does he know?”

And, filled with rage, he turned his back on me, pretending to despise me.

“I know more than will suit you, for writing your biography,” I replied, “but I warn Señor Albar that my pen shall never be employed in the service of a man like you.”

Don Mateo made a motion as if he would throw himself upon me, and I made one as if seizing a bust of bronze to hurl at him.

Albar leaped between us.

“What is this?” he cried, in terror.

“You are a miserable puppet,” thundered Don Mateo, shaking his fists at me above Albar’s head. “When I meet you in the street I will pull your ears.”

“We shall see,” I replied.

“Wretched, insignificant boy.”

“Stop! enough of this,” cried Albar, with all the force of his lungs. “What is the matter?”

“Señor Albar,” I said, “I heard all that was said. I can write nothing about this man; not a word.”

“Nor will I permit that he shall write,” bellowed Don Mateo, choked with rage; “I will not consent to it.”

“Then he shall not write; enough said,” replied Albar.

Bueso stood before me undisturbed; with his hands in his pockets he looked me over with an air of curiosity.

“That means that Javier will write it,” he said completing Don Pablo’s thought.

Escorroza, at the sound of voices, had come upstairs and, at this moment, arrived.

“Very well,” said the Director, “let it be so. As Quiñones refuses and the General does not consent, Escorroza will be charged with writing all relative to——”

“To the Señor General? With the greatest pleasure,” broke in Don Javier.

“And he will do it much better,” said Bueso.

Don Mateo looked at me with an air of triumph and derision.

“The Señor Director may order what seems best to him,” I said, restraining myself with difficulty, “but I ought to inform him that I withdraw from the staff, the moment when the paper publishes the least eulogy of this man.”

And without saluting, with clenched fists and gritted teeth, I left the room. While in the corridor I heard the voices of Cabezudo, Bueso, and Escorroza, who cried at once:

“Canasto! this puppet——”

“Talked to you, in that manner!”

“How can you permit——”

The noise of the loud voices reached the editorial room. Pepe and Carrasco asked me what had happened, but I simply shrugged my shoulders and the two became discreetly silent.

The noise continued for half an hour. At the end of that time the footsteps of the three men were heard in the patio, and their yet angry voices. As they passed the doorway I heard them saying:

“Astonishing how much Don Pablo thinks this boy to be!”

“Canasto! recanasto! this I will never forgive.”

Elevated pride, satisfied hatred, gratified and exalted vanity, almost choked me and I had to rise for breath. Pepe and Sabas looked at me astonished, and I, my face twitching and working with a nervous smile, threw my pen upon the table.

“This pen is worth more than most persons imagine.”

RAFAEL DELGADO.

Rafael Delgado was born in Cordoba, State of Vera Cruz, August 20, 1853, of a highly honorable and respected family. His father was for many years the Jefe politico of Cordoba, but at the close of his service retired to Orizaba. This removal was made when Rafael was but two months old, and it was in Orizaba that he was reared and has spent most of his life. After receiving his earlier instruction in the Colegio de Nuestra Senora de Guadalupe, he was sent, in 1865, to the City of Mexico, where, however, on account of the turbulence of that time, he spent but one year. On account of the disturbances due to civil war his father lost the greater part of his fortune. In May, 1868, Rafael entered the Colegio Nacional de Orizaba, then just organized, where he completed his studies. From 1875 on, for a space of eighteen years, he was teacher of geography and history in that institution. The salary was so small and irregular that, at times, he was compelled to give elementary instruction in other schools in order to meet expenses. In his own personal studies, outside of his professional work, he was especially interested in the drama, and he carefully read and studied the Greek, Latin, French and Italian dramatists, as well as the Spanish. In 1878 he wrote two dramas, La caja de dulces (The Box of Sweets), prose in three acts, and Una taza de te (A Cup of Tea) in verse in a single act. These were staged and met a good reception. At a banquet tendered to the author after the first rendering of La caja de dulces, his friends presented him a silver crown and a gold pen. In 1879, Rafael Delgado published a translation of Octave Feuillet’s A Case of Conscience and later an original monologue—Antes de la boda (Before the Wedding).

Between the ages of sixteen and thirty years, Delgado wrote much lyric poetry. Francisco Sosa compares his work in this field with that of Pesado, and adds: “Greater commendation cannot be given.” From the time when he was a student in the Colegio Nacional at Orizaba, Delgado always received the helpful encouragement of his old teacher, the head of that school, Silvestre Moreno Cora. It was due to this truly great man’s efforts that the Sociedad Sánchez Oropeza was founded in Orizaba, in the literary section of which Rafael Delgado was active. At this society he gave a series of brilliant Conversaciones and to its Bulletin he contributed both prose and verse. He has written Cuentos (Tales) of excellence, showing the influence of Daudet. More important, however, than his lyric poems and his stories, are Delgado’s novels, three in number, La Calandria, Angelina, Los parientes ricos (Rich Relations). In fiction he is a realist. He prefers to deal with the common people; he is ever a poet in form and spirit; his satire is never bitter; beauty in nature ever appeals strongly to him. Without being a servile imitator, he has been influenced by Daudet and the Goncourts. His plots are simple—almost nothing. In regard to this, he himself, in speaking of Los parientes ricos, says: “Plot does not enter much into my plan. It is true that it gives interest to a novel, but it usually distracts the mind from the truth. For me the novel is history, and thus does not always have the machinery and arrangement of the spectacular drama. In my judgment it ought to be the artistic copy of the truth; somewhat, that is, as history, a fine art. I have desired that Los parientes ricos should be something of that sort; an exact page from Mexican life.”

In Calandria, the story opens with the death of Guadalupe, an abandoned woman, poor and consumptive. The man of wealth, who betrayed her, has a lovely home and a beautiful daughter. Carmen, “the Calandria,” as she is nicknamed by those about her on account of her singing, the illegitimate daughter of Don Eduardo by Guadalupe, is left in poverty. An appeal, made in her behalf, by a priest to Don Eduardo fails to secure her full recognition and reception into his home, but leads to his arranging for her care in the tenement where she lives and where Guadalupe died. An old woman, Doña Pancha, who had been kind to her mother, receives the orphan into her home. Her son, Gabriel, an excellent young man, a cabinet-maker by trade, loves her, and she reciprocates his love. A neighbor in the tenement, Magdalena, exerts an unhappy influence upon Carmen, leading to estrangement between her and Doña Pancha. Magdalena encourages her to receive the attentions of a worthless and vicious, wealthy youth named Rosas. At a dance given in Magdalena’s room, Rosas is attentive, and Carmen, flattered and dazzled, is guilty of some indiscretions. This leads to a rupture between her and Gabriel. To escape the persecutions of Rosas, Carmen goes with the friendly priest to a retreat at some little distance. The troubles between the lovers approach adjustment, but at the critical moment Rosas appears upon the scene, and the girl, though she rejects him, is compromised. Gabriel stifles his love and actually casts her off. In despair, the girl yields to the appeals of Rosas, who promises marriage. He is false, and soon tiring, abandons her. From then her downward career is rapid and soon ends in suicide.

EXTRACTS FROM CALANDRIA.

And she sighed and spent long hours in gazing at the landscape; attentive to the rustling of the trees, to the flitting to and fro of the butterflies, to the echoes of the valley, which repeated, sonorously, the regular stroke of the woodman’s axe, to the rushing of the neighboring stream, to the cooing of the turtle-dove living in the neighboring cottonwood.

I need to be loved and Gabriel has despised me. I need to be happy and cannot because Gabriel, my Gabriel, is offended. He has repulsed me, he has refused my caresses, he has not cared for my kisses. I desire to be happy as this sparrow, graceful and coquettish, which nests in this orange tree. How she chirps and flutters her wings when she sees her mate coming. I cannot forget what took place that night. Never did I love him more, never! I was going to confess all to him, repentant, resolved to end completely with Alberto, to say to Gabriel: “I did this; pardon me! Are you noble, generous, do you love me? Pardon me! I do not covet riches, nor conveniences, nor elegance. Are you poor? Poor, I love you. Are you of humble birth? So, I love you! Pardon me, Gabriel! See how I adore you! I have erred—I have offended you—I forgot that my heart was yours. Take pity on this poor orphan, who has no one to counsel her. Pardon me! You are good, very good, are you not? Forget all, forget it, Gabriel. See, I am worthy of you. I do not love this man; I do not love him. I told him I loved him because I did not know what to do. I let him give me a kiss because I could not prevent it. Forgive me! And he appears to be of iron. He showed himself haughty, proud, and cruel as a tiger. But, he was right; he loved me, and I had offended him. One kiss? Yes—and what is a kiss? Air, nothing! I wanted to calm his annoyance, sweetly, with my caresses, and I could not. Weeping, I begged him to pardon me, and he refused. I said to him—resolved to all—what more could I do?—I said to him, here you have me—I am yours—do with me what you will! And, he remained mute, reserved, did not look at me. He did not see me; he did not speak to me, but I read distrust, contempt, restrained rage, in his face. He almost insulted me. If he had not loved me so much, I believe he would have killed me! Again I tried to conquer him with my caresses. I wished to give him a kiss—and he repulsed me! Ah, Gabriel! How much you deceive yourself! How self-satisfied you are! You are poor, of humble birth, an artisan—and you have the pride of a king! Thus I love you, thus I have loved you. Haughty, proud, indomitable, thus I would wish you for my love! I would have softened your character; I would have dominated your pride; I would have conquered you with my kisses. You love me, but my tears have not moved you! You are strong and boast of your strength, for which I adore you! You are generous, and yet you do not know how to pardon a weak woman! And we would have been happy. One word from you and nothing more! If it were still possible—and—why not?”

* * * *

But, when he heard from the mouth of Angelito that Carmen had responded to the gallantries of Rosas, when the boy described the scene which he had witnessed, and in which, yielding to the desires of Alberto, the orphan had permitted herself to be kissed, the very heavens seemed to fall; he raged at seeing his love mocked and dragged in the mud, and promptly told Doña Pancha all he had learned. The old woman strove to calm him; made just remarks about Carmen’s origin, telling him that she might have inherited the tendency to evil from her mother and the desire for luxury, which had been her perdition; she begged him to cut completely loose from the orphan, and, fearful that he might, after the first impression caused by what Angelito described had passed, involve himself in humiliating love entanglements, appealed to her son’s generous sentiments, not to again think of the girl. And she succeeded.

Gabriel armed himself with courage and fulfilled his promise. Hard, most cruel, was the interview; his heart said: pardon her. Offended dignity cried: despise her. Love repeated: she loves you; is repentant, have pity on her; see how you are trifling with your dearest illusions, with all your hopes; but in his ears resounded his mother’s voice, tender, trembling with sympathy, supplicating, sad, Gabriel, my boy, if you love me, if you wish to repay me for all my cares, if you are a good son, forget her! He loved her and he ought not to love her. He wanted to despise her, to offend her, to outrage her, but he could not. He loved her so much! Wounded self-esteem said with stern and imperious accent: leave her.

When the cabinetmaker left his home that night, wishing to escape from his grief, almost repenting what he had done, wandering aimlessly, he journeyed through street after street, without note of distance. The main street of the city, broad and endless, lay before him, with its crooked line of lamps on either side, obscure and dismal in the distance. So the future looks to us, when we are victims of some unhappy disappointment, which shakes the soul as a cataclysm,—with not a light of counsel, not a ray of hope on the horizon.

He arrived at the end of the city and on seeing the broad cart-road that began there, passed a bridge, at the foot of a historic hill; he felt tempted to undertake an endless journey to distant lands, where no one knew him; to flee from Pluviosilla, that city fatal to his happiness, forever. But, he thought—my mother?

The river flowed serene, silent. The cabinet-maker, with his elbow on the hand-rail of the bridge, contemplated the black current of the river; the great plain which lost itself in the frightful shadow of the open country. A sentiment of gentle melancholy, consoling and soothing, came over his soul. Meantime, the more he dwelt on his misfortune, the more desolate appeared his life’s horizon, and something akin to that sad homesickness, which he experienced in his soul, when the maiden first said to him, I love you, passed like a refreshing wave through his soul. The abyss at his feet attracted him, called him. What did Gabriel think in those moments? Who can know? “No!” he murmured, turning and taking his way to the city.

The next day, he told Doña Pancha in a few words what had happened and then said no more of the matter. In vain Tacho, Solis, and López questioned him, on various occasions. He did not again mention Carmen. He learned that she had left Pluviosilla, but made no effort to learn where she had gone; and, not because he had forgotten her, but because he had resolved never to speak of her again. The journeyman and Doña Pancha repeated to him the conversation of Alberto and his friends, what they said of the planned elopement, but he scarcely deigned to listen, and answered with a scornful and profoundly sad smile.

When Angelito found him and told him that Carmen was at Xochiapan, repeating all that she had said, he hung his head as if he sought his answer on the ground, and exclaimed:

“Say you have not seen me. No—tell her that I beg she will not think of me again.”

And he turned away, disdainful and sad.

* * * *

The young man placed himself in a good position, resolved to hear the mass with the utmost devotion; but he could not do it. There, near by, was Carmen; there was the woman for whom he would have given all that he had, even to his life. He did not wish to see her, and yet did nothing else. He turned his face toward the altar, and without knowing how, when he least expected it, found his eyes fixed upon the maiden, whose graceful head, covered with a rebozo, did not remain still an instant, turning to all sides, in search of him. Gabriel remained concealed behind the statue of San Ysidro which, placed on a table, surrounded by candles and great sprays of paper roses, served him as a screen.

Why had he come? Was he determined to reunite the interrupted loves? Would he yield to Carmen’s wishes? He had come to look at her, not desiring to see her; he had come to Xochiapan dragged by an irresistible power, but he would not yield. How could he blot out of his memory that kiss, that thundered kiss, which he had not heard but, which, nevertheless resounded for him like an injury, like an insulting word which demands blood? And yet he had seen her; there she was, near him, never so beautiful.

At the close of the service, at the ite misa est, Gabriel left promptly, so that when the faithful flocked out to the market-place, he was mounting his horse. On crossing the plaza, he met some rancheros, his friends, who invited him to drink a cup and then to eat at the ranch, which was not far distant. He accepted; it was necessary to distract himself. To leave the plaza, on the way to the house of his friends, it was necessary to pass along one side of the church; almost between the lines of vendors.

The Cura, Doña Mercedes, Angelito and Carmen were in the graveyard. Gabriel did not wish nor dare to greet his love; he turned his face away, but could see and feel the gaze of those dark eyes fixed upon him, a gaze profoundly sad which pierced his heart.

After dinner he returned to the town to take the road to Pluviosilla. His friends proposed to accompany him, but he refused their offer. He wished to be alone, alone, to meditate upon the thought which for hours had pursued him.

She loves me—he was thinking as he entered the town.—She loves me! Poor child! I have been cruel to her.—I ought to forgive her.—Why not? I will be generous. I will forgive all.

The energetic resolutions of the young man became a sentiment of tender compassion. His dignity and pride, of which he gave such grand examples a month before, yielded now to the impulses of his heart. He could resist no longer. Carmen triumphed; love triumphed.

I will speak with her; yes, I will speak with her; I will tell her that I love her with all my soul; that I cannot forget her; that I cannot live without her! I will tell her that I pardon; that we shall again be happy. Poor child! She is pale, ill——. I do not wish to increase her unhappiness.

At the end of the street, through which at the moment he was passing, the cabinet-maker saw two men on horseback, one on an English, the other on a Mexican saddle. Apparently, people of Pluviosilla.

The riders stopped a square away from the Curacy. The one dressed in charro, dismounted and cautiously advanced along the hedge. A terrible suspicion flashed through the young man’s mind. He quickly recognized the cautious individual. While this person was going along on tiptoe, as if awaiting a signal to approach, Gabriel took the lane to the right, then turned to the left and passed slowly in front of the window of the Curacy, at the moment when Rosas was speaking with Carmen at the grating.

His first idea was to kill his rival like a dog and then the infamous woman who was thus deceiving him—but—he was unarmed. He cursed his bad luck, hesitated a moment, between remaining and going, and, at last, whipping up his horse, went almost at a gallop, by the Pluviosilla road.

FEDERICO GAMBOA.

Federico Gamboa was born in the City of Mexico, December 22, 1864. After his elementary studies he attended the Escuela Nacional Preparatoria (National Preparatory School), for five years, and the Escuela de Jurisprudencia (Law School) for three more. After an examination, he entered the Mexican Diplomatic Corps, October 9, 1888, and was sent to Guatemala in the capacity of Second Secretary of the Mexican Legation in Central America. In 1890, he was appointed First Secretary of the Mexican Legation to Argentina and Brazil. In 1896, he returned to Mexico, where he remained until the end of 1898, as Chief of the Division of Chancery of the Department of Foreign Affairs. He was then sent again to Guatemala, as Charge-d’affaires. In December, 1902, he was appointed Secretary of the Mexican Embassy at Washington, which position he now holds.

Through the year 1898, Señor Gamboa was Lecturer on the History of Geographical Discovery in the Escuela Nacional Preparatoria. From 1886 to 1888, inclusive, he was engaged in newspaper work in the City of Mexico. In June, 1888, he presented on the Mexican stage a Spanish translation of the Parisian operetta, Mam’selle Nitouche, under the title, La Señorita Inocencia (Miss Innocence). In 1889, he presented a translation La Moral Electrica (Electric morality) of a French vaudeville. Besides these translations, Señor Gamboa has produced original dramatic compositions—La Ultima Campaña (The Last Campaign), a three act drama, and Divertirse (To amuse oneself), a monologue; these appeared in 1894. Señor Gamboa has written several books. Del Natural—Esbozos Contemporáneos (Contemporary Sketches: from nature) was published when he was first in Guatemala and has gone through three editions. Apariencias (Appearances), a novel, was published while he was at Buenos Ayres, in 1892. Impresiones y Recuerdos (Impressions and Recollections) appeared in 1894. Three novels, which have been well received are Suprema Ley (The Supreme Law), 1895, Metamorfosis (Metamorphosis), 1899, and Santa, 1900. At present Señor Gamboa is writing a new novel Reconquista (Reconquest), and his biographical Mi Diario (My Journal), the latter in three volumes.

As may be seen from this brief sketch Señor Gamboa has been a considerable traveler. He has made two European journeys, has twice visited Africa, and has traveled over America from Canada to Argentina. He lived in New York in 1880 and 1881 and holds a city schools certificate for elementary teaching. He was elected a Corresponding Member of the Royal Spanish Academy in 1889, an officer of the French Academy in 1900, and a Knight Commander of Carlos III in 1901.

In Suprema Ley we have a tale of common life. Julio Ortegal is a poor court clerk, of good ideals, decent, married, and the father of six children. His wife Carmen is hard-working, a good wife and a devoted mother. Clothilde, well-born and well-bred is a native of Mazatlan, where she becomes infatuated with a young man named Alberto; they live together and, on the discovery of dishonest dealings on his part, flee to the interior and to the City of Mexico, where he suicides. Clothilde, suspected of his murder, is thrown into jail; there she meets Julio, in the discharge of his duties, whose kindness awakens her gratitude. After her acquittal, her father, who does not wish her return to Mazatlan, arranges, through Julio, for her support in Mexico. She goes first to Julio’s home and, later, to a hired house. Julio’s love for her is kindled; it grows during the time she lives in his house and is the real cause of her removal. He finally abandons wife and children although he still turns over his regular earnings at court to their support, working nights at a theatre for his own necessities. Meantime, consumption, from which he has long suffered, continues its ravages. Clothilde’s parents, who can no longer endure her absence, finally send her aunt to bear their pardon and implore her return. Clothilde, repentant, casts off Julio and returns to Mazatlan. He is furious, crushed; but repentant he determines to rejoin his abandoned wife and family; his old and normal love revives, but in that moment, he dies.

EXTRACTS FROM SUPREMA LEY.

Julito no longer resisted and he also lay down to sleep; he would make his aunt’s acquaintance in the morning. Carmen, sitting by the spread table, solitary and silent, after the fatiguing day, could not sleep.

She was thinking——.

Through her thoughts passed vague fears of coming misfortunes and dangers; of a radical change in her existence. Her poor brain, of a vulgar and unintellectual woman, performed prodigies in analyzing the unfounded presentiments; what did she fear? On what did she base these fears? While she attempted to define them they weakened, though they still persisted. She reviewed her whole life of hard struggle and scanty rewards; she examined her conduct as an honorable wife and a decent mother of a family, and neither the one nor the other, justified her fear. This stranger woman, this stranger who was about to come; would she rob her of something? Of what? Her children? Surely, no. Of her husband, perhaps? Her presentiment was founded in this doubt; yes, it was only of her husband that she could rob her. And her humble idyl of love, which she had cherished among the ancient things of her memory, as she cherished in her clothes-press some few artificial flowers, shriveled and yellowed, from her bridal crown, her idyl revived, shriveled and yellowed also, but demanding an absolute fidelity in Julio; not equal to her own; no, Julio’s fidelity had to be different, but it must be; but, however much Carmen assured herself, with the mute assurances of her will, that Julio was faithful, she continued to be possessed by the idea that he would sometime prove unfaithful, just because of the long period of their marriage, that cruel irony of the years which respect nothing, neither a loving marriage nor the hearth which belonged to us in infancy; the marital affection is choked by the ivy of disgust and the bind-weed of custom; the home disappears covered by the weeds, which grow and grow until they overtop the very pinnacle of the façade. Carmen then appreciated some things before not understood; all the little repugnances and the shrinking apart of two bodies, which had long lived in contact and no longer have surprises to exchange, no new sensations to offer, no curves that are not known, no kisses that are unlike those other kisses, those of sweethearts and the newly-wed, then novel and celestial, afterward repeated without enthusiasm as a faint memory of those gone never to return. Believing that Julio was yet in word and deed her own, she resolved to carry on a slow reconquest, displaying the charms of a chaste coquetry; her instincts of a woman, assuring her that this was the infallible mode of salvation.

But on considering her attractions marred by child-bearing; her features sharpened by vicissitude; her hands, the innocent pride of her girlhood, deformed by cooking and washing; she felt two tears burn her eyeballs and, unable to gain in a contest of graces and attractions, her face fell upon the table, supported by her arms, in silent grief for her lost youth and her perished beauty.

* * * *

At two o’clock in the morning there was a knocking at the gate and then at her door. It was they, Clothilde and Julio.

“Carmen, the Señora Granada.”

They embraced, without speaking; Clothilde, because gratitude sealed her lips; Carmen, because she could not.

The supper was disagreeable; the dishes were cold, the servant sleepy, those at the table watching one another.

When, in the silence of the night and of the sleeping house, Julio realized the magnitude of what he had done, he read, yes, he read in the darkness of the room, the fatal and human biblical sentence, and began to understand its meaning:

“The woman shall draw thee, where she will, with only a hair of her head.”

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Clothilde’s first impulse was to conceal herself; to tell her servant that she was not accustomed to receive evening visits; but, besides the fact that Julio had certainly already seen her, the truth is that she felt pleasure, a sort of consolation and discreet satisfaction. Thank God the test was about to commence; she was about to prove to herself the strength of her resolution.

Julio, now nearer, saluted, lifting his hat; Clothilde answered with a wave of the hand, in all confidence, as two friends ought to salute. She waited for him smilingly, without changing her place or posture, determined not only to show a lack of love but even of undue friendliness. Julio, paler than usual, crossed the threshold.

“Bravo, Señor Ortegal, this is friendly; come in and I will give you a cup of coffee.”

Julio gave her his hand with extraordinary emotion and looked searchingly into her eyes as if to read her thoughts. Clothilde, scenting danger, led the way to the dining-room. How were they all at home? Carmen and the children? Do they miss her a little?

Julio promptly answered that all were well, all well but himself, and that is her fault, Clothilde’s.

“My fault?”

“Yes, your fault. And I ought to have spoken with you alone, long ago.” And, saying this he covered his face with his hands.

The coffee-pot boiled noisily; the servant placed two cups upon the table and Clothilde, not entirely prepared, because she had not counted upon so abrupt an attack, betook herself to her armory of prayers. She served the coffee with a trembling hand, putting in two lumps of sugar, which she remembered Ortegal always took.

“Will you tell me the truth?” he burst out.

“Certainly.”

Ortegal collected all his nervous energy and without taking his hands from his face, as if he did not desire to look at Clothilde, and poured out his words in a torrent:

“Clothilde, I am a wretch to offend you; to dare to speak to you as I do, but I can endure it no longer; I adore you, Clothilde, I adore you and you know it! You have known it—— Pardon me, I beg you; and love me just a little—nothing more,” he added, sobbing, “have pity on my life and soul. Do you love me sometimes?”

“No,” replied Clothilde, closing her eyes, with a transport of cruelty and the consciousness that she caused immense suffering, and terrified at having caused such a passion. “I can never love you because I idolize and will ever idolize the memory of Alberto.”

When he heard the sentence, Julio bowed his head upon his arm as it rested on the table; pushed back the coffee without tasting it and rose.

“You forgive me?”

“Yes,” said Clothilde, “and I pray God to cure you.”

“Will you not come to my house? Will I not see you again?” exclaimed Julio with a sweeping gesture of his arm that indicated that his suffering was incurable.

“Yes, yes, but the least possible.”

The two felt that the interview was ended; and Julio believed himself finally cast off. As in all critical situations, there was a tragic silence; Clothilde looked at the floor; Julio gazed at her with the yearning love, with which the dying look for the last time upon the familiar objects and the dear faces, never so beautiful as in that awful moment. Thus he gazed, long, long, taking her hand and kissing it with the respect of a priest for a holy thing. Then he passed the wicket of the little garden, and departed without once turning his head, staggering like a drunken man; he was lost on the broad pavement, his worn garments of the poor office hack, hanging in the sunlight in such folds as to throw into relief the narrow shoulders of the consumptive.

I am dismissed, he thought, and I am glad that it was with a “no.” What folly to think that a woman like Clothilde could ever care for a man like me! What can I offer her?—A worthless trifle, an illegal love, a legitimate wife, children, poverties! How could I pay her house rent, the most necessary expenses, the most trifling luxuries? Better, much better, that they despise me, the more I will occupy myself with my wife and my children, what is earned they will have; I will return to the path of rectitude, to my old companion; I will cure myself of this attack of love. And walking, walking, he reached the Alameda, seated himself in the Glorieta of San Diego, on a deserted bench, in front of two students, who were reading aloud.

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“But what has happened to you, Señorita?” and the lie presenting itself for sole response; the lie which augments the crime and the risks of what is foreseen. Her situation was not new; the eternal sufferings, one day a little worse than another. Then, in the little alcove, where she had thought herself strong enough to resist, the encounter with Alberto’s portrait, a life-size bust photograph, in a plain frame, with an oil lamp and two bunches of violets on the bureau, upon which it stood. It was there waiting for her, as it waited for her every night, to watch her undressing as he had in life, seated on the edge of the bed or on a low chair, mute with idolatrous admiration, until she had completed her preparations, and, coquettish and submissive, came to him, who, with open arms and waiting lips embraced her closely, closely, saying, between kisses, “How much I love you.”

Clothilde remained leaning against the bureau, unable to withdraw her gaze from the portrait or her thought from what had just happened. Why had she yielded? Why had she not screamed, or drawn the cord of the coach, or called the passersby or the police? Scarcely a year a widow, because she was a widow although the marriage ceremony had not been performed, and she had already forgotten her vows and promises, and had already enshrined within her heart another man, who was not the dead, her dead, her poor dear dead, lying yonder in his grave between two strangers, without protest or opposition to infidelity and perjury; enclosed in the narrow confines of the grave, without light, nor air, nor love, nor life; lost among so many tombs, among so many faded flowers, among so many lies written in marbles and bronzes. She could redeem her fault with nothing, not only was she not content to dwell at the graveside, but she had given herself to another and still dared to present herself before his portrait, defying its wrath. Trembling with terror she recalled a mutual oath sworn in those happy times, when in their flight across half the Republic, they enjoyed a relative calm in hotels and wayside inns. The sight of a country graveyard, peculiarly situated, had saddened them; with hands clasped, they were walking after supper before the inn, when Alberto, affected by one of those presentiments which so often appear in the midst of joy, as if to remind us that no happiness is lasting, clasped her to his bosom, and stroking her hair, had asked her: “What would you do, if I should die?”

She had answered him with tears, shuddering; had stopped his mouth with her hand; had promised him, sincerely, with all her loving heart and her voice broken with sobs, that she would die also, but Alberto had insisted, who can say whether already possessed with his coming suicide, had begged her to make him an answer.

“Come tell me what you will do, since that will not cause it to happen, and I will tell you what I would do if you should prove false.”

“Why do you say such things? Why do you invoke death?” And Alberto, with solemn face had replied, what she had never since forgotten. “Because disillusionment and death are the two irreconcilable enemies of life and one ought ever to reckon with them.”

As Clothilde remained silent, Alberto, after drying her eyes, which were immediately again filled with tears, demanded a solemn oath from her, not of the many with which sweethearts constantly regale each other, but of those which fix themselves forever, which impress us by their very solemnity; would she swear it by her mother? Would she fulfil it whatever happens? Truly—? If—?

“Then swear to me, that only in honest wedlock will you ever belong to another man!”

And Clothilde swore; and now, before that portrait and that scene as it rose in her memory, she felt herself criminal, very criminal, lost, and unhappy. She did not leave the bureau; she could see the road, obscure in the night; she could see the little inn; some muleteers, the tavernkeeper, who spoke of robbers, ghosts, crops, and horses; she could see Alberto and now she dared not raise her eyes to look at his face in the plain frame. Turning her back to it, she lay down in the bed, buried her head among the pillows, and closed her eyes; but instead of conciliating sleep, there presented themselves before her, pictures of her brief domestic life with Alberto; and, worst of all, amid these pictures, the figure of Julio, of Julio supplicating and ill, of Julio wearied and weighed down with cares, was not hateful to her.

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“Here is the fortnight’s pay, do me the favor of handling it.”

In the handling the cashier came out bankrupt, but could never make up her mind to tell Julio that to meet necessities she was forced to take in sewing, at night, while others slept and her loneliness was emphasized. The little Julio kept her company, studying his lessons or reading aloud one of those continued stories, which delight women and children by the complexity of their plot and by the happy exit, which ever favors virtue. Sometimes, the romantic history contrasted with her own, so mean and prosaic, and a tear or two, unnoticed by the reader absorbed in the story, fell upon the white stuff of the sewing and expanded in it as in a proper handkerchief. But if Julito learned of the tears, he stopped his reading and kneeling before his mother dried them, more by the loving words with which he overwhelmed her, than with his coarse schoolboy’s kerchief.

“Come, foolish mama; why are you crying? Don’t you know it isn’t true? The whole book is made up.”

He never added that he knew well that she was not weeping for the characters of the story, but for the neglect of her husband; but, as her husband was also his father, he employed this pretext in order not to condemn Julio, openly and aloud, to Carmen. Thus, there happened, what was to be expected, that between Carmen and Julito there grew up love in one of its sublimest forms, the love of mother and son, with open caresses, but caresses the most pure, with no touch of sin; and ideal love which illumines our spirit and assures us that we would have loved our mother so, had we not lost her too early.

Julito’s fifteen years spent in tenements and public schools, had acquired for him an undesirable stock of had habits, of which perhaps the least was smoking, inveterate, demanding his withdrawal at the end of each chapter, to the corridor to smoke a cigarette in the open air. One night Carmen, who knew not how to show him the extreme affection, which by his treatment of her he had gained, said, unexpectedly: “If you wish to smoke, you may do it before me.” And the boy, who, on the streets, at school, and in the neighborhood, was a positive terror, could not smoke near Carmen, look you! He could not; he loved her too much to be willing to puff smoke from mouth and nostrils in her presence. He did not smoke secretly, but as before, in the corridor, after each chapter.

How sadly beautiful was the sight of these two in the dismantled dining room of their miserable tenement! The immense house, the squalid quarter, so noisy and turbulent during the day, presented the silence of the tomb in the late hours of the night. Carmen and Julito, separated by a corner of the table with its tattered cover of oil-cloth, and a tallow dip, which needed snuffing every little while; Julito greatly interested in his reading and Carmen, sewing at her fastest, contemplating, with infinite love the black and curly head of her son, when she stopped a moment to thread her needle. Now and again, the coughing of the other children came to them from the adjoining room, and Julito exclaimed: “Listen to my brothers.”

“Yes, I hear them; poor little things.”

FOOTNOTES:

[1] The word used is espejismo, literally, mirroring.

[2] There is a hard drive here upon the old teacher, which will be understood only by those who have seen him.

[3] The second is, it will be costly.

[4] Little Chavero: half-affectionate, half-jocular diminutive of Chavero.

[5] This and the following Aztec terms are either actually fictitious or have meanings which are ridiculous in the connections given.

[6] Public granary.

[7] A scourge.

[8] A band or strip of wire netting with sharp points, to be bound upon the body for self-torture.

[9] Mas solemne culto.

[10] A pretty mestizo girl, of the common people.

[11] Seller of fruit waters, including one made with chia.

[12] Night watchman.

[13] Soldier police.

[14] Street cars.

[15] Regular frequenters of tertulias—i. e., social, literary gatherings.

[16] A holy Christ, two candle bearers, and three gawks.

[17] Village Christ.

[18] Tolsa.

[19] There is here a play on words not easy to render well. Pero—but: pera—pear; aguacate is a sort of fruit. The text runs:

“Pero—señor Don Raimundo”
“No hay peros, ni aguacates que valgan.”

The exact translation is:

“But—señor Don Raimundo——“
There are no pears, nor aguacates, which avail.

[20] Here again is a double-entendre. The same word dueno, owner, is here translated as self-controlled, and master. The young man is master (of himself), the old man is master of his daughter’s lot.

[21] Market for raw stuffs or materials.

[22] Moco de pavo; literally, a turkey’s crest.

[23] The patron of agricultural labor.

[24]

Cayo el pez en la remanga:
Qué ganga! qué ganga!

[25] Small round plasters stuck upon the temples for the relief of headache.

[26] Town treasurer.

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