JOAQUÍN GARCÍA ICAZBALCETA.
Great is my satisfaction at presiding over this meeting. It is more than two years that you have not gathered in general assembly; and on seeing three-months after three-months pass, without your coming to invite me to your regular meeting, I had come to ask myself the question: “Do the Conferences of San Vicente de Paul still exist in my diocese?” The President General of your pious brotherhood has, on various occasions in Mexico, directed to me the same question and with that zeal which distinguished him has asked me, with tears in his eyes: “Is it possible that charity is dead among the distinguished gentlemen of San Luis Potosí? Is it possible that there is no one who can arouse the members and revive the almost extinguished meetings?”
The sign of life, which you now give, coincides with the death of that illustrious President, and it is fitting that, in addressing you, I shall pay a tribute to the eminent savant, the fervent Christian, the exemplary member of your conferences, Don Joaquín García Icazbalceta.
Others have already pronounced his eulogy as a man of letters, as a historian, as the type of a man of wealth and of the flower of Mexican aristocracy. It falls to me to present him to you as a model member of the conferences and to briefly praise before you his charity and his obedience and attachment to the Church.
His was a long life and he employed it all in distributing benefits. Rich from his cradle, he preserved and increased his capital, without ever extorting from the poor, without unduly taking advantage of their labors, without ever practicing usury, that plague of our society which seems to most tempt those who have most wealth, and which the Gospel so clearly anathematizes. In all his vast territorial possessions, that dissimulated slavery, so common in some parts of the country, which chains the peasant for his whole life to one master and to one piece of ground without hope of bettering his condition, was never known. Most exact in his payments, he had further a box of savings, as he called it, for each of his employees, from the humblest to the highest, which really consisted of systematic gifts which he made them on the more important occasions of their lives or of the lives of their wives and children. Were they marrying? He supplied the necessary expenses without making any charge against them. Were children born; did disease come to afflict them; did death arrive? He generously opened his chest and alleviated their pains and necessities.
The works of mercy which he did among his own, he also practiced with strangers. Through long years, the conferences of Mexico found him visiting the houses of the poor and liberally succoring them; when he was their President, he exerted his influence inside and outside of the Capital, maintaining the fervor of the old members, and attracting new ones by his fine demeanor, his opportune appeals and his prudent persistency. How important is such tact in those who occupy the high posts in the conferences! The most ardent zeal, unless accompanied by prudence and judgment, far from attracting, repels, and instead of aiding, hinders good service of the poor and the prosperity of the association.
Great as were his material works of mercy, they are eclipsed when compared with the spiritual. It is, indeed, a meritorious work to teach the ignorant, to correct the erring, to pardon injuries, and all this Joaquín García Icazbalceta did in a high degree. Not only did the Lord give him great wealth, but also the inestimable gift of wisdom. The leisures, which his condition of comfort afforded him, were all employed in gathering an immense store of solid doctrine and in placing this at the service not only of the wise, but also of the humble and the ignorant. The devotional books compiled and printed by him have gained an enormous circulation among the faithful and have greatly fomented piety among Mexicans. Printed by him, I have said, and this is true in the full meaning of the word. Convinced that manual labor dishonors no one, he, personally, worked at his printing, and, to his talent and assiduity, the typographic art owes much.
All these labors, all these studies, were placed at the service of the Church and of the public by Señor García Icazbalceta. How, except for him, would we know how much the early missionaries did for the civilization and the prosperity of the New World? Thanks to his researches, books, and manuscripts, long forgotten, were reborn, and, in circulating, decked in the typographic beauty of Señor García Icazbalceta’s private press, and adorned with his commentaries and notes, they dissipated many prejudices and made those holy men, the apostles of New Spain, who were despised by the few who recalled them, known to the world.
Among them he presents Friar Juan de Zumárraga, how beautiful, how grand! Not without reason did the history of that life, so beautifully written, fly through the world, and, attracting the attention of the highest dignitaries of the Seraphic Order, to which the first Bishop of Mexico belonged, it was translated by one of them into the Tuscan and, in that idiom, circulated about the Vatican and throughout the whole Italian peninsula.
Such pious undertakings could not fail to arouse the envy of the world—and of hell. The demon, disguised as an angel of light, clothed in a religious garb, attacked him, as envy ever attacks, with bitterness, with acrimony, with implacable cruelty. What he had published was malinterpreted and what he had not written was thrown into his face; his intentions were calumniated and productions foreign to his genius were attributed to him.
The fruitful writer replied never a word, nor even attempted to defend himself. At the suggestion of a prelate he cut out one chapter, an entire chapter, from his most cherished work; a chapter which cost him long years of study and diligent labors. Nor did his sacrifices end here. On seeing that those who were most embittered against him were ministers of that Church of which he was an obedient and submissive son and which he desired to defend, he broke, forever, his learned pen. Ah, beloved members of the conferences of San Vicente, how many injuries a misguided zeal inflicts! To the unjust and uncharitable attacks of which he was the victim, we owe it that most important works upon the Mexican Church remained unfinished, that documents of the highest interest lie mouldering in dust, that your learned President General dedicated the last years of his life only to the compilation of dictionaries and to grammatical studies, which could scare no one.
The Lord has already rewarded his ardent charity, his obedience to the prelates of the Church, his readiness to forgive even those injuries which most deeply wound one who is conscious of being a fervent Catholic and a conscientious historian. Without the sufferings of illness, without the bitterness of the final agony, sudden death, though not unforeseen, which is accustomed to be the punishment of sinners and the recompense of the righteous, lately snatched him away. Although a layman, he exercised, upon the earth, an apostleship more fruitful than that of many who are called by God to the highest destinies; and on receiving him to his bosom, the Lord without doubt has given him that reward, which he offered to those, who, without occupying a high place in the Church, duly fulfil their mission, and, being the last in the hierarchic scale, come to be first in heaven.
That which he could not gain in this world by his persistent efforts and courteous appeals to men, he will gain, we trust, in the better land by his prayer to the Almighty—the regeneration of the conferences of San Luis Potosí. May heaven rekindle your fervor, reanimate your charity, and infuse that zeal, as ardent as prudent, and that respect to the ministers of the Church, which animated Don Joaquín García Icazbalceta through his mortal life. Pray for him, and try to imitate him.
MEXICO’S PROTOMARTYR.
Today, it is fifteen months since I terminated the longest pilgrimage of my life, arriving at the shores of that enchanted Japan, in which our Mexican protomartyr was crucified. Terrible are, in all times, the seas of the Far East. The cyclones, which, in the century of Vasco de Gama and Francis Xavier, engulfed so many ships, have not lost their force; and the most that modern science can do is to predict them by a few hours, to indicate their probable course, and to teach mariners, if their vessels are capable of such speed, to fly before these messengers of death.
Just so, steaming at full speed before one of these tremendous hurricanes, our vessel was sailing the night before we reached the desired haven of Nagasaki. Although we were considerably in advance of it, our velocity was not so great but that the effects of what is called the anticyclone overtook us. The waves tossed, the wind whistled, and while, on the one hand, I promised Felipe de Jesús, if he saved me from peril, to honor him in an especial manner on the next centenary of his martyrdom, on the other hand, my thoughts transported me to that galleon of imperishable memory, which, through these same seas, bore the saint, three hundred years ago, to the very coasts whither we were bound. Before entering fully upon the brilliant epic, which through good fortune, it falls to me to narrate to you this happy day, I desire to carry you also on board of it.
Do not expect to see in it a rival of the colossal steamers which today plow the ocean. Although a marvel for that time, it is comparatively small and shows not a few defects in construction, which render it unsafe in tempests. It is scarcely ninety feet in length and its highest mast is of equal measure. In spite of criticisms already beginning to be made among naval architects, the enormous castles of the poop and prow rise high above the rest of the ship; and, that slope, which has begun to be given to the hull of merchant vessels destined for the Indies, in order that the waves in striking may lose some of their force, is impossible here on account of the many heavy pieces of artillery which garrison it. Its hulk is broad and the means of controlling the rudder are crude.
It sailed from the port of Cavite, in the Philippine Islands, July 12, 1596, bound for Acapulco; and, though now it is September 8, far from being near the Mexican coast, it is at 33 degrees of latitude, and the hurricane is constantly driving it toward the northwest. Almost from the start storms have troubled it and contrary winds have driven it from its course; on this night the tempest has culminated, and the Commander, Matéas Landecho, though an expert mariner, despairs of its salvation. The sails have been torn to tatters, the yards float in the sea, it has been necessary to destroy the masts, and the pumps have been worked unceasingly, in vain. To cap all these misfortunes, a wave of irresistible force shattered the rudder, and one of those moments has arrived, when even the most impious of sailors, the last hope gone, looks to God alone.
Officers, soldiers, crew, and passengers, all threw themselves upon the deck and cried with one voice, like Peter on the Lake of Tiberias, Lord, save us, we perish. Among these last were two Augustinian monks, one Dominican, and two Franciscan. Of these, the youngest remained on his knees, holding fast to one of the broken masts, his eyes fixed on heaven, and absorbed in profound prayer. By the gleam of the frequent lightnings, his manly face could be seen, upon which were visible traces, not only of recent privations, but also of long penances, and were observed that fineness of features, that ardent glance, that Roman nose, that sun-darkened skin, peculiar to the Spanish race as modified in the New World. His companion, older than himself, and named Friar Juan de Zamora, has often spoken of the austerity of that youth, during the five years which he had spent in Manila, in the Franciscan community. There he took the habit, May 20, 1591; there he made his vows, and not content with the penances prescribed by the rules, he had given himself up to greater austerities and was accustomed to make daily confession of his sins, before the Seraphic Family. Named enfermero, he had practiced such acts of charity and abnegation with the suffering and dying as are scarcely recorded of the most famous saints, and this not occasionally, but through entire years.
On the other hand, during the first days of the voyage, when the sea, yet tranquil, left opportunity for jests and idle talk, the careless soldiers pointed at him with their fingers and told the story of the young Franciscan, to one another, in terms but little flattering. He is the son of Alonso de las Casas (they say), a rich Spaniard of the City of Mexico, and he has a very pious mother, who came from Ilescas to New Spain, where this young fellow was born. This is not the first time he wears the seraphic habit. Formerly he was a novice in Puebla de los Angeles; but, after a few months, he threw aside his gown and gave himself again to the libertinage, which had distinguished him. His parents sent him to China, for punishment, where not a few of us have seen him living the gay life of a merchant. They say that he goes, now to Mexico, to take sacred orders and console his pious mother. We shall see whether he now gives proof of greater constancy.
Thus passengers and sailors of the galleon San Felipe, painted the youth, Friar Felipe de las Casas, at whom, apparently absorbed in meditation, we look from the bridge. The sea has calmed somewhat and the thick cloud masses, separating a little, permit us to see the constellations of the two bears, and, particularly, the polestar, shining brighter than ever. The Franciscan has his eyes fixed in that direction and after a half hour of silent prayer, he rises majestically and pointing southwest of the Great Bear exclaims with prophetic voice, “Look, look, our ship shall not perish! We shall soon arrive in safety on the coast of Japan.”
“A miracle! a miracle!” exclaim the sailors in chorus, seeing for the first time the prodigy, which Friar Felipe had been watching for a half hour, and the meaning of which the Lord had made known to him by inspiration, as in another time, to the Magi, that of the mysterious star in the East. It is a cross, an immense cross, much larger than that constellation which we call the Southern Cross; a cross, whose pale and peaceful glow at first resembled that of Venus; but which afterward appeared red, the color of blood, (such as we saw the planet Mars in last December), surrounded by a refulgent aureole and afterward enwrapped in a black cloud. It is a cross, but not such as that of Jesus Christ, which we are accustomed to see. Besides the customary arms, it has another transverse piece near the feet and a little protuberance near the centre, all perfectly drawn against the blue of the clear sky.
Passengers and sailors rejoice at the celestial vision. A board is soon rigged out as rudder; those sails, which the wind has not completely destroyed are quickly repaired; the countless holes are covered up and the prow is turned, not toward New Spain indeed, but, in the direction indicated by Providence. Yet there lack thirty-two days of stormy sailing, but they journey gaily in the midst of dangers, and on arriving at the port of Tosa, on October 20, they intone hymns of thanks to the Savior.
They journey gaily; yes, but beyond all Felipe de Jesús de las Casas, to whom God has revealed his high destinies. He knows that martyrdom upon a cross, such as he has seen in the sky, awaits him; martyrdom, the supreme recompense to which we, who run the race of life, aspire, but which the Lord grants to few; the martyrdom which Francis Xavier and his companions in religion and apostolic labors, sought with longing, but which God in His lofty purposes refused to them, to give it to Felipe de Jesús and to some companions, who arrived but yesterday, who did not seek it. Omnes quidem currunt sed unus accipit bravium.
To relate to you the details of that glorious martyrdom, is what I propose in this discourse, longer than usual. Do not refuse me your kind attention. The story is so interesting and so brilliant notwithstanding its dark passages, that the sublimity of the event will compensate for my deficiencies. Furthermore, as the Holy Virgin has never yet refused me her aid, she will surely assist me in this memorable centenary. Invoke her with me, saluting her with the sweet words of the angel—Ave Maria.
IGNACIO M. ALTAMIRANO.
Once and again in Mexico there arises, from the mass of the Indian population, a man who leads, not only his race, but his nation. Such a man was the great President Juarez, who established Mexico’s present greatness; such in art were the artist Cabrera and the sculptor Instolinque; such in letters was Ignacio M. Altamirano.
No one who knows not the Mexican Indian village can appreciate the heroism of the man who, born of Indian parents, in such surroundings, attains to eminence in the nation. It is true that the Aztec mind is keen, quick, receptive; true that the poorest Indian of that tribe delights in things of beauty; true that the proverb and pithy saying in their language show a philosophic perception. But after all this is admitted the horizon of the Indian village is narrow: there are few motives to inspiration; life is hard and monotonous. It must indeed be a divine spark that drives an Aztec village boy to rise above his surroundings, to gain wide outlook, to achieve notable things.
And when once started on his career, what an enormous gulf yawns behind him! How absolutely severed henceforth from his own. And what a gulf opens before him! He is absolutely alone. Poor, friendless, with race prejudice against him, obstacles undreamed of by the ordinary man of talent confront him. Only immense ambition, tenacious purpose, inflexible persistence, unconquerable will, can succeed.
Ignacio M. Altamirano, pure Aztec Indian, was born at Tixtla, State of Guerrero, December 12, 1834. The first fourteen years of his life were the same as those of every Indian boy in Mexico; he learned the Christian Doctrine and helped his parents in the field. Entering the village school he excelled and was sent, at public expense, in 1849, to Toluca to study at the Instituto Literario. From that time on his life was mainly literary—devoted to learning, to instructing, and to writing. From Toluca he went to the City of Mexico, where he entered the Colegio de San Juan Letran. In 1854 he participated in the Revolution. From that date his political writings were important. Ever a Liberal of the Liberals, he figured in the stirring events of the War of the Reform, and in 1861 was in Congress. When aroused he was a speaker of power; his address against the Law of Amnesty was terrific. Partner with Juarez in the difficulties under Maximilian, he was also partner in the glory of the re-established Republic. From then as journalist, teacher, encourager of public education and man of letters his life passed usefully until 1889, when he was sent as Consul-General of the Republic to Spain. His health failing there, he was transferred to the corresponding appointment at Paris. He died February 13, 1893, at San Remo. His illness was chiefly nostalgia, longing for that Mexico he loved so much and served so well.
Altamirano was honored and loved by men of letters of both political parties. Although a pronounced Liberal, he numbered friends and admirers among the Conservatives. His honesty, independence, strength, and marvelous gentleness bound his friends firmly to him. He loved the young and ever encouraged those rising authors who form today the literary body of Mexico.
We may not even enumerate his writings. He produced graceful poems, strong novels, realistic descriptions, delicate but trenchant criticism, strong discourses, truthful biographies. He ever urged the development of a national, a characteristic literature, and pleaded for the utilization of national material. Unfortunately, his writings are scattered through periodicals difficult of access. A collection of them is now being made. Our selections are taken from his Revista Literaria (Literary Review) of 1861, from a discussion of Poetry dated 1870, and from his well-known Paisajes y Leyendas (Landscapes and Legends) of 1884.
GENIUS AND OBSTACLES.
Rigorously speaking, it can not be said that popular neglect can be a chain which holds genius in the dust of impotence.
No: the genius, powerful and lofty eagle, knows how to break with his talons the vulgar bonds with which the pettiness of the world may attempt to shackle thought.
Thus Homer, aged beggar, to whose eyes the sun denied its light, but whose divine soul inspiration illuminated, was able to endow ungrateful Greece, in return for his miserable bread, with the majesty of Olympus, with the glory of the heroes and with the immortality of those eternal songs which survive the decay of the agonies and the ruin of empires.
Thus, Dante, proscribed by his countrymen, has been able to cause to spring from the depths of his hatred and his grief the omnipotent ray which was to illuminate the conscience of his time and to be the admiration of future ages.
Thus, that other blind man, who, as Byron says, made the name Miltonic synonym of sublime and who died as he had lived the sworn enemy of tyrants, in the cell to which ingratitude consigned him, improvised for himself a throne, and from its dominated creation saw prostrate themselves at his feet not only his country, but the world.
Thus Cervantes, the poor cripple, disdained by persons of distinction and persecuted by fortune created, in the midst of the agony of misery, the sole treasure which can not be wrested from old Spain, more precious truly than the ephemeral grandeur of kings and the imbecile pride of nobles.
Thus lastly, Camoens, soldier also like Cervantes, and like him unfortunate, left in his deathbed in a foreign hospital, as a great legacy to his country, his Lusiadas, the most beautiful monument of Portuguese glory.
Thus many others, dead through the hemlock of contemporary disdain, and compensated with tardy apotheosis, have not found obstacles in poverty, in envy and in defeat; and abandoning with thought the narrow spheres of the world, have gone to grave their names upon the heaven of poetry.
But such is the privilege of genius and of genius only. The talents which cannot aspire to such height, nor feel themselves endowed with force divine, are eclipsed in the test, the same test which causes him, who is predestined for sublimity, to shine forth more resplendent and more grand.
And in Mexico the genius enwraps himself yet in the shades of the invisible, or does not belong to the new generation.
Those of us who penetrate, with timidity and difficulty, into the sacred enclosure of poetry and literature, belong to the crowd of mortals; and scarcely may we aspire to the character of second rate workers in the family of those who think.
Thus for us are heavy those chains which for geniuses would be but spider webs; discouragement crushes us at times—discouragement, that poisoned draught, whose vase of vile clay is shattered before the glance of genius, accustomed to sip the nectar of the immortals in the myrrhine cup of faith.
As for us, we need, not the applauses of the world, but the sympathy of our countrymen, the word of encouragement, the hand which saves us from the waves which threaten to submerge us in their bosom.
It is not the necessities of material life which hamper us. We may rise superior to those or may supply them with the product of honorable labor, though outside of literature. As little do we seek, the patronage of the mighty. The gilded mean of Horace were unbearable for us if we have to supply in exchange for it a Hymn to Maecenas; the palatial advantages of Virgil would cause us loathing if we had to purchase them by placing the sacred lyre of the aged singer of the Gods at the feet of Augustus.
PLEA FOR A MEXICAN SCHOOL OF WRITING.
We do not deny the great utility of studying all the literary schools of the civilized world; we would be incapable of such nonsense, we who adore the classical memories of Greece and of Rome, we who ponder long over the books of Dante and Shakespeare, who admire the German school and who should desire to be worthy to speak the language of Cervantes and of Fray Luis de Leon. No: on the contrary, we believe these studies indispensable: but we desire that there be created a literature absolutely our own, such as all nations possess, nations which also study the monuments of others, but do not take pride in servilely imitating them.
* * * *
Our last war has attracted to us the eyes of the civilized world. It desires to know this singular nation, which contains so many and such coveted riches, which could not be reduced by European forces, which living in the midst of constant agitations has lost neither its vigor nor its faith. It desires to know our history, our public customs, our private lives, our virtues and our vices; and to that end it devours whatever ignorant and prejudiced foreigners relate in Europe, disguising their lies under the seductive dress of the legend and impressions of travel. We run the risk of being believed such as we are painted, unless we ourselves seize the brush and say to the world—Thus are we in Mexico.
Until now those nations have seen nothing more than the very antiquated pages of Thomas Gage or the studies of Baron Humboldt, very good, certainly but which could only be made upon a nation still enslaved. Further, the famous savant gave more attention to his scientific investigations than to his character portraits.
Since his day, almost all travelers have calumniated us, from Lovestern and Madam Calderon, to the writers—male and female—of the court of Maximilian, trading upon public curiosity, selling it their satires against us.
There is occasion, then, to make of fine letters an arm of defense. There is a field, there are niches, there is time, it is necessary that there shall be the will. There are talents in our land which can compete with those which shine in the old world.
THE PROCESSION OF THE CHRISTS.
If there is one thing characteristic in the Holy Week at Tixtla, it is this procession of the Christs, ancient, venerated, and difficult to abolish. It responds to a necessity of the organization of the Tixtla Indians, strongly fetichistic, perhaps because of their priestly origin. This propensity has caused the maintenance always in the pueblo of a large family of indigenous sculptors who live by the fabrication of images—poor things!—without having the least idea of drawing, nor of color, nor of proportion, nor of sentiment. For them sculpture is still the same rudimentary and ideographic art that existed before the conquest. Thus with a trunk of bamboo, with the pith of a calchual, or of any other soft and spongy tree, they improvise a body which resembles that of a man, give it a coat of water-glue and plaster and paint it afterwards in most vivid colors, literally bathing it in blood. Á mal cristo, mucho sangre (bad Christ, much blood); such is the proverb which my artistic compatriots realize in an admirable fashion. After they varnish the image with a coat of oil of fir, they have it blessed by the priest and then adore it in the domestic teocalli, on whose altar it is set up among the other penates of similar fabrication.
The only day on which such Christs sally forth to public view is Holy Thursday and in reality few family festivals assume a more intimate character than the especial festival with which each native family celebrates the sallying forth of its Christ. A padrino (godfather) is selected who shall take it out, that is to say who shall carry it in the procession, on a platform if it is large, in his hand if it is little. But every Christ has an attendance which bears candles and incense.
With such a cortege, the Christs gather in the portico of the church, awaiting the priest and the Christ who shall lead the procession, the one which is called the Christ of the Indians. When these issue from the church the procession is organized; the cross and the great candlesticks go before and then file by slowly and in good order some eight hundred or a thousand Christs with their retinues. Tixtla has some eight thousand inhabitants, hence there is a Christ to about each eight persons. This might well dismay an iconoclast.
The procession passes through the more important streets, in the midst of the crowd gathered at the corners, the doors, windows and public squares. What a variety of images! It should be stated that not all represent crucifixes; there are also Christs with the cross on their shoulders, some simply stand, others of ‘Ecce-homos of the pillar,’ but these are few; the crucifixes are in majority. The sole respect in which all are equal is in the rude sculptural execution. There are some in which the chest muscles rise an inch above the ribs, others which have the neck of the size of the legs; some are the living portrait of Gwinplaine or of Quasimodo; they smile lugubriously or they wink the half closed eyes with a grimace calculated to produce epilepsy. All have natural hair arrangement, the hair arrangement of the Indians, disordered, blown by the wind, tangled like a mass of serpents around the bleeding body of the Christ.
As to size they vary from the colossal Altepecristo,[17] which the Indians hide in caverns, which is almost an idol of the old mythology, to the microscopic Christ which wee Indians of nine years carry with their thumb and forefinger, before which are burned tapers as slender as cigarettes. All the sizes, all the colors, all the meagerness of form, all the wounds, all the deformities, all the humped-backs, all the dislocations, all the absurdities which can be perpetrated in sculpture, are represented in this procession. When by the light of torches (for this procession ends at night), this immense line of suspended, behaired and bloody bodies is seen in movement, one might believe himself oppressed by a frightful nightmare or imagine himself traversing some forest of the middle ages in which a tribe of naked gypsies had been hung.
Callot in his wild imagination never saw a procession more fantastic, more original.
Yet this spectacle was the delight of my boyhood days!
Then the Christs withdrew with their padrinos and retinues to the houses whence they issued and there the family prepared a savory feast. The atole of cornmeal called champol and the sweet and delicate totopos.
Ah, General Riva Palacio, never in thy days of campaign in Michoacan, have you had a more sumptuous banquet than that which you have enjoyed in the land of your fathers, an evening of the Christs—and of champol!
VICTORIANO AGÜEROS.
Victoriano Agüeros was born September 4, 1854, in the pueblo of Tlalchapa, in the State of Guerrero. His father was a Spaniard, his mother a Mexican. Young Victoriano was given good opportunity for education, being sent, at twelve years of age, to the Capital city where he attended the Ateneo Mexicano. In 1870 he was qualified to teach in primary schools. In 1877 he entered the National School of Jurisprudence and was admitted to the practice of law December 19, 1881.
He commenced literary work when but sixteen or seventeen years of age, signing his productions with the name “José.” Using this nom-de-plume he published his Ensayos de José (Essays of José) in 1877. This was followed by Cartas Literarias (Literary Letters) and Dos Leyendas por José (Two Legends by José). Shortly after he published a series of articles—Escritores Mexicanos Contemporaneos (Contemporary Mexican Authors)—in the literary journal, La Ilustracion Espanola y Americana, of Madrid. This was reprinted in book form and gave the author deserved credit. Confidencias y Recuerdos (Confidences and Recollections) completes the list of Agüeros’s books.
Renouncing law for literature Señor Agüeros became editor of El Imparcial (The Impartial) but shortly after, on July 1, 1883, he founded and has ever since, conducted, El Tiempo (The Time), the most conservative of the periodicals published in the Mexican capital. During the twenty years and more that have passed since then his pen has been well employed. His editorials are always carefully written and—though ultra-conservative—are marked by thought and judgment. No modern Mexican writer uses Spanish in a more accurate and graceful way. As a literary critic he ranks high, though it is difficult for him to see aught of good in the radical and liberal movement of the day or in those who are its exponents.
Deploring the neglect of the national literature by Mexican readers Señor Agüeros is attempting to arouse new interest by publishing, in uniform style, the works of the best authors under the general title Biblioteca de Autores Mexicanos (Library of Mexican Authors). The series has passed its fiftieth volume, is being well received, and is serving a most useful purpose.
THE DAY OF THE DEAD.
Las ofrendas; (the offerings) this is the custom which gives a special character to the Day of the Dead in my village. Those candles of whitest wax, those human-figure shaped loaves of bread, those crowns, those exquisite sweets which for six days have been offered for sale in the booths in the Plaza are to be deposited upon the graves in the cemetery—in such wise, that the rude bench covered with a cloth of the finest cotton, assumes the appearance of a carefully prepared table, fitted with the richest and most delicate dishes. There are placed earthen jars of syrup, dishes of wild honey in the comb, cakes made of young and tender corn—sweetened and spiced with cinnamon, preserves, vessels of holy water, and the best of whatever else the mother of the family can provide. It is the banquet which the living give to the dead....
From three in the afternoon, at which time the bell of the parish-church begins to strike the doubles, sadly and slowly, as the doubles are always struck in the villages, families sally from their houses and direct their way to the cemetery or to the church porch, where there are also some graves. There they traverse the pathways between these and by examining the crosses (not the names nor epitaphs, for there are none) they recognize the place where relatives or friends rest.... They then place the objects which they bear as the ofrenda, light the candles, sprinkle the grave with some drops of holy water, and soon after there is heard in that enclosure of the dead, the murmur of the prayers they raise to Heaven.... Thus the afternoon passes: neither curiosity, nor the desire to see, nor other profane pastime, distract the attention of these simple villagers, who, absorbed in the sanctuary of their most intimate recollections, pray and sigh with tender and deep sadness.
When the evening shadows drive them thence, they bear the ofrendas to the interior of the houses. The lights are renewed, a sort of an altar is improvised upon which are placed the objects which before were on the graves, and other prayers and other mournings begin. It is not rare to see, high in some tree in the grove, or in some solitary and retired spot, a taper which gleams, in spite of the night breeze: it is the offering for the ánima sola (the lonely soul)—that is to say, of one who has in the village neither a relative nor a friend who remembers it and decorates its grave. A bit of bread and a little taper, and a prayer repeated for it—this is what each family dedicates to the soul of that unknown one.
Thus do the poor people of my village honor the memory of the dead.
THE STUDENT AT HOME.
The student who returns to his village is generally reputed to be a man of learning, who knows everything. The most perplexing questions are submitted to him, though they may be remote from the studies which he has pursued. If the priest is preparing a Latin inscription, he consults about it with the student; if the townspeople desire to make a petition to the town government, the chief of the district, or the governor of the state, they request the student to compose the document to be presented; if it is planned to celebrate with a festival the anniversaries of some prominent personage of the place, they invite, first of all, the newly-returned collegian, to pronounce a discourse and enthuse all with his words; if some person is seriously ill, they call the student to examine the patient and hold his opinion decisive regarding the disease. That year he has studied civil procedure and international law in the Law School; but what of that? He has lived in Mexico, where there are so many physicians and must know and understand something of medicine. The judge of the lower court is about to decide a case; ah, well, before doing so he strolls around to the house of the collegian, and after asking him a thousand things about Mexico, regarding politics, theaters, the promenades and driveways, etc., inquires his opinion concerning the matter with which he is occupied.
“You can enlighten me,” he says humbly. “Perhaps I have not sufficiently informed myself regarding the value and force of the evidence; I fear that I have badly interpreted such and such articles of the Code. Come, let us walk down to the courtroom and have the good will to show what is best.”
“But that will be useless, because I know nothing of this matter,” replies the collegian. “This year I have been studying mathematics in the School of Mines.”
“So much the better; thus you will have a clear head for this kind of questions; because it is plain, had you been studying law you might now have difficulty in co-ordinating your ideas. No excuses, no excuses; come to my house, I have great confidence in your knowledge and sound judgment.”
Such is the part which the student fills, in his village, during vacations. If he yields to all the requests made of him and speaks of matters which he does not understand, words cannot be found sufficient for praising him. How wise! how humble and good he is! he refuses no one. If, on the contrary, the student is timid and only desires to speak of matters with which he is acquainted; if he refuses to decide a law-suit, to cure a sick man, to preach a sermon, then—who so ignorant as he, he knows nothing, he is good for nothing!
CRITICISM OF THE NEW SCHOOL OF MEXICAN WRITERS.
Well, then, in my opinion the new literary generation has no importance; I discover no virtues in it, neither love for study, nor noble tendencies favoring the advancement of our literature. Who can endure this crowd of youth who write in the papers and who, in spite of their ignorance, give themselves the airs of learned men? With what eyes can we observe their affectations? They think they know all, but because they have learned jokes in the low plays, history in the novels and librettos of the opera, and gallantries in the almanacs and reviews of fashion. They believe themselves men of letters and poets, because they have published some article in the —— and have, in the —— given forth some verses in which they speak of their disenchantments and of their ennui, of their doubts and hours of pain. Although beardless youths, they are already miserable, very miserable, their complaints and laments for the disillusions they have suffered have no bounds.—They speak everywhere of politics and literature; in the interludes at the theater they render judgment on the play in an epigram, and if some praise it they criticise it, or they celebrate its beauties when all find it defective. And thus they are in other things; because they believe that, in following public opinion, even though well founded, they fall into vulgarity, and to be singular is what they most desire.
Moreover, these youth, neither by the literary education they receive, nor by the system of studies pursued today in the schools, nor by their tastes and inclinations, nor finally by the models which they set before themselves for imitation in their writings, will ever succeed in giving days of glory to our literature. Profoundly inflated by the praises of their friends, without direction or desire to receive it, their self-esteem nourished by the very persons who ought to reprove and correct it, tainted with modern skepticism, rebellious, in a word, to the authority of rules and of good models, what hopes do they offer? What class of works are to sally from their hands? They do not study nor accumulate new information; they are not mindful of the literary movement of the epoch; still less do they attempt to correct their defects by following the teaching and example of the masters in the art. And if they do none of these things it is useless for them to write and publish verses, since the progress of a literature has never yet consisted in the abundance of authors and of works. Love for study and for work, close thought, good selection of subjects and care in expression—these are the things necessary.
Criticism, further, is completely lacking among us; criticism, so necessary for correcting and instructing, so useful for preventing our lapses to bad taste and for forming good taste. Who has thought of it? Who has ventured to exercise it, here where all desire praises and where it is customary to lavish them? For my part, I hold, that if our literature has not progressed so much as it should, if there are ignorant, insolent writers, inflated with vanity and pride, it has been due not exactly to the lack of criticism but to the mutual flatteries which all have exchanged in the papers. Today, as a French writer says, one utters one compliment, to gain the right of demanding twenty. No one ventures to frankly express his opinion, since friendship, the hope of obtaining a favor, considerations of respect and other various circumstances, deprive the critic of his freedom; and although he ought to be severe, impartial and just, he becomes a benevolent dispenser of unmerited eulogies, an encourager of unpardonable defects and veritable literary heresies.
Criticism, to give efficacious results, should be severe always, above all here in Mexico where many believe themselves endowed with the talent of Gustave Becquer, of Figaro, of Delgas or of Theophile Gauthier. It should eulogize with much moderation, and that to the humble, modest and timid, because these need kindly words for their encouragement.
PEON Y CONTRERAS AND HIS ROMANCES DRAMATICOS.
These suggestions and many others which it would be impertinence to present in this article were suggested to me by the precious little volume which, with the title Romances dramaticos, our inspired poet José Peon y Contreras has just published; and in order to render a tribute to justice and merit, rather than to praise one who is sufficiently praised by his very work, I am about to say something about it.
Fourteen pieces form the collection, and although short they are choicest gems in which are brilliantly displayed the most exquisite and delicate beauties. In my opinion the first is a certain originality in the form, under which the poet encloses a veritable drama, a terrible and sad catastrophe, a poem in which the great passions of the soul are stirred and the tender breathing of the purest affections are felt. The form, I say, but I do not mean precisely the meter—since it is understood what that must be—but the unfolding of the romance, the design of the composition, the manner employed by the author to present and develop his thought. In these lovely ballads (for such they appear) there are no details; the movement of the action, the rapid development of the plot, the violence and precision with which the figures appear upon the scene, demand few but energetic pencil strokes and do not permit digressions nor long and minute descriptions of places and persons; they are like those pretty miniatures whose merit consists in the exactness, the clearness, the grace, with which the scene or picture is reproduced in spite of the small space at the disposition of the artist. As little are there inopportune references to times preceding the drama which develops; nothing to distract the reader from the scenes which the poet places in view: all is actual, if I may so express myself, and only the final catastrophe is presented in which a passion or a misfortune culminates, at the conclusion of a series of unhappy incidents. For the rest, it is easy to divine what elements Peon y Contreras employs in his dramatic romances; love with all its tendernesses, jealousies with their terrible ravages, virtue with its power and its struggles against temptation and vice, the energy of a manly heart, the storms resulting from defiled honor, from violated faith, from lost hope ... all that which the soul feels in its hours of joy or despair. And what pictures he can paint with a single stroke; how he transports us to those distant times of Castilian honor, of solitary and retired castles, of somber and silent cities; what strength of coloring there is at times in the scenes he paints and at other times what enchanting ingenuity, what adorable simplicity, what innocence, what grace.
MANUEL GUSTAVO ANTONIO REVILLA
Manuel Gustavo Antonio Revilla was born in the City of Mexico, February 7, 1863. His father, Domingo Revilla, was a distinguished author and from him the son appears to have inherited his studious inclinations. Young Revilla studied law, completing his course in 1887, but the practice of that profession had little attraction for him, and he has devoted himself to teaching and writing. Having a strong taste for the fine arts, he developed sound art criticism, and in 1892 was appointed Professor of the History of Art in the National School of Fine Arts. During the following year he wrote his Arte en Mexico (Art in Mexico), of which the Spanish art writer, Menéndez y Pelayo, said:—“I have read with much pleasure, and I believe with much profit, Arte en Mexico, learning from it new data regarding architects, sculptors, and painters, of the times of the Viceroys, who are almost unknown in Spain. As well from the novelty and interest of its subject, as for the good taste and sound art criticism with which it is treated, the book deserves every kind of praise, and will no doubt receive it, from all intelligent readers.” After ten years of class instruction Professor Revilla was appointed Secretary of the same school, in February, 1903. At the same time he was appointed one of a committee of three to prepare a systematic catalogue of the works of art belonging to the institution.
Señor Revilla is a public speaker of power and some of his addresses have attracted notable attention. Among these may be mentioned the Independence Day oration of September 16, 1889, and that commemorating the forty-third anniversary of the Death of the Cadets of the Military School of Chapultepec. He has also been a prolific writer for periodicals. To El Tiempo (The Time), he has long been an editorial contributor, especially upon topics of public law, political economy, and social problems. Traveling in Guatemala, he was connected for a time with El Bien Publico (The Public Weal), in which he published an article upon the Monroe Doctrine, which attracted considerable attention in Latin America. In his writings of every kind, Revilla shows the greatest care in the choice of words and use of language. In 1902 he was named a Correspondent of the Mexican Academy.
At present Señor Revilla is writing a series of critical biographies of Mexican artists. This is an absolutely new undertaking in Mexico and the work demands exceptional information and much research. Volumes have so far appeared regarding the sculptors Patiño, Ixtolinque, and Guerra, the architect Hidalga, the painter Rebull, and the musicians Paniagua and Valle. This series is being published by Agüeros and will be extended. Revilla has also written a biography of Francisco Gonzales Bocanegro, author of the Mexican National Hymn.
Our selections are taken from El Arte en Mexico.
THE FINE ARTS IN MEXICO.
The three arts do not attain the same grade of development, nor prosper equally, at all times. At the beginning, that is, during the sixteenth century, their growth was slow, as was to be expected of all pertaining to a young community, and they were sustained, thanks to masters from the art centres of Spain. But, from the very beginning of the seventeenth century, these are to be seen surrounded by disciples, many born in the colony, to whom they transmit their knowledge, and, owing to the increasing demand for works, which they receive, the production augments and a new artistic manifestation appears, which, although derived from the Spaniards, may be considered indigenous.
During the seventeenth century is when painting was practised with greatest brilliancy and the schools of Mexico and Puebla were formed, which, although decadent, were maintained in the following century.
On the contrary, this eighteenth century, is the period of greatest lustre for architecture; during it, ancient edifices, begun long before, were carried to completion, many others were rebuilt, and new ones were erected, and there appears in houses, palaces, and churches, a style in which symmetry is but laxly observed and ornamentation is profuse or lavish.
Sculpture, long confined to imperfect wooden statues and crude bas-reliefs in stone, acquires an actual existence only near the close of the past century, with the famous Valencian[18], author of one of the most famous of equestrian statues; with him also architecture assumed correctness, simplicity and proportions in harmony with the classical canon.
* * * *
The fine arts in Mexico, without having arrived, in general, to the perfection to which the Spaniards carried them, ... cannot, for that reason, be considered unworthy of esteem and study, since in them are found undeniable and many excellences. The defects met with in them are not sufficient to invalidate their merits. The literary works of that time are also open to criticism, but no one has denied the value of the literature of the vice-royal period, during which arts and letters attained equal prosperity. Echave, the elder, yields in nothing to Balbuena; José Juarez and Arteaga stand forth conspicuously as Sister Juana Inéz de la Cruz; Perusquía or Tres Guerras are comparable with Navarette; and, as famous as is Ruíz de Alarcón in his line, is Tolsa in his.
TRES GUERRAS AND TOLSA.
Independently, in a modest city, a creole artist, Eduardo Tres Guerras, followed the same impulse, with result and applause. Student of the Academy, he had been trained in painting; having attained no great result in which, he dedicated himself to architecture, which yielded him merited laurels for constructing—besides various beautiful private houses—the Church of the Carmen of Celaya and the Bridge of the Laja in the same city.
Tolsa and Tres Guerras have many points of likeness; both, professing another art,—the one statuary, the other painting—dedicated themselves later to construction; both cultivated the same style, that of the Renaissance, and succeeded in imparting majesty to their buildings. Tolsa is more severe, elegant, and grand; Tres Guerras better knows how to express grace and is more audacious. This one sometimes lacks good taste, the other—rather frequently becomes heavy. Withal, both are notable architects; and, if one wins constant applause, the other gains an enduring fame.
Although it might be thought that Tres Guerras felt Tolsa’s influence, nothing is further from the truth, since Tres Guerras had already constructed the Carmen and the Laja bridge, before Tolsa had reared his edifices.
With these two artists, the cycle of vice-royal architecture ended. Beginning rude and coarse it developed brilliant and overloaded, and ended simple and correct, ever showing itself strong and robust as the virile, conquering, race that produced it.
WOOD CARVING IN PUEBLA.
When these glaring offenses against art were not only condoned, but authorized by religion, it will be appreciated how great credit is due to a group of modest and industrious artists, who, in the City of Puebla, about the second half of the past, and the beginning of the present, century, without good masters nor great models for imitation, cultivated the sculpture of images, forming their own canons. The Coras, with all their defects, play the rôle of restorers to respect of an art, which could not fall to a more lamentable extremity. There were three principal—though other artists of lesser value figure in turn—José Villegas de Cora, the master of all; Zacarias Cora, and José Villegas, who also took the surname Cora, as an honorific title.
José Villegas de Cora, called in his time the Maestro Grande, from having been the founder of the school, was the first to insist upon the observation of the natural, from which indeed he himself took but a general idea, leaving the arrangement of the details of the projected work to fancy; from this proceeds the arbitrary character, to be observed in the minutiæ of almost all of his images. At the same time he sought naturalness in the arrangement of draperies; that for which he was most esteemed, was the grace and beauty of the faces, particularly those of his Virgins; which, like most of his other works, were made to be clothed.
Zacarias Cora made show of some knowledge of anatomy, accentuating the muscles and veins, which did not prevent his figures from frequently lacking proper proportions and appearing to have been supplied with them from sentiment rather than accuracy. In expression, he competed with his master. His best work was the San Cristóbal with the infant Jesus, which is in the temple of that name in Puebla.
Unlike the preceding, most of the works of José Villegas were of full size; in them he handled the draperies well, though at times falling into mannerisms, as did Zacarias also, in exaggerating movements and delicacy in them. His faces are less pleasing. His Santa Teresa, larger than life, belonging to the church of that name in Puebla, offers a good example of draperies, and presents the feature,—common to all the works of the sculptors of this school, of a pursing of the lips, with the purpose of making the mouth appear smaller.
Each of the three artists named had some quality in which he was distinguished from the others; one in the attractiveness of the faces, another in the greater attention to the natural, the other in the regular proportions and in having preferred to make figures of life size. After them the school decayed and died.
THE WORKS OF TOLSA.
Tolsa did not make many statues, since another art robbed him of a great part of the time which he might have given to sculpture. The few, which remain, suffice to show his knowledge, his talent, his brilliancy and his power.
Besides the superb equestrian statue of Charles IV, legitimate pride of the City of Mexico, he made the principal statues of the tabernaculo of the Cathedral of Puebla, those of the clock of the Cathedral of Mexico and some pieces in wood. Only two of his sculptures were run in bronze, the Charles IV, and the Conception, of the tabernaculo, the others which adorn this, and which represent the four great doctors of the Latin Church, being of white stucco, imitating marble, and those of the façade of the Cathedral of Mexico, which represent the three virtues, being of stone. The size selected for all of these is the colossal, which so well lends itself to the grand. And this is Tolsa, beyond all, grand in proportions, in type conceptions, in postures, in gestures, in dress.
The horse of the statue of the Spanish monarch, treated after the classic, is of beautiful outline, natural movement, graceful and animated in the extreme; as for the figure of the king, although a little heavy, it is majestic, in movement well harmonized with that of the noble brute, and forms with it a beautiful combination of lines. There has been abundant reason for counting it one of the best equestrian statues.
The remaining sculptures of Tolsa, that is, the Doctors, the Conception, and the Virtues, are distinguished by the movement, which gives them an appearance full of grace and life. All reveal sufficient personality combined with conscientious study of the antique. If one sought to find defects he might say that at times he is heavy, over-emphasizes and gives a berninesque execution to his draperies.
In wood, he has left two heads of the Dolorosa and a Conception, artistically colored.
BALTASAR DE ECHAVE.
We have the scantiest personal notices of Baltasar de Echave, commonly called Echave the elder, to distinguish him from the painter of the same name, his son, who is designated as Echave the younger; but although these data are scanty, they are abundant in comparison with those which are preserved of other painters (of the time), of whom we know only the names. He was a Basque, born in Zumaya, in the Province of Guipúzcoa, and besides being a painter was a philologist, having published a work upon the antiquity of the language of Cantabria. He has several sons, of whom two were painters. Torquemada states that, at the time when he was writing his Monarquia Indiana (1609), Echave finished his great retable of the Church of Santiago Tlaltelolco; further, it is known by the examination of his works, that already in 1601, he was painting, as the colossal canvas of San Cristóbal, which bears that date, shows, and that still in 1640, the activity of his brush had not ceased, since in that year he executed the Martyrdom of Santa Catarina for the Dominicans of Mexico....
His fecundity did not prevent his pictures from having that completeness and detailed study which makes them so agreeable; yet, at times he falls into carelessness of drawing, which cannot at all be attributed to lack of skill, but to the fact that his pictures were generally destined to occupy high places in churches, rendering unnecessary a minute attention to finishing, unappreciable at a great distance and in the feeble light of the interior of churches....
Being of versatile genius Echave displayed varied characteristics; sometimes we see him most painstaking in outlines; sometimes easy and firm in handling the brush; now varied in types and attitudes and again attentive to the arrangement of draperies; now skillful in the nude, of which but few examples are found in the Mexican school; now notable as a colorist, worthy of comparison with the Venetians. When it suits him, he can give beauty of expression, but he does not so persistently seek it, that it becomes a mannerism.
He neglected, yes, systematically, the figures of secondary importance, his draperies are often hard and confused, and his halos and glories lack luminous intensity. Without being weak, he lacks strength in his modelling and he does not delight in strong contrasts of light and shade—both qualities in which the Spaniards surpass. His pictures, in general, do not profoundly move, although they produce an agreeable impression largely because he does not highly develop expression, although undertaking highly emotional incidents, such as the martyrdom of certain saints, at the moment of their suffering. Thus it is not the expression which most interests in his San Ponciano, San Aproniano, and San Lorenzo, but the nude figures of the martyrs, the character in the participants in the scene, and the fine coloring.
As an example of feminine beauty and of undeniable and palpable Raphaelean influence, may be cited the figures of the Saints and the Virgin, respectively, in the paintings of Santa Cecilia, Santa Isabel, Queen of Portugal, the Porciuncula, and the Adoration of the Magi.
In the latter, one figure is seen, that of the king who adores the infant Jesus, which is admirably conceived and executed; type, expression, attitude and drapery, are worthy of a great master. The coloring and rich draperies of the Santa Isabel and of Santa Cecilia are also notable. But the best pages of Echave, and at the same time the most mystical creations, are his Christ praying in the Garden, and Saint Francis receiving the Stigmata; both compositions as simple as they are beautiful; the figure of Jesus, in the first, is so peaceful and resigned, that it has been justly compared to the celestial visions of Overbeck; that of Saint Francis is equally imposing and majestic for its great asceticism, for the sincerity and truth with which the ecstasy in which the Christ of the Middle Ages is overwhelmed, is represented.
To him belong also the Presentation of the Virgin at the Temple, the Visitation, and a masterly Conception, which is in the State College of Puebla, of vigorous execution and strong light and shade. Echave gave life size to most of the figures on his canvases, as did—indeed—most of the other painters of the school.
MIGUEL CABRERA.
Miguel Cabrera exaggerated the defects of Ibarra and fell into others, because he is more incorrect in form, more neglects the study of the natural, lacks strength in execution, and reduces coloring to the use of five or six tints, monotonously repeated; he is weak in perspective, and in composition never maintains himself at any great height; yet, with all this, his vogue was great during his lifetime and his prestige has not ceased today. The religious communities outbid each other for his works, connoisseurs sought his canvases, the University entrusted important commissions to his hand, Archbishop Rubio y Salinas appointed him his court painter, and when, in 1753, a group of painters were organizing the first Academy of Painting, they elected him perpetual president. How can we explain the high opinion in which he was held? The reason may be found in the bad taste then prevalent, bad taste which in other times has even elevated a Gongora, or has caused that a Lucas Jordán shall be compared with, and preferred to, a Claude Coello. But there is a further reason for the popularity, which Cabrera enjoyed; that he painted prettily, taking great pains with the faces, even when he neglected the rest, and employing brilliant coloring, pleasing to the crowd.
To his fame, have contributed his activity and extraordinary productiveness, shown by the quantity he produced, but particularly by his having painted the thirty-four great canvases of the life of San Ignacio, and the same number of that of Santo Domingo, in the short period of fourteen months. The fact is not, really, so surprising if one considers on the one hand his unfinished style, and on the other that it is in those very pictures, that his style reached its fullest expression; these being, for that reason, the worst we have seen of that artist. It must be added, too, that other artists worked in his studio, who naturally assisted him in his heavier commissions. Furthermore, it is not the quantity of the works of an artist, nor the rapidity with which he turns them out, that gives the measure of his value, but their quality, no matter how small their number. Otherwise, Luca, of course, would have long since been proclaimed the greatest painter of the world, and criticism would have relegated to oblivion such works as the Santa Forma of Claude Coello, for having been made, although marvelously perfect, with patient slowness.
JOSÉ PEON Y CONTRERAS.
José Peon y Contreras was born at Merida, Yucatan, January 12, 1843, being son of Juan Bautista Peon and María del Pilar Contreras. Studying medicine in his native city, he received the degree of M.D., at the age of nineteen years. In 1863, he went to the City of Mexico and saying nothing of his earlier course, again went through the medical curriculum. By competition, he obtained an appointment in the Hospital de Jesus; in 1867, he was Director of the San Hipólito Hospital for the Insane; for several years he was in charge of public vaccination for the city.
Giving his leisure to letters, José Peon y Contreras soon gained high rank as a lyric poet and a dramatist. He had already entered the field of letters before leaving Merida. His first effort was La Cruz del Paredon, a fantastic legend, printed when its author was eighteen years of age. A volume of Poesias (Poems) appeared in 1868. In Mexico, in 1871 he printed, in the paper, El Domingo (Sunday) a collection of Romances historicos Mexicanos (Mexican Historical Romances), in which he dealt with Aztec themes and actors. These have merit, but are little known. The field of José Peon y Contreras’s greatest triumphs is the, in Mexico, much neglected drama. In 1876 he published his Hasta el cielo (Unto Heaven), a drama in prose, which was a great success. It was rapidly followed by others, mostly in verse. On May 7, 1876, La hija del Rey (The Daughter of the King) being presented, the writers of Mexico presented the author of the piece a gold pen and a Diploma of Honor signed by all. Agüeros says of José Peon y Contreras that he is to be compared with José Echegary. He is of “marvellous dramatic talent; profound knowledge of the human heart; his descriptions are paintings; his dialogue is natural, sound, and moral. His faults are claimed to be similarity of argument and absence of certain dramatic resources, showing lack of originality.”
In 1880, he published Romances dramaticos (Dramatic Romances), in which he presents fourteen brief, rapid sketches, each of them capable of expansion into a drama. In 1881 he published Trovas Columbinas (Columbian Metres), lyrical poems dealing with Columbus and his discovery. In 1883, a volume of poems, Ecos (Echoes) was published in New York. Two novels by our author Taide and Veleidosa, have been well received, the latter being, perhaps, the favorite.
José Peon y Contreras at one time represented Yucatan in the lower house of Congress; later, in 1875, he was Senator for the same State. He has recently been a Deputy for the State of Nuevo Léon.
HASTA EL CIELO!
The scene is laid in the City of Mexico; the time is the seventeenth century. The play is in three acts and is written in prose. The selections are from Act III. The action takes place at Sancho’s house. Sancho is the private secretary of the Viceroy; he is passing under an assumed name and is seeking vengeance against the Viceroy, who does not know his identity, for his father’s death and his mother’s dishonor. Blanca, supposed to be the Viceroy’s ward, is in reality his daughter; this Sancho knows and gains her love, with the intention of making her dishonor the Viceroy’s disgrace. To escape a hated suitor, Blanca, trusting to Sancho’s pretended love, has left her father’s house and taken refuge with Sancho. The Viceroy, distracted seeks her. Ultimately, the true love, which Sancho would give her, proves impossible.
SCENE IV.
Blanca: Sancho!
Sancho: Ah, Blanca—what is the matter?
B.: Nothing; nothing; how happy I am to find you here.
S.: Did you not sleep?
B.: No. I could not. Slumber fled from my eyes.
S.: Why? Are you not here secure? What do you fear? Have I not told you——?
B.: In vain I seek repose. My agitated spirit wakes; my afflicted soul recalls the past and trembles for the future. There are moments, when I feel that I shall go mad!
S.: You tremble, are cold—Blanca, calm yourself.
B.: The memory of this misfortune haunts me.
S.: You still insist——!
B.: You attempt to conceal it from me, in vain.... Last night I overheard, when Fortun announced to you the death of this—of this marquis.
S.: Well! What of that?—Man’s days are numbered. His hour of punishment arrives.
B.: Moreover, I can not conceal it from you, Sancho; the passing moments seem to me eternities.—We cannot continue living thus.—It is necessary that God should sanctify this union.
S.: Soon—very soon.
B.: This is not my house. Much as I love you, much as I have sacrificed my dignity upon the altar of this love, I cannot be tranquil. I feel something here, in my breast, of which I had no idea before,—and—you see, I cannot venture to raise my eyes in your presence.—The blush, which inflames my cheek, is the shame of guilt——
S.: You, guilty——?
B.: Just the same!—What am I, here?—When I am alone no one beholds me, but I would even hide me from myself.—If, in snatching me from my home, you have taken advantage of my love, do not sport with my weakness.
S.: Blanca, God reads our hearts——
B.: Yes, and because God reads them, I implore you, once for all, to end this situation. What is past is as the image of a fearful dream.—To have dreamed it alone had seemed to me impossible. Cruel! this is very cruel!—Your very presence is enough to humiliate me—and I could not live without your presence!—I would desire that looking at you my heart should beat with joy. I wish to feel that which I have always felt at seeing you! that which I felt before!—Why turn your face away? Why does your stern and sombre glance uneasily conceal itself beneath your lids, and why do you not look at me as heretofore?
S.: Blanca, you suspect——
B.: No, I do not suspect; I believe. I confess it frankly.... Love is born and grows slowly, but it may die in a single instant!—Mine is the guilt.
S.: Cease.—Do you not see that you are lacerating my soul?
B.: Listen! At night you slept—I watched! I shuddered, for presently I heard your voice, as if distant, broken and tremulous—you were speaking as if an enormous rock weighed down upon your breast——
S.: You are right—it was so——!
B.: You uttered crushing words,—words of vengeance—of dishonor—of love!
S.: Also of love!
B.: Among those words, which issued as if drawn from the innermost places of your heart, and which escaped from your lips like an echo—I heard my name.—What was this, Sancho?—Tell me.
S.: A dream!—an awful nightmare! I know not whether I dreamed. I know not whether I was awake. I saw you, Blanca, humiliated, degraded, vile,—— ... and in this fearful struggle between my love and my vengeance——
B.: Your vengeance!
S.: You do not know what that is! Grief wrung my soul; I felt madness in my brain; despair sprung up in my heart as the tempest in the black centre of the storm-cloud and a torrent of blasphemies and prayers broke from my lips.
B.: Sancho! But you are still delirious!
S.: No, Blanca; no, my poor Blanca—Now, I am not delirious; no! but I believe indeed, I shall go mad. There still continues, in my soul, a frightful combat—here I feel the battle, fierce, desperate,—mortal. Go—recover yourself.—Leave me alone!
B.: Sancho!
S.: I love you.—Go——!
(Blanca leaves, weeping.)
SCENE V.
Sancho, who has watched Blanca disappear, when she has gone, says: Unhappy being! Why does a cursed blood course through your veins? Aye!—What blame have I, for having loved you ere I knew the stock from which you came—the blood that gives color and freshness to your cheeks, smile to your lips, light to your eyes? Why do I love you, when I ought to hate you? Why ought I to hate you, when I love you with all my heart?—What is this?—Aye! Aye! I cannot. I cannot more.
(The curtain falls darkly on the scene. A short pause.)
* * * *
SCENE VII.
Viceroy: Sancho——
Sancho: Enter sir! So great an honor!—
V.: I have already told you, Sancho, that I love you as a son. It is not the Viceroy of Mexico, who comes now to your house. I enter it as a friend. Receive me as such.
S.: And—to what, then, do I owe this pleasure? Seat yourself, sir, seat yourself.
(The Viceroy seats himself.)
V.: I come to you, Sancho, because I am most unhappy.
S.: (With pleasure.) You, most unhappy!
V.: Yes. If you knew——
S.: And what has happened to you? Let me know—but allow me to close this door because a draught enters. (He bolts the door that communicates with the interior and through which Blanca had passed.) Ah, well! sir! what makes you unhappy? It seems incredible; a man, powerful, rich, immensely rich, cradled from infancy in the arms of fortune—Perhaps, your wife!——
V.: My wife?—No! My wife has never been able to make me unhappy, just as she has never made me happy. We have never loved. I married her for family reasons and, in fine——
S.: I do not understand, then——
V.: Hear me, Sancho! For many years my only good, my only joy, my sole delight in this world, has been a lovely girl——
S.: Yes, yes,—a lovely girl who has grown up, receiving her education, in the Convent of Seville.
V.: You know it! (Profoundly surprised.)
S.: And whom you brought with you to Mexico, two years ago.
V.: Yes.
S.: You lodged her with the Sisters of the Conception where you caused her to be loved and respected as if she were your daughter.
V.: That is true!
S.: You visited her daily, secretly, at evening——
V.: Yes, because——
S.: You have already said it. Because you loved her with all your soul——
V.: With all my soul! but——
S.: But they have robbed you of her. (Very brief pause.)
V.: (Approaching Sancho, with great emotion.) And you, you Sancho, know this also!
S.: As I tell you——
V.: And, who, who has been—? Who—? Do not tell me his name, that matters nothing! Tell me where he is,—tell me that—because I desire his life’s blood.
S.: Calm, Señor Viceroy, more calm!
V.: Calm! and she is not at my side—Calm! and the hours pass.—Calm! and the grief increases and the suffering grows stronger, and despair kills!
S.: You suffer greatly!
V.: Tell me who it is, Sancho! You know it. I see it in your eyes.—Tell me.—You know that here I am the equal of the King! The King, himself, is not more powerful than I! Ask, from me, riches, honor, position,—all, all, for your single word! Speak! You know! Is it not so?
S.: Yes. It is true.
V.: Oh, joy! And you will tell me!
S.: No.
V.: (Furious.) No?—You will not tell me, you? (He directs himself toward the door, raising his voice)—Halloa, here!
S.: (Gently detaining him.) Ah! I will close this door because a draught enters. (Locks the door with a key. The Viceroy looks at him with frightened surprise.)
V.: Sancho!—Are you making sport of me? Are you trifling with my agony?—But, no, no, you would not be capable of that, impossible.—You are not an ingrate.
S.: Seat yourself, Señor Viceroy, and hear me.
V.: Seat myself?—Good, I obey you—Now, you see—I seat myself.—But you must tell it me.
S.: Listen. Only last night, Señor Viceroy, I told you that Juan de Paredes,—the person who has been recommended to you——
V.: My God! but—and, what has this to do?
S.: If you are not calm——!
V.: Sancho!
S.: If you are not calm, I will say nothing and then you would know nothing, even if you put me to the torture.
V.: Well! well!—I am silent—I listen—What anxiety!
S.: Juan de Paredes, unhappy orphan, entrusted to a friend—very intimate—in fact a second self—the mission of avenging his wrongs upon the person who dishonored his mother, Doña Mencia, and assassinated his father—and this firm friend finally discovered the scoundrel—ah, he was a man of great power!
V.: And you know his name?
S.: If you interrupt——
V.: I am silent.
S.: The good friend of Juan de Paredes succeeded in approaching—then in speaking with—and, later, in introducing himself into the house of—and, soon in ingratiating himself in the heart of the criminal.—He spied upon him as the wolf-hunter spies upon his prey,—scrutinized his movements—informed himself of his most insignificant actions. He studied his character, his most hidden motives; he followed him everywhere and at all times and at last discovered the place—the place in which the lair of the beast was hidden! He had but a single love on earth!—And there he fixed his eyes, because fixing his eyes there he thrust a dagger into the assassin’s heart.—Not into his heart, no,—into his very soul!—Because, that love was his daughter—a lovely maiden!——
V.: Continue——!
S.: She gave him evidences of her love.
V.: Continue——!
S.: She loved him with all the blindness and strength of a first love.
V.: And he——?
S.: He did not love her!
Blanca: (From within, with a feeble cry.) Aye!
V.: That cry——
S.: A cry?—Did you hear a cry?
V.: I thought—perhaps, no—I deceived myself,—continue.
S.: And one night—at night!
V.: I know it, now!—Be still! his name!
S.: He stole her—to dishonor her——
V.: Silence.
S.: To defile her——
Blanca: (Within.) Open. (Violently shakes the door.)
S.: Hear her.
V.: There—she, there! Wretch—! What have you done? You shall die. (Placing his hand on his swordhilt.)
S.: Yes, yes! Come on, infamous assassin; because, I abhor you as I do her.
SCENE VIII.
The same; also Blanca, who has broken open the door.
B.: (Addressing Sancho.) You lie! You do not abhor me!
V.: Blanca!
S.: (Pointing at Blanca.) Look at her—! look at her—! She was there—! (Indicating his inner apartments, where she was.) And when, soon, you die at my hand, Viceroy of Mexico, you will have suffered two deaths!
V.: (To Blanca.) And is it true——?
B.: Sancho! Save me from this dishonor!
S.: (Paying no attention to her; to the Viceroy.) When finally a father meets——
V.: (Trying to stop Sancho’s mouth.) Silence, cursed wretch, silence——!
S.: Blanca; this is not your guardian, he is—your father!
B.: My father! (The viceroy and Blanca stand as if stupefied.)
S.: (Contemplating them.) And how much a father’s heart must suffer in presenting himself with this sacred title for the first time, to a daughter’s heart. She cannot let him kiss her brow—no, she cannot.
B.: (Supplicatingly.) Sancho!
S.: He cannot feel his eyes wet with tears of joy—but only with tears of vengeance! How much she must suffer and how much he!
V.: Infamy.
S.: Infamy, no! because her suffering is multiplied a hundred-fold in yours.
V.: (Drawing his sword.) Blanca, you die!
B.: (Shrinking, horrified.) Ah!
S.: (Throwing himself upon the viceroy.) Do not touch her; look at her—she is innocent! Love has robbed me of my prey. I love her so much that my love conquered my vengeance. (Joy appears on the face of the viceroy.) But do not rejoice, Viceroy. You who rob women of their honor, and assassinate old men, do not rejoice. Only God and you and I know that she is pure. I have not dared to outrage her by a single glance; but, tomorrow——
V.: Ah!
S.: Tomorrow the whole court shall know that she’s your daughter.
S.: And that she passed the night here. (Pointing to the inner rooms.)
V.: Thou shalt die.
S.: My squire knows it——
V.: (Drawing his sword.) Enough!—blood!—what thirst so frightful——!
S.: (Unsheathing.) ’Tis less than mine!
B.: Señors, hold! Sancho, is this possible?
S.: Her voice again—again the cry of her love here in my heart! Withdraw your glance from me Blanca, since at its influence my heart fails and the coward steel trembles in my hand.
B.: Sancho! enough!
S.: Hear it——! Hear it, my father! She asks it——! Have pity on me, since, now that the hour has come for avenging thee, the pardon struggles to issue from my lips! My father, pardon!
V.: Your father, you have said! Who was your father? What is your name?
S.: My name is Juan de Paredes.
V.: You—you are the son of Don Diego and Doña Mencia?
S.: Why do you remind me of it? Why do you summon before me their bloody spirits? Yes, I am—I am he, whom you have robbed of all.
V.: You, who dishonored her!
S.: Yes.
V.: It seems as if Satan possesses you and hell inspires your words!
B.: What does he say?
S.: What do you say?
V.: Unhappy being, know that those secret amours with Doña Mencia bore fruit and that fruit is——
S.: She! oh cursed love! She is my sister——! Oh, almighty God!
* * * *
JOSÉ MARÍA ROA BÁRCENA.
José María Roa Bárcena was born at Jalapa, State of Vera Cruz, on September 3, 1827. His father, José María Rodriguez Roa, was long and helpfully engaged in local politics. The son entered upon a business life, and literary work was, for him, at first, but a relaxation. His youthful writings, both in prose and poetry, attracted much attention. In 1853 he removed to the City of Mexico, at that time a center of great political and literary activity, where he devoted himself to a politico-literary career. As a contributor or editor he was associated with important periodicals,—El Universal, La Cruz, El Eco Nacional and La Sociedad. He favored the French Intervention and the Imperial establishment. Soon disapproving of Maximilian’s policy, he came out strongly against that ruler and refused appointments at his hands. When the Empire fell, he returned to business life, but was arrested and detained for several months in prison.
Señor Roa Bárcena has ever been associated with the conservative party, but has always commanded the respect of political foes by his firm convictions and regard for the calls of duty. He is eminently patriotic and in his writings deals with Mexican life and customs, national history, and the lives and works of distinguished Mexicans. His writings are varied. His poetry has been largely the product of his early years and of his old age; his prose has been written in his middle life.
Of his early poems Ithamar and Diana were general favorites. In 1875 his Nuevas Poesias (New Poems) appeared, in 1888 and 1895, two volumes of “last lyric poems”—Ultimas Poesias liricas. In 1860 he published an elementary work upon Universal Geography; in 1863 an Ensayo de una Historia anecdotica de Mexico (Attempt at an Anecdotal History of Mexico). This Ensayo was in prose and was divided into three parts, covering ancient Mexican history to the time of the Conquest. In 1862, in Leyendas Mexicanos (Mexican Legends) he presented much the same matter in verse. These three charmingly written books, while conscientious literary productions, were intended for youth. Of stronger and more vigorous prose are his political novel, La Quinta modelo (The Model Farm) and his famous biographies of Manuel Eduardo Gorostiza and José Joaquin Pesado. Of the latter, often considered his masterpiece, one writer asserts, it shows “rich style, vast erudition, admirable method, severe impartiality in judgment, profound knowledge of the epoch and of the man.” Famous is the Recuerdos de la invasion Norte-Americana 1846-1847 (Recollections of the American Invasion: 1846-1847), which appeared first in the columns of the periodical El Siglo XIX, and was reprinted in book form only in 1883. But it is in his short stories that Roa Bárcena appears most characteristically. His Novelas, originales y traducidas (Novels, original and translated) appeared in 1870. They are notable for delicacy of expression, minute detail in description and action, some mysticism, and a keen but subtle humor. In his translations from Dickens, Hoffman, Byron, Schiller, our author is wonderfully exact and faithful both to sense and form.
COMBATS IN THE AIR.
Some of Roa Bárcena’s characteristics are well illustrated in the little sketch, Combates en el aire (Combats in the air). An old man recalls the fancies and experiences of his boyhood. To him, as a child, kites had character and he associated individual kites with persons whom he knew; they had emotions and passions; they spoke and filled him with joy or terror. One great kite, a bully in disposition, was, for him, a surly neighbor, whom all feared. This dreadful kite had ruined many of the cherished kite possessions of his young companions. Once his teacher, the boy himself, and some friends, fabricated a beautiful kite. In its first flight it is attacked by the bully and the battle is described.
The preliminaries of the sport began with the manufacture of the kite. The kinds most used were pandorgas, parallelograms of paper or cloth, according to size and importance, with the skeleton composed of strong and flexible cane, called otate, with hummers of gut or parchment or rag, at the slightly curved top or bottom—or they bore the name of cubos (squares), made with three small crossed sticks covered with paper and with a broad fringe of paper or cloth at the sides. Both kinds usually displayed the national colors or bore figures of Moors and Christians, birds and quadrupeds. The tails were enormously long and were forms of tufts of cloth, varying in size, tied crosswise of the cord, which ended in a bunch of rags; in the middle of the cord were the ‘cutters,’ terribly effective in battles between kites; they were two cockspur-knives of steel, finely sharpened, projecting from the sides of a central support of wood, with which the bearer cut the string of his opponent, which, thus abandoned to its fate on the wings of the wind, went whirling and tumbling through the air, to fall at last to the ground, at a considerable distance. Night did not end the sport; they had messengers or paper lanterns, hanging from a great wheel of cardboard, through the central opening in which the kite-string passed, and which, impelled by the wind, went as far as the check-string and whirled there, aloft, with its candles yet lighted.
* * * *
A neighbor of gruff voice, harsh aspect, and the reputation of a surly fellow, was, for me, represented by a great pandorga, with powerfully bellowing hummer, which on every windy day sunk—if we may use the term—some eight or ten unfortunate cubos, thus being the terror of all the small boys of our neighborhood. It was made of white cloth, turned almost black by the action of sun and rain; its long tail twisted and writhed like a great serpent, and even doubled upon itself midway, at times, on account of the weight of its large and gleaming cutters. Its hoarse and continuous humming could be heard from one end of the town to the other and sounded to me like the language of a bully.
* * * *
Just then was heard a bellowing, as of a bull, and, black and threatening, the well known pandorga bully appeared in the air, more arrogant than ever, glowering with malicious eyes upon its unexpected rival and preparing to disembowel it, at the least. For a moment the members of our little company shuddered, because, in the anxiety and haste to raise the cubo, we had forgotten to attach the cutters. To lower it then, in order to arm it, would have looked like lowering a flag, which was not to Martínez’s taste. Trusting, then, to his own dexterity, he prepared for the defence, intending to entangle the cord of our cubo in the upper part of the tail of the enemy, which would cause the kite and its tail to form an acute angle riding upon our attaching cord, and would hurl it headlong to the earth.... The bully rose to the north, in order to fall almost perpendicularly, on being given more string, upon the cord of the cubo, and then, on ascending again with all possible force, to cut it. Once, twice, three times it made the attempt, but was foiled by our giving the cubo extra cord, also, at the decisive moment. Raging and bellowing, the enemy drew much nearer, and taking advantage of a favorable gust, risked everything in a desperate effort to cut us. As its sharp set tail, keen as a Damascus blade, grazed our cord, the watchful Martínez gave this a sudden, sharp jerk against the tail itself, causing both it and the kite to double and plunge. In its headlong dash, it cut loose the cubo, which, alone, and whirling like a serpent through the air, went to fall a quarter of a league away. But the aggressor too fell, and fell most ignominiously. Thrown and whirled by the treacherous cord of its victim, it could not regain its normal attitude, and like the stick of an exhausted rocket, fell almost vertically to the earth, landing in the center of our court, where it was declared a just prisoner.
NEAR THE ABYSS.
In Noche al raso, the coach from Orizaba to Puebla breaks down a little before reaching its destination. The passengers beguile the night hours with stories. The story told by “the Captain” is entitled Á dos dedos del Abismo (At two fingers from the abyss). An exquisite, Marquis del Veneno, is the hero. Of good birth and well connected, with no special wealth or prospects, frequenting good society, he has never yielded to feminine charms. A young lady, Loreto, daughter of an aged professor of chemistry, is beautiful and socially attractive, but a blue-stocking, fond of mouthing Latin, of poetry and of science. The Marquis has no idea of paying attentions to Loreto, in fact he despises her pedantry. But gossip connects their names and a series of curious incidents give color to the report that they are betrothed. The aged chemist clinches the matter, despite desperate efforts on the part of the Marquis to explain, and the engagement is announced. In his dilemma the Marquis seeks advice and aid from his padrino, General Guadalupe Victoria, and from his friend, the famous Madame Rodriguez. All, however, seems in vain. Just as he decides to accept the inevitable, an escape presents itself. The passages selected are those which describe the interview between the old chemist and the Marquis and the opening of a way of escape.
Somewhat disquieted as to the purport of such an appointment, del Veneno, after many turns, back and forth, in his chamber, was inclined to believe that reports of his supposed relations having come to the ears of Don Raimundo, the old man proposed to hear from his own lips the facts. Basing himself on this supposition, the Marquis, whose conscience was entirely clear, decided to be frank and loyal with the old gentleman, explaining fully his own conduct in the matter, and endeavoring to dissipate any natural vexation which the popular gossip had caused him;—gossip, for which the Marquis believed he had given no cause. Having decided upon this procedure, he succeeded in falling asleep and the following day, with the most tranquil air in the world, he directed himself, at the hour set, to the place of appointment, feeling himself, like the Chevalier Bayard, without fear and without reproach.
... He installed himself at one of the least conspicuous tables of the café and soon saw Don Raimundo, who saluted him, and seating himself at his side, spoke to him in these terms:
“Dissimulation is useless, my friend, in matters so grave and transcendental as that which you and my daughter have in hand; I do not mean that I disapprove the prudence and reserve with which you have both acted. It is true that you, as Loreto, have carried dissimulation and secrecy to such an extreme, that——”
“Permit me to interrupt you, Don Raimundo, to say that I do not understand to what matter you refer——”
“My friend, you young people believe that, in placing your fingers over your eyes you blot out the sun for the rest of us. But, we old folks, we see it all! We decompose and analyze; further—what will not a father’s insight and penetration discover? From the beginning of your love for Loreto——”
“But, sir, if there has not been——”
“Nothing indecorous, no scandal will come from the relations between you—that I know right well; it could not be otherwise in a matter involving a finished gentleman, to whom propriety and nobility of character have descended from both lines, and a young lady who, though it ill becomes me to say it, has been perfectly educated, has read much, and knows how to conduct herself in society. I tell you, friend Leodegario, that for months past no one has needed to whisper in my ear, ‘These young people love each other,’ because the thing was evident and had not escaped me. Accustomed, from my youth, to decomposition and analysis, I have questioned my wife, ‘Do they love each other?’ and she has answered, ‘I believe they do.’ I then inquired, ‘Have you spoken with Loreto about it?’ and she replied, ‘Not a word.’ Days pass and your mutual passion——”
“It is my duty, Don Raimundo, to inform you——”
“It is your duty to hear me without interrupting me. Days pass and your mutual passion, arrived at its height, enters the crucible of test. You withdraw from Loreto and she pretends not to notice it. Thoughtless people say, ‘They have broken with each other’; but I say, ‘Like sheep they separate for a little, to meet again with the greater joy.’ Others say, ‘The Marquis is fickle and changeable’; but I say, ‘He gives evidence of greater chivalry and nobility than I believed him to possess.’ Friend Leodegario, what do not the eyes of a father discover? What, in the moral as in the physical world, can resist decomposition and analysis? With a little isolation and examination of the elements composing such an affair, the truth is precipitated and shows itself at the bottom of the flask! I know it all; I see it, just as if it were a chemical reaction! You—delicate and honorable to quixotism, knowing that the grocer Ledesma is attentive to Loreto, and considering yourself relatively poor, have said to yourself, ‘I will not stand in the way of the worldly betterment of this young lady,’ and have abruptly left the field. Loreto, in her turn, offended that you should believe her capable of sacrificing you upon the altar of her self-interest, has determined to arouse your jealousy by pretending to accept the attentions which Ledesma offers in the form of raisins, almonds, codfish and cases of wine. I repeat that this is all very plain; but it is a sort of trifling that can not be prolonged without peril, and which I have ended so far as my daughter is concerned. Your future and hers might both suffer from the rash actions of irritated love; no, my dear sir: let Ledesma keep his wealth, or lavish it upon some Galician countrywoman; and let respectable financial mediocrity, accompanied by the noble character and the delicacy and chivalry which distinguish you, triumphantly bear away the prize. A bas Galicia! viva Mexico!”
“The complete mistake under which you labor——”
“My friend, one who, like myself, decomposes and analyzes everything, rarely or never makes mistakes! Last night, I brought my wife and daughter together and, to assure myself of the state of mind of the latter, made use of this stratagem: ‘Loreto,’ I said, ‘Don Leodegario has asked me for your hand; what shall I answer him?’ Immediately both mother and daughter flushed as red as poppies and embraced each other. Loreto then replied, ‘I am disposed to whatever you may determine.’ ‘But do you love him?’ I asked. ‘Yes, I love him,’ she answered with downcast eyes. With this, my friend, the mask fell and these things only remained to be done, what I have done this morning and what I am doing now; to wit: to intimate to Señor Ledesma that he desist from his aspirations regarding a young lady who is to marry another within a few days, and to tell you that Loreto’s parents, duly appreciative of the noble conduct of the aspirant for their daughter’s hand, yield her to him, sparing all explanations and steps unpleasant to one’s self-respect, and desiring for you both, in your marriage relation, a life longer than Methuselah’s and an offspring more numerous than Jacob’s.”
“But, sir, Don Raimundo——”
“Neither buts nor barrels avail.[19] You were marvelously self-controlled, in believing yourself unworthy of Loreto, and in refusing the happiness for which your heart longed; but I am also master[20] of my daughter’s lot and I desire to unite her to you and render you happy perforce. Come, friend Leodegario, there is no escape. Dr. Román has promised to marry you in the church; I have ordered my wife to announce the approaching marriage to her lady friends and I am making the announcement to the gentlemen. Everyone cordially congratulates me upon my selection of a son-in-law.”
* * * *
With this object, he took up his hat and gloves. Just then he heard a noise and voices in altercation in the corridor; the door opened violently and Don Raimundo entered the room in his shirt sleeves and a cap, his face pallid, and a breakfast roll in his hand. He entered, and saying nothing to the Marquis beyond the words, “They pursue me,” ran to hide himself under the bed, frightened and trembling.
Seeing this, the young man seized a sword from the corner of the room and set forth to meet the pursuers of Don Raimundo.
He found, in the next room, Fabian, Don Raimundo’s servant, almost as old as his master himself. With him were two porters, bearing no arms more serious than their carry-straps. The Marquis having asked Fabian what this meant, the faithful old servant took him to one side and said, “The master has left home, against the doctor’s orders, and we have come to fetch him, as my lady and her daughter do not wish him wandering alone on the streets.”
Without yet understanding the enigma, del Veneno further questioned Fabian and learned that Don Raimundo, after some days of symptoms of mental disturbance, had become absolutely deranged and, for a week back, had been locked up in the house.
Immediately the Marquis understood the conduct of his father-in-law-to-be toward himself and a gleam of hope appeared. But, moved by sympathy and without thinking of his own affairs, he tried to persuade the old man to leave with Fabian, which, with great difficulty, he at last did.
He then hastened to the house of Madame Rodriguez, where he was received almost gaily. “I was about to send for you,” said that lady, “because I have most important matters to communicate to you. Perhaps you know that the unfortunate Don Raimundo is hopelessly insane. Ah, well, Loreto and her mamma, after cudgelling their brains vainly to explain why you never whispered a word about the wedding, of which Don Raimundo only spoke, as soon as they knew the old man was deranged, understood everything else, and I have confirmed them in their conclusions. It is needless to dwell upon the mortification the matter has caused them: you can imagine it; but, fulfilling the commission which they have intrusted to me, I tell you that they consider you free from all compromise and that they are greatly pleased at the prudence and chivalry you have displayed in so unpleasant and disagreeable a matter.”
“But I am not capable,” impetuously exclaimed the Marquis, “of leaving such a family in a ridiculous position. No, my dear lady, pray tell Loreto that, decidedly and against all wind and sea, I will marry her, and that in the quickest possible time.”
“Marquis! tempt not God’s patience! Now that a door is opened, escape by it without looking back and consider yourself lucky. Moreover, although Loreto babbles in Latin and writes distiches, she is not so stupid as you think, and knows well how to take care of herself. She has understood conditions perfectly and knows her advantage; a single glance has sufficed to draw to her feet the grocer, more attentive and enamored than ever.”
“How, madam? Is it possible that Loreto would——”
“Loreto marries Ledesma within a week.”
Who can know the chaos of the human heart? The Marquis, who a moment before had been supremely happy at the mere idea of his release, now felt vexed and humiliated in knowing that Loreto so promptly replaced him. His pupils grew yellow, his nervous attack returned and this, without doubt, was all that prevented his hovering about Loreto’s house as a truly enamored swain and challenging Ledesma to the death.
JUSTO SIERRA.
Justo Sierra was born January 26, 1848, at Campeche, the capital city of the State of the same name. The son of a man known in the world of letters, he early showed himself interested in literary pursuits. Determining to follow the career of law, he was licensed to practice at the age of twenty-three. Chosen a member of the Chamber of Deputies, he promptly gained a reputation as an orator. He became one of the justices of the Supreme Court. At present he is Sub-Secretary of Public Instruction and has been connected with all recent progress in Mexican education. For some years he was professor of general history in the Escuela Nacional Preparatoria (National Preparatory School). Among his works are Cuentos románticos (Romantic Tales), En Tierra Yankee (In Yankee Land), and México y su evolución social (Mexico and its Social Evolution). In style Sierra is poetical and highly fantastic, with a strain of humor rare in Mexicans. Our selection is a complete story from Cuentos románticos.
THE STORY OF STAREI: A LEGEND OF YELLOW FEVER.
Examining a volume, pretentiously styled Album de Viaje (Album of Travel), which lay amid the sympathetic dust, which time accumulates in a box of long-forgotten papers, I encountered what my kind readers are about to see.
We were in the diligencia coming from Vera Cruz, a German youth, Wilhelm S.—with flaxen hair and great, expressionless, blue eyes,—and myself. We had not well gained the summit of the Chiquihuite, when the storm burst upon us. The coach halted, in order not to expose itself to the dangers of the descent over slopes now converted into rivers. I neared my face to the window, raising the heavy leather curtain, which the wind was beating against the window-frame; it looked like night. Above us, the tempest, with its thousand black wings, beat against space; its electric bellowings, rumbled from the hills to the sea, and the lightning, like a gleaming sword tearing open the bosom of the clouds, revealed to us, within, the livid entrails of the storm.
We were literally in the midst of a cataract, which, precipitating itself from the clouds, rebounded from the mountain summit, and rushed, with torrential fury, down the slopes.
“I am drenched in oceans of perspiration,” said my companion to me in French, “and I have an oven inside of me.”
“Go to sleep,” I replied, “and all this will pass,” and, joining example to counsel, I wrapped myself in my cloak and closed my eyes.
Two hours later the tempest had passed, drifting to the west, over the wooded heights. It was five in the evening and the declining sun was nearing the last low-lying patches of cloud. The light, penetrating through the exuberant vegetation, colored everything with a marvelous variety of hues, which melted into a glow of gold and emerald. To the east an infinite sheet of verdure extended itself, following all the folds and irregularities of the mountain mass, flecked here and there with the delicate and brilliant green of banana patches, and undulating over that stairway of giants, became blue with distance and broke like a sea against the broad strip of sand of the Vera Cruz coast. The road which we had followed in our ascent, wound like a serpent among trees, which scarcely distinguished their foliage masses amid the dense curtain of vines and creepers, passed over a lofty bridge, descended in broad curves to a little settlement of wooden buildings, and went, between dense and tangled patches of briers, to confound itself with the bit of railroad which led from the foot of the mountain to the port. At the bottom of the picture, there, where the sea was imagined, were rising superb cloud masses against whose blue-gray ground were defined the black and immovable streaks of stratus, seeming a flock of seabirds opening their enormous wings to the wind, which delayed its blowing.
The German slept as one much fatigued and from his panting bosom issued heavy sobs; he seemed afflicted with intense suffering; a suspicion crossed my mind; if he should——!
The branches of a neighboring tree projected, through an open window, into the diligencia, which was standing still, until the torrents should have spent something of their force. Upon a yellowed leaf trembled a raindrop, the last tear of the tempest. Preoccupied by the dismal fear which the condition of my companion caused me, I looked attentively at that bead of crystal liquid. This is what I saw:
The drop of water was the Gulf of Mexico, bordered by the immense curve of hot coast and cut off, on the east, by two low breakwaters, crusted with flowers and palms,—Florida and Yucatan, between which, in flight, extended a long string of seabirds, the Antilles, headed by the royal heron, Cuba, slave served by slaves.
In the midst of the Gulf, surmounted by a yellow crown, which gilded the sea around like an enormous sunflower which reflects itself in a flower of water, arose a barren island of the color of impure gold, where currents deposited the seaweeds like the wrappings which swathe Egyptian mummies. Above that rocky mass the sun gleamed like copper, the rapid moon passed veiled by livid vapors, and on days of tempest the storm-birds described wide circles around it, uttering direful croakings. A voice, infinitely sad, like the voice of the sea, sounded in that lost island; listen, it said to me.
The very year in which the sons of the sun arrived at the islands, there lived in Cuba a woman of thirteen years, named Starei (star). She was very beautiful; black were her eyes and intoxicatingly sweet like those of the Aztecs; her skin firm and golden as that of those who bathe in the Meschacebé; celestial her voice as that of the shkok, which sings its serenades in the zapote groves of Mayapán; and her little feet were as graceful and fine as those of Antillean princesses, who pass their lives swinging in hammocks, which seem to be woven by fairies. When Starei appeared one morning on the strand, seated on the red shell of a sea-turtle, she seemed a living pearl and all adored her as a daughter of god, of Dimivan-caracol. The priestess of the tribe prayed all night near the sacred fire, in which smouldered leaves of the intoxicating tobacco, and at last heard the divine voice, which resounded within the heart of the great stone fetish, saying: “Kill her not; guard and protect her; she is the daughter of the Gulf and the Gulf was her cradle; God grant that she return there.”
Starei completed her thirteen years and the old and the young, prophets and warriors, caciques and slaves, abandoned their villages, temples, and hearths, to run after her on the seashore. All were crazy with love, but, if one of them approached her, the Gulf thundered hoarsely and the storm-bird flew screaming across the sky.
Starei sang like the Mexican zenzontl, and her song soothed like the seabreeze which kisses the palms in hot evenings, and in laughing she opened her red lips like the wings of the ipiri and her bosom rose and let fall in enticing folds, the fine web of cotton that covered it. Men on seeing her wept, kneeling, and women wept also, seeing their palm huts deserted and their beds of rushes chilled and untouched.
One stormy night, the divine Starei returned to the village, after one of her rambles on the shore, in which she passed hours watching the waves, as if waiting for something; those who followed her determined to heap high their dead and bury them; the aged who had died from weariness in the pursuit of the Gulf’s daughter, the youths who had thrown their hearts at her feet, the mothers who had died of grief and the wives who had died of despair.
It was a night of tempest; Hurakan, the god of the Antilles, reigned with unwitnessed fury. The priests spoke of a new deluge and of the legendary gourd in which were the ocean and the sea-monsters, which, one day, broke and inundated the earth, and, terrified, they ascended to the summit of their temple-pyramid and took refuge in the shadow of their gods of stone, which trembled on their pedestals. The people of the island, overwhelmed with terror, forgot Starei. All the night was passed in prayer and sacrifice; but at daybreak, they ran, infatuated, to where the song of the maiden called them.
Starei was on the shore, seated on the trunk of one of the thousands of palm trees, which the wind had uprooted and thrown upon the sand; upon her knees rested the head of a white man, who appeared to be a corpse. The beauty of that face was sweet and manly at once and the just appearing beard indicated the youthfulness of the man, whom Starei devoured with eyes bathed in tears.
“Whoever saves him,” she exclaimed, “shall be my husband, my life companion.”
“He is dead,” solemnly replied an aged priest.
“He lives,” cried a man, opening his way through the crowd.
The astonished Indians fell away from him; never had they seen so strange a being among them. He was tall and strong; his hair, the color of corn-silk, rose rigidly above his broad and bronzed forehead and dividing into two masses fell thick and straight upon his shoulders; his eyebrows were two delicate red lines, which joined at the root of his aquiline nose; his mouth, of the purple hue of Campeche wood, bent upward at the tips, in a sensual and cruel arch. The oval of his face, unbroken by even a trace of beard, did not so much attract attention as his eyes, of the color of two coins of purest gold, set in black circles. He was naked, but splendidly tattooed with red designs; from the gold chain that encircled his waist hung a skirt, deftly woven of the feathers of the huitzitl, the humming-bird of Anahuac.
That man, who, many believed, came from Hayti, approached that which seemed to be a corpse, without paying attention to the glance, of profound anger, of Starei. He laid one hand upon the icy brow of the white man, and, on placing the other to the heart, instantly withdrew it as if he had touched a glowing brand; rapidly he tore open the still-drenched shirt of linen, which covered the youth’s breast and seized an object that hung at the neck. This object Starei snatched from him. Was it a Talisman? When that singular man no longer had beneath his hand that, which had, doubtless, been to him a hindrance, he placed it upon the stilled heart of the shipwrecked stranger and said to the maiden, “Kiss him on the lips,” and had scarcely been obeyed when the supposed dead man recovered and, taking the piece of wood from Starei’s hand, knelt, placing it against his lips and bathing it in tears. It was a cross.
“Adieu, Starei,” said he of the eyes of gold; “yonder is the hut of Zekom (fever) among the palms; there is our nuptial couch; I await you because you have promised.”
The daughter of the Gulf could not restrain a cry of anger at hearing the words of the son of Heat; she approached the Christian, clasped his neck in her arms and covered his mouth and eyes with kisses. “No! no! leave me, thou loved of Satan,” cried the youth, trying to release himself from the beautiful being. Starei took him by the hand, led him to her hut, and said to him, in expressive pantomime, “Here we two will live.”
Then her companion replied in the language of those of Hayti, which was perfectly understood in Cuba:
“I cannot be thy husband; I will be thy brother.”
“Why not? Who are you?”
“I am from far, far beyond the sea. I come from Castile. With many others, I arrived, some months ago, at Hayti, and knowing that this, your isle, had not been visited by Christians, we desired to visit it, but were shipwrecked in the fearful tempest of last night and I was about to perish, when thy hand seized me amid the waves and brought me to the shore.”
“And why do you not wish to be my husband?”
“Because I am a priest and my god, who is the only god, orders his priests not to marry; he orders us to preach love. I come to preach it here, but not the love of the world,” added the Spaniard, sighing.
“This cannot be; it is not true,” replied the island woman, with vigor, “remain here with me in my hut, and we will be the rulers of the island and our children will be heirs of all.”
“I will be thy brother,” replied the missionary.
And the Indian woman left, weeping. In the way she met Zekom, who fixed his terrible yellow glance upon her.
“Comest to my hut, Starei?” he asked her.
“Never,” she answered firm and brave.
“We will be the rulers of all the islands of the seas and our children will be gods on earth, because we are children of the gods; the Gulf begot you in a pearlshell; the glowing Tropic begot me in a reef of gold and coral.”
Starei paused; she was upon the summit of a rock, from which the whole coast was visible.
“Look,” continued Zekom, “this will be our kingdom.” And before the fascinated eye of the daughter of the Gulf there was spread out a surprising panorama. In the midst of an emerald prairie, a cu or teocalli reared its high pyramid of gold, which shed its light around, even to the distant horizon. Over that gleaming plain were prostrated innumerable people with fear depicted on their faces. Genii, clad in marvelous garments, discharged upon these people, innumerable flaming arrows, the touch of which caused death. And upon the summit of the cu, she stood erect, as on a pedestal, more beautiful than the sun of springtime. The daughter of the Gulf remained long in silent ecstasy.
“Come, Starei,” murmured Zekom in her ear, “tomorrow I await thee in my hut.”
Starei departed thinking, dreaming. When the new day dawned, she saw the Spaniard, hidden in the forest, kneeling, with his eyes turned heavenward. At seeing him, the Indian maiden felt all her love rekindled; she threw herself, anew, upon him and clasping him within her arms, repeated:
“Love me; love me, man of the cold land. I will adore thy god, who cannot curse us because we fulfil his law, the law of life. Come to my nuptial hut; I will be thy slave; we will pray together and I will be as humble and as cowardly as thou; but love me as I love you.”
“I will be thy brother,” replied the missionary, pale with emotion.
“Cursed art thou!” said Starei, and fled.
The priest made a movement, as if to follow her, but restrained himself, casting one sublime glance of grief toward heaven.
Again, through all that night, the Gulf thundered frightfully. At break of day, Zekom and Starei issued from the nuptial hut, but as the maiden received the first rays of the sun in her languid eyes, they lost their luminous blackness like that of the night and turned yellow with the color of gold, like those of her lover. He cast a stone into the sea and instantly there appeared, in the west, a black pirogue, which neared the shore impelled by the hurricane, which filled its blood-red sails.
“Come to be my queen,” said Zekom to the daughter of the Gulf and they entered into the bark, which instantly gained the horizon.
Then the missionary appeared upon the shore, crying:
“Come, Starei, my sister, I love thee.”
The silhouette of the pirogue, like a black wing, was losing itself in the indistinct line where the sea joins the sky. Starei had joined herself in marriage to the devil.
And the voice which resounded, sad and melancholy, from the rock, continued—this is the centre of the domain of Starei; from here her eternal vengeance against the whites radiates. The missionary died soon after, of a strange disease, and his cold body turned horribly yellow, as if from it were reflected the eyes of gold of Zekom. Since then every year Starei weeps for him, disconsolate, and her tears evaporated by the tropic heat poison the atmosphere of the Gulf, and woe for the sons of the cold land.
The raindrop fell to the ground; the coach proceeded on its way, and I turned to glance at my friend; he was insensible; a livid, yellow hue was invading his skin and his eyes seemed to start from their orbits. “I die, I die, oh, my mother,” said the poor boy. I did not know what to do. I clasped him in my arms trying to sooth his sufferings, to give him courage. We reached Cordoba. The poor fevered patient said: “Look at her—the yellow woman.” “Who? Is it Starei?” I asked him. “Yes. It is she,” he answered.
It was necessary for me to leave him. On arriving at Mexico I read this paragraph in a Vera Cruz paper: “The young German, Wilhelm S., of the house of Watermayer & Co., who left this city in apparent health, has died of yellow fever at Cordoba, R. I. P.”
VICTORIANO SALADO ÁLBAREZ.
Victoriano Salado Álbarez was born at Teocaltoche, in the State of Jalisco, September 30, 1867. He studied law in the Escuela de Jurisprudencia in the city of Guadalajara, taking his title of Abogado, on August 30, 1890. He has long been engaged in journalistic work, serving as editor of various periodicals. For three years past he has lived in the City of Mexico and has represented the State of Sonora in the Chamber of Deputies of the National Congress. He is also professor of the Spanish language in the Escuela Nacional Preparatoria (National Preparatory School). He is a member of the Mexican Academy.
In literature, Señor Álbarez stands for the careful and discriminating use of pure Spanish, and for the treatment of truly Mexican themes in a characteristically Mexican way. He is an uncompromising antagonist of the present tendency, in Mexico, to copy and imitate the “modern” (and quite properly called “decadent”) French writings. His De mi cosecha (From My Harvest) is a little volume of reviews and criticisms, in which he assails this modern school and pleads for a sane and truly national literature. De autos (From Judicial Records), is a collection of tales, original and reworked. His largest work so far in print is De Santa Anna á la Reforma (From Santa Anna to the Reform), an anecdotal treatment of that period of the national history. His latest work, La Intervencion y el Imperio (The Intervention and the Empire) is now being published in Barcelona, Spain. It is of similar character to the preceding, but deals with the time of Maximilian. The two first parts of this, Las ranas pidiendo rey (The Frogs Begging for a King) and Puebla, are in press as this notice is being written.
Our selections are from De autos and De mi cosecha.
DE AUTOS.
In the village of Huizache, on the twentieth day of February, one thousand nine hundred, having received the accompanying summons, we went to the place known by the name of Corral de Piedra, situated about one kilometre distant, and held an inquest upon the body of a man about twenty-two years of age, tall, dark, with a light down on his upper lip, with black hair, eyebrows, and eyes; he showed, in the precardial region, an opening produced by the entrance of a bullet, which had its hole of exit in the left scapula, and another wound, produced by a sabre, in the forehead, the wound measuring eleven centimetres in length, by one centimetre in breadth, the depth not being ascertainable for lack of suitable instruments for its examination. With the body were found a red serape sprinkled with blood, a leather pouch containing cigarettes, twenty-two cents in copper, twenty-five cents in silver, a copy of the religious print known as the anima sola, and a recommendation signed by Manuel Tames, of Guadalajara, in which the good character of a person, whose name cannot be made out, is attested. After the inquest, it was ordered that the corpse should be buried in the village cemetery, after first being exposed to public view, clad in the garments in which it was found—which are white drill pantaloons, calico shirt, sash, sandals, a palm hat—for possible recognition. Near the spot, where it is supposed that the deed was committed, a piece of a sabre was found, which is believed to be one of the weapons used in the attack.
Thus stands the record, signed by the Alcalde, and the other witnesses, as, also, the citizen, Gregorio López, practising physician, forty years of age, married, citizen of a neighboring town, there being no licensed physician in this jurisdiction. No autopsy was ordered, there being no suitable instruments for making it.
* * * *
On this date appears a complainant, who after being duly sworn, says that she is named Damiana Pérez, married, without vocation, seventy years of age, native and inhabitant of Guadalajara; that the corpse here present is that of her son, Ignacio Almeida, twenty years old, carpenter, son of deponent and her husband Pedro Almeida; that said mentioned son died by the police force of this place, the matter occurring as follows: That for some time past the said mentioned son maintained honorable relations with Marta Ruiz, resident in the same house with the complainant in Guadalajara, which house is the alcaiceria[21] called La Calavera, that, as the parents of the Ruiz girl unreasonably opposed the relation of the lovers, Ignacio arranged to carry the girl away, which he did, coming to this village, where he proposed to work at his trade; that the deponent, being acquainted with the whole matter, and having gained consent of the parents of the Ruiz girl, who is a minor, desired to legalize the marriage and, for that purpose, had come to Huizache, where she learned that Ignacio had been put in prison and that he had afterward been killed; that this is all that she has to declare and that Don Juan Cortes, his employer, Don Manuel Tames, and many others who knew him can testify to the good character and conduct of her son.
* * * *
This same day, appears a witness, who stated, after the customary oath, that he was named Antonio Vera, married, fifty-five years of age, native of Ixtlan, and now chief of police of this place; that the body present is that of a person, who yesterday morning was sent to him by the municipal President, to be conducted to the capital of the district, accused, if he does not remember wrongly, of vagrancy, disorderly conduct, and abduction of a girl, who accompanied him; that, as is known, these accusations were made to the Señor President by Señor Don Pedro Gómez Gálvez, owner of the Hacienda de San Buenaventura, who also made complaint against the now defunct, that he had lost from one of his pastures two horses, which were there enclosed, one of them being known by the name of El Resorte, and the other being called El Jaltomate, as well as twenty pesos in money, and other objects which had disappeared from the general store on his place; that, this morning at dawn, he commanded his subordinates that they should saddle and mount their horses, which they did, and lead the prisoner, who walked bound with cords, between them riding in two files; that on reaching the place known as Corral de piedra, the now defunct, who had succeeded in loosening his cords, on account of the darkness, tried to escape, crying “Viva la libertad de los hombres; chase me, if you wish,” for which reason, those who accompanied the deponent, discharged their arms against him who was escaping, ceasing their attack when they saw that the prisoner fell dead; that Almeida, in attempting to escape fired two shots, of which one pierced the hat worn by one of the police and the other imbedded itself in deponent’s saddle; that he did not know how the prisoner could have secured the revolver, nor where he threw it when he ran; that he was equally ignorant as to how the body received the gash which it showed, as none of his subordinates used his sabre against the accused.
The declaration having been read, he approved it, not knowing how to sign his name.
* * * *
(Similar declarations of the four auxiliaries.)
Thereupon the coroner was shown a gray hat, with brim and crown pierced by a shot, apparently of a fire-arm, and a cowboy’s saddle with signs of a bullet shot in the horn.
* * * *
On the twenty-fourth of February appeared a witness, who, being duly sworn, stated that she was named Marta Ruiz, unmarried, sixteen years of age, without vocation, native and inhabitant of Guadalajara; that she knew Ignacio Almeida, with whom she had lived in illicit relations for six months, having before been in honorable relations with the purpose of contracting marriage; not succeeding in their desires, on account of the opposition of deponent’s parents, they agreed to run away together, intending to marry later; that, arriving at this place, and being without work, Almeida sought and secured it at the Hacienda de San Buenaventura, situated a half league’s distance from here; that, at first they lived there content; but that, soon, the Señor Don Pedro Gómez Gálvez, owner of that place, began to pay attention to her, urging her to abandon Almeida, and that she resisted; that Don Pedro was angered and threatened her to incriminate her lover, which he afterward did, since, about two weeks later Almeida was taken prisoner, without deponent’s having succeeded in seeing him meantime; that it is false that Ignacio had a pistol, and, more so, that he had shot at anyone; that she knows that the hat and the saddle (given in evidence at the inquest) are shown in all the cases similar to this, to prove that they were pierced; but that said marks are ancient, as she had been told that, in the inquest held two years ago on the death of Perfecto Sánchez, they were in evidence; that three days since, on the death of her lover being known in San Buenaventura, the Señor Gómez Gálvez came to her and said “Now, ingrate, you see what has happened. You may blame yourself for this.” And, that then he attempted to embrace her and when deponent resisted him, the Señor Don Pedro ordered that they should put her off the place, which was done without permitting her to remove her possessions.
The declaration having been read, she approved it, not knowing how to sign her name.
* * * *
On the fourteenth of June, when it was known that Señor Don Pedro Gómez Gálvez was there, the personnel of the court went to the house of said person, for the purpose of interrogating him. After the affirmation prescribed by law, he stated that he was married, forty years of age, native of the Hacienda de San Buenaventura and inhabitant of Guadalajara; that he knew Ignacio Almeida, carpenter, who worked on his place for the space of six months; that, finally, having lost various animals from San Buenaventura, as well as money and other things, and having suspicion that the thief might be Almeida, he had informed the Municipal President, who ordered the arrest of the criminal; that he knows the said Almeida was killed by his guards, when attempting escape, at the place called Corral de piedra, and that he shot a pistol at the said policemen; that he does not know Marta Ruiz, nor has ever made love advances to her, nor was this the motive of his denunciation of Almeida, but the desire to recover the property, which he had lost.
* * * *
On this date, the preceding deponent was confronted with the witness Marta Ruiz (who was brought by force from her house), on account of the discrepancies found in their statements. The Ruiz woman, greatly excited, said to Señor Gálvez, “You demanded my love and told me, if I gave you no encouragement, you would incriminate Ignacio.” The Señor Gómez Gálvez replied to the Ruiz woman, “It is false: I do not even know you.”
It was impossible to proceed further in the matter, as the Ruiz woman could not reply, having suffered a nervous attack; the investigation was therefore held as closed; the presiding Judge, the Alcalde, and the witnesses signed the records.
* * * *
Huizache, July 1, 1900. No grounds for proceeding against any specific person, having resulted from the investigation, these records may be placed in the archives. It is so ordered. Thus decreed the first constitutional Judge, acting in accord with the assisting witnesses.