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Title: Costa Rican tales
Author: Ricardo Fernández Guardia
Author of introduction, etc.: Isaac Goldberg
Editor: E. Haldeman-Julius
Translator: Gray Casement
Release date: September 15, 2026 [eBook #79583]
Language: English
Original publication: Girard: Haldeman-Julius Company, 1925
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79583
Credits: Tim Miller, Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COSTA RICAN TALES ***
LITTLE BLUE BOOK NO. 803
Edited by E. Haldeman-Julius
Costa Rican Tales
Ricardo Fernández Guardia
Introduction by Isaac Goldberg
HALDEMAN-JULIUS COMPANY
GIRARD, KANSAS
Copyright, 1925,
Haldeman-Julius Company
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
COSTA RICAN TALES
CONTENTS
Page
A Miraculous Saint 8
Politics 20
Chivalry 51
INTRODUCTION
These tales are selected, with minor changes in a few places, from the
English version of _Cuentos Ticos_ published in Boston in 1905 and
translated by Gray Casement; Mr. Casement prefixed a generous foreword
upon Costa Rica and revealed himself as a sensitive interpreter of the
people among whom he had been. He had nothing, however, to say of the
author, Señor Ricardo Fernández Guardia, and, indeed, in one of the most
recent literary anthologies to come out of little Costa Rica I find this
illuminating sentence: “Twenty-five years have not yet gone by, and
_Hojarascas_, together with _Cuentos Ticos_ are already two unknown
books.” If, then, Costa Ricans themselves have been negligent of tales
that have won for their country honor in other tongues, we cannot wholly
wonder that Señor Fernández Guardia was left out of Coester’s _A
Literary History of Spanish America_.
At any event, he presents an interesting case of literary dualism. Born
in the province of Alejuela in 1867, he went to Paris at the age of six,
returning to Costa Rica in 1878 with a French education. In fact, he had
to learn his native tongue all over again. Early, he entered the
diplomatic career followed by his father, serving his country here and
abroad.
It is characteristic of his career that his first essay was written in
French, and that it was, as Señor Sotela has said, “an extravagant
drama of American adventure ... inspired by the novels of Fenimore
Cooper.” In 1891, as a result of an article upon Seville, where he had
lived for some time, he won the esteem of Rubén Darío, the great
Nicaraguan poet, who had recently arrived in Costa Rica.
This auspicious beginning was strengthened when, in 1894, upon the
appearance of _Hojarascas_, he was lucky enough to win the kind words of
Manuel Gutíerrez-Nájera, the great Mexican poet and prosateur. After an
interval spent in the Legation at Paris he returned and wrote--just to
prove he was not merely a Frenchified stylist--those _Cuentos Ticos_ to
which he owes his reputation. There are other historical writings; he
has edited, too, his father’s works. Then, in 1921, came his _Crónicas
Coloniales_.
The collected tales derive their name (as the author tells us) from the
sobriquet _tico_ applied to Costa Ricans, just as the inhabitants of
Guatemala are known as _chopines_, those of Nicaragua as _nicos_ or
_pinolios_ and those of Salvador and Honduras, _guanacos_. _Cuentos
Ticos_ therefore means “Costa Rican Tales.” In these, the Parisian
aristocrat becomes the Costa Rican regionalist. He professed to believe
that his tales touched no circumference reaching beyond Central America,
yet they are better known outside of his native land than any other of
its literary products. They are, on the whole, simple, direct
transcriptions of the national life,--its politics, its religious creed
and superstitions, its folk lore, its peculiarities. Yet in three such
tales as I have chosen, they easily attain a wider significance. _The
Miraculous Saint_ is a piece of irony that makes fine use of the
religious and political background; it even has a hint for United States
bootleggers, _Anno Domini_, 1924; _Politics_ shows that ironical vein in
a more satirical, almost cynical aspect, while _Chivalry_, far from
being exclusively Costa Rican, reminded me long ago of Artzibasheff’s
later tale about the Russian doctor.
Señor Rogelio Sotela has written sympathetically and in scholarly
fashion of his nation’s letters, in two books that deal with the same
material: _Valores Literarios de Costa Rica_ (1920) _and_ _Escritores y
Poetas de Costa Rica_ (1923). It is in the foreword to the second of
these that he has given, as the salient traits of Costa Rican letters, a
certain joviality, optimism and measure. There is no passionate debating
of “schools” and “movements.” Something of this equability may be found
in Fernández Guardia’s tales.
He is not the only Costa Rican writer of recent times that deserves a
wider audience. Among others, I hope to present such admirable gentlemen
as Señores Joaquin García Monje and Roberto Brenes Mesén.
ISAAC GOLDBERG.
Roxbury, Massachusetts.
COSTA RICAN TALES
A MIRACULOUS SAINT
In a short time the fame of a certain miraculous image of San Jerónimo,
of which extraordinary things, one might say miracles, were related, had
spread through a part of the province of Alajuela. The residents of San
Pedro de la Calabaza and of La Sabanilla showed especial enthusiasm, and
the reputation of the saint already extended to the very capital of the
province, where, to tell the truth, it met with considerable skepticism;
but it must not be forgotten that the people of Alajuela are hardened
unbelievers.
Whether the fellow citizens of Juan Santa María were right or not in
showing their unbelief in respect to San Jerónimo, it is certain that
now there was not a rosary, a candle burned in honor of a saint, nor any
other festival at which one would not find the sainted image present.
Everybody disputed for the notable honor of entertaining it, even though
it were not more than a few hours. Its frequent journeys were triumphal,
in the midst of a brilliant following, the splendor of which the music,
sky-rockets and fire-crackers did not diminish. At first sight the image
did not present any marked peculiarity. It was a crude sculpture of
wood, painted and varnished, of little more than a metre in height. The
saint, dressed in an ordinary habit, trimmed with silver braid, was far
from having the appearance of an ascetic; he rather resembled one of
those corpulent, incontinent monks whom the Catalonian lithographs have
made familiar. But this detail, which only some critical and
evil-disposed persons of the city of Alajuela had noticed, did not
affect in the least the devotion of his adorers, who never tired of
making festivals in his honor, nor of kissing his feet.
The peregrinations of San Jerónimo finally attracted the attention of
the authorities and even caused them alarm; but not on account of the
manifestations of gross fanaticism which the image called forth from the
country people, as in the matter there is always much tolerance. What
worried the provincial authorities was something more serious; it was
the increasing number of disorders and quarrels which arose on the
passing of the saint, who left behind him a trail of blood. Any festival
where he was present was sure to have a bad ending; with machete strokes
and dagger thrusts almost always. In the criminal court several trials
for homicide were in progress; the wounded were numerous, the bruised
ones legion. The governor then resolved to take rigorous measures,
ordering the _jefes politicos_[1] and the other subordinate officials to
arrest San Jerónimo by all means and without loss of time; but their
zeal was in vain. The saint disappeared like smoke after each one of
his journeys, to reappear after some days, now in one place, now in
another, when he was least expected. The disorders, the drunkenness and
the machete strokes continued. Furious on account of all this, the
governor did not cease from telegraphing the subordinate authorities to
stimulate their zeal, and they now had no rest from their search for San
Jerónimo.
Such was the situation when Pedro Villalta, a corporal of the custom
guard, just as he was preparing to set out on a campaign with his fellow
guards one afternoon, said to the governor:
“Don’t you worry, Señor; I intend to bring you that rascally little
saint.”
On hearing this, the harassed official saw the heavens opening and was
on the point of embracing Pedro Villalta; for the corporal was an old
dog and most sagacious. That very night the governor announced, in the
club which he frequented, that the capture of the saint was about to
take place, a statement that was received with much incredulity,
provoking many jokes and much chaff. “This San Jerónimo doesn’t exist,”
declared Doctor Pradera. “It is a yarn of the San Pedro people to put
you on the run.”
The governor, somewhat nettled, replied: “You may laugh and say what you
please, but I invite you all to pay a visit to the saint in the police
barracks.”
“Then, I’ll bet you a supper that you won’t,” exclaimed the commandant
of the plaza, merrily.
“Accepted,” said the governor.
* * * * *
While the chief authority of the province was giving unmistakable proofs
of his confidence in the ability of Pedro Villalta, that veteran and his
comrades were riding silently along the high road to Puntarenas. They
had ostentatiously taken that direction on setting out from Alajuela at
night-fall, but when they had gone about half the distance to the little
village of San José[2] the corporal reined in his horse and gave the
order to turn back. The guards accustomed to these manoeuvres, obeyed
without grumbling. In returning they kept away from the city, following
deserted lanes and by-ways, and making a circuit, finally arrived at the
river of La Maravilla. Once on the other side of the bridge, the
corporal said: “Now to La Sabinalla!” After riding some distance, Juan
Rodríguez, a frank and good-natured Hercules, asked a question:
“Corporal, if we are going to La Sabinalla, why have we made this big
circuit?”
Some laughter was heard, but Villalta, who liked Juan Rodríguez for his
staunchness and courage, kindly explained to him that their detour was
made so that the contraband liquor-makers might not be advised of the
arrival of the guard. Juan, who was a new recruit, felt himself filled
with admiration at the astuteness of his chief.
“Those people have spies and friends everywhere,” continued Villalta.
“But with me they get fooled, for I know all their tricks. This time I
expect to bring in the still of the Arias.” On hearing this name the
guards pricked up their ears.
The Arias were no less than the most feared contrabandists of the whole
country. Of the three brothers, José, Ramón and Antonio, one could not
tell which was the worst. They had all made themselves famous by
committing unheard of crimes and by giving proofs of their reckless
courage in their encounters with the customs guard and in the numberless
affrays which they stirred up wherever they went. There were those who
said that more than a dozen men, guards and others, had gone to their
eternal sleep on their account. In spite of so many atrocities, nobody
was able to lay hands on them, and the three brothers continued
tranquilly in their profitable industry, which was not only the
distilling of brandy in an inaccessible ravine of La Sabanilla, but also
the smuggling of great quantities of cognac, revolvers and ammunition,
passing the packages through the very beards of the customs guards of
the San Carlos.[3]
“Who are these Arias?” asked Juan Rodríguez again.
“The Arias are the worst bandits in Costa Rica. May God save you from
ever meeting them,” replied one of the guards.
“I’m not afraid of anybody,” replied the good-natured Hercules, simply.
“I like that, Juan,” said the corporal, who knew the courage of his
subordinate. “But with the Arias it is not enough to be very brave and
strong; one has also to be very quick on the trigger, for they are worse
than the Old Nick himself.”
Amusing themselves with this kind of talk, they reached Itiquis about
nine o’clock in the evening. The corporal, who brought up the rear with
Juan Rodríguez, heard the hoof-beats of a horse that seemed to be
overtaking them and which was soon abreast of the party. Villalta
accosted the horseman, whose presence was felt, but whom it was
impossible to distinguish, such was the darkness of the night.
“Where are you going, my friend?”
“I’m going to La Sabanilla; and you?”
“We are going just a little beyond here.”
“What a pity! We ought to ride together to the vela[4] of ’Nor[5] Juan
Carvajal.”
“Then ’Nor Juan has a vela on for tonight?”
“Yes, and they say it’s going to be very fine. Good night, señores,”
added the horseman, starting on.
“May God take you safely, friend,” replied Villalta.
When the stranger had gone he added between his teeth: “Tonight we’re
going to catch something. That old dolt of a Juan Carvajal isn’t the
first fox that’s tried to fool me.”
The “vela” of ’Nor Juan Carvajal was very fine, as were all the
festivals celebrated in his house, for besides being rich he was fond of
display; that night, however, he wished to outdo even himself in honor
of San Jerónimo, who was resplendent upon an improvised altar, adorned
with long wax candles and artificial flowers. At night-fall, they had
commenced to set off firecrackers in the corridor of the house and
outside, the sky-rockets went up with a great rush, tracing a line of
red gold in the sky and finally bursting high above with a sharp noise
which reverberated through valleys and mountains, proclaiming for
leagues around the glory of San Jerónimo and the splendor of his
festival.
When the prayers, which were long, had been said, the ball commenced
with a mazurka, played by a weird kind of an orchestra, composed of a
trombone, a clarionette and a sackbut, which made one of those noises
that once heard can never be forgotten. Not less than twenty couples
were dancing in the large room, which was decorated with branches of
“uruca” and plantain leaves in the doors and windows. In the adjoining
room, upon a table covered with a spotless cloth, was a great quantity
of crackers, rosquetes[6], quesadillas, and sweet bread, not to mention
two large trays full of biscuits and meat pies. While the young people
were dancing, the older ones, who had prayed enough to satisfy their
consciences, began to satisfy their stomachs with various delicacies and
an accompaniment of coffee and chocolate. Many of them had made a
regular day’s journey to come from their homes to that of ’Nor Juan,
situated in a thinly inhabited district at considerable distance from
any populated place; the women in oxcarts, the men on horseback or on
foot.
When the mazurka was ended, ’Na Dominga, the wife of ’Nor Juan, went
around with a small tray loaded with white paper cigarettes, and the
dancers of both sexes began to smoke. Immediately afterwards an
extraordinary ceremony commenced.
“Señores,” said the master of the house, “let us adore the saint.”
Suiting the deed to the word, he went up to the image and prostrating
himself before it, kissed its feet for a long time. All the men, one
after another, did the same. The women showed themselves much less
devout and there were only four or five who kissed the feet of San
Jerónimo.
A waltz followed the mazurka, and after that came a second mazurka, the
dances alternating with an equal number of adorations of the saint; and,
an unheard of thing! the men began to get tipsy without drinking, for in
all the house there were scarcely three bottles of diluted “Guaro”[7]
for the women.
Among the women present four or five had more than their share of good
looks, but none of them could rival María Carvajal, the niece of ’Nor
Juan. One could not find a more beautiful girl in all La Sabanilla, nor
in San Pedro. Dressed in a low-necked camisa[8] covered with spangles,
and a blue woolen skirt trimmed with braid, she was as fresh and dainty
as a peach. All the young men present were hovering about her like bees
around a flower, but hardly any of them succeeded in drawing very near,
because the sweetheart of the girl was there beside her, a jealous man
and of “few fleas,”[9] who permitted her to dance only with his intimate
friends, keeping her for himself most of the time.
For the fourth time he was dancing with her to the tune of an awful
composition, in the midst of which one could recognize bits of a Strauss
waltz, when of a sudden the music ceased with a sad wail from the
clarionette.
“Halt with the dancing,” cries an individual, standing with an insolent
air in one end of the room. His right hand grasped the clarionette,
which he had just snatched from the astonished musician. The newcomer,
who seemed to be about twenty-seven years old, was a tall, robust young
fellow, and would have been handsome had his face not been disfigured by
the deep scar of a terrible machete stroke. His eyes, of an indefinite
color, looked about with disquieting insolence. He wore a short riding
jacket and had a red silk handkerchief knotted about his neck. Somebody
pronounced his name: “José Arias,” while he, quite calmly, was surveying
all the women. He soon came to a decision, returned the clarionette to
the terrified musician, went straight to María Carvajal, and, pushing
aside her sweetheart without any preamble, embraced the girl with his
sinewy arms and shouted: “Now the music, bandmaster!”
The musicians did not wait for a second order and began to play with
ill-directed zeal, while the terrible contrabandist and María Carvajal
circled about in the middle of the room, which became deserted before
one could say amen. The women crossed themselves and called on their
patron saints. The men, burning with wrath, went in search of their
machetes.
The presence of José Arias at the “vela” was entirely casual, as no
inhabitant of that region would have cared to have such a guest in his
house for many reasons; one of them, because when José Arias took it
into his head to carry off a girl on the crupper of his horse, he
carried her, and there was no help for it.
That night he was passing that way with a comrade in adventures, when he
heard the music and saw the lights of the “vela.”
His first idea was to ride in on horseback, as he was in the habit of
doing in these affairs, but as he was not in a hurry, he thought it was
better to act decently, limit himself to one dance with the prettiest
girl, and then continue his journey. Having taken this peaceful
resolution, he told his companion to wait for him a moment, dismounted,
took off his spurs and as he was not intending to start a brawl, hung
them on the pommel of his saddle, together with the long, cross-hilted
machete which he unfastened from his belt. We have already seen what
José Arias considered good behavior. His fierce and half-savage nature
did not recognize any formalities, and he knew only how to act on the
impulse of his desires and caprices. Thus it was that he did not
understand the extent of his aggressive act and was surprised to see
several men enter with unsheathed machetes.
“Ah, you coyotes!” he shouted, letting go of the girl who was trembling
with fear. “Now you’ll see who José Arias is.”
With the quick decision of a man who feels no fear, he cast a glance
about in search of a weapon with which to defend himself. Seeing nothing
better he darted to the altar and pulled off the image with one jerk.
San Jerónimo was terribly heavy, but the contrabandist, who was
exceptionally strong, raised it with both hands, and without waiting for
his adversaries, started forward to attack them. These now hesitated in
their assault, all except the sweetheart of María Carvajal, who aimed a
blow at him that fell like an axe-stroke upon the head of the saint.
“The Guards! The Guards” shouted several voices from outside.
As if by magic, the enemies of the contrabandist slipped away. At that
moment Juan Rodríguez entered, revolver in hand; but he scarcely had
time to say “Surrender,” when the poor fellow fell with his head
battered by a tremendous saint-stroke. With the agility of a deer José
Arias passed between the surprised guards. A moment afterwards, he was
galloping away saluted by the shots that Villalta and his men fired
after him; and as some of them wanted to follow him to avenge Juan
Rodríguez, the corporal, who knew what kind of horses the bandit rose,
said tersely:
“There’s no use, boys. Let us stay here, for a bird in the hand is worth
more than a hundred flying.”
And what a fat bird the guards had trapped! Nothing less than the
elusive San Jerónimo, who lay at full length upon poor Juan Rodríguez,
whose companions helped him to get up. The corporal became absorbed in
examining the saint. Suddenly he gave a shout of joy.
“Now I see the trick! Now I see the trick!” he exclaimed, at the same
time moving an ingenious mechanism, concealed in one of the toes on the
left foot of the image, and from which a little stream of contraband
brandy spurted forth. San Jerónimo was bleeding brandy.
Pedro Villalta, more pleased than if he had discovered the Americas,
raised the image and putting it again upon the altar said to his
wonderstruck companions:
“Boys, let us adore the saint,” and in order to set the example he
kissed with devotion the foot of the blessed one.
* * * * *
On the following night, while San Jerónimo, with his head broken, lay in
his prison, the governor of Alajuela and his friends supped merrily,
invited by the commandant of the plaza, who had lost his bet.
POLITICS
By the dying light of a tallow candle, stuck in a bottle, Evaristo was
reading with difficulty the leaflet which had been given him that
morning on the streets of San José.
Seated in a large leather covered armchair, his father, old ’Nor Juan
Alvarez, gamonal[10] of the village of San Miguel, listened to the
reading of the leaflet, which was a violent diatribe of a coarse nature
against the candidate of the progressive party for the next presidential
campaign. The anonymous author heaped rhetorical injuries upon him, and
called his followers traitors and slaves. These virulent expressions of
campaign parlance did not make much of an impression on the mind of the
old man; all of that jargon was little less than Greek to him; but when
Evaristo came to the part where it was said that the candidate was a
heretic who never went to mass and would close up the churches if he
came into power, he knit his eyebrows, disturbed and disgusted. The
article ended with a hyperbolical eulogy of the candidate of the
opposing faction called the Nationalist party, and the enumeration of
the advantages and benefits which would accrue to the country on his
coming to the presidency, among which shone in the first line the
liberty to make brandy and plant tobacco.[11] Guaro and tobacco free!
This was the “in hoc signo vinces” of the party.
“What a fine thing!” exclaimed Evaristo enthusiastically. “It probably
isn’t true,” replied the old man, who was skeptical, as is natural to
old age. “I don’t believe what these papers say.”
“Well, I believe every bit of it,” said the young man. “Don Manuel told
me this morning, when I was paying him the money I owed him, that the
National party is the good one.”
Don Manuel was a pharmacist of San José, to whom Evaristo took his
doubts.
“And I tell you that you mustn’t believe all that about free guaro and
tobacco.”
Evaristo shook his head obstinately. The old man continued: “I have
already told you that the licenciado Castrillo, who knows more than Don
Manuel because he is a lawyer, said to me last week that everything the
Nationalists are telling is a lie, and that one mustn’t pay any
attention to it.”
The young man did not dare to keep on replying, but the arguments of his
father did not convince him, for the reason that he considered them
partial, because the old man was a progressist.
Some months before the birth of the new party which was now making such
a disturbance, the old man was passing one morning in front of the
office of the _jefe politico_,[12] when the latter spied him and made
him come into his sanctum, where he said to him: “Now Juan, you are an
honest, industrious and orderly man; everybody in San Miguel respects
and likes you; for that reason, and on account of the good feeling I
have for you, I want you to be the first to sign the list of adherents
to the progressist candidate.”
The old man, disagreeably surprised, did not know what to answer.
Motionless, with his eyes fastened on the feet of the official, his
opposition was evident, for, like a true country man, he was suspicious
and did not like to make promises, and even less to sign any agreement.
The politician persisted:
“Our candidate is a perfect gentleman, good and honorable, who will work
for the well being of the country. You know very well that I am
incapable of giving you bad advice.”
As the old man still kept silent, inspecting the floor, the official
added, after a pause:
“Well, some other day we’ll talk it over more at leisure, but now let’s
go and take a drink like good friends.” And without giving him time to
reply, he took the gamonal’s arm familiarly and led him to La Sirena,
the best and most elegant _pulpería_[13] of San Miguel. One hour later,
’Nor Juan returned to his house with his ideas considerably twisted from
oft-repeated glasses of rum, not so much so however that he could not
remember that he had returned with the politician to his office and that
his signature was there inscribed on a sheet of paper, below certain
written lines, which he could not read for the very good reason that he
did not know how. And in this wise ’Nor Juan Alvarez had become a
progressist. With the bait of the gamonal’s signature, the _jefe
politico_ was able to ensnare all the leading citizens of San Miguel,
because ’Nor Juan always brought over the opinions of his fellow
citizens, among whom he enjoyed the reputation of a prudent and honest
man.
Thus it was that when afterwards the first emissaries of the opposing
party arrived, they soon returned disappointed saying that nothing could
be done in that village, so unanimously progressist in sentiment. But
their labors were not on that account entirely fruitless. The seed sown
sprung up in the end. There were two or three citizens of independent
and rebellious spirit who enrolled themselves in the Nationalist ranks,
and little by little those who did not like the _jefe politico_ began to
join them, forming altogether a small but turbulent group who carried on
an active campaign; but as ’Nor Juan remained immovable, the majority of
the village remained equally firm, with a few exceptions.
Among these was the son of the gamonal, Evaristo, who had allowed
himself to be seduced by the promises and flattery of the apostles of
the new party; and although he continued among the progressists out of
consideration of his father, in his inmost soul he was a Nationalist.
The priest, closely watched by the _jefe politico_, was very cautious at
the beginning. Neither did the women show any great interest in the
affairs of politics.
Nevertheless there came a time when one could notice signs of agitation
among them, especially in the guild of church workers, these symptoms
coinciding with certain rumors that the progressist candidate was
nothing less than the Antichrist.
As soon as he had learned of these fabulous stories, the _jefe
politico_, who was not slow, hastened to inform his superiors, that the
priest of San Miguel was working in favor of the Nationalist candidate.
One day the gamonal’s wife and his two daughters, Agapita and Ester,
came home very much scandalized by what they had heard in the street
from their friends and village gossips, that the progressists were lost
to salvation; that they were all Masons; that it was not possible that
their husband and father, so religious and so good, could be one of
those heretic liberals, etc.
The old man, disturbed by these things which the alarmed women told him,
took advantage of an occasion when he wanted to sell some corn to go to
San José and consult with the licenciado Castrillo, the man who had his
complete confidence. Castrillo was a progressist and one can understand
that ’Nor Juan came out of his house somewhat more tranquil. He made
this evident to his family when he returned at night saying that they
were not to give credit to any of those tales of Masons and of shutting
the churches.
Evaristo did not say a word. Agapita and Ester looked with significance
at their mother, to incite her to answer. After a moment of silence, ’Na
Mercedes spoke: “Of course, it must be true, as that gentleman has said
so, but what I know is that the people of the Centers[14] haven’t any
religion.” The gamonal made no reply, but his silence indicated that his
wife’s remark had struck home. On seeing him thus, so wrapped in
thought, the women believed that the moment had arrived for making a
decisive attack on the vacillating mind of the head of the family, and
they hinted to him that he ought to break away from the progressist
party so as not to lose his soul.
“I won’t change,” shouted the old man, striking the table, on which he
was leaning, with his fist. “I have already given my signature and it is
settled.”
On hearing the blow, the women betook themselves to the kitchen in two
jumps, and after that scene there was no more talk of parties nor of
politics, until the day when Evaristo brought the leaflet from San José,
after the reading of which the gamonal remained much preoccupied, asking
himself if, after all, what was said in it might not be true, and doubts
began to assail his soul. Agapita and Ester, who came in with the
supper for the two men, succeeded in arousing their father from the
profound meditation in which he was submerged. Behind them came José, a
little boy of five years, son of Agapita, who was a widow. His
grandfather, who was very fond of him, gave him a caress and seated
himself at the table in silence.
“Ave María purissima,”[15] said a voice from outside at that moment.
“En Gracia concebida,”[16] replied the women. In the doorway was
outlined the silhouette of a man.
“Does Señor Juan Alvarez live here?” asked the voice.
“Yes, Señor. Come in,” answered ’Na Mercedes, who came from the kitchen.
“May God give you a very good night,” said the new arrival, entering the
house. “May the Lord make you all saints.”
“Amen,” responded the family in chorus.
“Have the goodness to be seated, Señor,” said the widow, drawing up an
armchair for the sweet-tongued unknown.
“Many thanks, Señora, but first I wish to know one thing: this house, is
it of God or of the devil?”
“Of God, Señor!” exclaimed the frightened women.
“Very well, then you are of the Nationalist party.”
A painful silence followed this assertion, and Evaristo turned to look
at the old man, who lowered his head before the cold glance of the
unknown one, who continued:
“A Christian as honorable as Señor Juan Alvarez can not be with the
Masons, who are going to burn the churches.”
The gamonal felt terrified on hearing this. Then it was all true!
“And of what party are you?” ’Na Mercedes mustered courage to ask.
“I? Of the party of Our Lord. Now you may see my candidate--” and on
saying this he drew a crucifix out of his breast pocket, the feet of
which he kissed with devotion. The whole family remained awe-struck
before that act of piety, and José, to see better what he had in his
hand, ran and placed himself between the knees of the stranger.
“What a beautiful child!” exclaimed the latter, on seeing him. “What an
intelligent little face he has. I don’t know why, but I have a feeling
that he is going to be a priest.”
Agapita felt like crying out for pure gratitude, and none of them had
eyes enough to contemplate that extraordinary man of such a venerable
aspect. ’Nor Juan forgot to eat his supper. In his clean-shaven,
weather-beaten face, of the old Castilian type, to which he belonged by
descent, was painted the inward conflict which he was carrying on. The
gamonal belonged to the old race of honest country people, who never
were false to what they had once promised by tracing a cross and pulling
out a hair from the beard; and he had not only promised the _jefe
politico_ to support the progressist candidate, but had also
mechanically signed “Juan Alvarez” on the list of adherents, and that
signature he considered as sacred. Yet, on the other hand, how was it
possible that he, such a good Catholic, so god-fearing, would contribute
his vote to the bringing into power of a man who proposed to make an end
of religion? All the fanaticism of his race rose up in revolt at the
sting of this thought. While the gamonal was absorbed in such intricate
problems, the man of the crucifix was chatting pleasantly with the
women, and made them presents of scapularies, with which he was well
provided. Into the mouth of José he put a gumdrop, and the child, with
the curiosity natural to his years, asked what his name was. He, giving
him a kiss on his dirty face, told it to him; Simeón García.
“Ah, you are Don Simeón!” exclaimed the widow, opening wide her eyes.
“Everybody says you are a saint.”
“I am no more than a poor sinner, who does not want the people to be
cheated,” modestly responded Don Simeón.
In the next room a child began to cry. It was the youngest son of
Agapita, only six months old, who had been born after the death of his
father, which was caused by a hydropathic cure. To carry out the
directions of a doctor, who had prescribed a dozen sea baths, the man
set out for Puntarenas, having his oxcart loaded with coffee. Scarcely
had he delivered it at the warehouse when he took religiously one after
another and on the same day the dozen baths. A little remittent bilious
fever then undertook to complete the cure.
Don Simeón manifested a great desire to see the child, and went into
ecstacies over his angelic beauty, although in truth he was sufficiently
ugly. The mother took the child in her arms to quiet him, while ’Na
Mercedes in a low tone implored Don Simeón to use his influence with her
husband, obstinately determined to remain a progressist. Agapita also
put in her oar: “Por Dios! Don Simeón, tell ‘tata’[17] to change.”
“Here is one who is all powerful,” replied the holy man, drawing out the
crucifix again.
When he returned to the room where the gamonal had remained, the latter
invited him very cordially to supper. Scarcely had he accepted, when the
women hastened to bring out the very best of their good cheer to serve
to so illustrious a guest. Ester brought some frijoles[18] that had a
delicious odor, and some hot tortillas, ’Na Mercedes a foamy cup of
chocolate, which she herself had beaten up, and a loaf of sweet bread.
When supper was over, the two men conversed a long while alone. In the
kitchen, ’Na Mercedes, Evaristo and Esther whispered, awaiting the
result of the interview, while the widow lulled the baby with a
monotonous song:
“Arrurru niñito,
Cabeza de ayote.
Si no te dormis
Te come el coyote.”
When the conference was finished, ’Nor Juan called his wife and
children. When they came in he said to them: “Don Simeón wishes that we
say the rosary.”
The following day was Sunday. From eight o’clock in the morning the
people who were going to attend the principal mass began to arrive at
the church. The men wore their new jackets, Panama hats, and trousers
supported at the hips by colored sashes. The women were gay in their
rebozos[19] of bright colored silk, their starched petticoats rustling
loudly beneath skirts of alpaca or chintz, nicely ironed with much care.
Those who came from distant points had their heads covered with wide
brimmed Panama hats, and some carried parasols. From time to time one
might see the wife and daughters of some prominent villager,
majestically displaying pañolones[20] of black silk embroidered with
pink flowers, and large necklaces and ear-rings of silver-plated
filigree.
At the second tolling of the bells Don Simeón arrived, very lavish with
his smiles and salutations. A little after him came the family of ’Nor
Juan, the widow in deep mourning. Ester fresh and pretty as a rosebud, a
nice little morsel for a priest, as the _jefe politico_, who was an
unbelieving libertine, irreverently remarked. The mass lasted an hour.
Don Simeón edified everybody by his beautiful piety.
At the moment of lifting the host the blows that he gave himself in the
breast resounded throughout the whole church. There was no doubt of it,
that man was a saint.
The gamonal and Evaristo, seated behind him, could not admire enough the
devout air with which he listened to the sermon, which that day was very
pointed, touching upon the obligation which was incumbent on all the
faithful to defend their religion menaced by liberals and Masons. The
priest had resolutely taken off his mask.
At the doors of the church various individuals distributed leaflets to
the people as they came out from mass; some of the progressist party,
others of the national. Two groups of seed-sowers, sent out by the rival
political clubs, had taken possession of the plaza, each having a corner
to itself, where the orators who were to speak were standing ready upon
tables lent by enthusiastic partisans. The speakers of each party had
the floor in turn, and the large crowd of citizens of San Miguel kept
moving about to hear first one and then the other. Little or nothing did
the good countrymen understand of all those harangues, delivered with so
much enthusiasm by the young delegates of the central clubs; but as the
Nationalists were the ones entrusted with the defence of their religion,
everything that they said seemed right, above all when they threw out
such bits of flattery as “the people whose sovereignty must be
re-established, breaking the chains of twenty years of dictatorship,
etc.” The last one to speak was a progressist of much eloquence, who in
concluding said:
“What our party desires is to raise the country to the heights of modern
civilization, continuing the work of former administrations which have
already made so much progress. They tell you that we wish to destroy
religion. It is false. In the first place we respect all religious
beliefs, and above all the Catholic religion, which is that of our
fathers. You must not allow yourselves to be deceived by these absurd
and ridiculous stories which hypocritical and evil disposed persons have
undertaken to spread abroad. Because, señores, if the progressist party
were what they say, there would not be with us such honorable and
religious men as Señor Juan Alvarez, here present.”
At that moment the gamonal was the mark for all glances. Wedged in among
the listeners, he tried to hide himself to conceal his confusion. Then,
as the crowd began to disperse, the melodious voice of Don Simeón was
heard saying:
“Señores, you have already heard the arguments of these young gentlemen.
Now let us put them to the proof. I ask those who wish to form part of
the Nationalist club of San Miguel to have the goodness to follow me.”
Three-quarters of the group of citizens followed after Don Simeón, who
on seeing that ’Nor Juan Alvarez, surrounded by a few faithful ones,
did not move, added, addressing himself to him in an incisive tone:
“Don’t you wish to accompany us, señor?”
The gamonal’s face grew red and he did not answer. The nationalist group
waited. It was a terrible struggle that raged in the breast of the old
countryman during those moments.
“Yes, Don Simeón,” he finally answered. Behind him came all the rest of
the people.
“Viva, ’Nor Juan Alvarez!” cried an enthusiast.
“Viva!” responded the retinue of Don Simeón, with a ringing shout.
About the progressists only ten or twelve individuals remained, among
whom was the village school-master.
“Miserable flock of sheep!” exclaimed one of the young liberals, who
could not contain himself.
“They were born to be sheared,” murmured another.
Then as there was nothing to be done there now they went to drown their
chagrin in “La Sirena” with some of the campaign funds.
From the memorable day on which he deserted the flag of the enemies of
the church, ’Nor Juan was more than ever the king of his village.
Elected president of the Nationalist club of San Miguel, his prestige
was now considerably increased in proportion to the honor which his
fellow citizens had conferred on him. Every little while pamphlets and
packages of printed matter arrived for him, directed to Don Juan
Alvarez, President, etc., etc., and when he went to the city the leading
gentlemen of the party received him with much consideration, and even
slapped him on the back, saying:
“Victory is ours. What is wanted is great firmness.” To which he
invariably replied:
“Don’t worry about that. The people are solid for our candidate.” And
this was the truth. Yet that which finally gave the people of San Miguel
such a great idea of the importance of their gamonal, was the visit
which he paid the candidate in company with Don Simeón. There was not
one citizen, great or small, who did not know about the memorable
interview with all its details; the glass of beer and the cigar which
the future chief executive had given him and the affectionate words he
had said to him.
Nevertheless the new position of the gamonal was not all flowers. There
was no lack of adversities to embitter his triumph; one of the most
serious of which was the amount of money that his presidency cost him;
dollars here to aid the campaign, dollars there to celebrate the
happenings, favorable to the cause, more dollars to get a friend out of
the straits caused by his political enthusiasm, credit to fellow
partisans with few scruples. In short, not a day passed that he did not
have to loosen the strings of his purse. Another mortification was the
_jefe politico_, whose ironical glance he could not endure. He avoided
meeting him, because, in spite of everything, an internal voice
reproached him for his conduct. The imperturbable confidence of the
official in the final triumph of his cause occasioned him uneasiness;
his mocking little smile when he heard the harangues and threats of the
excited partisans he considered a bad omen, and, on account of what
might happen, he always evaded replying to the cutting sarcasms which
his former friend directed at him. He did not believe it prudent to
break off entirely with that man who went often to the capital, who
talked with the governor, with the minister, and even the president
himself. But not all the citizens of San Miguel had the same diplomacy
as the gamonal. More than one, made courageous by numerous libations in
honor of the candidate, had allowed himself to utter shouts and
expressions prejudicial to the principal authority of the people. The
punishment was not long in coming. Those who made the most disturbance
went to reside in the barracks.
Evaristo, thanks to the position which his father had always occupied in
the village and the consideration which the authorities had for him on
that account, had not yet served his time in the army, and he imagined
that the time for shouldering a gun would never arrive for him. Vain
illusion! One day a corporal presented himself at the house and carried
away the youth, with five or six others. That night ’Nor Juan lay awake
thinking that such a misfortune would not have happened in the days when
he was on friendly terms with the _jefe politico_.
The absence of Evaristo, who was his right arm, the time which his
duties as president of the club required, and the many expenses which
the position caused him, brought great disorder to the business affairs
of the gamonal, usually so well managed. Thus it was that as an
important note, in favor of a bank, was about to become due, ’Nor Juan
found with dismay that it would not be possible for him to pay it at the
stipulated time, a thing which would happen for the first time in his
life. Much worried, he went to consult the lawyer Castrillo, to ask his
aid in getting out of the difficulty. The latter calmed him, advising
him to request a renewal of the note, a thing which would not be
difficult to obtain, considering the good reputation which his signature
and that of his surety, Toribio Cascante, had always enjoyed.
The gamonal went to the bank with considerable dread, for he considered
it a dishonor to ask for a renewal. The manager, who always had treated
him with much deference, as is customary in banks when dealing with
persons who have money, received him this time with coldness and
reserve. ’Nor Juan explained the situation to him, making plain that his
financial distress was but temporary, but the manager, who had listened
to him absent-mindedly, cut him short, saying dryly: “I am very sorry,
Señor Alvarez, but it is impossible. You understand that the bank is
obliged to be very prudent, in view of the disagreeable aspect political
affairs are assuming.” These last words were said with a certain
significant tone. The countryman went out ashamed and with tears in his
eyes: still, as it was necessary to pay, he had to seek for the money in
another direction. A coffee buyer promised it to him, but it was not
possible to finish the matter, because Toribio Cascante did not wish to
continue acting as security for his friend, whom he reproached for going
into politics, which was a bad thing, he said. There was then no other
remedy than to go to a money lender, who let him have the money on a
mortgage at a very high rate of interest.
“If you hadn’t been so stupid as to go into politics”--the lawyer said
to him, when they went out of the money lender’s house--“the thing could
have been arranged in the bank; but, my friend, you have allowed
yourself to be foolishly deceived by the Nationalists, and now you must
take the consequences.”
These words made the gamonal discern that, if politics for a certain few
is a source of profit and satisfaction, for the minority it brings only
sorrows and tribulations. The joy of triumph came to sweeten somewhat
the bitterness caused him by the misfortunes which have been related. It
is true that Evaristo remained in the barracks and a ruinous mortgage
weighed upon his coffee plantation, La Lima, but, on the other hand, it
was a great pleasure to have conquered, to have saved religion, the
supremacy of the people, menaced by those bandits of progressists. And
what a splendid victory was that of the National party in San Miguel! In
vain were all the efforts and threats of the _jefe politico_. It was of
no avail that the progressists, who were in the majority at the
electoral table, took the first two days of the elections to inscribe
the fourteen votes which remained to their party in the village. The
mass of the good people, who, restrained by organized force, were
awaiting their turn with impatience, was finally able to reach the table
on the last day, drowning in an instant with the tide of their votes the
poor little fourteen of their adversaries. And what tenacity those
enemies of God had, for did they not try to take by force that which the
ballot-boxes had denied them? When this happened, ’Nor Juan Alvarez was
one of the first to rush to the defense of the imperilled reward at the
head of the men of San Miguel, and passed a whole night laying siege to
the capital, disposed to make the constitution respected and also to run
away should the troops draw near. Still, one could not ask more of a man
armed only with a machete.
At last came the great day of the final triumph. The gamonal, who was
ordinarily very self-contained, could not resist the desire to celebrate
worthily the advent of the executive of his choice. When at night he
returned to San Miguel, after the illuminations and fireworks, in
company with his faithful fellow villagers he entered the village like a
mad man, shouting and executing pirouettes on horseback. In one of these
the animal slipped and fell, breaking one of his master’s legs. ’Nor
Juan was laid up more than three months and spent a considerable sum of
money on doctor’s visits, only to remain lame after all.
At the outset, ’Nor Juan Alvarez recovered his former influence with the
new _jefe politico_. This however, did not last long, for, greatly to
the scandal of all the good citizens who had aided in creating the new
regime, the official was not long in getting on friendly terms with the
progressists of San Miguel, especially with the proprietor of La Sirena,
who had been the head of the party there. According to what the evil
tongues said, the astute shopkeeper gave on credit the politician all
the cognac that he could drink, so that six months after the great
triumph, which had cost so much labor, those who really governed the
village were the keeper of the pulpería and his friends, with great
detriment to the conquerors. The disgusted villagers complained among
themselves, and there were even some who missed the former _jefe
politico_, who after all was amiable and obliging. An anonymous letter
against the new man, which a daily paper of the capital published,
finished the work of spoiling things, strengthening the union of the
official and the progressists, who wrote another letter in which they
hotly defended him and censured the wayward and rebellious spirit of
certain citizens of San Miguel, who aspired only to command.
The relations between the _jefe politico_ and the villagers became
embittered to such a degree that ’Nor Juan Alvarez, at the request of
many of the citizens, resolved to make use of his influence with the
president to have the official removed from office.
He set out one morning, full of confidence, remembering the cordiality
of the reception which the president had given him when he was a
candidate. As he was riding to the city, the details of the interview
came to his mind, the friendly words, the cigar, the glass of beer, the
protests of good will. “As soon as I talk to him everything will be
arranged,” thought the gamonal, as he sat in the antechamber, in company
with ten or twelve other persons. After three hours of waiting, his
confidence was not so great, and when his turn arrived, and an aid
directed him to enter the office of the chief of the government, he
completely lost his former self-confidence. One glance sufficed to
inform him that the man before him was not now the good-natured, smiling
candidate, who had received him with so much affability. Cold and grave,
his glance calmly inquiring, the president asked him the motive of his
visit. ’Nor Juan, much disturbed, explained to him, timidly and with
hesitation, the legitimate complaints of the Nationalists in San Miguel
against the _jefe politico_, and their desire that he be removed. With
unexpected severity, the magistrate rebuked him for the spirit of
rebellion which the people of San Miguel had been showing for some time,
and insisted on the necessity of respecting the authorities. Then he
said that he knew the _jefe politico_ personally, that he was a good man
and worthy of his entire confidence, incapable of abusing it; that his
relations with the progressists were far from constituting a fault,
rather it was a proof of his amiable and conciliatory disposition.
Moreover, it was well that things were as they were, for the country was
desirous of tranquillity, and the hatreds stirred up by the electoral
battle should be forgotten. The countryman went out from the interview
much crestfallen and returned to his village with his ears drooping.
* * * * *
To the enthusiasm of the conflict and the joy of victory in San Miguel
succeeded the most bitter disenchantment. The chains of twenty years of
dictatorship were to have been broken, the sovereignty of the people was
to have been re-established, the slothful men of the former
administrations were to have been swept aside, but the truth was that
everything remained the same. Religion was not triumphant, nor were
“guaro” and tobacco free, nor had anyone a dollar more in his pocket.
What had the citizens of San Miguel gained by the change? To be sure
they had been given a new _jefe politico_. A great gain indeed, since
everybody was anxious to have him leave! The progressists laughed at the
dissatisfaction of their adversaries, and when the latter complained of
having been cheated with false promises, they answered: “They were right
in taking you for fools. If our candidate were in power it would be
another cock that is crowing. At least you would not have this _jefe
politico_ who bothers you so much.” In all the village the only one who
said nothing was Toribio Cascante, the former surety of ’Nor Juan
Alvarez. He neither despised the _jefe politico_ nor desired the return
of the former one, nor clamored for the promised suppression of the
monopoly on brandy and tobacco. This rustic philosopher had never
believed in any of the promises of the parties that were contending for
power; and while the others lost time in talking, in agitating
themselves, in drinking, he kept quietly on with his farm labor and
habitual tasks, without worrying over the fact that they called him
“pancista,”[21] and said he was of the cat party, that is to say, one of
those who always land on their feet. It was thus that his affairs had
prospered. The coffee plantation gave good returns, the cattle were
bursting with fatness, and every Saturday he returned from the market
with his pockets full of money. In contrast with this pleasing
situation, that of ’Nor Juan Alvarez was more distressing each day. The
enormous interest that the money lender charged was an ulcer that was
eating away his fortune, already so impaired. The small crop which La
Lima produced, on account of lack of assistance during the absence of
Evaristo, completed the work of demoralizing things, and the gamonal,
seeing that he was on the road to inevitable ruin, began to lose heart.
“Toribio Cascante is the only one who can get me out of these
difficulties,” he used often to say in the bosom of his family, but
since the wealthy philosopher had refused to keep on acting as his
security the relations between the two neighbors and friends had grown
cool. This did not prevent Cascante from making prudent observations,
when ’Nor Juan became a member of the Orthodox League, a clerical
association whose ramifications extended throughout the whole country
like the tentacles of a monstrous octopus, a branch of which the priest
had just founded in San Miguel. The citizens, discontented with the
government and having still fresh in their imaginations the stupid
arguments with which the nationalists had awakened their dormant
religious fanaticism, rallied with enthusiasm to the new standard. ’Nor
Juan Alvarez was elected president of the orthodox club, and each day
conceived a greater liking for politics. Nevertheless, when the priest
told him that the cause of religion was very poor and that it was
necessary for all true believers to make a pecuniary sacrifice in order
to help their triumph, he felt as though they had dashed a bucket of
cold water over him. He stammered a few excuses and vague explanations
about his embarrassed financial situation. But the priest, who knew the
habitual avarice of the country people, replied indignantly that as a
rich and influential man he had to set the example; that his fondness
for worldly things was a great sin in the eyes of God, who had heaped
good things upon him; that our Lord returns a hundred fold the alms that
are given him, and that it would not be a bad thing for him to look a
little more after his soul’s salvation. The old man, with grief in his
heart, had to detach himself from a considerable sum. A little while
afterwards the opportunity presented itself for testing the enormous
political power which the Orthodox League represented.
The time had arrived for renewing half of the congress, and the real
leaders behind the scenes who pulled the wires of the association felt
sure of the triumph of the clerical ticket.
In the morning of the day appointed for the voting, the electors of San
Miguel, who had confessed the evening before, received the sacrament
very early before setting out on what the priest compared to a new
crusade. At the front went the gamonal, who, during the whole trip, did
not cease to admonish them to follow faithfully the instructions which
the priest had given them. Everybody proclaimed his obedience with much
warmth, but on arriving at the capital, each having in his pocket the
neatly folded list which had just been given him at the central club of
the league, their firmness had to withstand a rude assault. Gathered
there were all the most influential men of the nationalist and
progressist parties working together for one and the same ticket which
was opposed to that of the clergy. The countryman looked with
stupefaction at the intimate union of men, who, two years before, had
been desirous of killing each other and had called one another bandits
and scoundrels in the newspapers, in the clubs and in public places.
Well did Toribio Cascante say that the people who wore frock coats[22]
were all the same kind of monkeys with different tails. There was one
moment when the gamonal himself felt that he was faltering, and that was
when Don Simeón and the lawyer Castrillo tried to dissuade him from
voting for the league. Don Simeón confabulating with the Masons! What
was the world coming to, when even the saints were turning against God!
But the gamonal was too religious to break a promise made under the
auspices of the sacrament of the confession and the mystery of the
eucharist. So the seductive voice of Don Simeón uttered his best
arguments in vain; ’Nor Juan Alvarez remained firm as a rock. Contrary
to the hope of the clericals, their ticket was defeated throughout
almost the whole country, owing to the coalition of the advanced
elements, and in great part also to the numerous desertions from the
ranks of the league at the last hour.
Nevertheless the triumph was by a small margin and the clerical
propaganda continued more active and powerful than ever, aided by the
discords of the liberals, who broke forth into dissensions again at the
very time of their victory, forgetting the famous motto: “In union there
is strength.” The league, concealing its rancor, offered its aid to the
weak and wavering administration, which, making certain concessions,
hastened to accept it. This state of affairs, however, could not last
long, because the league felt itself sufficiently vigorous to get on
alone and repulsed the idea of adopting a political head which was not
selected freely by itself from among the most docile and inane. Of the
fourteen progressists of San Miguel, some had joined the league. The
rest did not know which of the liberal candidates to choose, because the
latter, not to go back on their custom, were at loggerheads. Therefore,
when the elections came the triumph of the clerical party there, as well
as in all the rest of the country, was astonishing. The gamonal rubbed
his hands together with pleasure, thinking that this time, with the
coming into power of his friends, who had promised to aid him, he was
going to get out of debt. The priest could scarcely contain himself in
his skin, considering as good as abolished all those hateful laws made
by those demons of liberals; the secularization of cemeteries, lay
education, civil marriage and so on; but above all he rejoiced in the
blessed re-establishment of the tithes, offerings of first-fruits and
other sinecures, although he thought it more prudent to say nothing to
his parishioners on this point. But the illusions of the members of the
league were not to last long. In the midst of their rejoicing they
forgot that in the admirable hand which they held there was one card
lacking. Their adversaries, on the other hand, had only one, but that
was the best, or the worst, as you prefer--the trump of swords.[23] In
the final elections the league was beaten, or more correctly they were
told that they were beaten, so that their fusion with those who had
before been their worst enemies profited them nothing. They tried to
re-enact the famous farce played four years ago by the national party.
Poor Orthodox League! They forgot that the progressists, those monsters
of iniquity, who after all were only sheep in wolves’ clothing, tyrants
who did not shed blood, were not now in power. The clericals learned on
this occasion, with some detriment to their ribs, that everything
varies as the glass through which one looks. The cavalry took charge of
gathering in the excited countrymen who were trying to remember those
patriotic songs about the restored sovereignty of the people, of the
breaking of the chains of twenty years of dictatorship, and others not
less pretty, forgetting that it is quite another thing when sung with
the guitar. Evaristo, ’Nor Juan, the priest, and some more from San
Miguel, went to take up their abode in the various prisons in which some
nationalists of last year acted as hosts to their former fellow
partisans, doubtless to recompense them for having believed in their
promises. The women were left to die, as is natural, thinking of their
husbands, fathers, sons and brothers.
In the house of ’Nor Juan the affliction was greater than ever, because
the usurer, holder of the mortgage which hung over La Lima, had just
commenced suit for non-payment, at that time so full of distress for
them. By the gateway of politics all the misfortunes of that peaceful
home had entered. A week passed without their being able to learn
anything of the prisoners. The wife and daughters of the gamonal had
gone twice to San José, in search of news, but all their efforts had
been in vain, and they had had to return more disheartened than ever,
after having looked at the silent walls of the different prisons, for
they did not even know in which of them the two men were. Alarming
rumors concerning the prisoners were rife among the people and the poor
women were in despair when they heard them. Toribio Cascante advised
them to ask the _jefe politico_ to use his influence in favor of the
prisoners, and the proprietor of La Sirena, who was a leading man in the
new party which had just been born out of nothing, promised to help
their petition with his powerful influence. ’Na Mercedes went very
humbly to see the official, accompanied by her daughter Ester, who was
not now the rosebud which the former _jefe politico_ had so much
admired, but a beautiful flower that inflamed the desires of the new
one. The poor old woman begged in tears for the compassion of the man
who was able to return her husband and son to her, and he, without
promising anything, said that he would see, that he would talk it over,
but that the thing was very difficult, inasmuch as both father and son
were much involved in that terrible attempt against law and order, which
it had been necessary to drown in blood. As the women were leaving, the
_jefe politico_ took advantage of the moment when ’Na Mercedes was going
out first, to say to Ester:
“Come back alone and we will talk about it.”
* * * * *
Early in the morning, the family of the gamonal set out from San Miguel.
The three women and the youngest child of the widow were riding in the
oxcart which Evaristo was driving, with his goad on his shoulder. Behind
came ’Nor Juan Alvarez and his grandson José, on foot. All remained
silent, oppressed with a great sadness, because they had to leave that
well-beloved village, where they had enjoyed good fortune and plenty
for so many years. But the usurer had been implacable and the auction of
La Lima had taken place. Toribio Cascante had bought it for a third of
its value, because as he said, “Business is business.”
Deeply affected by the loss of his beloved coffee plantation, the
gamonal did not wish to keep on living in San Miguel, although he still
had his house and another small bit of land. He sold everything, so as
to go and establish himself in a distant place where he had a tract of
uncultivated land among the mountains. When he passed in front of La
Lima, that fine coffee plantation which twenty years before he had set
out with his own hands, a tear rolled down the weather-beaten cheeks of
the poor old man. He could scarcely believe that that fertile land was
no longer his. The little child was sleeping in the lap of its mother.
José, with the indifference of childhood, was amusing himself with the
incidents of the road, making the dogs bark or throwing pebbles at the
chickens which were scratching about. At the top of the hill called
Jocote the travellers halted. In the centre of the smiling valley which
lay spread out at their feet could be seen a white dot,--it was the
church of San Miguel. The gamonal contemplated it for a long time with
deep emotion, and after a while he exclaimed with resignation:
“God be praised that he oppresses but does not crush entirely. If it had
not been for the _jefe politico_, who knows where Evaristo and I should
be now! God be praised that he so orders it that there are still good
souls in this world.”
Ester, who had heard these words, sighed deeply. She alone knew what it
had cost that there might “still be good souls in the world.”
CHIVALRY
One night in the month of July four horsemen, well mounted, emerged from
an hacienda in Uruca[24] and rode hurriedly along the highway to the
joining of the road to San Antonio de Belén, where they stopped.
“Here we must separate,” said one of them. “May you have good luck,
Ramón,” he added searching in the darkness for his friend’s hand.
“Adiós, Salvador, adiós,” replied the one spoken to, in a voice
trembling with emotion. The two men, without letting go of each other’s
hands, drew together until their stirrups touched, and embraced warmly.
“Adiós, adiós”--“Good luck.”
After a last embrace, long and affectionate, both started off in
different directions, each escorted by one of the two horsemen who had
just witnessed the sad scene of farewell. Those who followed the
highroad did not get very far. At the Ciruelas river they fell into the
hands of a picket of soldiers who carried them prisoners to the Alajuela
Barracks. The other two fugitives, for fugitives they were, kept on,
with better fortune, along the San Antonio road.[25] The darkness did
not permit them to see where they were going, so that the travellers had
to trust to the instinct of their horses to avoid the bad places or to
get out of them. Luckily it did not rain, which would have been one more
hindrance to the rapid march that the critical situation in which
Salvador Moreno found himself necessitated, for he was being eagerly
searched for on account of his share in the attack made the night before
on the Cuartel Principal[26] in San José. The revolutionary uprising had
failed through the fault of those who were to have brought men from the
neighboring towns, with the intention of arming them when the Cuartel
had surrendered, and of laying siege to the other ones.
Not one of them appeared at the critical moment, and the few valiant
ones who had surprised the garrison asleep at two o’clock in the
morning, had to abandon at daybreak the conquest which had cost them so
much blood.
Salvador did not answer the questions which from time to time his
companion asked him. Absorbed in his thoughts he lived over again the
happenings of last night’s bloody drama; the meeting in the house of one
of the conspirators, the irritating wait for those who did not come, the
fear of a betrayal, the doubts and hesitations of the last hour, finally
the moment of marching, the gate of the Cuartel opened by the hand of a
traitor, the hand to hand fight with the guard, the gallantry of the
officers meeting death at their posts. But more than all there harassed
him the vision of a young lieutenant running up hurriedly, sabre in
hand, to aid his comrades, whom he had laid low by a shot at barely
arm’s length. In vain he tried to make himself believe that it was a
legitimate act of warfare. An internal voice cried out in the tribunal
of his conscience against the blood that had been shed. Salvador Moreno
was a high-strung, refined man to whom the brutality of force was
repugnant. At the same time his indomitable and lofty spirit could not
bend itself to the political despotism which is killing us like a
shameful chronic sore. In the conspiracy he had seen the shaking off of
the heavy yoke, the dignity of his country avenged, and the triumph of
liberty. To gain all that, the sacrifice of his life had not seemed too
much. Now his sorrow was very great, his patriotic illusions had
disappeared like the visions of a beautiful dream when one awakens, and
his heart was throbbing with wrath against those who through their
cowardice had caused the daring attempt to fail. With keen regret he
thought of his comrades uselessly sacrificed, of the agony of a brave
young fellow whom he had carried out of the Cuartel in his arms,
mortally wounded. Clear and exact the events of the combat went marching
through his mind, some of which were atrocious, worthy of savages,
others irresistibly comical, like that of the boastful fellow who
withdrew from the gate of the Cuartel to go in search of his revolver
which he pretended to have forgotten; and always persistent and sad, the
vision of the lieutenant falling without a cry, his hand at his breast.
Afterwards the despair at the failure, the retreat at daybreak through
the deserted streets of the capital, the interminable hours of anguish,
hidden with Ramón Solares under some sacks in the country house of a
friend, listening to the voices of those who were searching for them.
Finally the sheltering night, the hurried flight, the gloomy future,
forbidding as the wrath of the enraged dictator. In order to aid their
escape the fugitives had agreed to follow different roads; Salvador
Moreno chose the one to Puntarenas,[27] passing through San Antonio de
Belén, and the plains of Carmen. Ramón Solares preferred the San
Carlos[28] route, with the idea of seeking refuge in Nicaragua by land,
where the two friends were to meet if Salvador should succeed in
escaping the vigilance of the authorities of the port.
Both were accompanied by trusty retainers who knew the country and were
of proved courage. It was Fate that decided in this case, and we have
already seen that she declared in favor of Salvador Moreno, who without
meeting a soul, arrived at the highroad to Puntarenas at one o’clock in
the morning, while his friend, chained in his prison, offered prayers
that he might succeed in escaping from those who pursued him. At three
o’clock he passed through Atenas and at six in the morning he and his
companion arrived at the gates of San Mateo,[29] but now the horses
could endure no more. It was part of the fugitive’s plan to pass the day
hidden in a friendly and secure house on the plains of Surubres,
although now this was not possible, on account of the fatigue of the
horses and the danger of the young conspirator’s being recognized in
passing through the village, in spite of the fact that he was wearing
the costume of a countryman.[30] It was necessary then to decide on
something.
“Don Salvador,” said the guide, “three hundred yards from here there
lives an acquaintance of mine, who is a man you can trust. If you like
we can dismount here, so that we shan’t have to pass through San Mateo
in the daytime.”
“Very well, let us go there.”
The two men spurred their horses and a few minutes afterwards arrived at
a house situated a short distance from the road. Through the unbarred
gate they entered, saluted by the barking of three thin, mangy dogs. At
this disturbance an old and corpulent countryman came out on the
veranda.
“Buenos días, ’Nor José,” said the guide.
“Buenos días, Pedro,” replied the old man. “How goes it?”
“Well; and how are you? How are the girls getting on?”
“Very well, thank you. Why don’t you get off a while and rest?” added
the old fellow.
The horsemen dismounted and Salvador dropped, half dead with fatigue,
on the settle that stood on the veranda. While he was stretching his
aching legs, ’Nor José and Pedro unsaddled the horses and the latter
confided to the old man that his companion was fleeing the country.
Hurriedly he told him a story which he made up as he went on; something
about a quarrel in which machetes had been flourished in the air. The
old man did not insist on the details, promising to keep quiet about the
unlooked for guests in his house.
Pedro went to take the horses to the pasture and Salvador accepted with
pleasure the coffee which the youngest daughter of ’Nor José served him.
The old man was proud of having for a son-in-law the _jefe politico_[31]
of San Mateo, who had married his oldest daughter, a handsome girl, so
people said. Noticing that his guest was getting sleepy he conducted him
to a cot bed that he might rest.
Five minutes afterwards the fugitive was sleeping like a log. The night
came on without Salvador’s awakening from the deep slumber into which he
had fallen, his bones aching and his nerves being unstrung by the
fatigue and emotions he had endured.
Pedro had improved the time by bathing the horses in the neighboring
river and giving them a good feed of corn. This task ended, he took a
nap for a couple of hours, which was sufficient to restore to his
muscles the necessary energy; and as it was not two o’clock in the
afternoon, he shared the frugal dinner of his host.
On hearing the church bells of San Mateo tolling “Las Animas” he
resolved to awaken Salvador, which was not an easy thing to do. For all
that he shook him, it was impossible to overcome the stupor which held
him fast. Finally he opened his eyes, looking about in a dazed way
without comprehending, until Pedro’s voice insisting on the urgency of
taking the road made him remember the reality of the situation. Salvador
got up with difficulty; each movement that he made aroused a dormant
pain in his body, which was agitated by a painful, feverish sensation. A
little glass of cognac produced the necessary reaction and the odor of
supper already served began to remind him that he had been fasting for
many hours.
While Salvador was devouring a chicken, which at Pedro’s request the
daughter of ’Nor José had cooked, the latter, seated on a bench,
observed him closely. Naturally keen, he had scented the fact that
beneath the short jacket was hidden a person who was not accustomed to
wear it. The attentiveness of Pedro to Salvador, the respect with which
he talked to him, were indications that this man belonged to a higher
class of society than his garb would imply. This was evident; but
looking well into the matter, what difference did it make to him that
the stranger was who he was?
A five dollar bill which Salvador put in his hand, completely confirmed
the old man’s suspicions. In a little while Pedro entered to give
notice that the horses were ready and Salvador, in bidding farewell,
warmly squeezed the hand of his chance host, who almost fell over
himself in his salutations and wishes for a safe journey. They were
already going out to the veranda, when a boy came running up with the
news that ’Nor José’s oldest daughter was very ill. About to give birth
to a child she had suffered a fall with bad consequences.
The old man was very much alarmed and Salvador tried to calm him,
advising him to call a doctor.
“We have no doctor here,” replied ’Nor José, much distressed, “and while
one is coming from Alajuela the girl may die.”
Salvador, who was a warm-hearted fellow, did not hesitate a moment.
“Let us go and see her,” he said. “I am a doctor.”
The old man, surprised and pleased, did not know what to say.
“May God pay you, señor, may God pay you!” he finally murmured with
tears in his eyes. Pedro, plainly anxious, improved the moment when the
countryman went to get his hat and call his daughter, to whisper in
Salvador’s ear that the sick woman was no less than the wife of the
_jefe politico_, who must already have had orders to capture him.
“No matter, Pedro. It is my duty not to allow this poor woman to die.
Let us go at once.”
The old man, who returned hurriedly, heard these last words. “May God
pay you, señor,” he said again in a low voice. Pedro took the old man
behind him on the crupper and Salvador the girl. After fifteen minutes
of fast riding, the four stopped in front of the _jefe politico’s_
office.
The house was full of gossipers of the neighborhood, who had come in
armed with infallible remedies which they were anxious to apply to the
sufferer. The friends of the _jefe politico_, gathered together in the
dining-room about a bottle of white rum, told discreetly, for the
comfort of the official, of similar cases which finally had ended
happily.
The arrival of her father and sister called forth a groan from the sick
one, who in her role of a first-time mother considered herself as good
as dead.
“Enter, enter, doctor!” exclaimed the old man, politely addressing the
fugitive, whom nobody in the midst of the general confusion had as yet
noticed. Judging by his costume, those present took him for one of those
country quacks who live on the ignorance and avarice of the country
people. Salvador examined the sick woman carefully and was convinced
that, although the case was a serious one, it would not be difficult to
save her. Without loss of time he took such measures as the
circumstances demanded, and from that moment he thought only of the life
of the little human creature which depended on his care. In vain Pedro
reminded him many times of the great peril he was incurring in that
house; nothing could make him withdraw.
’Nor José and the _jefe politico_, feeling more at ease after hearing
the doctor’s opinion, went to join the circle of friends, who had
already given a good account of the first bottle of rum. When the second
was opened, tongues began to get loosened, and the conversation acquired
an animation which it lacked at the beginning.
Incidentally they talked of the revolution which had just taken place
and ’Nor José, who, on account of the isolation in which he lived, was
ignorant of it all, made them tell him of what had happened, listening
to the story with anxiety. On learning that it was the Cuartel Principal
which had been attacked, he asked his son-in-law whether he had news of
Rafael, his son, who was one of the garrison.
“I don’t know anything about him,” replied the _jefe politico_. “I
suppose that there is no news since they have not sent me any word.
Nevertheless in order to feel easy I am going to telegraph to San José.”
When the despatch was written it was sent to the telegraph office.
Salvador did not leave his patient, encouraging her with cheering words
to bear her pains with fortitude. Pedro, ill at ease, was watching the
street, near the horses which were dozing with their heads low down.
At ten o’clock at night a long telegram came for the _jefe politico_. As
he was reading it his hands trembled slightly. Suddenly a violent
exclamation broke from his lips.
On hearing it, the people present got up as though to ask the cause, but
the _jefe politico_ without speaking a word conducted his father-in-law
to a neighboring room. There, without any preamble, he told him that his
son had been killed in the attack of the night before, and that Doctor
Salvador Moreno was supposed to have been his slayer, and that he was
then trying to escape from the country.
The poor old man, falling limp into a chair, wept bitterly over the
death of his son. After a while he aroused himself with an expression of
unspeakable wrath and the tears dried up in his eyes, which now shone
like red-hot coals. “Salvador Moreno,” he murmured in a hoarse voice, “I
won’t forget that name.”
“I have heard it,” said the _jefe politico_. “I believe it is that of a
young doctor recently come back from Europe.”
One of the women neighbors interrupted the conversation with the glad
news of the birth of a strong and healthy man-child. Both were going in
to see it, but it was not yet time for them to enter.
Pedro, always uneasy, had hardly heard the news when he went in search
of ’Nor José to ask him to remind his companion of the urgency of
starting.
“Tell Don Salvador that it is already very late and that I am waiting
for him,” he said forgetting to use the assumed name. On hearing this
name the old man became petrified. Then he exclaimed with fury.
“Don Salvador! Don Salvador Moreno! That is the doctor’s name, isn’t it
so?”
“Yes. Did he tell you?”
Without replying, ’Nor José went to a corner of the room where a machete
was leaning against the wall. He drew it from its scabbard and with an
expression of unheard-of ferocity, went toward the apartment of his
daughter.
At that moment the door opened. Upon the bed lay the mother, very pale,
but her eyes and lips were smiling. With his sleeves rolled up and
absorbed in his task, Salvador was bathing the new born child in a wash
basin. On seeing this the angry father felt a surge of generous feeling
invade his heart. That man was the slayer of his Rafael; that was the
terrible truth; but that same man who had shed the blood of his son had
just saved another bit of his soul at the risk of his liberty and
perhaps of his very life. He stood looking at the peaceful scene; the
happy mother, the anxious and busy neighbors, and the doctor, very
earnest, coddling the child, whose cries seemed to ask pardon for the
saviour of its mother.
The old man drew back slowly, letting go of the machete. After a moment
of hesitation, he passed his rough hand across his face and drawing near
to the fugitive said in a hoarse and trembling voice.
“Don Salvador, I beg you to go soon, because you are in great danger in
this house.”
FOOTNOTES:
[1] An officer somewhat similar to a mayor of a town.
[2] A small village bearing the same name as the Capital of Costa Rica,
a few miles west of Alajuela.
[3] A river in the northern part of Costa Rica near the Nicaraguan
boundary.
[4] Celebration in honor of a saint.
[5] Contraction of Señor, used by the country people of Costa Rica.
[6] Sweet cakes much liked by the Costa Ricans.
[7] Brandy made from sugar cane.
[8] Low-necked, short-sleeved garment worn by women of the peon class.
[9] A slang expression meaning short-tempered.
[10] The leading citizen of a village.
[11] The Costa Rican government has a monopoly on the manufacture of
liquor, and formerly had one on tobacco also.
[12] Literally, “political head”; corresponding to mayor.
[13] A general store where liquors and all kinds of merchandise are
sold.
[14] (Author’s note): The country people of Costa Rica call those who
live in the cities and especially persons of consequence, “gentes del
centro” or people of the centres.
[15] Hail, Mary, most pure. Form of salutation and reply.
[16] Conceived in grace. Form of salutation and reply.
[17] (Author’s note): Used for “papa” by the country people.
[18] Beans.
[19] Long, narrow shawls worn by women of the poor class.
[20] Large china silk shawls worn by the women of the upper class in
Costa Rica.
[21] One who is on the fence.
[22] In Spanish “gente de levita.” The country people of Costa Rica
thus refer to the upper class.
[23] There is a play on words here that cannot be translated into
English. In a Spanish pack of cards the suit, corresponding to spades
is called “Espadas” or “Swords.”
[24] A district near San José.
[25] This road, which is little traveled, rejoins the main highway to
Puntarenas near the Rio Grande.
[26] Headquarters barracks.
[27] The port on the Pacific Coast of Costa Rica.
[28] A river in the northern part of Costa Rica flowing into the San
Juan.
[29] Between Atenas and San Mateo the highroad crosses a range of
mountains.
[30] In Costa Rica the country people wear a costume quite different
from that of the upper class. The men wear short roundabout jackets and
colored sashes about the waist to support the pantaloons.
[31] The chief official of a town in Spanish America, similar to the
office of mayor in the United States.
Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:
Ricardo Fernandez Guardia=> Ricardo Fernández Guardia
Maria=> María
Garcia=> García
Rodriguez=> Rodríguez
he cast a glace=> he cast a glance {pg 18}
pulperia=> pulpería
senor=> señor
position of the gamoal=> position of the gamoal {pg 34}
the afliction was=> the affliction was {pg 47}
be soon a white dot=> be seen a white dot {pg 49}
who caried them prisoners=> who carried them prisoners {pg 51}
with an expresion=> with an expression {pg 62}
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