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 theCity 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 theMaestro 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 ratherthan accuracy. In expression, he competed with his master. His best work was theSan Cristóbalwith 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. HisSanta 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.
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 thetabernaculoof 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, theCharles IV, and theConception, of thetabernaculo, 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, theDoctors, theConception, and theVirtues, are distinguished by the movement, which gives them an appearance full of grace and life. All reveal sufficient personality combined with conscientious studyof 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 theDolorosaand aConception, artistically colored.
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 hisMonarquia 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 ofSan Cristóbal, which bears that date, shows, and that still in 1640, the activity of his brush had not ceased, since in that year he executedtheMartyrdom of Santa Catarinafor 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 hisSan Ponciano,San Aproniano, andSan 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 ofSanta Cecilia,Santa Isabel,Queen of Portugal, thePorciuncula, and theAdoration 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 theSanta Isabeland ofSanta Ceciliaare also notable. But the best pages of Echave, and at the same time the most mystical creations, are hisChrist praying in the Garden, andSaint 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 thePresentation of the Virgin at the Temple, theVisitation, and a masterlyConception, 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 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 hewas 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 suchworks as theSanta Formaof Claude Coello, for having been made, although marvelously perfect, with patient slowness.
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 theHospital de Jesus; in 1867, he was Director of theSan HipólitoHospital 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 wasLa Cruz del Paredon, a fantastic legend, printed when its author was eighteen years of age. A volume ofPoesias(Poems) appeared in 1868. In Mexico, in 1871 he printed, in the paper,El Domingo(Sunday) a collection ofRomances 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 hisHasta 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 ofargument and absence of certain dramatic resources, showing lack of originality.”
In 1880, he publishedRomances dramaticos(Dramatic Romances), in which he presents fourteen brief, rapid sketches, each of them capable of expansion into a drama. In 1881 he publishedTrovas 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 authorTaideandVeleidosa, 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.
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 theintention 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.
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.)
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.)
* * * *
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 neverbeen 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-hunterspies 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——
V.: To defile her!—and, she?
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.
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 wasthere—! (Indicating his inner apartments, where she was.) And when, soon, you die at my hand, Viceroy of Mexico, you willhave suffered two deaths!
V.: (To Blanca.) And is it true——?
B.: Sancho! Save me from this dishonor!
S.: (Paying no attention to her; to the Viceroy.) When finally a father meets——
V.: (Trying to stop Sancho’s mouth.) Silence, cursed wretch, silence——!
S.: Blanca; this is not your guardian, he is—your father!
V.: Ah——!
B.: My father! (The viceroy and Blanca stand as if stupefied.)
S.: (Contemplating them.) And how much a father’s heart must suffer in presenting himself with this sacred title for the first time, to a daughter’s heart. She cannot let him kiss her brow—no, she cannot.
B.: (Supplicatingly.) Sancho!
S.: He cannot feel his eyes wet with tears of joy—but only with tears of vengeance! How much she must suffer and how much he!
V.: Infamy.
S.: Infamy, no! because her suffering is multiplied a hundred-fold in yours.
V.: (Drawing his sword.) Blanca, you die!
B.: (Shrinking, horrified.) Ah!
S.: (Throwing himself upon the viceroy.) Do not touch her; look at her—she is innocent! Love has robbed me of my prey. I love her so much that my love conquered my vengeance. (Joy appears on the face of the viceroy.) But do not rejoice, Viceroy. You who rob women of their honor, and assassinate old men, do not rejoice. Only God and you and I know that she is pure. I have not dared to outrage her by a single glance; but, tomorrow——
V.: Ah!
S.: Tomorrow the whole court shall know that she’s your daughter.
V.: No!
S.: And that she passed the night here. (Pointing to the inner rooms.)
V.: Thou shalt die.
S.: My squire knows it——
V.: (Drawing his sword.) Enough!—blood!—what thirst so frightful——!
S.: (Unsheathing.) ’Tis less than mine!
B.: Señors, hold! Sancho, is this possible?
S.: Her voice again—again the cry of her love here in my heart! Withdraw your glance from me Blanca, since at its influence my heart fails and the coward steel trembles in my hand.
B.: Sancho! enough!
S.: Hear it——! Hear it, my father! She asks it——! Have pity on me, since, now that the hour has come for avenging thee, the pardon struggles to issue from my lips! My father, pardon!
V.: Your father, you have said! Who was your father? What is your name?
S.: My name is Juan de Paredes.
V.: You—you are the son of Don Diego and Doña Mencia?
S.: Why do you remind me of it? Why do you summon before me their bloody spirits? Yes, I am—I am he, whom you have robbed of all.
V.: You, who dishonoredher!
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 secretamourswith Doña Mencia bore fruit and that fruit is——
S.: She! oh cursed love! She is my sister——! Oh, almighty God!
* * * *
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 apolitico-literary career. As a contributor or editor he was associated with important periodicals,—El Universal,La Cruz,El Eco NacionalandLa 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 poemsIthamarandDianawere general favorites. In 1875 hisNuevas 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 anEnsayo de una Historia anecdotica de Mexico(Attempt at an Anecdotal History of Mexico). ThisEnsayowas in prose and was divided into three parts, covering ancient Mexican history to the timeof the Conquest. In 1862, inLeyendas 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 ofManuel Eduardo GorostizaandJosé 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 theRecuerdos de la invasion Norte-Americana 1846-1847(Recollections of the American Invasion: 1846-1847), which appeared first in the columns of the periodicalEl SigloXIX, and was reprinted in book form only in 1883. But it is in his short stories that Roa Bárcena appears most characteristically. HisNovelas, 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.
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 werepandorgas, parallelograms of paper or cloth, according to size and importance, with the skeleton composed of strong and flexible cane, calledotate, with hummers of gut or parchment or rag, at the slightly curved top or bottom—or they bore the name ofcubos(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 borefigures 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 greatpandorga, with powerfully bellowing hummer, which on every windy day sunk—if we may use the term—some eight or ten unfortunatecubos, 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 itselfmidway, 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 knownpandorgabully 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 thecubo, 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 ourcuboin 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 thecubo, 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 thecuboextra 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 thecubo, 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.
InNoche 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 entitledÁ 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 beautifuland 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 hispadrino, 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 thepopular 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 believedhim 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 weremarvelously 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 whispereda 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, Iwillmarry 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 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 thejustices 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 theEscuela Nacional Preparatoria(National Preparatory School). Among his works areCuentos románticos(Romantic Tales),En Tierra Yankee(In Yankee Land), andMéxico 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 fromCuentos románticos.
Examining a volume, pretentiously styledAlbum 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 thediligenciacoming 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 ofgiants, 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 thediligencia, 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 theshkok, 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 Mexicanzenzontl, 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 theipiriand 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 tothe 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, whichcovered 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, acuorteocallireared 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 thecu, 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 togetherand 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.