Costa Rican tales

	Page
A Miraculous Saint	8
Politics	20
Chivalry	51

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.

---

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.

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:

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.”

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.”