Let the truth be what it may, for I neither affirm it nor deny it, and I am not in a mood to argue as to whether his bear hugs were wellor ill–considered. Whether a man who gave embraces or a revolutionary, the fact is that don Alonso the Brawny died an unfortunate death.
1José Antonio Páez (1790–1873) was Venezuela’s most successful liberator after Bolívar, under whose authority he served until 1830. Páez was a gregarious llanero (plainsman).—Ed.
2Princess.
3The Inca Garcilaso de la Vega (1539–1616), product of the union between a Spanish soldier and the granddaughter of Inca Tupac–Yupanqui (See “Palla Huarcuna,” note 1), was the author of a history of the Incas titled Comentarios reales, que tratan del origen de los Incas (1606–1617).—Ed.
4See “The Knights of the Cape,” note 7.—Ed.
Margarita’s Wedding Dress
It is likely that some of my readers have heard old women of Lima remark, when they wanted to think over how much the price of something had gone up:
“Good heavens! Why, that’s more expensive than Margarita’s wedding chemise.”
I would have been left with a lingering curiosity as to who that Margarita was whose wedding dress was the talk of the town, had I not come across, in the Madrid newspaper La América, an article signed by don Ildefonso Antonio Bermejo (the author of a noteworthy book on Peru), who, although he touches only lightly on the girl and her wedding dress, put me on the right path to disentangling the skein and getting the story that you are about to read straight.
I
Margarita Pareja was (around the year 1765) the most pampered daughter of don Raimundo Pareja, a Knight of the Order of Santiago and collector general of taxes in Cuzco.
The girl was one of those Lima beauties who captivate the devil himself and make him cross himself and throw stones. She had a pair of black eyes that were like two torpedos loaded with dynamite that caused an explosion in the depths of the soul of Lima’s dashing young men.
There arrived from Spain around that time a bold young man, the son of the crowned city of the bear and the madrone tree1 named don Luis Alcázar. He had an uncle in Lima, a rich bachelor of old highborn Aragonese stock, and prouder than the sons of King Fruela.2
It was only natural that as he waited for the time to come when he would inherit his uncle’s fortune, our don Luis should be as poor as a church mouse and be going through the pains of hell. When I say that even his love–adventures were on credit, to be paid for when his fortunes took a turn for the better, I need say no more.
Alcázar met the lovely Margarita in the procession of Saint Rose. The girl’s eyes sent their darts staight to his heart and inspired his love at first sight. He paid her courtly compliments, and though she answered neither yes nor no, she made it clear with little smiles and other arms of the feminine arsenal that the handsome young man was a dish very much to her liking. The truth is, as if I were in the confessional, that the two of them fell in love to the roots of their hair.
Since lovers forget that arithmetic exists, don Luis believed that his current poverty would not be an obstacle to the prospering of his love, and so he went to Margarita’s father, and without further ado asked him for the hand of his daughter.
The petition was not to don Raimundo’s liking, and he courteously dismissed the petitioner, telling him that Margarita was too young to marry, for despite her 18 Mays, she still played with dolls.
But this was not the heart of the matter. The negative answer stemmed from the fact that don Raimundo did not wish to be the father–in–law of a poor devil, as he told his friends in confidence, and one of them went with this bit of gossip to don Honorato, which was the name of the uncle from Aragón. The latter, who was prouder than the Cid,3fumed with rage and said:
“What’s this I hear! Snubbing my nephew! There are many who would give anything to be related by marriage to that young man, than whom there is none more gallant in all of Lima. Who has ever seen such insolence! How far will that petty tax collector go with me?”
Margarita, who was ahead of her time, for she was as nervous as one of today’s damsels, wept and wailed and tore her hair and had tantrums, and if she did not threaten to poison herself it was only because sulfur matches had not yet been invented.
She lost color and weight, her health quite visibly declined, she spoke of becoming a nun, and no one could do a thing with her.
“Either Luis’s bride or a nun!”4she cried each time her nerves were upset, something that happened from one hour to the next.
The Knight of the Order of Santiago grew alarmed and called in doctors and healers, all of whom declared that the girl was well on her way to becoming consumptive and that the only melecina5to save her wasn’t sold in an apothecary’s shop.
Either marry her to the young man of her choice, or soon lay her out in a coffin with a palm frond and crown. Such was the ultimatum from the doctors.
Don Raimundo (finally acting as a father!), forgetting in his concern to take his cape and cane, rushed like a madman to don Honorato’s house and said to him:
“I have come to ask you to consent to your nephew’s marrying Margarita tomorrow, because if not the girl will go to her last resting place very soon.”
“That can’t be,” the uncle answered rudely. “My nephew is a ‘poor wretch’ as you put it, and what you ought to seek for your daughter is a man rolling in money.”
The altercation was stormy. The more don Raimundo pleaded, the more the Aragonese hit the roof, and don Raimundo was about to depart dejected when don Luis, intervening in the matter, said:
“But uncle, it is not Christian behavior to cause the death of someone who is not to blame.”
“Do you declare yourself willing to marry her?”
“With all my heart, my uncle and master.”
“Well then, my boy. I agree to do as you wish, but on one condition, which is this: Don Raimundo is to swear to me before the consecrated Host that he will not give an ochavo to his daughter, nor will he leave her a real as her inheritance.”
At this point another even stormier dispute ensued.
“But my dear fellow,” don Raimundo argued, “my daughter has a dowry worth 20,000 duros.”
“We give up any claim to the dowry. The girl will come to her husband’s house with nothing more than what she is wearing.”
“Allow me to give her furniture as a wedding gift and her bride’s trousseau.”
“Not so much as a pin. If that doesn’t suit you, leave matters as they are and let the girl die.”
“Be reasonable, don Honorato. My daughter needs to have at least a wedding chemise to replace the clothes she is wearing.”
“Very well. I agree to her having such a garment so that you won’t accuse me of being obstinate. I consent to your giving her a bridal chemise, and that’s the end of it.”
On the following day don Raimundo and don Honorato went to the church of San Francisco very early in the morning, knelt to hear Mass, and according to their agreement, at the moment that the priest elevated the divine Host, Margarita’s father said:
“I swear not to give my daughter anything but her wedding chemise. May God condemn me if I swear falsely.”
And don Raimundo fulfulled ad pedem litterae6 what he had sworn to, for neither in life nor in death did he later give to his daughter anything worth so much as a maravedi.7
The Flanders lace trimming the bride’s wedding chemise cost 2,700 duros, according to Bermejo,8who appears to have copied this detail from the Relaciones secretas of Ulloa and don Jorge Juan.9
Furthermore, the drawstring at her neck was a diamond chain worth 30,000 pesos.
The newlyweds made the Aragonese uncle believe that the bridal chemise was worth a doubloon at best, because don Honorato was so stubborn that had he discovered the truth he would have made his nephew divorce Margarita.
Let us agree that the fame that Margarita Pareja’s bridal chemise came to have was highly deserved.
&nbs
p; 1Madrid.
2The medieval King of Asturias, known in legend, like his offspring, for his inordinate pride.
3Ruy Díaz de Vivar (1043–1099) is a legendary Spanish hero known as “El Cid” (from the Arabic meaning “lord”) who was immortalized in the thirteenth century epic El cantar de mio Cid.—Ed.
4Umphrey’s translation, 127. The original reads: “¡O de Luis o de Dios!”
5A corruption of medicina, medicine.
6To the letter [Latin].
7Any number of medieval Spanish silver coins, used in the thirteenth to fifteenth centuries to value silver and base silver coins, in the fifteenth to eighteenth centuries to value copper coins; a Spanish copper coin of small value used in the seventeenth to eighteenth centuries, frequently used as a type of worthless or valueless object.
8Ildefonso Antonio Bermejo (1820–1892), author of the Repúblicas americanas: episodios de la vida en la República del Paraguay (1873).—Ed.
9Antonio de Ulloa (1716–1795) and Jorge Juan (1713–1773) coauthored the Noticias secretas de América sobre el estado naval, militar y político de los Reynos del Perú y provincias de Quito, costa de Nueva Granada y Chile: gobierno y régimen particular de los pueblos de Indias, etc., etc. (1826).—Ed.
Abascal’s Clever Trick
I
That His Excellency Viceroy don Fernando de Abascal y Souza, Knight of the Order of Santiago and marquis of Concordia,1was a man of great skill is a point on which friends and enemies who managed to meet him are in accord. And in case a contemporary of mine should question the fact, in order to oblige him to strike his flag it will suffice for me to tell of an incident that happened in Lima at the end of 1808, that is to say, when Abascal had been viceroy for scarcely a year and a half.
The senior member of the town council of this City of Kings2 was . . . who? I do not record the name for fear of finding myself involved in another dog and cat fight of a lawsuit. Let us call him señor de H....
His Lordship the town councilor belonged to the scallion species. His head was white and the rest was green; that is to say that despite his white hair and his complaints he still showed off like a peacock and feasted his eyes on the great–great–grandnieces of Adam. He lived the life of a bachelor, treated himself like a prince, had a sizeable fortune, and his house and person were in the care of a housekeeper and a legion of slaves.
One morning as señor de H...was finishing his cup of delicious Cuzco chocolate with cinnamon and vanilla, a poor devil, a vendor of jewels, appeared with a little box that contained a brooch, a pair of earrings and three diamond rings. Señor de H... remembered that Easter was coming, and that for the occasion he had promised to present such a trinket as a gift to a girl who had coaxed him into making that promise. A duro more, a duro less, and the deal was closed for 100 doubloons. He kept the little box and bade the peddler goodbye with these words:
“Very well, my friend, come back in a week for your money.” The appointed day arrived, and after that another and another, and the creditor never managed to speak with his debtor: at times because señor de H...was out, at others because he was visiting prominent citizens of the town, and finally because the black doorkeeper refused to let him past the entryway. The vendor caught up with His Lordship late one afternoon in the doorway of the town hall, and in the presence of several of the latter’s colleagues said to him:
“Forgive me, sir, if I turn up here because I was unable to find you at home, for we poor devils must importune our debtors.”
“And what it is you want, my good man? Alms? Here you are, brother, and go with God.”
And señor de H... took a peseta out of his pocket. “What do you mean, alms?” the creditor answered indignantly. “Pay me the 100 doubloons you owe me.”
“Has anyone ever seen such a shameless rogue!” the town councilor cried. “Come, constable. To jail with this man.”
And there was no way out. The hapless vendor protested, but since protests of the weak against the strong are mallow water, our man went, protest and all, to jail for 24 hours for lack of respect for the person of a man known to be a town councilor or municipillo.
Once he was set free the poor wretch went from Caiaphas to Pilate with his complaint, but inasmuch as he presented neither witnesses nor documents the one called him a madman and the other a rogue.
The case reached the ears of the viceroy, who summoned the victim to his palace in secret, questioned him in detail, and said to him:
“Put your mind at rest and tell no one that we have seen each other. I promise you that by tomorrow morning you will either have recovered your jewelry or have gone to jail for six months as a slanderer.”
II
Except for nights at the theater, which Viceroy Abascal failed to attend only if he was ill or for some other grave reason, he received his aristocratic friends from seven to ten. The lovely Ramona, though barely 14, did the honors of the drawing room with great grace, except when she saw a little mouse run across the rug. Abascal’s pampered daughter was so high–strung that her father forbade the lighting of skyrockets in the vicinity because when they went off they caused the girl to have nervous convulsions. Affectations of a spoiled girl! As the years went by, she was not frightened by the mustachio sported by Pereira, a fine lad whom the king had sent to make war on the insurgents. He had only just arrived in Peru when he kissed Ramona, winning by so doing her hand and her heart, and returning with his new wife to Spain. A fateful blow to all the young marquises and counts of Lima who had been eager to please the girl.
That night señor de H... attended, as usual, the gathering of the viceroy’s intimates in his palace. The viceroy, while deep in conversation with him, asked him for a pinch of snuff, and señor de H... passed him his gold box with his monogram in rubies. Abascal sniffed a noseful, and out of distraction, doubtless, put the other man’s little box away in the pocket of his dress coat.
Suddenly Ramona began to scream. A tiny little spider was climbing up and down the white satin with which the walls of the drawing room were hung, and Abascal, on the pretext of going off to fetch lemon balm water or the little bottle of vinegar of the seven thieves, a hallowed remedy against nerves, slipped off through a side door, called the captain of the guard of halberdiers, and said to him:
“Go to señor de H...’s house and tell Conce, his housekeeper that, using as a sign this snuffbox, which you will leave with her, her master is sending for the little box of jewels that he bought two weeks ago, because he wants to show the jewelry to Ramoncita, who is the most curious young lady that ever was.”
III
Señor de H... returned home that night at ten o’clock, and the housekeeper served him his supper. As His Lordship was savoring a Creole stew, doña Conce, with all the confident informality of an old servant, asked him:
“And how was the gathering, sir?”
“So–so. The innocent Ramona threw a tantrum, and that was the last straw. That young lady is a Doña Affectations and needs a hardhearted husband like myself, who would give her a timely thrashing that would be sure to cure her of her fears. And the worst of it is that her father is a brazen old man who sponged a pinch of snuff from me and made off with my holiday snuff box.”
“That’s not so, sir. Here is the box. One of the palace officers brought it.”
“When was that, Conce?”
“The church bell at the church of Las Nazarenas had just struck eight, and obeying the message you sent me, I gave the officer the little box.”
“You’re tipsy, Conce. What little box are you talking about?”
“The one with the jewels that you bought the other day.”
A few days later señor de H...set out on a trip to the North, where he owned a valuable country estate, and no more was seen of him in Lima.
Naturally he enjoined his steward to pay his creditor before he left.
The gentlemanly Abascal advised the captain of halberdiers and the owner of the jewelry to keep the whole matter a d
eep secret, but the story in all its details came to light, seeing as how a secret shared by three is one shouted from the rooftops.
1José Fernando de Abascal y Souza (1743–1821) was the 38th viceroy of Peru, 18061816.—Ed.
2Lima was founded on the Feast of the Epiphany by Francisco Pizarro, hence the phrase “City of Kings.”
Sixth Series
The Demon of the Andes
(To Ricardo Becerra)
Historical Notes on the Field Marshal Francisco de Carbajal
Arévalo, a little city in Old Castile, gave birth to the soldier who by his indomitable valor, his military gifts, his exploits that border on the fantastic, his rare good fortune in combat, and his sarcastic and cruel temperament was known, in the first days of the colonial period, by the name of The Demon of the Andes.
Who were his parents? Was he born on the wrong side of the blanket or the fruit of an honorable marriage? History maintains a profound silence on these points, although we have read a book in which it is stated that he was the natural son of the terrible Cesare Borgia, duke of Valentinois.1
After having been a soldier for more than 30 years in Europe under the grand captain Gonzalo de Córdoba, and having fought with the rank of lieutenant in the famous battles of Ravenna and Pavia, Francisco de Carbajal came to Peru to lend powerful aid with his sword to the marquis don Francisco Pizarro. He received handsome rewards from Pizarro, and soon he was the possesser of a fat fortune.
After the tragic end met with in Lima by the daring conqueror of Peru, Carbajal fought stubbornly against the faction of the young Almagro. In the bloody battle of Chupas, as the battle was favoring the Almagrists, Francisco de Carbajal, who commanded a regiment of the royal infantry that had lost heart, threw his helmet and cuirass down and stepping before his men, exclaimed: “Demotion and disgrace to the one of you who retreats! I am twice the target for the enemy that you are!” The troops fervently followed the lead of their robust, brawny captain and captured Almagro’s artillery. Historians agree that this heroic act of bravery decided the battle.
Peruvian Traditions Page 20
