From the day that the schoolmaster had informed him that he smelled of death, Barandalla began to suffer a strange illness that took him to his grave in 1824, shortly before the battle of Ayacucho, just a year to the day after the old man was shot.
1See “Abascal’s Clever Trick,” note 1.—Ed.
Seventh Series
Friar Gómez’s Scorpion
(To Casimiro Prieto Valdés)
Beginning at the beginning,
I wish to begin.
To see if by beginning
I can begin.1
In diebus illis,2I mean to say when I was a boy, I often heard old women exclaim, on pondering the beauty and price of a piece of jewelry:
“That’s worth as much as Father Gómez’s scorpion!”
I have a young daughter, as good as they come, a flower of grace and the salty froth of wit, with eyes saucier and more mischievous than a couple of notaries:
chica que se parece
al lucero del alba
cuando amanece3
In my paternal dotage I have nicknamed this attractive youngster of mine “Friar Gómez’s little scorpion.” And what I propose to do in this Tradition, my friend and comrade Prieto, is to explain the saying of the old women and the meaning of this compliment that I offer my Angélica. The tailor pays his debts with stitches, and I have no other way of satisfying the literary debt that I have contracted with you save to dedicate to you the following handwriting exercises.
I
Friar Gómez was a lay brother who was the contemporary of don Juan de la Pipirindica, he of the silver tongue, and of Saint Francis Solano. This brother lived in the monastery of the Franciscans, where he was in charge of the refectory in the infirmary or hospital. The people called him Friar Gómez, and the chronicles of the monastery and tradition know him as Friar Gómez. I believe that even in the petition for his beatification and canonization that was sent to Rome he is not given any other name.
Friar Gómez wrought miracles wholesale in my country, seemingly offhandedly and without realizing that he was performing them. He was a born miracle worker, like the man who spoke in prose without being aware that he did.
It happened that one day the lay brother was walking along the bridge when a runaway horse threw its rider to the flagstone pavement. The unfortunate man lay there senseless, with his head turned into a sieve and blood gushing from his mouth and nostrils.
“Could be a fatal blow to his head!” the crowd cried. “Somebody go to San Lázaro for the holy oils!”
And everything was confusion and a great to–do.
Friar Gómez calmly went over to the man who was lying on the ground, placed the cord of his habit on his mouth, gave him three blessings, and with no more of a doctor and nothing from an apothecary shop the man with the head injury rose to his feet as good as new.
“A miracle! A miracle! Long live Friar Gómez!” the crowd of spectators exclaimed.
And in their enthusiasm they tried to carry the lay brother off in triumph. To avoid this show of their admiration, Friar Gómez ran to his monastery and shut himself up in his cell.
The Franciscan chronicle tells of this last differently. It says that in order to escape those applauding him, Friar Gómez took to the air and flew from the bridge to the bell tower of his monastery. I neither deny this nor affirm it. It may be true and it may not. When it comes to miracles, I waste ink neither on defending them nor on refuting them.
Friar Gómez was in the mood to work miracles that day, for when he emerged from his cell he made his way to the infirmary, where he found the priest who was later to be canonized as Saint Francis Solano lying on a mat, the victim of a terrible headache. The lay brother felt his pulse and said to him:
“You are very weak, Your Paternity, and had best eat.”
“Brother,” the future saint answered, “I have no appetite.”
“Do try, Reverend Father, to swallow just a mouthful.”
And the lay brother was so insistent that in order to be free of his unreasonable demands, the sick man thought of something that would have been impossible even for the viceroy to get, since it was not the right season.
“Look here, little brother, the only thing I’d like to eat is a couple of mackerel.”
Friar Gómez put his right hand up his left sleeve and took out a pair of mackerel so nice and fresh that they seemed to have just come out of the sea.
“Here they are, Your Paternity, and may they make you feel better. I’m going to cook them this minute for you.”
And the fact is that with the blessed mackerel Saint Francis Solano was cured as if by magic.
It seems to me that these two little miracles with which I have incidentally occupied myself are not mere trifles. I leave in my inkwell many others wrought by our lay brother, because I don’t propose to relate the story of his life and miracles.
Nonetheless, in order to satisfy curiosities that demand as much, I shall mention that over the door of the first cell of the little cloister, which even today serves as an infirmary, there is an oil painting depicting these two miracles, with the following inscription:
“The Venerable Friar Gómez.—Born in Extremadura in 1560. Took the habit in Chuquisaca in 1580.—Came to Lima in 1587.—Was a nurse for forty years, practicing all the virtues, endowed with heaven’s gifts and favors. His life was a continual miracle. Died on May 2, 1631, and was reputed to be a saint. The following year his body was placed in the chapel of Aranzazú, and on October 13, 1810, was transferred to lie beneath the high altar, in the vault in which the priors of the monastery are buried. Dr. don Bartolomé de las Heras was a witness to this transfer. This venerable portrait was restored on November 30, 1882, by Master Zamudio.”
II
One morning Friar Gómez was in his cell absorbed in meditation when there were discreet little taps on the door, and a plaintive voice said:
“Deo gratias.4Praised be the Lord!” “Forever and ever, amen. Come in, little brother,” Friar Gómez answered.
And there entered the most humble cell an individual dressed in tatters, the vera efigies5of a man made miserable by poverty, but in whose face there could be read the proverbial uprightness of an old Castilian.
The only pieces of furniture in the cell were four leather chairs, a grimy table, and a wooden platform with no mattress, sheets, or blankets, with a stone for a headrest or pillow.
“Be seated, brother, and tell me straightaway what brings you here,” Friar Gómez said.
“It so happens, Father, that I am a good man through and through.” “So it appears, and may you continue to be one, for it will bring you peace in this life and blessedness in the next.”
“And it so happens that I am a peddler, that I am burdened by a family, and that my peddling does not prosper, on account of my lack of means and not on account of any laziness or lack of effort on my part.”
“I am glad, brother, for God will help a man who works honorably.”
“But it so happens, Father, that up until now God has turned a deaf ear to me, and He is slow in coming to my aid.”
“Don’t despair, brother, don’t despair.”
“Well, it so happens that I have knocked on many doors asking for 500 duros, and I have found all of them locked and barred. And it so happens that last night as I was mulling things over, I said to myself: Come, Jeromo, cheer up and go ask Friar Gómez for the money, for if he so desires, a mendicant friar and poor though he is, he will find a way to get you out of the straits you’re in. And so here I am because I’ve come, and I beg you, Your Paternity, to lend me that small amount for six months, and you may be certain that no one will say about me:
In the world there are those who revere
certain saints,
But their gratitude ends
along with the miracle,
for a charitable deed
always brings to life
unknown ingrates.6
“How could you have imagined, my son, tha
t you would find such a large sum in this poor cell?”
“It so happens, Father, that I wouldn’t know how to answer that, but I have faith that you will not let me go off empty–handed.”
“Faith will save you, brother. Wait a moment.” And looking up and down the bare whitewashed walls of the cell, Friar Gómez spied a scorpion that was walking calmly along the window frame. He thereupon tore a page out of an old book, went over to the window, carefully picked up the bug, wrapped it in the paper, and turning toward the elderly Castilian, said to him:
“Here, my good man, go pawn this little jewel, but see that you return it to me within six months.”
The peddler outdid himself in expressing his thanks, took his leave of Friar Gómez, and made his way to a pawnshop as fast as his legs could carry him.
The piece of jewelry was splendid, truly fit for a Moorish queen, to say the least. It was a brooch in the shape of a scorpion. The body was formed by a magnificent emerald in a gold setting, and the head by a large diamond with two rubies for eyes.
The pawnbroker, a man who knew his business, looked covetously at the piece of jewelry, and offered to advance the man in need 2,000 duros for it, but our Spaniard insisted that he would accept only a loan for 500 duros for six months, with a usurer’s rate of interest, naturally. They shook hands and the pertinent papers were signed, with the moneylender harboring the hope that later on the owner of the piece of jewelry would come back for more money, for the exorbitant interest he charged would make it impossible for the peddler to redeem the piece of jewelry and thus make him the owner of a jewel that was precious both for its intrinsic value and for its artistic worth.
And with this bit of capital the peddler’s trade prospered to the point that at the end of the six months he was able to redeem the piece and returned it to Friar Gómez, wrapped in the same paper in which he had received it.
Friar Gómez took it, set it on the window sill, and gave it his blessing, saying:
“Little creature of God, go on your way.”
And the scorpion proceeded to walk freely about the walls of the cell.
Y vieja, pelleja,
aquí dió fin la conseja.7
1Principio principiando; / principiar quiero / por versi si principiando / principiar puedo.
2In bygone days [Latin].
3a girl who is like / the morning star / as dawn breaks
4Thanks be to God [Latin].
5True figure [Latin].
6En el mundo hay devotos / de ciertos santos / la gratitud les dura / lo que el milagro; / que un beneficio / da siempre vida a ingratos / desconocidos.
7And an old one, a bag of bones, / Here ends the tale.
Canterac’s Bugler
(To Lastenia Larriva de Llona)
The battle waged by the patriot and royalist cavalries at Junín was a hard–fought one.
A single pistol shot (for at Junín no powder was wasted) and a half hour of brandishing lance and saber. A combat of centaurs more than of men.
Canterac, followed by his bugler, scoured the camp, and the bugler incessantly sounded the order to put the enemy to the sword.
That bugler seemed to have the gift of ubiquity. His bugle resounded everywhere; it was like the symbolic trumpet of the last judgment. “To the right, to the left, in the center, in the rear guard, yet again the bugle. As long as it sounded, victory was not possible. The Spanish bugler, the only one, kept victory in the balance.”1Necochea and Miller sent several aides in different directions, their only mission being to silence that damnable bugler.
A fruitless mission. The fateful bugle sounded tirelessly, and its echoes were more and more ominous for the patriot cavalry, in whose ranks disorder was beginning to spread.
Riddled with bullet holes, Necochea fell from his horse as he said to Captain Herrán:
“Captain, let me die; but do silence that bugler first.”
The royalist cavalry was gaining ground, and a sergeant Soto (a native of Lima who died in 1882 with the rank of major), took Necochea prisoner, slinging him across the rump of his charger.
It can be said that defeat was a fait accompli. The sun of the Incas was being eclipsed and Bolívar’s star was fading.
A recently formed squadron of recruits was relegated by the general to leading a valiant charge on one flank and in the rear guard against the prideful near–winners, and the fighting was renewed. The troops, close to defeat, regrouped and mounted a spirited attack on the Spanish squadrons.
General Necochea sat up.
“Victory for the homeland!” he shouted to the platoon of royalist soldiers that was leading him away as a prisoner.
“Victory for the king!” Sergeant Soto answered.
“No!” insisted the brave Argentine. “Canterac’s bugler can no longer be heard. You are defeated.”
And this was in fact the case. The ever–shifting victory went to Peru, and Necochea was rescued.
“Long live the hussars of Colombia!” a leader shouted as he approached Bolívar.
“Balls!” was the answer of the liberator, who had witnessed all the events that took place during combat. “Long live the hussars of Peru!”
Captain Herrán had succeeded in taking Canterac’s tireless bugler prisoner, and right there on the battlefield he presented him to Necochea as a prisoner who had surrendered. The latter, still irked by the memory of the recent vicissitudes on the battlefield or by the pain of his wounds, said laconically:
“Have him shot.”
“General,” Herrán remarked, interrupting him.
“Or let him become a friar,” Necochea said, as though finishing the sentence.
“I’ll become a friar, sir,” the prisoner hastened to answer.
“Do you give me your word?” Necochea persisted.
“I do, sir.”
“Well, you are free to go. Make your cape into a cassock.”
Once the War of Independence was ended, Canterac’s bugler took the habit of friar in Bogotá, in the convent of San Diego.
History knows him by the name of Father Tena.
1In the original Spanish text, Palma inserts a parenthetical reference after this passage containing the name Capella Toledo. Luis Capella Toledo (1838–1896), Colombian author of Leyendas históricas (1879), a collection of historical legends.—Ed.
The Protectress and the Liberatrix
(Historical Monographs)
I
Doña Rosa Campusano
I, the collector of traditions, must have been 13 or 14 years old, and a pupil in a preparatory school.
Among my schoolmates was a boy of the same age, the only son of don Juan Weniger, the owner of two valuable shoe stores in the calle de Plateros de San Agustín. Alejandro, for that was the name of my schoolmate, a fine young fellow who some years later died with the rank of captain in one of our disastrous civil wars, hit it off with me, and on holidays we used to get into mischief together.
Alejandro was a boarding pupil and spent Sundays at home with his father, an unsociable German in whose house, which I came by often in search of my companion, I never saw so much as the shadow of a lady’s skirt. In my mind, Alejandro’s mother had died.
Since no school lacks precocious sorts given to slander, in one of those set–tos frequent among schoolboys, Alejandro exchanged words with another boy, and the latter, with the air of someone hurling a crushing insult, shouted at him:
“Shut up, protector!”
Alejandro, who was a rather spirited youngster, sealed the mouth of his adversary with such a strong punch that he broke one of his teeth.
I confess that, in my semi–infantile frivolity, I didn’t pay attention to the word or think it an insult. I also confess that I didn’t know its meaning or import, and I even suspect that the same was true of my comrades.
“Protector! Protector!” we murmured. “Why could that have made that boy get so worked up?”
The truth was that none of us would have made a comrade spit blood over
one little word. When all is said and done, each of us has the intelligence that God has given him.
One afternoon Alejandro said to me:
“Come with me, I want to introduce you to my mother.”
And that was what happened. He took me to the top floor of the building in which the Biblioteca Nacional is located, the director of which, who at the time was the eminent Vigil, gave free lodging to three or four families who had fallen on hard times.
My friend’s mother lived there in a two–room apartment. She was a lady nearing 50, with a very pleasant face, thin, of medium height, with an almost alabaster complexion, expressive blue eyes, a small mouth and delicate hands. Twenty years before, her beauty and grace must have made her a captivating woman who addled the brain of many a young man attempting to demonstrate his masculine charms. To walk she leaned on a crutch, hoping it would pass for a cane, and had a slight limp.
Her conversation was amusing and full of jokes popular with Limeñans, so that her way of sometimes searching for refined words struck me as affected.
Such was, in 1846 or 1847, the years when I knew her, the woman who in everyday chronicles of the era of Independence was given the nickname of the Protectress, a monograph on whom I am going to set down briefly.
* * *
ROSITA CAMPUSANO WS BORN in Guayaquil in 1798. Although the daughter of a family of modest social station, her parents saw to it that she had a good education, and at 15 she danced like an Arab almeh, sang like a siren, and played on the harpsichord and vihuela all the songs of the musical repertory then in fashion. With these social graces, along with her personal beauty and youth, it is clear that the number of her suitors had to be like that of the stars: infinite.
The young lady was ambitious and a dreamer, which is to say that on reaching her 18 spring, rather than being the wife of a poor man who cherished her with his most heartfelt love, she preferred to be the beloved of a rich man who, out of vanity, would consider her his valuable jewel. She did not want to wear percale and a flower in her comb but instead be dressed in silk and velvet and wear a dazzling diadem of pearls and diamonds.
Peruvian Traditions Page 23
