Doña Rosa was a womanly woman.
Doña Manuela was a manly woman.
1See “Three Historical Questions Concerning Pizarro,” note 7.—Ed.
2Santalla also appears in “Don Alonso the Brawny.”—Ed.
3For an account of Bolívar’s “love–adventures,” see “The Liberator’s Three Etceteras.”—Ed.
4After seizing Lima in 1821 in the War of Independence, San Martín became Protector of Peru.—Ed.
5An award for patriotism instituted by San Martín during his Peruvian government.—Ed.
6In 1859, Palma was 26, not 23.—Ed.
7Manuela Sáenz’s visitors at Paita included Simón Rodríguez, the Jacobin pedagogue who had been Bolívar’s childhood tutor, the North American novelist Herman Melville, and Guiseppe Garibaldi (for the latter, see “Between Garibaldi ...and Me”).—Ed.
8On September 25, 1828, in Bogotá, Bolívar narrowly escaped an assassination attempt by conspirators who considered him a tyrant. Manuela Sáenz delayed the would–be assassins in their bedroom.—Ed.
9Don Florentino González, one of the leaders of the conspirators writes: “There came out to meet us a beautiful lady, sword in hand, and with admirable presence of mind asked me what we wanted. One of our men made threats against the lady, and I refused to carry them out.” [Author’s note.]
10As opposed to men (except for clerics), who dress by pulling their trousers up over their feet.
11Juan Bautista Arriaza (1770–1837) and Juan Meléndez Valdés (1754–1817).—Ed.
12Juan de Mariana (1536–1624); Antonio de Solís (1610–1686); El Inca Garcilaso de la Vega (see “Don Alonso the Brawny,” note 3); Nicasio Alvarez Cienfuegos (1764–1809); Manuel José Quintana (1772–1857); José Joaquín Olmedo (see “The Christ in Agony,” note 3).—Ed.
13See “The Christ in Agony,” note 3.—Ed.
14José Manuel Valdés (1767–1843), author of Salterio peruano o parafrasis de los ciento cincuenta Salmos de David, y de algunos cánticos sagrados en verso castellano: para instrucción y piadoso ejercicio de todos los fieles y principalmente de los peruanos (1833).—Ed.
The King of the Camanejos1
(To José María Zuviria, in Buenos Aires)
The sacristy of the church of La Merced, in Arequipa, has two rooms: one in which the friars don vestments to celebrate Mass, which differs little or not at all from that of any monastery in Christendom; and the other, which might be called the antesacristy and is the only passageway between the church and the monastery.
Like the rest of the building, the sacristy is made of stone masonry. In the center of its vault there is a clerestory, identical to the one in the Penitentiary of San Pedro in Lima, and near it a hole through which there passes the rope of the church bell by which the faithful are summoned to Mass.
The furniture is scarcely deserving of notice, since it is limited to a rough wooden bench and two confessionals of the same sort.
Hanging on the walls are several oil paintings, but so old and so badly preserved that anyone who proposed to describe what they represent would have a hard time of it.
One of these paintings, which hangs over the door leading down to the monastery, and the only one halfway preserved, represents a friar dressed in the liturgical garments for saying Mass, with his arms outstretched as though pleading for help. On the crown of his head he has a wound from which blood is pouring, and there are bloodstains from it on his chasuble and on the floor. It would appear that the scene began on an altar that can be seen on the right, on which there can be discerned an open missal on a lectern, a paten, a communion cloth, and a candle, which indicate that the friar had been celebrating the Holy Sacrifice when he was attacked by another person who can be seen a short distance away, dealing the friar blows with a chalice that he is holding in his hand. This individual is a gentleman dressed in calf–length breeches, clocked hose, shoes with steel buckles, and a flowing cape of Segovia worsted.
Having concluded this indispensable preamble, we proceed to the Tradition that explains this emblematic canvas. Onward to the sea, water!
I
Until the year 1823 there ate bread in the city of Misti a hidalgo named don Pedro Pablo Rosel, born in Arequipa and the son of a Spaniard of high social standing and a woman of the Arequipan aristocracy.
This fellow, who had received the sort of careful education that in those days was given to a boy of good lineage, and who could discourse with sound reasoning on any subject, would have passed for a man of outstanding ability and good sense had not the following foolishness escaped him from time to time:
“I am not a nobody, do all of you agree?”
“Who doubts it, señor Rosel?” one of the members of his social circle would answer.
“I’ll have you know, my friend,” don Pablo continued, “that you are speaking to no less a personage than the prince who is heir to the throne of Camaná; but those crafty Rosel zambos2(which is how he described his relatives) stole me from the palace when I was a baby, bribing the matrons of honor, the ladies–in–waiting, and the maids of honor of my mother the queen, and brought me to Arequipa.”
“And how did Your Majesty come to discover such a villainous act?”
“Through a revelation from the archangel Saint Michael, who on three occasions appeared to me and told me all the details, from A to Z. But I shall soon drive the usurper from the throne, and those Rosel zambos will see what’s what.”
We have said that aside from his madness don Pedro Pablo acted with good sense that sane men would envy, for he had good ideas when it came to his business undertakings and agriculture, and his hacienda fared wondrously well.
In order not to lower himself by rubbing elbows with anybody and everybody to the detriment of his royal dignity, don Pedro Pablo allowed himself to be seen only rarely in the streets of Arequipa. In his home and in his intimate circle he received only half a dozen friends, to whom he had given his word that they would be future ministers of his kingdom, and Friar Francisco Virrueta, of the Mercedarian order, the presumptive archbishop of Camaná. All of them agreed with everything the gentle madman said, discussed with him a plan for his hacienda by virtue of which the olives of Camaná would be worth their weight in silver, and talked neither more nor less nonsense than if they had been in congress drafting laws or members of the real Council of Ministers.
Regina, for that was the name of don Pedro Pablo’s only daughter, a girl so sober and serious minded that she seemed to have an old woman inside her, received the members of His Majesty’s nighttime circle of friends with delicious cups of chocolate and buns. The young princess knew how to do the honors of a palace.
Father Virrueta was in the habit of saying Mass at five in the morning in the church of La Merced, and among the few who attended it don Pedro Pablo was often to be found; on various occasions he served as acolyte, for His Majesty of Camaná was a devout man and one respectful of the Church, even though, like Louis XI and Philip II, he maintained that monarchs, while greatly respecting the Pontiff, ought not to give an inch where matters of patronage were concerned.
On one of those mornings the gentle madman had awakened in a bad mood.
Biting his lips to contain his anger, he put up with the priest’s consuming the Host without asking his permission when, in his opinion, this was absolutely necessary when the Eucharist was celebrated in the presence of the monarch; but on seeing that the officiant was about to drink the sanguis,3with the same lack of respect and to the detriment of royal prerogatives, he snatched the chalice from Father Virrueta, and fetching him such a tremendous blow on his head that he almost split it in two, shouted at him in a rage:
“I will not tolerate this from you, you ill–bred friar! I allowed you to consume the Host without my leave, believing that you didn’t ask for my permission because you were absent minded; but you wickedly drank the sanguis as well, and so I am punishing you. Take this, you dolt of a friar!”
And overcome with rage, the
madman went on dealing the friar more blows, which the latter had no way of escaping save to take to his heels. Fortunately for him, his pursuer became entangled in the chain dangling from the bell of an altar and fell down, a circumstance that the other priests assisting at Mass took advantage of to overpower His Camanejan Majesty and tie him up with his two elbows behind his back.
As was only natural, what had happened caused a great stir in Arequipa, not only because of the Mercedarian friar’s bashed head but also because of the irregularity into which the church had fallen because of the sanguis spilled on the floor. As theologians and canon lawyers were reaching an agreement with the ecclesiastic authority for the ritual rehabilitation of the church, it remained closed for several months. After the requisite sprinklings of holy water, the Latin phrases and plain song, the ringing and pealing of bells that followed, everything that had previously taken place inside the church was pronounced null and void and the floor of the desecrated church clean and purified.
Once there was an end to these purification rites, in which Father Virrueta was the principal figure, the community of monks agreed, by unanimous vote, to have a picture painted to commemorate what had happened and and have it hung near the altar. But Father Virrueta took more of a dislike for the above–mentioned painting than Sancho Panza for the blanket he was tossed in, and ordered it to be moved to the sacristy, where it doubtless will hang for a long time still, since it has now resisted more than half a century without suffering damage from earthquakes, fires, and cloudbursts. Even the moths and mice are afraid of it and won’t come near it.
II
As is only to be expected, Rosel’s madness obliged the family to take measures, not only to avoid conflicts later on, but also to cure him, if there existed such a possibility within the powers of science. But despite the doctors, the madman went from bad to worse, his violence becoming a permanent danger to neighbors and kinfolk. Only his daughter Regina, who was not a high–strung young lady who was easily frightened, had some control over him.
As a last resort, the family decided to take don Pedro Pablo to a little country house that the madman owned in the vicinity of San Isidro, a mile from the city. But inasmuch as Regina refused to have her father transported there in a cage, authorities, relatives, and doctors had to plot together to come up with a scheme in which violence, severity, or a straitjacket played no part.
One morning a lieutenant of royal musketeers, accompanied by six splendidly mounted soldiers in full parade dress, came to Rosel’s house. Once ceremonious genuflections and the proffering of polite phrases were over, the soldier said to Pedro Pablo:
“Your Majesty, I come as an envoy from your loyal vassals of Camaná to call to your august attention the fact that the throne is vacant, and that all of them are moaning and sighing for you to appear as soon as possible and free the land from ambitious men and usurpers who are fighting over the crown. If it should be your sacred and royal will to set out this minute, I offer you a magnificent, gallant escort.”
Offering his hand for the emissary to kiss, the king answered: “Arise, Marquis of Good News, for I wish to reward you for your fidelity to your sovereign. My kingdom summons me, and I will swiftly answer its call. We will set out after delighting our stomachs. Regina, lunch.”
At the table the brand–new marquis had a good deal to say as he told of the enthusasm of the Camanejos for their monarch, a description that the latter listened to with an air of “it is only my just due.”
“We shall see how to make those poor devils happy,” the goodnatured smile of His Majesty don Pedro Pablo I seemed to say.
On leaving the patio, one of the soldiers, kneeling ceremoniously, presented him with a horse in splendid trappings. As he placed the royal foot in the stirrup, the monarch asked him:
“What is your name?”
“Marcos Quispe Condorí taitay,”4 answered the soldier, an uneducated Indian from the highlands.
“Well, you shall share in the distribution of my royal rewards, Marcos Quispe Condorí. I make you from today on a Knight of the Golden Spur, free of all tribute and tax.”
“May God repay you, taitay.”
And the retinue set out on the Way of the Cross to Calvary.
They were within a block of reaching the little country house when some 20 men armed with shotguns and rusty sabers suddenly appeared, shouting “Death to the king!”
The Marquis of Good News and his six horsemen flung themselves on the rebels with the battle cry “Long live the king!” and the latter answered with shotgun fire. The scuffle appeared to be in earnest.
And what do you think His Majesty did? Well, sirs, he had the good sense and the nobleness of spirit (that sane leaders of old never had) to take out his white handkerchief and cry out in a voice fraught with emotion:
“I surrender, my sons, let blood not be spilled on my account.”
Decidedly, only a madman is capable of such self–sacrifice.
The victors seized don Pedro Pablo and shut him up in a room after tethering him by the right leg by means of a chain fastened to an iron ring in the wall.
Regina accompanied her poor father in his captivity. Probably the loss of the battle (and along with it dethronement and imprisonment) had a favorable effect on Rosel’s nervous system, for his fits of rage abated, his inoffensive madness again demanding nothing save that he be treated with the consideration owed a king in disgrace. One thing more: Seated in his leather armchair, he received his tenants, with whom, after settling accounts, he spoke sensibly about irrigation and sowing. His friends the former ministers also came to visit him in their spare time, a marvel that no man fallen from power can boast of. In the season for ripe figs friends abound, but in rough times they never come round.
Only Father Virrueta bore the madman who had almost beat his brains out an ill will that was permanent. His Paternity was hard hearted.
It was believed that in his last illness Rosel had come to his senses once more, for he no longer insisted that he be addressed as Your Majesty and protested against such madness. His doctor and his confessor, convinced that the dying man was in his right mind, agreed that the Viaticum, a sacrament that don Pedro Pablo urgently requested, be administered. So they brought the holy oils, accompanied by half of Arequipa, for don Pedro was obliging, honored, and much loved. But on hearing the music and the little bell, the sick man asked what the noise was, and the confessor answered that it was the Divine Majesty, coming to see him off to eternity. Rosel remained lost in thought for a time, and then, in a voice already muffled by his approaching death, he murmured, as though to himself:
“Very well! Show Him in. Two Majesties will meet.”
With such clear proof that Rosel’s madness persisted, the reader will not be surprised to learn that the parish priest left without administering the last rites.
Since neither El Comercio nor any other newspaper existed as yet in 1823, I have not been able to find out whether the king of the Camanejos rightfully received funeral honors from his subjects.
1A play on words. He is not only the king of Camaná, but the king of fools.
2Individuals of mixed black and Indian blood.
3The blood of Christ when the Eucharist is celebrated.
4Variant of taitai. See note 6 “A Letter Sings.”
Eighth Series
Friar Martín’s Mice
Y comieron en un plato
perro, pericote y gato1
With this couplet there ends an account of virtues and miracles that circulated as a broadsheet in Lima around the year 1840, on the occasion of the celebration, in our capital of religion and culture, of solemn ceremonies honoring the beatification of Friar Martín de Porres.
This holy man was born in Lima on December 9, 1579, the natural son of the Spaniard don Juan de Porres, a knight of the Order of Alcántara, and a slave woman from Panama. While Martincito was still a youngster, his father took him to Guayaquil, where he learned to read and write in a school whose
schoolmaster made liberal use of the rod. Two or three years later his father returned with him to Lima and set him to learning the useful occupation of barber and bloodletter, in the shop of a barber on the calle de Malambo.
Martín disliked using the razor and the lancet, although he eventually became skilled at handling them, and chose instead the career of saint, which in those days was a profession like any other. At the age of 21 he took the habit of lay brother or donado in the monastery of the Dominicans, where he died on November 3, 1639, in the odor of sanctity.
Our countryman Martín de Porres, during his life and after his death, wrought miracles wholesale. He worked miracles with the same ease as others write verses. One of his biographers (I don’t recall whether it was Father Manrique or Dr. Valdés) says that the prior of the Dominicans had to order him to stop “miracling” (forgive me for this verb). And as proof of how deeply rooted the spirit of obedience was in this servant of God, he tells how, just at the moment that Friar Martín was walking past a scaffolding, a bricklayer fell from a height of some 25 or 30 feet, and our lay brother stopped him halfway down, shouting: “Wait there a minute, brother!” And the bricklayer hung suspended in midair until Martín returned, with the superior’s permission. Quite a good miracle, wouldn’t you say? Well, where there’s a good one, there’s one better.
The prior ordered the miracle–working lay brother to buy a sugarloaf for the infirmary. Perhaps he did not give him the money needed to procure a loaf of white, refined sugar, and Fray Martín came back with a loaf of unrefined.
“Don’t you have eyes, brother?” the superior said to him. “Didn’t you see by the color of it that it looks more like brown sugar than refined?”
Peruvian Traditions Page 25
