Mexico

by James A. Michener

  The issue posed by the merchants of Antwerp was clear-cut, and one that would worry the Church for centuries, but the professors at Salamanca could find no logical reason for abandoning traditional interpretations of the laws against usury. They therefore easily decided that the broker Gregorio was transgressing God’s law if he gave the merchant Klaus one thousand ducats in March and took back eleven hundred—or any other amount above one thousand—in May. Accordingly, the convocation composed a reply which read in part that “the transaction is usury and is forbidden on pain of death,” and that in the transaction described, “the broker Gregorio does nothing to make his money increase, therefore such increase must be held to be illegal and against the will of God.” But before the document was signed one of the professors from Salamanca who for some years had been weighing this perplexing problem of interest charged for the use of money rose to offer a further consideration that he felt his colleagues had overlooked. He said, “Have we spent enough time inspecting all aspects of this matter? We are answering it, I fear, in terms of Antwerp and Medina del Campo when what we ought to weigh is its effect upon Mexico.”

  A whisper of consternation passed among the doctors, and the chairman of the meeting, one Maestro Mateo, a fierce Dominican who had begun to suspect the orthodoxy of the protesting savant, replied brusquely, “Professor Palafox, the law of God is immutable and applies now and forever both to Medina del Campo here at home and to Mexico far overseas. Usury is usury and must be forever forbidden.”

  “I grant that, Maestro Mateo,” the professor replied humbly, for as a mere professor he was of the laity, whereas the man to whom he spoke was an ordained clergyman. “I am sure that usury as such will always be outlawed in respectable nations, but I suspect that with the opening up of vast and rich lands overseas we are going to have to develop new concepts of trade, for if the trader Klaus, whom we have been discussing, wants to operate in Mexico, he will have to borrow funds from some broker, and if Gregorio risks sending his wealth so far abroad, he will be entitled to some kind of substantial reward, and it will not be usurious.”

  “Professor Palafox,” the maestro thundered, “usury is usury and we must allow the merchants of Antwerp no Mexican loophole through which they can defile the law of the church.”

  Professor Palafox believed that he had a new concept of the unfolding world, one that merited—nay, even demanded—attention: “You ask, revered sir, what new fact has emerged that might force us to alter our previous dictates? Distance. In the hypothetical transaction we’ve been pondering, the broker Gregorio resides in Antwerp. The merchant Klaus offers to repay him later in Medina del Campo in Spain. A great distance apart, but not insurmountable, so the risk in making the loan is not preposterous.” Since it was obvious that young Palafox was about to make an important point, his listeners leaned forward to catch his words: “But for a merchant to charter a ship that will sail to Darien, then hire a mule caravan to cross that isthmus and charter another ship to take him down the coast to Peru to fetch his precious metal, and then double back along the same perilous route—that constitutes a risk that justifies a special reward.”

  Some of his listeners were impressed by this modern reasoning, but not Maestro Mateo: “Do you argue that mere distance and added risk excuse a lender from the sin of usury?”

  “No, reverend Professor. What I argue is that there is a universe of difference between a commercial journey from Antwerp to Medina requiring a few weeks, and one from Seville to Peru and back, which will require more than a year and unimagined risks. Such a risk requires a new definition.”

  “But never a new morality.”

  “What I’m trying to point out,” Palafox said, forging ahead, “is that with the discovery of Mexico and Peru new patterns of business life must be worked out, and I believe that we would be well advised to send some other kind of answer to the merchants of Antwerp. Let us think this matter—”

  “Palafox!” Maestro Mateo thundered.

  “Yes, reverend Maestro.”

  “Be silent!” And the reply was sent as planned, which meant merely that the merchant Klaus still had to have his thousand ducats, that he still had to borrow them from the broker Gregorio, that interest was charged as always, that borrower and lender incurred mortal sin, and that honest business had to be conducted outside the purview of the Church. One unforeseen result did occur, however, for one of the professors from Oxford was so impressed by the statements of Palafox that when he returned to England he launched his own investigation of these matters, and although he never brought himself to break with Church rule on this question, one of his students did, and in time England devised a new interpretation of lending money, and upon this new understanding of sharing risk the industrial greatness of England was built, while Spain, refusing to reconsider the matter, crushed those incipient industrial developments that might have strengthened the nation.

  When the convocation ended, Professor Palafox lingered for some time in the beautiful plaza that faced the university, and as he stood there waiting he could catch a promise of spring in the breeze that blew up from the river. On one of the walls his name was carved, in honor of the high degree he had won many years before at the university, and through that small arch leading to the cloisters he had marched on the day he had been chosen professor of civil law. This was his spiritual home, and he was distressed when Maestro Mateo bristled by without speaking. Professors from Bologna and the Sorbonne, who would soon be leaving on their dangerous journeys homeward, stopped to argue with Palafox and it was apparent that none had appreciated his stance.

  “Do you honestly believe,” a Frenchman asked in crisp Latin, “that one of these days lending money at interest will be held to be different from usury and that the Church will permit it?”

  “Let’s not argue about it,” Palafox said quietly. “It’s obvious that I failed to make myself clear.”

  “You were very clear,” the French professor corrected. “But you were also very wrong. Let’s go to my rooms to argue this matter further.”

  “I can’t, much as I would like to, because I’m waiting for my sons.”

  “Are they at the university?” the Frenchman inquired. “The older is. A month ago he was ordained a priest. Right here.”

  “How fortunate you are, Palafox. Will he become a professor, too?”

  Palafox smiled and said, “In secrecy, I’m waiting to tell him that the university has invited him to become instructor in Church law.”

  “How excellent!” the Frenchman cried with real enthusiasm. “May I wait with you to meet the lucky young man?”

  The two professors stood near the center of the plaza and the Frenchman said, “At the Sorbonne we look to Salamanca as the rugged, permanent defense of the faith. I think the preeminence of your university stems from its dedication to permanent truths. That was why this afternoon we were somewhat shocked to hear a professor from Salamanca raise the questions you did.”

  “On one point you’re wrong,” Palafox replied. “The preeminence of this university comes from its powerful dedication to the truth, and I’m trying to discover the changes our nations must make if they are to accommodate themselves to the discovery of the New World. Believe me, Europe will never again be as it was.”

  Even the hint of change was distasteful to the Frenchman and he dropped the subject, asking idly, “How many students do you teach at Salamanca now?”

  “This year we shall have seven thousand,” Palafox replied. “Hernán Cortés, as you probably know, attended our university and his fame has made us popular.”

  “Are these your sons?” the Frenchman asked as two young Spaniards, the older tall, austere and slim, the younger a robust fellow with an infectious smile, approached with the eagerness of young men who had so far experienced no major disappointments.

  “Antonio! Timoteo!” Palafox called, and from their father’s enthusiasm the Frenchman could see that the professor took unusual pride in his sons.


  “The older boy’s the priest?”

  “Of course.”

  “And the younger one’s to be a soldier?”

  “In Spanish families that’s the rule.”

  “Your father must be proud of you,” the Frenchman said to the young men, and Palafox replied, “That I am. Are they not two fine fellows?”

  The French scholar did not reply, for he was comparing the older son, Antonio, with the many young Frenchmen he had helped enter the ministry of Jesus Christ, and he quickly saw that Antonio Palafox was not cast in the predictable mold. But the young man would undoubtedly make an exceptional priest; he would never be a devout mystic dealing with the ultimate problems of his religion, nor a patient rural agent of the Church bringing his religion to peasants. More likely he would be a churchly administrator or a general-extraordinary of the Church’s political wing. The Frenchman reflected: He’s beginning as a professor. He’ll end as either the emperor’s adviser or the pope. After all, Borgia was pope, and he was from Spain.

  When the introductions were completed, the French professor took Timoteo, the soldier-son, by the arm and said conspiratorially, “Your father has news of interest for your brother. Guide me to your home and we’ll wait for them there.”

  As they departed, Professor Palafox suggested to Antonio, “Let us go to the plaza for some wine,” and his son replied: “How unusual for you to suggest that. You’ve spent years advising us to steer clear of wine. Your news must be spectacular.”

  “It is,” his father said as he led the way through Salamanca’s ancient and narrow streets, down which had marched Roman soldiers and Carthaginians and Vandals and Moors. Finally Professor Palafox could keep his secret no longer and blurted out, “Today it happened!”

  “What did?”

  “At a formal meeting, before convocation, you were chosen our next professor of Church law.” To the older man’s surprise, his son showed no excitement at the news, and there followed an embarrassing pause, which the professor tried to fill by repeating lamely, “… of Church law.”

  The two men were now in one of the narrowest alleys leading to the vast central plaza of the city, and the young priest stopped abruptly so that he blocked his father’s progress, saying, “I can’t take the professorship. I’m joining Cortés in Mexico.”

  Professor Palafox was stunned by the announcement. He tried to speak but felt himself choked not only by the oppressive alley walls and his son’s blocking of the way but also by the upheavals of the age. He looked at his tall son and imagined the brilliant future the boy could win here at home: a professorship; association with scholars throughout Europe; a cardinal’s cap; perhaps a preferment offered by the king. “Antonio,” he cried, “your world is here. Let your brother go to Mexico.”

  “I am called there,” the young priest replied.

  “Who called? You know nothing about Mexico!”

  “I haven’t spoken to you about this,” the young man replied, still blocking the alley, “but I’ve been concerned about it for many months. If you ask me who called, I can only reply that God did.”

  Professor Palafox shrugged his shoulders and looked dumbly past his son toward the huge plaza, where he could see the familiar sights of Salamanca: muleteers down from the hills with casks of wine; silversmiths from Antwerp tending their shops; scholars from Oxford in gaudy crimson caps; and alluring young girls wasting time before the night. This was the meeting place of the world, and his brilliant son was prepared to cast it away for an adventure in Mexico. “Can’t you reconsider?” he asked.

  “No,” his son replied. At this moment the setting sun threw such shafts of golden light across the plaza that Palafox senior caught an impression of oceans and mountains and people with faces of burnished gold, and he muttered, “It’s Mexico,” acknowledging to himself that if he were young and full of promise he too would want to join Cortés in that distant land. He broke the tension with a laugh, grasped his son’s arm and cried, “Let’s get that wine and drink to Mexico.”

  When they were seated so that the pageant of the plaza was before them, the stocky professor laughed at himself: Ridiculous. This afternoon at the convocation I argued that we must adjust to the reality of Mexico. I was rather persuasive, too, but I convinced no one. Now my son says, “I’m going to adjust to the reality of Mexico,” and I grow afraid. We’re very stupid, we human beings.

  The eager young priest took several large gulps of wine, then set his glass down and explained energetically, “I’ll work in Mexico for six or eight years, Father. The basic reason I’m doing this is to help establish the rule of God in the New World, but a more personal reason is that I believe preferment in Church and government here in Spain will henceforth come to those who know Mexico.”

  The wisdom of this rationalization pleased Professor Palafox, and he observed, “When you return, you’ll be twice as valuable to your Church—and also to Spain.”

  “You must reserve the professorship for me,” his son replied.

  “That can be arranged,” Palafox senior assured him. He snapped his fingers to order more wine, then observed: “It’ll be exciting to think of you working with Captain Cortés in the building of Mexico while I stay here at the university trying to explain what’s happening in the world of business and morals.”

  At this remark the young priest frowned. “As I was leaving the hall just now, Maestro Mateo stormed in, all furious over some argument you had pursued in the convocation. He said to several of his companions, ‘This damned Palafox is going to strangle himself on Mexico.’ What did he mean?”

  “An argument,” the professor replied.

  “What argument can there be about Mexico?” the priest asked.

  Palafox took the wine from the waiter and poured himself and his son substantial drinks. “I reason, Antonio, that the advent of Mexico changes many things we used to consider fixed for all time.”

  “For example?” Antonio asked.

  “Take your case. You go there as priest to the army. What is your responsibility to the king, to the Church, to the army and to the Indians?”

  “Very simple,” the priest replied easily. “First, I’m to save the Indians for God, and this takes precedence over all. Second, I’m to protect the souls of our soldiers. Third, I’m to help win a new land for our king.”

  “Good,” the professor agreed, his eyes flashing with the joy of anticipated debate. “But what do you do when your first responsibility, converting Indians, conflicts with your third, winning a new land?”

  “There’ll be no conflict,” the priest affirmed.

  Professor Palafox leaned back and smiled at his son. “You’re very young, Antonio. You can’t even imagine the snake pit of conflict and confusion you’re entering. It was something like this I was talking about today.”

  Antonio, befuddled somewhat by the wine, did not comprehend what his father was talking about but he did remember one thing clearly. “Father,” he warned, “when Maestro Mateo railed against you, he was not speaking idly. In fact, he was about to say something important when he saw me and caught himself. I still don’t understand what it was you said about Mexico, but do be careful.”

  “Let me put it simply,” the professor said. “When great wealth intrudes upon any established situation, new concepts are required to manage it: Our glorious nation has stumbled upon that wealth—”

  “Stumbled?” Antonio gasped. “I would say that God in His wisdom has led his favored people to the discovery—”

  “Is that how you’d say it?” Palafox asked.

  “Of course,” Antonio replied.

  “Let’s go home and tell Timoteo the news,” Palafox suggested. “With you in Mexico he must become the next professor in our family.”

  The two men left the plaza and wandered unsteadily through narrow streets until they reached a little square that overlooked the river Tormes and the antique Roman bridge that carried the main Spanish road south to Seville. Here they entered a house of modest a
ppearance, whose front wall crowded the street but whose dark interior gave way to a small patio containing a Roman statue found one day in Salamanca, a fragment of Greek marble and a bronze horse that had been cast in the Spanish capital, Toledo. But what gave the patio its essential character were the flowers, some planted in formal rows in the soil, others strewn in profusion in clay pots. It was the private garden of a man who loved nature and during all the years that Fray Antonio could remember it had provided the Palafoxes with a sense of serenity.

  Now as the two men entered this tranquil area Antonio confessed, “This was the one thing that might have kept me from Mexico. I would have enjoyed being a professor here and inheriting your garden.” Then he shook his head as if to clear it and said, “But there is also Mexico, and I think it may be a bigger garden than this.”

  “You’ll still come back and inherit mine,” the professor said. “When you’re a bishop.”

  “Of course!” the priest agreed. He was about to speak further when he saw that his younger brother, accompanied by the French professor, was waiting on one of the garden benches.

  Young Timoteo, then twenty-two years old and honed to a fine edge by his anticipation of life, rose and said, “Professor Desmoulins and I have been talking about your meeting today, Father.”

  “Could I speak with you alone?” the Frenchman asked in Latin.

  “My sons are privy to all I know,” Palafox replied, and something in the manner in which the Spanish professor indicated that his boys were to sit with him made the Frenchman suspect that in this house there was no woman and that a widowed man had raised his sons as both father and mother.

  “Very well,” Desmoulins nodded. “Perhaps it’s better that the young men hear what I have to say. Their influence could be decisive.” He coughed, and as a man considerably older than Palafox, assumed a paternal attitude. “Young men, this afternoon while your father was waiting to inform the priest here of his appointment to a post at the university, I had occasion to reprimand him—gently, of course—for heretical ideas that he had propounded at the convocation.”