Ines of My Soul

by Isabel Allende

  Valdivia validated the encomiendas he had assigned to me and some of his captains. He sent emissaries to ask the peaceful Indians to come back to the valley, where they had always lived before we came, promising them safety, land, and food in exchange for helping us, for the haciendas were worth nothing without strong arms to work them. Many of those Indians, who had fled out of fear of the war and the raids of the bearded ones, returned. With that turn of events, we began to prosper. The gobernador also convinced the curaca Vitacura to send some Quechua Indians to us, for they were much more efficient workers than the Chileans, and with new Yanaconas he could reopen the mine at Marga-Marga, and others he had heard of. No work demanded as much sacrifice. I have seen hundreds of men, and an equal number of women, some pregnant, others with babies strapped to their backs, work from dawn to sunset in icy water up to their waists, washing sand to sieve out the gold, exposed to illness, the overseers’ whips, and the soldiers’ abuse.

  Today, when I got out of bed, my strength failed me for the first time in my long life. It is strange to find that the body is quitting while the mind keeps inventing projects. With my servants’ help, I got dressed for mass, as I do each day, since I like to say good morning to Nuestra Señora del Socorro, who now is mistress of her own church and wears a gold emerald-studded crown. We have been friends for a very long time. I try to go to the first mass of the morning, along with the poor and the soldiers, because at that hour the light in the church seems to come straight from heaven. The morning sun beams through the high windows, and its resplendent rays slice through the church like lances, illuminating the saints in their niches. It is a quiet hour, favorable to prayer. There is nothing as mysterious as the moment when the bread and the wine are transubstantiated into the body and blood of Christ. I have witnessed that miracle thousands of times during my life, but it surprises me and moves me as much as it did the day of my first communion. I can’t help it, I always weep when I receive the host. I shall continue to go to church as long as I can get around, and I shall not abandon my obligations: the hospital, the poor, the convent of the Augustinians, the construction of chapels, the oversight of my encomiendas, and this chronicle, which may be growing longer than is advisable.

  I am not yet defeated by age, though I admit that I’ve become clumsy and forgetful, and am not able to do well what I once did without thinking. It seems that time goes twice as fast as it once did. However, I have not given up my old discipline of bathing and dressing with care; I intend to be vain to the end, so that Rodrigo will find me clean and elegant when we meet on the other side. Seventy does not seem too old. . . . If my heart holds out, I could live ten more years, and in that case, I would marry again, because I need love to go on living. I am sure that Rodrigo would understand, just as I would if the situation were reversed. If he were with me, we would take our pleasure to the end of our days, slowly and calmly. Rodrigo dreaded the moment when we could no longer make love. I think that what he feared most was ridicule: men take such pride in performance. But there are many ways of making love, and I would have found one, so that even old as we were we could have loved as in our best days. I miss his hands, his scent, his broad shoulders, the soft hair at the nape of his neck, the whisper of his beard, his breath in my ears when we were lying together in the dark. My need is so great to hold him, to lie beside him, that at times I have to cry out. I can’t hold it back. Where are you, Rodrigo? Oh, how I miss you!

  But this morning I dressed and went out, despite the fatigue in my bones and my heart, because it is Tuesday, and I must go see Marina Ortiz de Gaete. Servants took me there in a sedan chair; she lives nearby and it is too much trouble to get out the coach. Ostentation is frowned upon in this kingdom, and I am afraid that the carriage Rodrigo gave me is sinfully conspicuous. Marina is a few years younger than I am, but I feel like a rosebud compared with her. She has become a fussy, ugly old woman who practically lives in the church—may God forgive my unkind tongue. “You need to button up your lips, Mamá,” you counsel me, Isabel, laughing, when you hear me talk that way, although I suspect that my outrageous talk amuses you. And besides, daughter, I have won the right to say what others do not dare. Marina’s wrinkles and her silly affectations give me a certain satisfaction, but I struggle against being so mean-spirited because I do not want to spend more days than necessary in purgatory. I have never liked sickly, weak people like Marina. I feel sorry for her; even the relatives she brought with her from Spain, now prosperous citizens of Santiago, have forgotten her. I do not blame them too much because this good lady is extremely boring. At least she is not living in poverty. She is blessed with a dignified widowhood, although that is little compensation for her bad luck in having been abandoned as a wife. How lonely this unfortunate woman must be; she anxiously awaits my visits, and if I am late, I find her sobbing. We drink cups of chocolate while I hide my yawns, and we talk about the only thing we have in common: Pedro de Valdivia.

  Marina has lived in Chile for twenty-five years. She came sometime in 1554, ready to assume her role as wife of the gobernador, with a court of family and friends and fawning individuals eager to profit from the wealth and power of Pedro de Valdivia, whom the king had gifted with the title of marqués, and the Order of Santiago. But when she reached Chile, Marina was greeted with the surprise of finding herself a widow. Her husband had died a few months before at the hands of the Mapuche, never knowing about his honors. And as the last straw, Valdivia’s treasure, which had been the subject of so much talk, was nothing but smoke. He had been accused of accumulating too much wealth, of taking the major share of fertile lands, of exploiting a small army of Indians for his own private use, but when all was said and done, he turned out to be poorer than any of his captains; his widow had to sell his house in the Plaza de Armas to pay off his debts. The town council did not have the decency to grant a pension to Marina Ortiz de Gaete, legitimate wife of the conqueror of Chile—ingratitude being so common in this land that a phrase has been coined for it: “Chile payment.” I had to buy Marina a house and pay her expenses to prevent Pedro’s ghost from pulling my ears. Never mind. I have my pleasures, such as founding institutions, having assured myself of a niche in the church for my burial, supporting a multitude of assorted dependents, leaving my daughter well placed, and holding out a hand to the wife of my former lover. What does it matter now if we were once rivals?

  I have just realized that I have filled many pages and have yet to explain why this far-off territory of Chile is the only kingdom in the Americas. Emperor Charles V wanted to wed his son Philip to Mary Tudor, queen of England. What year would that have been? It was about the time that Pedro died, I think. The emperor’s young heir needed the title of king to effect that union, and since his father was not yet ready to yield the throne to him, they decided that Chile would be a kingdom and Philip its sovereign—which did not improve our fortune, but gave us stature.

  I remember that on the same ship with Marina—who was then forty-two years old and a little short on brains, but beautiful, with that washed-out beauty of mature blondes—came Daniel Belalcázar and my niece Constanza, whom I had bid farewell in Cartagena in 1538. I had thought I would never again see my niece, who instead of becoming a nun, as we had planned, had at fifteen suddenly married the chronicler who had seduced her on the ship. Our surprise was mutual. I supposed that they had been swallowed up by the jungle, and it was the farthest thing from their minds that I had founded a kingdom. They stayed nearly two years in Chile, studying the history and customs of the Mapuche—from afar, of course, because there was no chance of moving freely among them; the war was at its apogee. Belalcázar said that the Mapuche resembled some Asians he had seen in his travels. He considered them to be great warriors and did not veil his admiration for them—like the poet who later wrote the epic about the Araucans. Have I already mentioned him? Perhaps not, but it is a little late to worry about him now. Ercilla, his name was. When Belalcázar and my niece learned that they would never be able
to approach the Mapuche to sketch them and ask them direct questions, they resumed their pilgrimage across the world. They were perfect partners for scientific undertakings; they shared the same insatiable curiosity and the same Olympian scorn for the dangers of their preposterous ventures.

  Daniel Belalcázar, however, planted in my head the idea of starting a school, for he thought it was a ridiculous irony that Chile pretended to be a civilized colony when you could count on the fingers of one hand the number of persons who knew how to read. I proposed the idea to González de Marmolejo, and we both fought for years to create schools, but no one was interested in the project. How backward they were! They were afraid that if people learned to read they would fall into the vice of thinking, and from there to rebelling against the Crown lay only a hair’s difference.

  But as I was saying, today has not been a good day for me. Instead of focusing on the story of my life, I have been wandering. Every day it is more difficult for me to concentrate on facts; I get distracted. There is a constant activity in this house, although you assure me it is the most tranquil in Santiago.

  “That’s all in your head, mamita. There is no activity here, just the opposite, it’s quiet, only ghosts wander here,” you told me last night.

  “Exactly, Isabel, that is just what I was saying.”

  You are like your father, practical and reasonable, and that is why you cannot see all the people wandering through my rooms without permission. The veil that separates this world from the next grows thinner with age, and I am beginning to see through it. I suppose that when I die you will change everything; you will give away my old furniture and paint the walls with a new coat of whitewash; but remember that you have promised me to keep these pages I have written for you and your descendants. If you would rather, you can give them to the Mercedarians, or the Dominicans, for they owe me some favors. Remember, too, that I am leaving a fund to support Marina Ortiz de Gaete to the last day of her life, and to feed the poor who are used to being given food every day at the gate of this house. I believe I have told you all this; forgive me if I am repeating myself. I am sure you will carry out my requests, Isabel, because you are like your father in that too. You have a good heart, and your word is sacred.

  The fortunes of our colony took a turn for the better once we established contact with Peru and provisions and people eager to settle in Chile began to arrive. Thanks to the ships plying back and forth, we were able to order the items indispensable to our prospering. Valdivia bought iron, tools, and cannons, and I ordered trees and seeds from Spain—which grow very well in this Chilean climate—sheep, goats, and cattle. By mistake they sent me eight cows and twelve bulls, when one would have done. Aguirre tried to use the misunderstanding to inaugurate the first plaza de toros, but the animals were stunned by the sea voyage and not up to goring anyone. They were not wasted, however, since ten were converted to oxen and used for field work and hauling. The remaining two gallantly serviced the cows, and now we have large herds from the pastures of Copiapó to the Mapocho valley. We built a mill and public ovens, we have a quarry and sawmills, we made tiles and adobe, and set up a tannery and workshops to turn out pottery, wicker, candles, harness, and furniture. There were two tailors, four scribes, a doctor—who unfortunately was not good for much—and a stupendous veterinarian. At the rate the city was growing, the valley soon would be denuded of trees—such was the fervor of our construction. I can’t say that life was easy, but at last we had enough food, and even the Yanaconas grew fat and lazy. We had no serious problems other than the plague of rats the Indian machis, using their black arts, sent to torment the Christians. We could not keep them out of the sown fields, our houses, our clothing; they ate everything except metal. Cecilia offered a solution they used in Peru: tubs half filled with water. At night we would set several in each house, and by dawn there would be five hundred drowned rats, but the plague did not end until Cecilia found a Quechua wizard able to counter the spell of the Chilean machis.

  Valdivia urged his soldiers to send for their wives in Spain, as the king had ordered, and some did, but most preferred cohabiting with young Indian girls to living with an aging wife. In our colony there were more and more mestizo children who did not know who their fathers were. The Spanish women who came to rejoin their husbands looked the other way and accepted the situation, which, after all, was not very different from that in Spain, and even today in Chile the custom endures of the casa grande, where the wife and legitimate children live, and the casas chicas for the concubines and bastard children. I must be the only one who never tolerated that from her husband, although things might have happened behind my back that I don’t know about.

  Santiago was declared capital of the kingdom. It was the largest city in population, and the safest, now that Michimalonko’s Indians kept their distance. That allowed us, among other advantages, to organize paseos, outdoor luncheons, and hunting parties on the banks of the Mapocho, which had once been forbidden territory. We designated feast days to honor the saints and others to entertain ourselves with music, in which Spaniards, Indians, blacks, and mestizos participated equally. There were cockfights, dog races, games of bocce and squash. Pedro de Valdivia, an enthusiastic player, continued the custom of organizing card games in our home, except that now they bet hopes and dreams. No one had a peso, but records were kept with a moneylender’s meticulous care, even knowing the debts would never be collected.

  Once mail service was established between Peru and Spain, we were able to send and receive letters, which took only one or two years to reach their destination. Pedro began to write long missives to the emperor Charles V, telling him about Chile, about the privations we were suffering, about his own expenditures and debts, about his way of dispensing justice, about how, as much as he regretted it, many Indians had died and strong arms were needed to work the mines and the land. In passing he would ask for the privileges and funding sovereigns may grant, but his just demands were unanswered. Pedro wanted soldiers, people, ships, the confirmation of his authority, and recognition for his accomplishments. He would read me the letters in a booming voice of command, pacing back and forth, his chest puffed out with vanity, and I would say nothing. How could I offer an opinion on his correspondence with the most powerful monarch in the world, the most sacred and most triumphant Caesar, as Valdivia called him? But I began to realize that my lover had changed; power was going to his head, he had become very arrogant. In his letters he referred to fabulous gold mines, more fantasy than reality. They were the lure to tempt Spaniards to come and settle in Santiago, because only he and Rodrigo de Quiroga understood that the true wealth of Chile was not gold and silver but its benign climate and fertile soil, which invite one to stay. The other colonists were still beguiled by the idea of getting rich as quickly as they could and returning to Spain.

  To assure a more secure route to Peru, Valdivia ordered a city to be founded in the north, La Serena, and a port near Santiago, Valparaíso, and then turned toward the Bío-Bío river, with an eye to conquering the Mapuche. Felipe explained that that river is sacred because it regulates all watercourses; its coolness calms the wrath of the volcanoes; and everything from the strongest trees to the most secret, invisible, transparent mushroom grows within its purview. According to the documents Pizarro had given Valdivia, the area of his rule stretched as far as the Strait of Magellan, but no one knew with any certainty how far away the famous channel was that united the eastern ocean with that of the west. It was about the same time that a ship arrived from Peru under the command of a young Italian captain named Pastene, to whom Valdivia awarded the flamboyant title of admiral, and then sent on to explore the south. Sailing along the coast, Pastene caught glimpses of magnificent landscapes of dense forests, archipelagos, and glaciers, but he did not find the strait, which apparently lay much farther south than had been supposed.

  In the meantime, very bad news was arriving from Peru, where the political situation had become disastrous; they were emerging fro
m one civil war only to fall into another. Gonzalo Pizarro, one of the brothers of the deceased marqués, had grabbed power in open rebellion against our king, and there was so much corruption, betrayal, and deterioration in the viceroyalty that finally the emperor ordered an obstinate priest named La Gasca to restore order. I shall not waste ink trying to explain the complexities of the situation in Ciudad de los Reyes during those days because not even I understand them, but I mention La Gasca because that priest with the pockmarked face would make a decision that would change my destiny.

  Pedro was seething with impatience, not just to conquer more Chilean territory, which the Mapuche were defending to the death, but to play a part in what was happening in Peru, and reestablish contact with civilization. He had been eight years away from the centers of power, and secretly he wanted to travel north in order to meet other military men, conduct business, be praised for the conquest of Chile, and offer his sword in the service of the king against the insubordinate Gonzalo Pizarro. Was he tired of me? Perhaps, but I did not suspect that then. I felt sure of his love, which for me was as natural as the falling rain. If I found him restless, I supposed that he was a bit bored with the sedentary life, now that the excitement of the first years in Santiago, when we had kept a sword in hand day and night, had given way to a more restful and comfortable existence.

  “We need soldiers for the war in the south, and families to populate the rest of the territory, but Peru ignores my emissaries,” Pedro told me one night, disguising his real reasons for wanting to go to Peru.