Chapter 9

The people gather at the palace gates, And vengeance writes itself upon each face; Their generosity no longer waits, They spit upon, and spurn the outraged place. It harbors those who wrote themselves as knaves Upon the pliant tablets of their lives, And now the incensed nation only craves Deliverance for their children and their wives. They know the belching cannon of the knights Will make sad havoc in their stately host; They know that Spain and Fate to-day unite; They know, if fortune fails them, all is lost; But they can bear no longer to be torn, And swear by all the gods to pluck this thorn. The Spaniards see their perfidy, too late; And call great Montezuma to the gate. "Why are my people here to-day in arms? These stranger friends are still my welcome guests; They soon will turn them backward to their homes. Shall we raise hands against great Quetzalcoatl? We fight against the gods? Lay down your arms! Go to your homes, and all shall yet be well, And peace shall reign in all Tenochtitlan[T]!" They bent before him reverently at first. It was a moment--then their anger burst: "Base Aztec! woman! coward! sneaking slave! The whites have made a puppet of your name! Talk not of fighting 'gainst our honored gods; We soil their sacred robes if we submit!" A cloud of stones and arrows flew the air; And Montezuma fell a victim of _their_ rage and _his_ despair. His heart had broke when he beheld the throng, For he was burning with his country's wrong; And when the missiles smote his fevered crest, His very soul was reaching out for rest. _They_ only helped to roll the burden off, So long imprinted on his saddened face-- It was _too_ much to hear his people scoff-- He fell; and they removed him from the place. He never rose again, nor wished to rise; He made no effort to outlive his land; He felt _his_ weakness, and he heard _her_ cries; He saw _her_ sinking with _his_ wasting sand. He knew his enemies had stole the garb Of gods to fasten on him their deceit; That they had stung the nation with their barb, And he would not survive its sore defeat. He felt their scoffings were deserved of him, For he should gathered wisdom with his years; He saw his weakness when his sight was dim, And poured his wasting moments out in tears.

They called the Priest to shrive him for his death-- The worthy Monk Olmedo[U] takes his palms; It is in vain; his very latest breath Repulses all their uninvited alms. He dies an Aztec--honor to his name! And spurns the symbols that have crushed him down. What mockery when he is all aflame With their abuses! Give him back his crown, His country's honor, and its hard-earned gold. But force no wormwood to his fevered lips; His hand is pulseless, and will soon be cold; His life was shadow; and his death--eclipse.

Great are the consolations of the cross-- The Father-Son of Calvary, and time. Their glory compensates a kingdom's loss; But piety must not be wed to crime. Did all the roses blossom from the cross, And all the thorns grow out upon the waste? Then were the metal guarded from the dross, And every crust be suited to our taste; But bitter-sweet is all the book of life, And thorns and roses crowd the tangled way; And good and evil, always, are at strife-- Night always dogs the footsteps of the day. Yet "figs cannot be gathered from the thorn," Nor "grapes from thistles," says the patient Lord-- One great, good life, like a new angel born, Is the most potent sermon ever heard.

The hands that smote the Monarch in the face Did honor to his ashes, cold and dead. Their anger was rubbed out, and not a trace Was left, as with their slow and measured tread They bore his sacred ashes to the tomb Within the walls of old Chapultepec, Where stately trees, and flowers perennial bloom, And, all the pulses of their lives in check, Bow down to kiss the shrine of memory. The sacred hush of death comes none too oft To still the fevered brain and make us free-- It is a gentle hand, and moves so soft That it compensates all our misery By chaining all the lions of our life And placing durance on the throbbing drum That marshals us to earth's unpitying strife. How should we reverence the hand that strikes our passions dumb!

Cortez and Montezuma; Aztlan, Spain-- The very mingling of these words is pain. The one, bold, cold, unscrupulous and brave, And making of each obstacle a slave; Seeking _his_ glory in the name of Christ, To gain his ends unfaithful to each tryst.-- The fault is with the ethics of his race, Which justify the means for _any_ end, And leave the moral aspect without place, And to the foulest acts their ready sanction lend. The thought of holding man to his account, And throwing merit against circumstance, Of cleansing souls at one great common fount, Of holding out to man an equal chance-- These things were not considered in the least. The glory of himself and Spain were first; All the excesses pardoned by the Priest Weaned the poor soul from any moral thirst. A golden apple trembled on the limb, And he must pluck it, at whatever cost. What matter whose?--it should belong to him; It was too tempting, and must not be lost: The wall that lay before it must be scaled, The owner of the field must be destroyed, And if his _prowess_, in the effort failed, _Deceit_ and _treachery_ must be employed. The unbridled passions of the human soul Linked with the crucifix in his emprise. The lion, loosened and in full control-- The semblance of the Lamb to Aztlan's eyes: A faithful offspring of the Papish loins, The features of the Church in duplicate, Though baser metals pass for golden coins, Only earth's charity can make brave Cortez great.

But Montezuma conquers all our thought-- Tenochtitlan and old Chapultepec. No greener shrine for memory can be sought; The heart and conscience both alike bedeck The unfading spectre of a soul sincere, Who tugged at destiny against the dark-- The hand, unconscious, drops its laurels here. His brown hands could not helm the fateful bark Against the baleful breakers of old Spain; Yet, who _is_ proof against the foils of men. His life is but a psalmody of pain. What soul unmoved can touch it with the pen? The link that bound the old world with the new, With pure and patient hands, might been upturned, And every missing chapter brought to view By Clio gathered, and again inurned In history's cloister; Egypt and Aztlan Strike palms upon the bridges of the years; But Spain denies the privilege to man, And fills the vacuum with a nation's tears. O Monarch of the fading, mighty past! Great Montezuma! we are wed to thee. Back of thy name the ocean is so vast That we can only write--Eternity, And leave the secret in thy broken breast. We would that we could taken thy warm palm, Held out in welcome from the mellow West, And poured upon thy stricken life the balm Of real enlightenment; and point thee back, Over the ridges of the years, to God; To where your people lost the beaten track, And ever afterward were left to plod. Those great sad eyes, once filled with light from Heaven, Would shone like diamonds when they found the way, And every fibre of thy nature striven To turn thy nation's darkness into day. Alas! 'tis vain! we beat the empty air. Our tears are mingled with thy wasting breath; We _all_ are torn with thy warm heart's despair, And mourn with Aztlan at thy fateful death.

CONCLUSION.

From sire to son the stern bequeathment falls Of some misguided action in the past, And, though our nature with the victim calls And we are smitten with his overcast, Still are we weak against the wheels of fate, Which leaves the pensioner thus desolate.

The by-ways of the father must turn back Sometime upon the highway that he left; Though dark and sinuous may be the track, And life of all its luster be bereft, Still hangs the heavy impulse on the soul, Unsatisfied, till it shall reach its goal.

The destiny was hard that brought proud Spain Upon the fading summerland of gold; Its retribution is no less a pain; The grip of fate, so pulseless and so cold, Brings back the shudder to the human heart; Humanity is wounded with _each_ part That feels the puncture of her cruel blade. Nor is the censure less upon the hand That strikes _so_ hard to force the debt thus paid. The tender conquest of some heathen land The brightest jewel is, of any crown-- God never licensed human hand to strike a foe when down.

When Spain's recruited army turned them back To glut their ire on Guatamozin's head, There never was a deeper furrowed track, More thickly cindered with the myriad dead; And when at last his bloody sceptre fell, Tenochtitlan was likest to a hell.

The brave barbarian was put to rack To force divulgence of his scattered gold.-- Is there a garment of a deeper black, To cover up the fingers that could hold Such hellish orgies after all the past? The palm is thine, O Spain! and hold it to the last!

Yet one more turn upon the screw of time: Thy red, right hand must slay this waif of fate; And thou must put the climax to the crime, And crush the heart thou has made desolate. Enough! thou art the acme of the earth-- May God's great pity ever spare thy duplicated birth! No, no, not Spain! _her_ better angel waits, And _has_ been waiting all these weary years For Castellar to open wide her gates, That she may wash her garments with her tears; But priestcraft, Rome, or demon, all the same-- That makes a desert of her rich champaign; And sends her forth through history, so tame. It is, her evil genius; but it is not Spain.

* * * * *

As Kohen prophesied, their race was run-- Their error cleaved upon them as a curse; The fading phalanx of the Summer sun Has crossed the borders of the universe. We only catch the shadow of their flight; They pass out with the sunset into night.

FOOTNOTES:

[D] Anahuac, the country dominated by the Aztecs at the time of the conquest.

[E] "Mars or Mexitli." I have taken the easier of the names given to the war-god. Huitzilopotchli or Mexitli both were used, the former more in general use than the latter, at the time of the conquest.

[F] Huit-zilo-potch-li, the Aztec war-god.

[G] Quetzalcoatl, the god of the harvest, probably some ancient leader deified. See Prescott.

[H] Tlappalan, the Elysian to which Quetzalcoatl passed, probably referred to the chambers of the sun.

[I] Nez-a-hual-co-yotl, one of the famous kings of Tezcuco (a nation allied to that of the Aztecs). Prescott enlarges on his character, truly a wonderful one for the time and age.

[J] Montezuma, a corruption from the original Aztec, which was Moctheuzoma.

[K] Nez-a-hual-pil-li, successor to Neza-hual-co-yotl, and a worthy one, though not so gifted.

[L] Tecollas, Temples of worship.

[M] Caligula, a Roman Emperor whose name has become a synonym of crime.

[N] Courier, a courier came daily from the coast, and Couriers from different parts of the Empire; their only script was the picture prints; rude, it is true, and yet wonderful in conveying the different shades of meaning.

[O] Montezuma's protest against human sacrifice though not literally fact, so far as the historic record is concerned, is hazarded as not inconsistent with his historic character.

[P] Tlalocan, Prescott has not left on record the name of the High Priest, and the name given, I have thought in keeping with the Aztec language.

[Q] Teuhtlile, the Embassador sent to meet Cortez. He was high in the councils of the King.

[R] Malinche, Interpreter and Mistress of Cortez.

[S] Las Casas, a worthy Spanish Padre, who was constantly protesting against the villanous conduct of the cavaliers. Prescott pays him a glowing tribute.

[T] Te-noch-ti-tlan, the Aztec for the city of Mexico.

[U] Olmedo, a priest of that easy piety that characterized the cavalier, ready to grant absolution in case of all excesses.

MALINCHE.

INTRODUCTION.

I may properly place "Malinche" as supplementary to "Montezuma," as dealing with characters coincident to, and cotemporaneous with those concerned in the "Conquest," and also as covering a period subsequent to, and immediately succeeding the Conquest.

To the student of history, Malinche (in her position of interpreter during the entire period of the Conquest) presents at once so much that is unique and charming, and yet such a sad commentary on the criminal practices of the sixteenth as well as the nineteenth centuries, that I have often wondered that a stronger and more practiced hand has not ere this claimed the privilege of championship.

According to Prescott, she was born in the town of Painnalla, Province of Coatzacualco, in the southeastern extremity of what is now Mexico; that she was the daughter of a Cacique (a sort of provincial Governor) and prospective heiress to large estates; that after the death of her father, her mother, with indecent haste, forms another union, and in time presents the stepfather with a son; that they jointly combine to be rid of Malinche, whom they sell to itinerant traders; and, to cover their device, they pretend that she is sick and use the child of a servant for their criminal pantomime; the child dies, thus completing the deception, except the hypocritical mourning to which this unnatural mother is said to have been equal.

Malinche is sold by the traders to the Cacique of Tabasco, and reaches maturity about the time of the Conquest. She seems to have been a favorite in the house of the Cacique, which would indicate that he had become acquainted with her origin, and after the surrender of the town to Cortez, she is one of the twenty female slaves presented to the Conqueror and his allies.

Either from enlarged opportunities or her natural aptness, and probably both, she is found by Cortez to be just the person he needs for interpreter. Mutual attraction leads them into the closest relations, and it is but just to Malinche to state that there is no indication of her knowledge of the Conqueror's wife in Cuba, until she arrives at the Capitol. There is also nothing to indicate more than a momentary estrangement between Malinche and Catalina.

Catalina lived but about three months after her arrival at Mexico; and it seems that Malinche assumes the same relations as before, when Cortez journeys South, where in time they reach the precincts of the maiden's nativity, and she meets her mother, after all the years of their cruel separation. Here the beautiful sincerity of the Christianity she had espoused, shines forth as she quiets her mother's fears, and professes to doubt her mother's original intent to sell her. She loads her mother with jewels and seems to cherish no feeling not consistent with the warmest relations of daughter and mother.

The statement soon after is, that Cortez presents her to Don Xamarillo with all the sanction of marriage, and he enriches her with some of the largest estates in her native province; and there the historic account closes. Incidentally, it is mentioned that a son was born during the period of this _affaire du coeur_.

I stated that the historic account closes here, but M. Charny and others enlarge on the traditionary feeling of South Eastern Mexico, and if we may credit his statements (and many times tradition carries more heart and more of the essential elements of truth in it than the cold pencil of history), Malinche is so woven into the social structure as to become almost the patron saint of that part of the country.

And Prescott (rather inclined to the fruit than the blossom of history) speaks of Malinche as being reverently held by the Aztec descendants as the guardian angel of Chapultepec.

I have endeavored thus to present the salient features of this part of the historic drama, adding and enlarging only as it became necessary to connect the events and do justice to the fair subject of the endeavor; and whatever criticism may be offered, I can, without hesitancy, claim the credit of candor and a desire to eliminate from all the facts of the case the plain, unvarnished truth.

I began at first to write the idyl in nine-syllabic measure, but soon found myself cramped in expression, and in recopying I have thrown off restraint and used the double terminal with both nine and ten syllables, having no desire and finding no occasion to use the eight syllable measure which Longfellow has so immortalized in the "Song of Hiawatha."

The sacred relations of man and wife, like those of any other _sacrament_ entered into voluntarily, are no less binding in the _spirit_ than in the _letter_ of the law; and it is a gratifying truth that the statutes of many of the States of the Union are being so remodeled as to recognize the _fact_, rather than the _form_ of marriage; and the tendency is, certainly toward the correction of many abuses, as leading to a more enlarged knowledge of social responsibilities.

As long as the sad story of Malinche has a present application, and may be said to be the perspective of the grossly distorted foreground of our social structure, so long will its rehearsal have its use in the world; and I only regret that a stronger hand and a more perfect pen might not have been loaned to its portrayal.

H. H. RICHMOND.

MALINCHE.

Old Painnalla of Coat-za-cual-co, Passing down the road of the "Conquest," Through the silent portals of Lethe, Was greatest of Mexican hamlets; The birthplace of brown-eyed Malinche, Whom the Spaniards call Dona Marina; And the noble Cacique, great Tezpitla, With his shrew of a wife, Zunaga-- All are names deserving of story, For they cling to the garment of greatness.

A daughter is born to Zunaga, And the worthy Cacique Tezpitla, Though he warms to the little stranger, Had hoped that the gods would have given A son and Cacique for the province. They named their young daughter Malinche; The priest called the gods to protect her, And sprinkled her brow and her bosom With water, the purest of emblems; Commends her to Tez-cat-li-po-ca, The soul of the earth and the heavens; To Quet-zal-coatl, god of the harvest; And at all the shrines with their homage, They offered the richest of jewels.

Tezpitla soon sleeps with his fathers, And Malinche, too young to have known him, Has hardly begun with her prattle, Ere he passes away to the sunset, To the palace of gold Tonatu', Where his warriors had gone on before him To their rest, in the dazzling chambers That shine from the face of the day god.

Zunaga a little while murmurs, And mourns at the chieftain's departure, When Mohotzin, a friend of Tezpitla (Who had shared oft times in his battles And sat many times at his table), In sympathy visits the widow; And his sympathy turns to wooing, His wooing and winning are easy. For Zunaga (the name of the faithless) Yields a ready ear to his sighing, And pity is parent of loving. The bride takes the place of the widow, And the funeral leads to the wedding.

A son is soon born to Mohotzin, And the sire with the faithless Zunaga, Bend their heads to the hurt of the helpless, To disherit the artless daughter; She sends up inquisitive glances, To the guilty eyes of her parents. Thus the perfect faith of our childhood, Stands to smite at the evil endeavor, Yet how is it cruelly wounded By the cunning hand of its kindred!

She is sold as a slave to the merchants, Whose itinerant traffic encounters This cruel and conscienceless couple. Scarcely five years the miniature maiden, When decoyed from her favorite pastimes, Under guise of a frolicsome journey; She is hurried away into bondage, To gain the estate for her brother. And all this is done under shadow To cover the basest of actions. Malinche is said to be dying, The mother is bent at the bedside, Where is laid the child of a servant; It dies, to complete the deception, And Zunaga bewails, as is fitting In well painted actions, the daughter. The funeral pageant is greater Than the one attending Tezpitla; And thus, did the misnomered mother Strive to hide the print of her sinning.

How fares it with bonnie Malinche, Thus stung in the morn of her childhood? The merchants have gone to Tabasco, The slaves are the bearers of burden, The maid is thus borne from her kindred. She, too young to plead for ransom, Little heeds the force of her venture; And in time, they have traversed the river, And have reached the town of Tabasco. The merchants immured in their traffic, Sell the maid to a wealthy landlord, The worthy Cacique of the province.