Donna Elvira, Don Fernando’s wife who lay on the ground, her feet badly wounded, seeing her own son being suckled at Josephe’s breast, bid her most cordially to sit down beside her. And even Don Pedro, Don Fernando’s father-in-law, who was wounded in the shoulder, gave her a kindly nod.
Curious thoughts stirred in Jeronimo’s and Josephe’s breasts. If they now saw themselves treated with such great intimacy and kindness, they did not know what to make of the recent past, of the place of execution, of the prison and the bell; and wondered if it had only been a bad dream. It was as if the dispositions of their fellow citizens had all been rendered conciliatory following the terrible shock. They could not revert any further back in their memories than to that moment. Only Donna Elisabeth, who had been invited by a girlfriend the day before to witness the spectacle of the execution from her rooftop, but declined the invitation, cast an occasional dreamy look at Josephe; but word of some new terrible misfortune soon tore her attention, hardly rooted in the present, back to that time.
There were accounts of how, immediately following the first quake, the city was teeming with women collapsing in full view of all the men; how the monks ran around, crucifix in hand, crying: “The End of the World is at hand!” how the people replied to a guard sent by the viceroy with orders to empty a church, that Chile no longer had a viceroy; how at the most terrible moments the viceroy had to have gallows erected to rein in the looting; and how an innocent man, who managed to save himself by fleeing through a burning house situated to the rear of his own, was caught by the owner, who promptly accused him of undue haste, and the man was hanged on the spot.
At one point, amidst the liveliest recounting of simultaneous experiences of the quake, Donna Elvira, whose wounds Josephe assiduously tended, took the liberty of asking her how she had weathered that terrible day. And when, with a heavy heart, Josephe revealed a few of the most salient details of her ordeal, Donna Elvira was overcome by a flood of tears; she grasped Josephe’s hand and pressed it, and with a wink, implied that she need say no more. Josephe bethought herself among the blessed souls in heaven. In a burst of emotion which she was not able to hold back, for all the misery that the preceding day had wrought, she called it an act of deliverance the like of which heaven had never released upon the world. And amidst these awful moments that had brought about the destruction of all of humanity’s worldly possessions, and during which all of nature threatened to be engulfed, it did indeed seem that the human spirit itself blossomed like a lovely flower. In the fields all around, as far as the eye could see, there were people of all social classes lying together, nobles and beggars, matrons of once stately households and peasant women, civil servants and day laborers, monks and nuns: all commiserating with each other, helping each other, cheerfully sharing the little of life’s necessities they’d been able to salvage, as though the common calamity had joined all those who’d managed to survive it into a single harmonious family of man.
Instead of the meaningless chatter for which the world ordinarily furnished material aplenty at teatime, people now recounted cases of inconceivable heroism; they spoke of individuals who in the past had been but little respected in society who rose to the grandeur of ancient Romans; countless examples were given of fearlessness, of cheerful recklessness in the face of danger, of self-denial and godly self-sacrifice, of the unflinching abandonment of life as though it were the most worthless possession, which one was likely to find again round the next bend. Indeed, seeing as there was not a soul to whom something stirring had not happened on that day or who had not himself performed some magnanimous deed, the bitter pain in every human heart was mixed with the sweetest sense of gratification, so much so that it was impossible to assess whether the sum total of general well-being had not increased just as much as it had diminished.
After listening in silence to the last of these accounts, Jeronimo took Josephe by the arm and led her with indescribable joy up and down beneath the shady canopy of the pomegranate grove. He told her that, given the current cast of mind of the people and the subversion of all social norms, he had abandoned his initial decision to ship off to Europe; that should the viceroy, who had always proven himself favorably inclined to his cause, still be alive, he would hazard an appearance and fall to his knees before him; and that he had every hope of being able to remain in Chile with her – whereupon he pressed a kiss on her forehead. Josephe replied that she had harbored similar thoughts; that, if only her father were still alive, she herself had no doubt he would forgive her; but that instead of begging mercy on their knees, she would rather that they make their way to La Concepción – that city being close to the harbor, just in case – and from there, pursue in writing the business of a pardon with the viceroy, and that if things turned out as they wished they could easily make their way back to Santiago. After thinking it over a bit, Jeronimo agreed to the wisdom of this cautious measure, and reflecting on happy times that lay ahead, led her back and forth a few more times beneath the shady bower before rejoining their companions.
In the meantime the day had advanced to afternoon, and as the aftershocks of the quake had abated, the swarm of refugees had barely had a chance to calm their spirits when word spread that the prelate of the Dominican cloister planned to say a solemn mass in the Dominican church, the only structure that had survived the quake intact, to pray to heaven for the aversion of any further misfortune.
The people soon broke camp in all corners and streamed into the city. The question was raised in Don Fernando’s group as to whether they ought not also take part in this festivity and join the flood of humanity. Donna Elisabeth reminded them, with a catch in her throat, what an unholy thing had occurred the day before in the cathedral; that such thanksgiving services would, after all, be repeated; and that they would then feel themselves freer to give full vent to their feelings with greater serenity and peace, since the danger would by then be long gone. Leaping to her feet, Josephe promptly remarked that she had never felt a more burning need to lay her face in the dust before her Maker, now that He had manifested his incomprehensible and sublime might in this way. Donna Elvira enthusiastically agreed with Josephe. She insisted that they go hear the mass and called upon Don Fernando to lead the way, whereupon the whole group, including Donna Elisabeth, rose to its feet. But since the latter was perceived to hesitate with a heaving breast in all the little preparations for leaving, and in answer to the question what ailed her, replied that she did not rightly know, but that she harbored an ill-fated premonition, Donna Elvira allayed her fear and invited her to stay behind with her and her sick father. Josephe said: “Then you will surely, Donna Elisabeth, take back this little darling, who as you can see, has once again crawled into my arms.” “Very gladly,” replied Donna Elisabeth, and reached out to grab him; but the child protested bitterly against this injustice and would under no circumstances let go, so Josephe said with a smile that she would keep him after all and coaxed him with kisses into silence. Hereupon, Don Fernando, who was very touched by her great dignity and grace, offered her his arm; Jeronimo, who was carrying little Philip, led Donna Constanza; all the other members of the group followed; and in this order they headed back into the city.
They had walked no more than fifty paces when they heard Donna Elisabeth, who had in the meantime engaged in a heated, furtive exchange with Donna Elvira, cry out: “Don Fernando!” and followed the agitation of her tongue with restless steps. Don Fernando stopped and turned around, awaiting her, without letting go of Josephe’s arm; and since Donna Elisabeth herself stopped a fair distance away, as though she expected him to advance toward her, he asked what she wished of him. Hereupon, the latter approached him, albeit, so it seemed, with a certain hesitation, and whispered a few words in his hear, so softly that Josephe could not hear them. “What of it?” asked Don Fernando, “What’s the worst that can happen?” With a troubled look Donna Elisabeth went on whispering in his ear. His face red with consternation, Don Fernando replied: “Enough! Donna Elvira had best calm
herself down”; and led Josephe onwards.
As soon as they entered the Church of the Dominicans, the organ’s sweet strains wafted forth with melodious splendor; an immeasurably large crowd was pressed within. The crush of people continued past the portals and all the way out to the esplanade, and along the walls in the spaces between paintings stood boys with their caps in their hands, casting longing looks aloft. The chandeliers glimmered, and in the twilight threw eerie shadows among the columns; the big, stained-glass rose window in the far background glowed like the setting sun that lent it its light, and as soon as the organ stopped playing all was silent in the gathered throng as if not a single soul had a sound left in his breast. Never before in a Christian cathedral had such a fervent flame climbed up to heaven as that day in the Dominican Cathedral of Santiago; and no human breasts gave more heat to the flame than those of Jeronimo and Josephe!
The service began with a sermon delivered from the pulpit by the oldest canon decked out in festive finery. He started right in, stretching his trembling hands out from under his flowing vestments up to the heavens, praying with praise, thanks, and glory that there were still people left in this devastated corner of creation able to mutter thanks to God. He described what had occurred as a wink of the Almighty; human law could not surpass God’s in severity; and when, after indicating the telltale crack which the cathedral had sustained, he nevertheless referred to yesterday’s earthquake as a mere foretaste of what was to come, a collective shudder ran through the hearts of all those gathered together. Hereupon, in the flow of priestly oratory, he lashed out against the moral corruption of the city; horrors as not even Sodom and Gomorrah had endured would be their just deserts; and it was only thanks to the infinite forbearance of God that they were not totally wiped off the face of the earth.
But the canon’s words cut like a dagger into the hearts of our two poor unfortunates, already torn to shreds by his sermon, when he proceeded to refer in detail to the sacrilege committed in the cloister garden of the Carmelite nuns; he called the worldly mercy that spared the sinners’ lives a godless abomination, and in a vitriolic harangue, mentioning the perpetrators by name, he consigned their souls to all the devilish demons of Hell! Jerking her hand from Jeronimo’s arm, Donna Constanza cried out: “Don Fernando!” But the latter replied so firmly and yet so furtively, binding both in his command: “Be silent, woman, don’t even blink an eye, and pretend to fall into a faint, whereupon we will quietly slip out of the church.” But even before Donna Constanza was able to carry out this sensibly devised rescue measure, a loud voice interrupted the canon’s sermon: “Take heed, ye burghers of Santiago, for here they stand, the godless sinners!” And when, after a wide ring of outrage spread around them, another voice exclaimed in horror: “Where?” a third voice replied: “Here!” and the speaker, engulfed with righteous malice, tore Josephe down by her hair so that she would have tumbled to the ground with Don Fernando’s son in her arms had Don Fernando not held her up. “Are you mad?” cried the young man, and wrapped his arm around Josephe, “I am Don Fernando Ormez, son of the commander of the city, whom you all know.” “Don Fernando Ormez?” replied a shoemaker standing in front of him who had worked for Josephe and knew her at least as well as he knew her little feet. And turning with insolent defiance to Asteron’s daughter, asked: “Who is the father of this child?” Don Fernando went white in the face at this question. He cast a cautious look at Jeronimo, while desperately scanning the gathered throng: Was there not a soul who recognized him? Gripped by horror at the awful situation they found themselves in, Josephe cried out: “This is not my child, as you suppose, Master Pedrillo!” and casting a look of abject terror at Don Fernando, she exclaimed: “This young gentleman is Don Fernando Ormez, son of the commander of the city whom you all know!” The shoemaker replied: “Which of you, which burghers know this young man?” And several of those standing around repeated: “Whoever knows Jeronimo Rugera, let him step forward!” And it came to pass at that very same moment, that little Juan, terrified by the tumult, turned away from Josephe’s breast and stretched his arms out to Don Fernando. Hereupon, a voice cried out: “He is the father!” and “He is Jeronimo Rugera!” and yet another: “They are the blasphemous couple!” and a third voice cried: “Stone them! By God, let all good Christians gathered in this temple of Jesus stone them!” Whereupon Jeronimo countered: “Hold it, you inhuman beasts! If it’s Jeronimo Rugera you’re after, here he is! Let go of that man who is wholly innocent!”
Flustered by Jeronimo’s remark, the seething mob stopped short; several hands let go of Don Fernando; and since at that very moment a marine officer of high rank came rushing forward, and after shoving his way through the throng, asked: “Don Fernando Ormez! What happened to you?” the latter, now set free, replied with truly heroic composure: “You see there, Don Alonzo, those murderous blackguards! I’d have been done for if that worthy gentleman had not given himself off as Jeronimo Rugera to still the raging rabble. Please be so kind as to take him into custody, as well as this young woman, for their own protection,” and grabbing hold of Master Pedrillo, added, “and arrest that no good scoundrel who stirred up this whole uproar!” To which the shoemaker cried: “Don Alonzo Onoreja, I ask you on your honor, is this girl not Josephe Asteron?” And since, though very well acquainted with Josephe, Don Alonzo hesitated to reply, and numerous other voices, fired up anew in their fury, cried out: “It’s her! It’s her!” and “Kill her!” Josephe took little Philip, whom Jeronimo had until now held in his arms, and handed him to Don Fernando, along with little Juan, saying: “Don Fernando, save your two sons and leave us to our fate!” Don Fernando took charge of the two children and said that he would sooner die than permit any harm to be done to his companions. After soliciting the sword of the marine officer, he offered Josephe his arm and bid the other couple follow him. When, in response to such a show of gallantry, people stepped aside and let them pass with a modicum of respect, they did indeed manage to make their way out of the church and thought themselves saved. But hardly had they reached the esplanade, which was likewise crowded with people, when a voice from the raging mob that followed hot on their heels, cried out: “Citizens of Santiago, that is Jeronimo Rugera, I swear, for I am his father!” and with a mighty blow of a cudgel struck him down at Donna Constanza’s side. “Jesus, Maria!” cried Donna Constanza, and ran to her brother-in-law; but already the cry rang out: “Cloister harlot!” accompanied by a second cudgel blow that laid her out dead beside Jeronimo. “Fiend!” cried an unknown person, “That was Donna Constanza Xares!” “Why did they deceive us!” the shoemaker cried in reply, “Seek out the real culprit and kill her!” Don Fernando burned with fury upon seeing Constanza’s lifeless corpse; he drew and swung his sword, and came down so hard he would surely have hacked in two the murderous scoundrel who had brought about this atrocity had the latter not with a fortuitous turn escaped the fatal blow. But seeing as he was not able to fight off the mob that flung itself upon him, Josephe cried: “Take care of yourself and the children, Don Fernando!” and: “Here, take me, you bloodthirsty beasts!” and willingly flung herself into their midst to put an end to the fight. Master Pedrillo struck her down with a cudgel. Whereupon, doused with her blood, he cried: “Send the bastard with her to Hell!” and surged forward again with still unsated bloodlust.
Don Fernando, that godly hero, now stood with his back up against the church, clutching the children with his left hand and the sword with his right. With every lightning stroke he brought a man down; a lion fights no more fiercely. Seven bloodhounds lay dead at his feet, the leader of the satanic rabble himself was wounded. Yet Master Pedrillo did not rest until he managed to grab one of the children by the feet, tear him from Don Fernando’s breast, and swinging him aloft, smash him head-first against the edge of a church pillar. Whereupon he fell still, and the rabble dispersed. When Don Fernando saw his little Juan lying there, head split open, with the brains spilling out, he raised his gaze to heaven, consumed wit
h unspeakable grief.
The marine officer once again appeared on the scene, tried to comfort him, and assured him that, though circumstances justified his restraint, he deeply regretted not having come to Don Fernando’s assistance in this tragic debacle; but Don Fernando said he bore him no ill will, and bid him only help now to remove the corpses. They were carried in the dark of dusk to Don Alonzo’s lodgings; Don Fernando followed, shedding many a bitter tear upon little Philip’s face. He spent the night at Don Alonzo’s, and inventing various excuses, first because his wife was sick, and then, because he did not know how she would judge his actions, he delayed for the longest time informing her of the whole unhappy business; but shortly thereafter, apprised of all that had transpired by a chance visit from a friend, this admirable lady wept her motherly heart out in silence, and fell into his arms and kissed him one morning with a last radiant tear. Hereupon Don Fernando and Donna Elvira took in the little stranger as their adoptive son; and when Don Fernando thought of both Philip and Juan, and reflected on how he had come to be blessed with each, it almost seemed to him as though he ought to be happy.
THE BETROTHAL IN SANTO DOMINGO
· · ·
In Port au Prince, on the French part of the Island of Santo Domingo, at the start of this century,* when the blacks slaughtered the whites, there lived on the plantation of Guillaume de Villeneuve a dreadful old Negro named Congo Hoango. Originally from the Gold Coast of Africa, this man, who in his youth appeared to be of a faithful and honest nature, having saved his master from drowning on a crossing to Cuba, was rewarded by the latter with endless kindnesses. Not only did Monsieur Guillaume grant him his freedom on the spot, and upon their return to Santo Domingo, pass to him the title to a house and yard; a few years thereafter, contrary to the custom of the land, he even named him overseer of his considerable land holdings, and because Congo Hoango did not wish to marry again, gave him, in lieu of a bride, an old mulatto woman named Babekan from his plantation with whom the planter was closely related by marriage through his late wife. Indeed, when Congo Hoango turned sixty, he let him retire with a generous pension and topped off his magnanimity by including a bequest to him in his will; and yet all these marks of gratitude did not spare Monsieur Villeneuve from the wrath of this murderous man. In the course of the widespread excesses that flared up on these plantations in the wake of the ill-considered steps taken by the Convention National,* Congo Hoango was one of the first to take up arms, and mindful of the tyranny that had snatched him from his native land, put a bullet through his master’s head. He set fire to the house, in which the master’s wife along with their three children and all the other whites on the estate had taken refuge, lay waste to the entire plantation, to which the heirs who lived in Port au Prince might have laid claim, and once all the Villeneuve holdings had been reduced to ashes, set out for neighboring lands with the band of Negroes he had gathered and armed to aid his brothers in the fight against the whites. Sometimes he lay in wait for the itinerant armed bands of Frenchmen who crisscrossed the land; sometimes in broad daylight he attacked the planters themselves who holed up on their estates and he cut down every living soul he found. In his inhuman bloodlust, he even forced Babekan and her daughter, a fifteen year old mestizo* named Toni, to take part in these grim doings that made him feel young again; and since the main house of the plantation in which he now resided loomed as a lone habitation abutting the highway, and in his absence whites or Creole fugitives would often knock at the door, seeking food or refuge, he instructed the women to delay these white dogs, as he called them, with sustenance and acts of kindness, until his return. In such cases, Babekan, who suffered from consumption as a consequence of a brutal punishment she had endured in her youth, enlisted the aid of young Toni, who, on account of her yellowish complexion, proved particularly useful in these deadly deceptions, to which end the mother dressed up the daughter in her best clothes; she encouraged her not to spare the strangers any tender caresses, except for the most intimate, which were forbidden on pain of death; and when Congo Hoango returned with his troops from their bloody incursions, the poor souls who’d allowed themselves to be taken in by Toni’s charms were promptly put to death.
Selected Prose of Heinrich Von Kleist Page 2