Read Ebook: Antaño i Ogaño: Novelas i Cuentos de la Vida Hispano-Americana by Lastarria Jos Victorino

Font size: 10 px 15 px 20 px 25 px 30 px 35 px

Background color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Text color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Apply/Save settings

Ebook has 1966 lines and 94810 words, and 40 pages

HARPER'S

NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

NAPOLEON BONAPARTE.

BY JOHN S. C. ABBOTT.

The discomfiture of the insurgent sections at Paris, and the energy, tact, and humanity which Napoleon displayed in the subsequent government of the tumultuous city, caused his name to be as familiar as a household word in all parts of the metropolis. His slight and slender figure, so feminine and graceful in its proportions; his hand, so small and white and soft that any lady might covet it; his features, so mild and youthful in their expression, and all these combined in strange alliance with energies as indomitable, and a will as imperious as were ever enshrined in mortal form, invested the young general with a mysterious and almost supernatural fascination.

Famine was rioting in the streets of Paris. All industry was at an end. The poor, unemployed, were perishing. The rich were gathering the wrecks of their estates, and flying from France. There was no law but such as was proclaimed by the thunders of Napoleon's batteries. The National Guard he immediately reorganized, and soon efficient order was established. Napoleon was incessantly occupied in visiting all parts of the city, and words of kindness and sympathy with suffering he combined with the strong and inexorable arm of military rule. More than a hundred families, says the Duchess of Abrantes, were saved from perishing by his personal exertions. He himself climbed to the garrets of penury, and penetrated the cellars of want and woe, and, with a moistened eye, gazed upon the scenes of fearful wretchedness with which Paris was filled. He caused wood and bread to be distributed to the poor, and totally regardless of ease or self-indulgence, did every thing in his power to alleviate suffering.

One day when alighting from his carriage to dine at Madame Permon's, he was addressed by a woman who held a dead infant in her arms. Grief and hunger had dried up the fountain of life in her bosom, and her unweaned child had perished of starvation. Her husband was dead, and five children were mourning for food at home. "If I can not obtain relief," said the famished mother, "I must take my remaining five children and drown myself with them." Napoleon questioned her very minutely, ascertained her place of residence, and giving her some money to meet her immediate wants, entered the house and sat down with the guests at the brilliant entertainment. He was, however, so deeply impressed with the scene of wretchedness which he had just witnessed, that he could not obliterate it from his mind, and all were struck with his absent manner and the sadness of his countenance. Immediately after dinner he took measures to ascertain the truth of the statements which the poor woman had made to him, and finding all her assertions verified, he took the family immediately under his protection. He obtained employment for the girls in needlework among his friends, and the family ever expressed the most profound gratitude for their preserver. It was by the unceasing exhibition of such traits of character that Napoleon entwined around him the hearts of the French people.

There was, at this time in Paris, a lady, who was rendered quite prominent in society, by her social attractions, her personal loveliness, and her elevated rank. She was a widow, twenty-eight years of age. Her husband, the Viscount Beauharnais, had recently perished upon the scaffold, an illustrious victim of revolutionary fury. Josephine Tascher Beauharnais, who subsequently became the world-renowned bride of Napoleon, was born on the island of Martinice in the West Indies. When almost a child she was married to the Viscount Beauharnais, who had visited the island on business and was captivated by the loveliness of the fair young Creole. Upon entering Paris she was immediately introduced to all the splendors of the court of Maria-Antoinette. The revolutionary storm soon burst upon her dwelling with merciless fury. She experienced the most afflictive reverses of friendlessness, bereavement, imprisonment, and penury. The storm had, however, passed over her, and she was left a widow, with two children, Eugene and Hortense. From the wreck of her fortune she had saved an ample competence, and was surrounded by influential and admiring friends.

Napoleon, in obedience to the orders of the Convention, to prevent the possibility of another outbreak of lawless violence, had proceeded to the disarming of the populace of Paris. In the performance of this duty the sword of M. Beauharnais was taken. A few days afterward Eugene, a very intelligent and graceful child, twelve years of age, obtained access to Napoleon, and with most engaging artlessness and depth of emotion, implored that the sword of his father might be restored to him. Napoleon had no heart to deny such a request. He sent for the sword, and speaking with kind words of commendation, presented it with his own hand to Eugene. The grateful boy burst into tears and, unable to articulate a word, pressed the sword to his bosom, bowed in silence and retired. Napoleon was much interested in this exhibition of filial love, and his thoughts were immediately directed to the mother who had formed the character of such a child. Josephine, whose whole soul was absorbed in love for her children, was so grateful, for the kindness with which the distinguished young general had treated her fatherless Eugene, that she called, in her carriage, the next day, to express to him a mother's thanks. She was dressed in deep mourning. Her peculiarly musical voice was tremulous with emotion. The fervor and the delicacy of her maternal love, and the perfect grace of manner and of language, with which she discharged her mission, excited the admiration of Napoleon. He soon called upon her. The acquaintance rapidly ripened into an unusually strong and ardent affection.

Josephine was two years older than Napoleon. But her form and features had resisted the encroachments of time, and her cheerfulness and vivacity invested her with all the charms of early youth. Barras, now one of the five Directors, who had been established in power by the guns of Napoleon, was a very ardent friend of Josephine. He warmly advocated the contemplated connection, deeming it mutually advantageous. Napoleon would greatly increase his influence by an alliance with one occupying so high a position in society and surrounded by friends so influential. And Barras clearly foresaw that the energetic young general possessed genius which would insure distinction. Josephine thus speaks, in a letter to a friend, of her feelings in view of the proposed marriage.

"I am urged to marry again. My friends counsel the measure, my aunt almost lays her injunctions to the same effect, and my children entreat my compliance. You have met General Bonaparte at my house. He it is who would supply a father's place to the orphans of Alexander Beauharnais, and a husband to his widow. I admire the general's courage, the extent of his information, for on all subjects he talks equally well, and the quickness of his judgment, which enables him to seize the thoughts of others almost before they are expressed. But I confess that I shrink from the despotism he seems desirous of exercising over all who approach him. His searching glance has something singular and inexplicable, which imposes even upon our Directors; judge if it may not intimidate a woman.

"What think you of this self-confidence? Is it not a proof of excess of vanity? A general of brigade protect the heads of government! That truly is an event highly probable! I know not how it is, but sometimes this waywardness gains upon me to such a degree, that almost I believe possible whatever this singular man may take into his head to attempt. And with his imagination, who can calculate what he will not undertake."

"Man, launched into life," said Napoleon, "asks himself, whence do I come? What am I? Whither do I go? Mysterious questions which draw him toward religion; our hearts crave the support and guidance of religious faith. We believe in the existence of God because every thing around us proclaims his being. The greatest minds have cherished this conviction--Bossuet, Newton, Leibnitz. The heart craves faith as the body food; and, without doubt, we believe most frequently without exercising our reason. Faith wavers as soon as we begin to argue. But even then our hearts say, 'Perhaps I shall again believe instinctively. God grant it. For we feel that this belief in a protecting deity must be a great happiness; an immense consolation in adversity, and a powerful safeguard when tempted to immorality.

"The virtuous man never doubts of the existence of God, for if his reason does not suffice to comprehend it, the instinct of his soul adopts the belief. Every intimate feeling of the soul is in sympathy with the sentiments of religion."

These are profound thoughts and it is strange that they should have sprung up in the mind of one educated in the midst of the violence, and the clangor, and the crime of battle, and accustomed to hear from the lips of all around him, every religious sentiment ridiculed as the superstition of the most weak and credulous.

When at St. Helena, Napoleon, one evening, called for the New Testament, and read to his friends the address of Jesus to his disciples upon the mountain. He expressed himself as having been ever struck with the highest admiration in view of the purity, the sublimity, and the beauty of the morality which it contained. Napoleon seldom spoke lightly even of the corruptions of the church. But he always declared his most exalted appreciation of the religion of Jesus Christ.

Again, he said, of Josephine, "we lived together like honest citizens in our mutual relations, and always retired together till 1805, a period in which political events obliged me to change my habits, and to add the labors of the night to those of the day. This regularity is the best guarantee for a good establishment. It ensures the respectability of the wife, the dependence of the husband, and maintains intimacy of feelings and good morals. If this is not the case, the smallest circumstances make people forget each other. A son by Josephine would have rendered me happy, and would have secured the reign of my dynasty. The French would have loved him very much better than they could love the son of Maria Louisa; and I never would have put my foot on that abyss covered with flowers, which was my ruin. Let no one after this rely upon the wisdom of human combinations. Let no one venture to pronounce, before its close, upon the happiness or misery of life. My Josephine had the instinct of the future when she became terrified at her own sterility. She knew well that a marriage is only real when there is an offspring; and in proportion as fortune smiled her anxiety increased. I was the object of her deepest attachment. If I went into my carriage at midnight for a long journey, there, to my surprise, I found her, seated before me, and awaiting my arrival. If I attempted to dissuade her from accompanying me, she had so many good and affectionate reasons to urge, that it was almost always necessary to yield. In a word she always proved to me a happy and affectionate wife, and I have preserved the tenderest recollections of her.

"Political motives induced me to divorce Josephine, whom I most tenderly loved. She, poor woman, fortunately for herself, died in time to prevent her from witnessing the last of my misfortunes. After her forcible separation from me, she avowed, in most feeling terms, her ardent desire to share with me, my exile and extolled, with many tears, both myself and my conduct to her. The English have represented me as a monster of cruelty. Is this the result of the conduct of a merciless, unfeeling tyrant? A man is known by his treatment of his wife, of his family, and of those under him."

Just before his marriage, Napoleon received the appointment, to him most gratifying, of Commander-in-chief of the army of Italy. His predecessor had been displaced in consequence of excessive intemperance. Napoleon was but twenty-five years of age when placed in this responsible post. "You are rather young," said one of the Directors, "to assume responsibilities so weighty, and to take the command over veteran generals." "In one year," Napoleon replied, "I shall be either old or dead." "We can place you in the command of men alone," said Carnot, "for the troops are destitute of every thing, and we can furnish you with no money to provide supplies." "Give me only men enough," Napoleon replied, "and I ask for nothing more. I will be answerable for the result."

A few days after Napoleon's marriage, he left his bride in Paris, and set out for Nice, the head-quarters of the army of Italy. He passed through Marseilles, that he might pay a short visit to his mother, whose love he ever cherished with the utmost tenderness, and on the 27th of March arrived at the cold and cheerless camps, where the dejected troops of France were enduring every hardship. They were surrounded by numerous foes, who had driven them from the fertile plains of Italy into the barren and dreary fastnesses of the Alps. The Austrian armies, quartered in opulent cities, or encamped upon sunny and vine-clad hill-sides, were living in the enjoyment of security and abundance, while the troops of the distracted and impoverished republic were literally freezing and starving. But here let us pause for a moment to consider the cause of the war, and the motives which animated the contending armies.

France, in the exercise of a right which few in America will question, had, in imitation of the United States, and incited by their example, renounced the monarchical form of government, and established a republic. For centuries uncounted, voluptuous kings and licentious nobles had trampled the oppressed millions into the dust. But now these millions had risen in their majesty, and driving the king from his throne and the nobles from their wide domains, had taken their own interests into their own hands. They were inexperienced and unenlightened in the science of government, and they made many and lamentable mistakes. They were terrified in view of the powerful combination of all the monarchs and nobles of Europe to overwhelm them with invading armies, and in their paroxysms of fear, when destruction seemed to be coming like an avalanche upon them, they perpetrated many deeds of atrocious cruelty. They simply claimed the right of self-government, and when assailed, fell upon their assailants with blind and merciless fury.

When Napoleon arrived at Nice he found that he had but thirty thousand men with whom to repel the eighty thousand of the allies. The government was impoverished, and had no means to pay the troops. The soldiers were dejected, emaciate, and ragged. The cavalry horses had died upon the bleak and frozen summits of the mountains, and the army was almost entirely destitute of artillery. The young commander-in-chief, immediately upon his arrival, summoned his generals before him. Many of them were veteran soldiers, and they were not a little chagrined in seeing a youth, whom they regarded almost as a beardless boy, placed over them in command. But in the very first hour in which he met them, his superiority was recognized; and he gained a complete and an unquestioned ascendency over all. Berthier, Massena, Augereau, Serrurier, and Lannes were there, men who had already attained renown, and who were capable of appreciating genius. "This is the leader," said one, as he left this first council, "who will surely guide us to fame and fortune."

The French were on the cold crests of the mountains. The allies were encamped in the warm and fertile valleys which opened into the Italian plains. The untiring energy of the youthful general, his imperial mind, his unhesitating reliance upon his own mental resources, his perfect acquaintance with the theatre of war, as the result of his previous explorations, his gravity and reserve of manners, his spotless morality, so extraordinary in the midst of all the dissipated scenes of the camp, commanded the reverence of the dissolute and licentious, though brave and talented generals who surrounded him. There was an indescribable something in his manner which immediately inspired respect and awe, and which kept all familiarity at a distance.

Decres had known Napoleon well in Paris, and had been on terms of perfect intimacy with him. He was at Toulon when he heard of Napoleon's appointment to the command of the army of Italy. "When I learned," said he, "that the new general was about to pass through the city, I immediately proposed to introduce my comrades to him, and to turn my acquaintance to the best account. I hastened to meet him full of eagerness and joy. The door of the apartment was thrown open, and I was upon the point of rushing to him with my wonted familiarity. But his attitude, his look, the tone of his voice suddenly deterred me. There was nothing haughty or offensive in his appearance or manner, but the impression he produced was sufficient to prevent me from ever again attempting to encroach upon the distance which separated us."

Decres was afterward elevated by Napoleon to a dukedom, and appointed Minister of the Marine. He was strongly attached to his benefactor. At the time of Napoleon's downfall, he was sounded in a very artful way as to his willingness to conspire against the Emperor. Happening to visit a person of celebrity, the latter drew him aside to the fire-place, and taking up a book, said, "I have just now been reading something that struck me very forcibly. Montesquieu here remarks, 'When the prince rises above the laws, when tyranny becomes insupportable, the oppressed have no alternative but--'" "Enough," exclaimed Decres, putting his hand before the mouth of the reader, "I will hear no more. Close the book." The other coolly laid down the volume, as though nothing particular had occurred, and began to talk on a totally different subject.

A similar ascendency, notwithstanding his feminine stature and the extreme youthfulness of his appearance, he immediately gained over all the soldiers and all the generals of the army. Every one who entered his presence was awed by the indescribable influence of his imperial mind. No one ventured to contend with him for the supremacy. He turned with disgust from the licentiousness and dissipation which ever disgraces the presence of an army, and with a sternness of morality which would have done honor to any of the sages of antiquity, secured that respect which virtue ever commands. There were many very beautiful and dissolute females in Nice, opera singers and dancing girls, who, trafficking in their charms, were living in great wealth and voluptuousness. They exhausted all their arts of enticement to win the attention of the young commander-in-chief. But their allurements were unavailing. Napoleon proved a Samson whom no Delilah could seduce. And this was the more extraordinary, since his natural temperament was glowing and impetuous in the extreme, and he had no religious scruples to interfere with his indulgences. "My extreme youth," said he, afterward, "when I took command of the army of Italy, rendered it necessary that I should evince great reserve of manners and the utmost severity of morals. This was indispensable to enable me to sustain authority over men so greatly my superiors in age and experience. I pursued a line of conduct in the highest degree irreproachable and exemplary. In spotless morality I was a Cato, and must have appeared such to all. I was a philosopher and a sage. My supremacy could be retained only by proving myself a better man than any other man in the army. Had I yielded to human weaknesses I should have lost my power."

He was temperate in the extreme, seldom allowing himself to take even a glass of wine, and never did he countenance by his presence any scene of bacchanalian revelry. For gaming, in all its branches, he manifested then, and through the whole of his life, the strongest disapproval. He ever refused to repose confidence in any one who was addicted to that vice. One day at St. Helena, he was conversing with Las Casas, when some remark which was made led Napoleon to inquire, "Were you a gamester?" "Alas, sire!" Las Casas replied, "I must confess that I was, but only occasionally." "I am very glad," Napoleon rejoined, "that I knew nothing of it at the time. You would have been ruined in my esteem. A gamester was sure to forfeit my confidence. The moment I heard that a man was addicted to that vice I placed no more confidence in him."

From what source did this young soldier imbibe these elevated principles? Licentiousness, irreligion, gambling had been the trinity of revolutionary France--the substitute which rampant infidelity had adopted, for a benignant Father, a pleading Saviour, a sanctifying Spirit. Napoleon was reared in the midst of these demoralizing influences. And yet how unsullied does his character appear when compared with that of his companions in the camp and on the throne! Napoleon informs us that to his mother he was indebted for every pure and noble sentiment which inspired his bosom.

Letitia, the mother of Napoleon, was a woman of extraordinary endowments. She had herself hardly passed the period of childhood, being but nineteen years of age, when she heard the first wailing cry of Napoleon, her second born, and pressed the helpless babe, with thanksgiving and prayer, to her maternal bosom. She was a young mother to train and educate such a child for his unknown but exalted destiny. She encircled, in protecting arms, the nursing babe, as it fondled a mother's bosom with those little hands, which, in after years, grasped sceptres, and uphove thrones, and hewed down armies with resistless sword. She taught those infant lips to lisp "papa"--"mamma"--those lips at whose subsequent command all Europe was moved, and whose burning, glowing, martial words fell like trumpet-tones upon the world, hurling nation upon nation in the shock of war. She taught those feeble feet to make their first trembling essays upon the carpet, rewarding the successful endeavor with a mother's kiss and a mother's caress--those feet which afterward strode over the sands of the desert, and waded through the blood-stained snow-drifts of Russia, and tottered, in the infiro sent? mas que su linda mano: maquinalmente la estrech? a mis l?bios, perd? el sentido; la fiebre me abrasaba el corazon i todos mis miembros perdieron su vigor. En ese instante entr? Luciano; Luc?a estaba ya en su asiento, i yo permanecia aun l?nguido i sin accion para moverme ni hablar una sola palabra.

Desde luego no trat? mas que de concluir la obra para retirarme de aquel sitio en donde un momento ?ntes habria deseado permanecer para siempre: no s? por qu? se apoder? de m? una zozobra, una inquietud inesplicable: me parecia que habia sido sorprendido, que me iban a matar i a privarme de asistir a la cita que acababa de darme mi Luc?a. En poco tiempo mas, estuve desocupado. Don Gumesindo lleg? al oratorio, mir? el altar i pas?ndome el precio de mi trabajo, me dijo: anda con Dios, te has portado..... Al salir, nos correspondimos con Luc?a una mirada que significaba mas que cuanto hab?amos hablado.

De ah? me fu? lijero a buscar a Laurencio, le describ? cuanto habia ocurrido, i obtuve su promesa de ayudarme a trepar hasta la ventanilla por donde hab?amos de vernos con mi Luc?a.

Para omitir detalles, no quiero demorarme en la descripcion de las infinitas citas que tuve con aquel ?njel en lo sucesivo: yo permanecia horas enteras apegado a la ventanilla por donde nos ve?amos, pendiente con una mano de la reja i afianzando los pi?s en una cuerda que me servia para izarme; pero mi?ntras estaba con aquella mujer divina no sentia incomodidad alguna, no veia otra cosa que a ella, no oia mas que sus palabras, ni respiraba mas que su aliento. Rec?procamente nos cont?bamos nuestras desgracias, nos comunic?bamos los proyectos que form?bamos para salir de tan penoso estado, habl?bamos de nuestro amor i nos lisonje?bamos con un porvenir de placer i de ventura: estos coloquios avivaban nuestro fuego, nos consolaban i nos hacian dulces nuestras angustias.

La situacion en que ella se encontraba era desesperante: desde la muerte de su madre, jamas habia pisado el dintel de la puerta de calle de la casa de su tutor. Este jamas le dirijia una palabra, la forzaba a estar todo el dia sola en un cuarto que le servia de prision, sin ver mas que a unos cuantos esclavos que nunca desplegaban los l?bios en su presencia; por la noche se ocupaba en rezar con una vieja, que era su esp?a i la cual ejecutaba fielmente todas las ?rdenes de tiran?a que le daba don Gumesindo. Se veia, en fin, precisada hasta de reservarse de su confesor, que era el capellan de la casa, porque sospechaba que procedia de acuerdo con su tutor.

Yo era el hombre mas feliz, porque en medio de la miseria a que me veia reducido, me sentia adorado por la ?nica mujer que habia ocupado siempre mi corazon; pero la pobreza me condenaba a no ver realizadas jamas mis ilusiones. Ella era rica i tampoco podia disponer de sus riquezas: solo podia llorar conmigo nuestra desventura.

A veces me asaltaba la desconfianza por su amor, porque no hallaba motivo para que una mujer tan bella i de tantas prendas estimables se fijara en un miserable como yo, que para vivir se veia precisado a trabajar de artesano; en un hombre sin porvenir i condenado por su destino a una perpetua desgracia; pero ella me consolaba con sus caricias i me juraba amarme siempre a pesar de todo. A los ocho meses de mantener esta comunicacion, resolvimos fugar de aquel lugar aborrecido i establecernos en otra parte, en donde pudi?ramos gozar libremente de nuestra union, i reclamar con el tiempo sus propiedades. Combinamos el plan de nuestra fuga, i a m? me pareci? bien consult?rselo a Laurencio, el cual se interes? tan vivamente en el buen ?xito de la empresa, que prometi? acompa?arme a donde fuera con mi querida.

Este hombre que me inspiraba tanta confianza i con quien tanto simpatiz?bamos, corria ent?nces la misma suerte que yo; era pobre i desvalido. Habia llegado a la Serena casi a un tiempo conmigo, pero se ignoraba de d?nde i con qu? fin: ?l decia que habia sido comerciante en su pais i que viniendo al Per? con sus negocios, un naufrajio le redujo a la indijencia. Despues veremos la verdad de este relato.

El dia de la Cruz de Mayo de 1813, debia efectuarse nuestra partida a las dos de la ma?ana, i Luc?a habia de salir vestida de hombre por una alta pared que cerraba por un costado la casa de don Gumesindo. Todo estaba dispuesto, i cont?bamos entre los preparativos cuatro hermosos caballos, que nos habian costado muchos meses de trabajo a m? i a Laurencio. Amaneci? el dia deseado i nosotros est?bamos alegres porque no habia obst?culo que no estuviese ya vencido, i ten?amos la seguridad de no haber sido descubiertos.

Yo ansiaba por que llegase el momento i me reputaba mui dichoso; pero pasando por la plaza con el objeto de hacer todav?a alguna dilijencia, tres soldados me detuvieron i me llevaron a la presencia del juez, que despues de haber sabido mi nombre i mir?dome mucho, me remiti? a la c?rcel con la ?rden de que me colocaran incomunicado i con una barra de grillos. Al instante tembl? i obedec? sin replicar, porque no hubo duda para m? de que habia sido descubierto nuestro plan. La desesperacion se apoder? de mi alma de tal modo, que si el carcelero no me hubiera quitado un pu?al que llevaba conmigo, me habria dado la muerte en aquel instante mismo. Pero luego qued? en calma i en una especie de embrutecimiento que no me dejaba pensar, ni siquiera sentir.

As? permanec? dos dias, durante los cuales no v? mas que al carcelero que se acerc? a m? dos veces para darme de comer: al tercer dia fu? llevado ante el juez i sufr? un largo interrogatorio sobre si conocia a don Gumesindo, si tenia mui estrecha amistad con el esclavo Luciano i sobre un plan que se decia que yo habia formado con ?ste para asesinar a su amo. Todo esto contribuia a aumentar mi confusion, i llegu? a sospechar que el juez se valia de tales rodeos para desentra?ar mejor el rapto de Luc?a; pero al salir, v? que entraba tambien a la sala del juez el pobre negro Luciano con grillos i lleno de sangre: despues supe que su se?or le habia castigado ferozmente ?ntes de entregarle a la justicia.

Tres veces mas me llevaron ante el juez en ocho dias que estuve incomunicado, i por los interrogatorios i cargos que me hacian, vine en cuenta de que yo estaba acusado de asesino i de complicidad con Luciano; i supe, con gran sorpresa, que por la noche del dia en que me apresaron habia fugado Luc?a de la casa de su tutor. La ajitacion que me caus? este accidente, oido de boca del mismo juez, fu? tomada por ?ste como un efecto de mi inocencia en el rapto, i al instante decret? que se me pusiera sin prisiones en el calabozo de los demas presos. All? encontr? a Luciano i a una multitud de facinerosos, cuyo aspecto me di? pavor i me hizo pensar de nuevo en todo el peso de mis desgracias: uno de los presos se acerc? a consolarme, otros se reian en mi presencia de mis angustias, i trataban de ridiculizarme con espresiones groseras, segun decian ellos, para darme valor.

Yo no lo tenia, es verdad, ni siquiera para darme a respetar de aquellos malvados. El mas viejo de todos conversaba con Luciano, refiri?ndole la vida de don Gumesindo, el cual, segun ?l decia, habia venido de marinero en un buque espa?ol para cumplir la pena a que en su pais fu? condenado por varios delitos que cometi?. Luciano lo oia con mucha complacencia, i le replicaba que ?l no tenia mas cr?men que el haberle servido con fidelidad desde su ni?ez. Al fin se acerc? a m? el negro, i conversamos acerca de nuestra prision: me dijo que en la tarde del dia anterior al en que me prendieron, su amo habia recibido una carta de un amigo, i luego que la ley?, le habia llamado a su presencia para hacerle algunas preguntas sobre m?, despues de las cuales le maltrat? cruelmente hasta dejarle medio muerto i cubierta de heridas la cabeza, por cuyo motivo pas? esa noche i el siguiente dia, que era m?rtes, postrado en su cama. El mi?rcoles, siendo ya mui tarde, se advirti? que Luc?a faltaba de la casa, se la busc? prolijamente; i siendo in?tiles todas las pesquisas, su amo enfurecido le habia hecho remitir a la c?rcel, en donde se encontraba todav?a sin saber a punto fijo de qu? delito se le acusaba.

Compasion, i mucha, me inspir? la sencillez del pobre negro, i al hacerle saber la imputacion que se le hacia, le v? llorar, pero sin que su semblante sufriese la menor alteracion: no s? si lloraba de despecho o de pena, lo cierto es que el esclavo tambien era sensible.

Mi amor, la desesperacion que tuve al verme preso, la melancol?a en que ca? despues, todo se me habia convertido en una aversion, un odio reconcentrado contra todos los hombres; ya no sentia mas que un deseo fren?tico de vengarme, aun a costa de lo que podia serme mas caro en este mundo i en el otro; sentia a veces un placer inesplicable cuando oia referir escenas de horror, salteos i asesinatos a los que me acompa?aban en la prision, i me entretenia en hacerlos hablar sobre sus cr?menes, porque este era el ?nico consuelo que tenia.

Despues de vivir un mes en aquella situacion ignominiosa, un dia nos hicieron marchar a varios de los presos para Santiago, permiti?ndonos, algunas horas ?ntes de nuestra partida, hablar con nuestros amigos o parientes. Yo no tuve otra persona que me viese en aquellas circunstancias que la vieja Mar?a, la cual me refiri? que Laurencio habia andado mui inquieto el dia de mi prision, i que desde ent?nces no habia vuelto a verle mas, porque se habia huido, llev?ndose mis caballos i varios otros objetos que me pertenecian. Esta revelacion i la circunstancia de no haberse acercado Laurencio una sola vez a la c?rcel desde que entr? en ella, me hicieron venir en cuenta de que este infame me habia traicionado huyendo con mi Luc?a. Pero no hallaba c?mo conciliar una alevos?a semejante con el amor i la amistad que me ligaban con ellos: aborrecia, sin embargo, a los hombres, i mi odio me lo pintaba todo como posible. Part? para Santiago sin saber mi destino, pero jurando a cada momento no descansar hasta verter la ?ltima gota de sangre de Luc?a i de Laurencio i recrearme en su agon?a: este era el ?nico deseo, la ?nica esperanza que me daba fuerzas para soportar las fatigas del viaje i los sinsabores de mi triste condicion.

Despues de un viaje penos?simo, entramos a esta ciudad una noche a fines de junio: era una noche de invierno, hermosa i serena; la luna alumbraba en todo su esplendor, las calles estaban solas i en silencio. Al pasar por el puente, v? por primera vez este rio cubierto en toda su estension de una neblina delgada que me lo hizo aparecer como el mas caudaloso que en mi vida habia visto. Desde aquel paraje divisaba gran parte de los edificios de este pueblo i veia que sobre ellos se alzaban como fantasmas blancas las torres de los templos: al instante me asalt? el recuerdo de Lima i por consiguiente el de mi vida pasada. Maldije de nuevo a los hombres i me resign? a sufrir hasta alcanzar la venganza que tanto ansiaba. Tales fueron los pensamientos que me ocuparon mi?ntras llegamos a un cuartel en donde nos dieron posada en la cuadra de los reclutas.

Al siguiente dia nos filiaron i nos vistieron como soldados, i esto me caus? a m? mas gusto que a todos mis compa?eros de infortunio. Con aquella ceremonia principiaba para m? una nueva vida, un porvenir mas halag?e?o que el que habia tenido presente mi?ntras fu? tratado como criminal. Durante los pocos dias que permanecimos en Santiago, practiqu? las mas esquisitas dilijencias para descubrir el paradero de Luc?a o de Laurencio, pero no pude obtener la menor noticia. Pens? ent?nces en abandonar furtivamente las filas, con el fin de buscarlos con toda libertad, i solo desist? de este prop?sito cuando consider? que mas me importaba lidiar contra los enemigos de mi patria i saciar en ellos mi sed de sangre, que perseguir a una mujer que me habia traicionado tan cruelmente. No podia, sin embargo, apartar su im?jen de mi corazon; la adoraba con mas vehemencia a cada instante, porque ya me habia acostumbrado a sus caricias, porque ya habia sentido tiernamente correspondido un amor de toda mi vida...

En una de aquellas ma?anas hermosas que suele haber en invierno, sali? para el Sur la division militar a que yo pertenecia. La calle de nuestro tr?nsito estaba llena de jentes; por todos lados nos victoreaban, nos dirijian tiernos adioses i de algunos balcones nos arrojaban flores, como para presajiarnos nuestros triunfos; las m?sicas de la division mezclaban sus sonidos al bullicio popular i entusiasmaban el corazon. Yo marchaba con la mochila a la espalda i el fusil al hombro, pensando ver a cada paso a mi adorada Luc?a entre las mujeres que lloraban o reian viendo marchar a la guerra a sus camaradas; pero todo era solo una ilusion. Yo no tenia quien me llorara ni quien me dirijiese siquiera una mirada: era talvez de todos mis compa?eros el ?nico hombre desvalido, el ?nico desgraciado, que en aquellos momentos no podia entregarse al entusiasmo que ardia en el pecho de todos.

Al pasar por cada uno de los pueblos del tr?nsito, se repetia la misma escena, i aprovech?ndome de los pocos momentos que en ellos permanec?amos, me ocupaba siempre en buscar a Luc?a, pero sin obtener jamas el menor dato.

Llegamos por fin a Talca, i entramos por las calles en medio de un pueblo numeroso que nos recibia con aclamaciones de entusiasmo, i all? nos incorporamos al ej?rcito del jeneral Carrera. En pocos dias mas est?bamos ya acampados en las cercan?as de Chillan i sitiando esta ciudad.

Quiero pasar r?pidamente sobre mi vida militar, porque ella pas? tambien sobre m? con la rapidez de un rel?mpago: de batalla en batalla, march?bamos ent?nces en una perpetua ajitacion i rodeados de todo j?nero de privaciones. Mil veces he oido que el soldado es un vil instrumento que no piensa ni tiene voluntad, pero en aquellos tiempos no era as?: todos conoc?amos i am?bamos la causa por que pele?bamos, todos aborrec?amos de muerte a la Espa?a i a su reyes, porque se nos habia hecho entender que nos hacian la guerra por esclavizarnos. De otro modo no habriamos arrastrado la muerte, sin mas interes ni esperanza que tener patria i libertad; habriamos pedido pan i dinero, en vez de sufrir el hambre i el frio i de mirar con avidez i con envidia al que tenia algo para llenar sus necesidades. ?Ah! pasaron para m? aquellos dias de miseria gloriosa, i hoi no me quedan mas que las amarguras de un mendigo. Todos me desprecian i no habr? un hombre siquiera que sospeche que yo derram? mi sangre por la independencia: yo tambien los desprecio a todos, porque lo ?nico que me ha dejado la esperiencia en el corazon es un odio verdadero al mundo. Las interminables desgracias a que me he visto condenado durante treinta a?os me han dado suficiente fuerza para arrastrarlo todo: estoi resignado con mi suerte i ni los peligros ni la injusticia de los hombres me har?n bajar la frente. Pero volvamos a mi vida.

Cuando se habia vuelto a romper la guerra entre nosotros i las tropas del rei, despues de los tratados con Gainza, i se habia celebrado la paz entre los jenerales O'Higgins i Carrera, lleg? la division a que yo pertenecia, al pueblo de Rancagua, en donde procur? hacerse fuerte para resistir al enemigo, que marchaba confiadamente con nuevo jeneral i tropas de refresco a tomar posesion de la capital. Aqu? vuelven a ligarse mis relaciones con la mujer que por tanto tiempo habia sido objeto ?nico de mi amor i de mi venganza.

Share on: WhatsApp @Hash Facebook Tweet