The Fair God; or, The Last of the 'Tzins
Meantime the monarch kissed the altar, and, folding his hands upon his breast, was beginning to be abstracted in prayer, when he heard himself addressed.
“Look not this way, O king, nor stir; but listen.”
The words, audible throughout the chamber, proceeded from the nearest devotee,—a tall man, well muffled in gown and hood. The monarch controlled himself, and listened, while the speaker continued in a slow, monotonous manner, designed to leave the cavaliers, whom he knew to be observing him, in doubt whether he was praying or intoning some part of the service of the occasion,—
“It is in the streets and in the palaces, and has gone forth into the provinces, that Montezuma is the willing guest of the strangers, and that from great love of them and their society, he will not come away, although his Empire is dissolving, and the religion of his fathers menaced by a new one; but know, O king, that the chiefs and caciques refuse to credit the evil spoken of you, and, believing you a prisoner, are resolved to restore you to freedom. Know further, O king, that this is the time chosen for the rescue. The way back to the throne is clear; you have only to go hence. What says the king? The nation awaits his answer.”
“The throne is inseparable from me,—is where I am, under my feet always,” answered the monarch, coldly.
“And there may it remain forever!” said the devotee, with fervor. “I only meant to pray you to come from amongst the strangers, and set it once more where it belongs,—amongst the loving hearts that gave it to you. Misunderstand me not, O king. Short time have we for words. The enemy is present. I offer you rescue and liberty.”
“To offer me liberty is to deny that I am free. Who is he that proposes to give me what is mine alone to give? I am with Huitzil’. Who comes thus between me and the god?”
From the pabas in the chamber there was a loud murmur; but as the king and devotee retained their composure, and, like praying men, looked steadily at the face of Huitzil’, the cavaliers remained unsuspicious observers of what was to them merely a sinful ceremony.
“I am the humblest, though not the least loving, of all your subjects,” the devotee answered.
“The name?” said the king. “You ask me to go hence: whither and with whom?”
“Know me without speaking my name, O king. I am your brother’s son.”
Montezuma was visibly affected. Afterwhile he said,—
“Speak further. Consider what you have said true,—that I am a prisoner, that the strangers present are my guards,—what are the means of rescue? Speak, that I may judge of them. Conspiracy is abroad, and I do not choose to be blindly led from what is called my prison to a tomb.”
To the reasonable demand the ’tzin calmly replied, “That you were coming to worship to-day, and the conditions upon which you had permission to come, I learned from the teotuctli. I saw the opportunity, and proposed to attempt your rescue. In Tlalac the gods have a faithful servant, and you, O king, a true lover. When you were received upon the azoteas, you did not fail to notice the pabas. Never before in any one temple have there been so many assembled. They are the instruments of the rescue.”
“The instruments!” exclaimed the king, unable to repress his scorn.
The ’tzin interposed hastily. “Beware! Though what we say is not understood by the strangers, their faculties are sharp, and very little may awaken their suspicion and alarm; and if our offer be rejected, better for you, O king, that they go hence ignorant of their danger and our design. Yes, if your conjecture were true, if we did indeed propose to face the teules with barehanded pabas, your scorn would be justified; but know that the concourse on the azoteas is, in fact, of chiefs and caciques, whose gowns do but conceal their preparation for battle.”
A pang contracted the monarch’s face, and his hands closed harder upon his breast; possibly he shuddered at the necessity so thrust upon him of deciding between Malinche whom he feared, and the people whom he so loved.
“Yes,” continued the ’tzin, “here are the chosen of the realm,—the noblest and the best,—each with his life in his hand, an offering to you. What need of further words? You have not forgotten the habits of war; you divine the object of the concourse of priests; you understand they are formed in ranks, that, upon a signal, they may throw themselves as one man upon the strangers. Here in the sanctuary are fifty more with maquahuitls; behind them a door has been constructed to pass you quickly to the azoteas; they will help me keep the door, and stay pursuit, while you descend to the street. And now, O king, said I not rightly? What have you to do more than go hence? Dread not for us. In the presence of Huitzil’, and in defence of his altar, we will fight. If we fall in such glorious combat, he will waft our souls straightway to the Sun.”
“My son,” the king answered, after a pause, “if I were a prisoner, I would say you and the lords have done well; but, being free and pursuing my own policy, I reject the rescue. Go your ways in peace; leave me to my prayers. In a few days the strangers will depart; then, if not sooner, I will come back as you wish, and bring the old time with me, and make all the land happy.”
The monarch ceased. He imagined the question answered and passed; but a murmur, almost a groan, recalled him from the effort to abstract himself. And then the teotuctli, exercising his privilege, went to him, and, laying a hand upon his arm, and pointing up to the god, said,—
“Hearken, O king! The strangers have already asked you to allow them to set up an altar here in the house of Huitzil’, that they may worship their god after their manner. The request was sacrilege; listening to it, a sin; to grant it would make you accursed forever. Save yourself and the god, by going hence as the lords have besought. Be wise in time.”
“I have decided,” said the poor king, in a trembling voice,—“I have decided.”
Tlalac looked to the ’tzin despairingly. The appeal to the monarch’s veneration for the god of his fathers had failed; what else remained? And the ’tzin for the first time looked to the king, saying sorrowfully,—
“Anahuac is the common mother, as Huitzil’ is the father. The foot of the stranger is heavy on her breast, and she cries aloud, ‘Where is Montezuma? Where is the Lord of the Earth? Where is the Child of the Sun?’”
And silence hung heavy in the sanctuary, and the waiting was painful. Again the ’tzin’s voice,—
“A bride sits in the house waiting. Love puts its songs in her mouth, and kindles her smiles with the dazzle of stars. But the bridegroom lingers, and the evening and the morning bring him not. Ah, what is she, though ever so beautiful and sweet-singing, when he comes not, and may never come? O king, you are the lingering lord, and Anahuac the waiting bride; as you love her, come.”
The fated king covered his face with his hands, as if, by shutting out the light, to find relief from pangs too acute for endurance. Minutes passed,—minutes of torture to him, and of breathless expectancy to all present, except the cavaliers, who, unconscious of peril, watched the scene with indifference, or rather the scornful curiosity natural to men professing a purer and diviner faith. At last his hand dropped, and he said with dignity,—
“Let this end now,—so I command. My explanation must be accepted. I cannot understand why, if you love me as you say, you should receive my word with so little credit; and if you can devote yourselves so entirely to me, why can you not believe me capable of equal devotion to myself? Hear me once more. I do not love the strangers. I hope yet to see them sacrificed to Huitzil’. They promise in a few days to leave the country, and I stay with them to hasten their departure, and, in the mean time, shield you, the nation, the temples, and the gods, from their power, which is past finding out. Therefore, let no blow be struck at them, here or elsewhere, without my order. I am yet the king. Let me have peace. Peace be with you! I have spoken.”
The ’tzin looked once to heaven, as if uttering a last appeal, or calling it to witness a vow, then he fell upon his knees; he, too, had despaired. And as if the feeling were contagious, the teotuctli knelt, and in the sanctuary there was stillness consistent with worship, save when some overburdened breast relieved itself by a sigh, a murmur, or a groan.
And history tells how Montezuma remained a little while at the altar, and went peacefully back to his residence with the strangers.
CHAPTER III
THE PUBLIC OPINION MAKES WAY
In the tianguez, one market-day, there was an immense crowd, yet trade was dull; indeed, comparatively nothing in that way was being done, although the display of commodities was rich and tempting.
“Holy gods, what is to become of us?” cried a Cholulan merchant.
“You! You are rich. Dulness of the market cannot hurt you. But I,—I am going to ruin.”
The second speaker was a slave-dealer. Only the day before, he had, at great cost, driven into the city a large train of his “stock” from the wilderness beyond the Great River.
“Tell me, my friend,” said a third party, addressing the slave-dealer, though in hearing of the whole company, “heard you ever of a slave owning a slave?”
“Not I.”
“Heard you ever of a man going into the market to buy a slave, when he was looking to become one himself?”
“Never.”
“You have it then,—the reason nobody has been to your exhibition.”
The bystanders appeared to assent to the proposition, which all understood but the dealer in men, who begged an explanation.
“Yes, yes. You have just come home. I had forgotten. A bad time to be abroad. But listen, friend.” The speaker quietly took his pipe from his mouth, and knocked the ashes out of the bowl. “We belong to Malinche; you know who he is.”
“I am not so certain,” the dealer replied, gravely. “The most I can say is, I have heard of him.”
“O, he is a god—”
“With all a man’s wants and appetites,” interposed one.
“Yes, I was about to say that. For instance, day before yesterday he sent down the king’s order for three thousand escaupiles. What need—”
“They were for his Tlascalans.”
“O, possibly. For whom were the cargoes of cotton cloth delivered yesterday?”
“His women,” answered the other, quickly.
“And the two thousand sandals?”
“For his soldiers?”
“And the gold of which the market was cleaned last week? And the gold now being hunted in Tustepec and Chinantla? And the tribute being levied so harshly in all the provinces,—for whom are they?”
“For Malinche himself.”
“Yes, the god Malinche. Slave of a slave! My friend,” said the chief speaker to the slave-dealer, “there is no such relation known to the law, and for that reason we cannot buy of you. Better go back with all you have, and let the wilderness have its own again.”
“But the goods of which you spoke; certainly they were paid for,” said the dealer, turning pale.
“No. There is nothing left of the royal revenue. Even the treasure which the last king amassed, and walled up in the old palace, has been given to Malinche. The empire is like a man in one respect, at least,—when beggared, it cannot pay.”
“And the king?”
“He is Malinche’s, too.”
“Yes,” added the bystander; “for nowadays we never see his signet, except in the hands of one of the strangers.”
The dealer in men drew a long breath, something as near a sigh as could come from one of his habits, and said, “I remember Mualox and his prophecy; and, hearing these things, I know not what to think.”
“We have yet one hope,” said the chief spokesman, as if desirous of concluding the conversation.
“And that?”
“Is the ’tzin Guatamo.”
“What luck, Pepite?”
“Bad, very bad.”
The questioner was the wife of the man questioned, who had just returned from the market. Throwing aside his empty baskets, he sat down in the shade of a bridge spanning one of the canals, and, locking his hands across his bare knees, looked gloomily in the water. His canoe, with others, was close at hand.
The wife, without seeming to notice his dejection, busied herself setting out their dinner, which was humble as themselves, being of boiled maize, tuna figs, and tecuitlatl, or cheese of the lake. When the man began to eat, he began to talk,—a peculiarity in which he was not altogether singular.
“Bad luck, very bad,” he repeated. “I took my baskets to the old stand. The flowers were fresh and sweet, gathered, you know, only last night. The market was full of people, many of whom I knew to be rich enough to buy at two prices; they came, and looked, and said, ‘They are very nice, Pepite, very nice,’ but did not offer to buy. By and by the sun went up, and stood overhead, and still no purchaser, not even an offer. It was very discouraging, I tell you; and it would have been much more so, if I had not pretty soon noticed that the market-people around me, fruiterers and florists, were doing no better than I. Then I walked about to see my friends; and in the porticos and booths as elsewhere in the square,—no trade; plenty of people, but no trade. The jewellers had covered their fronts with flowers,—I never saw richer,—you should have been there!—and crowds stood about breathing the sweet perfume; but as to purchasing, they did nothing of the sort. In fact, may the mitlou46 of our little house fly away to-night, if, in the whole day, I saw an instance of trade, or so much as a cocoa-bean pass from one hand to another!”
“It has been so many days now, only not quite so bad, Pepite,” the wife said, struggling to talk cheerfully. “What did they say was the cause? Did any one speak of that?”
“O yes, everybody. Nothing else was talked. ‘What is the use of working? Why buy or sell? We have no longer a king or country. We are all slaves now. We belong to Malinche. Afterwhile, because we are poor, he will take us off to some of his farms, like that one he has down in Oajaca, and set us to working, and keep the fruits, while he gives us the pains. No, we do not want anything; the less we have, the lighter will be our going down.’ That is the way the talk went all day.”
For the first time the woman threw off her pretence of cheerfulness, and was still, absorbed in listening and thinking.
“Belong to Malinche! We? And our little ones at home? Not while the gods live!” she said, confidently.
“Why not? You forget. Malinche is himself a god.”
A doubt shook the strong faith of the wife; and soon, gloomy and hopeless as Pepite, she sat down by him, and partook of the humble fare.
“The nation is dying. Let us elect another king,” said an old cacique to a crowd of nobles, of whom he was the centre, in the pulque chamber of the Chalcan. Bold words, which, half a year before, would have been punished on the spot; now, they were heard in silence, if not with approbation. “A king has no right to survive his glory,” the veteran continued; “and how may one describe his shame and guilt, when, from fear of death, he suffers an enemy to use him, and turn his power against his people!”
He stopped, and for a time the hush was threatening; then there was clapping of hands, and voices cried out,—“Good, good!”
“May the gods forgive me, and witness that the speech was from love of country, not hatred of Montezuma,” said the cacique, deferentially.
“Whom would you have in his place? Name him,” shouted an auditor.
“Montezuma,—if he will come back to us.”
“He will not; he has already refused. Another,—give us another!”
“Be it so!” said the veteran, with decision. “My life is forfeit for what I have said. The cell that holds the king Cacama and the good lord Cuitlahua yawns for me also. I will speak.” Quaffing a bowl of pulque, he added, “Of all Anahuac, O my brothers, who, with the fewest years, is wisest of head and bravest of heart, and therefore fittest to be king in time like this?”
The question was of the kind that addresses itself peculiarly to individual preferences,—the kind which has afflicted the world with its saddest and greatest wars; yet, strange to say, the company, as with one voice, and instantly, answered,—
“The ’tzin, the ’tzin. Guatamo, the ’tzin!”
In the evening time three pabas clomb the stairs by which the top of the turret of Huitzil’ on the teocallis was reached from the azoteas. Arrived at the top, they found there the night-watcher, who recognized the teotuctli, and knelt to him.
“Arise, and get you down now,” the arch-priest said; “we would be alone awhile.”
On a pedestal of stone, or rather of many stones, rested the brazier, or urn, that held the sacred fire. In it crackled the consuming fagots, while over it, with unsteady brilliancy, leaped the flames which, for so many leagues away, were as a beacon in the valley. The three stopped in the shadow of the urn, and might have studied the city, or those subjects greater and more fascinating,—mysteries now, to-night, forever,—Space, and its children, the Stars; but it was not to indulge a common passion or uncertain speculations that Tlalac had brought from their temples and altars his companions, the high-priests of Cholula and Tezcuco. And there for a long time they remained, the grave and holy servants of the gods of the New World, talking earnestly, on what subject and with what conclusion we may gather.
“He is of us no longer,” said Tlalac, impressively. “He has abandoned his people; to a stranger he has surrendered himself, his throne and power; he spends his days learning, from a new priesthood, a new creed, and the things that pertain to a god of whom everything is unknown to us, except that he is the enemy of our gods. I bore his desertion patiently, as we always bear with those we love. By permission, as you heard, he came one day to worship Huitzil’; the permission was on condition that there should be no sacrifices. Worship without sacrifice, my brethren! Can such thing be? When he came, he was offered rescue; the preparations were detailed to him; he knew they could not fail; the nobles begged him to accept the offer; I warned him against refusal; yet, of choice, he went back to Malinche. Then patience almost forsook me. Next, as you also know, came the unpardonable sin. In the chamber below—the chamber sanctified by the presence of the mighty Huitzil’—I will give you to see, if you wish, a profanation the like of which came never to the most wicked dream of the most wicked Aztec,—an altar to the new and unknown God. And to-morrow, if you have the curiosity, I will give you to see the further sight,—a service, mixed of singing and prayer, by priests of the strange God, at the same time, and side by side with the worship of our gods,—all with the assent—nay, by order—of Montezuma. Witness these crimes once, and your patience will go quickly, whereas mine went slowly; but it is gone, and in its stead lives only the purpose to do what the gods command.”
“Let us obey the gods!” said the reverend high-priest of Cholula.
“Let us obey the gods!” echoed his holy brother of Tezcuco.
“Hear me, then,” said Tlalac, with increased fervor. “I will give their command. ‘Raise up a new king, and save yourselves, by saving our worship in the land!’ so the gods say. And I am ready.”
“But the law,” said the Tezcucan.
“By the law,” answered Tlalac, “there can be kings only in the order of election.”
“And so?”
“Montezuma—must—DIE!”
Tlalac said these terrible words slowly, but firmly.
“And who will be the instrument?” they asked.
“Let us trust the gods,” he answered. “For love of them men go down to death every day; and of the many lovers, doubt not some one will be found to do their bidding.”
And so it was agreed.
And so, slowly but surely, the Public Opinion made its way, permeating all classes,—laborers, merchants, warriors, and priests.
CHAPTER IV
THE ’TZIN’S FAREWELL TO QUETZAL’
If I were writing history, it would delight me to linger over the details of Cortes’ management after the arrest of Montezuma; for in them were blent, fairly as ever before seen, the grand diversities of war, politics, and governmental administration. Anticipating interference from the headquarters in Cuba, he exercised all his industry and craft to recommend himself directly to his Majesty, the Emperor Charles. The interference at last came in the form of a grand expedition under Panfilo de Narvaez; but in the interval,—a period of little more than five months,—he had practically reduced the new discovery to possession, as attested by numerous acts of sovereignty,—such, for instance, as the coast of the gulf surveyed; colonies established; plantations opened and worked with profit; tribute levied: high officials arrested, disseized, and executed; the collection and division of a treasure greater than ever before seen by Christians in the New World; communication with the capital secured by armed brigantines on the lakes; the cross set up and maintained in the teocallis; and last, and, by custom of the civilized world, most absolute, Montezuma brought to acknowledge vassalage and swear allegiance to the Emperor; and withal, so perfect was the administration of affairs, that a Spaniard, though alone, was as safe in the defiles between Vera Cruz and Tenochtitlan as he would have been in the caminos reales of old Spain, as free in the great tianguez as on the quay of Cadiz.
Narvaez’s expedition landed in May, six months after Cortes entered Tenochtitlan; and to that time I now beg to advance my reader.
Cortes himself is down in Cempoalla; having defeated Narvaez, he is lingering to gather the fruits of his extraordinary victory. In the capital Alvarado is commanding, supported by the Tlascalans, and about one hundred and fifty Christians. Under his administration, affairs have gone rapidly from bad to worse; and in selecting him for a trust so delicate and important, Cortes has made his first serious mistake.
At an early hour in the evening Mualox came out of the sanctuary of his Cû, bearing an armful of the flowers which had been used in the decoration of the altar. The good man’s hair and beard were whiter than when last I noticed him; he was also feebler, and more stooped; so the time is not far distant when Quetzal’ will lose his last and most faithful servant. As he was about to ascend the stairway of the tower, his name was called, and, stopping, he was overtaken by two men.
“Guatamozin!” he exclaimed, in surprise.
“Be not alarmed, father, but put down your burden, and rest awhile. My friend here, the lord Hualpa, has brought me news, which calls me away. Rest, therefore, and give me time for thanks and explanation.”
“What folly is this?” asked Mualox, hastily, and without noticing Hualpa’s salutation. “Go back to the cell. The hunters are abroad and vigilant as ever. I will cast these faded offerings into the fire, and come to you.”
The ’tzin was in the guise of a paba. To quiet the good man’s alarm, he drew closer the hood that covered his head, remarking, “The hunters will not come. Give Hualpa the offerings; he will carry them for you.”
Hualpa took them, and left; then Mualox said, “I am ready to hear. Speak.”
“Good father,” the ’tzin began, “not long since, in the sanctuary there, you told me—I well remember the words—that the existence of my country depended upon my action; by which I understood you to prefigure for me an honorable, if not fortunate, destiny. I believe you had faith in what you said; for on many occasions since you have exerted yourself in my behalf. That I am not now a prisoner in the old palace with Cacama and the lord Cuitlahua is due to you; indeed, if it be true, as I was told, that the king gave me to Malinche to be dealt with as he chose, I owe you my life. These are the greatest debts a man can be bound for; I acknowledge them, and, if the destiny should be fortunate as we hope, will pay them richly; but now all I can give you is my thanks, and what I know you will better regard,—my solemn promise to protect this sacred property of the holy Quetzal’. Take the thanks and the promise, and let me have your blessing. I wish now to go.”
“Whither?” asked Mualox.
“To the people. They have called me; the lord Hualpa brings me their message.”
“No, you will not go,” said the paba, reproachfully. “Your resolution is only an impulse; impatience is not a purpose; and—and here are peace, and safety, and a holy presence.”
