A MIRACULOUS SAINT
Gray Casement translation
In a short time the fame of a certain miraculous image of San Jerónimo, of which extraordinary things, one might say miracles, were related, had spread through a part of the province of Alajuela. The residents of San Pedro de la Calabaza and of La Sabanilla showed especial enthusiasm, and the reputation of the saint already extended to the very capital of the province, where, to tell the truth, it met with considerable skepticism; but it must not be forgotten that the people of Alajuela are hardened unbelievers.
Whether the fellow citizens of Juan Santa María were right or not in showing their unbelief in respect to San Jerónimo, it is certain that now there was not a rosary, a candle burned in honor of a saint, nor any other festival at which one would not find the sainted image present. Everybody disputed for the notable honor of entertaining it, even though it were not more than a few hours. Its frequent journeys were triumphal, in the midst of a brilliant following, the splendor of which the music, sky-rockets and fire-crackers did not diminish. At first sight the image did not present any marked peculiarity. It was a crude sculpture of wood, painted and varnished, of little more than a metre in height. The saint, dressed in an ordinary habit, trimmed with silver braid, was far from having the appearance of an ascetic; he rather resembled one of those corpulent, incontinent monks whom the Catalonian lithographs have made familiar. But this detail, which only some critical and evil-disposed persons of the city of Alajuela had noticed, did not affect in the least the devotion of his adorers, who never tired of making festivals in his honor, nor of kissing his feet.
The peregrinations of San Jerónimo finally attracted the attention of the authorities and even caused them alarm; but not on account of the manifestations of gross fanaticism which the image called forth from the country people, as in the matter there is always much tolerance. What worried the provincial authorities was something more serious; it was the increasing number of disorders and quarrels which arose on the passing of the saint, who left behind him a trail of blood. Any festival where he was present was sure to have a bad ending; with machete strokes and dagger thrusts almost always. In the criminal court several trials for homicide were in progress; the wounded were numerous, the bruised ones legion. The governor then resolved to take rigorous measures, ordering the jefes politicos[1] and the other subordinate officials to arrest San Jerónimo by all means and without loss of time; but their zeal was in vain. The saint disappeared like smoke after each one of his journeys, to reappear after some days, now in one place, now in another, when he was least expected. The disorders, the drunkenness and the machete strokes continued. Furious on account of all this, the governor did not cease from telegraphing the subordinate authorities to stimulate their zeal, and they now had no rest from their search for San Jerónimo.
Such was the situation when Pedro Villalta, a corporal of the custom guard, just as he was preparing to set out on a campaign with his fellow guards one afternoon, said to the governor:
“Don’t you worry, Señor; I intend to bring you that rascally little saint.”
On hearing this, the harassed official saw the heavens opening and was on the point of embracing Pedro Villalta; for the corporal was an old dog and most sagacious. That very night the governor announced, in the club which he frequented, that the capture of the saint was about to take place, a statement that was received with much incredulity, provoking many jokes and much chaff. “This San Jerónimo doesn’t exist,” declared Doctor Pradera. “It is a yarn of the San Pedro people to put you on the run.”
The governor, somewhat nettled, replied: “You may laugh and say what you please, but I invite you all to pay a visit to the saint in the police barracks.”
“Then, I’ll bet you a supper that you won’t,” exclaimed the commandant of the plaza, merrily.
“Accepted,” said the governor.
. . . . .
While the chief authority of the province was giving unmistakable proofs of his confidence in the ability of Pedro Villalta, that veteran and his comrades were riding silently along the high road to Puntarenas. They had ostentatiously taken that direction on setting out from Alajuela at night-fall, but when they had gone about half the distance to the little village of San José[2] the corporal reined in his horse and gave the order to turn back. The guards accustomed to these manoeuvres, obeyed without grumbling. In returning they kept away from the city, following deserted lanes and by-ways, and making a circuit, finally arrived at the river of La Maravilla. Once on the other side of the bridge, the corporal said: “Now to La Sabinalla!” After riding some distance, Juan Rodríguez, a frank and good-natured Hercules, asked a question: “Corporal, if we are going to La Sabinalla, why have we made this big circuit?”
Some laughter was heard, but Villalta, who liked Juan Rodríguez for his staunchness and courage, kindly explained to him that their detour was made so that the contraband liquor-makers might not be advised of the arrival of the guard. Juan, who was a new recruit, felt himself filled with admiration at the astuteness of his chief.
“Those people have spies and friends everywhere,” continued Villalta. “But with me they get fooled, for I know all their tricks. This time I expect to bring in the still of the Arias.” On hearing this name the guards pricked up their ears.
The Arias were no less than the most feared contrabandists of the whole country. Of the three brothers, José, Ramón and Antonio, one could not tell which was the worst. They had all made themselves famous by committing unheard of crimes and by giving proofs of their reckless courage in their encounters with the customs guard and in the numberless affrays which they stirred up wherever they went. There were those who said that more than a dozen men, guards and others, had gone to their eternal sleep on their account. In spite of so many atrocities, nobody was able to lay hands on them, and the three brothers continued tranquilly in their profitable industry, which was not only the distilling of brandy in an inaccessible ravine of La Sabanilla, but also the smuggling of great quantities of cognac, revolvers and ammunition, passing the packages through the very beards of the customs guards of the San Carlos.[3]
“Who are these Arias?” asked Juan Rodríguez again.
“The Arias are the worst bandits in Costa Rica. May God save you from ever meeting them,” replied one of the guards.
“I’m not afraid of anybody,” replied the good-natured Hercules, simply.
“I like that, Juan,” said the corporal, who knew the courage of his subordinate. “But with the Arias it is not enough to be very brave and strong; one has also to be very quick on the trigger, for they are worse than the Old Nick himself.”
Amusing themselves with this kind of talk, they reached Itiquis about nine o’clock in the evening. The corporal, who brought up the rear with Juan Rodríguez, heard the hoof-beats of a horse that seemed to be overtaking them and which was soon abreast of the party. Villalta accosted the horseman, whose presence was felt, but whom it was impossible to distinguish, such was the darkness of the night.
“Where are you going, my friend?”
“I’m going to La Sabanilla; and you?”
“We are going just a little beyond here.”
“Then ’Nor Juan has a vela on for tonight?”
“Yes, and they say it’s going to be very fine. Good night, señores,” added the horseman, starting on.
“May God take you safely, friend,” replied Villalta.
When the stranger had gone he added between his teeth: “Tonight we’re going to catch something. That old dolt of a Juan Carvajal isn’t the first fox that’s tried to fool me.”
The “vela” of ’Nor Juan Carvajal was very fine, as were all the festivals celebrated in his house, for besides being rich he was fond of display; that night, however, he wished to outdo even himself in honor of San Jerónimo, who was resplendent upon an improvised altar, adorned with long wax candles and artificial flowers. At night-fall, they had commenced to set off firecrackers in the corridor of the house and outside, the sky-rockets went up with a great rush, tracing a line of red gold in the sky and finally bursting high above with a sharp noise which reverberated through valleys and mountains, proclaiming for leagues around the glory of San Jerónimo and the splendor of his festival.
When the prayers, which were long, had been said, the ball commenced with a mazurka, played by a weird kind of an orchestra, composed of a trombone, a clarionette and a sackbut, which made one of those noises that once heard can never be forgotten. Not less than twenty couples were dancing in the large room, which was decorated with branches of “uruca” and plantain leaves in the doors and windows. In the adjoining room, upon a table covered with a spotless cloth, was a great quantity of crackers, rosquetes[6], quesadillas, and sweet bread, not to mention two large trays full of biscuits and meat pies. While the young people were dancing, the older ones, who had prayed enough to satisfy their consciences, began to satisfy their stomachs with various delicacies and an accompaniment of coffee and chocolate. Many of them had made a regular day’s journey to come from their homes to that of ’Nor Juan, situated in a thinly inhabited district at considerable distance from any populated place; the women in oxcarts, the men on horseback or on foot.
When the mazurka was ended, ’Na Dominga, the wife of ’Nor Juan, went around with a small tray loaded with white paper cigarettes, and the dancers of both sexes began to smoke. Immediately afterwards an extraordinary ceremony commenced.
“Señores,” said the master of the house, “let us adore the saint.”
Suiting the deed to the word, he went up to the image and prostrating himself before it, kissed its feet for a long time. All the men, one after another, did the same. The women showed themselves much less devout and there were only four or five who kissed the feet of San Jerónimo.
A waltz followed the mazurka, and after that came a second mazurka, the dances alternating with an equal number of adorations of the saint; and, an unheard of thing! the men began to get tipsy without drinking, for in all the house there were scarcely three bottles of diluted “Guaro”[7] for the women.
Among the women present four or five had more than their share of good looks, but none of them could rival María Carvajal, the niece of ’Nor Juan. One could not find a more beautiful girl in all La Sabanilla, nor in San Pedro. Dressed in a low-necked camisa[8] covered with spangles, and a blue woolen skirt trimmed with braid, she was as fresh and dainty as a peach. All the young men present were hovering about her like bees around a flower, but hardly any of them succeeded in drawing very near, because the sweetheart of the girl was there beside her, a jealous man and of “few fleas,”[9] who permitted her to dance only with his intimate friends, keeping her for himself most of the time.
For the fourth time he was dancing with her to the tune of an awful composition, in the midst of which one could recognize bits of a Strauss waltz, when of a sudden the music ceased with a sad wail from the clarionette.
“Halt with the dancing,” cries an individual, standing with an insolent air in one end of the room. His right hand grasped the clarionette, which he had just snatched from the astonished musician. The newcomer, who seemed to be about twenty-seven years old, was a tall, robust young fellow, and would have been handsome had his face not been disfigured by the deep scar of a terrible machete stroke. His eyes, of an indefinite color, looked about with disquieting insolence. He wore a short riding jacket and had a red silk handkerchief knotted about his neck. Somebody pronounced his name: “José Arias,” while he, quite calmly, was surveying all the women. He soon came to a decision, returned the clarionette to the terrified musician, went straight to María Carvajal, and, pushing aside her sweetheart without any preamble, embraced the girl with his sinewy arms and shouted: “Now the music, bandmaster!”
The musicians did not wait for a second order and began to play with ill-directed zeal, while the terrible contrabandist and María Carvajal circled about in the middle of the room, which became deserted before one could say amen. The women crossed themselves and called on their patron saints. The men, burning with wrath, went in search of their machetes.
The presence of José Arias at the “vela” was entirely casual, as no inhabitant of that region would have cared to have such a guest in his house for many reasons; one of them, because when José Arias took it into his head to carry off a girl on the crupper of his horse, he carried her, and there was no help for it.
That night he was passing that way with a comrade in adventures, when he heard the music and saw the lights of the “vela.”
His first idea was to ride in on horseback, as he was in the habit of doing in these affairs, but as he was not in a hurry, he thought it was better to act decently, limit himself to one dance with the prettiest girl, and then continue his journey. Having taken this peaceful resolution, he told his companion to wait for him a moment, dismounted, took off his spurs and as he was not intending to start a brawl, hung them on the pommel of his saddle, together with the long, cross-hilted machete which he unfastened from his belt. We have already seen what José Arias considered good behavior. His fierce and half-savage nature did not recognize any formalities, and he knew only how to act on the impulse of his desires and caprices. Thus it was that he did not understand the extent of his aggressive act and was surprised to see several men enter with unsheathed machetes.
“Ah, you coyotes!” he shouted, letting go of the girl who was trembling with fear. “Now you’ll see who José Arias is.”
With the quick decision of a man who feels no fear, he cast a glance about in search of a weapon with which to defend himself. Seeing nothing better he darted to the altar and pulled off the image with one jerk. San Jerónimo was terribly heavy, but the contrabandist, who was exceptionally strong, raised it with both hands, and without waiting for his adversaries, started forward to attack them. These now hesitated in their assault, all except the sweetheart of María Carvajal, who aimed a blow at him that fell like an axe-stroke upon the head of the saint.
“The Guards! The Guards” shouted several voices from outside.
As if by magic, the enemies of the contrabandist slipped away. At that moment Juan Rodríguez entered, revolver in hand; but he scarcely had time to say “Surrender,” when the poor fellow fell with his head battered by a tremendous saint-stroke. With the agility of a deer José Arias passed between the surprised guards. A moment afterwards, he was galloping away saluted by the shots that Villalta and his men fired after him; and as some of them wanted to follow him to avenge Juan Rodríguez, the corporal, who knew what kind of horses the bandit rose, said tersely:
“There’s no use, boys. Let us stay here, for a bird in the hand is worth more than a hundred flying.”
And what a fat bird the guards had trapped! Nothing less than the elusive San Jerónimo, who lay at full length upon poor Juan Rodríguez, whose companions helped him to get up. The corporal became absorbed in examining the saint. Suddenly he gave a shout of joy.
“Now I see the trick! Now I see the trick!” he exclaimed, at the same time moving an ingenious mechanism, concealed in one of the toes on the left foot of the image, and from which a little stream of contraband brandy spurted forth. San Jerónimo was bleeding brandy.
Pedro Villalta, more pleased than if he had discovered the Americas, raised the image and putting it again upon the altar said to his wonderstruck companions:
“Boys, let us adore the saint,” and in order to set the example he kissed with devotion the foot of the blessed one.
. . . . .
On the following night, while San Jerónimo, with his head broken, lay in his prison, the governor of Alajuela and his friends supped merrily, invited by the commandant of the plaza, who had lost his bet.