María

María

By Jorge Isaacs.

Translated by Rollo Ogden.

Table of Contents

1. Titlepage
2. Imprint
3. Translator’s Note
4. María
   1. I
   2. II
   3. III
   4. IV
   5. V
   6. VI
   7. VII
   8. VIII
   9. IX
   10. X
   11. XI
   12. XII
   13. XIII
   14. XIV
   15. XV
   16. XVI
   17. XVII
   18. XVIII
   19. XIX
   20. XX
   21. XXI
   22. XXII
   23. XXIII
   24. XIV
   25. XXV
   26. XXVI
   27. XXVII
   28. XXVIII
   29. XXIX
   30. XXX
   31. XXXI
   32. XXXII
   33. XXXIII
   34. XXXIV
   35. XXXV
   36. XXXVI
   37. XXXVII
   38. XXXVIII
   39. XXXIX
   40. XL
   41. XLI
   42. XLII
   43. XLIII
   44. XLIV
   45. XLV
   46. XLVI
   47. XLVII
   48. XLVIII
   49. XLIX
   50. L
   51. LI
   52. LII
   53. LIII
   54. LIV
   55. LV
   56. LVI
   57. LVII
   58. LVIII
   59. LIX
5. Colophon
6. Uncopyright

Imprint

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Translator’s Note

It is a part of the faithfulness of Isaac’s transcript of life in provincial Colombia that he uses many words which are Cauca localisms. Several of these have been left untranslated, as having no equivalent, either as word or thing, in English⁠—or, indeed, in Spanish. It is always sufficiently clear from the context, however, that they are names of animals, often onomatopoetic, or of plants; and nothing more could be conveyed by a roundabout translation. Special acknowledgments are due Señor Carlos Martinez Silva LL.D., delegate from the republic of Colombia to the Pan-American Congress, for valuable aid kindly rendered the translator.

R. O.

María

A South American Romance

I

I was still a mere boy when sent away from home to study in ⸻ College, founded a few years before in Bogotá, and then well known all through Colombia. The night before my departure, after the family gathering in the evening, one of my sisters came into my room, and, without saying a single word, because she could not trust her voice, cut off a lock of my hair; when she had gone, I found my neck wet with her tears.

I fell asleep sorrowful, filled with a vague foreboding of coming trouble. That lock of hair taken from a boy’s head; that precaution of love against death, even in the presence of abounding life, caused my thoughts to wander all night about those scenes where I had passed, without knowing it, the happiest hours of my life.

The next morning, my father had to loosen my mother’s arms from my neck. My sisters tried to kiss away my tears. María quietly waited her turn, and stammering out a goodbye, touched her blushing cheek to mine, chilled by the first feeling of sorrow.

A few moments after, I was following my father, who hid his face from my eyes. The tramp of our horses on the pebbly path made my last sobs inaudible. The murmur of the Zabaletas, whose banks lay to our right, grew fainter and fainter. We were already rounding one of those hills in the path on which expected guests used to be looked for from the house; I threw a last glance backward: María was behind the creeper that climbed up by the windows of my mother’s room.

II

After six years, the last days of a splendid August saw me returning to my native valley. My heart was overflowing with love of home. It was the last day of my journey, and I was enjoying the most charming morning of the autumn. The sky was a pale blue; towards the east, and above the highest peaks, still half veiled, floated little clouds of gold, like the gauze of a dancer’s turban stirred by an amorous breath. In the south hung the mists which had cloaked the mountains during the night. I was crossing plains carpeted with the greenest grass and watered by little brooks, the resorts of droves of cattle which had left their resting-places for a plunge in the pools, or for browsing along paths arched over by trees thick with leaves and blossoms. My eyes turned eagerly to those spots, half hidden to the traveler by clumps of old giant-reeds, where were the houses of good friends of mine. My heart would have been unmoved then by the arias of U⁠⸺’s piano; the perfumes I was drinking in were sweeter than those that clung to her rich garments, and captivating to my soul was the song of the numberless birds.

I was struck dumb by all this beauty, though I thought I had preserved it in my memory, because some verses of mine, admired by my fellow-students, gave faint suggestions of it. When, in a ballroom flooded with lights, echoing with voluptuous music, filled with a thousand mingled perfumes and with the rustling robes of