YALE UNIVERSITY
LIBRARY

THREE PLAYS OF THE ARGENTINE

THREE PLAYS
OF THE ARGENTINE

JUAN MOREIRA
SANTOS VEGA
THE WITCHES' MOUNTAIN

TRANSLATED FROM THE SPANISH BY
JACOB S. FASSETT, Jr.

EDITED, WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY
EDWARD HALE BIERSTADT

NEW YORK
DUFFIELD AND COMPANY
1920

Copyright, 1920, by
DTJFFIELD AND COMPANY

[The plays in this volume are fully protected, and all
rights in their production, either for the stage or for
moving pictures are held by Edward Hale Bierstadt.
Application must be made to Mr. Bierstadt through
the publishers by those desiring to use the plays.]

Printed in the V, S. A.

TO MY MOTHER
IN LOVE AND GRATITUDE
E. H. B.

CONTENTS

_PAGB
Preface  T vii
Introduction  xi
Juan Moreira  1
Santos Vega  ; . . 21
The Witches' Mountain  -. . . 77
Appendix A  = . 131
Appendix B  138
Appendix C  142
Appendix D  _••_•¦ 1*8

PREFACE
It is my desire in this volume to give an outline, somewhat
rough it may be, of the course the drama has taken in that
great country of the pampas to which our sympathies have
so often inclined only to be frustrated by our ignorance.
No possible pretense is made that this is a complete and
detailed history of the dramatic literature of the Argentine.
For the present, however, it will serve.
My greatest emphasis I have placed upon the dmmas-
criolloSj not because they represent the climax of the dra
matic art in the Argentine, but because they are possessed
of certain distinct characteristics which render them peculiar
in the study of the drama in general. They are a folk drama
in the most perfect sense, and as such the consideration of
their inception and their further career is not without im
portance. They are interesting not only in themselves, but
even more so in the deductions which they suggest. The
Argentine has developed beyond them; they are no longer
popular, and the least sign of their revival is greeted with
lamentations, for the silk-hatted gentleman of the Avenue
is not always proud of the fact that his youth was bare
headed. Moreover, there is a natural tendency on the part
of all individuals and of all nations to develop toward a
more sophisticated form of expression. It is a matter of pride,
of self-respect, of one's relationship with other individuals
and other nations. There is certainly nothing criminal in
short trousers, but, the boy who is kept in them overlong
suffers from a natural embarrassment. Hence this book is
merely a "trail-breaker" in what has been, to most of us, an

viii PREFACE
almost unknown forest. If it stimulates another, either
through the interest it arouses in him, or the irritation it
causes him, to turn the trail into a highway, it will have served
its purpose.
I wish here to acknowledge my indebtedness to a number of
friends who have been most kind in aiding me in this work,
the genesis of which was in the many interesting talks 1
had with Spring Byington Chandler, and her husband, Roy
Chandler, whose theatrical experience in the Argentine was
of the utmost service to me. It was through Mr. and Mrs.
Chandler that I first came in touch with Dr. David Pefia,
whose courtesy and patience have been inexhaustible, and
who has supplied me with much data. Mr. John Garrett
Underhill has helped me, not only with material, but with
advice, and most of all in directing me to my translator,
Jacob S. Fassett, Jr., whose work will speak for itself in
these pages. Mr. Archer Huntington, good genius of the
Hispanic Society of America, has been generous in aiding me,
as has my friend Barrett H. Clark. For the rest, if I do not
mention them each specifically, it is not because I have for
gotten or because I do not appreciate fully their contribu
tions, but only because the list would be too long for so short
a book to carry gracefully.
I cannot hope that all my friends in the Argentine or in
the United States will agree with me in the opinions I have
Stated, the deductions I have made, or in the material I
have selected. To the first I can only say that if I have erred
it has certainly been through no desire to belittle the real
achievements of the great republic of the south, and the latter
I can only remind that all criticism and all selection are a
matter of personal opinion. I have felt that in a day and
age when so much that was false, superficial, and tawdry
held the stage it would be not only instructive and in
teresting, but a real inspiration as well, to blow the haze

PREFACE ix
of time from before a drama as refreshing and as naive as the
proverbial barefoot boy. There is no question in my mind but
that Penrod would like these plays, and that they would
create a real illusion for him. And in our attitude toward
any art the more nearly we can come to Penrod's point of
view the better.
E. H. B.

INTRODUCTION
The Drama of the Argentine
It is only within the last few years that we have come to
realize how appalling and how sweeping our ignorance of
artistic, social, and commercial conditions in South America is.
Properly to understand and to appreciate any one of these
phases it is highly desirable that we have some knowledge
of the other two. If one is entering upon a relationship of
any type with a man of a strange country, it is obviously
useful to know something of the manner in which he conducts
himself in the life about him; and surely there is no better
exponent of the social structure of a people than is evidenced
by their art. Our interest in these questions, in this par
ticular instance, need not be that wliich is prompted either
by mere curiosity or the desire for commercial benefit. It
is not the necessity of the scholar to know for the sake of
knowing, but, strange as it may appear to many of us, we
shall not be wrong in basing our interest upon an appreciative
utilitarianism, a desire to know and to respect a thing or a
people who may be able to tell us something worth knowing,
who may have developed some phase of life to a higher point
than we ourselves. Hence it is my desire here to lift the
veil a little and to show something of the culture of the
southern continent by outlining, rather briefly and roughly,
the development of the drama in the Argentine Republic,
for, so far as I know, nowhere else in South America has this
art progressed in so interesting and important a manner. ,

xii INTRODUCTION
The Argentine Republic has been in existence only a very
little more than one hundred years, and at least' forty of these
have been passed in a most inorganic state. The progress
made in the other sixty has been no less than astounding. •
It was in 1816 that the great revolution took place under the
leadership of the famous San Martfn, which freed the Argen
tine forever from the Spanish rule, but it was nearly 1880
before the country began to show unmistakable evidence of
having a drama of its own. There had been drama before
this, it is true, but it had been either that left by the Spaniard
or a native product of small interest. It is said, however,
that there was Argentine drama as far back as 1747, during
the governorship of Juan Andonaegui, to celebrate the
elevation to the throne of Spain of Fernando VI. Records,
moreover, show that the first theater was established in
Buenos Aires by the Viceroy, Vertiz. It was called La
Rancherfa, and in 1817 there was formed in the same city
the Sociedad del Buen Gusto, the Society of Good Taste.
This was intended to foster Argentine drama, and the first
play produced under its auspices was Cornelia Berorquia,
which was advertised as "a masterpiece by one of our
compatriots." Alfred Coester in his book entitled The
Literary History of Spanish America remarks as follows:
"The same hyperbolical and declamatory rhetoric made
popular two dramas by Varela, Dido and Argia, written for
production before the Sociedad del Buen Gusto in Buenos
Aires. These were in some respects the most original dramas
produced under the influence of that society for the promotion
of the drama. In 1823 the tirades in Dido created enthusiasm
for their apt references to the political situation. The same
was true of Argia a year later. This play was based on
Alfieri's Antigone, while Dido sometimes followed Virgil word
for word."
About this time, however, certain dramatic works came into

INTRODUCTION xiii
being which were distinctly national in character, though
still retaining in some degree the influence of their Spanish
forebears. This was the first real flash of light, and it must
be confessed that the plays of this period which are remem
bered attained success more on account of the names of the
authors than because of any merit of their own. Such were
the first works of Don Martin Coronado:1 Rosa Blanca —
Luz de Luna y Luz de Incendio. One might mention also
Los Carpani by Dofia Eduarda Mansilla de Garcia, various
works by Don Emilio Onrubia, and Que dird la Sociedad by
Dr. David Pefia, who, at the time of writing it, was not more
than seventeen or eighteen years old. It may be said here
that few people have exercised a more potent and beneficent
influence upon the later drama of the Argentine than has
Dr. Pefia during his long years of service.
For several years after this short epoch the drama decayed
gradually until it finally took a most singular and novel form.
There came into being the dramas criolios, the Creole or
native drama, and this development was of so unique a
nature that it demands a more detailed consideration.
The dramas which preceded the dramas criolios were, or
purported to be, of a distinctly literary character, and therein
lay their weakness; they were more literary than dramatic,
and more foreign than .colloquial in interest. Now came a
time when the drama was to spring from the soil, indigenous
in expression, content, and in form. The earlier drama has
exerted little or no influence upon the people as a whole; it
was more or less a class product, but now was to come a
drama "of the people" in the strictest sense, one possessing
little literary value, but one which was rich in color, action,
and in sympathetic appeal. Before taking these plays up
specially it may be well to devote our attention for a mo
ment to indigenous drama as such, thus making sure of our
1 See Note A in Appendix.

xiv INTRODUCTION
"approach" before we endeavor to "hole out" on the
green. The wide and well-justified popularity of the contemporary
Irish drama has reopened several questions of distinct interest,
one of which bears directly on this theme. That is, what is
indigenous drama and where can it be found? On the face
of it this would seem simple, but it is not so in reality. That
which is truly indigenous is peculiar to a country, partaking
as little as possible of anything outside of that country, either
directly or indirectly. Thus an indigenous drama in the
absolute sense would mean a drama the content, expression,
and form of which were of a certain country, and of that
country alone; and, as the relationship between the drama
and the theater is of so intimate a nature we might even
assume a like unique quality on the part of the stage. Hence
we can say at once that there does not exist in all probability
an indigenous drama in the absolute sense. We may well
thank Heaven for it, for such excessive peculiarity would be
important merely as a curiosity, and would exercise no in
fluence whatever on the drama as a whole: it could not, for
it would bear only a relationship by courtesy to it and, con
sidered exactly, could hardly even be called drama at all. The
absolute as usual destroys itself in its disregard of the relative.
The Irish drama is distinct in content and in expression,
but in form it is entirely conventional. This is, of course,
not said in criticism, but merely to point a fact. I have
taken the Irish as my example simply because I know of no
more indigenous drama to be found in western civilization,
with one exception. The Irish drama employs Gaelic or a
dialect for its expression, and both of these are indigenous
in the most strict sense. Its content is assuredly peculiar
in the highest degree to the country of its origin. More than
this can be said of no people — I except the Oriental races — ¦
with one exception. We may exclude the expression as

INTRODUCTION xv
Being largely a question of language. Isolated examples can
* easily be found in all countries which will fulfil the condition
of content, but it is not with isolated examples we are dealing,
but with a school »r type of drama extending over a whole
country for an appreciable period of time. Drama of the
country, by the country, and for the country expresses it
succinctly. America, England, France, Germany, and Scan
dinavia, none of them throw any light, except a dark one,
on the problem. There is but one country which does, and
that is the Argentine.
The dramas criolios are usually known to us of the north,
when they are known at all, as gaucho plays. This is but
natural, for at the time this drama held its sway the gaucho
was the Argentine. The gaucho is not unlike our own cow
boy, and yet he is much more than that — he is the pioneer and
the outlaw also. After the Indian came the gaucho, and,
though he occupied a very definite place in the scheme of
things, he never admitted the rule of any one who was not
of his own ilk. He resisted the rule of the Spaniard, but he
resisted the rule of the Argentineans, of whom he was one,
quite as vigorously. He fought to put Rosas into office
because Rosas claimed kinship with him, but when Rosas
changed the Presidential chair into the throne of a tyrant
and turned against his brethren it was the gaucho who
ultimately brought him to his fall. Thus the gaucho is dif
ferent from any other type. He is the national hero par
excellence; he is a unique and powerful symbol of the people.
It may make the case more clear to say that he is a strange
and fascinating mixture of Daniel Boone, the pioneer, of
Buffalo Bill, the beau ideal of the cowboy, and of Robin
Hood, the outlaw, and the friend of the masses against the
classes. It must be remembered, too, that the Argentine
is a great cattle country, that there is no other prime interest
in the country which amounts to anything besides cattle.

xvi INTRODUCTION
The national wealth, the whole raison d'etre of the landtJ
is in the great herds of cattle out on the pampas, or plains.
Likewise there are not the great sectional differences that
confront us here, or there were not a few years ago. It is
much as if our own "wild west" bordered directly on New
York City. Buenos Aires is the only great city of the
Argentine, and the pampas rolled up to its very gates.
The gaucho also has certain characteristics that are
peculiarly his own. He must be a perfect cattleman, of course,
expert with the lasso and quick with the knife and the re
volver, and, more than this, he has a poetic side which must
not be disregarded. He must play well upon the guitar,
and he must be able to hold his own in the serenade or singing
contest. There were payadores or wandering gaucho min
strels who rode the pampas with their guitars on their backs
and their knives in their belts. Such was Santos Vega, the
traditional payador of the Argentine. The singing contest
consisted of a bout between two payadores, who in turn ex
temporized verses to the accompaniment of their guitars.
Some of these verses were general in nature, bearing on the
gaucho and his wrongs. They were laments in reality, and
have some resemblance atmospherically to our own cowboy
songs, which are lugubrious to a degree. But in the contest
one gaucho would ask a series of questions in verse, to which
the other had to reply aptly and wittily. If he failed an
answer, or answered poorly, he lost. At the same time there
was an undercurrent of personalities in the songs which were
intended to sting the other singer to a hot retort. In plain
American slang — they tried to get each other's goat! The
one who failed to turn the edge of the blow with his retort
or who lost his temper was adjudged the loser. And at the
same time all the verse had to conform to certain rules and
conventions which gave birth in time to what is now known
as gaucho verse, a ballad form not unlike that of Francois

INTRODUCTION xvii
Villon. It was no mean feat and would have been utterly
impossible to a people who were not perfectly accustomed to
couch their ideas in verse as a matter of course, a nation at
once poetical and musical.
On the whole, then, the gaucho is or was the king, benevo
lent or otherwise, of the country. This is naturally becoming
less true every day as the conditions which gave birth to the
gaucho change and depart. So it is that the gaucho plays
are to be seen less and less often in the theaters. Neverthe
less they are, from one standpoint at least, the most significant
dramatic development the country has produced.
In the early days of the Argentine Republic and, indeed,
today there were traveling circuses which went from town
to town, staying in each so long as it seemed profitable
to do so. These in time became an institution, and the
management was handed down in the same families for
generations, as were the traditions of the clowns and acrobats.
Gradually there crept into the circus performance a short,
informal, and sometimes impromptu play which dealt with
local conditions, and so was easily appreciated by the rustic
audience. These plays were for the most part frank melo
dramas which were all written about the national figure, the
gaucho. In time the plays took form until there came to be
a definite repertory, and, after a certain point, no additions
were made to this, so that we have a small group of plays
repeated for years all over the country, adored by the people,
and, in due course, scoffed at by those wise ones whose taste
had benefited by European excursions. And the plays grew
in body and in interest until from being merely an act of the
circus proper they divorced themselves from their progenitor
entirely and demanded a place of their own. The two great
theatrical managers of Buenos Aires today — they are actor-
managers and producers — are the brothers Podesta, who
many years ago began their career as members of a family

xviii INTRODUCTION
of acrobats in a traveling circus which included the gaucho
plays. To them was first entrusted the work of producing
the dramas crioUos as such, and during the time when the
native plays were running their course the Podestas were its
ablest exponents. They have even produced the gaucho
plays in Buenos Aires itself many times, but now, alas, they
have graduated, perforce, into the later and more sophisti
cated forms of the drama, for the gaucho has had his day
and has passed into history.
Jose J. Podesta, a criollo himself in the broadest sense of the
term, wrote a pantomime wliich was played in 1884 by
Podestd and his brother-in-law, Scotti, as part of the pro
gram of a circus owned and managed by the brothers Carlo.
The pantomime was a great success, but its run was inter
rupted because the Carlos had to go to Brazil to fill a con
tract, and for some reason they did^not take PodestM. and
his play with them. A little later Podesta and Scotti formed
a circus company of their own with which they traveled
about the province of Buenos Aires, but whether the panto
mime was included I do not know.
After Podestd made his first great success with Juan
Moreira in 1886 they moved their company from Chivilcoy
to Montevideo. Following Juan Moreira came Martin
Fierro (attributed severally to Jose1 Hernandez and Dr. Elias
Regules) and Juan Cuello, by Luis Mejfas, taken from a like-
named novel by Eduardo Gutierrez. Then the company
moved again, this time to the Teatro Apollo in Buenos Aires.
From 1889 to 1898 appeared Jididn Gimenez, by Abd6n
Ar6steguy; El Entenao, by Dr. Elias Regules; Juan Soldao,
by Orosman Moratorio; Cobarde, by Victor Perez Petit;
Santos Vega, by Nosiglia; Calandria, by Martiniano Leguiza-
m<5n — this, by the way, is said to be the first gaucho drama
written with any pretense at literary style; and Tranquera,
by Agustin Fontanella.

INTRODUCTION sis
From 1898 on the type began to change. The gaucho
began to disappear. The dramas criolios had had a hard time
of it even at the start. There was a paucity of companies
to present them; many companies came from abroad with
preconceived plans and repertories all made up and were
little disposed to bother with local attempts at playwriting.
All efforts to really establish gaucho drama failed until
Podest£ and Scotti took over the Teatro Apollo in Buenos
Aires. First they rented it for a week, then for a month,
then for two months, and finally the months lengthened into
eleven years. This company gave rise to others, such as
Geronimo's and Pablo Podesta's, and each new company in
turn had its schooling at the original Teatro Apollo.
From the time when the dramas criolios took their place in
the sun up to the present there has been little change in their
representation. The plays themselves have remained the
same; there have been no additions of sufficient importance
to become permanent, and the small body of historic drama
has become fixed, classic. Its line, its business, and its
general mode of production are almost as much a matter
of convention as those of the plays of Moliere at the Comddie
Francaise. As a matter of fact it was not until recently
that the plays were committed to paper at all, much less
published. They were handed down by word of mouth along
with the accessories of their presentation, the lines and
business being so well known to the native audiences that a
howl of fury would greet any deviation, however slight,
from the traditional form. They have been in print less than
ten years.
After their separation from the circus the dramas criolios
were performed, for the most part, by traveling companies
who carried with them a portable theater which included
even an auditorium. This building was about 120 feet
long and a third as wide. The to£ was of corrugated iron,

xx INTRODUCTION
while the body of the structure was of wood. Within two
or, at the most, three days after the company had arrived
in a town the theater was ready for occupancy. It was
clamped together, the joints fitting into one another so
cunningly that the whole was as solid as if nails and mortar
had been used in its erection. Inside the house was the
stage at one end, with just enough room behind it for the
necessary changes of costume; there were but few of them.
In front of the stage was a ring, a relic of the old circus
days, with an aisle leading from it, through the audience,
to the outside, so that, when it was desirable, exits and
entrances could be made in this manner. It greatly facilitated
the use of horses which were so much a part and parcel of
the gaucho that even on the stage his "sorrel steed" had a
r61e to play in the performance. While the players in the
guise of gauchos raided the peaceful hacienda on the stage,
their peons held their horses in the ring below. Then when
the dreadful work was done, with yells and shouts the
villains would leap the footlights, swing themselves on their
plunging mounts, and dash out through the excited audience
to safety. Some such use of the horses will be found in two
of the plays included in this volume.
The scenery used, when there was any at all, was of the
most primitive description, consisting for the most part of
very crude back cloths and such properties as were absolutely
essential. The lighting was on the same scale — oil lamps,
lanterns, and, even in some instances, candles and torches
were utilized. The stage took most of its lighting from
whatever footlights could be provided.
Those of the audience who composed family parties, and
there were many such, were seated in small compartments or
boxes which were placed in a long tier around the sides of
the house, but not at the back, for here the seats, or rather
benches, rose steeply until they thrust that unfortunate

INTRODUCTION xxi
who was in the topmost row in close juxtaposition to the iron
roof which was either freezing cold or burning hot, depending
upon the season. The matinee is very rare in South America,
for it infringes too heavily on that most necessary adjunct,
the siesta, and the early afternoon is often too warm to permit
the enjoyment of even the most entrancing play. These
theaters were like ice-houses in winter, for there was no
method of heating them adequately, and the Argentine winter
in the uplands is not to be sneezed at, though it is not seldom
to be sneezed with! Decoration was almost totally absent,
and so likewise was ventilation, but who is he who will pause
to take thought for creature comfort within the worshiping-
place of art? At any rate I am convinced that there are some
of our own managers who proceed on that principle.
The plays themselves were usually not long, but consisted
of many scenes, some of which only lasted long enough to
convey a fleeting impression; connecting scenes between the
acts they were in reality. This resulted in making the
plays episodic in the extreme; perhaps the closest likeness
to their form being that of the moving picture. Juan Moreira
is a good example of this tendency. Certain "wild west"
elements were usually retained in some degree, but these,
after all, were an essential part of the gaucho character.
The cost of admission to the play was usually from twenty
to seventy cents. The boxes were primarily for family use,
but when one bought a box one had to pay an entrada or
entrance fee as well. This custom of a double price is com
mon all through Latin America from Mexico to the Straits.
The entrada permits one to enter the theater and to stand,
but if one desires to sit down, the seat itself is extra.
In the true dramas criolios the gaucho is always the pro
tagonist. He is usually shown pitted against the soldiers
from the capital or against the local constabulary; any one.
indeed, who represents constituted authority, his traditional

xxii INTRODUCTION
enemy. Buenos Aires was always the seat of the oppressor,
no matter who the oppressor happened to be. The gaucho
represented the people of the soil as opposed to the hirelings
of the tyrant much as Robin Hood did, for in the Argentine
in the old days the government was too often literally and
absolutely despotic, and thus the gaucho automatically be
came a hero. There was another stock figure in these plays
through which the comedy element, or a large portion of it,
was realized. This was an Italian born in the Argentine,
but retaining many of his.national characteristics, and usually,
illogically enough, speaking an atrocious mixed dialect which
was always provocative of much amusement. He was
generally the "second villain." As nearly all of these plays
end tragically, the villain triumphed, or seemed to, but his
tool, the Italian, was made to "bite the dust" regularly.
This satisfied the popular demand for a certain modicum of
justice, and enabled the people to rejoice not only at the
fall of an enemy, but of an Italian as well, and Italian in
fluence, always strong in the Argentine, was not popular at
that time. The Italian was the buffoon, and his part often
included rough and tumble work of no mean description.
Thus it will be seen that the dramas criolios became highly
conventionalized both in content and in the matter of pres
entation with stock figures and with situations capable of
development, but never of radical change.
The dramas criolhs which were at first most effective were
those which depicted the life and adventures of a real per
sonage who had lived, and whose fame nearly reached the
point of being glorious in the province of Buenos Aires, the
largest and by far the most important in the republic. This
was Juan Moreira, who was entirely representative of the
gaucho of the Argentine pampas, and indeed of the gaucho
in general. He was brave and daring, of great intelligence,
a good horseman, and of a chivalrous disposition, but in

INTRODUCTION xxiii
spite of this he was eternally hounded by the authorities, and
again and again he fell a victim to the police of the country.
Needless to say he was a man who was always ready and
efficient in defending his life against whatever number of
his enemies confronted him. Hence, Juan Moreira came to
be in a sense an incarnation of the Argentine peasant, of
the poor, the homeless, the oppressed, this condition being
forced upon him by the very government which he had
served as a soldier, not only in the wars of the first epoch of
Argentine history, but afterward in all their later struggles
for liberty. He became in the eyes of all the people the
apotheosis of the humble inhabitant sacrificed by the feudal
lord of the nation in its period of semi-barbarism.
This was a theme near to the hearts of the masses, and one
which they could readily understand, dealing as it did with
their own lives and their own problems. It had been already
treated by several poets, such as Jos6 Hernandez, who wrote
in gaucho verse Martin Fierro;1 by Rafael Obligado,2 the
author of the famous Santos Vega, in pure verse; or by
Sarmiento, who made a sociological study of the bad gaucho
in his book, Facundo.
Juan Moreira was immortalized in the form of a novel by
Eduardo Gutierrez, a newspaper publisher by profession,
but who had written novels at intervals. His works consist
chiefly of romances woven about such themes as bandits and
thieves, and the victim's blood spilled by the tyrant Rosas.
However, in April, 1886, or thereabouts, the drama, Juan
Moreira,4 was presented for the first time in Chivilcoy. It
1 The play Martin Fierro is attributed by Dr. David Pefia to Jose*
Hernandez, and I have accepted this authority. On the other hand
Rodolfo Fausto Rodriguez in his Conlribud6n al esludio del teatro
nacional names Dr. Elias Regules as the author. This question is
taken up more fully in Note C at the end of this volume. (See also
Note B.) 2 See Note D in Appendix.
3 See Note E in Appendix, * See Note B in Appendix.

xxiv INTRODUCTION
was written by Podesta at the suggestion of a friend, Le6n
Poupy, and it contained two acts and nine scenes. If the
play in this form was ever even reduced to manuscript it
certainly at least never reached the dignity of print. Juan
Moreira was, not unnaturally, considering its instant and
overwhelming popularity, the forerunner of others of its
type. Soon there was a perfect influx of plays of the same
character, some being founded on real persons, while others
were wholly fictitious. Among the most famous of these
plays are Juan Moreira, Santos Vega, Pastor Luna, and
Musolino, the last being the title of the well-known Italian
bandit. So marked and so wide-spread was the influence of
these plays that in the neighboring country of Uruguay, on
the further side of the Rio de la Plata, there was at this time
an inundation of plays which were called camperas, and which
were clearly modeled upon the Juan Moreira type of Creole
drama. I will return to the dramas criolios when I take up
the separate plays in this volume for individual considera
tion, but it is enough to say now that the gaucho plays ran
their course, and served their purpose in revitalizing the ap
parently defunct body of the drama, and were only super
seded when the rapidly growing culture of the nation de
manded in no uncertain tones something a trifle less naive.
The dramas criolios were not such that upon them could
be based the permanent dramatic literature of a nation.
Indeed, they could not be considered truly as literature in
the stylistic sense at all. It was interesting, and even im
portant in its unique quality, and, had its crude edges ever
been refined and polished, it might easily have become of
high value as art. It was peculiarly indigenous, and vitally
essential to the proper development of the country at the
time, but in the very nature of things it could not exist
forever. The Argentine has grown beyond it, and is too full
of European influences to permit its retention. But it has

INTRODUCTION xxv
not been lost; it fulfilled its purpose well, and will long be
remembered. One of the most potent reasons for the next step in the
evolution of the Argentine drama was the supply of artists
and actors who were native Argentineans. The country had
developed a language of its own, more or less, and the Spanish
and Italian producers failed to satisfy the popular demand.
The first period of the dramas nadonales had been imitative
to a certain extent; this was no longer possible, and the nation
demanded a drama of its own to take the place of the dramas
crioUos, which were no longer considered sufficiently cultivated
to represent the state of civilization which had been reached
by this time. But it was the dramas criolios, nevertheless,
which made this next step possible.
In the security of having proper interpreters for their work,
authors began to try their hands at a somewhat more elevated
type of production than the famous creole plays, but they
were still unable to produce drama which was really satisfy
ing either from a literary or from a purely dramatic point of
view. It cannot be said that they even equaled at this time
the comedy of the first period, which was well represented by
the plays of Onrubia, Coronado, Garcia, and the two works of
Pefia, Que Dird la Sociedad and La Lucha par la Vida, writ
ten in pure verse, and given to the public in 1883 and 1885.
In the third phase of the dramas nadonales the outstanding ,'
figure is doubtless Don Enrique Garcia Velloso, whose work !
both in quantity and in quality placed him first in the list
of dramatists of this period. There was also produced at
this time one work, the great popularity of which obtained the
author a reputation almost overnight. This was M'hijo el
dotor, by Don Florencio Sanchez, the plot of which is based
upon life in the suburbs. It must be borne in mind that in
Spanish America the slums of a city are usually on its out
skirts, and thus the words slum and suburb carry somewhat

xxvi INTRODUCTION
the same meaning. Sanchez cultivated this intermediate
ground with great success, but when he endeavored to apply
his talents to depicting life in educated circles he did not
meet with the same result. It was also during this period
that Dr. David Pefia contributed several plays based upon
episodes in the history of the Argentine. Among these were
Facundo, presented in 1906 with great success, then later,
Dorrego, and last, Liniers, a drama concerned with the Ufe
of the famous general of that name.
Therefore, starting at about 1902 we find that the pro
duction of dramatic literature in the Argentine had again
taken on life, and was indeed very abundant, an effort
having been made to substitute a more cultured atmosphere
than that of the period immediately preceding. In this
stimulated environment authors came to light whose works
would grace the stage of any country, and whose names
will one day reappear on the bill-boards.
This stage of development lasted only about ten years,
however. The plays, though worthy, did not meet with the
popular response necessary for their continuation, and the
inevitable break came again, as it did after the first period
of production. This time the reaction brought no such
interesting and important development as the dramas criplhs.
The day of light social comedy had arrived, and everything
gave way before it. All that was gaucho, as well as all that
was intellectual, gave place to mirth, and superficiality of
not a very high type reigned. This is more or less true
today, for the next stage of development has not yet arrived.
But one must not forget, in passing judgment, the youth and
inheritance of the Argentine. What has been accomplished
abeady is astonishing, considering the very short time that
has passed since the beginning, and the peculiar circumstances
which have attended the growth of the drama.
There is one man in particular to whom must be given credit

INTRODUCTION xxvii
for what is really worth while in the present era of the Ar
gentine drama. This is Florencio Parravicini, a young man
of good family and of Italian extraction, who, possessed of
many talents, succeeded in gaining the ear of the public
in spite of opposition. The current of production has been
diverted from its course largely by this author-actor-manager,
who has in reahty created a new school of his own. It is the
heyday of light comedy in the Argentine, and this phase
of the dramas nadonales must be allowed to run itself out
before the new day dawns.
These modern light comedies have some features, however,
which render them of interest. As I have said, they are
nearly all plays of contemporary life, and by far the greater
part of them are fight satires. They are modern in form,
their aim being to reflect the manners and mannerisms,
the superficial idiosyncrasies of speech and custom of the
great middle class. It is almost entirely a drama of externals,
and the public goes to see itself pilloried and to laugh at its
own foibles.
Many of the plays are written under somewhat the condi
tions which governed the writing of Elizabethan drama;
that is, a play is written on Tuesday to be performed the
following Monday, and by the next Wednesday it is either
in stock or in the waste-paper basket. Seldom has a play a
really long run; indeed the long iun as we know it here is
practically unknown in the Argentine. Occasionally, when
a play has achieved great popularity, such as Juan Moreira,
it is revived, but this is seldom.
The short interval between the writing and the production
of a play necessitates the use of two prompters, one of whom
is stationed in the prompter's box, down stage center, and
the other in the wings. This last reads the script aloud a
few lines ahead of the cast, who pick up their speeches from
him as they go along, with the most amazing facility. Some-

xxviii INTRODUCTION
times a cast will never even have read the play they are about
to perform, and will hardly know whether it is a comedy or
a tragedy until the fall of the curtain. It would seem that a
production given in this fashion would be ragged enough,
but this is not so. Long training has given the players such
ease in their difficult task that if one did not know the
true conditions beforehand one would never suspect them
from the actual performance.
Parravicini, indeed, often improvises his pieces as he goes
along, his quickness of wit and cleverness of invention making
up for any discrepancies in structure. It is the Commedia
del Arte over again! Parravicini is an immensely talented
mimic, and one of his best parts is that of a' foreigner speak
ing bad Argentine. So it is that the American colony will
go one night to hear him imitate an American, and the
Germans (though no more) will go the next to revel in his
description of one of their countrymen in the throes of mis
understanding. Incidentally this modern comedy has de
veloped the use of paper scenery rather interestingly.
Paper scenery is used very extensively in Italy and to a
certain extent in France. One might think that it would
not be durable, but a set so constructed will last for three or
four seasons. It is certainly an immense saving for the
manager in transportation when the scenery for an entire
repertory season can be easily packed and carried in two or
tliree trunks. Cloth absorbs paint, while paper does not,
so that the effect of light on the pigments is somewhat dif
ferent. The colors seem to be more brilliant, more alive,
reflecting the light instead of permitting it to sink in. Ob
viously this has its advantages, and its disadvantages as well.
Every company has stock frames on which the paper is lightly
tacked, and, as it is trimmed with a rough cloth at the
edges, it will really stand a great deal of wear and tear.
Paper scenery has been tried in this country as well, but the

INTRODUCTION xxix
fire laws prohibit its use almost everywhere now, rather
foolishly it seems, for it is but little more inflammable than
cloth. With the use of paper, however, many realistic effects
which are common with us cannot be obtained, and to see
an American actor trying to slam a paper door on the Ar
gentine stage is almost a tragedy in itself. But with the
doing away with realistic treatment on the modern stage,
the effort to suggest rather than to represent, the use of paper
scenery offers many interesting solutions to the producer
of today. It seems to me probable that the use of this
scenery was brought to the Argentine by those Italians who
came over early in the history of the country, and who form
so essential an element in the dramas criolios. Surely the
"serpent's tooth" was never more in evidence than here!
Besides Parravicini, another of the successful authors of the~T
day is Gregorio Laferrere, who has at least three pronounced I
hits to his credit: Locos de Verano, Las de Barranco, and
Jettatore. The titles themselves suggest the type of play:
The Follies of Summer, from flirting to puns on straw hats;
The Women of Barranco, the story of the family of a famous
general, who, after his death, lived on the strength of his)
fame, and Bad Luck, wliich always explains itsejfJ Most of
these are played at the Teatro Apollo, or the Moderno, while
Parravicini holds forth exclusively at the Teatro Argentino.
All three of these theaters are in Buenos Aires, and, indeed,
the drama performed nowadays outside the capital city
itself is comparatively scarce.
There are some thirty theaters in the Argentine which are
open all the year round, and in 1916 the income from these
was some two million dollars. It may seem to us of the
north that this is not a great sum nor a vast array of play
houses for the dramatic interests of a nation, but it is well
not to forget that ten years or so ago the entire population
of the Argentine numbered a bit less than the population

xxx INTRODUCTION
of New York City today. There is no theater in the world
more beautiful and more complete than the great Teatro
Colon in Buenos Aires, with its seating capacity of 3,500 and
its extra room for 1,000 standees. This is where the opera
is given, and it is probable that there is no finer opera to be
found. It may not be out of place to devote some space
to certain phases of opera in the Argentine just here, for this
form of entertainment has diverted many thousands of dollars
from its precursor, the theater.
As in many cities of South America the semi-tropical
weather naturally affects operatic conditions, and many
municipal theaters and opera-houses are built rather on the
plan of summer gardens. In such instances the perfect
quiet, which, if not inspired, is always demanded by music, is
obtained by laws which affect the traffic. Within a radius
of several blocks of the opera-house the streets are paved
with special material to deaden the sound, and regulations
affecting the conduct of individuals within the immediate
vicinity are rigidly enforced. These regulations are similar in
effect to our own which govern the streets on which schools
and hospitals are located.
All Spanish-American opera-houses are under the direction
jgf the municipality. A grand-opera commission is appointed
in much the same way as we appoint a commission in our
economic or political organization. The opera-house itself
is, as a rule, leased to some individual who may or may not
be an impresario or manager. Often this person is simply in
favor with the local government, and thereby obtains the
concession through political standing. T^is, however, never
interferes with the general progress of the grand-opera season
which, in the case of Buenos Aires, is at its height during the
months of May, June, July, and a part of August.
The general procedure with operatic productions is to
appoint an expert to go to Europe and select the artists,

INTRODUCTION xxxi
choruses, costumes, scenery, accessories, and all the miscel
laneous accouterments which are required for the production
of the season's work. This expert has the power to engage
and contract for every detail, from music scores to call-boys.
The transportation of the entire company from Milan, for
instance, to the Argentine is paid for both ways. One can
readily see what work and expense this entails, especially
when scarcely a single chorus dancer or ballet girl comes across
the sea without her mother or her sisters and, in the case of
those who are married, the husband or wife and all the
children. This means that in an opera company of one hun
dred people there may easily be two hundred extra as en
tourage. A striking feature of these companies is that the
musicians are not engaged in Europe; the directors are, but
the orchestra itself is not.
While the agent or expert is busily engaged in Europe the
commissioner is campaigning for subscriptions to make up
the amount of money required for a certain number of pro
ductions during the season. The city itself, of course,
subsidizes the opera-house, but the people are still further
called upon to support the music they demand by subscrip
tions, and be it said that right royally they do so.
There is a distinct social side to the opera season in the
Argentine which is akin to the social features evidenced in the
continental Sunday. The Sunday matinee performances at
the Teatro Colon bring together an assemblage which in
wealth, brilliancy, and atmosphere rivals any operatic
gathering in the world. Right upon the heels of this grandeur,
however, on Sunday night, there are popular performances at
popular prices for " the people."
It was in the Teatro Colon that Caruso sang long before we
here knew that there was such a man or such a voice. Nor
is he by any means the only singer who has come to us after
he had delighted the Argentine. It was in the Teatro Colon

xxxii INTRODUCTION
that Bonci, Amato, Plancon, Matzenauer, Tetrazzini, and
Martinelli first sang publicly in the western hemisphere. In
Buenos Aires there is the largest Italian colony outside of
New York and Naples, and to these half-million Italians is
due in large part the remarkable success of the great operatic
season. And now that we have swung all round the circle let us
"return to our muttons" or, in a word, to the dramas criottos
with which this book is chiefly concerned. Knowing their
relationships and antecedents as we now do, and having
painted in the background of our picture, we may perhaps
be able to see this native drama more clearly and in better
perspective. I have spoken of the dramas criolios in the past tense, and
perhaps I have been wrong to do so. Their heyday, however,
was that period when they occupied the second half of an
evening's performance, the first half being consumed by
circus feats and vaudeville acts. But when the gaucho
drama was taken from its native environment and played
in the larger cities it became in some wise as stiff as a cowboy
in a dress shirt. Even then, however, it was saved from
entire failure by its verve, dash, intensity of action, and
most of all by its entire naivete' which rose superior to the
artificial restrictions imposed upon it. Its appeal was fun
damental and national, and hence could never be entirely lost.
But the really native drama of the Argentine is fast fading
from its stage. Importations and a more sophisticated and
cosmopolitan outlook have killed it; the country has de
veloped beyond it, and it is seldom spoken of except with a
tolerant smile. Indeed, when the critics of the Argentine
write of the dramas criolios the smile changes to a grin of rage,
and they demand that it be buried and forgotten. After all,
this is inevitable and quite as it should be, yet one cannot
but regret the past. So often do we find that the false has

INTRODUCTION xxxiii
driven out the true, that the artificial has been substituted
for the' natural, and that native work is frowned upon as un
worthy, in contrast to the tawdry novelties dragged in from
abroad. I speak now no more of the Argentine than of the
United States. We are all tarred with the same brush. The
dramas criolios may still be found in the outlying districts,
and upon occasion within the capital city itself, but it is not
as it once was, nor will it ever be.
The word crioUo or Creole may require a little elucidation.
It is much more than a mere modifying adjective signifying
native or Creole. It is more as when we in New York City
speak of the Metropolitan police. Metropolitan becomes a
noun on the instant with a most exact connotation, and
crioUo must be considered in precisely the same way. It is
of the soil of the Argentine peculiarly and utterly, and yet
it does not convey the sense of being plebeian any more
than our Knickerbocker or Mayflower stock does. One may
use it in connection with either a grandee or a peasant.
Here then, with the dramas criolios is, or was, an indigenous
drama in the most strict, though not the most absolute sense.
The very isolation which gave it birth militated against its
becoming widely known in other countries. Any influence
that it might have had upon drama as a whole is rather more
than problematical, but it is certainly deserving of a place in
dramatic history. Enghsh drama developed from the church
and the miracle play, as Greek drama developed from the
sacred mysteries; I know of no other drama than that of the
Argentine which has found its inception in the sawdust ring.
Of the three plays in this volume two have been selected
because they represent the drama criollo at their best. They
are perhaps the most famous in all the category of gaucho
plays, and carry as do no others the very spirit of the pampas.
These are Juan Moreira and Santos Vega. The third play,
La Montana de las Brujas, or The Witches' Mountain, is

xxxiv [INTRODUCTION
generally considered in the Argentine as marking the last mile
stone in the epoch before the advent of the present decline,
which is signified by the Europeanized farcical comedies.
These three plays, in the order mentioned, mark three steps
of sophistication in treatment and of development in form.
The reader who has come so far with me may have observed
what must have seemed to be a contradiction as to the
authorship of the play Juan Mordra. This I may be able
to clear somewhat if I cannot entirely dispel it.
The first literary record we have of Juan Moreira is in the
novel by that name by Eduardo Gutierrez. Mr. Alfred
Coester makes the statement that Gutierrez then dramatized
one of the episodes in his own novel, and that this dramatiza
tion was put on the stage in pantomimic form by Podesta.
On the other hand my own statement that the dramatization
was made by Podestd himself at the suggestion of Poupy is
reinforced by Rodolfo Fausto Rodriguez in his work, Con-
tribucidn al estvdio del teatro nacional. What the exact fact of
the matter is I confess I do not know. There was so much
informality attendant upon the earlier gaucho plays that in
stead of records we have conjecture, and instead of history we
have surmise. Most of these plays were written either wholly
or partly in verse, and from this has sprung the habit of
some commentators of speaking of the plays as "poems."
That would be well enough were it not for the fact that many
of the plays are dramatized versions of actual poems, which
served almost as substitutes for the novel in the earlier days
of Argentine literature. The result is that the original poems
and the later plays are sometimes hopelessly confused.
The version of Juan Mordra which I have used in this
volume is by Silverio Manco and is probably simply a rewrit
ing of the old material or a transcription of the old play.
The original play was never printed, so far as I have been
able to ascertain, and doubtless this undated version by

INTRODUCTION xxxv
Manco represents the effort to reduce the Argentine classic
to paper for the first time. The original Juan Moreira con
tained two acts and nine scenes, it is said. Manco's version,
which I have used perforce, contains but six scenes, and
this gives rise to several interesting conjectures.
In all probability the original Juan Moreira was a fairly
crude piece of work. If Gutierrez wrote it, the fact that he
was a novelist and not a playwright would explain the very
shaky construction of the piece from a dramatic standpoint,
while if Podestd, did the work the fact of his humble origin
and subsequent environment would likewise explain the lack
of literary polish the play contains. Both these suggestions
are made on the supposition that Manco's play is merely a
transcription of the older Juan Moreira. On the other hand
there are several notably weak spots in Manco's work which
may be accounted for most easily, whether it be the fact or
not, by remembering that this play is three scenes shorter
than the other. Are there then three scenes actually missing
from this version or is this an entirely new play responsible
itself alone for its own weaknesses and defects? I do not
know, but of one thing I am assured, and that is that Manco's
play is very faithful to the original poem in atmosphere, color,
and general trend. Its very crudeness of dialogue and of
action leads me to believe in its close resemblance to the
original, but I cannot account for certain deformities of
construction or for the three missing scenes. For instance:
What has Juan done to make him a matrero or gaucho out
law? If he is an outlaw and in fear of his life why, then,
does he return and put his head in the noose? And why,
when Don Francisco has every reason, apparently, for wishing
Juan out of the way, does he merely have him beaten and
set free ? Again, there is absolutely nothing which leads up to
or suggests the fact of Vicenta's infidelity until the direct
accusation comes. It would certainly seem that there is

xxxvi INTRODUCTION
something missing here. The first speech of Juan's comes
like a bolt from a blue sky, without rhyme or reason. And
then Juan follows this by speaking of the man who has just
left Vicenta. What man? We hear nothing of him before
or after. The setting for the last act or scene is totally un
explained. Where is this "courtyard" or patio, and what
are the persons of the play doing there? Where did Vicenta
come from? Where did Andrade come from, and why was
he found bound? In truth, there are so many questions that
might be asked, and so many discrepancies which are un
accounted for that the task is a hopeless one. We can but
take much for granted, and read what we are able to find
between the lines. As for the date and place of the first
production of the play, those have abeady been given. What
ever else we may say of the Juan Mordra of this volume we
are at least perfectly safe in the knowledge that it is faithful
to the spirit, if not to the letter of the original. And after all
that is the most important thing. In several instances I
have added words and phrases to the stage directions,
though never to the text.
In the exact and literal sense Santos Vega, famous as it is,
is not a drama crioUo at all. The play was written by Luis
Bayon Herrera, a young Spaniard living in the Argentine.
It is a dramatized version of the poem by Obligado, or rather
it is a mixture of this poem with the old naHve legend of
the payador. Jean Paul, the Argentine critic, in his book
El Teatro Argentina questions the ability of Herrera to use
the dialect of the gaucho with success, but there is certainly
no question but that he has been distinctly successful in
imitating the older dramas criolios both in form and in
language. It is a better, a more sophisticated form, lacking
as it does the crudeness of the old gaucho plays. This
simply renders it more artistically worthy, without in the
least violating its right to be considered as a drama nacional,

INTRODUCTION xxxvii
if not exactly a drama crioUo, Jean Paul, who is the dramatic
critic of La Nacion, the principal newspaper of Buenos Aires,
and whose name is Don Juan Pablo Echague, seems to
think that Juan Sin Ropa (literally, John Without Clothes)
is a Spanish conception, and indeed goes so far as to assume
that he is a Spaniard come to conquer the land for civilization.
I do not believe, myself, that Herrera intended in the least
any political allusion, the more so as the original legend states
plainly that Santos was beaten in a contest with Satan and
died of a broken heart. True, Obligado in his poem invests
this character with some mystery {Juan finally turns into a
serpent, and coils about the trunk of a burning tree) and calls
him by the extraordinary appellation of Juan Sin Ropa.
Herrera has simply combined these two, so that now the
Devil and Juan Sin Ropa are one and the same.
The play was produced for the first time on June 5th, 1913,
at El Teatro Nuevo in Buenos Aires. The audience re
ceived it most enthusiastically, and it at once became an
established success, and passed without more ado into the
dramatic literature of the country.
Herrera has employed all the old materials of the gaucho
drama — the descriptive scenes of country life, the singing
contest, the fight with the police, and the heroic patriotism
of the gaucho — and he has utilized them well and truly.
The theme has been handled by others in various forms.
Jean Paul speaks of one Hernandez, and Rodriguez alludes
to a dramatic form of Santos Vega by Nosiglia. The legend
belongs to the folklore of the Argentine, and as such is open
to use by every one.
The translation imitates very closely the original Spanish,
though, as is often necessary in translation, the actual words
have sometimes been sacrificed to the spirit of the text. The
rhyme scheme is exactly like the original. Most gaucho songs
seem to be sung in verses of ttfn lines each, called decimas, and

xxxviii INTRODUCTION
rhymed as they are here. Incidentally it may interest the
reader to know that these translations have been tried with
gaucho music, and it has been found that they fit perfectly.
It is needless to call attention to or to attempt to apologize
for the rhetorical flourishes with which Santos Vega is adorned.
The love scenes may seem a bit flowery, and there is not a
little of bombast from time to time. But these are wholly
, in character, and are entirely typical of the country and the
literature of their origin, and to the one who views them
with sympathetic understanding they are beautiful rather
than otherwise, if only because of their earnest sincerity.
These plays are totally free from superficial or self-conscious
attributes. Of course, just as Juan Sin Ropa is symbolic
of the Devil, or of civilization, or of both (there is little to
choose between them) so is Santos Vega's sweetheart,
Argentina, symbolic of the land of the rolling pampas. Santos
and Argentina, the gaucho and the Argentine, they are one,
and when one dies the heart of the other is broken forever.
The improvised songs of the gaucho, with which Santos
Vega is so plentifully adorned, find a parallel, albeit a rather
crude one, in the chants of both the French Canadians and
the negro. Here, for instance, is a verse from one of the
old Canuck songs. This type of song was given by the
director of the dance (I do not know how to designate him
otherwise), and was often sung without accompaniment of
any kind except that of a stamp of the foot and a clap of
the hands to beat out the time.
"With a dee and a dong, and a diddy iddy dong,
With a dee, and a diddy, and a dong!
That man over there in see black moustache,
Balance wiz ze couple on his right!
Ze couple below do just ,ze same —
With- a dee, and a diddv, and a dong!"

INTRODUCTION xxxix
Mr. Stuart Walker has told of an early experience of his
which bears some relation to this.
"Suddenly I heard a voice singing in the darkness: 'The
linchpin fell out of the chariot wheel, and Pharaoh he got
drowned!' So I went out of my house and, looking across,
I saw a great fire, and seated about it several hundred
negroes, black as the ace of spades, and seated in front
of the fire was a negro king, telling this story: 'And the
linchpin fell out of the chariot wheel, and Pharaoh he got
drowned!' And he was acting it out; that is, I was seeing
a ballad made right before my eyes. Presently -the negroes
in the crowd took the story up, and each man began to work
it out in his own way. That simple story lasted fully an
hour, each man interpreting it to suit himself. You could
see the Egyptian hosts, and you could see the chariot wheels
swerve and turn in the sand."
This is of course a very primitive type of somewhat the
same sort of thing that we find in the dramas criolios, but
it is not entirely unconnected with it, nevertheless.
While Santos Vega could certainly never achieve anything
like a popular success on our own stage, partaking as it does
of the faults of its virtues, it is, on the other hand, sufficiently
actable to suggest the possibility of putting it on for a short
run as an interesting and worthy example of a somewhat
rare type of play. It has as much right to a place in our
theater, and it has much more real importance as drama, than
The Bonds of Interest, by Jacinto Benavente, which the
Theater Guild produced for a limited run in the spring of
1919. At any rate it would be a fascinating experiment. 
La Montana de Brujas, or The Witches* Mountain, by Julio
Sanchez Gardel, was presented for the first time on September
13th, 1912, at the Teatro Nuevo in Buenos Aires. The critic,
Jean Paul, writing of it at the time of its production, thought
it "colorful, but not very real drama of the mountaineers,"

xl INTRODUCTION
He liked other plays by the same author better — Las Cam-
panas, Despues de Misa, Noche de Luna. But the more
popular point of view is well represented by Sr. Alfredo A.
Bianchi who says in an article in Nosotros, "After the riotous
success of La Montana de Brujas began the decadence of the
national theater." Sr. Bianchi says again in lamenting the
passing away of the national drama, "We are now (1916)
at a literary cross-road. The playwrights know not which
way to turn." But almost in the same breath he remarks
that the gaucho has left the stage for good, and that it is
"good riddance." I have included the play in this collection
because it very evidently marks the turning-point. It was,
in fact, the last good play of the period of the national drama,
after which came the comedies. Frequent mention of the
play will be found in Argentine dramatic criticism of the
day, and its place in the body of contemporary drama is both
strong and significant.
As is not unusual, this play is spoken of as a "dramatic
poem," although it is written entirely in prose, albeit rather
beautiful prose. As I have remarked before, this custom is a
pitfall for the unwary, and even the more experienced tracker
in the jungle of Spanish-American literature may have cause
to regret the usage. The Witches' Mountain is in three acts,
there is no change of scene, and but one day is consumed
by the action. In construction and in expression it is far
and away the most highly developed of the three plays
included here, and it should be readily actable on any stage.
The Witches's Mountain is not a gaucho play in the sense
that Juan Moreira and Santos Vega are; it does not deal,
so far as I know, with any traditional phase of life in the
Argentine, nor is it based on any legend. Indeed, whereas
the gaucho is the habitant of the pampas, this play is set
in the mountain country, and depicts an even more isolated
existence than that of the plains. It is, however, thoroughly

INTRODUCTION xii
atmospheric and colorful, and it is true to these qualities. It is
rugged, brutal, cruel to a degree, and yet it is far from crude.
Don Tadeo, cursed with the evil eye, and his vile son Daniel
are strange types, but they are not unusual. Leon is in
strong contrast to these two, and his terrible cry at the
climax of the play, "Father ... I am the condor! I am the
condor! I am the condor!" is not at all far removed from
the ghastly muttering of Oswald in Ibsen's Ghosts. "Mother,
give me the sun . . . The sun — the sun." Inda stands
between these two elements and only succumbs to Daniel
when she has been drugged. I am in some doubt as to
whether this drug is supposed to represent the more poetic
love potion or whether it is simply a narcotic. In all prob
ability, the latter. In this case, however, Inda's psychology
in the last act becomes rather subtle, but it may be more
apparent to the Latin than to the Anglo-Saxon. The finale
of the play is excellent. The northern dramatist would
probably have permitted himself either to save Inda alto
gether, if he could not save Leon with her, or to dash both
Inda and Daniel to pieces on the rocks of the gorge. As
it is, it is a blank, terrific tragedy, poignant with horror
and merciless in denouement. Devoid as the play is in the
original of the patois of the gaucho, true in atmosphere, and
strong in dramatic effect, La Montana de Brujas is indeed
a fitting climax to the period of the dramas nadonales and
to this book as well.
There remains little more to be said, but if the reader has
followed me so far it is to be hoped that his patience has
at least been rewarded with a somewhat better understanding
of the general development of the drama of a great country,
and of one of its more peculiar phases in particular. The
day of the gaucho is past. Juan Sin Ropa, dressed in the
guise of a foreigner, has given him his death-blow, and over
his fallen body Argentina is bowed in grief. But the glory

xiii INTRODUCTION
that was his remains; in song, story, and in drama he has
become immortal. His dreams, his traditions, and the legends
that surround his memory will not succumb to the attacks
of time as those more mortal attributes have done, for they
have been clothed in the undying body of art. This book,
this path-breaker, is most notable, perhaps, for what it has,
perforce, left unsaid. From time to time some Ught comes
into the jungle along the trail, but on either side the heavy
trees cast their shadows for many miles. In the past those
trails which were cut were too often left to be overgrown,
but I have ridden for hundreds of miles through South
America over paved trails laid down by the conquistadores
in the time of Pizarro, Cortez, and de Soto. It is well that
we should know something of the vast civilization which
extends south of our own borders, not only for the sake of its
intrinsic value, but because of our kinship with it. We may
be proud of it not solely as Argentine, but because it is, as
wr are, American.
EDWARD HALE BIERSTADT.
Nov. 1st, 1919.
New York City.

JUAN MOREIRA
A NATIONAL DRAMA OP LIFE ON THE PAMPAS
IN TWO ACTS AND SIX SCENES
By SLLVERIO MANCO

PERSONS OF THE DRAMA
Juan Mobeira, an humble gaucho
Vicenta, his wife
Juancito, their son
Tata Viejo, an elderly gaucho
Don Francisco, Alcalde of Lobos *
Julian Andrade, Moreira' s friend
Saedeti, a miserly and lying pulpero 8
A Seegeant of the Constabulary
Gauchos, Guitar Players, and Constables

TITLES OF THE SCENES
ACT ONE
Scene One: Injustice! Scene Two: Alone!
Scene Three: In the Stocks
ACT TWO
Scene Four: Fatality! Scene Five: Dishonored!
Scene Six: Conquered!
1 Alcalde is a local magistrate corresponding somewhat to justice
of the peace.
2 Pulpero: a sort of grocer.

JUAN MOREIRA
ACT ONE
Scene One
A hut with a door and a window in the background. On the
right a table upon which is a candle stuck into the neck
of a bottle. On the left, a cot. In the center, hugging
the fire, are Vicenta and Tata Viejo. Juancito is
asleep on the cot. It is night.
Tata Viejo. It's useless, my child; when everything is
against you and misfortune tosses you against the wall on
your back it leaves you flatter than a pancake.
Vicenta. Yes, Tata; when I married Juan I thought that
all my troubles were at an end, and that there would be
nothing but joy and happiness left. But it wasn't so. [Weeps.
Tata Viejo. The miserable law hounds Juan because they
think he's a murderer. [Weeps] Bah! I wish I were twenty years
younger — I'd give that scoundrel Don Francisco a good whip
ping. Poor Juan! Just on account of that good-for-nothing
he must hide out on the pampas with never a chance to kiss
his wife or hug his boy, or even to embrace this poor old man
who is dying of sorrow at the very thought of him. Curse the
law for treating the gauchos of the Argentine so miserably!
Vicenta. Don't remind me of those things, Tata, for they
hurt me terribly. I'm afraid I'll go mad with despair. Every
time Don Francisco's face comes to my mind it seems as if I
3

4 JUAN MOREIRA act i
saw my poor Juan with his head in the stocks. Why
couldn't I have died at bbth instead of suffering all
this unhappiness?
Tata Viejo. Very well, my child; call Juancito and tell
him to give us some bitters to sweeten our sorrow.
Vicenta. Tata, I'm sure the poUce will kill my Juan and
that I'll never see him again.
Tata Viejo. Very well, I say. . . . Call the boy. Juan
isn't so ungrateful. He'll try to give the police the slip, and
look in on the people the law made him desert in order to
save his life. Call the boy, my child.
Vicenta. [Rises and wakes the child] Juancito! Juancito!
Juancito. [Sitting up] Mamita!
Vicenta. Get up! You've already slept too long.
Tata Viejo. Yes, Uttle puppy; get up and make Tata
Viejo some mate.1
Juancito. [Getting down from the cot] Where is my papito?
Vicenta. Your papito? My poor boy! Your papito has
gone, and nobody knows if he'll ever come back.
Tata Viejo. Come here, little puppy; give me a hug and
kiss, and then go to the window and ask the murmuring
pampero 2 to carry them both to your papito.
Juancito. But where is Papito?
Tata Viejo. Poor little puppy! Come, get me the mat6
and then I'll tell you.
Juancito. No, tell me now.
Vicenta. Don't be stubborn, son. Do what you're told.
Juancito. All right, I'll do it. [He starts to prepare the mati.
Tata Viejo. My heart aches so I can hardly stand it. I
don't know why, but it seems to tell me that Juan is coming,
and . . . who knows but what he is?
Vicenta. I don't think it's possible, Tata. Besides, he
1 Mate: the Argentine substitute for tea.
2 Pampero: the wind on the pampas.

act i JUAN MOREIRA 5
would have sent somebody to let us know that he was coming
to this unhappy place.
Tata Viejo. How you talk! Perhaps he wanted to sur
prise us, and so sent no messenger.
Vicenta. Hark! I hear a galloping horse. I wonder if
it's he?
Tata Viejo. Happy little puppy — here comes your papito!
Don Francisco. [Outside] Since you have had the temerity
to scorn me, Vicenta, I'll see to it that that little gaucho of
yours comes to grief. You shall stay in seclusion with neither
his love nor mine, and when he steps out to meet my men all
his reputation as a brave man will be as nothing to my power
for revenge.
Vicenta. He! The traitor! The murderer!
Juancito. Mamita! Mamita!
Tata Viejo. And still he comes to mock you; the dog!
Don Francisco. All his galloping about is useless. He
can't escape me, for I have stretched the rope for him, and
he's bound to get tangled up in it. I sha'n't stop until he is in
my power. I'm going to catch him, and then he'll pay with
his body for the way you have insulted me. After that . . .
you shall be mine!
Vicenta. Tata!
Juancito! Mamita!
Tata Viejo. What does this mean?
Vicenta. Tata, lam dying of sorrow. [Swoons in his arms.
Tata Viejo. Vicenta, my poor child The scoundrel is
already avenged.
Don Francisco. [Entering furiously wilh four soldiers]
Hush, you old mule; if you keep on braying like that you'll
find yourself in the stocks alongside of Juan Moreira.
Juancito. Please don't hurt them!
Tata Viejo. All this bluster won't help you a bit. You'll
pay with your head for all the harm you've done. Come

6 JUAN MOREIRA act i
on, then, coward! So you tremble before an old man? It
would disgust me to kill you, that's why I don't do it. But
you'll carry something to remember me by.
[He attacks Don Francisco. The soldiers seize and hold
Tata Viejo
Tata Viejo [Struggling] Leave this house, cowards! . . .
Dogs! Would you harm an old man? . . .
Rapid Curtain

Scene Two
Open country. Trees in the distance. In the center a large
ombu with abundant foliage, beneath which, recumbent
upon a saddle, is Juan Moreira. He is deep in thought.
Moreira. Curse the luck ! Ah, Don Francisco, Don Fran
cisco! It's useless for you to hound me this way. You'll
have a hard time of it if you think you are going to catch me.
Your plans are bound to fail, and you'll be throttled by your
own vengeance. Vicenta is too strong ever to give herself
into your arms, for your love disgusts her and your person
inspires her with a mortal hatred. As for you, you dog, the
cause of all my misfortune, it won't be long before you'll find
yourself spitted on my dirk. It's through you that I have
had to leave my son and Vicenta and dear Tata Viejo who
used to give me so much good advice. Bah! A gaucho who
is born honest must always be so. The curse of fate is always
with me; the wind of misfortune tosses my black locks; the
breeze of ill luck whines past me in a fury, leaving contempt
and curses in its wake. Still, I must ride the pampas on my
good nag and finish like a man what is in my heart. Ven
geance lights my way, and I must drink deep of it in order
to accomplish mine as I long to . . . hand to hand and face

act i JUAN MOREIRA 7
to face with my enemy. Alone! Alone! Without even a
friend! The neighing of my horse is the only consolation I
have in my sorrow. Out on the pampas I awake at dawn
flat on my belly over my saddle, and watch the morning come
with all its little noises and the glad awakening of those who
are happy and live quietly by the warmth of theb firesides.
While I, a poor gaucho, buffeted by fate and hunted by the
pofice, am like a tree, leafless in the luxuriant springtime of
life, and lashed by passing winds that leave upon its brow
the evil mark whose curse is sculptured there as the sign of a
murderer. Yes! The law pursues me merely because it hap
pens to wish to, and if tomorrow I should become a real
criminal disgusted with this wretched existence, the law alone
would be to blame. For it was the law that drove me to this
road where only sadness, deception, bitterness, and grief are
found. Don Francisco! Don Francisco! [Weeps] Eh? I
hear a horse coming this way. [Gets up in surprise.
Enter Julian Andrade on his horse. He dismounts and ap
proaches Juan
Andrade. Excuse me, friend, and don't be alarmed. I am
no spy nor policeman, or anything of the sort. I am a poor,
honest gaucho whose only fortune is a stout heart. The play
ful breeze that rustles over the pampas brought to my ear
the whisper of a great grief, of a deep sorrow. It told me in
its mysterious language, in accents of sorrowful passion, of
the sad misfortune of a humble and hard-working gaucho.
I could see that you were thoughtful and sad, and suddenly I
remembered Juan Moreira. Aren't you Juan Moreira?
Moreira. Yes, my friend, I am Juan Moreira. I am that
humble and hard-working gaucho. And here I am, in the
midst of this great plain, this bit of beautiful pampa, the
cradle of my most sacred memories. I am a fugitive from
justice and dodging the footsteps of the constabulary.
Andrade. The plague take the law! Because of it one has

8 JUAN MOREIRA act i
to fly about like a lost dove. Nowadays the police frown upon
a gaucho because they think he's a murderer.
Moreiea. You are right, my friend. The confounded law
perverts us and forces us toward the brink of the abyss, with
never a thought to our finer feelings.
Andeade. Your bitterness moves me. From now on you
may count upon me as a friend who is as ready as the stroke
of an axe and stronger than tala wood.
Moreira. Many thanks, good friend. I accept the privi
lege because I see that you are honest and stout of heart.
Andrade. Julian Andrade offers himself to you as a brother.
Come, Moreira, it deserves an embrace. [They embrace.
Moreira. The pampas sleep quietly, and everything is
hushed. Probably the damned police are preparing a trap.
Andrade. We'll have to fight them until we either win or
die; and we must have the courage to withstand. We'U
saddle our horses that are pawing the ground over there and
get ready Uke two brave horsemen.
Moreira. I must mount and ride like the devil. They
must be waiting anxiously for me at the Alcalde's.
Andrade. [In surprise] At the Alcalde's?
MoRErRA. Yes; Sardeti will be missing me.
Andrade. Sardeti?
Moreira. He's my enemy. I've brought suit against him
to recover some money that he has owed me for a long time,
for if I don't get it I'll never be able to live in peace.
Andrade. The horses are whinnying, Moreba. Good-by,
good friend Juan, and good luck to you.
Moreira. We'll meet again, comrade.
Andrade. I leave you my heart.
[He throws himself on his horse and rides off.
Moreiiia. Until we meet again, my friend. [Looks about
him] Alone . . . with my bad luck and fatal misfortune! I wish
J were dead, Even the grave attracts me, Tata Viejo!

act i JUAN MOREIRA 9
Vicenta! My dear little puppy! How I suffer! . . . How un
happy I am! O breeze that rustles so sweetly over the pam
pas, go teU my people that I send them my heart. And then,
with all your brave cunning whisper to that traitor that the
avenging of my sorrows will be all the more terrible for this.
[Lifting his hands to his face, he falls prostrate.
Rapid Curtain

Scene Three
The office of the village Alcalde. On the right, the stocks.1 On
the left, down stage, a table with writing materials. Further
up stage, several chairs in a row. A door in the background.
DON Francisco is seated at the table, writing. Two CON
STABLES guard the door.
Don Francisco. Very good. Let us see if that vile
gaucho's accusation against Sardeti is true. I pity him if his
testimony proves to be false. Tears and supplications will
avail him nothing. To the stocks with him, and that's the
end of it. What does he think? Now I'll be able to avenge
myself for the insult he gave me by robbing me of my Vicenta's
love. I shall take pleasure in revenge! It will be a source of
real satisfaction to be able to take revenge on this vile and
quarrelsome gaucho who struts about here and puts on more
abs than a fighting-cock. [Consults his watch] They ought to be
here soon. Yet, if I'm not mistaken, he may not show up.
I haven't much faith in the fellow. Sardeti is a friend of mine,
so I don't think he will miss such an important meeting. [Some
one knocks. To the constables] See who it is.
A Constable. [Looking out] It's Sardeti.
Don Francisco. Let him in.
1 These are the standing stocks, like a whipping-post.

10 JUAN MOREIRA act i
Enter Sardeti, who speaks with an Italian accent
Sardeti. Eef you please. Hello, Don Francisco.
Don Francisco. Hello, my friend. How goes it? Take
a seat. Sardeti. [Seating himself] We are half mad.
Don Francisco. Why? TeU me.
Sardeti. Why? Why is it that they have sent for me?
Don Francisco. I sent for you because the gaucho they
call Juan Moreira has presented himself here with a claim
against you for a certain sum that he says you owe him.
Sardeti [Excitedly] That is a Ue, Signor Alcaldo. I owe
to this man a sum of moneys? No, no! That is a lie, and I
tell you so again.
Don Francisco. Then it isn't true that you owe Juan
Moreira ten thousand pesos?
Sardeti. Not one peso I owe to him!
Don Francisco. [Shrugging] But, my friend, did you ever
see such a shameless fellow? To come and laugh in one's face.
That can't be done! As soon as the insolent wretch comes in
we'll stick his head in the stocks without more ado. Friend
Sardeti, I have wanted to get rid of this fellow for a long time.
He has offended me unpardonably, and has left a tremendous
wound in my heart. But I shall be avenged ! [A knock is heard
at the door. To the constables] See who it is.
A Constable. [Looking out] It's Moreba.
Don Francisco. Let him in.
Enter Moreira
Moreira. [With dignity] A very good day to you all.
Don Francisco. [Smoothly] Sit down, friend Moreba, and
tell me straight why you came to tell such a big Ue in respect
to the suit you have brought against Sardeti.
Moreira. Lie nothing, Don Francisco! Every thing I said
was the absolute truth; and besides, I don't think an honest
gaucho Uke me would Ue.

act i JUAN MOREIRA 11
Don Francisco. My friend Sardeti here tells me that he
owes you nothing, and that he was consequently very much
put out by having to come here on your account.
Moreira. He says he doesn't owe me anything?
Sardeti. Not one peso!
Moreira. [To Sardeti] Ah, scoundrel ! So you refuse me
the ten thousand pesos I loaned you? We'U face this out
later if my luck doesn't kfll me. Is this what justice is made
of? Curse the justice that harbors murderers and thieves!
Don Francisco. [To Sardeti] Very good, my friend; you
may go. [To Moreira] As for you — [To the constables] Here,
you! To the stocks with this man, and give him fifty lashes.
[Moreira, struggling desperately, is placed in the stocks,
and is whipped. Sardeti whispers something in the
Alcalde's ear and then departs.
Moreira. [Writhing with pain] Ah! Sardeti, Sardeti! You'll
pay your debt in your own blood!
Don Francisco. Suck on that for the present. This is
the way we shall fix you so you won't tell any more Ues about
persons more respectable than yourself. You may go now,
and if you have any hankering after more, you may return.
[Moreira is removed from the stocks and prepares to
take his departure.
Moreira. [As he draws his shirt over his bleeding back] You'll
pay me for this, Don Francisco, and that soon. We shaU
meet . . . hand to hand and face to face!
Rapid Curtain

ACT TWO
Scene Four
Sardeti's pulperia.1 Several Guitar Players strum their
instruments. Sardeti is behind the counter, quietly
smoking.
Saedeti. Let's see, my friend, if you can sing the good
song. Guitar Player. If my first string doesn't break —
Saedeti. How can it break? When you make vibrate the
string it is as though the lark of the pampas were singing.
Guitae Playee. I'd hardly say that, Sardeti.
Saedeti. Very good. Please to sing me the pretty verse.
Guitar Playee. All right — as long as you put it that way,
I'll give you the pleasure of hearing me, comrade.
Sardeti. Do not wait no more, comrade, for I have a wish
to hear the lark.
Guitar Player. Good! Listen — [Sings]
Good gentlemen, I pray give ear,
And harken to this sad lament
Wliich from a heart with sorrow spent,
Arises wet with many a tear.
I dedicate it to all here.
This song is born hi sorrow and pain,
With never a thought of honor to gain.
I breathe it to the sound of strings.
A novice, I, and one who sings
For love of song, to entertain.
1 Pulperia: a small country grocery store of the pampas,
4-<v

acth JUAN MOREIRA 13
Sardeti. That is the lovely melody. Bring on the
mazamorra.1 Guitar Player. A gaucho of the Argentine,
A native of this pampas land,
Belgrano saw me, sword in hand,
Defend her from a foe unclean.
But since that time I've never seen
A happy day or happy hour.
A cruel fate has made me cower
In black despair and bitter grief:
A gaucho treated Uke a thief,
I languish in fate's awful power.
Sardeti. That is the kind of a song I Uke. Help yourself
to the gin.
Guitar Player. I'll toast you without more ado. My
throat is dry and my mouth is watering. [He drinks.
Sardeti. As you wish, singer . . . you are wonderful.
Guitar Player. Good! . . . Listen: [Sings]
I roam the pampas on my steed,
And seek for hospitaUty.
And where I go my hand you see
Held out for food to meet my need.
At festivals I oft proceed
To sing of love and love's sweet story.
And so, my friends, I sit before ye
And crave forgiveness for my lay.
No singer, I, but let me say
If you don't like it . . . weU, I'm sorry!
Sardeti. You have sung like the nightingale, my friend;
winning many flowers Uke a good Creole.
Guitar Player. Many thanks, comrade. I'm much
obliged for your flowers, and I return the compliment.
Enter suddenly Julian Andrade and Juan Moreira
' Mazamorra; a sort of porridge,

14 JUAN MOREIRA act n
Andrade. Canejo! Your wail has given me a great deal
of pleasure. I congratulate you, my friend, with all my heart.
Moreiea. Comrade, I also congratulate you as an honest
Creole. Bring on the drinks; I'm dying for one. Give us one,
pulpero. [Sardeti serves them, trembling with fear.
Guitar Player. As a cursed outcast, I thank you for
your words. I offer you a stout and devoted heart.
[They all drink.
Moreira. [Drawing his knife] And now, excuse me, gentle
men, if I disturb this gathering. This man [indicating
Sardeti] owes me a debt. Defend yourself, thief, and don't
stand there cowering with fear! I'm going to cut out your
entrails for a thief and a swindler.
Andrade. Say no more to him, comrade; I'll watch him
from behind. Finish this pulpero so he can't do any more
meddling. Sardeti. [Preparing to fight] We'U do our possible. No
one is born a fighter. But it is just possible, amico Moreira,
that the cow may turn out to be the bull.
[They fight while the onlookers watch them anxiously.
Moreira. It's no use jumping about like that, my dodder
ing old fool. Stop this one, Sardeti, it's going straight for
your skin.
Sardeti. Cover yourself . . . recommend your soul to the
Holy Mother, Moreira. [Stabs him]
Moreira. Ahijuna! You've stabbed me, you really have!
Now I swear I'll cut out your entrails! [Stabs him, and Sardeti
falls. Saedeti. FareweU . . . you have killed me! I have no
hope! Andrade. Have you collected your debt, Moreba, my friend?
Moeeiea. I have reaped my revenge!
Rapid Curtain

act n JUAN MOREIRA 15
Scene Five
Same as Act One. Tata Viejo and Juancito are drinking
mate. It is night.
Juancito. Where is Mamita, Tata? Why doesn't she come
and take mat6 with us?
Tata Viejo. I can't tell you exactly where she is, my son,
for she went out without letting me know.
Juancito. I asked you so I could call her in case that man
who struck you the other day should come again.
Tata Viejo. Poor Uttle puppy! If you saw me in danger,
would you defend me?
Juancito. Indeed I would! That's what that little knife
Papito gave me is for. [Weeps] Poor Papito! I wonder where
he is tonight.
Tata Viejo. Hush, my boy . . . you tear my heart.
Juancito. My poor papito! [Pause] But why doesn't
Mamita come?
Tata Viejo. Ah, puppy! While your father is probably
fighting some one, or exposing his body to bullets, your
mother is whispering in some old hag's ear about some
medicines. Juancito. Mamita used to cry a lot when Papito was away.
. . . But now she doesn't seem to be so sorry.
Tata Viejo. That's because one forgets as time goes on.
Ah! Don Francisco, Don Francisco! It is his fault that your
father had to flee for his life, like a dove without a nest,
and suffering a thousand wants.
Enter Juan Moeeiea. He is in a towering rage
Moreira. Vengeance has escaped me! The miserable
scoundrels! Tata! Puppy! [They embrace.
Tata Viejo. My son!

16 JUAN MOREIRA act ii
Juancito. Papito!
Tata Viejo. There is blood on your hands! What have
you done, Juan?
Moreira. Killed a swindler, lawfully, as one should kill
a man . . . hand to hand and face to face.
Tata Viejo. You killed — ?
Moeeiea. Sardeti, the pulpero. But I have yet another
to kill to make my vengeance complete.
Tata Viejo. What are you saying? StiU more kfiling?
Moeeiea. Don Francisco, the Alcalde of Lobos ... for
not treating me with justice. But where is Vicenta?
Enter Vicenta in great agitation. In a panic of guilt she
throws herself upon her knees
Vicenta. Forgive me, my dear Juan ! I thought you were
dead! Moeeira. [Starting back] So! You have deceived me,
canalla? Vicenta. [Pleadingly] No, my Juan!
Moeeiea. [Menacingly] How about the man who just left
you? Vicenta. My God! [Swoons]
Moeeiea. Remorse will be good for you. Farewell, Tata
Viejo! Farewell, dear Uttle puppy mine! The police are on
my trail and will be here before long.
Tata Viejo. My son!

\ Embracing Juan
Juancito. Papito! )
Moeeira. [Putting them away from him] No! I must go
and fight the police until I conquer or die. Farewell, dear
family. [Throws them a kiss and departs]
Tata Viejo. Puppy . . . come to my arms ! [Juancito em
braces kim] Let us weep for your father, shamefully dishonored
by her, your mother.
Enter a Sergeant and four Constables
Sergeant. Juan Moreira!

act n JUAN MOREIRA 17
Tata Viejo. [Stepping back] Eh?
Sergeant. [Looking around] He must be hiding here. If
he doesn't come out of his own free will, we'll have to drag him
out. Tata Viejo. Please!
Sergeant. It's no use. Tie this old man up and see to
it that you leave marks on his skin.
The Constables seize Tata Viejo.
Juancito. [Throws himself on the prostrate body of his mother]
Mamita! Tata Viejo. Savages! Scoundrels! Don't treat me like
this. Draw your swords and let me die fighting!
[The Sergeant raises his sword. Tata Viejo frees
himself and grapples with him a moment and then
falls. Rapid Curtain

Last Scene
A courtyard. On the right, the entrances to two houses. On
the left, up stage, a well. Along the background stretches
a very low wall of adobe above which one catches a glimpse
of an immense plain. Enter the Sergeant and four
Constables.
Sergeant. Keep a sharp lookout, boys, and don't slip!
Moreira must have fallen into the river; he'll never show up
around these parts any more.
Constable. Sergeant!
Sergeant. What is it, Chirino?
Constable, That door is open. Moreba might be in
there,

18 JUAN MOREIRA act ii
Sergeant. In that case, to arms!
[They enter the open doorway and drag forth Andrade,
bound hand and foot.
Constable. We've done well!
Sergeant. Not so much! This is Julian Andrade, another
wild gaucho and a very good friend of Juan Moreba's. He's
probably in this other house. Take this fellow away.
[The Constables remove Andrade and then return.
Constable. Shall I knock, Sergeant?
Sergeant. Knock, and then be ready for the attack.
[The Constable knocks. Moreira from within asks who
it is] Open in the name of the law, friend Moreba!
Moeeiea. [From within] Damn these Creoles ! If you come
to arrest me, you won't have to die of longing.
He dashes suddenly out, fires a few shots, and goes back again.
Seegeant. You'd better surrender, friend Moreira. It's
no use hiding in there.
Moreira. [Re-enters, carrying Vicenta in his arms. He
throws her at the Sergeant's feet] Here's something to amuse
yourselves with! [Another shot, and he rushes back into the
house] Vicenta. [On her knees to the Constables] Forgive me . . .
please ... I am a miserable woman !
Constable. [Warning\ her away] Be off quickly, Senora;
they may burn you if you don't. [Vicenta runs off.
Sergeant. Again I tell you to stop fighting and surrender,
my friend. [Moreira returns and fires again.
Moreira. Take that, you thieves! [They all discharge their
weapons. The Constables, trembling with fear, take refuge
behind the well] The storm is over, the clouds have roUed away.
Now's the time to cheat the cheaters. May God show me the
way. . . . Look! Here is a wall with which I can save my
self — my only hope. [Starts toward the wall as if to jump over it]
As soon as I am free of the constables I'll make for the open

act ii JUAN MOREIRA 19
country. [A Constable, rising suddenly behind him, stabs him
in the back] Ah-h! Farewell, sweet hope. They've killed me!
[Without turning, he fires a shot that wounds his murderer in the
eye and hand] Ah! . . . Coward! . . . Traitor! ... It is unjust!
Juan Moreba is conquered . . . conquered . . . but by treachery!
[He and the Constable both sink lifeless to the ground]
Rapid Curtain

SANTOS VEGA
A POETIC EVOCATION OF~THE LEGEND OF THE
FAMOUS MINSTREL OF THE PAMPAS, IN THREE
ACTS, FOUR SCENES, AND A PROLOGUE
By LUIS BAYON HERRERA

PERSONS OF THE PLAY
The Prologue
Argentina, the daughter of one of Don Paulo's tenants
Vicenta, the ranch cook
Rosa, servant at "The Light"
Elvira, Don Paulo's wife
Rupina, cook at "The Light"
Santos Vega
Gumersindo, an old gaucho
Contreras, a payador
Jacinto \
Ruperto ) gauchos
Cirilo )
Juan Sin Ropa
Don Paulo, the patron
A Sergeant op the Police
First Soldier
Second Soldier
The Patron op "The Light"
First Peon
Second Peon
A Pulpero
First Guitar Player
Ranchmen, Girls, Guitar Players
The action takes place in the Argentine during the early
part of the last century.
22

THE PROLOGUE
[Spoken before the curtain]
Is Santos Vega a myth? Did he ever live? Was there ever
really a minstrel by that name who roamed the pampas on the
spirited steed that he himself had trained with all the skill
of a gaucho? Was he really the first of the gaucho singers?
Was this minstrel a member of that race of horse-tamers who
succumbed to the march of Progress with a song on their lips?
Or was he purely a creature of the imagination of an idealistic
race who knew how to dream? What matters it as long as
the poet dwelt in the hearts of that proud race who created
him for the purpose of adoring him so devotedly afterward?
Perhaps the wind never knew his song; perhaps no maiden
ever gave him her love: but of him dreamed every heart of
that race, noble, vbile, bizarre. . . . Traces of the singer still
remain on the pampas: at night his glorious guitar still weeps
in a melancholy, reminiscent wail. He was a poet who came
out of the solitudes to join his grief to that of his brothers.
He was the precursor of the indomitable countrymen of
Belgrano, Guemes, and La Libertad. He was the poetry
of the wide pampas land, the soul of a gigantic race that is
dead. Poetic souls stiU tell how they have seen the sorrowful
shadow of hi3 proud figure wandering through the desert
lands. Singer and lover, gallant and swaggerer, a song on
his Ups, his sorrel between his knees, his guitar on his back,
and his dirk at his belt, he was as bold and rebellious as a new
Satan. He of the great fame, our beloved singer, is not dead:
he fives in our hearts, a sorrowful and proud emblem of the
23

past, a lyric flower of our glorious tradition. A romantic and
courageous figure, beset with a great sorrow, this singer is
to pass through this fervent evocation which, in memory of
the soul of our beloved minstrel, a wandering and poor
maker of rhymes has sung weeping with all his heart and soul.
[When the prologue is finished the song of the second
act is heard played upon a guitar and the curtain
immediately rises.

ACT ONE
A small ranch. Down stage on the right, the ranch house.
As the curtain rises, the following are discovered: Vicenta,
Gumersindo, Contrebas, Cikilo, and Ruperto.
Vicenta. The sun hadn't come up yet when I went out.
I saw him go by long before the day's work had begun. He
was riding the best horse I ever set eyes on — a sorrel that
was as swift as the wind. You needn't think I'm lying, or
that I imagined it, either. He was going so fast you'd think
he was running a race with the wind! He must have been a
singer because he carried a guitar with pretty decorations
on it.
Gumersindo. He was probably a payador on his way home.
Jacinto. [Coming out of the house in a bad humor, and
crossing to Vicenta] When are we going to have mate?
Vicenta. Is the lad in such a hurry for his mate?? I'm
just about to make it.
Jacinto. Go tend to your stove, then!
Vicenta. How gentle he is this morning!
Jacinto. I'm no priest that I must pray!
Vicenta. Wait till I feel Uke it, then.
Jacinto. You'U feel Uke something else hi a minute!
Gumersindo. Come, you two have fought long enough.
Jacinto. Hurry up with that mate!
Vicenta. He isn't even the patron . . . and listen to the
way he orders me around! What if he got to be the Major!
Jacinto. I'd have you pegged out on the ground . . . only
I'm a gaucho and can't. 25

26 SANTOS VEGA act i
Vicenta. [As she goes off up stage] Ugh! I'm going because
he frightens me, and because he would cut me to pieces if I
didn't! Ruperto. Don't you suppose Vicenta dreamed all that
about the horseman?
Cirilo. According to her she never saw a faster horse.
Rupeeto. She's never seen my race-horse, then.
Jacinto. Of course not!
Rupeeto. There isn't another Uke it, I tell you! You
won't find a better or a prettier piebald in the world.
Conteeras. He's the finest animal on the pampas.
Ruperto. You're right there. Why, he's the king of the
braves! Even the cleverest and best gauchos can't beat me
in a race.
Conteeras. Is that so!
Grilo. How queer!
Ruperto. For a whole year now not a single person would
run his horse alongside of my piebald . . . that's a fact . . . not
a single soul !
Cibilo. Well, well!
Jacinto. They are afraid to lose. Have you got the
bottle? Rupeeto. Of course I have!
Jacinto. Then hand it over before I take it from you.
Rupeeto. With great pleasure, my friend; but be careful,
for whenever you bend your elbow your arm goes to sleep.
Jacinto. Is that so?
Ruperto. May I drop dead if it isn't!
Jacinto. Then I won't drink.
Ruperto. Don't be a fool — take it. But be careful . . .
stay awake!
Jacinto. Good advice!
Ruperto. I don't say it to be funny, but my throat is dry
after talking so much about my horse.

act i SANTOS VEGA 27
Jacinto. [After drinking discreetly] What do you say to that ?
Ruperto. It's gone!
Jacinto. Got some tobacco?
Ruperto. Yes, I've got that, too. Take the plug.
Jacinto. And the tools?
Ruperto. I'U give them to you.
Gumersindo. Generous to the death!
Contreras. The way he was going on I thought he was
going to ask for some saliva —
Jacinto. Don't be nasty . . .
Contreras. To spit with!
Rupeeto. He can have that, too, if he wants it.
Jacinto. [Angrily] Your —
Ruperto. [Interrupting him angrily] And yours, too, you
thief! Give me back that tobacco and never speak to me
again! Jacinto. All right! Don't get angry. Take your plug,
brave boy. I'll give you back your brandy, too, if you want
me to throw it—
Ruperto. You'd better get out, and right now — or the
dunghill . . .
Jacinto. [Drawing his knife] Right! A plague take your
dung! Pull out your knife and be quick about it. No thief
can shout at me for nothing!
Contreras. Pst! The patron! [They all compose themselves.
Don Paulo. [Appearing in the doorway of the house] Jacinto,
go saddle my fastest horse.
Jacinto. [Aside, to RupeetOj You're lucky, my friend!
I was just about to cut you to pieces.
Don Paulo. What did you say?
Jacinto. Nothing.
Don Paulo. First go to the near-by viUage and give this
letter to my brother. Then, without a moment's delay, hurry

28 SANTOS VEGA act i
to the Major's house and tell him to call out his soldiers at
once. Gumersindo. A^e we going to have an Indian uprising?
Don Paulo. Would it surprise you? [To Jacinto] Hurry
and saddle up.
Jacinto. [As he goes out] With all speed, Patron.
[Exit Don Paulo.
Cirilo. Don Paulo seems gloomy these last few days.
Gumersindo. He isn't a very happy man. You see,
you're a new-comer in these parts and you don't know the
reason for it. Don Paulo lost his daughter hi the last up
rising. Cirilo. Was she killed?
Contreras. She is still alive.
Cirilo. But —
Gumersindo. Wait till I tell you. An Indian chief carried
her off, and now she's a captive on the pampas. Now you
can understand why he is so desperate with grief and goes
about looking so sad.
Cirilo. Poor Don Paulo! How awful!
Ruperto. Don Paulo is as strong and hard as rock. But
you ought to see the mother! She runs around yelling like
mad for death.
Contreras. And every now and then she'U rush out and
yeU at us, "Can't you see that the Indians are coming?"
Gumersindo. That's a natural result of her madness.
Just visions. She has been seeing Indian attacks ever since
that awful day.
Cirilo. What was it like?
Contreras. Who saw it?
Ruperto. They say they were nearly all lost.
Gumersindo. [Showing a wound on his right arm] I wasn't.
This wound will swear to that! It's a remembrance of a
stab with a pike that I got in the fight. Listen and I'll

act I SANTOS VEGA 29
tell ' you about the attack the Indians made on us that
night. Cirilo. Out with it!
[They gather around the old gaucho and listen with
interest to the following story, which he tells with
great emotion.
Gumersindo. There have been few Indian fights as fierce
as that one. It is the saddest memory I have in my life. So
don't be surprised, my friends, if I cry a little when I talk
about it. To make matters worse, the moon made every
thing as bright as day. If it hadn't been a beautiful clear
night I never could have seen that Indian carry off the pret
tiest flower in the country. On other nights as beautiful as
that you might have heard our songs and the sweet, sad
strumming of our poor guitars in the calm silence of the
pampas. Since that night, however, our guitars have not
sounded the same and our verses are not like those we used
to make. AU the good in us was carried off on the spears of
the savages. That night, when we were all eating supper
after a hard day's work, the dogs all suddenly began to growl
at once. I was the first to notice it. It was like an evil
omen warning us that something was disturbing the quiet
slumber of the pampas. I rushed to the door of our quarters.
The country was bathed in silver; and up there beneath the
stars was the large white moon. In the distance I could see
very clearly why the dogs were growling. It was the Indians !
Full tilt they came — like a sudden cloud on a stormy night
driven by a hundred winds — on horses as fast as the wind, if
not faster. I could hardly see them, they were so far away,
and there was so much dust from the horses' hoofs, but I
could already hear their shrieks. It was horrible, friends, to
see them coming, faster than it takes to teU. They came
Uke shots out of a gun! Next I could see their spears sticking
put above the dust cloud, I began to hear even the tinkling

30 SANTOS VEGA act i
of the Uttle bells fastened to the horses' foreheads. They
charged in a half-moon as usual, led by an Indian as big as
a bull. I judged by his looks that he was the chief, or the
devil — for his face, which I could see as he came nearer, was
horrible to look on. I barely had time to raise the alarm.
Everything happened like lightning. When they heard me
shout, the ranchmen jumped on theb horses and went out
like a lot of brave fellows to open a breach in that wall of
lances — and there must have been five hundred of them!
I confess my legs trembled as I jumped on my horse. I
didn't see much of what went on. I fought with my knife,
and came near losing my life many times. At last I opened
up a breach! Just then I heard a scream that was like a
stab in the heart, for I knew whose it was. Our little patron-
cita was being dragged off by her precious hair between two
ferocious Indians! Friends! If all the lances the savages
carried that night had been stuck into my body at one time
I wouldn't have suffered as much as I did when I saw that
little girl dragged off like a rag and half covered with blood.
I could do no more after that. I was blinded by grief.
Though the danger was great, I hardly knew what was going
on. Suddenly a big Indian, the same who was leading the
others when they made the attack, ordered them to drop the
poor child. Then he stood for a moment looking at her. He
must have been thinking how pretty she was, for, just as she
was — half dead from pain and fright — he threw her across
his horse's back and rode off like a streak of lightning. He
knew he was carrying off a prize! Bah! She was the soul
of the ranch, the flower of this house that is so sad now that
she has gone! She is worse than dead now. She is in the
desert, on the pampas. Our poor patroncita! She was so
pretty, so happy here where every one petted her . . . and that
is why her mother is raving mad, and why Don Paulo is so
gloomy. And that is why our poor guitars, now that she is

act i SANTOS VEGA 31
not here to listen to them, do not sound as they used to.
Everything went with her. Without her, everything seems
empty. Cirilo. Don't tell me any more, my friend. I'm too strong
to cry, but you bring tears to my eyes.
Gumersindo. That's right: weep with me. Tears are
good for you. They bring peace. When there is sorrow in
your heart, they comfort it. Our sorrows leave us with our
tears, and flowers grow where there were only thorns. If
any one boasts to me that he has never wept, I tell him
that brave men weep more than cowards: for a dirk is as
useless against a heart torn with grief as it is against a
storm. Cirilo. Canejo! But you say beautiful things!
Gumersindo. And everything I say is true. For even the
devil isn't wise just because he is the devil, but because he is so
old! [At this moment there comes a scream of terror from the
interior of the ranch house that alarms the ranchmen.
Cirilo. What was that scream?
Ruperto. Here she comes, half crazy!
Elvira. [Off stage, screaming with terror] Quick — here come
the Indians!
Conteeeas. She's got her knife in her hand!
Gumersindo. You men had better hold her. She'll hurt
somebody if you don't.
Conteeeas. The first one who can had better disarm her.
[Elvira runs from the house, knife in hand. Her face
is haggard and her eyes are staring.
Gumersindo. [As she appears] Now! [They hold her.
Elvira. [Struggling to release herself] Let me go!
Cirilo. [Attempting to disarm her] One minute!
Don Paulo. [Entering in alarm] Take her knife away,
quick!

32 SANTOS VEGA act i
Elvira. [Terrified] But aren't the Indians coming?
Cirilo. [Avoiding a thrust which Elvira has made at kim
and disarming her] I nearly got it that time!
Gumersindo. Don't be frightened, Patroncita.
Contreras. The Indians aren't really coming.
Elviea. [Sobbing] I want to go into the desert and make
them give up my daughter.
Don Paulo. Will you take her in, please?
Elvira. [Resisting] No, no! Let me go!
Gumersindo. Come, Patroncita!
Don Paulo. [Pleading with her] Elvira!
Elvira. Give me my knife. I want to go after her.
[Two of the ranchmen succeed in getting her into the
house. After a short pause they return to the stage,
deeply moved.
Gumersindo. She'U die of sorrow.
[And as if to interpret the anguish of the moment, the
voice of Santos Vega is heard in the distance, singing
the following:
Santos. Ah! Fire and sorrow are the same!
They both most cruelly torment,
And never cease their evil bent
While there is aught to feed the flame.
[Their curiosity is aroused on hearing his voice.
Gumersindo. [Thoughtfully] What a beautiful voice!
Vicenta. [Entering joyously] There's my horseman! He's
just arrived. What a horse, what a guitar, and what a
singer! Santos. [His voice sounds nearer. A plaintive melody]
An errant singer I, one who
Through wandering seeks relief in vain
From memory of love's sweet pain
That ever does his life pursue.
So if I sing of grief to you,

act i SANTOS VEGA 33
Be not surprised; and as I sing,
If tears to these dim eyes I bring,
They're drops of blood that my poor heart
Has wept. Such is my singer's art,
That drops from bleeding hearts I wring.
Ruperto. That song is a prize!
Gumersindo. I've heard a good many singers, but he's
the best of them all!
Contreras. You are pretty quick to judge, old man. It's
easy enough to sing like that and not make a mistake. But
it's a different matter altogether when you are sitting face
to face with a rival in a contest.
Gumersindo. I know it is. Don't be offended.
Vicenta. [Disdainfully] He's trying to make comparisons.
Contreras. Nobody has ever been able to beat me when I
started out to sing. Remember that, old busybody, and stop
tormenting me.
Vicenta. You are the one who does the tormenting — when
you play that old guitar of yours.
Santos. [Still off stage, and singing to the same melody]
My Ups are but a gaping wound;
My songs its ebbing flow of blood;
My verses are the passionate flood
Of sorrows in my soul profound.
My songs are moans; they do not sound
As do a happier singer's lays.
'Tis so because my heart betrays
The heavy burden of its grief.
And so to find a sweet relief
I sing these songs through endless days.
Gumersindo. Who is that payador?
Argentina. [Who has entered a moment before] Have I not
heard that voice before?
Cirilo. Nobody ever sang like that!

34 SANTOS VEGA act i
Vicenta. And he never sang better.
Argentina. [Emotionally] I dreamed of love last night. I
dreamed that there was once a singer who was dying for want
of some one to love; and that mstead of weeping from the
pain of his torment, he sang of his despab in verses so full of
feeling that they brought tears to my eyes. And then I
dreamed that I crept to his side and wept, and that he
kissed my hab and dried my tears and grew to love me.
And from that time on, according to my dream, he no
longer sang of his grief, because it had left him, but of
his newly discovered joy.
Ruperto. Here he comes!
Vicenta. And with all the peons on the place trooping
after him Uke a drove of cattle!
Santos. [Sings: his voice very near]
The pampa is my native land,
In all its great immensity.
My greatest wish shall ever be
To force my heart to my command,
That I may dwell in peace. I stand
For Liberty; my law's my knife;
My life is naught but pain and strife;
My soul is but a wounded dove
From so much suffering — and love.
To sing, then, is my lot in Ufe.
[As he sings the last two lines, the famous singer of the
pampas enters, mounted on a spirited sorrel, his
guitar slung across his back, his dirk in its sheath,
and a charming smile upon his lips. Various
ranchmen and peons follow him, applauding in
admiration. He seems to produce happiness all
about him.
Gumersindo. God give good health to the payador!
Santos. Good health to you all!

act i SANTOS VEGA 35
Vicenta. TeU us what good wind brought us such a
wonderful singer? I am old, but I never heard a better
one. Gumersindo. Be sure to let us know if you need anything.
We never refuse a favor to any one hi this place — much less
to a singer.
Santos. My good old friend! I like that, and I thank
you all. But as I deserve nothing, you may save your
hospitality for a more needy occasion. I swear I shall
never in my life forget the reception you have given
me at this ranch. And now, to answer your first ques
tion, let me say that in this adventurous life of mine, the
thing I Uke best of all is not to know where I am going
or whether I'll get there. I don't know where I was
bound for this tune, but here I am, and purely by chance.
I am like the bbds that fly. I tell my troubles in sad
songs to the winds because it strengthens me to sing them
and comforts me to hear them. [He sings.
An errant singer I, one who
Through wandering seeks reUef in vain
From memory of love's sweet pain,
That ever does his life pursue.
So if I sing of grief to you,
Be not surprised; and as I sing,
If tears to these dim eyes I bring,
They're drops of blood that my poor heart
Has wept. Such is my singer's art,
That drops from bleeding hearts I wring.
My lips are but a gaping wound;
My songs its ebbing flow of blood;
My verses are the passionate flood
Of sorrows in my soul profound.
My songs are moans, they do not sound

36 SANTOS VEGA act i
As do a happier singer's lays.
'Tis so because my heart betrays
The heavy burden of its grief.
And so to find a sweet relief
I sing these songs through endless days.
My only joy and truest friend
I find in my well-tuned guitar.
Within its silver strings there are
Sweet melodies that melt and blend
And stay with me until the end.
Without its solace I should die.
I taught it first to sing, yes, I,
And then to weep and suffer pain;
And when I pass away I fain
Would have it with me where I lie.
My knife's as strong as steel can be,
And so it never knows defeat.
To strike it is both sure and fleet.
It never wounds unlawfully,
And never kills in treachery.
It holds my liberty and fate,
And keeps them both inviolate.
Whene'er it strikes 'tis always just,
But when it kiUs, it kills with lust:
Though loyally and without hate.
As much my own, my sorrel steed,
As I the pampas' heart and soul.
There never was a shapelier foal,
Nor animal of swifter breed.
And where he wiUs I let him speed.

acti SANTOS VEGA 37
His way is my way; where he goes
Go I: our wills are never foes.
I drop the reins upon his neck,
And never think to curb or check;
I let him choose because — he knows!
The pampa is my native land,
In aU its great immensity.
My greatest wish shall ever be
To force my heart to my command,
That I may dwell in peace. I stand
For Liberty, my law's my knife;
My life is naught but pain and strife;
My soul is but a wounded dove
From so much suffering — and love.
To sing, then, is my lot in life.
Though bitter sorrow is my lot,
'Twill never, never be my death.
So long as I can draw my breath
I'll sing, and when I sing there's naught
Can kiU me: grief most sure cannot.
A payador, I now proclaim
That herein am I known to fame;
And when I sing from my great heart
The bravest fall before my art:
For Santos Vega is my name!
[When Santos Vega finishes his ''presentation" the
ranchmen crowd around him to offer their congratula
tions. Argentina, who has exchanged several in
terested glances with the singer, is absorbed in thought.
Gumersindo. Santos Vega, of course!
Vicenta. The most celebrated payador in the country!
Cirilo. What luck to have him here!

38 SANTOS VEGA acti
Ruperto. [To Conteeras] Here's your chance to sit face
to face with a rival.
Vicenta. There's no comparison.
First Peon. That fellow is in a different class.
Second Peon. There's nobody like him.
Vicenta. The horse he's on shows he's no mean rider.
Fiest Peon. All you have to do is to look at him.
Second Peon. You couldn't match him.
Vicenta. Even his lasso is much too long for you men to
handle. Contreras. I'll have a chance, and I'm going after it now.
So far, I have never given in a hab's-breadth to any one in
singing. I'm no mean rider, either; I'd rather ride a wild
horse than a tame one any day!
Ruperto. Bah! . . .
Contreeas. [Approaching Santos Vega] Have I your per
mission? Santos. What? Certainly!
Contreras. I, too, am a singer.
Santos. Splendid! What can I do for you? Don't say
another word, my friend; I always like —
Contreras. First I want to tell you that I am used to
singing with the best singers in the country, and that I am
thought to be very good at it. I'd like to see if I belong
to that class of fakers that you always leave so far behind —
that is, if you accept? . . .
Santos. Certainly ! Whatever and wherever you wish . . .
I'd be very glad to.
Contreras. If I win —
Santos. Don't even think of that!
Contreras. Remember, I'm one of the best and don't
know what it is to lose. We'll see which one of us is the
better! Santos. Everybody wiU see that you are not!

acti SANTOS VEGA 39
Contreras. Tomorrow — Sunday evening, then. Does
that suit you?
Santos. Where shall it be?
Contreras. The near-by pulperia would be a good place,
I think. Santos. Splendid! That's all there is to it.
Contreras. [Holding out his hand] Tomorrow evening.
Santos. [Taking the proffered hand] Tomorrow! I sha'n't
'forget! Contreras. [As he goes out] Good! Boys, you all heard.
Be sure and come! [Exit.
Gumersindo. And now let's go, in case the singer wants to
rest. We mustn't forget the work we have to finish today.
[The ranchmen go out, leaving Vicenta, Santos Vega,
and Argentina on the stage.
Vicenta. That's enough: Santos can stay with us. [Inlaw
tones, approaching Santos Vega and indicating Argentina]
I'll make tracks in a minute. I don't want to be in your way.
Santos. [Pleased] Very good!
Argentina. [As Vicenta starts to go] Are you going,
Vicenta? Vicenta. [With mock seriousness] I'U stay if you want me to.
Argentina. Please stay.
Vicenta. [Crossing to Argentina] Are you afraid of him?
Didn't you understand? I thought you would like to have
me go. Didn't you notice him?
Argentina. [With emotion, and bursting into tears] I? I
have loved him without knowing that he even existed!
Vicenta. And that is why you are crying?
Santos. [To Vicenta] TeU me — what about your promise?
Vicenta. [Roguishly] What a hurry you are in! [To
Argentina] Can't you see I'm angry? [Exit.
[As soon as Vicenta goes out, Santos Vega approaches
Argentina.

40 SANTOS VEGA acti
Santos. [Tenderly] Is the little dove mourning some for
gotten love? I see sorrow peeping through the tears in your
eyes. Is your trouble so great? Could not the words of a
singer comfort you — a singer who has suffered, and who still
suffers so much that were he to weep he would drown in his
own tears?
Argentina. [Weakly] And how can a singer who can only
weep comfort me in my sorrow?
Santos. Because my own grief teaches me the cure.
Wasn't it caused by love?
Argentina. I have never known love.
Santos. Only love can make a woman weep. The
wounded dove should not disdain my solace, nor think that
because she has fallen she will fly no more. For I would give
my life to help her in her flight. Is she pursued by a hawk
which she fears wiU do her harm? I offer her my knife and
my horse to defend her and my heart to soothe her pain:
a song, too, very tender and consoling, for all that she has
suffered. Argentina. Why do you offer me so much?
Santos. Because a woman deserves everything when she
weeps. Argentina. And if some day, thanks to the song you offer
me, my sadness turns to joy? Will I not then be a source
of great anxiety to you?
Santos. The dove would fly off and forget me.
Argentina. [Impuhively, unable to contain herself] No; for
without your sympathy I should die ... no matter where I
went! Santos. [Comprehending] Dear, dear little dove! How is it
that I never found you until today, and then in pain? I
bless the fall that left you in my path, dear Uttle dove!
Argentina. Singer, if you have suffered so much, why is
it that your heart did not guess my sorrow before I spoke?

acti SANTOS VEGA 41
Why did you not know the cause of my tears before? I
adored you before I even knew you existed, gaucho mine.
Every night I dreamed that you would come soon. The days
were long, but my faith was so strong that I never once
doubted that you would come at last. You are the singing
gaucho whom I loved before I met; the gaucho of my troubled
dreams; of whom I was jealous before I knew he existed;
for whom I would kiU myself were he ever to forget me; the
man to whom I desire to give aU my life and all my love;
my only and greatest joy and pain.
Santos. Even as you speak my heart is building you a
nest. The moment you opened your lips I was stirred by a
great emotion.
Argentina. It is comforting to hear you, but I am afraid
that I am dreammg and that I shall soon wake up — weeping
as usual.
Santos. Don't be sad again. It makes me very unhappy
to see your beautiful eyes hidden behind a veil of tears.
You have nothing to fear now, for here I am at your side,
dear heart — somewhat downcast, perhaps, and sorry to have
waited so long. [A pause] But teU me, my dear; I've been so
upset that I forgot to ask you — what do they caU you?
Argentina. Argentina.
Santos. What a beautiful name for a song!
Argentina. Take me with you!
Santos. How could I leave you? That would be Uke
cutting our heart in two! Monday morning, just as the sun
is rising, if the singing contest is over, I'll gallop off into the
open country with my sweetheart behind me and with God
as our only witness. Would you like that, beloved?
Argentina. I'd be willing to go anywhere with you — even
to the desert!
Santos. That's a brave dear! I like you for that! [Pause]
May I kiss you?

42 SANTOS VEGA acti
Argentina. [Giving herself into his arms] You are the master
of my life![They kiss. At this moment enter from up stage,
on the left, Gumersindo, Ruperto, First and
Second Peons, and Cirilo. They gaze into the
distance, shading their eyes with their hands.
Ruperto. It's the police, can't you see?
First Peon. They're coming this way!
Second Peon. Who do you suppose they are after?
Gumersindo. Go and tell Cirilo, quick!
Cirilo. [Sulkily] Here I am, old man.
Gumersindo. [Mysteriously] TeU me —
Cirilo. They are after me.
Gumersindo. Are you going to give yourself up?
Cirilo. Yes. I've had enough of it.
Gumersindo. Canejol So I thought!
Cirilo. I'm tbed of dodging around.
Santos. What is there so good to look at?
Ruperto. The police are coming.
Santos. [Brusquely] You don't tell me!
Argentina. [In alarm] For you?
Santos. No, my life — I have nothing to fear. But I can
never see the police without wanting to fight them.
Aegentina. Santos!
Santos. What are they coming here for?
Cirilo. They are looking for me.
Santos. You're not going to give yourself up?
Cirilo. Yes.
Santos. But aren't you going to defend yourself?
Cirilo. I'm not even going to make a move. I'm no
stay-at-home gaucho; I know what it is to fight and to suffer;
but I don't want to live like a whipped cur and spend my life
running away from the police. And aU because one day I
came across a gathering of strangers who thought they owned

acti SANTOS VEGA 43
the earth because theb judge protected them. The minute
they saw me coming they tried to lasso me. But I'm not so
easy to catch, and I didn't let them do it. Then they began
to threaten me with the stocks. I left without even trying to
kiU anybody!
Second Peon. They're getting off their horses!
Santos. How many of them are there?
Second Peon. Four big feUows.
Santos. All the better!
Argentina. Santos, Santos! . . . For my sake!
Santos. Don't be afraid, dear heart. Four policemen
can't overpower me.
Argentina. Santos, Santos! . . . Please!
Enter three Soldiees and a Sebgeant on the run
They start to seize Cieilo
Sergeant. At last you're caught, you bandit! I've got
my hands on you now!
Santos. [Breaking away from Argentina and with one
hap interposing himself between the Soldiers and Cirilo]
Hold your horses, my friends! It takes more than an "I
wish" to capture a gaucho!
Sergeant. [In astonishment] Who are you? [To the Sol
diers, as they attempt to lay hands on Santos] Halt!
Santos. Anybody!
Sergeant. Do you want to go before the judge? Nobody
has ever even tried that.
Santos. That is just why some one must be the first.
Sergeant. Ahijuna! You'U both go before the judge
together! Santos. It doesn't strike me that you are quite equal
to that.
Sergeant. I've had enough from you. [Orders the Sol
diers to attack him] Take him! [The Soldiers attempt to obey,
and a fight ensues]

44 SANTOS VEGA acti
Santos. You can't do anything with me. Here's where
I act like a friend.
Cirilo. [Deciding to fight] I'm with you!
Santos. You'd better not get mixed up in this, comrade.
[The combatants are arranged as follows: the Sergeant
and Third Soldier against Santos Vega, and the
First and Second Soldiers against Cirilo.
Gumersindo. It's foolhardy!
Sergeant. [Attempting to stab Santos with his saber] Ah,
my lying gaucho, take that!
Santos. [Warding off the blow with his poncho] You never
even touched my hide. [Stabbing the Sergeant in the breast
with his knife] Guard yourself!
Sergeant. [As he falls] He stabbed me!
Santos. One! (To Tried Soldiee] Now don't you give up
after having boasted so much. He was a coward! [Stabbing
him] Don't try to defend yourself from this!
[The Third Soldier fa lis and Santos goes to Cirilo's
aid.
Cirilo. I'm all right!
Third Soldier. [As he falls] I'm done for!
[When the First Soldier finds himself alone he starts
to run away, with Cirilo after him. Santos detains
Cirilo.
Santos. Don't chase him. Leave him entbely to me, at
least for this time. We'U tend to him later, so he can take
the news of all this to the Justice! He has learned his
lesson. You may be sure he won't forget!
Argentina. Santos, my love!
First Soldier. We'U meet again. There will be plenty
of chances, don't forget that! If not today, perhaps to
morrow. Gumersindo. That fellow is going to betray you.
Santos, He doesn't kiU who merely wishes to — he must

acti SANTOS VEGA 45
know how first! Go, and bring another squad. But don't
be so foolish as to bring such a handful with you next time.
That would be Uke throwing your life away. Bring on the
best of them — you can't play with me!
Ftrst Soldier. Are you the devil?
Santos. No, Santos Vega!
Argentina. [Embracing him] The singer of singers!
Rapid Curtain

ACT TWO
At the ranch known as " The Light." Open country. On the
right, the entrance lo the ranch house. Up stage on the
right the door and windows of a pulperia can be seen.
As the curtain rises, Rosa comes from the pulperia with
a small package and goes toward the ranch house. As she
reaches the center of the stage she shades her eyes with her
hand and looks off toward the left.
Rosa. [Calling] Sefiora Rufina, come here! Vicenta is
coming. Rufina. [Entering hurriedly from the house] Where is she?
Vicenta. [Entering] How are you, my dear?
Rufina. [Embracing her] What good wind brought you here?
What's the news? Tell me about yourself.
Vicenta. I just came over to have a Uttle gossip and to
say hello. I also thought that even if I am a bit late I might
be able to help you a fittle. You must be terribly busy with
all your preparations.
Rufina. Don't say a word; I'm half crazy with work!
How is your patroncita?
Vicenta. Bad!
Rosa. Is she really bewitched?
Vicenta. She hasn't known a thing since that awful night.
Where is your patron?
Rufina. He got up early to bring some special wine from
the village and hasn't come back yet.
Rosa. And Argentina?
Vicenta. Heartbroken because she can't come to the
46

act ii S A N T 0 S V E G A 47
dance. She had to stay behind to keep the patrona company,
and is in tears. And — Do you need anything?
Rufina. What do you think we could need? Nothing!
Vicenta. Of course you're going to have carbonada?1 How
is it?
Rufina. The best ever!
Vicenta. And mazamorra?
Rufina. And meat pies and roasts.
Vicenta. You certainly haven't forgotten anything! Do
you know who's corning?
Rufina. Who?
Vicenta. Santos Vega!
Rufina. Oh yes, I heard he was. I'm awfully glad!
Rosa. They say he's one of the very best payadors in the
country. Vicenta. The best! [Laughter is heard in the pulperia] Who's
in there? [Exit Rosa at left.
Rufina. Who do you suppose? The ranchmen.
Vicenta. Can the whole crowd get into the pulperia?
Rufina. There are more in the sleeping-quarters.
Vicenta. The fiesta will be a great success if some fool
doesn't come along and spoil it. Let's go into the kitchen;
I want to give you a hand. Are we surely going to have
fried corn?
Rufina. Everything. Nothing will be wanting.
Vicenta. [Counting on her fingers] Mazamorra, carbonada,
meat pies, roasts, good wine, dancing, and a song contest —
there certainly is nothing missing! My friend has outdone
herself. As Vicenta and Rufina enter the house, Gumer
sindo, Ruperto, and Jacinto come out of the
pulperia. Gumersindo is drunk.
Gumersindo. Bah! The pay 'dors 're late.
1 Carbonada: an Argentine dish not unlike pancakes.

48 SANTOS VEGA act ii
Ruperto. We'll have a little game while we wait for them.
Gumersindo. Fine gamblers you've been!
Jacinto. Come on, old man.
Gumersindo. I don't want to beat you! An' besides— if
I ever get back in there, canejo! — I won't come out again.
'Cause I'm already half —
Ruperto. That's true!
Jacinto. How quickly he got it!
Gumersindo. I p'tended to be asleep, but I was really half
awake. If I play, you'U lose!
Jacinto. Fine! So much the better.
Gumersindo. There's nothing like wanting an ache to get
one. [Enter Contreras, the payador, up stage, guitar in hand]
Well! You're late, but here you are at las'! I thought you
had backed down.
Contreras. Is Santos Vega in the pulperia?
Jacinto. No such luck! He hasn't even showed up yet.
Contreras. What do you suppose has happened to the
soldiers? Jacinto. It was one of the patron's false alarms. He's
always dreaming about an uprising. The soldiers were in the
sleeping-quarters all night waiting for the Indians.
Contreras. All the better if nothing happened.
Jacinto. That precaution of his was like a stab in the back
to me. While I was off carrying out the patron's orders,
another gaucho came along and took advantage of the fact
that my girl was alone and stole her heart from me!
Gumersindo. Who you talking 'bout?
Jacinto. Argentina.
Contreras. And who did this mean trick?
Jacinto. The celebrated Santos Vega!
Ruperto. If that fellow has had his hands on her you've
lost your stake, because his cows never turn out to be bulls,
my friend.

acth SANTOS VEGA 49
Gumersindo. An' there's no place for a young calf where
that bull beUows!
Ruperto. Nobody can get ahead of him — he's a real
gaucho. You're ac ox alongside of him!
Gumersindo. An' where wiU the ox go that doesn't plow?
Jacinto. AU right! We'U see who is brave. He'll have
to meet me when he gets back, and we'll fight it out about
her if he wants to.
Ruperto. You'll be sure to lose.
Gumersindo. There's no knife can touch his skin.
Jacinto. The quickest gaucho stays on his feet.
Enter, up stage, Cirilo, First and Second Peons and
various ranchmen
Gumersindo. Here come the boys!
Jacinto. And Santos Vega isn't with them!
Cirilo. He ought to be here right now.
Jacinto. I want him to come.
Enter the Guitar Players from up stage on the left
Cirilo. Here come the guitar players — the life of the fiesta!
Gumersindo. Ah! We forget every thing when all these
guitars are around. There's nothing better than the playing
of guitars to drown our sorrows.
Cirilo. And a few drinks of gin!
Gumersindo. Are you tuned up?
First Guitar Player. All ready!
Gumersindo. Fine! Now we mus' tone up these fellows
with a few little bottles of gin, so's they can blossom out
later on the strings. Into the pulperia with the guitar
players! [They obey him] In with the ranchmen, too, before
the dance begins, so theb legs won't get tired and they won't
act like boobies! [Exeunt all but Jacinto and Gumersindo]
Here, Useless! Don't you want to go in?
Jacinto. No, I'm waiting for Santos Vega.
Gumersindo, What for?

50 SANTOS VEGA act n
Jacinto. To speak to him.
Gumersindo. To shoot him!
Jacinto. Your grandmother !
Gumersindo. Like a chased ostrich! [Starts toward the pul
peria, but his inebriety makes it difficult for him] Come with me,
Jacinto. Jacinto. [Taking his arm] I'll go, but I'll keep my eyes
open. [As Jacinto and Gumersindo go out, the First Soldier
appears very cautiously from the left and approaches
the window of the pulperia, through which he peeps
for a moment. Suddenly he looks toward the left
and disappears quickly to the right. Enter Santos
Vega from ihe left and Rosa from the house.
Santos. Good afternoon.
Rosa. Good afternoon.
Santos. I «js wondering if this were not "The Light,"
where they tell me there is to be a cattle-branding fiesta,
but now I can tell by looking at it that this is the ranch I'm
looking for.
Rosa. Yes, this is it.
Santos. I don't need to ask. All I have to do is to look
at you, my dear. You have a light in your eyes and a fiesta in
your smile. No matter where I had met you I would
have dismounted at once, sure that the fiesta would be held
wherever you wished the light of youi eyes to shine. Eyes
that are so black they hurt, and that glow like stars. In
spite of their seeming hurt they do not make one sad; for all
theb stormy blackness, they gleam with a light that brightens,
silences, and cheers.
Rosa. Nobody else ever saw so much beauty in my eyes.
Santos. That's because they are blinded by a glance. No
one can look upon them without shutting his own as fast as
ever they wish him to. The only reason why I can look upon

act n SANTOS VEGA 51
i 
them without being blinded is because their light reminds me
of the caressing and beloved eyes of my sweetheart, a sweet-
voiced lark that dreams only of me, sings only for me, and now
weeps for my absence.
Rosa. You've forgotten my eyes already!
Santos. They remind me of hers.
Vicenta. [Within] Rosa!
Rosa. Coming!
Vicenta. But, Rosa — but, girl — [Entering] Santos Vega!
At last you've come! Rufina!
Rosa. I thought you must be Santos Vega, because nobody
else could talk like that. Senora Rufina, come here !
Rufina. [Within] Coming!
Gumersindo. [Coming out of the pulperia] Ahijunal Well, if
it isn't Santos Vega!
Vicenta. [To Rufina as she enters] The best singer in the
world! Gumersindo. [To the ranchmen as they come out of the pul
peria] The soul of our country !
Rosa. I've never heard you sing, but I'd like to.
Vicenta. Play your guitar and start the fiesta. Yours
ought to be the first guitar to play.
Gumersindo. Snatch a song out of the wind — something
you can put your soul into — that brave, sad soul that is the
soul of this country.
Santos. [Getting ready to sing] Here go my song and my
soul, for I never sing without that!
[He rings a sad strain, accompanying himself upon his
guitar. The branches of an ombti tree
Let fall their leaves like flowing tears:
A touch of wind, and then one hears
A plaintive wail in minor key.
And so I, in my misery,

52 SANTOS VEGA act 11
Compose my sad and mournful songs,
And weep for my unrighted wrongs.
These songs of mine are like the leaves,
Like aching hearts the wind receives
And scatters through the land in throngs.
CmiLo. Fine!
Vicenta. He made me cry!
Ruperto. Don't go on, I can't stand it.
Gumersindo. Unbosom your soul if you have so many
sorrows to sing about.
Santos. [Singing again]
My sweetheart is a little dove
That came to make her downy nest
Within the shelter of my breast.
My songs are flowers that but prove
Sweet tokens of my lasting love.
Her cooing soothes my burning wound,
And in her ears forever sound
The mournful echoes of my plaint
Like tiny birds who, hurt and faint,
Seek refuge in her love profound.
Gumersindo. That's the way to sing, my friend, when you
know how!
Vicenta. He certainly knows how to put everything he
has into it!
Gumersindo. [Crossing to the pulperia] Ho there, pulpero!
A little bottle of gin! Here, wet your throat — drain it at a
gulp. Santos. [Drinks] Thanks. Eh, Gumersindo?
Gumersindo. [Taking the bottle from the singer's hands and
holding it neck down] That's the way a man should do!
Ahijuna! What a fine kiss! You drained it in one gulp,
brother! Jacinto. [Passing in front of and thrusting his face close to

act n SANTOS VEGA 53
that of Santos, he stares at kim fixedly] Do you know
that I'm looking at you and that you don't seem to
notice it?
Santos. [Looking at him and putting down his guitar] And
I don't like the way you look!
Jacinto. Don't you? Canejol The worse for you!
Santos. [Drawing nearer] What did you say?
Jacinto. [Stepping back a pace and drawing his knife] We'll
fight if you want to.
Santos. Certainly! But what for?
Jacinto. You're confounded slow!
Santos. How?
Jacinto. If your little dove knew it she'd fly off to another
nest where there isn't so much fear.
Santos. [Drawing his knife] I, fear! Ahijuna! Out of my
way! Gumersindo. [Restraining Santos] Hold your horses, part
ner! Don't kiU him before you know why the fool is after
you. Santos. Why is he?
Gumersindo. Why, you see, he's jealous. He's suffering
so that, though the lad is but a calf, he wants to be a bull just
out of stupidity. [To Jacinto, who advances upon him threat
eningly] What's the matter? You want to fight me when
I'm saving your hide?
Santos. Jealous of whom?
Jacinto. Of Argentina.
Vicenta. Why should you be jealous of her, pray?
Santos. TeU me.
Jacinto. Because I love her.
Santos. And does she love you?
Jacinto. Of course she does!
Vicenta. Listen to him! She never even looks at you,
and you know it. You bother her to death. You follow

54 SANTOS VEGA act ii
her around, and that's aU. There's a great deal of difference
between that and her liking to have you do it.
Santos. [Sheathing his knife] Put away your knife and your
jealousy and keep your courage for another tune. I might
fight a thousand because I would rather lose my life than my
Uberty, without wliich, as without my songs, I should die. I
carry a knife at my belt because one must be strong in order
to be free. And I fight the police because they come to take
men before a thief they caU a judge who tries to make slaves
of free men and tents of theb hides. But I^have never fought
over love, and I never will, because I do not want caresses
that are inspbed by fear and not by love. I want to be
loved for this [touching his heart], and never for this [touching
his knife]. I want them to give me theb hearts because
they know there is a heart in my breast, and not because
they suspect there is a knife at my belt. And that is the
way Argentina, my Ufe and my comfort, loves me: for the
soul of me, and with a love that comes from the heart and
not from fear.
Jacinto. But I want to tell you —
Santos. Wait! You shall have your say. Argentma is
everything to me: peace, comfort, hope, joy — everything.
She is all that I wish. She is my dove, my life, my heart's
blood — even my verses. Very weU — when we see Argentina
again we'll ask her to whom she wishes to give her soul —
which one of us is the choice of her heart. . . . And I swear to
you that if she says you are her desire I'll gaUop off into the
open country, not knowing where I go, and leaving my heart
behind — for it is all hers. And because she is my all, I shall
go without my soul, without my songs, without peace, with
out joy — with nothing but my guitar to comfort me. ... So
alone that I shall pray for an early death. But if Argentma
says that Santos Vega is her choice, that she Uves only for
me, and that my love is her master —

act ii SANTOS VEGA 55
Jacinto. Poor Argentma!
Santos. What? Poor you, if you touch a hair of her head
after that; for then I sha'n't hold myself back — I'll carve
you as I would a steer! The lad is warned!
Jacinto. [As he enters the pulperia] We'll talk later.
Santos. I swear you sha'n't say much! [A moment of silence.
Vicenta. [Suddenly] See here! Everybody is as silent as
a graveyard at prayer-time!
Gumersindo. Just exactly! Here, let's have some joy
again — Play up, guitar players! [The Patron of "The
Light" appears] Ahijuna! Here's the Patron!
Patron. [Greeting everybody] Where did so many good things
come from?
Vicenta. The dance can begin now.
Several young girls enter from left
Rosa. [Pointing them out] Sefiora Rufina!
Rufina. [As she sees them] At last they've come!
Vicenta. Take a look at these girls — you were so sad a
moment ago — it wiU cheer you up. They're very pretty.
Bah, Santos Vega! Forget your troubles and take a look
at these pretty flowers.
Santos. Yes, I was watching them. It is fitting that the
sun should come out after such gloomy weather!
Vicenta. Gaucho, you always know just what to say!
Rosa. Let's begin the dance.
Contreras. Fbst we must have the contest. If you are
wilUng, partner, tune up your guitar and let's see who can win.
Santos. With great pleasure.
[Santos and Contreras, seated face to face, tune their
instruments.
Vicenta. What a pair:
Gumersindo. [Meaning Contreras] I see his finish!
Ruperto. I think he ought to be given the advantage.

56 SANTOS VEGA act ii
First Peon. It's going to be a robbery — canejo!
Gumersindo. We'U see if Contreras is a good horseman
this time.
Vicenta. I don't think such a heavy man can fool with a
horse! [Some standing, others seated, they all gather around the
singers. Santos begins with a prelude on his guitar
which Contheras immediately answers with another.
Contreras. [Singing] Attention, friends, I first request,
And then your silence, if you please.
I wish to try with perfect ease
To prove that I am of the best.
That there are many worse I'll swear,
For I have never known defeat.
When one is best, I know 'tis meet
That others should be worse — that's clear!
And yet, 'tis not an easy task
To guess which one is going to win.
Be not too confident, I ask.
The proudest must some day give in;
The toughest rawhide rope will break;
The bravest rider of the plain
WiU find his skill is oft in vain
So then it is not good to speak
And call this test a robbery.
But if in one great twisting leap
You think to throw me in a heap,
A gallant steed I swear you'll be!
Santos. [After a preliminary flourish on his guitar]
My rival speaks the truth to you:
It is no easy task to guess,
For fate's a horseman, I confess,
That only fiercest steeds subdue.

ACT H

SANTOS VEGA

57

Contreras.

Santos.

Contreras.

Santos.

However, thanks are due to those
Who think that I can win today —
And yet I cannot really say
Until this test comes to a close,
If I deserve your confidence.
TiU then, I pray most earnestly
That you restrain your compliments,
Lest I the winner fail to be.
Be not too humble, my good friend:
I know that you can sing right well;
And though I think that I excel,
If I should throw you, I foreteU
That you wiU on your feet descend.
A payador of my renown
Is never humble in a crowd.
He may be prudent, yet be proud —
Too proud to ever yield his crown.
And now I'll give you some advice,
And pray, my friend, don't take offense:
'Tis better not to let me fence,
But question me, and be precise.
I could not take offense at this —
You did not say it to offend.
So I wiU ask you this, my friend:
What is the meaning of a kiss?
The earth and sun are wont to kiss
When night unto the day gives place;
And I can't help but think that this
Is Uke a lover's last embrace.
But when the ev'ning shadows fall,
Once more they do each other greet,
And kiss each other as they meet,
As at the morning's eager call.

58 SANTOS VEGA act h
We have a kiss's counterpart
In many a lover's evensong:
'Tis beautiful, but never long,
And leaves its imprint on the heart.
A kiss is Uke unto a flower
Pressed tight between a lover's lips;
And when he of its nectar sips
He ne'er forgets his love's sweet dower.
There are kisses black with treachery,
And those that hide a whip-lash sting,
And evil ones, and ones that ring
As true as steel — as ours should be.
A wandering priest once told me this:
That long ago in a far-off place
A man, be it said to his disgrace,
Betrayed our Saviour with a kiss!
Gumersindo. Ah! Marvelous payador and poet!
Vicenta. But he left out one kind of a kiss.
Gumersindo. Which was that?
Vicenta. The one he gave to the bottle a little while ago!
Contreras. Comrade, I must confess to you,
I can but wonder at the ease
With which you say the things that please
About a kiss — and that they're new!
But still I cannot feel quite sure
That you are going to win the day.
A question I shaU now essay —
Please answer it without delay:
Does life in man after death endure?
So now, my friend, if you are wise
Enough to answer that, I swear
I cannot do aught but declare
That you're the winner of the prize.

act n SANTOS VEGA 59
Santos. You must admit that I'm ahead,
And you're afraid to lose the game;
Because you hurry so to name
That point about a man who's dead.
It also seems that you confess
That you are tbed and wish to quit;
But I am going to answer it,
And win the game, with cheerfulness:
A man, we'll say, dies on his ranch
Alone, and quite alone has been . . .
Then down from some old withered branch,
A vulture such as you —
Contreras. [Jumping to his feet indignantly] Such as your
grandmother! Santos. He wants to correct me all of a sudden! "Such
as you have often seen," I was going to say, partner!
Contreras. You tried to trip me and throw me off.
You can't deny it. But I landed on my feet!
Gumersindo. But you lost the contest.
Vicenta. It was a robbery, and he's angry!
Contreras. Up to now I have always won in a singing
contest. If I am beaten this time it is because sooner or
later a Santos Vega will come to the best of us — one who
excels everybody in the art of smgmg. Leaving him out of
it, I am ready to sing with anybody that wants to try it!
Vicenta. Go and sing to your grandmother if you're so
crazy to sing.
Contreras. I'll sing to you some day when you least
expect it!
[At this moment the First Soldier, who had taken
advantage of the general distraction at the end of the
contest to conceal himself behind Santos Vega,
attempts to stab him in the back. Cirilo sees him
and throws Santos to the ground by a quick push,

60 S A N T O S V E G A act ii
and then seizes the dagger hand of the traitor. There
is a general commotion.
Cirilo. Ahijuna! I caught you just in time!
Soldier. Let me go!
Cirilo. Bandit! I ought to kill you!
Santos. [Arising in surprise] He tried to kill me! Where
do you suppose he comes from? And he was going to kill
me! Cirilo. He's a fine traitor, he is!
Santos. You must be a foreigner. You can't belong to
this country. People in this part of the country don't do
things Uke that, you coward!
Gumersindo. Were you going to brag about the fact that
you had killed him from behind?
Santos. Let him go. He wanted to fight, so let him fight
me face to face, like a man!
Soldier. [Remains where he is] You may kill me, and be
sure that you are killing a man. I don't want to fight,
though I must always be looking for one! Kill me if you
wish, for if you don't I swear I'll get you into trouble.
Gumersindo. Have no mercy on him — though I see you
are going to.
Soldier. I'll Keep after you until I see my chance.
Santos. Look here, I don't want to kill you! Go, and
follow me no more.
Ruperto. He'll attack you from behind!
Cirilo. He'U be treacherous again!
Santos. It would disgust me to kill him. Tears of rage
and disgust come to my eyes when I think that there are
traitors like him in my country. How can there be? The
best country in the world; the land of the singing gauchos
and brave horsemen; the land of my love? How could a
traitor like that have been born in the same country that has
known my love, where I have wept for my sorrows, where so

act ii SANTOS VEGA 61
many brave hearts listen to my songs and weep with me in;
my grief? Who was his unhappy mother whom God has
punished with a scoundrel like him for a son? [Imperiously and
threateningly] Go! and may God speed your death. May
there be no cross to mark your grave. May no one know
the pain of even suspecting that a man could be born in this
country — my country — and turn traitor! [Changing his tone
as he turns to Cirilo, much moved] Allow me to thank you, my
good friend, with all my heart. Let me embrace you; you
have saved my life.
CrRiLO. I owe my liberty to your courage, partner. You
saved me first, and won my friendship by doing it.
[They embrace.
Santos. Now let's have the dance. The girls must for
give me — it's my fault that they haven't danced yet.
Cirilo. It was that traitor's fault.
Santos [To the Guitar Players] Begin with a cielito1 if
you are tuned up. [The Guitar Players make ready.
Vicenta. Choose your partners!
[Eight couples are formed as follows: Santos with Rosa,
Cirilo with tlie First Girl, Contreras with the
Second, Ruperto with the Third, Gumersindo
with Vicenta, the Patron with Rufina, tlie First
Peon with the Fourth Girl, and the Second Peon
with the Fifth.
Santos. Play your music!
[The Guitar Players play a "cielito," whUe the First
Guitar Player sings the following:
First Guitar Player.
A cielito now I'll sing,
In honor of the payador,
Our Santos Vega, gaucho brave,
Whose fame has spread from shore to shore.
1 Cielito: literally, "Little Heaven," a gaucho dance.

62 SANTOS VEGA act u
The girl that he is dancing with
Is dead in love with him, I see;
The light that shines in her dark eyes
Tells me her secret malady.
The other maids are angry, too,
Because they cannot dance with him;
Theb partners scarce know what to do,
Theb eyes with jealousy are dim.
Ah, rielo, cielito, cielo,
Love is surely most cruel, 0!
Ah, Heavens, what exquisite girls!
For ev'ry star that in heaven whbls
There is a flower here on earth.
Of singers, too, there is no dearth!
A cielito now I've sung,
In honor of the payador.
There's no one sings like him, I vow:
His fame has spread from shore to shore!
[The cielito ends.
Contreras. [To his partner] You never even looked at me
when we were dancing the cielito. You make me very un
happy, little one.
Second Girl. That's because I'm afraid to — you've got a
face like I don't know what!
Cirilo. [To his partner] Thistles and brambles have thorns,
and so have your eyes when you look at me.
First Girl. I haven't looked at you, so how do you know
I prick? Vicenta. [Interrupting] Do you think you're a mare to
whinny like that?
Ruperto. I always forget my troubles when I'm with you.
I wonder if I'm in love with you!
Third Girl. If you find my company comforting in spite
of your troubles, I don't know how to answer you . . .

act n SANTOS VEGA 63
Vicenta. [Interrupting] Ask your grandmother!
Santos. Should you forget me, I have some black velvet
curtains to hang on my bed as mourning.
Rosa. You mustn't say those things to me. They hurt.
Why do you wish to mock me?
[Argentina's voice is heard in the distance.
Argentina. Santos!
Santos. [In surprise] Argentina's voice!
Argentina. [Nearer] Santos Vega!
Santos. It's she!
First Peon. [Looking off at right, up stage] There she is on
a horse. Santos. [Running to meet her] Argentina!
Argentina. [Enters, trembling and disheveled] Santos Vega!
[They fall into each other's arms.
Vicenta. Some new piece of bad luck.
Santos. TeU me what's the matter, dear?
Argentina. I hardly know. A little while ago I heard a
mysterious moan, long and sad like a cry of agony. ... It
was like those voices that touch you to the very soul because,
'tis said, they come from spbits in torment. My heart gave
a great leap, for I was afraid that it was you who had cried
out — you know my heart is always full of you when you are
away from me, dear one. Without a moment's thought I
jumped on a horse and came here on the run, weeping,
suffering, nervous. . . . And aU the time another voice kept
telUng me: "Go and save him! Hurry! Fly! . . . Your
Santos is in great danger!" I'm sure you are . . . Something
tells me that this fiesta wiU bring great harm to you. . . .
My heart cannot Ue. Let us go back to the ranch. . . .
Come with me!
Santos. Calm yourself, dear. Your heart did not deceive
you, for look! Right where you are standing now, if it hadn't
been for Cbilo, I'd have been carved up like a piece of meat!

64 SANTOS VEGA act ii
Argentina. Who was it?
Cirilo. A traitor.
Argentina. A traitor in our country!
Santos. Yes, a traitor, Argentina. I'd have felt less badly
about it had he killed me.
Argentina. My love!
Santos. Let no one hear of it.
Gumersindo. No, indeed. Shame will keep our mouths
shut. Argentina. But you must be very careful, Santos dear.
Jacinto. [Who had come out of the pulperia when he heard
Argentina's voice, and had been an angry observer of the
foregoing] Greetings, everybody! [Starts to go]
Rufina. Are you going?
Jacinto. Naturally!
Santos. Don't go. Come here.
Jacinto. Why should I, after what I've heard?
Santos. She loves me!
Jacinto. Let her! All right! I'm going, but, before I do,
listen to this, my dear: your singer had no sooner got here —
I saw him; I was on the lookout — than he started to make
love to another dove. [Indicating Rosa]
Santos. [Indignantly] You lie!
Argentina. [Jealously] Santos!
Rosa. It isn't true, Argentina!
Jacinto. [As he goes out] Greetings!
Santos. [Running to detain him] Not yet!
Argentina. [Restraining him] His poison never reached my
soul. That heart of mine that never lies would have shouted
a warning to me. Let him go!
Rosa. Santos Vega only spoke about my eyes, because he
said they reminded him of yours . . .
Santos. And, besides, Santos Vega always has a verse to
offer the women of this land, because they are love, and in

act ii SANTOS VEGA 65
them is our race. . . . And now, if everybody is willing I'd
like to dance a cielito with my little heaven!
[They again form the couples as before, and once more
the Guitar Players play a cielito.
First Guitar Player.
A cielito now I'll sing
In honor of the payador.
There's no one sings like him, I vow:
His fame has spread from shore to shore!
[As he sings this, the curtain slowly descends.

ACT THREE
Scene One
A drop-curtain painted as the ranchmen's sleeping-quarters.
A door in the center. Contreras, Gumersindo, Cirilo,
Vicenta, and several others are discovered. As the curtain
rises, Contreras sings the following to the tune of Santos'
son g in the Second Act. He accompanies himself on the
guitar.
Contreras. Though bitter sorrow is my lot,
'Twill never, never be my death.
So long as I can draw my breath
I'll sing, and when I sing there's naught
Can kill me: grief most sure cannot.
A payador, I now proclaim
That herein am I known to fame;
And when I sing from my great heart
The bravest fall before my art,
For Santos Vega is my name.
Vicenta. What more could he wish!
Gumersindo. You can never tell.
Cirilo. Where do you suppose Santos Vega is?
Gumersindo. Where he usuaUy is, partner: wandering
from place to place, singing, with his horse, his sweetheart,
his guitar, and his songs. He has his verses and his guitar
and his sweetheart's kisses to comfort his grief. His horse
will help him to cross the pampas, his knife will defend his
liberty, and his songs will bring peace to his soul. There
66

act in SANTOS VEGA 67
isn't a Creole who won't give him shelter, or a lark that doesn't
sing for his consolation, or a girl who will refuse him her
heart when she hears him sing. He and his sweetheart may
have gone into the desert to subdue the Indians with the
sadness of his music. Who knows but what this very
minute he may be saving some gaucho's life at the risk of his
own? He is like that — always generous, noble, and just.
Or perhaps he is singing to his sweetheart beneath some
ombu tree. . . . Yet, he must be silent, for if he were singing
we should hear him. His verses have wings like doves.
Cirilo. What if he were dead, old man?
Gumersindo. He is alive ! Santos Vega is the song on the
pampa that awakens it before dawn; in his soul are all the
desires, aU the grief and anxiety, the nobility, the joy, and
the sorrow of our race. There isn't an ombu that doesn't
know the sound of his guitar, because he has sung beneath
them aU with a song for each leaf. He is not dead ; he lives,
for I do not see how the pampas could be silent without him.
It would be as if a beautiful woman were to fall in love and
feel no pain. If he had died, then why all the finery that
adorns his country? Of what use are we without the emotion
of his music and the love of his soul? Something would
have told us that he no longer breathed — the sun would have
gone behind a cloud, the pampas would have veiled them
selves in mourning. . . .
Ruperto. [Entering cautiously] Pst! Cirilo — they're here!
Cirilo. Who?
Ruperto. The police!
Cirilo. Curse them!
Ruperto. They've already dismounted.
Gumersindo. You'd better run for it, my friend.
Vicenta. Don't give yourself up.
[Cirilo resolves to escape, and runs toward the door,
but just as he reaches it the First Soldier bars his way.

68 SANTOS VEGA act ih
Soldier. No, you don't ! We'll go to the judge together, if
you please!
Cirilo. [Unsheathing his knife] Stand aside!
Soldier. [To others outside] Come in! [Enter four more
Soldiers] You see, my friend? I am in good company. Do
you want to put up a fight so I can show you how well I
learned my lesson? There are still more outside. Take his
knife away from him! [The Soldiers start to obey, bul
Cirilo dashes his knife to the floor] That's the way I like to
see you act!
Cirilo. [Embradng Gumersindo] Good-by, old friend.
Soldier. Take him away.
Cirilo. [Going out with the Soldiers] Come on, you
thieves !
Soldier. If he tries to run, strike him down. [A short
pause] Where is the other fighting-cock?
Vicenta. Which one?
Soldier. The celebrated singer. Isn't he here?
Gumersindo. I swear he hasn't even been here.
Soldier. He's in luck!
Gumersindo. And you're in better luck still. You've got
to be pretty thirsty to drink out of that barrel!
Soldier. [As he goes out] He'll get his deserts.
Gumersindo. [After a pause] You'U get yours, too!
Ruperto. We never get fair play — not even from God,
for all that they say He's so good.
Gumersindo. That would be the best of all.
Vicenta. It's something priests sell, like goods in a
pulperia. Gumersindo. Nobody thinks of us. We're most unfor
tunate. First Peon. [Who has been looking through the door]
They're running off like a pack of Indians.
Ruperto. [Looking out] Cheats! With those horses!

act in SANTOS VEGA 69
Gumersindo. Like Indians . . . you're right. They are
just like Indians!
Ruperto. Ugh! They are rushing off as if they were
going to join an uprising! I can hardly see them now!
Gumersindo. We ought to have fought them all.
Ruperto. What for? They would have taken him just
the same. If he hadn't surrendered, they'd have carved him
up. Why, they brought a whole troop! They had an idea
they were going to find Santos Vega here.
Vicenta. If that brave lad had been here he'd have fought
the whole troop!
Ruperto. He'd have been killed doing it.
Gumersindo. But he'd have risked his life gladly to save
Cbilo. He'd have shown us that it's a hard job to carve
up a buU like him! He's good at singing, but he's a tiger
at fighting. [Pause. Argentina, viribly worn, silently appears in
the doorway.
Argentina. God keep you, good people.
[They are all pleasantly surprised.
Vicenta. [Embracing her] Argentma!
Argentina. Vicenta!
Gumersindo. My child!
Argentina. My old friend!
Ruperto. What's the news?
Vicenta. What brings you here so suddenly?
Ruperto. Did you come alone?
First Peon. Where's your singer?
Argentina. [Sadly] Ah, my singer!
Gumersindo. [In alarm] Not dead?
Argentina. [Exaltedly] Alive! If I still live, who can con
ceive of his being dead?
Gumersindo. Where is he?
Argentina. Resting.

70 SANTOS VEGA act in
Vicenta. Did he come with you?
Argentina. Would I have come otherwise? I could no
more exist without him than there can be light without the
sun, perfumes without flowers, songs without singers, cooing
without doves, or life without love. So you may be sure that
my singer must be afive. He is asleep beneath that dear old
ombu where we first met and where he first kissed me.
Gumersindo. That's all I need to hear! [Starts to go out.
Argentina. [Detaining him] Don't wake him up; he is suf
fering terribly.
Gumersindo. WTiat from?
Argentina. From a presentiment that his death is near.
Gumersindo. Is it so serious?
Argentina. He has not suffered so in a long time. Some
how or other he seems to have been hurt, badly hurt. He
is suffering as he used to before the blessed day when I
changed his grief to joy. He weeps as he used to weep. . . .
He no longer sings as he did — for love of m». He's so un
happy that he sobs when he sings now. . . .
[Weeping bitterly, Argentina goes out, and, after her,
the others.
Scene Two
The drop-curtain rises slowly, discloring a bit of the pampas.
In the center is an enormous ombii, beneath the foliage
of which sleeps Santos Vega. His guitar is leaning
against the trunk. His unsaddled horse stands a few paces
from him. It is evenfall. In the distance can be seen the
crimson splendor of the dying sun. All the persons of the
foregoing scene surround the ombu, watching Santos Vega.
Argentina is at his side.
Argentina. [Deeply moved] Sleep, my love, while your sor
rowing friends watch over you. Grief has silenced the cooing

act iii SANTOS VEGA 71
of the doves, and even the sun is sinking sadly — slowly dying,
bleeding. . . . The pampas are silent, fearful of disturbing your
rest. Near you is your beloved sweetheart. You need fear
your presentiment no longer, for aU the brave men of your
race are here with you. [Pause.]
Santos. [7m his dreams] You, here!
Gumersindo. Santos Vega!
Argentina. My love!
Santos. You cannot do it. No one can defeat me. The
best of them yield to me.
Ruperto. Wake him up.
Argentina. My love!
Santos. You must yield. No one can defeat me, much
less a foreigner. I have always been the victor — no one
sings better than I. [After a pause she bursts into tears] Argen
tina! They have beaten your singer!
Argentina. [Trying to wake him] Wake up! You are
dreaming. Santos, it's I speaking!
Santos. [Wakes in surprise. Sits up, looks slowly about
him, and embraces Argentina] I thought I was having a
singing contest with Satan.
Gumersindo. Santos!
Santos. My old friend! Greetings, everybody!
Ruperto. You've been dreaming!
Santos. [Absently] Of course! . . .
Gumersindo. [Laughing] Pshaw, my good friend! Why
did. you shout so?
Santos. [Sadly preoccupied] It is nothing to laugh about,
old friend. It hurts me, for I know that I shall die Uke that
—singing. Gumersindo. Canejo! Santos Vega is losing his nerve.
Santos. I have never lost my nerve; but the devil is a great
singer and he's after me.
Gumersindo. And so you don't want me to laugh, partner?

72 SANTOS VEGA act iii
Santos. Of course not! You see, my friend, if I lose, I
^lie. Gumersindo. But who is going to beat you?
Santos. I don't know . . . it's a presentiment. [Pause.
Then, fearfully] I just dreamed how and who it would be!
Gumersindo. Tell us about it.
Santos. [Scarcely master of himself as yet] It was right here.
My darling was at my side, here, beneath the ombli . . . and
there were several gauchos, as there are now, Ustening to my
unhappy story. . . . The sun was slowly sinking, just as it is
now. Everything was hushed . . . very still. Nothing was
heard on the pampas. I was very unhappy, because my
presentiment was circling about my head in the shape of a
huge, fierce bbd. I did not dare to look at it, and, besides,
no one else saw it. I was trembling with cold terror, as I
am now. ... Ah! [Shudders]
Argentina. [In alarm] Santos!
Santos. [Growing more and more exdted] That is just what
you said! And I said to you through my tears: TeU me,
beloved, you who are my life, the flowers in my path, my
dearest song; who soothed me so tenderly; who gave me
a new soul; who comforted me in my distress; my sweet
heart . . . Argentina dear, if I should die would you
keep me in your heart? And you answered . . .
Argentina. [Interrupting him] Theb aroma outlives the
flowers, but if the singer dies, his sweetheart must die, too.
But the soul of the singer will never pass away, the winds
wiU vibrate to the echoes of his songs, and in the hearts of all
his race the mdomitable payador wiU leave an everlasting
memory to prove a menace to the conqueror!
Gumersindo. And our whole gaucho soul, strong, and
tempered with our grief, will make a banner from a piece
of the singer's heaven.
^antqb. That is just what they aU said. But my pre-

act in SANTOS VEGA 73
sentiment overwhelmed me with its torture . . . suddenly . . .
they aU fell silent. Argentina threw her arms about me as if
to defend me. I struggled to get free. My voice choked, and
I felt a cold chill in my heart; for, friends, I saw before me a
payador from a strange land! But the devil was concealed
beneath his clothing. . . . My old friend, you should have
heard how beautifully he spoke! And he said his name
was Juan Sin Ropa!
Juan Sin Ropa. [Suddenly appearing before them] Who
speaks my name?
Santos. [Terrified] It's he!
Gumersindo. [In alarm] Santos Vega!
Juan Sin Ropa. I am a wanderer seeking conquest, glory,
and fame. I would vanquish the plains and surmount the
Sierras . . . wherever there are peoples to conquer. I would
seize the fruits of the land for my own and cUmb to the
topmost peak of the mountains, there to enforce my power
over aU. I am a new breath that reaches you with the wild
fury of a mighty hurricane. The fleetest and most spirited
of your horses runs not so swiftly as mine. His tracks scar
the earth like fire. They are deep and painful. Later they
shaU become land wasted by war, or gleam with the gold of
generous ears of corn. I bring you new verses of minstrel
genius, beautiful songs of triumph, of fortune, of love. . . .
Argentina. We have the songs of our payadors. What
do you want with us?
Juan Sin Ropa. To conquer Santos Vega; for with him
out of the way, it wiU be easier to subdue the others.
Argentina. He is the music and flower of our land!
Juan Sin Ropa. I am a warrior, but I am also a sower of
seeds; and one must pluck flowers in order to sow seeds!
Argentina. One might as weU pluck the heart from one's
breast . . . but perhaps you have a talon instead of a heart?
Juan Sin Ropa. I must conquer him!

74 SANTOS VEGA act iii
Santos. [Heroically] No one can ao that — least of all a
foreigner. Gumersindo. That is like Santos Vega.
Santos. [To Argentina] Give me my guitar, my love.
[A moment of profound silence. Argentina takes the
guitar and, before handing it to the ringer, says, with
great emotion:]
Argentina. My payador's dear guitar. You have sung of
my love; you have wept when I was sad and laughed when I
was happy. How much sorrow is hidden within your silent
strings! How often have your chords sounded like the moan
of a breaking heart! In moments of passion you have
quivered and laughed and sobbed Uke a Uving heart beneath
his fingers. You must now sing as you have never sung
before — proudly, strongly, bravely. . . . With this kiss I now
place my soul into the keeping of your strings, guitar of mine!
[Kisses the guitar. Deeply moved, the famous payador
takes the guitar from Argentina and sits beneath
the legendary omlru. He begins with a prelude with
which the deep sobs that escape from his breast are
! mingled.
Santos. My only joy and truest friend
I find hi my well-tuned guitar.
Within its silver strings there are
Sweet melodies that melt and blend,
And stay with me until the e»d.
Without its solace I should die.
I taught it first to sing, yes, I,
And then to weep and suffer pain;
And when I pass away I fain
Would have it with me where I Ue.
Juan Sin Ropa. [Declaims the following:]
Guitar of mine:
Your voice is womanly, sonorous, sweet. . . .

actih SANTOS VEGA 75
Before you came to have your present shape
You were a Moorish maid; in all the world
There breathed no other maid so beautiful.
Small wonder that
As my guitar
You are so skilled hi winning love for me.
The first guitar, you were my greatest love.
I first beheld you as that Moorish maid,
A maid divine in body and in soul.
You sing, and men go mad with passion's heat
To hear the beauty of your melting chords.
You sigh as when a maiden yields her love.
You are the people's muse —
And when you laugh, or sob,
Your strings are like a woman's quiv'ring soul.
([While Juan Sin Ropa rentes the foregoing, Santos
Vega begins to realise that he has met his doom.
When ike apostrophe is finished, Santos drops his
guitar and presses his hands to his heart.
Argentina. [In despair] Santos! Santos!
Santos. [Sobbing] Friends, I am beaten!
Argentina. My love!
Santos. He is the devil!
Gumersindo. Santos Vega
Santos. [With a supreme effort] But, no — the best of them
yield to me! My guitar! [Argentina again gives it to him.
Santos takes it, embraces it, and makes an effort to play it, but
il falls from his hands and he sinks to the ground] Argentina,
he has beaten me!
[The famous singer dies. The sun scarcely illumines
the countryside.
Argentina. [Wild with grief, frantic, raving, kisses the face
of her lover again and again] Santos! . . . My life! — My soul!
. . . My soul! . . .

76 SANTOS VEGA act ni
Gumersindo. [Indicating Juan Sin Ropa with a gesture of
hatred] By the looks of him, if he isn't the devil he's worse!
Argentina. [Standing erect over the body of her lover, as a
prophetess she heroically declaims the following symbolic lines
to the gauchos] Weep! For the singer is dead . . . and with
him dies his whole race! [The gauchos reverently uncover.
Slow Curtain

THE WITCHES' MOUNTAIN
(La Montana de Brujas)
A TRAGEDY IN THREE ACTS
By JULIO SANCHEZ GARDEL

PERSONS OF THE PLAY
Leon t
Don Tadeo
'Inda DanielJuan de Dios
• ZOILATobias Camposanto
PlQUILLIN
•Lupipa Rupeeto
Musicians and Guests
SETTING FOR ALL THREE ACTS
A lonely ranch in the Andes.
On the left, down stage, is the entrance to the cook-house.
Up stage, on the left, is ihe entrance to Inda's cabin.
On the right, down stage, is another cabin, Don Tadeo's.
Farther up stage is the men's dormitory. Behind this can be
seen part of ihe foliage of a carob tree.
A background of mountains. The landscape is desolate,
somber, rough, forbidding. Rocks of all shapes and sizes
dominate ihe scene.
Strewn about the stage are tools, lassos, saddles, bridles,
saddle pads, harness bells, harness, etc., etc. There is a small
rustic table and two or three old straw chairs.

78

THE WITCHES' MOUNTAIN

ACT ONE
Dawn is breaking. PiQunxf n enters from the dormitory rub
bing his eyes, crosses to and enters the cook-house; after
a moment he reappears, carrying two buckets and goes out,
up stage, to the right.
After a little Daniel enters from the cabin on the right, crosses
the stage, and disappears, up stage, to the right. He is
followed in turn by Juan de Dios from ihe dormitory
and Inda from her cabin.
It is now full daylight.
Tobias enters from the left, sits beneath the eaves of Tadeo's
cabin, and begins to braid a lasso. A moment later Zoila
enters from the cook-house, sifting corn.
Zoila. Up and at work so early!
Tobias. I'm in a hurry to finish braiding this lasso.
Zoila. Who is it for?
Tobias. You can be sure it's not for Leon.
Zoila. Is it for Daniel?
Tobias. The same. He left his down below, and so Don
Tadeo wants me to make him one out of the best horse-
hide. Seeing that it's for him! . . .
Zoila. [With a certain misgiving] It seems to me that Don
Tadeo doesn't like anybody but Daniel.
Tobias. Maybe . . . 79

80 THE WITCHES' MOUNTAIN acti
Zoila. [Meaningly] You know a great deal about Don
Tadeo! [Tobias looks at her and shrugs his shoulders] He
didn't sleep here nor anywhere else last night. Just before
daybreak I felt sick and went out to look for some myrtle
over by the old stone waU, when suddenly, through a clearing,
I saw Don Tadeo himself on the Alto del MoUe cliff, standing
with his arms crossed and looking down. He seemed made
of stone. WTien I came back, there he was, in the same
place and in the same position. What could he have been
looking at?
Tobias. How do I know? . . .
Zoila. That's where he threw that muleteer over the cliff
... at the very same hour . . . the same day of the year . . .
the same kind of a night . . . and nothing was ever seen of him.
Was there? . . . Not even his bones? . . .
Tobias. I don't know . . . anything. Why do you speak
of those things, eh?
Zoila. I always remember it like that.
Tobias. I don't want to know anything. Didn't I tell
you never to speak to me about that, old witch?
Zoila. You're afraid! [Laughs]
Tobias. Afraid! ... Of what?
Zoila. You ... or the devil ought to know.
Tobias. I'm talking to him now.
Zoila. Secrets are like poison, Tobias: they kill if you
keep them inside you.
Enter Inda, up stage, carrying a bucket of milk
Inda. Has Leon got back yet, Father?
Tobias. No.
Inda. He said he would get back today.
Tobias. He may yet; the sun isn't very high.
Zoila. Is that milk for breakfast?
Inda. No, it's for making curds.
Zoila. You know, Tobias . . . secrets . . . Ha! Ha! . . .

act I THE WITCHES' MOUNTAIN 81
[Zoila goes out. Inda puts the bucket of milk on a
bench at the left.
Inda. [Coming closer] Father!
Tobias. Yes?
Inda. I'm afraid.
Tobias. You, too! Since when? You've never been
afraid before.
Inda. Since Daniel got back.
Tobias. Daniel? What for?
Inda. I don't know . . . but when he looks at me his eyes . . .
Tobias. Like his father's? Has he Don Tadeo's eyes, Inda?
Inda. No, they're not the same. Don Tadeo's eyes are
cold. Daniel doesn't look at me like that. His eyes burn
— like fire.
Tobias. No, Inda, that can't be so.
Inda. Yes, Father, I'm right. They look like cat's eyes
in the dark.
Tobias. But doesn't he know that you are going to marry
his brother Leon? Haven't you told him?
Inda. Yes, he knows it. ... I told him and he laughed . . .
like Don Tadeo. . . . The same kind of a laugh!
Tobias. Poor Leon! He has enough troubles already.
Inda. [After a pause] Then why don't we go away, Father?
Why five like this?
Tobias. Go away? Did you say go away?
Inda. I did.
Tobias. Go away! Do you suppose I can leave? My
poor child! You don't know what holds me here. . . . You
don't know! Why, it's killing me. ... I only wish it would
soon end this miserable life of mine! Why should I want to
live? Eh? I can never be my own master. . . . The other is
always with me, telling me what I must do, and he doesn't
want me to go away because he's afraid of what I know,
Inda. . . . And I know so many things!

THE WITCHES' MOUNTAIN

ACT I

Inda. Are you bewitched, Father?
Tobias. I'm beginning to think I am.
Inda. But who has bewitched you?
Tobias. Who? Don Tadeo — the devil himself!
Inda. [Frightened] Father!
Tobias. Yes, the devil himself! Himself! He has me in
his power, chained to his wiU. Those eyes of his that look
so cold and faded have the power of snakes. You have to
give in, and he makes you do anything he wants. When he
looks at you it's just as if he stabbed you with a knife ... it
gives you a cold chill. ... So far, I have never seen a man who
could stand up to him. When I was a lad I used to see him
when he had to break in a wild colt, one of those animals
that won't even stand a flea on theb back; aU he did was to
take him by the ears, look at him hard, and jump on his back.
The colt would foam at the mouth like a madman at first,
but finaUy he would give up and cave in like a heap of straw.
He has the same power, only more so, over women. When
ever he took a fancy to one and complimented her a couple
of tunes, she was Uke putty. And the worst of it is they
hated him and loved him at the same tune. I've never seen
a man with more nerve. They always ran away from him as
from the devil, but then they'd come back and grovel at his
feet and insult him in the worst way right to his face. But
he just kept on laughing and laughing with that same hoUow
laugh of his and looking at them with his small eyes. It's a
good thing that Daniel has his mother's eyes — it certainly is!
But in everything else he is just Uke Don Tadeo, Inda, and
I wouldn't want you to have the agony of crawling to his
feet and groveling. No, Inda, my child, I wouldn't want to
see you Uke that. Before I would aUow that I'd put out
your eyes with thorns so you couldn't see his eyes, and then,
if he stiU bewitched you with his desbe, I'd choke you with
aU my strength, with my two hands, Uke this . . . and break

act i THE WITCHES' MOUNTAIN 83
your neck as I would a chicken's . . . and then I'd throw you
from the cliff — from the highest peak, so you would have
farther to fall!
Inda. Don Tadeo!
[Don Tadeo, somber, with kis arms crossed, appears
up stage.
Tadeo. [After a pause] Where are you going?
Inda. I'm going after some fig leaves to curdle the milk
with. [Goes out, up stage, to tlie right.
Tadeo. [After a pause] Have you seen anything on Alto
Grande, old man?
Tobias. On — ?
Tadeo. The same.
Tobias. I've seen nothing.
Tadeo. You don't go up there often, do you?
Tobias. No, indeed. [Pause]
Tadeo. [Laughing] Are you afraid of the dead man?
Tobias. I?
Tadeo. Doesn't he keep you company sometimes at night,
when you're alone?
Tobias. No.
Tadeo. You're luckier than I am. Last night I was alone
hi my room  I couldn't sleep, so I lit the candle. Suddenly
I heard some one knocking. "Comein!"IcaUed. The door
stayed shut, but something came into the room. I saw my
saddle-bags move as if some one was going through them,
and then my candle went out. [A short pause] What do you
think of that? I started to laugh all by myself Uke a mad
man, but then I got angry and went over there . . . understand?
... to see if I could find anything. I saw nothing. All
the better for him — for once I get my hands on a feUow, I
teU you he never gets up again. I'm disgusted with him. He
never lets me sleep now, and I can't tend to the affabs of the
ranch. I've thought of Daniel in that connection; of letting

84 THE WITCHES' MOUNTAIN act i
him have charge. All these things trouble me a lot inside,
for aU that I seem to laugh.
Tobias. What about Leon?
Tadeo. What for? Daniel is very capable, and very much
of a man ... in every way!
Tobias. So is Leon.
Tadeo. Daniel is more than good enough! [A short pause]
I know what you're getting at. But it will be a great deal
better in every way for you and for . . . Inda.
Tobias. For me and Inda?
Tadeo. More for Inda than for you.
Tobias. No, not that! I won't have it! No, Don Tadeo,
no! Tadeo. [Laughing] Bah! Don't be a baby, old man!
Tobias. But Leon is your son, too!
Tadeo. [Dramatically] My son! [Again laughs] My son!
Have you forgotten the affair on the cliff already?
Tobias. No; it wasn't so! He is your son ! Your son!
Tadeo. [Still laughing] Don't be a baby! My son, indeed!
[Enter Piquillin with a bucket of milk, up stage. He starts
to enter ihe cook-house] Laugh! You laugh, too! [Piquillin
laughs idiotically] That's funny! My son! Don't be a baby,
old man! [Goes out at right, laughing bitterly, striking with his whip
at everything in his way. Inda enters a moment
later.
Inda. [To Tobias, who stands at one side of the stage, dis
couraged and gloomy] What's the matter, Father? What did
Don Tadeo say to you?
Tobias. Why should I teU you? Why trouble you? I
have no will power ... I am like that rock ... I am speechless!
I must keep on chewing the poison I have within me! My
poor child! My poor child!
Enter Daniel and Juan de Dios

acti THE WITCHES' MOUNTAIN 85
Daniel. [With a sarcastic laugh] That's all right; it was
nothing; just a tumble. Rub a little tallow on it tonight.
But who put you up to such things? Tune up your strings
and sing the best you know how, but don't try to play the
brave man with me. Enter Piquillin
Inda. What happened?
Daniel. Why, I invited this lad to take a ride on Malacara,
and he accepted the invitation. "Look out or he'll throw
you," I said; and the lad, who had been talking and boasting
a good deal, answered, "I can do what others can do." . . .
What others can do, indeed! Don't make me laugh!" . . .
He had no sooner got on his back than Malacara gave a jump
and landed him on his head in the mud. [Piquillin laughs
stupidly] It certainly was laughable! You should have seen
his face, Inda, when he got up! His own mother wouldn't
have known him!
Juan de Dios. [Threateningly, to Piquillin] What are you
laughing at?
Daniel. [Imperiously] Let the boy alone. What are you
mad at? Can't you see I'm laughing, too? [To Piquillin]
That's enough. [Pause] It was your good luck that you
didn't hit the stone wall. Riding Malacara! But, do
you know what it is to break a mountain colt? You've
got to have a lot of strength here, and here; you've got
to guess what he's going- to do so as to jump on his back,
for the animal guesses, too, and knows who is going to
mount him; and, above all, my lad, you've got to have
nerve — which you haven't! [Provocatively]
Juan de Dios. [Threateningly] I haven't?
Daniel. Look at him! He's angry! Don't be offended,
my lad; it wasn't such a bad fall. Why should we fight
now? Wait for another reason [meaningly, for. Inda's
benefit] which we'll be sure to have — and then we'll fight

86 THE WITCHES' MOUNTAIN acti
if you want to. What the devil! I can't contradict my
own guest!
Juan de Dios. Whenever you wish. I'm not afraid of you.
Daniel. Fine!
Juan de Dios. I'm not Malacara!
Daniel. Splendid! That's what I have this for [draws his
knife] when my hands fail me. Don't misunderstand me.
Look at it; we're not going to fight now. Take hold of it.
Try to bend the point. Not even you can do it! [To Piqui
llin] Nobody can. Test it! See how heavy it is, old man.
It goes in easy and would cut stone. [He chips the table with a
blow] Don't you be afraid of it, Inda! Take hold of it!
Inda. Afraid? I'm not afraid of any one.
Daniel. Not even of me?
Inda. Not of any one, I tell you!
Daniel. [Laughing] I like that! You're just like me,
Inda, just Uke me! Enter Don Tadeo
Tadeo. [To Tobias] Here, old man, saddle up the mule and
go over to Morrito de la Esquina and get Pastor, the blind
man, with the two musicians who were playing at a baby's
wake the night before last, then go over to Lupipa's and tell
her that I said to bring down all her gbls to the dance I'm
giving tomorrow. Go now, before the sun gets any hotter.
[To Piquillin] Go and cut some carob beans so old Zoila
can make aloja; * we want to have it good and strong for
tomorrow. You have time to get back for breakfast. [Exit
Piquillin up stage to the right] Ah, old man, tell them that
Daniel has got back from down below, and that the dance
is for him. [Exit Tobias, up stage to the right.
Daniel. Now's your chance, my lad, if you want to shake
your hoofs.
1 Aloja: a refreshing beverage made from carob beans.

act I THE WITCHES' MOUNTAIN 87
Juan de Dios. Thanks.
Tadeo. You certainly should want to; when I was your
age I could dance on the end of a finger-nail. [Moves up stage.
Daniel. Where are you going, Father?
Tadeo. To the corral to treat the cattle for vermin.
Coming? Daniel. Yes.
[After glancing disdainfully at Inda and Juan de Dios,
he goes out, up stage, to the right.
Inda. Why do you act Uke that, Juan de Dios? What's
the matter with you?
Juan de Dios. What's the matter with me? Hatred,
Inda. I have a whole lot of it stored up in here. I have
never been able to have anything else; that's all that men
and life have given me. I have always thought how much
better it would be if I had been a bird or a rock; then I
shouldn't have had to flounder about with this cargo of hatred
and paip. You know they call me Juan de Dios. My
parents, if I ever had any, knew what they were doing when
they called me that. Juan de Dios, Juan of everybody and
nobody at the same time; Juan of the wind, Juan of the
mountain, Juan of the rivers and hills, even Juan of the
devil, to whom I wish I might seU my soul so as to mean
something to some one, not just nothing to nobody. They
told me to travel, and so I go from sierra to sierra, from slope
to slope, from ranch to ranch, seeking some spot where I may
rest, tbed already of this endless wandering, with my guitar
for my only companion and comfort. And this wandering of
mine has brought me to you, the only good soul I've ever
seen. Even before I saw you I knew you, and all my songs,
all my sighs, the finest things I found on my way— all were
for yon. For you were the foam on the swollen mountain
streams, the blue daisies, the sweetest notes of the lark,
the clearest waters of the cascades, the brightest stars in

88 THE WITCHES' MOUNTAIN acti
the night sky. And then, Inda, I knew hatred, more hatred
than ever before, because I felt a better man. But now I
am here, and now I have met you.
Inda. No, Juan de Dios; that can never be — never.
Juan de Dios. Never? It must be, Inda; it must be!
That's all I have lived for! I wouldn't know where to go
alone after this. Don't you understand that that life of
yours is my very own? It is my life that I am fighting for,
Inda. Inda. No, Juan de Dios; you know that Leon loves me,
and that I am going to marry him. . . .
Juan de Dios. No, Inda; nobody, nothing can take you
away from me! I haven't much strength in my arms, but
I have another kind of strength that is capable of doing more
than bodily strength. I hate much. ... I am wicked, Inda.
... I have the strength of evil that also kills men . . . it's
like many knives put together . . . and they all wound at the
same time. You think I'm weak because Daniel, who also
loves you, humiliated me before you! Inda, Inda, I'll arm
myself with a stronger arm than mine, stronger than Daniel's
— much stronger! You'll be mine, mine! We'll defend our
love beneath some great peak, in some rocky cave — for
the sierra is not so evil as men.
Enter Daniel
Daniel. [Taking him by the shoulder] Listen, my lad!
Inda. Daniel!
Daniel. What? I'm not going to do anything to him;
he's not man enough for me. Can't you see my hands are
more than enough for him? I want to teU him something.
Come! Juan de Dios. [On one side of the stage] What is it?
Daniel. That woman Inda is for me! Do you hear? For
me! Juan de Dios. No, she's not for you.

acti THE WITCHES' MOUNTAIN 89
Daniel. For you, then?
Juan de Dios. For neither of us.
Daniel. Who, then?
Juan de Dios. Onewhoismoreof amanthaneitherof us!
Daniel. [Almost shouting] Who? Who?
Juan de Dios. Leon!
Daniel. Nobody is stronger than I am except my father,
and Leon is not my father. I'll take her away from you both
before your very eyes. What's the use of beating around
the bush, eh?
Juan de Dios. Before his very eyes, you say?
Daniel. Yes! But, meanwhile, you stop sneaking around.
Any time you want to fight, I'm ready!
Juan de Dios. Why should I? I'm not strong; you're a
bigger man than I am !
Daniel. It's a good thing you know it. [Exit to the right.
Juan de Dios. Inda, I, too, am beginning to be strong.
Inda. No — I don't love you, and nobody can have me
against my wiU.
Juan de Dios. My will is stronger than yours, Inda.
[Takes her hands.
Inda. No! I tell you I don't like you! Let go of me!
Either you or I wiU die first!
[Goes out rapidly, up stage, to the right, taking her jar
with her.
Juan de Dios. It's the only thing, Inda; it's the only
thing! Death can do more than men! But first. .. .first!. . .
After a pause enter Zoila
Zoila. What makes you so sad, my lad?
Juan de Dios. I'm sick.
Zoila. And you so young?
Juan de Dios. Old people don't suffer from my malady.
Zoila. Then some girl has bewitched you.
Juan de Dios. It's called love.

90 THE WITCHES' MOUNTAIN acti
Zoila. I know that sickness well.
Juan de Dios. Do you know the cure for it?
Zoila. I've known it for years.
Juan de Dios. Have you helped many?
Zoila. Everybody.
Juan de Dios. Is it the devil's cure?
Zoila. Why ask, if it cures you?
Juan de Dios. That's true.
Zoila. Who made you sick?
Juan de Dios. A woman.
Zoila. I understand that, but where does she live?
Juan de Dios. Right here.
Zoila. Inda?
Juan de Dios. Yes.
Zoila. Then the cure wiU have to be double strength.
There are many down with that same sickness.
Juan de Dios. When will you give it to me?
Zoila. Are you in a hurry?
Juan de Dios. Very much so.
Zoila. Tonight at midnight.
Juan de Dios. Can't you make it sooner?
Zoila. I cannot.
Juan de Dios. Very good, then. Where shall I wait for
you? Zoila. By the Devil's Cross.
Juan de Dios. The Devil's Cross!
Zoila. Are you afraid?
Juan de Dios. I'm not over-confident; but if it wiU cure
me, I'll wait for you there.
Zoila. I'U be there.
[Cuts off a piece of meat and goes into the cook-house.
Enter Leon looking anxiously for some one
Juan de Dios. Ah! Leon!
Leon. Good-morning. Are you still here?

acti THE WITCHES' MOUNTAIN 91
Juan de Dios. So it would seem. Who are you looking
for? Leon. Where is Inda? [Meaningly] You haven't seen her,
have you?
Juan de Dios. She went out with a jar, probably to the
waterfall to get some water.
Leon. Zoila!
Zoila. Are you back?
Leon. Can't you see I am? If you have any stew left,
give some to the dog; he hasn't had a mouthful of food since
yesterday. [Zoila goes into the cook-house and returns with a small
iron pot. She goes out, up stage, to the right.
Juan de Dios. You seem disgusted to find me here.
Leon. I'm not pleased.
Juan db Dios. I am to see you, though.
Leon. Pleased to see me?
Juan de Dios. Yes.
Leon. I don't understand.
Juan de Dios. You seem to distrust me.
Leon. Perhaps.
Juan de Dios. There's no reason for it.
Leon. No reason for it?
Juan de Dios. I'm not speaking of formerly.
Leon. But now?
Juan de Dios. Now there is no reason.
Leon. [Looks at him as though seeking the truth in his eyes]
No? So you no longer care for Inda?
Juan de Dios. I no longer care for her.
Leon. [Gladly] Are you telUng the truth?
Juan pe Dios. Positively. I am your friend.
[Holds out his hand
Leon. My friend?
Juan de Dios. Don't you believe me?

92 THE WITCHES' MOUNTAIN acti
Leon. You see, I've never had any friend but my dog.
You are the only one!
Juan de Dios. I'll prove myself one. ,
Leon. Good! If that is the case, I'm glad.
Juan de Dios. So am I. [A short pause]
Leon. What does Inda say? Did she think of me?
Juan de Dios. No.
Leon. [Hurt] She didn't?
Juan de Dios. At least, I don't know.
Leon. She didn't think of me! [A short pause] Is there any
news? Juan de Dios. Nothing, except . . .
Leon. What?
Juan de Dios. Daniel is back.
Leon. Daniel! Did he get back?
Juan de Dios. The day after you left. . . . Don Tadeo is
giving a dance tomorrow in honor of his return. [Pause]
Aren't you pleased at the news? [Pause] I don't blame you
for not being pleased.
Leon. Why?
Juan de Dios. It's plain enough.
Leon. No; you know more and you won't tell me. Why
do you say you are my friend, then?
Juan de Dios. I don't want to worry you.
Leon. The thorn has already penetrated. Why do you
hold back now? Daniel also loves her ... is that it? Answer
me! Juan de Dios. Yes, that's it. He is after her. Why
deny it?
Leon. And what does Inda say? What does she say?
Juan de Dios. I don't know ... I don't know . . .
Leon. Now I understand why she didn't think of me!
Juan de Dios. Tadeo seems to Uke it. And he's your
father, too,

act i THE WITCHES' MOUNTAIN 93
Leon. My father!
Juan de Dios. Daniel is head over heels in love with her.
Leon. But he knows that Inda is mine! Why does he
want to take away what is mine . . . the only thing I have . . .
the only thing I love? Hasn't he always been master here?
Hasn't he always had everything he wanted? But not
Inda — No, no!
Juan de Dios. He says he is going to take her away from
you. Leon. From me? Juan de Dios!
Juan de Dios. And that he is more of a man than you
are. Leon. Juan de Dios! No! ... No!
Juan de Dios. And that that is why he carries a knife
that wiU cut stone . . .
Leon. No! . . . He's my brother . . . even if he hates me . . .
he's my brother . . .
Juan de Dios. And that he's going to take her away
before you and everybody else.
Leon. Before me? Where I can see? Does he think I'll
let him? No! The hills would fall first, and the earth open.
Blood would flow from the rocks! And who are you? Why
do you teU me such things? Why do you talk like this to me?
Don't you understand that he's my brother? Don't you
see that I cannot kill him? Who are you to stir up my
blood and instigate me to murder? Who are you?
Juan de Dios. Haven't I told you that I am your friend?
Leon. Friend! Then it isn't so pleasant, after all, to have
a friend. He makes you feel so bitterly ! WeU, at all events,
I thank you for your kindness.
Juan de Dios. Don't mention it.
[He goes out slowly, enjoying the effect of his remarks.
Enter Inda from the left, with the jar on her head.
Leon has seated himself upon a rock with his back

94 THE WITCHES' MOUNTAIN acti
to Inda. Zoila passes from up stage into the cook
house.
Inda. [Very glad lo see Leon] Leon! Are you back? I've
been expecting you since yesterday.
Leon. Me?
Inda. Yes, you, Leon.
Leon. What for?
Inda. Leon, are you iU? What's the matter?
Leon. Nothing.
Inda. Aren't you glad to see me? Why are you silent?
What is the matter with you?
Leon. I'd have been happier if I hadn't come back; if I
were stiU far away from here.
Inda. But why don't you look at me?
Leon. Why should I?
Inda. Don't you love me any more?
Leon. Ask yourself the same thing.
Inda. Why? I love you and always have loved you. . . .
Why should I ask myself that, if even when I'm asleep I
keep saying, "I love you, I love you"?
Leon. Is it true, Inda, that you love me, that you wiU
go on loving me, that you thought of me, and that all these
days that I have been away you haven't looked at any one
else, that you are mine, mine alone? Is it true that you
won't leave me to go off with another? Is it true, Inda?
Speak . . . don't worry me any more . . . speak . . .
Inda. My poor Leon — you ask me if I really love you.
Why, you mean everything to me. There's nobody hi the
whole world better than you are. You've got a bigger heart
than any other man I know, and a stronger arm to protect
me. That's why you are called Leon: you're good, and you're
strong ! That's why I love you !
Leon. Inda, Inda! [Frantically kisses her hair, her sleeves,
her apron. Tears come into his eyes, which he wipes away with

act i THE WITCHES' MOUNTAIN 95
ike back of his hand. He speaks in a torrent of words] Mine,
mine alone! Look, Inda, look at all I brought you to show
you that I thought of you. [Taking them out of his saddle-bags
and throwing them into her lap] Honey and daisies. Here is a
bit of cbinchiUa fur. See this blood-colored flower. I nearly
fell off the cliff when I picked it. Here is an ab flower.
This is sugar-cane, and . . . and that's all there is . . . because
there wasn't anything else on the sierra. If there had been,
I'd have brought it to you.
[Inda fills out the dialogue with appropriate remarks.
Enter Don Tadeo, up stage
Leon. [With instinctive fear] Father!
Tadeo. So you're back !
Leon. Yes.
Tadeo. How many cows did you round up?
Leon. Nearly all of them.
Tadeo. Which ones are missing?
Leon. Barrosa and Brava.
Tadeo. Where are they?
Leon. I ran them as far as Piedra Herrada. They've
hidden in the hills and hardly ever come down to the
Chilcas water-hole; and because the hill was very rough,
I left them.
Tadeo. That's no excuse for your taking so long. You
need breaking hi. [Pause] Did you know that Daniel was
back? Leon. Yes.
Tadeo. Did you know that he is going to be in charge
from now on? [A short pause] Did you know, I say?
Leon. I just this minute came . . .
Tadeo. Very well — you know now. [Starts to go.
Leon. Father!
Tadeo. What? [Looks at him domineeringly.
Leon. Nothing! [Strikes his hat with his hand.

96 THE WITCHES' MOUNTAIN acti
Tadeo. The better for you! Inda, tell ZoUa it's time for
breakfast. I don't feel like any myself.
[Goes out at right. Inda does as she was told. Enter
Piquillin with the carob beans, which he takes into
the cook-house. Inda appears with dishes, spoon,
and bread. Leon sits upon a rock at left.
Inda. [Pointing to the table] This place is for you.
Leon. No, Inda, not there; I couldn't swallow my food.
I'll eat here on this rock.
[Zoila serves the stew from the pot. Inda crosses to the
right.
Inda. Daniel, the stew is on the table.
[Piquillin seats himself on another rock.
Leon. [To Inda] Where are you going to eat?
Inda. I don't feel like eating, Leon.
Enter Juan de Dios, who sits near Leon. Enter Daniel
Daniel. [Catching sight of Leon] Ah! So you're back!
Leon. [Drops his spoon] It's you !
Daniel. Well, won't you sit down with me? [Pointing to
a place at the table.]
Leon. I can eat here just as well.
Daniel. [Sitting down] Very weU. [Meaningly] Did Father
tell you that I have the say here, and that I'm in charge of
everything? Leon. Of everything?
Daniel. Of everything! Now you know! Inda, bring a
little wine to celebrate the news. [Inda goes out] And you, my
friend [to Juan de Dios] are eating quietly so as not to lose
time, eh?
Juan de Dios. Yes. Enter Inda
Daniel. Serve it. Take this glass to Leon, and the other
to that lad. [She does so. Juan de Dios drinks,
Leon. I don't care for any.

act i THE WITCHES' MOUNTAIN 97
Daniel. [With a sneer] Are you going to scorn such pretty
hands? [Leon looks at Inda and drinks his wine at a gulp.
Daniel laughs. To Inda] Aren't you going to eat?
Inda. I don't feel like it.
Daniel. Sit down here, then.
Inda. What for, if I don't wish to eat?
Daniel. Sit down here!
[Leon throws his spoon down in a rage. Then he re
covers himself.
Daniel. [To Leon, irritatingly] What's the matter with
you? [Sits down again and pours Inda a glass of wine] Inda,
you're going to drink this little bit of wine to my health.
Inda. I told you I didn't want anything.
Daniel. Just a Uttle swallow and that's all.
India. I can't! I don't want to!
Daniel. I tell you to take it!
[Inda hesitates, looks about her nervously and starts
to lift the glass to her lips. There is a silence of deep
expectation. Then Leon jumps to his feet with a
roar, takes the glass from her hand, and dashes it to
pieces on the ground.
Leon. No! I'll not have it! I'll not have it!
Daniel. Ha! . . . Ha! . . . Ha!
Leon. Inda is mine!
Daniel. She belongs to whoever is the strongest! To the
best man! [Draws his knife.]
Leon. She's mine, mine, mine! No one can take her away
from me!
Daniel. I can!
Leon. No one!
Daniel. [Brandishing his knife] Ha! . . .Ha!
[Leon, beside himself, leaps upon Daniel, takes his
Imife away, breaks it, and throws away the pieces.
Leon. Now!

98 THE WITCHES' MOUNTAIN acti
[Attacks Daniel witk his fists. Daniel retreats, very
nearly beaten, and terrified at Leon's strength,
Don Tadeo sees what is going on, and rushes at
Leon wit h a savage shout.
Tadeo. Leon! Curse you!
Leon. He wanted to take her away from me, Father!
Tadeo. Nothing belongs to you here!
Leon. Inda is mine, Father, she's mine!
Tadeo. I told you that you own nothing here!
Leon. [Threatening him with his fists] Father!
Tadeo. [Subduing him with a gesture, a word, a look]
Nothing! [Leon lowers his arms, and then, by the sheer force of
his clenched fists, he makes the table creak and finally
break and fall, carrying everything with it to the
ground. Then, enraged at his very helplessness, he
throws himself upon tlie rock and sobs aloud. Don
Tadeo laughs with his cold, vague laugh. Juan de
Dios, at one side of the stage, smiles craftily.
Curtain

ACT TWO
Same as Act One. It is afternoon. Zoila is on ihe left,
grinding corn in a mortar. Tobias is on the right, cutting
up a sheep. Juan de Dios stands near Zoila.
Juan de Dios. You'll have to give me another cure. The
one you gave me was no good.
Zoila. It wasn't?
Juan de Dios. No.
Zoila. When did you give it to her?
Juan de Dios. This morning.
Zoila. In her mate?
Juan de Dios. Yes.
Zoila. And Inda . . .?
Juan de Dios. Doesn't love me — or, rather, she hates me.
It looks as if your cure worked the wrong way.
Zoila. Don't be in a hurry . . . I've got a better one.
Juan de Dios. What is it?
Zoila. Do you know Sefior Camposanto?
Juan de Dios. That old man who carries dead persons to
the cemetery down below?
Zoila. The same.
Juan de Dios. I haven't seen him since last year.
Zoila. Well, you must look for him.
Juan me Dios. Where is he?
Zoila. I don't know; it's a long time since he came by
here . . . not since Calixto died. He'd rather go around
by the rough hill road. He says it's better for the corpses.
If you find him, teU him to bring me the usual thing from
down below.
99

100 THE WITCHES' MOUNTAIN act ii
Juan de Dios. WThat is that?
Zoila. He knows!
Juan de Dios. It hasn't anything to do with dead people,
has it? [The old witch laughs.
Zoila. Dead people! It's the only thing they're good for:
to cure the living.
Juan de Dios. No, Zoila; not that!
Zoila. No?
Juan de Dios. I wouldn't mind if it came from the devil.
Zoila. So I thought! [Laughs]
Juan de Dios. Don't laugh, Zoila. There are some
things that no one should laugh at.
[He goes out slowly, glanring about him as if loolcing for
some one. The witch laughs meaningly as she pours
the corn into the sack.
Zoila. Where is Don Tadeo?
Tobias. He's taking his siesta.
Zoila. Of course, seeing that he can't sleep nights!
Tobias. What do you know about it?
Zoila. A great deal! Don Tadeo can't sleep nights any
more. All he does is to roll from one side of his cot to the
other and talk to himself, moving his arms as if he were
fighting somebody you couldn't see.
Tobias. What does he say?
Zoila. Bah ! What you know . . . always the same thing
... as if he were trying not to forget it. [A short pause] It
seems to me, Tobias, that this place will turn into a
regular witches' cave where aU the devils in the country
will come to live.
Tobias. All the better for you; you'll be in good company
then. Zoila. It will be the better for all of us, and you, too.
These rocks are accursed. I tell you the things you see here
at night are enough to scare you to death!

act n THE WITCHES' MOUNTAIN 101
Tobias. If you weren't an old owl you wouldn't see
anything . . .
Zoila. Owl or not, I'm the only one around here who
laughs, and the more the others cry, the more I laugh.
Ha! Ha! Ha! [Goes into the cook-house.
Tobias. Devil! . . . Witch! . . . You'll end by damning all
our souls! [Enter Leon from the dormitory. He is morose and
gloomy] Where did you come from? Have you been taking
your siesta?
Leon. I lay down awhile to see if I could sleep a bit, but
I couldn't. I've been like this ever since midnight.
Tobias. Have you seen something, too?
Leon. What?
Tobias. I don't know; some of old Zoila's witchcraft. . . .
Leon. No, old man; what I saw wasn't witchcraft.
Tobias. What did you see? [A short pause] Why are you
silent? Leon. I woke up very early this morning ... it was still
dark. I had my saddle out under the carob tree. The
night was very clear, and I was looking up at Alto Grande.
Pretty soon a cloud began to cover the mountain, but only
on one side. It went on gathering and gathering, until
suddenly I saw that it had taken the shape of a woman, very
tall and dressed in white. It seemed to be standing right
there. It wore a cloak that reached to the ground. Then
I got up and went up there; but as soon as I came close, the
phantom began to melt away until I couldn't see it any more.
Then the cloud spread over the whole mountain until it
completely covered it.
Tobias. [After a pause] Well, that woman . . .?
Leon. Was my mother, old man; my mother!
Tobias. But you never knew her, hardly ever saw her. . . .
Who told you...?

102 THE WITCHES' MOUNTAIN act ii
Leon. No one; but it was my mother. Every time I
have thought of her I have seen her like that. [A short pause.
Tobias. Have you been thinking about all this lately?
Leon. Yes. Tell me, old man — why do souls appear Uke
that? Tobias. Why? They say they appear like that when the
body was not buried in consecrated ground or when they
were killed in an evil manner. . . . They come back to ask for
revenge. Leon. Could that be why my mother appeared to me?
Tobias. What's that you said?
Leon. Once I heard that my father made her suffer
cruelly; that he watched her with everybody who passed this
way; that he even rolled some big rocks into the old path
so no one could come near the ranch. [Pause] If it were true!
Whenever I ask about it, nobody cares to answer me. . . .
Just as you, old man, are silent now.
Tobias. What do you want me to tell you? I don't know
a tiling. ... I haven't heard a thing. ... I haven't seen a tiling!
Leon. If it were true! [In a low voice] Listen, old man;
sometimes when I have been thinking hard about all the
wicked things my father has done I suddenly see him at the
foot of a cliff, dead, his face covered with blood, and with
condors and crows pecking at his eyes and entrails. Then,
old man, I am glad, glad to see him like that, where he can
do no more harm or bring sorrow to any one.
Tobias. He's your father, Leon.
Leon. My father! I wish he weren't! Why is he my
father? . . . Last night I went to bed firmly resolved to take
Inda away with me today Deep down in the big canyon
I have a sort of stone hut built in among the rocks. Why
stay here? Everybody wants to take her away from me:
even Father wants her to marry Daniel.
Tobias. Not that! Inda marry Daniel? Not even if Don

act ii THE WITCHES' MOUNTAIN 103
Tadeo wishes it. . . . Not even if he commands it! No! It
sha'n't be! I'll tell him so myself . . . today!
Leon. That's why I wanted to go away — so I wouldn't
fight somebody; but now that I have seen my mother, I'm
going to stay. I want to find out why she appeared to me.
And never you fear, nobody will take Inda away from me —
not even my father! Don't worry, old man; that's what I
am here for! [Goes slowly up stage.
Enter Don Tadeo
Tadeo. Haven't you finished cutting up that sheep yet?
Tobias. No.
Tadeo. Hurry up with it; the guests will be coming before
long. Roast it yourself under the carob tree. They'll be
hungry. We'll have the dance afterward. [To Leon] Where
are you going? Bring a load of wood to roast the sheep with.
Bring big wood. [Leon goes out, up stage, to the right] Wnat was
he saying to you?
Tobias. To me?
Tadeo. Yes, to you.
Tobias. He was telling me that he saw his mother early
this morning.
Tadeo. His mother!
Tobias. Yes.
Tadeo. [After a pause] He saw her himself?
Tobias. Yes. [Pause]
Tadeo. Good! [Starts to go]
Tobias. Don Tadeo!
Tadeo. What is it?
Tobias. I want to talk to you.
Tadeo. Talk away. What do you want?
Tobias. To tell you that Leon and Inda love each other
and that I have arranged for them to be married as soon
as possible.
Tadeo. Aha! You have arranged it?

104 THE WITCHES' MOUNTAIN act ii
Tobias. Yes; I wanted to notify you.
Tadeo. And what for?
Tobias. So you would know it. You seem to have thought
of something else. . . .
Tadeo. What have I thought of?
Tobias. That Inda was to marry Daniel.
Tadeo. Very well. What is there wrong with that?
Tobias. I tell you I'm her father and I've already ar
ranged it with Leon!
Tadeo. You've been in a great hurry, old man. Things
done in a hurry never turn out well.
Tobias. What are you trying to tell me?
Tadeo. Can't you understand that Daniel is going to be
patron now?
Tobias. Very good; let him!
Tadeo. And that Inda will gain by the change?
Tobias. No, Don Tadeo. I have always done everything
you wanted me to. . . . Not this, Don Tadeo! Not with my
daughter! [Don Tadeo laughs] I've suffered a great deal.
I don't want my daughter to be unhappy.
Tadeo. [Harshly] What did you say?
Tobias. Not that, Don Tadeo . . . anything you like except
that. Inda doesn't love Daniel.
Tadeo. Doesn't she?
Tobias. No.
Tadeo. Very well, then, if she doesn't love him —
Tobias. What then? . . .
Tadeo. We'll wait until she does.
Tobias. She'll never love him. Never!
Tadeo. All the worse for you, then — and for Inda!
Tobias. Don Tadeo, I don't understand your intentions
toward Inda very well, but I teU you that I have plenty of
courage to protect her, and if I am thrown over the cUff
like that muleteer, Leon will revenge me.

act ii THE WITCHES' MOUNTAIN 105
Tadeo. Revenge you! Ha! [Laughs.]
Tobias. Zoila is right. We have a great deal of bad luck
coming to us yet. Everything that happens here seems to
come from the devil.
Tadeo. When the devil sticks his tail into things he always
has some reason for it. AU right, when you get through
with your carving, start the fire. Leon has abeady gone
for the wood. And let the devil alone, Tobias, for he's not
such a bad chap to those who understand him well.
[Lauglis and goes out at the right.
Tobias. Tiger! . . . Wretch! Curse you! . . . Curse you!
Enter Inda with corn-husk cigarettes
Inda. Where is Leon? Have you seen him?
Tobias. He went for some wood. What did you want?
Inda. Nothing. [A short pause] Where is Daniel?
Tobias. He's probably inside.
Inda. Where are you going?
Tobias. To look for a spit.
Inda. Here. [Hands him some dgarettes.
Tobias. Thanks, my child.
[Lights one with his tinder and goes off up stage to the left.
Inda. [Glancing about her and approaching the door on the
right] Daniel, here are the cigarettes.
Daniel. [Off stage] Come in!
Inda. I don't wish to. I'll leave them on the table.
[Runs to the left of the stage.
Daniel. [Entering] You're afraid of me and you love me
at the same tune.
Inda. I, love you?
Daniel. Yes, me!
Inda. If love is anything Uke hate, it may be so.
Daniel. Last night when you thought I was asleep you
came into my room and watched me for a while.
Inda. I? You lie! You lie!

106 THE WITCHES' MOUNTAIN act n
Daniel. This morning when I was saddling up you came
over and hid behind the carob tree.
Inda. You lie! I didn't come for you. I was looking for
something and I hid to keep you from looking at me with
those terrible eyes of yours that follow me everywhere.
Love you? I hate you! I hate you!
Daniel. When I came back this morning you were stand
ing over there looking in the direction I had gone, and when
you saw me coming you ran into the house. If that is the
way you hate me, hate me forever, my dear.
[He has been moving toward her. Now he takes her hand.
Inda resists less and less.
Inda. Let me go! Don't touch me! Your touch burns
me; your hands are afire!
Daniel. [Overpowering her] Can't you see that you love
me! That you are mine, mine?
Inda. [Weakly] No! You lie! Let me go. . . . Let me go!
Daniel. You're afraid of me; you're trembling!
Inda. [Undergoing a reaction, and tearing herself fordbly
from his grasp] I'll kiU you! Let me go . . . curse you! I'll
see you dead first . . . torn to pieces and eaten by vultures!
Daniel. I'll tame you till you come and throw yourself
at my feet. You'U follow me like a dog, and you'U come
back to me whining for a caress. . . .
Inda. Never, never, never!
Daniel. Poor Inda! You don't know me! Poor Inda!
[Starts to go out. In spite of herself, as if dominated by a
superior will, Inda takes two or three steps in his direction]
Where are you going? Why do you foUow me?
Inda. [Stopping in surprise] I . . .
Daniel. Poor Inda! [Goes out at right, laughing.
Inda. [Weeping disconsolately] Father! Father!
[Leon enters from up stage, sees Inda, drops his wood
and runs to her side.

act ii THE WITCHES' MOUNTAIN 107
Leon. Inda! What's the matter?
Inda. Leon! Take me away from here . . . let's go away
folever. These rocks are accursed.
Leon. But what is the matter with you? Who made you
cry? Inda. Let's run away, Leon, before we are any worse off.
Leon. Run away? Very well, Inda, but not now.
Inda. Yes, now, Leon; this minute. Why do you want
to stay here?
Leon. Why? To find out something, Inda.
Inda. Who from? [Fearing for Daniel.]
Leon. My father.
Inda. Let your father alone, Leon, let him alone. Don
Tadeo is very wicked. He's to blame more than anybody
else for all these things.
Leon. That's just why I want to stay. That — and some
thing else. If it were true !
Inda. Let's go away, Leon. . . . He'U kill you. . . . You
don't know him.
Leon. He, kiU me? [Transition] No, Inda, he couldn't
kiU me. His eyes are what I'm afraid of . . . . When he looks
at me he paralyzes and disarms me. But there must be
some way out, and then . .
Inda. Leon, I'm afraid! I'm afraid!
Leon. Of whom?
Inda. If you love me so much, take me away from here
. . . take me away from aU these rocks . . . don't leave me
here, Leon. . . .
Leon. But what is troubling you?
Inda. Bad luck! Bad luck! It isn't my fault. ... If
you have something to do, come back alone and do it; let
me stay far away from here, where I shall never see these
cabins, never . . .
Leon. It's Daniel! Does he still annoy you? Answer me!

108 THE WITCHES' MOUNTAIN act ii
Inda. I love you, Leon . . .
Leon. Does he? Answer . . .
Inda. Yes.
Leon. [Resolutely] Very well; he won't do it any more!
Inda. No! I lied ... it isn't so ... it isn't Daniel . . .
Leon. Who? Who?
Inda. Oh, I don't know. I don't know, Leon. . . . Have
pity on me . . .
Leon. Very well, Inda, I'll take you out of here tonight.
I'll hide you somewhere on the sierra . . . but I shaU come
back! I shall come back . . .
Inda. Leon ! My Leon ! You have taken a great load off
my heart. You have saved me, Leon, saved me . . . I'm not
afraid any more.
[During the foregoing, Juan de Dios has been lurking
about the stage, listening.
Juan de Dios. Why do you deceive him?
Leon and Inda. What?
Juan de Dios. You don't love Leon.
Leon. What did you say?
Inda. He lies! He Ues!
Juan de Dios. I spoke the truth. She was here a little
while ago with the other ... in this very spot.
Leon. Inda, is this true?
Inda. He Ues, Leon . . . don't pay any attention to him.
Leon. Who saw it?
Juan de Dios. I did, myself.
Leon. Was she with Daniel?
Juan de Dios. Yes.
Inda. Don't believe him, Leon.
Leon. Were you here with Daniel? Answer me!
Inda. Leon, I am most unhappy . . . take pity on me ... it
isn't my fault ... he foUows me, overpowers me with his wiU.
, . , I want to hate him, I do hate him, Leon. . , . I'd kiU him

acth THE WITCHES' MOUNTAIN 109
gladly. ... I don't know what he does to madden me the
way he does . . . that's why I begged you to take me away,
never to see him again, to love you and only you, so he can't
cast the evil spell of his love over me.
Leon. Poor Inda, of course I understand ... it isn't your
fault, it's Father's. Thanks, my friend, for the warning.
I'll take Inda away tonight.
Juan de Dios. You're going to take her away?
Leon. Why shouldn't I? Isn't she mine?
Juan de Dios. [After a short pause] Where are you going
to take her?
Leon. To some spot on the sierra where no tiger can
follow us.
Juan de Dios. Daniel knows the sierra as well as you do.
He'U look for her until he finds her even if you conceal her
in the bowels of the mountain.
Leon. He'U have to reckon with me first, and then I shall
do what I have never wished to do: kill. My blood is even
now rising in a mist before my eyes. They hound me and
threaten me like a cur. What shaU I do? What shall I do?
. . . KiU! . . . Kill!
Juan de Dios. Leave Inda here . . . you can protect her
better. Inda. No, Leon; he doesn't want you to take me away
because —
Leon. Why? Ah! Do you love her, too?
Inda. Yes, Leon; he, too.
Juan de Dios. Yes, I love her ... I love her more than
any of you!
Leon. You? . . . You?
Juan de Dios. Yes, I . . .1!
Leon. Why did you lie to me? Don't you know that I
could kUl you right now , ¦ . dash your head to pieces against
that rock?

110 THE WITCHES' MOUNTAIN act n
Juan de Dios. KiU me! What do I care? You would
be doing me a favor; I should suffer less. Life without her is
worse than death. I have no one to weep for me, no one
to miss me. AU this love I have here was for her. If she
is not to be mine, why should I want to live?
Leon. [In admiration] You love her as I do ! [A short pause]
Then why did you treat her and me so badly?
Juan de Dios. For that very reason: because I love her.
I cannot fight for her with physical strength as you can; so
I fight with evil. Nobody matters to me . . . everything
seems small in comparison to her.
Leon. And now, now that you have told the truth, wiU
you be my friend?
Juan de Dios. Now, less than ever. I can't be your
friend when you love her, too, and seem stronger than I am.
Leon. What are you going to do then?
Juan de Dios. Keep on loving her as long as there is hope
for me.
Leon. Hope?
Juan de Dios. Until either you or Daniel kill me.
Leon. [After a short pause] In that case, Inda, let's go away
as soon as possible . . . right now!
Juan de Dios. Go away? No!
Leon. Who is going to stop me?
Juan de Dios. Don Tadeo!
Leon. My father?
Juan de Dios. Yes. [Calling] Don Tadeo! Dot Tadeo!
Enter Don Tadeo
Tadeo. Who caUed me?
Juan de Dios. Leon is trying to take Inda away with
him. Tadeo. What?
[Juan de Dios goes out, up stage, to the left, watching
the scene as he goes.

act n THE WITCHES' MOUNTAIN 111
Leon. I want to take Inda away.
Tadeo. You want to steal her from us?
Leon. I'm not stealing her . . . she is coming with me of
her own free will.
Tadeo. We need Inda here.
Leon. I need her more.
Tadeo. See here; neither one of you is going to leave!
Leon. She loves me, Father; she wants to go away with me !
Tadeo. If she loves you, she shall go with you, but only
when I say so, and when I feel like it.
Leon. [In a high voice, dramatically, almost shouting] Father!
I don't want to have to fight you!
Tadeo. Fight me? . . . You? Stand up to me! [Transition]
I don't want to kill you now. I've got something better in
store for you . . . [Laughs] something to remember me by . . .
so you'U remember me always. [To Inda] Go into the house,
you. [Pause] They tell me that you have seen your mother.
Answer me . . .
Leon. Yes.
Tadeo. When?
Leon. Early this morning.
Tadeo. On Alto Grande? [Crescendo.]
Leon. Yes.
Tadeo. Was she hovering over the point of rock?
Leon. Yes.
Tadeo. Did she look very tall and very white?
Leon. Yes.
Tadeo. With a cloak that reached to her feet?
Leon. Yes. [A short pause.
Tadeo. [Laughing] I wonder why we have both seen her in
the same way?
Leon. Perhaps we were both thinking hard about the same
thing. I, because I am her son. You . . . you alone know
why . . .

112 THE WITCHES' MOUNTAIN act ii
Tadeo. [Laughing] I know why. . . . That's right! [Crossing
to the cook-house] Zoila, get the aloja ready and bring it out
here. I know why! . . . That's good!
Enter Tobias with a spit
Tadeo. Are you going to roast it soon?
Tobias. Yes.
Tadeo. Will there be enough for everybody?
Tobias. If they're not too hungry. [Goes out, up stage, to the right.
Tadeo. I know why! And so will you! . . . Fight me!
That's good ! [Goes out, up stage, to the left.
[Leon sits upon a rock lost in thought, and very downcast.
The afternoon wanes. Soon Piquillin's flute is
heard approaching.
Piquillin. [Off stage] Head off the goats! Open the corral
gate! [Leon gets up, goes off, up stage, to the left to do as
indicated. Zoila brings a huge jar of aloja from the
cook-house. She sets the table with glasses and cups
of different shapes and sizes.
Tobias. [Off stage] Here comes Lupipa with her daughters!
Zoila. My old friend! Inda, go and meet them. [Up stage]
Get right down, my friend. [Goes out at right.
Enter Don Tadeo and Daniel
Daniel. It looks as if the guests were arriving.
Enter Zoila with Lupipa and her two daughters
Lupipa. Good afternoon. [Words of greeting, etc.]
Tadeo. How are you, Lupipa? And you, girls?
Lupipa. Not very well. . . . We left Policarpo in bed ... it
looks like the palsy.
Zoila. I'U give you something to cure it, my friend.
Lupipa. Thanks.
Tadeo. Bring out some seats, Zoila. You help her, Inda.
[They bring out chairs, horsehide seats, sections of trees, etc.

act ii THE WITCHES' MOUNTAIN 113
Tobias. [Off stage] Don Tadeo, here comes Pastor, the
blind man, with the musicians.
All. The musicians! [They go up stage.
Tadeo. [To Daniel] Help them get theb instruments down.
[Exit Daniel] Tell them to dismount under the tree.
Voice of the Blind Man. Ave Maria Purisima!
Zoila. Conceived without sin.
Enter Juan de Dios, up stage, on the left
Tadeo. Come right down. [Enter the musicians. Daniel
carries the harp] While we're waiting for the sheep to roast,
we'll step about a bit. WeU, how about it? Did you have
much trouble carrying your instruments?
Rupebto. So-so. We had to carry the harp on top. The
passes are pretty narrow; you can hardly get through.
Enter Leon
Daniel. Here come some more guests. [All look off at right.
Tadeo. Who are they?
Zoila. I can't see them very well.
Lupipa. There are two of them.
Tadeo. Three; there comes the other.
Daniel. The one in the middle looks like Senor Doroteo.
Tadeo. Yes, it is — it's my old friend. But, hasn't he been
sick? Daniel. Who is the one ahead?
Tadeo. I don't know him. It might be a good idea to
receive my friend with music. If you're not too tired you
might play us a Uttle piece. [Music.
Tobias. [Off stage] Good afternoon.
Daniel. They're not stopping.
[An individual mounted on a mule crosses the stage
from right to left. Soon, when the dialogue in
dicates it, an old man crosses in the same manner.
Tadeo. Get down, my friend, here's the dance. [A short
He doesn't answer.

114 THE WITCHES' MOUNTAIN act ii
Daniel. Friend! Listen, my friend! .. .
Tadeo. Here comes my old comrade. Where are you
going, comrade? Dismount, then. [A short pause] Aren't you
coming to the dance? [A short pause] What's the matter with
you? Why don't you answer me?
Daniel. Senor Camposanto!
Tadeo. [Removes his hat. The others follow his example.
At the same moment the music stops] They're dead!
Camposanto. [Laughing] Why, didn't you recognize them?
The one ahead is Nabor, Senor Deidamia's son, who died night
before last. The other is Senor Doroteo. He took two days
to die, and I had to wait for him until this morning. I'm
taking them down below to bury them in consecrated ground
. . . otherwise their souls would stay in torment.
Tadeo. My poor friend!
Camposanto. Won't you ask me to have a drink?
Tadeo. Bring him one. [Inda serves him] You never come
this way any more, so we didn't recognize you.
Camposanto. That's right. I'm not going around by the
other road, which is longer, today, because Senor Doroteo
is abeady half gone. The other is fresher, even if he did die
two days ago. He stands more because he's younger. We
old men are good for nothing: we won't even wait for them
to bury us. [Drinks] That's very good . . . may God repay you.
WeU, good-by, and have a good time.
Zoila. Senor Camposanto, don't forget to bring me that!
Camposanto. AU right, Zoila; don't worry. [Clucking to
his mules] Get up, mules! [Goes out, up stage, to the left.
Tadeo. The old devil! Well, make yourselves comfort
able, and begin the dance. Take your seats. Serve them,
Zoila; it wiU put a little heart in them. They're aU pulling
long faces. Open up, now. [To Juan de Dios] And you, my
lad; here you have two pretty girls — choose the one you Uke
best.

act ii THE WITCHES' MOUNTAIN 115
Daniel. [Who has brought in a jar of specially prepared
aloja. To Inda] Drink!
Inda. Thanks, but I don't feel well.
Daniel. Do you scorn me? Drink! [Inda does so] Drink
it all! [Inda. finishes it]
Leon. Do you want to dance with me, Inda?
Daniel. You're too late; Inda has abeady promised me.
Leon. You lie! Inda dances with nobody but me!
Daniel. Who are you to order me about?
Leon. I don't want her to dance with you!
Tadeo. Inda dances with any one she wants to. That's
what she's here for.
Leon. I'll not have it!
Tadeo. You won't? Sit down, I tell you.
Leon. Father!
Tadeo. Sit down, I tell you, if you don't want me to break
your head open with a chair! Begin the dance!
[Tke music begins. They dance. Leon falls staggering
into a chair. His nails are pressed into his flesh.
Leon. [7m a low voice] I can do nothing! He has mastered
me! Juan de Dios. [Disdainfully] Where's your spbit? If I
had your strength! [When the dance ends, Inda feels HI.
Inda. I can't . . . I'm used up. [To Daniel] What did you
give me to drink? Brute!
[Goes into her cabin at left. Daniel laughs meaningly.
Tadeo watches them maliciously.
Tadeo. Serve them, Zoila. Let's see if we can't cheer
them up a bit. Give some to the musicians; their tongues
must be dry.
Daniel. Watch me, Father!
[Taking advantage of the momenfs confusion, he cau
tiously enters Inda's cabin and closes the door. Don

116 THE WITCHES' MOUNTAIN act ii
Tadeo laughs with a malice and content that he
cannot conceal.
Tadeo. That's my way! WeU played! [Aloud] Well,
let's have the next one, for there's no first without a second.
Why don't you dance, Leon?
All. Yes, yes — let Leon dance . . .
[Leon lifts his head, looks about him for Inda and, when
he fails to see her, jumps to his feel with a shout.
Leon. Inda! Inda! Where is Inda?
Tadeo. [Pointing up stage] She went down that way.
Leon. [Frantic, savage, he runs up stage like a wounded lion]
Inda! Inda! Inda!
Tadeo. [Dominating the scene and especially Juan de Dios,
who seems to fear kim] On with the dance ! On with the dance !
[With a gesture of pride, he laughs as if satisfied. The music
starts] Just like me! Fine boy! My way! My way!
Leon. [From the mountainside, wildly shouting] Inda! . . .
Inda! Inda! . . . Curtain

ACT THREE
The night of the same day. clear and starlit. In the center, a
spit with the remnants of the roast. About it are seated
Don Tadeo, Inda, and Piquillin. Zoila is seated in
the center, faring the public. She is smoking a corn-husk
cigarette. Leon is somewhat apart from the others. He is
profoundly dejected.
Zoila. WeU, they say that he was so bad and that every
body hated him so that he always went about alone, like a
soul in torment. Once when he was climbing among the
mountain crags he met a little man in a great big hat. As
it was a very dark night, he could not see the Uttle man's
face very clearly, but he could see sparks coming out of his
eyes. It was the devil himself! "What's the matter with
you?" the devil said. "Why do you always go about so
sorrowfuUy as if you were running away from people? What
is the greatest desire you have in your Ufe? Would you like
to be a tiger and slay cows and sheep and feed on their en
trails, with no man or beast able to do you harm? What
would you like?" And the bad man answered, "I'd like to
be strong, stronger than all men; to have the power of con
quering any woman by just looking at her, and to marry the
one I love even if she hates me." "Very well," said the
devil, "everything you see, be it animal, woman, or man,
shall do your bidding. If you tell them to die, they shall die;
but you must give me your soul in exchange." "When must
I give you my soul?" asked the bad man. "So long as your
eyes can see, I shaU let you have your soul; but as soon as
117

118 THE WITCHES' MOUNTAIN act iii
they lose theb sight, you wiU lose the power I gave you
and you must give me your soul," the devil replied. "Very
well, I agree," said the bad man. Then the devil disappeared
in a puff of smoke that smelt of burnt sulphur. And thus
it was: The bad man married a very good woman. This
woman was the only thing the man loved in the world, but
he loved her so much that he was jealous of the very ab she
breathed. And because the devil had given him no power
over jealousy, the bad man lived in torment day and night
until at length, to put an end to his sufferings, he decided
to kill her. "When my wife is dead," he said to himself,
"I won't be jealous of anybody, and so I won't suffer any
more." Then it was that he made use of the power that the
devil had given him, and the good woman died. That night
the devil himself helped the bad man to watch over her.
They say that the room where the body lay was as bright
as day from the light that came out of the devil's eyes. After
that night the man never spoke to a soul; he was always alone,
with the devil by his side. They say that alongside of the
bad man's footsteps there was always a track like that of a
wild pig. The man could do nothing hi this company.
Sometimes he was seen to fight some one that only he could
see. If he was hi his room he would feel the door open and
shut as if some one had entered; if he was sitting thinking
hard an invisible being would come and stand beside him.
Once we were aU seated in a cbcle, as we are now, when
suddenly he felt a breath on his back, and —
Tadeo. What's that!
[They all jump to their feet instantly, as if they had heard
a noise behind them. A moment of waiting.
Zoila. It's the cat scratching the door. I left him shut
up in the cook-house. Plague take the cat, he didn't frighten
me! Tadeo. All right. How does the story end?

act ni THE WITCHES' MOUNTAIN 119
Zoila. One night the devU asked the bad man if he was
happy. "No," he replied. "I want to forget, now." "There
is only one way to forget," said the devil, "and that is to die.
Give me your soul and then you'U forget." "Very well,"
answered the bad man. "All your gift did for me was to
make me kiU what I loved most. Why should I want it
any longer?" They say that that very same night the bad
man feU off a cliff while foUowing the phantom of a woman
in white across the sierra, and that a huge black condor
came down out of the clouds and pecked his eyes out. . . .
And now, somebody else tell one!
Tadeo. That wiU do; that's enough of your foolishness!
Zoila. You don't seem to Uke my story?
Tadeo. You're always dabbling in witchcraft. Take care
that the devil doesn't carry you off one of these nights.
Zoila. Maybe. [Meaningly] He comes around here a good
deal. Tadeo. AU right; take that into the cook-house. [Indicat
ing the spit] You old witch! [Zoila goes into the cook-house
with a witchlike smile] You, Piquillin, go to bed, for you've
got to get up early. Take care that the goats don't get away
from you as they did last night. I'm going for a stroU to
take a look at the stone wall.
[Piquillin and Don Tadeo go out, up stage, to the left.
Inda. [In a low voice to Daniel, who starts to go out at left]
Listen, Daniel!
Daniel. There he is. [Indicating Leon] Go and tell him
all about it. [Goes out at right with a sarcastic smile.
Inda. You brute! [Goes out at left.
Leon. [After a long pause] Don't you suspect anything, old
man? Tobias. No. What do you mean?
Leon. I don't know; I'm very unhappy and very angry.
Tobias. What do you suspect?

120 THE WITCHES' MOUNTAIN act in
Leon. Everything. Inda, above aU.
Tobias. Inda?
Leon. Yes. It looks as if she didn't love me any more.
Tobias. What has she done to make you say that?
Leon. I don't know. She hasn't been the same since last
night. I don't know what's the matter with her or why
she has changed. But she is like a different person. . . .
Inda doesn't love me any more.
Tobias. What did she teU you? Haven't you asked her?
Leon. Yes; but she didn't want to answer me. I spoke
to her about our little affairs and she began to cry. And
she went off crying without saying a word to me. [Short pause]
It seems to me that my father has something to do with it
. . . but I'm changed, too, now — nobody will recognize me.
I've come to the end of my rope; I've got to kill; I want
blood, blood that will stain me 
Tobias. Leon! Leon! My son! . . .
Leon. I'm not afraid of anybody now. My hands are
looking for somebody. . . . [Defiantly] Where is the man who
stole her love from me? WTiere is he? Is it Father, Daniel,
or Juan de Dios? Who is it? Let him who can answer!
Tobias. Listen, Leon; Inda is yours; I have sworn it.
Let me speak to her. She'll tell me what the matter is. I
am sure that she loves you, Leon.
Leon. [Changed, with great tenderness] Old man, you are
good. Speak to her, tell her that for her sake I'll be a dog,
that her love is the breath of life to me, that I'U suffer any
thing for her sake, that I'U be good and patient . . . but teU
her to come with me, to run away with me . . . and not to
leave me for some one else, for in that case . . .
Tobias. All right, my son; calm yourself; leave it to me . . .
Leon. There she is, old man; call her . . . call her . . .
[Goes out, up stage, at the left,
Tobias. Inda.

act iii THE WITCHES' MOUNTAIN 121
Inda. [Enters] What is it, Father?
Tobias. Inda, my child, what ails you? Why are you like
this? Inda. Father, I am very wicked.
Tobias. Why do you say that?
Inda. WTiy? ... I hardly know myself.
Tobias. TeU me, Inda, and think weU on what you are
going to say. Don't you love Leon any more?
Inda. No, Father, I do not.
Tobias. Inda! Inda!
Inda. I told you I was wicked and that there was no hope
for me.
Tobias. Who has bewitched you, unhappy girl? Who do
you love now?
Inda. Another man; he may be very wicked, but I love
him. I love him with a love I never knew before, with a
mixture of hatred and pain.
Tobias. Unhappy gbl, that man is Daniel!
Inda. Yes, Father, it is Daniel! Curse him!
Tobias. [Calling] Leon! Leon!
Inda. [Restraining him] Father! Don't caU him. I don't
want you to kiU the other . . .
Tobias. Let me go . . . let me go, wretched girl!
Inda. No, Father, kill me if you wish, but not him . . .
Tobias. You defend him?
Inda. Forgive me, Father; I am lost, powerless hi his love.
. . . Forgive me for this sin, Father dear. . . .
Tobias. Unhappy child! I knew it! He has bewitched
you! Inda. Ask anything you wish of me, but don't tell Leon.
I don't want him to know a thing about it. . . . I'll do any
thing you say, Father.
Tobias. Listen to me, Inda: you are going away with
Leon this very night.

122 THE WITCHES' MOUNTAIN act m
Inda. With Leon! Tonight?
Tobias. Yes, tonight. . . . He'U find some place to hide you;
tomorrow you'll go down below, and we'U find some place to
Uve. Once far away from here where you can't see Daniel,
you wiU love Leon again, because you have always loved him,
Inda. Inda. I don't know now, Father; this love isn't the same
I felt for Leon. That was a good love; it didn't trouble me
and make me cry.
Tobias. Very weU, be a good child, and some day we won't
be so unhappy. Now do what your father tells you.
[Goes out, up stage, at the left. Inda sits down. Then
she gets up resolutely and looks about her as if
anxiously seeking some one. Juan de Dios sur
prises her.
Juan de Dios. You surely aren't looking for me?
Inda. [Surprised] You!
Juan de Dios. Are you frightened? Think of me fright
ening you!
Inda. I haven't seen you all day, so I thought you had
gone. Juan de Dios. Yes, I have been away ever since last
night. Inda. Since last night!
Juan de Dios. After the dance! After you ... disap
peared from the dance . . .
Inda. Ah! You know! . . .
Juan de Dios. Yes.
Inda. [Pleadingly] Juan de Dios!
Juan de Dios. Have no fear; no one but you, the other,
and I know; and I'U say nothing. Why should I? Why
should I? [Sits down. A short pause!]
Inda. Where have you been?
Juan de Dios. I went over to the pond where I sat down

act m THE WITCHES' MOUNTAIN 123
on the bank and watched the water. It was so green and
beautiful! [A short pause] They say that nobody has ever
found the bottom. Is that true?
Inda. [Absently] So I've heard.
Juan de Dios. And that sometimes, on still, clear nights,
one can hear a sad song Uke a plaintive wail that comes out
of the pond.
Inda. I have heard the same thing. They say it's the
cacuy.1 . . . [Pause.
Juan de Dios. I wonder what can be in there? [A painful
silence. He shrugs his shoulders and gets up] WeU, good-by !
Inda. Are you leaving?
Juan de Dios. No; I've abeady told you that I shaU
never leave, that I shall never travel any more, that I have
found what I was looking for here.
Inda. Then, are you staying?
Juan de Dios. No, not that, either. What I was looking
for is dead to me, so why should I stay? You have been
another's. It's as if you were dead as far as I am concerned.
[Coldly, leisurely, he starts to go, humming a little song.
Inda. Juan de Dios!
Juan de Dios. What is it?
Inda. [Holding out her hand] My hand!
Juan de Dios. What for?
Inda. So as not to separate like this.
Juan de Dios. WeU, after aU . . .
Enter Leon
Leon. Inda!
Juan de Dios. Are you jealous? Don't take it wrongly;
I was saying good-by. . . .
Leon. Going? WThere?
'Cacuy or kakue: a South American bird whose cry is so weird
and heartrending that the natives believe it is the embodiment of
human souls in torment.

124 THE WITCHES' MOUNTAIN act in
Juan de Dios. I don't know. ... I don't beUeve any one
knows.
Leon. WeU, good7by, then, and good luck . . .
Juan de Dios. Good-by . . . may you be happy — if you
can. [Goes out slowly, up stage, to the right.
Leon. Inda, your father just told me that you will go
with me tonight. Is that true?
Inda. [Weakly] Yes, Leon.
Leon. Then you still love me? Nobody has taken your
love from me? Are you stiU the same? Let me hear your
voice. You make me suspicious when you act like this. . . .
Speak! Inda. Yes, Leon; I love you.
Leon. At last we are going away from here, Inda! I was
afraid of these rocks ... I felt as if they were about to crush
me. How unhappy I was when I couldn't find you at the
dance last night! I ran off in despair, thinking that some
one had stolen you! Inda, you don't know how far I went
over these mountains. Wnen I got back I was half dead;
but then I saw you and felt better and happier than ever
before. As I couldn't teU you so before so many people,
I took out that little handkerchief you gave me and went
into a corner of the dormitory, where no one could see me,
and kissed it.
Inda. [Weeping] Leon, why didn't we go away sooner?
Leon. Don't cry, Inda; we're going away tonight whether
Father likes it or not. I'm losing my fear of him, Inda,
I'm losing my fear of him. [Almost as if talking to his father,
very solemnly] But I shall come back after I have left you in
a safe place ... to settle accounts with my father, and also . . .
for something else. Zoila has told me many things! The
bad man of the story ... the bad man. . . . Poor Mother! I
have given my oath to her! [Short pause] WeU, Inda, we are
going away. We'U be happy anywhere once we get away

act iii THE WITCHES' MOUNTAIN 125
from these rocks. Wait a minute, I have a surprise for you.
[Goes into the dormitory and returns with a bundle] Here!
Inda. What is it?
Leon. Untie it.
Inda. A dress!
Leon. Yes, a calico dress. I had it sent up from down
below. And also the handkerchief; it's silk. Look at it!
Inda. How good you are, Leon!
Leon. Sometimes. Now run along, Inda, and get ready.
Make a bundle of what you are going to carry. I'm going
to get one of my goats, for there is nothing to eat where we
are going. Wait for me, I'll be back soon. [Up stage, faring the
mountains] At last! At last! If I could only overturn all
these rocks ... set fire to aU these hateful cabins . . . not
even leave a wisp of straw or a blade of grass . . . put an
end to all this wicked place . . . and only leave ashes, ashes,
ashes! . . .
Inda. [As Leon goes out she moves rapidly toward the right]
Daniel! Daniel!
Daniel. What do you want?
Inda. Leon wants to carry me off now. .... Let's run away
before he comes back!
Daniel. Run away? What for?
Inda. He and Father want me to go away tonight.
Daniel. But you're not going to go even if they want you
to. You love me and nobody can take you from me!
Inda. Leon wiU kiU you! Let's run away, Daniel. You
who have treated me so badly, be good to me now; come
with me, don't stay here, he'U kiU you . . .
Daniel. I sha'n't move from here. Let him kill me if
he has the courage!
Inda. Then you don't love me. You've deceived me!
Daniel. I told you that my love was going to cost you a
great many tears, . , .

126 THE WITCHES' MOUNTAIN act hi
Inda. Brute! You always were inhuman! Leon is com
ing back soon. WThat shaU I do?
Daniel. [Cynically] Go away with him!
Inda. Deceive him? No, I don't want to! Ah, I'm so
unhappy! [Weeps.] Enter Don Tadeo
Tadeo. Daniel, you're going away with Inda immediately.
Daniel. What did you say, Father?
Tadeo. You are going at once! I've just been over on the
stone waU, and I saw Leon . . .
Daniel. What of it? Who's afraid of him?
Tadeo. I don't know what it was I saw in his face!
Daniel. You, Father? You — afraid of another man?
Tadeo. I've never known what it is to be afraid! Can
Leon be of my blood? Because only a man of my — [Sud
denly] Go, take aU the silver, go! . . .
Daniel. Father!
Tadeo. Go, my son; leave me.
Inda. Yes, Daniel; let's go before he gets back.
Daniel. H you order me to, Father, I'll go . . . I'm not
afraid! Tadeo. Yes, I order you to, my son. ... Go! Go! [Re
moves his leather hunting belt and hands it to his son] Here,
take this!
Daniel. Well, as long as you order me to. Good-by,
Father. Tadeo. Good-by, my son, good-by!
[Don Tadeo goes into his room. Daniel and Inda
start to go out, up stage, to the right. They meet
Tobias as he enters.
Tobias. Where are you going, wicked girl? Go into the
house! Inda. [Surprised] Father!
Tobias. Go into the house!

act iii THE WITCHES' MOUNTAIN 127
Daniel. She's going with me, and I'm taking her away!
Tobias. No! No, you're not! Go into the house!
Daniel. Let go of her, old man; I don't want to hurt you!
[They struggle.
Tobias. Bandit!
Daniel. Let go, old man!
Tobias. Leon! Leon!
Inda. What for, Father? Why deceive him? I don't love
him. I have been with Daniel. He is my man. Let me
go. [They go out, up stage, to the right. Tobias enters his
room.
Tobias. Wretch! You'U have to kiU me first! You sha'n't
go! No! Leon! Leon!
[Don Tadeo comes out as Tobias gives a piercing cry
of grief. Don Tadeo follows the fugitives anxiously
with his eyes. Enter Leon at left.
Leon. Who is calling me?
Tadeo. [Surprised, coldly] I, I called you.
Leon. You! What for?
Tadeo. You wanted to run away with Inda, didn't you?
Leon. Yes.
Tadeo. Well, you can take her now.
Leon. I was just going to. Inda is waiting for me. But
I want to teU you something first.
Tadeo. What is it?
Leon. That I'm coming back!
Tadeo. For your goats?
Leon. For them . . . and something else!
Tadeo. What?
Leon. I want to know why my mother appeared to me.
Tadeo. Your mother! Ah!
Leon. Yes, my mother! My mother! And whether all
they say is true!

128 THE WITCHES' MOUNTAIN act hi
Tadeo. Ah! You wanted to come back for that?
Leon. Yes!
Tadeo. You're going to find out right now. Did they tell
you that I was very cruel to her, that I was very jealous,
that I made her suffer very much?
Leon. Yes, yes!
Tadeo. That I accused her of being unfaithful to me, out
of revenge, with a muleteer who spent the night here?
Leon. Yes, yes!
Tadeo. That that night just at daybreak I made old Tobias
lead him on some pretext or other to the Alto Grande cUff,
and that then, from where I was hidden behind a rock, I
gave him a push and threw him over the cUff?
Leon. Ah!
Tadeo. And that after that I tied your mother to a chair
and made her sleep in the open on the roughest winter nights?
Leon. Ah!
Tadeo. And that one night they found your mother dead,
frozen white, and covered with snow? Is that what they told
you? Leon. WeU? Is it true? Did you do that to my mother?
Tadeo. Ah! [Laughs.]
Leon. [Savagely] Answer me! Answer me!
Tadeo. Yes! I killed her! I kfiled her! She deceived me!
Leon. You lie!
Tadeo. She deceived me! She was the only one I loved!
That's why I killed her!
Leon. Bad man! Vile man!
Tadeo. But she died too soon! I didn't know that one
could die so easily. That's why you Uved! Don't you un
derstand that I could have strangled you, that I could have
torn you to pieces at birth? But I didn't want to; I prom
ised your mother that you should live. Yes, I needed your
life, your body, your blood for my vengeance! For twenty

act iii THE WITCHES' MOUNTAIN 129
years I have detested you, suffered you; I have not lived,
have not slept, I have had horrible nightmares, and phantoms
and devils dog my footsteps! For twenty years you have
tormented me by your presence, by the memory of her whom
I loved as no other man ever loved a woman! Now that
you know, now that your life is poisoned forever as mine
has been, now that you can never laugh again . . . you may
go; I am content. You have paid me for all I have suffered!
Go! Go!
Leon. No, not yet! I don't wish to!
Tadeo. Leave this place! Go!
Leon. I don't wish to go! Now it is my turn to master
you! Tadeo. Me? Neither you nor anybody else can do that!
Leon. You tiger, you! May the devil take you! Curse
you! [Tadeo starts to throw himself upon Leon, whom he
wishes once more to master.
Leon. [Removes his poncho and hurls it in his face] Now
indeed! Tadeo. [With the poncho over his head, holding out his arms
as if the truth were suddenly revealed to him] Leon! You are
my son! My son!
Leon. [Falls upon his father witk a sudden leap. There
is a short struggle until he succeeds in strilcing his father's head
against a rock again and again] Now you are mastered!
Forever! Forever! Ha! Ha! Ha! [Runs up stage. Comes
back and stands silent, paralyzed with terror. Don Tadeo's
body, which has slipped from the rock, gazes at Leon with
open eyes. After a pause he approaches the body and turns it
over with his foot in superstitious terror] Even after death you
still wish to master me!
[With his back up stage, he confronts the body in fear.
Daniel's Voice. [Off stage] Ha! Ha! Ha!

130 THE WITCHES' MOUNTAIN act hi
[Far off on the mountainside one sees Daniel with
Inda in his arms. Leon turns around and roars
savagely when he sees them.
Leon. He's carrying her off! She's going with him! No,
they sha'n't take her away from me! [Calling] Inda! Inda!
[Dejectedly] But why? She doesn't love me! She never loved
me! [Complete surrender. He weeps bitterly. Then he becomes
somber, mute, tragic, vacant. At last, with a mental upset that
degenerates into utter madness in his last words] Father! Father!
[The flapping of the wings of a passing condor is heard. Leon
follows it with his eyes. Then, standing erect upon a rock]
Father! I am the condor! I am the condor! I am the
condor! . . . Curtain

APPENDIX A
Notes
The following Notes consist of excerpts from The Literary
History of Spanish America, written by Alfred Coester and
pubUshed by The MacMiUan Company. This book covers
so wide a field that it cannot give more than a rather brief
sketch of the Uterature of each country, but as a sympathetic
and understanding study, and as a piece of research in a vbgin
territory, so far as the Anglo-Saxon is concerned, the work
is invaluable. I have utilized the material contained hi
the chapter entitled "Argentina." — Ed.
Note A
"Coronado, on the other hand, essayed the drama in pro
ductions the most important since those of Marmol. La Rosa
Blanca, 1877, dramatizes the efforts of a physician to cure a
gbl who had become insane through disappointed love.
Luz de Luna y Luz de Incendio, played a year later, stages
with great realism the days of Rosas. Cuitino, a despicable
villain and an officer of the tyrant, appears at an evening party,
where he succeeds in getting his victim, young Emilio, to
betray his unitarian sentiments, whereat he is arrested and
taken to the barracks of the Federal soldiers. The scene at
the barracks gives opportunity for declamatory eloquence
from Emilio. The drunken Cuitino and his soldiers display
the utmost brutality and thereby prepare the spectator for
the killings in the last act. 131

132 APPENDIX A
"These plays were partly the outcome of the efforts of a
literary society, the 'Academia Argentina,' to promote the
theater. The members proclaimed themselves disciples of
Echeverria, with the purpose of nationalizing Uterature on the
model of La Cautiva."
Note B
"But Eduardo Gutierrez, by adapting one of the episodes
of his novel, Juan Mordra, to pantomimic representation in
a circus, opened another path in literature to the gaucho.
At first to fill the part in the pantomime real gauchos rode
their horses into the circus and strummed the guitar. Soon
spoken dialogue was added to theb r61es. In this play the
brothers Podesta achieved a reputation and continued it
independent of the circus. Their success encouraged them
to stage Martin Fierro. Then original plays about gauchos
were written both in Argentina and in Uruguay. So to the
present day the gaucho has kept the stage. And from this
popular origin has developed a class of plays which represent
the manners and speech of the lower classes."
Note C
"The first edition of Fausto distributed twenty thousand
copies, the proceeds of which were donated to the military
hospitals. But more popular still has been Martin Fierro,
pubfished in 1872, by Jose Hernandez (1834-86). The
author was a journalist in Buenos Abes who founded the
Revista del Rio de la Plata. The editions of his poem, nearly
tripled hi length by the addition of a second part, La Vuelta
de Martin Fierro, are still issued. As a measure of its popu
larity may be taken the fact that it used to be on sale hi
country groceries, and the often quoted anecdote of the

APPENDIX A 133
messenger sent to buy various supplies, and 'the latest part
of Martin Fierro.'
"The poem relates in the language and manner of the
gaucho the story of Martin Fierro's misfortunes. Once a
small farmer with wife and child, he was taken from them
by a recruiting officer. The regiment into which he was
drafted fights with the Indians. After a while he deserts
and returns to his farm. He finds it without signs of life
and the buildings burnt. So he becomes a matrero, or
gaucho outlaw, in company with one Cruz. Tbed of being
hunted by the police, Martin smashes his guitar as a sign
of renouncing his ties with the white race, and joins the
Indians. La Vuelta de Martin Fierro, on his return to
civilization, has less movement, and long moralizing sermons
by Padre Vizcacha. These, however, were not displeasing
to its readers who found theb own sentiments Voiced by his
words. The generation who received this poem understood
it as a challenge to the government hi Buenos Abes that
was legislating for the country people without understanding
theb needs."
Note D
"With less reaUsm and more of the artistry demanded by
Mitre, the gaucho next appeared hi verse in the Tradiciones
Argentinas, by Rafael Obligado. These three brief poems are
poetical interpretations of the Santos Vega legend. In the
first a payador relates how the ghost of Santos Vega had
played at night on a guitar accidentally left by a weU. The
second brings the famous gaucho to a ghostly love tryst.
The thbd narrates the death of Santos Vega in contest with
an unknown payador, to whom Obfigado gives the symbolic
name, Juan Sin Ropa. According to the legend Santos Vega,
the unexceUed, had succumbed only in a contest with the
Devil; but this victor's name typifies the new immigration

134 APPENDIX A
which has brought about the passing of the old conditions in
the country. In the words of the poem, Juan Shi Ropa's
song 'was the mighty cry of progress on the wind.'"
Note E
"Though the officiaUy printed coUection of Sarmiento's
writings fiU fifty volumes, his literary fame is based on those
already mentioned. The characteristics of his style, its swift
movement, his abiUty to select the striking detail or apt
anecdote, may be partly iUustrated by the following extract
from the description of Argentina in the first part of Facundo.1
Moreover, no better introduction could be given to a study
of the development of the most original of all Spanish-
American poetry, that pertaining to the gaucho.
"'There is another poetry which echoes over the solitary
plains, the popular, natural, and bregular poetry of the
gaucho. In 1840 Echeverrfa, then a young man, lived some
months in the country, where the fame of his verses upon
the pampa had already preceded him; the gauchos sur
rounded him with respect and affection, and when a new
comer showed symptoms of the scorn he felt for the little
minstrel, some one whispered, "He is a poet," and that word
dispeUed every prejudice.
"'It is weU known that the guitar is the popular instrument
of the Spanish race; it is also common in South America.
The majo or troubadour is discoverable in the gaucho of the
country, and in the townsman of the same class. The
cielito, the dance of the pampas, is animated by the same
1 Facundo was translated by Mrs. Horace Mann and published
under the title of Life in Ihe Argentine Republic in the Time of Tyrants,
Boston, 1868. The volume also contains other extracts from
Sarmiento's writings, especiaUy from the Reeuerdos de Provincia,
dealing with his family.

APPENDIX A 135
spirit as the Spanish jaleo, the dance of Andalusia; the
dancer makes castanets of his fingers; all his movements dis
close the majo; the action of his shoulders, his gestures, all
his ways, from that in which he puts on his hat to his style
of spitting through his teeth, all are of the pure Andalusian
type. "'The name of gaucho outlaw is not applied whoUy as an
uncomplimentary epithet. The law has been for many years
in pursuit of him. His name is dreaded, spoken under the
breath, but not in hate, and almost respectfully. He is a
mysterious personage; his abode is the pampa; his lodgings
are the thistle fields; he lives on partridges and hedgehogs,
and whenever he is disposed to regale himself upon a tongue,
he lassoes a cow, throws her without assistance, kills her,
takes his favorite morsel, and leaves the rest for the carrion
bbds. The gaucho outlaw will make his appearance in a
place just left by soldiers, wiU talk in a friendly way with the
admiring group of good gauchos around him; provide him
self with tobacco, yerba mate, which makes a refreshing
beverage, and if he discovers the soldiers, he mounts his
horse quietly and dbects his steps leisurely to the wilderness,
not even deigning to look back. He is seldom pursued; that
would be killing horses to no purpose, for the beast of the
gaucho outlaw is a bay courser, as noted in his own way
as his masterr If he ever happens to fall unawares into the
hands of the soldiers, he sets upon the densest masses of
his assailants, and breaks through them, with the help of a
few slashes left by his knife upon the faces or bodies of his
opponents; and lying along the ridge of his horse's back
to avoid the buUets sent after him, he hastens toward the
wilderness, until, having left his pursuers at a convenient
distance, he pulls up and travels at his ease. The poets
of the vicinity add this new exploit to the biography of
the desert hero, and his renown flies through aU the vast

136 APPENDIX A
region around. Sometimes he appears before the scene of a
rustic festival with a young woman whom he has carried
off, and takes a place in the dance with his partner, goes
through the figures of the cielito, and disappears, unnoticed.
Another day be brings the gbl he has seduced to the house of
her offended family, sets her down from his horse's croup,
and reckless of the parents' curses by which he is foUowed,
quietly betakes himself to his boundless abode.
'"And now we have the idealization of this Ufe of resistance,
civUization, barbarism, and danger. The gaucho Cantor
corresponds to the singer, bard, or troubadour of the Middle
Ages. The Cantor has no fixed abode; he lodges where night
surprises him; his fortune consists in his verses and hi his
voice. Wherever the wild mazes of the cielito are threaded,
wherever there is a glass of wine to drink, the Cantor has his
place and his particular part hi the festival. The Argentine
gaucho only drinks when excited by music and verse, and
every grocery has its guitar ready for the hands of the Cantor
who perceives from afar where the help of his "gay science"
is needed, by the group of horses about the door.
"'The Cantor intersperses his heroic songs with the tale of
his own exploits. Unluckily his profession of Argentine bard
does not shield him from the law. He can tell of a couple
of stabs he has dealt, of one or two "misfortunes" (homicides)
of his, and of some horse or gbl he carried off.
" 'To conclude, the original poetry of the minstrel is clumsy,
monotonous, and irregular, when he resigns himself to the in-
spbation of the moment. It is occupied rather with narration
than with the expression of feeling, and is replete with
imagery relating to the open country, to the horse, and to
the scenes of the wilderness, which makes it metaphorical
and grandiose. WTien he is describing his own exploits or
those of some renowned evil-doer, he resembles the Neapolitan
improvisatore, his style being unfettered, commonly prosaic,

APPENDIX A 137
but occasionally rising to the poetic level for some moments,
to sink again into dull and scarcely metrical recitation. The
Cantor possesses, moreover, a repertory of popular poems
in octosyUabic Unes variously combined into stanzas of
five Unes, of ten, or of eight. Among them are many com
positions of merit which show some inspiration and feeling.'
"The character whom Sarmiento terms a "cantor' was
more popularly known in Buenos Abes as a 'payador,' a
name derived from the verb 'payar' meaning to improvise in
verse to the accompaniment of the guitar. As Sarmiento
intimates, the popular poetry of Argentina is a derivative
of the Andalusian of the Middle Ages and has a long popular
development. The episodes related by the payador reveal
a certain epic quaUty tinged with Moorish sadness, but
tempered by the Andalusian keenness for the satirical and
the comic. Frequent also is the intent to teach a moral
lesson; barbarous at times, for the purpose often is to in
culcate a spbit of rebeUion."

APPENDIX B
The following extracts have been reprinted from the ver
sions of Juan Moreira and Santos Vega, translated for use
in this volume. They may be of service in assisting the
reader to form an idea of the somewhat peculiar verse forma
tion and of the structure of the plays themselves.
The excerpt from Juan Mordra shows both the verse and
the prose, the play being written in a combination of both
mediums, and displays also the dialect in which the original
is written. It will be observed that the drama is divided
into scenes, a scheme which has not been foUowed in the
translation, as it was deemed confusing and unnecessary.
This is common in nearly all Spanish plays, and at the time
of Sardou was generally used in French drama. What are
called scenes in this translation are called in the original
cuadros, or pictures, a designation that has some significance.
Santos Vega is written entirely in verse, and the extract
from it shows the ordinary verse of the drama proper as well
as that of one of the songs.
It has been considered advisable to make the translations
wholly in prose, for only in that way could the atmosphere
of the original be dupUcated or retained. A verse translation
would not only be difficult but, under the circumstances, next
to impossible. — Ed.

APPENDIX B 139
JUAN MOREIRA
Tike following is taken from the end of Scene Five, Act Two.
ESCENA HI
Dickos y Vicenta arrodillada
Vicenta. iPerddn, mi Juan querido! Yo cref que ya te
habfas muerto.
J. Moeeira. £Y por eso me enganabas, canalla?
Vicenta. [Suplicante] iNo, mi Juan!
J. Moeeiea. <JY ese hombre que saU6 recien?
Vicenta. iDios mio! [Se des may a.]
J. Moeeira. El rimordimiento te valga. Adi6s, Tata
Viejo! iAdios, cachorro 6 mi alma! la partida va en mi
acecho y no tardard en yigar a este rancho.
Tata Viejo. iHijo!
Juancito. iTatita mfo!
J. Moeeira. iNo puedo! iDebo partb!
a peliar con la partida
hasta veneer 6 morb.
iAdios, faniilia querida!
[Les suelta un beso y vase]
Tata Viejo. i Cachorro! veni a mis brazos.
[Juancito lo abraza]
Lloremos por tu tatita,
deshonrao vUlanamente
por aqueya, tu mamita.
ESCENA TV
Dickos, Saegento y cuatro policianos.
Sargento. iJuan Moreba!
Tata Viejo. [Retrocediendo] <JEh?

140 APPENDIX B
Sabgento. Escondido aquf ha d' star,
y sin andarle cuerpiando
lo dibemos d' yivar.
Tata Viejo. iPor favor!
Sabgento. Tuito es al fiudo
amarren bien a este viejo,
de manera que le queden
las marcas en el peyejo.
Juancito. i Mamita!
Tata Viejo. iBarbaros! iCanayas!
no se 'sten ansi abusando,
pelen tuitos las charrascas;
vamos & morb peliando.
[El Sabgento le apunta, el Tata Viejo
forcejea, y cae el.
Teldn rdpido

SANTOS VEGA
The foUowing is from the first part of the Second Act, where
Rosa and Gumeesindo ask Santos Vega to sing them a song.
Gumersin. [Saliendo de la pulperia]
i Ahijuna, che, Santos Vega!
Vicenta. [A Rufina, que sale]
iEl mejor cantor del mundo!
Gumeesin. [A los paisanos que van saliendo de la pulperia]
iEl alma de nuestra tierra!
[Todos saludan y rodean al payador]
Rosa. Yo que nunca lo he escuchado
ahura escucharlo quisiera,

APPENDIX B 141
Vicenta. Haga vibrar la guitarra
dando comienzo a la fiesta
para que antes que ninguna
eUa suene la primera.
Gumersin. Saque al viento una canci6n
donde ponga el alma entera:
su alma brava y melancolica
qu'es el alma de esta tierra.
Santos. [Disponiendose d cantor]
iAhf va mi canci6n y mi alma
que nunca canto sin eUa!
[En estilo triste y acompandndose con la guitarra]
Como el ombu corpulento
parece que esta llorando
sus hojas cuando cantando
hiere sus ramas el viento,
yo tambien en mi tormento
de todas mis afl icciones
voy llorando mis canciones
que como hojas dispersadas
se Ueva el viento en bandadas
de dolientes corazones.

APPENDIX C
THE NATIONAL DRAMA OF THE ARGENTINE
BY
Jacinto Benavente
translated from the spanish by
John Gareett Underhill
The theater subsisted for many years in the Argentine
Republic upon imported fare, offering a free haven to the
dramatic literatures of the world. But, as could scarcely
be otherwise among a people of such culture and importance,
Argentina possesses today a national drama of its own which
is deserving of study and sufficiently developed to occupy
two theaters with credit and profit, in wliich no plays are
performed except those by native authors.
In origin the Argentine drama was unmistakably popular.
Its characters and plots are alike thoroughly typical of the
gaucho spbit, while its heroes are suggestive of Martin Fierro,
of the celebrated poem of that name, which is certainly the
most genuine popular poetic creation, whether considered
Editor's Note: It is entirely through the generosity of Mr. Underhill
and of Charles Scribner's Sons that I am able to reprint this essay
which here appears in English for the first time. It was first pub
lished in the Heraldo of Madrid, and was afterward collected in
book form under the title, El Teatro del Pueblo, Madrid, 1909. Before
it was used by the Heraldo the essay came out in one of the Buenos
Aires daily papers.
Benavente visited the Argentine just previous to 1909 and in his
volume of Table Talk, Madrid, 1910, he has this to say of his visit.
" I have aheady been in Buenos Aires, but I was not in the class of
142

APPENDIX C 143
from the point of view of form or of substance, that is known
to literature. Nowhere else have the Ufe and soul of the
paisano, his language, his mode of thought and feeling, been
so faithfuUy conveyed, or the collective consciousness of the
people so nicely reflected by the individual genius of the
artist as in this admirable poem. The heroes of the popular
Argentme drama are aU Martin Fierros, gauchos born upon
the pampas, with a fimitless expanse stretching about them
which is eloquent of Uberty, like the brook to Sigismund,
murmuring of far fields lying open to his flight. At the same
time they are touched with melancholy, with that wistful
yearning of the eyes and of the soul before which vast spaces
have been unroUed, which may, indeed, be desired, in one
life, but which many Uves would not suffice to explore. There
is something of the Arab in the fatalism and ferocity of these
men — and also something of the Spaniard as well, although
this is included in the Arab — as if here, too, men believed
that what must be has been already written, and stood pre
pared to hurl themselves against the destiny of theb fate in
blind assault — which is our own history — in the pretense
that by the mere impact they might blot out one jot of what
had been set down in its immutable decrees.
The rebeUion of the gaucho spbit at the encroachments of
popular celebrities. I was not received with a band, I delivered no
lectures, and nobody became at all enthusiastic. The Argentines
did not lose their heads over me, nor I mine over them. I went
to travel, to see, without attaching more importance to the trip
than to any other. When I returned I did not consider myself
justified in publishing 'impressions' or 'My Voyage to Argentine'
or any other book of the sort now in fashion, because I did not feel
that one or two months were sufficient time in which to learn any
thing, much less to wax eloquent over the future of the Argentine,
its industries, or its intellectual achievements. What I saw I re
tained for myself, and what I assimilated will appear in due season."
We may take it then that this essay on "The National Drama of
the Argentine" is the partial result of the assimilation of which
Benavente speaks.

144 APPENDIX C
civilization upon the free domain of the pampas provides
the element of conflict in these plays. There is much of the
spirit of our Spanish poetry and popular drama in their
protagonists. The Weaver of Segovia, Eusebio in The
Devotion of the Cross, Paulo in El condenado por desconfiado,
Manrique, Don Alvaro, and even Tenorio himself are easily
recognizable as of the kin of Martin Fierro, Juan Moreira,
and Santos Vega the Payador.
When acted, the plays lose nothing of their popular flavor.
Rather, it is enhanced by familiar songs and dances, such
as the vidalitas, cielos, tristes, dedmas, Pericdn con reladones,
El goto, and others of the sort. The actors are incomparable
masters of picturesque realism. In no other way may so
vivid an idea of what the primitive popular theaters must
have been be obtained as by attending these performances.
Nothing could more strikingly suggest the atmosphere of the
productions of the Globe Theater in London or those of our
own corrals of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.
Yet the Argentine theater of today no longer confines itself
to the depiction of popular customs or to the portrayal of
the popular point of view. So distinctly individual a nation,
whose characteristics are so strongly marked both pofitically
and socially, despite the fact that it is composed of diverse
elements of the most thorough cosmopolitanism, can but
stimulate the playwright and invite him to probe its life in
all its complexity. Those who condemn contemporary Ar
gentine literature because it has been influenced by foreign
tendencies, accusing it more particularly of having been
completely galUcized, ignore the fact that no civilized nation
today has escaped this hue of uniformity, which to the super
ficial observer invariably appears to be French, when in truth
it is nothing more than the coloring of civilization. How
require the artist to shut his eyes and, becoming a greater
Papist than the Pope, reproduce only what has ceased to

APPENDIX C 145
exist elsewhere throughout the social fabric? It is too much
like asking the man of mature years to ape the manners of a
child, which hi one of tender age are becoming. Arts and
graces out of theb proper sphere divest themselves of all
charm. What can be more impertinently disagreeable than
the artist who affects the ingenuousness and simplicity of the
primitive, striving to be classic with reminiscences of Cer
vantes and the trappings of Santa Teresa? As our life is no
longer that life, why masquerade hi the garments of the era?
These are appropriate enough, no doubt, hi their proper
place, where they may be admbed and studied behind glass
in the cabinets of archa5ological museums, but they are
whoUy unsuitable when paraded down our modern streets
among automobiles and troUey-cars. To shed tears over the
classic is a weakness of decrepit criticism.
Argentine is too young and vigorous a nation to father an
art wliich is founded upon tradition. There are no ruins in
the country over which to lament. How fortunate a people
that possess no Gothic cathedrals? Here is a country in
which art keeps step with Ufe. The modern Argentine drama
contrives not to be left at the portal, as has been the fate
of the theater for the most part throughout history, where it
has forever lagged behind every other form of artistic en
deavor. In the romantic movement it was outstripped both
by poetry and the novel, nor has the sequence been other
wise in the later days of naturalism and of symbolism.
The Argentine drama refuses to lag behind. Whether or
not its achievements have been more notable than those of
poetry and the novel, it is hi no sense an anachronism among
them, as it has been and doubtless still is among other
peoples. Plays of genuine merit are offered continuously
for pubUc attention. It has not been possible for me to
acquaint myself with many of them, for the reason that
Argentine playwrights refrain from publishing theb works, in

146 APPENDIX C
common with a majority of theb English and French brethren,
in order that they may better protect themselves against the
incursions of the philosophical managers, who have accepted
Proudhon's doctrine that "Property is a form of theft,"
interpreting it as having especial reference to Uterary property.
Among the better-known plays, Los Muertos, by Florencio
Sanchez, deserves mention. It has been warmly praised,
the author being held hi high esteem by his countrymen.
Much is justly expected of him, as he is still a young man.
Gregorio Laferrere is a master of dialogue, an adept in
painting society and social usages. His play Jettatore has
been favorably received in Madrid. Le6n Pagano, Garcia
VeUoso, and Jimenez Pastor have also written pieces of real
merit, so that it may be anticipated that the Argentine theater
wiU shortly be equipped with authors and plays in ample
number to free it from dependence upon the production of
foreign countries. Nevertheless, the foreign is stiU much
affected in certain quarters, as it is among us, although these,
happily, are narrowly defined. To look upon native art with
contempt is a fooUsh frailty of Spanish blood.
My first acquaintance with the National Argentine Theater
found me but poorly prepared for what I was about to see.
Argentinians themselves had predicted that I was certain
to be bored as weU as disgusted. On the contrary, I was
neither. The plays and actors seemed to me to be excellent,
not only at this, but at aU subsequent performances.
The leading actress, Elena Podesta, is beautiful in person
and possessed of faultless diction. Her manner is restrained
and correct, recalling decidedly Rosario Pino, while, like her,
she has the faculty of expressing profound emotion with
singular simplicity of means. The Podestas are a prolific
dynasty of actors who form the basis of the companies at the
two national theaters. Others of the family distinguished
themselves in various roles. Sr. Ducasse, the juvenile, must

APPENDIX C 147
be singled out for praise, as must also Sr. BatagUa, who acts
a gringo part in the play La Rendicidn to such perfection that
his performance may weU be compared with the work of the
most celebrated actors. The name of the character actress
has escaped me, but she is an exceUent artist — a Spaniard,
if I am not mistaken. The mise-en-scene, management, and
grouping of the characters afford proof of most skilful stage
direction, together with admirable training upon the part
of the actors.
While the national Argentine drama may still be regarded
by some with a patronizing eye, it is feared by the professional
importers of conventional theatrical wares long since more
or less worn out as a dangerous menace in the future. To the
unprejudiced observer who is at liberty to discriminate and
to applaud honest effort in accord with its deserts it appears
to be a sincere and artistic beginning which is sure to bring
to this great people a future day of glory. If the nation
were not admirable hi many things it would certainly be so
hi this: — every pretentious building throughout the land is
one dedicated to education. Wnen a people provides for
education with such devotion we may well declare, in the
words of the evangelist, "The rest shaU be added unto you."

APPENDIX D

The Native Music

At the time Mr. Fassett was translating the songs in
Santos Vega he told me that he had discovered that they
could be sung to some gaucho music which he had on his
phonograph. This interested me, and I investigated the
matter, with the result that I am able to give here a list of
Creole songs and dances which are included hi the Columbia
and the Victor catalogues. It seems to me that the reader
who has a phonograph will find these records of service hi
appreciating the native music of the Argentme, which has
been confined to the tango with us so far.

Columbia Graphophone

Victor Talking Machine

Company

Company

A 688

63890

62774 65605

A 693

62937

65866 62156

T831

63693

62154 67604

T769

62195

62939

T870

62182

62152

This list covers a fairly wide range of selections, but it
by no means exhausts the records of native music which
are procurable. It is at once an easy and a pleasant method
of becoming familiar with the songs and dances of the pampas
which play so pronounced a part hi the Dramas CrioUos. — Ed.

the end