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- Wydawca: KtoCzyta.pl
- Kategoria: Powieści przygodowe i historyczne
- Język: polski
Lewis Wallace writes a very credible account of the fall of the Aztec Empire. The account is penned by the fictional Viceroy Mendoza to the Emperor. The main character talks about his respect for the Aztec nation. This is a story about the conflict between the Spanish and the Aztecs.
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Liczba stron: 892
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Contents
Introductory
Book One
Chapter I. Our Mother Has a Fortune Waiting Us Yonder
Chapter II. Quetzal’, the Fair God
Chapter III. A Challenge
Chapter IV. Tenochtitlan at Night
Chapter V. The Child of the Temple
Chapter VI. The C of Quetzal’, and Mualox, The Paba
Chapter VII. The Prophecy on the Wall
Chapter VIII. A Business Man In Tenochtitlan
Chapter IX. The Questioner of the Morning
Chapter X. Going to the Combat
Chapter XI. The Combat
Chapter XII. Mualox, and His World
Chapter XIII. The Search for Quetzal’
Book Two
Chapter I. Who Are the Strangers?
Chapter II. A Tezcucan Lover
Chapter III. The Banishment of Guatamozin
Chapter IV. Guatamozin at Home
Chapter V. Night at the Chalcan’S
Chapter VI. The Chinampa
Chapter VII. Court Gossip
Chapter VIII. Guatamozin and Mualox
Chapter IX. A King’s Banquet
Chapter X. The ‘Tzin’s Love
Chapter XI. The Chant
Book Three
Chapter I. The First Combat
Chapter II. The Second Combat
Chapter III. The Portrait
Chapter IV. The Trial
Book Four
Chapter I. The King Gives a Trust to Hualpa
Chapter II. The King and the ‘Tzin
Chapter III. Love on the Lake
Chapter IV. The King Demands a Sign of Mualox
Chapter V. The Massacre in Cholula
Chapter VI. The Conqueror Will Come
Chapter VII. Montezuma Goes to Meet Cortez
Chapter VIII. The Entry
Book Five
Chapter I. Public Opinion
Chapter II. A Message from the Gods
Chapter III. How Ills of State Become Ills of Society
Chapter IV. Ennuy in the Old Palace
Chapter V. Alvarado Finds The Light Of The World
Chapter VI. The Iron Cross
Chapter VII. The Christians in the Toils
Chapter VIII. The Iron Cross Comes Back to Its Giver
Chapter IX. Truly Wonderful—A Fortunate Man Hath a Memory
Chapter X. How The Iron Cross Came Back
Chapter XI. The Christian Takes Care of His Own
Book Six
Chapter I. The Lord Hualpa Flees His Fortune
Chapter II. Whom the Gods Destroy They First Make Mad
Chapter III. The Public Opinion Makes Way
Chapter IV. The ‘Tzin’s Farewell to Quetzal’
Chapter V. The Cells Of Quetzal’ Again
Chapter VI. Lost In The Old C
Chapter VII. How the Holy Mother Helps Her Children
Chapter VIII. The Paba’s Angel
Chapter IX. Life in the Paba’s World
Chapter X. The Angel Becomes a Beadswoman
Chapter XI. The Public Opinion Proclaims Itself—Battle
Book Seven
Chapter I. The Heart Can Be Wiser Than the Head
Chapter II. The Conqueror on the Causeway Again
Chapter III. La Viruela
Chapter IV. Montezuma a Prophet—His Prophecy
Chapter V. How to Yield a Crown
Chapter VI. In the Leaguer
Chapter VII. In the Leaguer Yet
Chapter VIII. The Battle of the Mantas
Chapter IX. Over the Wall,—Into the Palace
Chapter X. The Way Through the Wall
Chapter XI. Battle in the Air
Chapter XII. In the Interval of the Battle—Love
Chapter XIII. The Beginning of the End
Chapter XIV. The King Before His People Again
Chapter XV. The Death of Montezuma
Chapter XVI. Adieu to the Palace
Chapter XVII. The Pursuit Begins
Chapter XVIII. La Noche Triste
Introductory
Fernando De Alva,[1] a noble Tezcucan, flourished, we are told, in the beginning of the sixteenth century. He was a man of great learning, familiar with the Mexican and Spanish languages, and the hieroglyphics of Anahuac. Ambitious to rescue his race from oblivion, and inspired by love of learning, he collected a library, availed himself of his knowledge of picture-writing, became master of the songs and traditions, and, in the Castilian language, composed books of merit.
[1] Fernando De Alva Iztlilzochitl.
It was scarcely possible that his labors should escape the researches of Mr. Prescott, who, with such incomparable genius, has given the world a history of the Conquest of Mexico. From him we have a criticism upon the labors of the learned Fernando, from which the following paragraph is extracted.
“Iztlilzochitl’s writings have many of the defects belonging to his age. He often crowds the page with incidents of a trivial and sometimes improbable character. The improbability increases with the distance of the period; for distance, which diminishes objects to the natural eye, exaggerates them to the mental. His chronology, as I have more than once noticed, is inextricably entangled. He has often lent a too willing ear to traditions and reports which would startle the more sceptical criticism of the present time. Yet there is an appearance of good faith and simplicity in his writings, which may convince the reader that, when he errs, it is from no worse cause than the national partiality. And surely such partiality is excusable in the descendant of a proud line, shorn of its ancient splendors, which it was soothing to his own feelings to revive again–though with something more than their legitimate lustre–on the canvas of history. It should also be considered that, if his narrative is sometimes startling, his researches penetrate into the mysterious depths of antiquity, where light and darkness meet and melt into each other; and where everything is still further liable to distortion, as seen through the misty medium of hieroglyphics.”
Besides his Relaciones and Historia Chichemeca, De Alva composed works of a lighter nature, though equally based upon history. Some were lost; others fell into the hands of persons ignorant of their value; a few only were rescued and given to the press. For a considerable period he served as interpreter to the Spanish Viceroy. His duties as such were trifling; he had ample time for literary pursuits; his enthusiasm as a scholar permitted him no relaxation or idleness. Thus favored, it is believed he composed the books now for the first time given to the world.
The MSS. were found among a heap of old despatches from the Viceroy Mendoza to the Emperor. It is quite probable that they became mixed with the State papers through accident; if, however, they were purposely addressed to His Majesty, it must have been to give him a completer idea of the Aztecan people and their civilization, or to lighten the burthens of royalty by an amusement to which, it is known, Charles V. was not averse. Besides, Mendoza, in his difficulty with the Marquess of the Valley (Cortes), failed not to avail himself of every means likely to propitiate his cause with the court, and especially with the Royal Council of the Indies. It is not altogether improbable, therefore, that the MSS. were forwarded for the entertainment of the members of the Council and the lordly personages of the Court, who not only devoured with avidity, but, as the wily Mendoza well knew, were vastly obliged for, everything relative to the New World, and particularly the dazzling conquest of Mexico.
In the translation, certain liberties have been taken, for which, if wrong has been done, pardon is besought both from the public and the shade of the author. Thus, The Books in the original are unbroken narratives; but, with infinite care and trouble, they have all been brought out of the confusion, and arranged into chapters. So, there were names, some of which have been altogether changed; while others, for the sake of euphony, have been abbreviated, though without sacrificing the identity of the heroes who wore them so proudly.
And thus beginneth the First Book.
Book One
I. OUR MOTHER HAS A FORTUNE WAITING US YONDER
The Spanish Calendar is simpler than the Aztecan. In fact, Christian methods, of whatever nature, are better than heathen.
So, then, by the Spanish Calendar, March, 1519, had about half spent itself in the valley of Anahuac, which was as yet untrodden by gold-seeker, with cross-hilted sword at his side, and on his lips a Catholic oath. Near noon of one of its fairest days a traveller came descending the western slope of the Sierra de Ahualco. Since the dawn his path had been amongst hills and crags; at times traversing bald rocks that towered to where the winds blew chill, then dipping into warm valleys, where were grass, flowers, and streamlets, and sometimes forests of cedar and fir,–labyrinths in which there reigned a perpetual twilight.
Toilsome as was the way, the traveller, young and strong, marched lightly. His dress, of the kind prevalent in his country, was provincial, and with few signs of rank. He had sandals of buffalo-hide, fitted for climbing rocks and threading pathless woods; a sort of white tunic, covering his body from the neck to the knees, leaving bare the arms from the shoulder; maxtlatl and tilmatli–sash and mantle–of cotton, blue tinted, and void of ornament; on the wrist of his left arm he wore a substantial golden bracelet, and in both ears jewelled pendants; while an ebony band, encircling his head, kept his straight black locks in place, and permitted a snow-white bird’s-wing for decoration. There was a shield on his left arm, framed of wood, and covered with padded cloth, and in the left hand a javelin barbed with ‘itzli; at his back swung a maquahuitl, and a quiver filled with arrows; an unstrung bow in his right hand completed his equipments, and served him in lieu of staff. An ocelot, trudging stealthily behind him, was his sole companion.
In the course of his journey he came to a crag that sank bluffly down several hundred feet, commanding a fine prospect. Though the air was cold, he halted. Away to the northwest stretched the beautiful valley of Anahuac, dotted with hamlets and farm-houses, and marked with the silver tracery of streams. Far across the plain, he caught a view of the fresh waters of Lake Chalco, and beyond that, blue in the distance and faintly relieved against the sky, the royal hill of Chapultepec, with its palaces and cypress forests. In all the New World there was no scene comparable with that he looked upon,–none its rival for beauty, none where the heavens seemed so perfectly melted into earth. There were the most renowned cities of the Empire; from that plain went the armies whose marches were all triumphs; in that air hovered the gods awaiting sacrifices; into that sky rose the smoke of the inextinguishable fires; there shone the brightest suns, and lingered the longest summers; and yonder dwelt that king–in youth a priest, then a warrior, now the terror of all nations–whose signet on the hand of a slave could fill the land with rustling of banners.
No traveller, I ween, could look unmoved on the picture; ours sat down, and gazed with brimful eyes and a beating heart. For the first time he was beholding the matchless vale so overhung with loveliness and full of the monuments of a strange civilization. So rapt was he that he did not observe the ocelot come and lay its head in his lap, like a dog seeking caresses. “Come, boy!” he said, at last rousing himself; “let us on. Our Mother[2] has a fortune waiting us yonder.”
[2] The goddess Cioacoatl, called “Our Lady and Mother.” Sahagun, Hist. de Nueva Esp.
And they resumed the journey. Half an hour’s brisk walk brought them to the foot of the mountain. Suddenly they came upon company.
It was on the bank of a considerable stream, which, pouring in noisy torrent over a rocky bed, appeared to rush with a song forward into the valley. A clump of giant oaks shaded a level sward. Under them a crowd of tamanes,[3] tawny, half-clad, broad-shouldered men, devoured loaves of cold maize bread. Near the roots of the trees their masters reclined comfortably on petates, or mats, without which an Aztec trader’s outfit was incomplete. Our traveller understood at a glance the character of the strangers; so that, as his road led directly to them, he went on without hesitation. As he came near, some of them sat up to observe him.
[3] Carrier slaves, or porters.
“A warrior going to the city,” said one.
“Or rather a king’s courier,” suggested another.
“Is not that an ocelot at his heels?” asked a third.
“That it is. Bring me my javelin!”
“And mine! And mine!” cried several of them at once, all springing to their feet.
By the time the young man came up, the whole party stood ready to give him an armed welcome.
“I am very sorry to have disturbed you,” he said, quietly finding himself obliged to stop.
“You seem friendly enough,” answered one of the older men; “but your comrade there,–what of him?”
The traveller smiled. “See, he is muzzled.”
The party laughed at their own fears. The old merchant, however, stepped forward to the young stranger.
“I confess you have greatly relieved me. I feared the brute might set on and wound somebody. Come up, and sit down with us.”
The traveller was nowise disinclined, being tempted by the prospect of cheer from the provision-baskets lying around.
“Bring a mat for the warrior,” said the friendly trader. “Now give him bread and meat.”
From an abundance of bread, fowl, and fruit the wayfarer helped himself. A running conversation was meantime maintained.
“My ocelot? The story is simple; for your sakes, good friends, I wish it were better. I killed his mother, and took him when a whelp. Now he does me good service hunting. You should see him in pursuit of an antelope!”
“Then you are not a warrior?”
“To be a warrior,” replied the hunter, modestly, “is to have been in many battles, and taken many captives. I have practised arms, and, at times, boasted of skill,–foolishly, perhaps; yet, I confess, I never marched a day under the banner of the great king.”
“Ah!” said the old man, quizzically, “I understand you. You have served some free-trading company like our own.”
“You are shrewd. My father is a merchant. At times he has travelled with strong trains, and even attacked cities that have refused him admission to their market.”
“Indeed! He must be of renown. In what province does he live, my son?”
“In Tihuanco.”
“Tepaja! old Tepaja, of Tihuanco! Are you son of his?” The good man grasped the young one’s hand enthusiastically. “I knew him well; many years ago we were as brothers together; we travelled and traded through many provinces. That was the day of the elder Montezuma, when the Empire was not as large as now; when, in fact, most gates were closed against us, because our king was an Aztec, and we had to storm a town, then turn its square into a market for the sale of our wares. Sometimes we marched an army, each of us carrying a thousand slaves; and yet our tasks were not always easy. I remember once, down on the bank of the Great River, we were beaten back from a walled town, and succeeded only after a four days’ fight. Ah, but we made it win! We led three thousand slaves back to Tenochtitlan, besides five hundred captives,–a present for the gods.”
So the merchant talked until the hunger of his new acquaintance was appeased; then he offered a pipe, which was declined.
“I am fond of a pipe after a good meal; and this one has been worthy a king. But now I have no leisure for the luxury; the city to which I am bound is too far ahead of me.”
“If it is your first visit, you are right. Fail not to be there before the market closes. Such a sight never gladdened your dreams!”
“So I have heard my father say.”
“O, it never was as it will be to-night! The roads for days have been thronged with visitors going up in processions.”
“What is the occasion?”
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