SOURCE: Walker, Nell. “Prose.” The University of Missouri Studies: The Life and Works of Manuel Gutiérrez Nájera 2, no. 2 (1 April 1927): 28-46.

[In the following excerpt, Walker offers an overview of Nájera's prose works, including his news items, short stories, sermons, travel essays, and criticism.]

The first volume of Manuel Gutiérrez Nájera's Prose Works contains an introduction by Luis G. Urbina, to which reference has several times been made, and the various articles in this volume are grouped under the following headings:

Cuentos Frágiles.
Cuentos Color de Humo.
Crónicas y Fantasías.
Notas de Viaje.
Humoradas Dominicales.
Primera Cuaresma del Duque Job.
Segunda Cuaresma del Duque Job.

SHORT STORIES

The first group, “Fragile Tales,” consists of a miscellaneous collection of short stories, some humorous, such as “Los amores del cometa,” “Tragedias de actualidad—El alquiler de una casa” and “La novela del tranvía,” but the greater number of them are in a sad strain, rather characteristic of this author. The most tragic among them are: “La balada de año nuevo,” which tells of the death—on New Year's Day—of a four-year-old baby, the idol of its fond parents; “La mañana de San Juan,” which depicts that day in June so widely celebrated in the Spanish-American countries, and usually a very happy day for all, but in this story it turned out to be a very sad St. John's Day for one family in which a small boy was drowned; “La venganza de Mylord,” a tragedy of the eternal triangle; “La Pasión de Pasionaria,” a story of mother love.

The plot in these, as in many of Gutiérrez Nájera's tales, is of minor importance, but he relates the simple story in phrases so full of tenderness and pathos and adorns the whole with such beautiful descriptions of native customs or picturesque landscapes that the reader is fascinated with the picture and with the story.

The next group of compositions the author called “Smoke Colored Tales,” and these too, as the name seems to imply, are for the most part very sad, so far as the plot is concerned, but full of charming descriptions and interspersed with the author's own philosophy, which he most ingeniously weaves into his compositions.

The story entitled “Tale of a False Dollar” is quite pathetic, and, like many of Manuel Gutiérrez Nájera's articles, was written as a protest against such thoughtless acts as the one related in this story, which, briefly sketched, is as follows:

A certain young fellow had received in change a false peso which he, in turn, passed off on a saloon-keeper. The latter gave it out in making change for a five-dollar bill. The recipient, after spending the four good dollars, enters a gambling place where he is well known. The cashier chances to be out, at the moment, and the gambler tries his luck at the roulette wheel, placing the false peso on number thirty-two. He wins thirty-six dollars, and hastily picking up the false dollar, tells the cashier, who in the meantime has returned, that he would like the other thirty-five due him, in paper money. He departs, still possessor of the counterfeit coin, but feeling like a plutocrat with his newly-acquired thirty-five good ones. Turning a corner suddenly he barely escapes tramping on a newsboy, and thinking to play a little joke, he tosses the false dollar to the child, to compensate for running against him. Had the boy received the money in payment for a paper, he probably would have tested its genuineness, as was his custom, but since it was a gift, it did not even occur to him that it might be counterfeit. Then the story continues full of pathos in those paragraphs where the author tells of the child's supreme delight at the thought of a thousand things that he wanted to buy for mother and little sister, and maybe also a tamal for himself. After much planning he enters a little shop, orders several articles and proudly tosses the peso on the zinc counter, and to his surprise it rang out with that dull thud peculiar to counterfeit coins, and so familiar to shop-keepers in Mexico.

The store-keeper, a Spaniard, naturally thinks the urchin meant to defraud; so he causes his arrest and imprisonment. While he is in jail, first his mother dies and later his little sister. Such is the plot, which gives only a very inaccurate notion of the real pathos which permeates nearly every line. The story should be read in the original to be appreciated.

In reading Gutiérrez Nájera's story, one is reminded of Guy de Maupassant's masterpiece, “The Necklace,” and it is quite probable that the Mexican author was greatly indebted to the Frenchman, for there is a record of his having once recommended to Federico Gamboa—at that time a young author—to read Maupassant for ideas on correct style.

Another charming example of his “Smoke Colored Tales” is “Juan el organista.” His description of the landscape in this story is exceptionally lifelike and will be especially appreciated by any one who may have visited a similar rural district in Mexico. He says, “Do you see that flock of sheep grazing yonder; those oxen pulling the plow; that peon seated on the ground eating his “tortillas con chile” while the woman is consuming the pitcher of “pulque;” the child almost naked, playing at the door of the adobe hut; that woman “de ubres flojas,” bent over the “metate,” and the master, wearing his broad brimmed “sombrero” riding round through the fields? Well, they are the only figures in the scene.”¹ This, too, is a very pathetic tale, which may well have been a true story.

Any attempt, however, to give a correct idea of the author's ability by merely outlining his stories, would be vain, for his real genius is displayed not in the plot, as already stated, but rather in the skill with which he relates the most ordinary events, especially if those occurrences be of a sad or tragic nature, for then it is that they seem to appeal most strongly to the very depths of his soul—a soul that was acquainted with sorrow and could sympathize with the sufferings of others.

NEWS ITEMS

It is perhaps in the group of compositions which he designated by the title “Crónicas y Fantasías”—a fitting name, for indeed they are news items often strangely intermingled with fantasies of his own creation—that one finds more about the native customs and local events than in any other of his writings. Many of the old-time practices and national celebrations in Mexico are fast disappearing, and the time may come when Manuel Gutiérrez Nájera's “Crónicas” will be consulted as records of native customs long since disappeared.

The author's “Crónicas Kaleidoscópicas” remind one instantly of our own O. O. McIntyre's paragraphs “Strolling along Broadway,” and might well have received a similar title, such as “Strolling along the Paseo.” How interesting these sketches are, particularly to one who has been in that wonderful metropolis and can appreciate them, even to the most minute details! Have you ever experienced an earthquake in that big city? Then, read “Crónica color de bitter.” Have you ever spent a winter evening in that tropical climate, where, paradoxical as it may sound, one chills to the bone, in those thick-walled, unheated houses? Read El Duque Job's description (in “Artículo de invierno”) of how he shut himself into his little study “like an oyster in its shell,” one of those wintry nights, wrapped himself up in a warm bath-robe, smoked a cigar as substitute for a stove (“a guisa de calefactor económico”), covered his feet up with warm skins, settled back comfortably among the cushions of his easy chair, and still, he insists, was like an icicle and his fingers were so stiff that he could hardly wield his pen! And this is no exaggeration, however much it may appear to be to one who has never passed a winter there.

TRAVELS

It may be recalled that mention was made [elsewhere] of the fact that Gutiérrez Nájera's travels were confined within the boundaries of his own country, but he made trips to several important cities in different States of the Republic and has left interesting accounts of several of these little journeys. The author's accounts of these visits are unique, for as Dr. Goldberg says² in speaking of Gutiérrez Nájera's prose, “everywhere is the lyric attitude; even in his travels he looks at the cities out of eyes that gaze as much inward as outward.” Read, for example, his description of Jalapa, or rather his account of a visit to that capital,³ for it is not by any means restricted to a guide-book characterization of the town, as a brief sketch of his article will disclose.

Gutiérrez Nájera arrived at Jalapa after dark, the very hour, he says, that he liked to reach a place for the first time, and he preferred to go directly to a hotel, shut himself up in his room, stretch out on the bed to rest from the trip, carefree, with a bottle of old Port, a good book, and a box of fragrant tobacco close at hand. He enjoyed lying there peacefully—knowing that he was in a strange place and would not be disturbed—trying to recall articles he had read about Jalapa or poems inspired by that restful tropical city in the heart of the coffee plantations.

In his efforts to recall descriptions of Jalapa, he is reminded of other travels he has read, such as Alfred de Musset's “Tales of Spain and Italy” and Paul Bourget's “Sensations of Italy,” which he says were aptly named, for they cannot properly be called a description of the cities which the traveller visits, but a collection of loose leaves on which he was jotting down the states of his own mind.

Our poet declares that a traveller is often disillusioned about everything, especially if he has read beforehand what others have written concerning the places that he is to visit. He claims that what others write about a place, a landscape, an artistic monument, etc., does not reveal these just as they are, but as the temperament of the author felt them. For example, he believes that the contemplation of Assisi will not arouse in all persons the same beautiful, sad thoughts that it awakened in Bourget. “The beauty that we perceive,” Gutiérrez Nájera says, “is a triangle whose three component lines are: the object itself, he who sees it, and the instant in which he looks at it.”⁴

Before getting acquainted with Jalapa he wanted to picture it as he had dreamed about it, as he had read about it in prose and verse; so, “covered up in bed, I racked the storerooms of my crowded memory, now delighted with the discovery of a pretty verse, now proud if I discovered among the piles of newspapers, tied with coarse red tape, some article by Altamirano, now humming some stanza or Christmas carol of Juan de Dios Peza, or making powerful efforts to reconstruct some pretty stanzas of Roa Bárcena, woven by him with silken threads, but broken apart in my memory by time which rumples and rends everything. Are these lines Roa's?

De cuanto he visto no hay cosa
Que así me halague y sonría,
Como mi ciudad natía
Como Jalapa la hermosa.(5)

Then the dreamer continues with some beautiful similes about memory.

He muses: “In trying to call something to mind a man imagines himself at times at the seashore: the wave rolls up playfully until it touches his feet, and the way it comes bounding up reminds him of a steel hoop tossed by some child; but when he tries to stop it, with an unexpected turn it makes sport of his attempt, and recedes merrily from the rocks.” Still speaking of memory he compares it to the way in which fish sometimes draw so near the shore that “we can feel the coolness of their scales” but are so slippery that they escape from our hands. Again he compares memory to birds: “Sometimes a word, a place, a color, a perfume will stir up memories and cause them to scatter in flocks, just as a shot fired from a gun frightens birds that are lodged in a tree. We did not know that they were nesting in the oak or beechwood from which they took flight. We had forgotten them, and almost at the instant that we see them, they disappear.”⁶

On the other hand, he adds, “It sometimes happens that memory returns us ship-wrecked bodies, ideas, sentiments that we believed lost forever in the dark seas, but which suddenly reappear brought back by the tide.”⁷

Still pondering over memory, he pictures it this time as a big old house, and says: “It is not possible to take an inventory of what there is in that big, ramshackle memory house, full of hiding-places, passage-ways, exits, bureaus with drawers of a hundred secret devices, false bottomed trunks, underground store-rooms, dust covered canopies, veiled by spider-web curtains. New guests are daily entering that inn, and we do not know—there are so many of them—the numbers of the rooms they are occupying, nor whether they are in or have gone out; but it should be noted that they are never hidden nor lost forever, and when least expected open their doors, come out to meet us, or spring out suddenly like a Jack-in-the-box.”⁸

“So, while I was resting, verses, fragments of oriental prose inspired by Jalapa came to my memory, like those doors in a hotel corridor that open allowing the light to pass through, and then close again. They were like faces of old acquaintances whose names I recall with difficulty, if at all. Something by Don Pepe Esteva, something of Roa's, something by the master Prieto, a resplendent stroke of the brush of Nacho Altamirano, a serenade of Bablot, a cavatina by Peza; and, all together, the Jalapa of poetry, the Jalapa which they felt and which sublime artists made me feel. Would it be like this, abundantly adorned with flowers of brilliant hues? Would it be enveloped in a mist like a white Andalusian mantilla? She was sleeping with the peace of a young mother whose beautiful, robust children are already dreaming of candy, kisses and toys. I was listening to her sleep and I was waiting for her. The dawn was going to light up her first smile.”⁹

Then the poet goes on to tell how he gave himself up to the delightful feeling of relaxation that he felt on being away from the big city which gets such a hold on us, and compares his feeling of ease and comfort to the sensation that one experiences at receiving the lukewarm shower after coming out of a Turkish bath.

One who has lived in the high altitude of Mexico City and has visited any of those places in the tropics a few thousand feet lower can appreciate the delightful feeling of relaxation to which Gutiérrez Nájera alludes.

It may be that some tourist who was anticipating an early visit to Jalapa would have turned the page in disgust before reading thus far in Gutiérrez Nájera's article, with the remark that it did not tell him anything about the town. We may suggest to such a sight-seer that “Terry's Mexico” is the best guide-book ever written on Mexico, and that in it he will learn how many railroad stations, churches, parks, statues, etc., the city boasts, but let us continue the journalist's account of his visit—an account which contains food for thought, even though it can hardly be recommended as a guide-book.

He continues his reverie: “I am now far away … far from what? Perhaps from myself! A delicate stupor of the senses, a drowsiness of the whole body, somewhat as if one is pretending to be dead in the river of life, that is what one feels. We breathe with freedom, the air is not so heavy; an unknown something, which for an instant resembles happiness, smiles at us. Ah! tomorrow the door-bell will not ring; tomorrow it will be dawn by the time I have rested; tomorrow I shall see something beautiful, something never seen before … which is the only beautiful thing.”¹⁰

While waiting for sleep to overtake him, the traveller turns over the pages of one of Guy de Maupassant's books—Sur l'eau—and remarks that it is one of his latest and that perhaps he may never write any more. The poet finds in this volume, he says, the state of his own soul, and quotes extracts, in which the author expresses the joy he is experiencing at being alone and free.

Finally he falls asleep, wondering what Jalapa is like, anyway.

The first thing that attracts his attention on awakening is the absence of the clanging of church bells, which surprises him, for he had passed the previous night in Puebla, a city of churches whose bells never cease ringing, he says, and all chime at once.

He is up and out of doors almost as soon as there is light; and then several paragraphs are given up to a description of the fine mist or drizzle for which Jalapa and the region thereabout are noted. After reading his sketch, one experiences the sensation of having just contemplated a beautiful painting of “Dawn on a Misty Morning in May.”

As the visitor strolls along he is reminded of Gautier's “Symphonie en Blanc Majeur,”¹¹ which he later rereads, but finds that its dazzling whiteness does not harmonize with this Jalapa mist, and remarks: “No; the poetry of Gautier is paradise for my eyes; but when I close them to call up memories, to dream, to listen to the voices of my spirit, I seek poets who have suffered and have loved, and those who know how to talk to me of hopes.”¹²

The writer finally makes very slight mention of a few places and objects of interest to travellers, in Jalapa, but really gives no information about them. He closes his travelogue—or reverie—by saying that the fog has made him forget that he started to write about Jalapa, and promises to do that later.

The temptation is strong to linger too long, perhaps, in viewing Gutiérrez Nájera's sketch of this semi-tropical city, but an analysis of this one of his “Viajes” will make it clear that Gutiérrez Nájera's columns in the newspapers were vastly different from similarly entitled articles in our own New York Times and Boston Transcript!

The articles of the next group, entitled “Humoradas Dominicales,” are not, as the title would seem to indicate “Sunday Jokes,” but quite the contrary, “humoradas” here evidently having its original meaning of “full of humors,” that is, “whimsical,” or “moody.” None of these compositions is humorous, and they treat of varied subjects,—funerals, sunsets, crime, decline of royalty (“El Czar está pálido”) and several others. The best known, perhaps, is “The Flag” (“La Bandera”),¹³ a splendid essay on patriotism.

SERMONS

These are El Duque Job's “Lenten Sermons,” the second group of which were, according to the author's own introduction, ‘delivered’ two years after the first six. Although El Duque has given Biblical titles to several of these ‘sermons’—“The Temptation,” “The Prodigal Son,” “Lazarus,” etc., his discussions are, for the most part, not of a religious nature. They are, however, full of good advice cleverly interspersed with keen wit, which was needed in many instances to avoid giving offense to the church people.

He introduces his first sermon on “The Temptation” by referring to a painting which represents the Devil tempting Jesus by showing him several trays filled with fruits and flowers and supported by the hands of angels—El Duque does not know whether men or women, “for,” he says, “angels have no sex.” He insists that the temptation of Jesus Christ was not like that at all. Another canvas, one of Ary Scheffer, he believes, is far better. In this the Devil is handsome, and in a graceful attitude offers Jesus the lordship and dominion over the earth. This temptation he considers “enticing,” as all real temptations must be. From this he proceeds to give the women—his sermons are all addressed to women—good advice on marriage. “The enemies of the soul,” he says, “are three; I do not know how many are the enemies of woman, but one of them, ladies, is the diamond. I have no reason for not liking this stone, perhaps because I do not know it intimately, only by sight, but when I think of the evils it has caused, I cannot help condemning it.”

“In order to possess honorably that piece of coal ennobled by the light, woman aspires to entrapping a rich husband. The injuries caused by yielding to this temptation will, ladies, be the theme of my discourse.”¹⁴ He explains that by “husband” he does not mean an old man, for in that case “he is not a husband”—and he frequently deplores the custom, all too common, of marrying young girls to old men.

The next paragraph is extremely frank. “Here money is giving out just like the mountain forests, because they cut trees for ties and fire-wood and do not replant. The descendant progression is this: Great-grandfather, millionaire; grandfather, rich; father, well-to-do; son, poor; grandson, a beggar. Do not believe, therefore, that there are rich men. This is a report that we circulate so that Berlin will lend us some money. There are some here who were rich, others who are going to be rich, a few who appear to be rich, but there are none rich. If it is a question of constructing a railroad, the English or the Americans build it; of establishing an industry, the Spaniards do it; if it be a question of selling anything, the French sell it; if the Government borrows money—the Germans lend it. In Mexico there are houses, estates, bills of exchange, but no money. The money of Mexico is in the mines. We shall get it out of there, by going down, but we have no money yet with which to buy the ladder.”¹⁵ He continues with the boldest frankness about the young men not knowing how to do anything—an inheritance from the Spanish “nobility”, because “gentlemen” did not work. The author discusses this subject at some length and points out to the ladies the inevitable consequences of union with such men, who usually develop into gamblers.

Kindred themes are discussed in the two following sermons, namely “The Prodigal Son,” and “Lazarus,” both of which contain much about the dissipated youth of the country. Significant, too, are the author's remarks about the evils of drinking, in view of his own weakness. He says, “A man thinks he is drinking the glass, but he deceives himself, for the glass is drinking him. He empties it first at a single draught; but the glass collects what it lost and the man has to fill it with something of his understanding, something of his heart, something of his soul. A glass seems so small, and still, in it so many sons have drowned, so many mothers, so many wives, so many lives.”¹⁶ The ‘preacher’ closes this sermon by imploring the women to help save any of these young men who are not yet hopelessly lost.

These passages, only briefly sketched, will give some notion of El Duque Job's “Lenten Sermons,” some of which must surely have fallen on good ground and borne fruit.

The second volume of Manuel Gutiérrez Nájera's Prose Works was published in 1903, five years after the first volume appeared. This edition contains an introduction by the Mexican poet, Amado Nervo, an ardent admirer and intimate friend of Gutiérrez Nájera, though their personal acquaintance was not of long standing, since Nervo had located in Mexico City only a short time before Gutiérrez Nájera's death. Nervo states, however, that he was acquainted with Gutiérrez Nájera's writings long before he met the author.

The contents of this second volume are criticisms, classified under the titles:

Impresiones de Teatro.
Crítica Literaria.
Crítica Social.

It is in this collection, we believe, that the author's broad knowledge is most clearly revealed. In these criticisms he displays a familiarity with art, music, literature and human nature that must have caused envy to many special students of those subjects, students whose opportunities for learning were so much greater than this busy journalist ever enjoyed.

How, one may ask, did he acquire this knowledge? It has already been pointed out that his acquaintance with literature was due to the fact, that as a mere child, he began to read good books, both in his own language and in French, and, throughout his life, apparently never failed to improve every moment he could possibly find for reading. His insight into human affairs, clearly shown not only in the “Social Criticisms” of this volume, but everywhere in all his productions, was due to his sympathetic and loving nature which made him keenly sensitive to the suffering and sorrows of others, and to his habit of closely observing both persons and things, an indispensable trait for a successful journalist, and supplemented in Gutiérrez Nájera's case by a most remarkable memory.

But what of his knowledge of music and art? One author¹⁷ speaks of Gutiérrez Nájera as “himself a pianist of ability,” but we have been unable, so far, to confirm this.¹⁸ If he was, his most intimate friends and colleagues, Messrs. Urbina and Carlos Díaz Dufóo, were unaware of it, for such was their reply to the writer, when she asked about his musical ability. However, we have his own word for the fact that he frequently listened by the hour to the best classical music as played by artists at the Conservatory of Music, then flourishing in Mexico City. From his frequent references to paintings in the Art Museum of the Capital, one must conclude that he spent considerable time there, also, studying the works of the old masters, for Mexico justly boasts of a splendid collection of their masterpieces.

THEATRICAL CRITICISMS

Although his theatrical “impressions,” as Gutiérrez Nájera called them, were, for the most part, written hurriedly, merely as a ‘write-up’ of the ‘show’ of the previous night, they certainly do not resemble such reportorial articles as appear in our own dailies. In discussing the particular opera or drama just witnessed, the author proceeds to give more information about the production and the music of it than any one connected with the performance probably knew. Often, too, the play he is writing about suggests some thought to his mind, which calls forth a mass of information on a related subject. For example, in writing about the musical comedy “Salto del Pasiego,” in which he thought the music delightful, he continues with a vivid description of what one hears in this representation of a rural scene—the chimes, the bleating of the sheep, the roar of the cascade, the songs of the peasants singing at their work, etc. Then it occurs to him to contrast French and Spanish music. These are his words: “The Spanish have not received from heaven the gift of that music improvised and catchy (improvisada y juguetona) in which the French excel with such art.” Then he follows with some lines about Offenbach and his improvisations, and continues: “Spanish composers never attain to that ‘facilidad dificultosa.’ Their instinct irresistibly leads them to grand opera, ‘a las masas de orquestación,’ to the superb ‘concertantes,’ to the sentimental duo, in a word, to serious music. When a Spanish master writes a musical comedy, it turns out in the end that he has written something like the sketch of an opera (como el boceto de una ópera). They treat music like a legitimate wife; the Parisians, like a sweetheart; these are crazy about her (loquean con ella), they kiss her bare neck and shoulders, without having a care for the heavenly modesty that they are taking from her, nor for the coquettish charms of which they rob her.”

Again speaking of Offenbach's compositions he adds: “It is music ‘cocotte,’ which one should listen to with his hat on and with a cigar in his mouth. For that reason, indeed, it is the music of the times.” He adds that he is not talking now about such works as those of Wagner, Bellini, etc.¹⁹ He compares the music of Offenbach to “Frou-Frou”—a character in that comedy, written by Henri Meilhac and Ludovic Halévy, who, Gutiérrez Nájera says, were born for Offenbach.

Another interesting instance of digression may be noted in his criticism of a play entitled “Divorçons,” by Victorien Sardou (1880). There is very little said about the play, but the ‘philosopher’ takes this occasion to give quite an extended dissertation on the subject of divorce—a rather dangerous subject to discuss in that country, particularly at that time. The views he presents purport to have come from persons arguing the subject from both extremes and then he gives the opinions of one who begins his arguments with the words: “I believe as Napoleon did; marriage ought to be indissoluble in theory, but divorce is necessary in practice.” This debater then gives his views, which are evidently those of El Duque Job, who heartily disapproves of the manner in which marriages are contracted in his country. He affirms that there is no other contract, however unimportant, that is entered into so lightly as the marriage contract, and he proceeds to relate just how it is done in Mexico. He insists, among many other criticisms, that it is too often merely the uniting of two fortunes, without regard to the feelings of the young persons concerned. The question is not “How much are you worth?”, but “How much have you?”

Among these theatrical essays are found such titles as, “Carmen,” “Rigoletto,” “Don Juan Tenorio,” “Frou-Frou”, and many others less familiar, of both Spanish and French productions, but those most interesting, perhaps, to an English reader, are his several criticisms on Shakespearean plays. Among these we find “Otelo,” “Hamlet,” “Romeo y Julieta,” and one of the longest of all is entitled “William Shakspere.” Gutiérrez Nájera's fondness for the immortal English dramatist is unmistakable, for he is constantly making reference to his works.

No attempt will be made to review these separate criticisms, but a perusal of them cannot fail to prove instructive and at the same time increase one's admiration for this young journalist and one's wonder at his familiarity with so many foreign works. A few passages from some of them, however, may be noted.

The critic introduces his article on “Hamlet” by recalling two paintings—“Hamlet and Ophelia” the work of Henry Lehmann, and “Hamlet in the Cemetery” by Delacroix, and remarks that Shakspere and Goethe have never had a more intelligent translator than Delacroix. He closes this essay on “Hamlet” as follows: “If Hamlet is crazy, so also is our century. The same doubt, the same unbelief, the same impatient desire for suicide. … We do not believe in anything, but the sleep of the tomb causes us fear. We know everything except the science of happiness. Like the Ahasvérus of Quinet, the final judgment must come and surprise us without our having yet solved the obscure problem of the spirit. Are we crazy? Are we wise? Hamlet, like ourselves, has only an interrogation mark in his brain.”

The essay on “Romeo and Juliet” is in a style characteristic of the author. A few quotations from this criticism will suffice. He begins: “The love drama par excellence is ‘Romeo and Juliet.’ … Throughout ‘Hamlet’ not a single kiss is heard. In ‘Othello’ love has scarcely appeared when jealousy has covered it up, just as the tide covers the beach. In ‘Romeo and Juliet’ love fills the whole drama. From this work, just as from a nest of lovers, comes a perpetual sound of kisses. … Two lives meet and are joined and become one, like two drops of rain. One will no longer say: Romeo; one will no longer say: Juliet; one will always say, ‘Romeo and Juliet’. … Follow the march of that love: it is the march of a life. It goes straight and rapidly to death. … For love and for death there is no help. … The whole work is a duet which begins in glances, continues in kisses, and ends in the tomb! Just so is love! … This work of Shakspere is not a drama, it is music and a canvas. The scene of the dance, the balcony scene, the picture of the tomb, are paintings. The dialogue in the ball-room, the dialogue on the balcony, the dialogue at the tomb are duets. When Romeo and Juliet speak, their talk is a serenade. When they are silent and kiss, they are the figures of a Venetian picture.”

Another article from his theatrical column is a report of “What talent is worth” (Lo que vale el talento), a drama by D. Francisco Pérez Echevarría, and in this connection the journalist says: “If the creation had been entrusted to a Spanish dramatist, I believe that no evil would ever exist in the universe;” and he cites this play as an example of a Spanish ‘comedia.’ Still referring to this play, he says: “I reserve my compassion and my tenderness for more opportune occasions, after the manner of the coarse rustic who, upon hearing a sermon on the death of Jesus, kept laughing slyly until being asked the reason for his impertinent laughter, he replied: ‘I am laughing because I am in on the secret.’ ‘On what secret?’ ‘That he arose the third day’!” “And so it is with me,” continues Gutiérrez Nájera, “about Spanish drama.”

LITERARY CRITICISM

There are thirty-seven articles grouped as “Literary criticism”, many of which discuss the works of other Mexican authors, some treat of French and Spanish writers, and several are general discussions of literary subjects.

Among these essays there are two entitled “After Reading” (“Después de leer”), both dedicated to his friend D. Bernabé Bravo. The author says of himself and this friend. “You and I are the most fond of reading everything that falls into our hands”, and goes on to explain that he and Bravo had the habit of reading everything possible and exchanging both books and comments on what each had read. One paragraph in particular, in this article, seems highly characteristic of the author. He says that after reading a good book, he is moved by a powerful impulse to call some one who will understand him, in order to share with him the joy which fills his own soul … “for eating alone and merely reading for oneself, is not to enjoy either the food or the reading.” He says that when he finds some literary gem, he experiences the greatest impulse to hail the first passer-by and cry out to him, as if he had some good piece of news to give him, to “stop and see what a pretty thing I have here in my hand. One does not see a thing like this every day—look at it, friend!”

This enthusiasm of Gutiérrez Nájera over the treasures he discovered in literature and his generosity in desiring to share them with others are evidenced in many of his works. Without them would he have taken such pains in reporting for the daily newspaper a mere theatrical performance or a musical concert of the previous night?

One of these “Criticisms” is entitled “Del Natural … Impresiones y recuerdos,” and treats of the novel Del Natural of the Mexican author, Federico Gamboa, and more particularly of Gamboa, himself a young writer at that time. These memoirs of Gutiérrez Nájera on the early life of Federico Gamboa enlighten those of us who, after reading some of Gamboa's novels, have wondered about the source of his information on “how the other half lives.” Gutiérrez Nájera leaves the impression that Gamboa was rather intimately acquainted with that life and had evidently secured his knowledge at first hand.

In the first part of this article, our poet, some years older than Gamboa, and much more experienced as a writer, is giving his young friend some advice about reading. He counsels him to read Jovellanos carefully “because Jovellanos, in my judgment,” he says, “is the best physician that there is to cure us of the grammatical infirmities (enfermedades) which, through contagion, we devotees of French literature contract.” He also says that the Luises, the one of León and the other of Granada, are admirable, and adds “but they are now very far from us”—they wrote on religious subjects. He says that “only D. Juan Valera, in his Pepita Jiménez has imitated them with much success; but he, in the work cited, proposed to make and did make a mystic poem of voluptuousness.” He further remarks that Gamboa is not going that road, and again urges him to study Jovellanos. Gutiérrez Nájera then relates incidents in Gamboa's early life, which must have been more or less typical of the average journalist of that time, in Mexico. The poet says that for a long time he feared that Gamboa was going to be lost—that he was going to ruin his health and waste his talent through his dissipations, and then proceeds to enumerate many of the pitfalls into which young newspaper men were likely to fall and be hopelessly lost. Among other dangers he names the saloon and calls it “their library.” He believes that few who enter the field while young and inexperienced “conserve their ideal whole although not pure, their dignity sound, their names untarnished for mature years,” … “and Federico was travelling the gay narrow street of journalism, not lacking talent and cleverness for bigger things, pushed on by friends, by youth, ignorant, giddy and satisfied with life for the sake of enjoying it, and because many knew that he ‘lived’ (enjoyed life).” The poet mentions that Gamboa comes from good stock—a distinguished family—so that he was welcomed into the best circles. He was talented and likeable. Gutiérrez Nájera says that he never doubted his young friend's ability, but was fearful lest he should fail to employ it. Our sensitive poet heaved a sigh of relief when he learned that Gamboa was to leave Mexico City to go to Central America as Second Secretary to the Mexican Legation—for he felt that now the young writer would be saved. El Duque Job says, “Laugh if you like” (that he rejoiced to learn that his young friend was going to get away from the big city's temptations), “but one of my many weaknesses is that of loving, with an affection very full of fear, all these young poets, young journalists, young novelists—the ones that are genuine, you understand—who enter, blind-folded, the street life of the literary career. I would found, if I were rich, not a hospital for the sick, but a home for lodging all those talents that are on the road to falling ill. Federico was going away—what good luck!” It may be added that Federico Gamboa was saved, and his numerous productions testify to his talent and energy.

Two of these articles are tributes to the memory of the ‘Master,’ Altamirano—the author who took such an interest in the young writers and gave them so much encouragement. Ignacio M. Altamirano was sent to Spain in 1889, as Consul-General of the Republic of Mexico, and later transferred to Paris, in the same capacity. His health was already failing, when he left Spain, and he died a few years later, in 1893, in San Remo, Italy. Shortly after receiving news of the ‘Master's’ death, the members of the “Liceo Mexicano” held a memorial service in his honor, and Gutiérrez Nájera was one of the speakers at this meeting.

The composition entitled “An Open Letter to Mr. Angel Franco” is in reply to a question asked by Mr. Franco, editor of a local journal, “The Democrat.” His query was, “Is it a literary defect in Spanish to write poetic prose, as it is to write prose verse?” El Duque says, repeating his query: “Is poetic prose a fault? I think not, if the subject is essentially poetic. Prose verse, assuredly is.” Mr. Franco was referring to Gutiérrez Nájera's composition on Altamirano, which, although in prose, was in essence, poetry.

“Alfredo Bablot” is the title of another of these essays. Mr. Bablot was the editor of “El Federalista,” one of the first newspapers, it may be recalled, to which Gutiérrez Nájera contributed his own labors. This article is a eulogy on Alfredo Bablot, written just after his death.

In another ‘criticism’ entitled “Dos estatuas,” the author again praises the work of a journalist, Francisco Zarco, and argues that he deserves to have a statue erected to his memory along the Paseo de la Reforma, Mexico City's principal boulevard, where it was the fashion to erect statues to war heroes. The “two statues” he is writing about are the one to Leandro Valle, a brave soldier who was executed at the age of twenty-eight, and the other, to Ignacio Ramírez, the first statue, says the poet, ever erected in Mexico to a man of letters. The author continues with a splendid tribute to men of letters. Then he lauds the work of the journalist, Francisco Zarco, who had just died, and proceeds at some length to point out just what it means to be a journalist like Zarco, who did so much for his country, and was, in the opinion of Gutiérrez Nájera, a real hero who deserved to have a statute erected to his memory.

SOCIAL CRITICISMS

These articles give an idea of the interest Gutiérrez Nájera took in civic affairs and the effort that he was continually making to improve conditions in his country, particularly in his own city, the national capital.

In the composition that he calls “Examination Time. White Ball, Red Ball, Black Ball,” he expresses the sorrow he feels whenever he sees young boys frequenting the billiard and pool halls—youths whose parents think them in school. He points out that this practice is often the beginning of the vice of gambling, and that habits formed here may lead to crime later. He closes the article by saying that although there is a law that forbids the entrance of minors into these amusement places, the police do not enforce its observance.

“I Do Not Wish to be Judged” is the title of another one of these essays. He introduces this with the words: “Now that crimes are the fashion,” which statement, as well as the remainder of the article, would apply equally well to present day conditions in our own country. He gives the arguments—purporting to be those of a lawyer in one case and of a “defender of the poor” in the other—commonly advanced for and against the accused; and the resemblance to similar arguments put forth here and now is surprising—even to the plea of insanity, which we are likely to think is a modern invention! If other arguments fail, the lawyer suggests pleading drunkenness for, he says: “it is declared by one of the recent decisions of the ‘tribunal del pueblo’ that drunkards are not responsible for their acts. Drunkenness is an insanity hired by the hour.” El Duque gives a little of his own counsel here. He recommends that when one is going to commit a crime, the best thing to do is to get drunk, just as one hires a coach; or, better still, to stay drunk all the time, in case of an emergency!

Gutiérrez Nájera's cutting sarcasm is seen in several others of these “Social Criticisms,” as well as in the one just cited.

“Eighth of September” is the subject of an article on the anniversary of the battle between the United States and Mexico in the war of 1847, in which several young cadets of the Military College at Chapultepec lost their lives. This is a good article on patriotism. The author could not resist a little ‘slur’ at the army, which, he says, was divided just at that time, and while Santa Anna and General Valencia were disputing, the cadets at the College were giving their lives for their country.

The composition entitled “Matrimony. Letter to Alphonso,” might well have been included with his “Lenten Sermons.” Alphonso is one of those ‘sports’ who frequent the theatres for the sake of the conquests they can make of the chorus girls and actresses, and who spend the day in cafés and clubs bragging about their success and discussing women in general—all of whom, in their opinion, are easy victims. El Duque Job admits that he is a bit old-fashioned in his views, but he says, “I still believe in God, in virtue and in the family!” He then proceeds to give Alphonso a good lecture on marriage and love, as contrasted with the so-called love of Alphonso's kind. It is in this article that El Duque Job says, “There are not two loves, as there are not two suns,” which statement he refers to in a later composition—“Cuento triste”—in which he says that he used to think that there could be only one love, just as he thought there was only one sun. He adds that he learned later, when he studied astronomy, that there are many suns!

“Women of Talent” is the title of another essay in this group, and treats of the much discussed topic of that day,—Woman's Sphere. The poet expresses his views as follows: “It makes me angry to see her outside her sphere, invading the dominions of man. Let us leave her in the home.” But as Gutiérrez Nájera himself quotes in another connection, Tempora mutantur, et nos mutamur in illis! If he were living today, he would probably have other views on the subject.

Another composition, “A Life Sentence”, is a plea for the protection and education of ‘fatherless’ children, and still another article, “The Children of Those Women,” is on this same subject, and this latter plea is addressed “To the Governor of the District” in the hope that the Governor would take some action leading to the safe-guarding of these unfortunate children.

“La Virgen de Guadalupe” is a splendid eulogy on the Patron Saint of the Indians. He begins this composition with the words: “It is necessary to have a very delicate pen to write the history of religious traditions, to relate the lives of those fairies, the comforters of humanity. We hold our breath before them as before those rainbow-hued soap bubbles which children blow into the air, and the former, just as the latter, let the sky (heaven) show through.” He goes on to relate the story, so well known and almost universally believed in Mexico, of the miraculous appearance of the Virgin to the Indian, Juan Diego, and how, when Juan went to the Archbishop, as commanded by the Virgin, the picture of the Virgin appeared miraculously on the boy's “tilma” (Indian blanket).

The Indians, up to this time suspicious of the white man's God, now firmly believed that they had “una divinidad protectora” in the Virgin of Guadalupe, and they believe it still. “This image has been and is irrevocably a symbol of nationality, of independence, of the fatherland,” the poet says. He refers also in this article to the incident in the War for Independence when the standard for Hidalgo's followers bore the image of the Virgin of Guadalupe. The Virgin of Guadalupe symbolized the religion of the oppressed natives; she was not graced with military titles by viceregal power, as was the “Virgen de los Remedios;”²⁰ she was all Indian and all for the Indian. The author adds farther on in this article: “those who deny the miracle of the Apparition claim that it was invented by the Spaniards in order to dominate the Indian better. Well, the miracle consisted in the fact that, without meaning to, they gave the Indian a great consolation, with consolation hope, with hope energy, and with energy, ability to conquer.” He goes on to say that through the years, the centuries, faith in the Virgin of Guadalupe persists—she is still the protectress of the oppressed. He says that it is true that in the worship of the Indians there is much of idolatry, but points out that the Indian sees and loves only “what they present to him in sensible form.” And then he muses: “Is civilized man, perhaps, able to attain to a pure and strictly immaterial concept of the Divinity? Have we eyes that see beyond time and space? The great strength of Christianity consists principally in the fact that it accepted humanity, and that its God became flesh; He was made man in order that we might see Him.” … “Good Virgin, she who has been a mother to all those orphans! Good Virgin, she who still helps a race that is perishing and relegated to the hospital to die happily! The night of incredulity respects some stars, leaving them, that they may shine at an incalculable distance from men, and that star of Tepeyac²¹ is one of them!”

HOJAS SUELTAS

The small volume entitled Hojas Sueltas was published by the Antigua Imprenta de Murguía, Mexico, in 1912, and is, as the title page indicates, a collection of “Artículos diversos” in prose, by Manuel Gutiérrez Nájera, written under various pen names, El Duque Job, Junius, Puck, El Cura de Jalatlaco, Juan Lanas, Perico el de los Palotes.

This collection was made by the poet's wife, and, at her request, the introduction was written by the poet's friend, Carlos Díaz Dufóo,²² who, it will be recalled, was Gutiérrez Nájera's partner in the publication of the literary review, Revista Azul.

In writing the preface, which Sr. Díaz Dufóo entitles “Threshold” (Umbral), the author naturally turns first to the man, Gutiérrez Nájera, who indeed so endeared himself to those intimately associated with him that they invariably think of him and of his charming personality before they pause to consider his compositions, much as they may admire and even marvel at their beauty and worth.

In recalling these months of intimate association with the poet, Sr. Díaz Dufóo is reminded of the banquet, arranged at the instigation of Juan José Tablada,²³ to celebrate the birth of the new literary weekly, Revista Azul. Both of these gentlemen, Tablada and Díaz Dufóo, tell us that it was at this banquet that the poet made known, for the first time, to several of his most intimate friends the real tragedy of his life—the incurable ailment that was gnawing at his heart and soul. His friends say that this was his first protest—and his last, for he died seven months later.

In this introduction Sr. Díaz Dufóo stresses the fact that Gutiérrez Nájera was a humorist, in the broad sense which William Makepeace Thackeray assigns to that term, and quotes a passage from Thackeray which says that humorous writers “appeal to a great number of our other faculties, besides our mere sense of ridicule. The humorous writer professes to awaken and direct your love, your pity, your kindness—your scorn for untruth, pretension, imposture—your tenderness for the weak, the poor, the oppressed, the unhappy.”²⁴

In reading Gutiérrez Nájera's poetical compositions one would scarcely think of the poet as a humorist in the common acceptation of the term, but one need not read far in his prose works to discover his facile wit and keen sense of humor, though, as we have already found from a study of the two volumes of his Prose Works, most of his articles are of a serious nature and many of them treat of extremely sad and tragic themes, but even these are often interspersed here and there with sparkling good humor.

The particular collection selected for this small volume consists mainly of articles in a lighter vein which, with few exceptions, are quite humorous. Like all the rest of his prose compositions, these, too, were written hurriedly for the daily press, and cover a wide range of subjects. Several are tributes of respect to other writers, some living, others already departed. Among these literary men to whom the poet pays homage were Leopoldo Zamora, a Mexican engineer who was also a writer; Ricardo Domínguez, a friend and daily companion of our poet, working beside him in the same newspaper office; and Manuel Carpio, Mexican poet, to whom reference was made in Chapter III, p. 18 [of this text]. There are essays, too, on José Zorrilla and Campoamor, Spanish poets of note. In the article entitled “Un banquete al Maestro Altamirano,” we are introduced to many literary men of the Mexican capital at that time—a period of unusual literary activity in Mexico City.

Many of the articles in this volume have to do with the topics of the day, and in these El Duque Job never misses an opportunity to advance the cause of some worthy reform. One of these, especially deserving mention, is entitled “El pulque en el banquillo”, and is a strong denunciation of the “pulquerías,” the low-class saloons dealing in “pulque,” that vile drink made from the maguey plant, which is the curse of that country—at least of those regions where the plants can be cultivated. Gutiérrez Nájera says of this drink: “Pulque is our great elector of criminals.” And again he says: “The day when pulque does not come into Mexico, almost no criminals will enter the prison.” This liquor is used almost exclusively by the people of the lower classes.

The poet expresses a great truth when he says: “The Indian spends for three white things, which absorb all his budget: for a ‘manta’ (white cotton suit) in which to dress himself, for ‘pulque’ (whitish in color), and for wax (candles) for the saints and the dead.” El Duque explains further on that he is more opposed to the “pulquerías” than to the “pulque,” which some claim possesses certain medicinal qualities, and if taken moderately, would probably do no harm. This drink, together with the “frijoles” (beans) and the “tortilla” (a cake made of corn), practically constitutes the food of the lower classes, which leads Gutiérrez Nájera to say that, “In fact, since we cannot feed the people, it is charitable to give them drink.” But he points out that the “pulquerías” do more harm than the drink itself, for they are veritable breeding places for all manner of crime. Many a quarrel in one of these saloons ends in murder. Much has been written and spoken against “pulque” both before and since Gutiérrez Nájera's time, and, while some measures have been adopted to curb the sale of it, large quantities are still consumed daily by the peon class in Mexico.

In the article entitled “With the Goddess' Pardon” (“Con perdón de la Diosa”) the author makes some rather fitting remarks about the Indian. This article concerns an Aztec idol, an Indian goddess recently excavated, which proved to be a discovery of some importance to the archeologist Batres, in charge of the excavating, and others interested in such matters, but Gutiérrez Nájera's attitude toward these matters is expressed in the epigram that “we have great love for the Indians that no longer exist, and we look with the greatest disdain on those that are still living.” (p. 75.)

The poet dilates at some length on this subject of the Indian, which is one of his country's problems. He thinks that instead of a handsome statue to the Indian Cuauhtemoc, as proposed (and later erected at a cost of 37,800 pesos), the finest tribute to this hero would be to educate his descendants. Furthermore, he is inclined to suspect that perhaps Benito Juárez²⁵ deserves to have a monument to his honor even before the Indian Cuauhtemoc!

A very amusing article in this volume is the one entitled “A Reader” (“Un libro de lectura”). A South American author sent a copy of his “Second Reader” to Gutiérrez Nájera, to whom he dedicated the text. The poet proceeds to review the book and make public his opinion of it, which is anything but complimentary to its author. In the first part of the book the author discusses “Zoology and the History of Mexico.” El Duque Job resents this intimate connection which he thinks might seem to imply a close relationship of his people with animals. However, he says, he might forgive this insinuation on the part of the author of the book, if that were all that he found wrong with it. The more he reads of the text, the more displeased he becomes, for he finds gross absurdities in statements about the history of Mexico. Gutiérrez Nájera points out some of the most ridiculous mistakes and comments on each in a very humorous manner. After reviewing the book the poet is more than ever displeased that such a writer should refer to him (Gutiérrez Nájera) in his dedicatory remarks as “very intelligént” (muy inteligente). El Duque Job does not appreciate such a compliment from such a source.

Probably the most interesting of all the articles in Hojas Sueltas are the eight which the author calls “Things that are lacking” (Cosas que hacen falta). Each bears this title followed by the name of the thing that is lacking. For example the first one is: “Cosas que hacen falta.—La Vergüenza.” El Duque thinks, for example, that those people who find nothing to do but eat and sleep are lacking in “shame.” Also the girl who spends the day in visiting and the evenings at dances and parties and is disrespectful to her parents lacks “vergüenza.” And so, he finds many who are lacking in this attribute.

In the second of this series, the thing that he proves ofttimes lacking is “money.” In this discussion the author takes occasion to mention a few needs of the city or government that have not received attention for lack of money. It is interesting to note that one of these needs to which he refers is the completion of the drainage of the Valley of Mexico,²⁶ and another that he specifies is a navy.²⁷ The poet introduces this article with the familiar quotation from Quevedo, “Poderoso caballero es don dinero” (A Powerful Gentlemen is Mr. Money), and goes on to prove this true by discussing the condition of the rich and the poor, respectively. He writes less than a page about the rich whom he says he knows only by hearsay, scarcely by sight, but he knows the poor intimately, for he says that he has them near him and that he himself is identified with them. He writes more than four times as much about the poor as he does about the rich. Everywhere in Gutiérrez Nájera's writings we find evidences of his sympathy for the poor.

In similar discussions El Duque Job—or rather Perico el de los Palotes (John Doe), for it is with this pen name that he has signed all these eight articles—tells of the other things that are lacking, Memory, Common Sense, Latin, Heat, Pedagogy, and Peace. Throughout these articles there is much truth in the poet's reasoning, as well as a great deal of humor.

Before closing this final chapter on the Prose Works of Manuel Gutiérrez Nájera, mention should be made of the novel entitled “La Mancha de Lady Macbeth”, which was begun by the poet shortly before his death but never completed, and only three chapters were published. These appeared in a Mexico City magazine of that period called Revista Nacional de Ciencias y Letras.

Notes

1. Obras de Manuel Gutiérrez Nájera. Prosa. Tomo primero, p. 60. Mexico, Tip. de la Oficina Impresora del Timbre, Palacio Nacional, 1898.

2. Goldberg. Studies in Spanish-American Literature, p. 41.

3. Jalapa is the capital of the State of Veracruz.

4. Prosa. Tomo I, p. 300.

5. Op. cit., p. 300.

6. Op. cit., p. 300.

7. Op. cit., p. 301.

8. Op. cit., p. 301.

9. Op. cit., p. 301.

10. Op. cit., p. 301.

11. Goldberg (Studies in Spanish-American Literature, p. 23) thinks that Gutiérrez Nájera's poem “De blanco” (1888) was probably suggested by this one of Gautier.

12. Prosa. Tomo I, p. 304.

13. A teacher in one of the Mexico City schools told the writer that she has her pupils study this composition and commit to memory certain passages of it.

14. Prosa. Tomo I, p. 376.

15. Op. cit., p. 377.

16. Op. cit., p. 387.

17. Coester. Anthology of the Modernista Movement in Spanish America. Introd., p. xiv.

18. Since writing the foregoing, the author is in receipt of a letter from Miss Margarita Gutiérrez Nájera, a daughter of the poet, in which she states that her father was not a musician, “but he loved and understood music.”

19. In another article in this same group, he discusses other musicians, Boito, Gounod and Chopin, and in many places throughout his writings the author mentions other famous musicians.

20. This was the Patron Saint of the Spaniards and this image, too, played a rôle in the ranks of the Spanish soldiers, in the War for Independence.

21. Tepeyac is the hill at Guadalupe on which the Virgin is said to have appeared to the Indian, and the church in which this “tilma” is guarded is at the foot of this hill.

22. Carlos Díaz Dufóo is still living—he resides in a suburb of Mexico City—and continues to do some writing for local journals.

23. “Memorias de José Juan Tablada.” Article that appeared on June 25, 1925 in a Mexico City newspaper,El Universal, p. 7.

24. Thackeray. Roundabout Papers, “The English Humorists of the 18th Century.” Article on “Swift,” p. 101, A. L. Burt, Publisher, N. Y. Sr. Díaz Dufóo condenses the quotation slightly, p. xiii, preface to Hojas Sueltas.

25. A very handsome memorial was erected to Benito Juárez many years later.

26. The drainage canal was begun in 1879 and finally completed in 1900, at a total cost of 16 millions of pesos. (Terry's Mexico, p. 248.)

27. This is still lacking.

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