[In the following essay, Bradley defends Azuela's representation of the Mexican revolution in his Los de Abajo, arguing that although the revolution was an integral part of his novel, Azuela did not intend to present a history of the revolution in his work.]

Critical discussion of Mariano Azuela's novel, Los de abajo, as if taking its cue from the original subtitle of the work, Cuadros y escenas de la Revolución, invariably makes reference to Azuela's failure to present an adequate account of the Mexican Revolution or to grasp its overall meaning.¹ Both in the novel, however, and elsewhere in Azuela's writings there are numerous indications that such references are mistaken and misleading. It was not, after all, Azuela's intention to write a history of the Revolution; in fact, he made a clear distinction between the writing of history and of novels, emphasizing that, in the latter, artistic considerations took precedence over historical fact. He was convinced, for example, that “no son los sucesos referidos en su exactitud minuciosa, sino la sabia distribución de los elementos reales con las de mera creación artística lo que la sentido definido tanto a las partes como al conjunto de la composición.”²

As he rightly added, that would disconcert those seeking historical accuracy; but, on the other hand, the novelist cannot be expected to limit himself to portraying historical events exactly as they happened, for that is to fetter the imagination and unnaturally restrict the novelist's freedom in handling his material. To do so would be fatal for his work, for “el interés de una novela no estriba en la verdad ni siquiera en la verosimilitud histórica, sino en el interés vital que el novelista es capaz de infundirle” (p. 710).

Another element in Azuela's attitude as a novelist to historical events emerges from his comment on Zola's novel, Le Débâcle, which deals with the French defeat at Sedan. Although it was particularly successful when first published, it did not long retain its popularity; in explaining this decline in interest, Azuela notes as significant the remark made by an early critic that the work was not a novel but history—even if in the broadest sense of the word. All works conceived in such terms, he felt, run the risk of illustrating the point that “el interés vital de una obra desaparece cuando las circunstancias en que fue construida han desaparecido” (p. 921). In Azuela's opinion, Zola lost all his power as a novelist when, in his later works, he concentrated his attention on social problems. In contrast, the true novelist imitates the portrait painter “que busca en la imagen algo más que lo meramente transitorio … y es precisamente lo perdurable lo que todo pintor cuidadoso de su fama, consciente de su responsabilidad, se propone expresar” (p. 839).

It would, however, be mistaken to conclude that Azuela advocates that the novelist should create an ahistorical world. His insistence on realism excluded that; his concern for, and appreciation of, accurate observation is frequently reiterated in his works. It is, in fact, precisely what he finds of enduring worth in the Mexican classic, El periquillo sarniento, in which he also commends “la verdad con que está representado el pueblo mexicano” (p. 617). The phrase just quoted identifies the focal point of Azuela's interest in history—the fate of the common man. Like González Obregón, the chronicler of Mexico City, whose works he warmly admired, Azuela considered that “la Historia, mayormente que en los grandes, acaso se la encuentre más viva, familiar y palpitante en los hechos pequeños” (p. 755). This clearly was the view that shaped Los de abajo, in which the great men and major events of the Revolution never occupy the forefront of the stage. Instead, the novel traces the none-too-glorious activities of an insignificant group of revolutionaries, modelled, however, Azuela pointedly remarks, on “los genuinos revolucionarios, los de abajo” (p. 1268). Because the novel firmly confines itself to presenting their experiences, Azuela has been accused of distorting the Revolution.³ Close examination of the work, however, shows that through their experiences it refracted the course and nature of the larger struggle, which impinges directly on their fortunes at certain decisive moments. This careful interweaving of fiction and historical event complies with his principle of presenting “lo novelesco asentado firmemente en la verdad” (p. 691).

That is precisely what can be legitimately demanded of Azuela as a novelist—that the historical background and details should ring true and that they should be worked into the novel in an artistically acceptable manner. The opening chapters of Los de abajo provide convincing examples of Azuela's achievement in this respect. The drunken behaviour, contempt for discipline and total ineffectualness of the federal soldiers reflects precisely the incapacity of the law-enforcement bodies once the revolution had begun, an incapacity which has been identified as a major factor in the spread of the movement.⁴ Demetrio Macías is a fugitive from the law, wrongfully accused of being a maderista by Don Mónico, the local cacique, with whom he had clashed in the past. Taking advantage of political upheaval to settle private scores was, of course, a predictable feature of the period, but the course of the conflict between the two has wider implications. It reflects the fact that hacendados like Don Mónico were attempting to dispossess rancheros like Demetrio, small-holders who blocked their plans to expand their estates. The subsequent humiliation of Don Mónico parallels the undermining of the influence of the rural caciques, which was one of the social repercussions of the Revolution.⁵

These examples illustrate Azuela's method of composition. Historical facts are skilfully incorporated into character and incident, thereby attaining simultaneously dramatic effectiveness and representational value, for they are treated in such a way that they acquire a generalized value, unlike the isolated and objective nature of the strictly historical event. This is equally true of the narrative structure. The contrast between Macías and Cervantes, which intermittently occupies five-sixths of the novel, offers a convincing and dynamic account of their brittle relationship; it also reveals obliquely the difference between the genuine revolutionaries, of whom there were many, according to Azuela, and the unscrupulous opportunists who occupied the vacuum created by the sudden and unexpected collapse of porfirismo, by Madero's ineffectual leadership and by the incapacity of any faction to impose its will by arms on the nation.⁶ In this atmosphere there flourished on all sides a hollow revolutionary rhetoric,⁷ which served only to disguise the sectional or personal interests pursued by those who, like Cervantes, employed it; for Cervantes, the ex-carrancista, reflects exactly in speech and action the activities of his former leader who “inauguraba un régimen semifeudal en que los señores de la guerra empleaban una terminología pseudo-rrevolucionaria repartiéndose los bienes de los porfiristas.”⁸ The collapse of authority offered an opportunity to all those frustrated by the rigid structures of porfirismo to acquire, by deceit and violence, the power and wealth they coveted. The ensuing struggle resulted in “seven years, as it were, of blind groping in the dark. Few of those who took part in the Revolution ever suspected what they were groping for. The Revolution did nothing to establish freedom or justice …”⁹ These aspects of the Revolution are also to be found in Los de abajo, not explicitly stated but implicit in the circular course of the action, the retracing of steps in response to contradictory orders, the excitement of each new start which turns to bitterness at journey's end.

The confusion surrounding the aims of the Revolution is also reflected in the variety of genuine and alleged reasons offered by those involved to explain their participarion. Demetrio fights because the federal forces have attempted to arrest him on a trumped-up political charge; Anastasio, because of his friendship for Demetrio; for La Pintada the Revolution offers a chance to loot her way to riches; Villa, Carranza and other leaders exploit it in the same way, according to Cervantes. When he offers a different interpretation to Demetrio's companions, claiming that “la revolución beneficia al pobre, al ignorante, al que todo su vida ha sido esclavo …” (L [Los de abajo] p. 27), they fail to recognise that as their aim!¹⁰ For Macías's group, on the fateful day they set out to meet General Natera and join the mainstream of the Revolution, it promises total freedom and a new life: “Hacían galopar sus caballos como si en aquel correr desenfrenado pretendieran posesionarse de toda la tierra.¹¹ ¿Quién se acordaba ya del severo comandante de la policía, del gendarme gruñón y del cacique enfatuado? … Cantaban, reían y ululaban, ebrios de sol, de aire y de vida” (L p. 51). This aspect is developed with particular care, for it is the moral evaluation of the nature and use of the freedom proffered by the Revolution which provides one of the major unifying elements in Los de abajo and a direct approach to Azuela's assessment of the Revolution. In retrospect, Azuela identified the essential weakness of the Revolution not as political but as moral in nature, observing that “nuestro gran error no consistió en haber sido revolucionarios sino en creer que con el cambio de instituciones y no la calidad de hombres llegaríamos a conquistar un mejor estado social” (p. 666). This problem, rather than the fortunes of warring generals or classes, would seem the obvious focus for his concern as a writer in the light of his attitude as a novelist to the treatment of history. This purpose is surely reflected in the reference to La divina commedia (L p. 81), for Dante's journey through the afterworld represents a moral dissection of his contemporaries.

Now moral freedom implies the absence of determinism. Several commentators, however, have claimed that Los de abajo is pervaded by a deterministic pessimism which is variously attributed to Azuela's “desesperanza por la no comprensión de la dialéctica de la Revolución”;¹² to his “positivist belief that revolutions can achieve nothing”, to “racial pessimism, the legacy of nineteenth-century Latin-American thought,” and again, from the same author, to his belief that the Revolution was the “result of the machinations of blind, supernatural forces which control men and make them dance to their wishes like helpless, soulless puppets”;¹³ and, finally, to the fact that Azuela was “neta y francamente nihilista”.¹⁴

Clearly, these charges must be examined before proceeding further for, if correct, they would deny the possibility of moral freedom to Azuela's characters. Fortunately, the examination will help to define further his attitude towards the Revolution and confirm the moral emphasis of the work. The first charge, which rests on the assumption that Azuela failed to understand correctly the cause of the Revolution, must appear irrelevant when viewed in the context of Azuela's pointed declaration that his aim in Los de abajo was not “examinar en toda su pureza el mármol de la Revolución emergiendo triunfal del cieno donde lo hundieron los matricidas”, but rather to distil the bitter experience of thousands of ordinary Mexicans caught up in the struggle, for whom “la imagen de la Revolución tenía que salir roja de dolor, negra de odio” (p. 1266).

As regards the second charge, namely that a positivist stance prompted him to believe that revolution could achieve nothing, it is relatively easy to show that Azuela was far from believing that the Revolution was doomed to inevitable failure from the beginning. In fact, he saw it in surprisingly idealistic terms as a great gamble undertaken by all those patriotic enough to take up arms for the regeneration of their country. While recognising, in retrospect, that Madero's appeal to the nation was completely unrealistic, Azuela's life-long admiration for the dash and courage of the man of action led him, nonetheless, to emphasize the heroic potential of the undertaking, as the following comment makes clear: “¡Una locura la clarinda de Madero! Sí, pero con las locuras se han descubierto continentes y conquistado países” (p. 1067). This assessment also appears in the novel, reflected in Solís's exclamation of exhilaration at the victory of the revolutionaries in the crucial battle of La Bufa—“¡Qué hermosa es la Revolución, aun en su misma barbarie!” (L p. 72). Azuela saw his own participation in similarly positive terms, despite the hardships and privations that it entailed, proudly asserting, “Fui revolucionario y no me arrepiento” (p. 1099).¹⁵ The full significance of this claim becomes evident when related to his praise for Madero as the man “que consiguió que algunos millones de mexicanos adquirieran su categoría de hombres” (p. 748). It is characteristic of Azuela and directly pertinent to a proper understanding of the novel, that, amid the ruins of social collapse, he should emphasize the positive human qualities generated in response to the catastrophe.

Nonetheless, it is also true that Azuela was profoundly disillusioned not only by the way in which the resilient caciques, by transferring their allegiance from Porfirismo to Madero, continued to manipulate political developments to their own advantage, but also by the general egotism displayed by the revolutionary troops, among whom “el espíritu de amor y sacrificio que alentara con tanto fervor como poca esperanza en el triunfo a los primeros revolucionarios había desaparecido … Nadie pensaba ya sino en la mejor tajada del pastel a la vista” (p. 1081). This conclusion is amply illustrated in Los de abajo and is even explicitly stated in a brief scene towards the end of the novel when, on a road lined with crosses commemorating those killed by government forces in the first days of the Maderista revolt, Valderrama, the poet, solemnly declaims:

—¡Huchipila. tierra regada con sangre de mártires, con sangre de soñadores … de los únicos buenos!

—Porque no tuvieron tiempo de ser malos—completa la frase brutalmente un oficial ex-federal.

(L p. 132)

The cynical pessimism of these lines is, of course, not necessarily the author's view. On the contrary, Azuela was, in fact, temperamentally opposed to such a view, as is evident from his response to a novel whose unrelieved pessimism made him query the realism of the work, asking:

¿Será la vida, en efecto, tan amarga y tan cruel como [el autor] nos la presenta? Yo pienso que así es, en verdad, pero pienso también que tiene sus momentos, sus brotes, sus fogonazos de luminosa alegría que disparados de cuando en cuando en la noche, sólo por verlos, sentirlos, vivirlos un instante, la vida vale la pena de llevarse con dignidad.

(p. 749)

The third reason put forward for charging Azuela with a deterministic Weltanschauung is his alleged racial pessimism, i.e. his vision of the Mexicans as a race fated always to be inferior. There is more evidence to support this charge than was available for the previous two. For Solís the Revolution is “una mueca pavorosa y grotesca a la vez de una raza … ¡De una raza irredenta!” (L p. 63), and the psychology of the Mexican can be summed up in two words—“rob, kill!”—, a judgment supported not only by the frequent evidence of eager bloodlust in battle, the disappointment when little resistance is offered (L p. 101) but also by the readiness to kill at other times. One soldier murders an old woman for having refused him food, another because he is irritated by his victim's clothes; sometimes, there is simply no motive. And, as the men discuss their killings, the narrator notes “… el tema es inagotable” (L p. 78). Robbing and looting, too, become part of the soldiers' daily round. The officers also prove to be thieves and on their journey as delegates to the Convention of Aguascalientes are depicted with grim irony as vying with each other in revealing their depradations.

In addition, one cannot fail to notice how death and inhumanity are directly associated with the Aztec past; La Bufa hill, the scene of a decisive victory for the forces of the Revolution, is suggestively seen as a massive blood-drenched sacrificial pyramid,

… con su crestón, como testa empenachada de altivo rey azteca. Le vertiente de seiscientos metros estaba cubierta de muertos, con los cabellos enmarañados, manchadas las ropas de tierra y de sangre.

(L p. 72)

Later, as Macías leads his men towards the Sierra, in which they are to be ambushed and annihilated, the hills seem to acquire the features of Aztec idols, mysterious, grotesque and threatening.

Significantly, however, all is not “¡robar, matar!” Macías, for example, unmistakably Indian with “sus mejillas cobrizas de indígena de pura raza” (L p. 50), twice refuses to kill in circumstances that would justify, or understandably provoke, his doing so in defence of his family and to avenge the death of Camila, whom he loved; similarly, he professes and, in fact, displays little interest in amassing wealth. Camila, for her part, retains her sense of justice amid the moral and social anarchy unleashed by the upheaval of the Revolution and, in the background, throughout the novel, the civilian population, “los hermanos pacíficos” (L p. 126), await impassively the end of the war. True, they welcomed it at the beginning but only in self-defence, as it promised to rid them of “esos condenados del gobierno que nos han declarado guerra a todos los pobres” (L p. 17).

It is undeniable that Azuela held pessimistic views about his fellow countrymen—but they also extended to the entire human race! His sense of man's capacity for evil and self-deception, irrespective of race, is strikingly put in his observation that “se comprende que nadie tiene la perversidad suficiente para autorretratarse en toda su real fealdad. Ni puede hacerlo porque él no ve más allá de la costra” (p. 684). Azuela's pessimism should not, however, be interpreted as defeatist or determinist, for man, he also held, could achieve regeneration and insight through work and especially through the source of man's noblest activities and deepest insights, which is suffering, “el sufrimiento modelador de caracteres, escalón por donde se llega a la visión más generosa de los hombres y de la vida” (p. 1097).

If one examines Azuela's attitude towards his central characters, the rancheros, whose features mark them as true Mexicans, one finds little evidence of racial pessimism. In the Revolution he was able to observe them at first hand and for him they represented, in fact, “los genuinos revolucionarios, los de abajo, … ojos de niño y corazones abiertos … una casta indómita, generosa e incomprendida” (p. 1268).¹⁶ But, in addition, by fighting on the side of reform, they were also continuing a tradition which the rancheros as a social class had established during the century since Independence, for, as Azuela explains, “el ranchero desde entonces ha sido factor de primerísimo orden en las sucesivas revoluciones de México y a cuya sangre se deben los cambios verificados en muestra estructura social” (p. 597).

Rutherford, in accusing Azuela of racial pessimism, links it with racial prejudice against Indians, an interpretation rightly rejected by Luis Leal who concluded that “Azuela never divided society into Indians, mestizos and whites but rather into those that exploit or are exploited”.¹⁷ Indeed, if any prejudice seeps in, it is in the reverse direction, for among the educated characters the two who are described as fair-haired—Cervantes and the Captain of the Federal Garrison, “un joven de pelo rubio”—are both morally unprincipled and physically cowardly; among the soldiers the only fairhaired character, el güero Margarito, is a sadistic murderer and eventual suicide. However, as if to emphasize that racial features are no guide to moral qualities it is Camila, whom Cervantes sees as “una especie de mono enchomitado, de tez broncínea, dientes de marfil, pies anchos y chatos” (L p. 30), who displays “una amabilidad constante” and proves until her death the conscience of the guerrilla.

The fourth reason for doubting the characters' moral freedom is based on the charge that Azuela depicts them as the helpless playthings of blind, supernatural forces. Examination of the novel suggests, however, that it is not metaphysical considerations that shape events but the interaction of social factors and individual qualities, a conclusion that should cause little surprise in the case of an author whose concept of the novel was fashioned in accordance with the principles of realism rather than those of naturalism. The closest the novel comes to an explicit general statement on the predicament of those involved in the Revolution is the remark made by Solís just before his death that “La revolución es el huracán y el hombre que se entrega a ella no es ya el hombre, es la miserable hoja seca arrebatada por el vendaval …” (L p. 63). Shortly before his final encounter with the enemy, Macías too, expresses the same idea; by way of answer to his wife's despairing question as to why the fighting must continue,

Demetrio, las cejas muy juntas, toma distraído una piedrecita y la arroja al fondo del cañón. Se mantiene pensativo viendo el desfiladero, y dice:

—Mira esa piedra cómo ya no se para …

(L p. 137)

What is significant is that in both instances the initial decision is seen as willed by the individual: Solís speaks of surrendering oneself to forces that thereafter control one; Demetrio must throw the stone before the force of gravity can drag it down. Both also indicate how the problem can be faced. Solís, the intellectual, offers what is essentially a nihilistic view: one either becomes a bandit like all the others or one abandons the field, hiding behind the ramparts of a fierce and impregnable selfishness. Macías, the ranchero, on the other hand, illustrates a positive response. Equally disillusioned, he is determined, nonetheless, to fulfil his duty and thereby impose himself on adverse circumstances. As he explains to his companion Anastasio,

se me figura que nos está sucediendo lo que a aquel peón de Tepatitlán … No paraba de rezongar de su patrón, pero no paraba de trabajar tampoco. Y así estamos nosotros: a reniega y reniega y a mátenos y mátenos …

(L p. 133)

But the forces of destruction unleashed by the Revolution cannot be mastered without some sacrifice, for the protagonists must contend on the one hand with powerful social factors—violent, unpredictable and sometimes inescapable events—and on the other hand they must overcome their personal weaknesses—such as false pride (Solís) or rashness in action (Macías)—that threaten disaster. Cervantes ensures his physical survival at the cost of moral corruption; moral victory, in contrast, is the achievement of Demetrio whose death, unmistakably presented in the novel in terms of tragedy, provides the fullest answer to the moral problem posed by the Revolution. A brief examination of Demetrio's life and death in terms of tragedy will cast further light on the theme of freedom in Los de abajo. Unlike the protagonist of classical tragedy, Macías is not the heroic personage of an established myth; he is somewhat greater, however, than the tragic figures of naturalistic drama, in being the admired representative of a social group, the rancheros, who in turn represent for Azuela all that is best in Mexico. Demetrio's struggle is not against the gods nor is it against a cruel Nature, although some descriptive passages, especially the closing paragraphs of the novel, hint at the tragic theme of the brevity of human existence, sharply contrasting the permanence of nature with the febrile existence of those involved in the war. As has already been seen, Nature is presented in the novel as indifferent to the changing fortunes of the characters: the same ravine serves to ambush others and in turn to be ambushed in. The force beyond Macías's control is generated by society; firstly, the persecution that makes him a reluctant rebel and then the disorder of anarchy which imposes itself on him for a while, as the following lines indicate:

Fuera del restaurante no cesan los gritos, las carcajadas y las canciones de los ebrios. Pasan soldados a caballo desbocado, azotando las aceras. Por todos los rumbos de la ciuded se oyen disparos de fusiles y pistolas.

Y por en medio de la calle caminan, rumbo el hotel, Demetrio y La Pintada, abrazados y dando tumbos.

(L p. 78)

Demetrio's experience of chaos exemplifies that of the nation for, in attempting to challenge a situation that diminishes his freedom, he is representative of the Mexican tradition with its “espíritu de inconformidad y rebeldía y la perenne aspiración del pueblo a un estado de mayor equidad” (p. 614) and in his encounter with the ineluctable consequences of his action he is finally betrayed by the weaknesses which Azuela criticised in Madero—“su optimismo nefasto, su confianza en sí mismo, su fe ciega en el pueblo que lo había llevado al poder …” (p. 1071). Demetrio, too, embodies the tragic ignorance of ultimate purpose that also characterized the nation at war with itself. His question to Cervantes—“¿Pos cuál causa defendemos nosotros?“(L p. 21)—is more than rhetorical. He is also a fully tragic figure in himself, deprived of his home and family, the only things that really mattered to him, as he explained to Cervantes: “No quiero yo otra cosa sino que me dejen en paz para volver a mi casa” (L p. 43), and fully conscious of his impending fate. Long before the fateful return to the Sierra, he has a premonition of disaster: “Demetrio durmió mal, y muy temprano se echó fuera de la casa. ‘A mí me va a suceder algo’, pensó” (L p. 106), and after Camia's death he repeatedly hums a song whose words are full of prophetic gloom: “En la medianía del cuerpo / una daga me metió / sin saber por qué / ni por qué sé yo …” (L p. 114).

Demetrio hides his doubts from his men, maintains their spirits and complying in his simple way with his duty, passes the point of no return that is integral to tragedy. Unlike the traitors who murdered Madero in what Azuela refers to with bitter irony as “la hazaña de la ciudadela” (L p. 56), he resolutely rides towards his destiny which he had already glimpsed in the news of Villa's defeat. Here Azuela expresses through the novel form the thought he was in a later work to present directly to the reader:

La misión más urgente de todo hombre es ésa: encontrar y seguir el camino que lo lleve al cumplimiento de su destino, sin vacilaciones dando con ello un sentido a su vida en lo que ésta tiene de singular y propio.

(p. 861)

The defeat and death of Macías is not, therefore, the kernel of the work but rather its corollary; consequently, the fifth charge against Azuela, i.e. that his novel presents a nihilistic account of the Revolution, which by implication would predetermine the destinies of his characters, is not confirmed by a reading of Los de abajo. At first sight, however, the charge seems to be borne out by Azuela's observation that the first and strongest experience one undergoes in life is one of disillusionment and failure, which is not confined, as one might expect, to real failures, but applies equally to our most genuine successes. Every normal person, he affirms, must have felt disappointed

en lo que quiso ser y fue efectivamente, en lo que quiso adquirir y adquirió. La realidad es fatalmente distinta de lo que soñamos y la satisfacción de nuestros mayores anhelos va acompañada de una sensación de insuficiencia, de vacío, de decepción, acabando de ocurrir apenas.

(p. 1044)

Success and failure, when measured within these terms of reference, are seemingly identical in value. Paradoxically, however, it is failure that proves more valuable for, whereas success provides what is destined to prove a worthless prize, failure offers a genuine opportunity for self-knowledge. Azuela notes that he had always been attracted by the age-old teaching of the mystics of all religions that “el hombre que quiera ganarse ha de perderse, [idea] puesta hoy a la moda por ciertos existencialistas que asientan que el hombre que se frustra en el frustrarse lee la cifra de su ser” (p. 701). Hence his interest in the underdog and the loser, for their failure produces suffering and Azuela had learnt through his own bitter experiences in the Revolution “que el dolor es la fuente más fecunda de nuestras más nobles actividades en la vida y nada nos da más ricas enseñanzas que él” (p. 1073). Azuela's conviction that suffering produces insight leads, of course, directly to the heart of the Aristotelian concept of tragedy which, in this respect, is central to a moral interpretation of Los de abajo.

It may be objected that for Solís, whose position is identical with that of Azuela's stance in the Revolution,¹⁸ the movement is a nihilistic process which he sees symbolized in the swirling clouds of smoke and dust over the battlefield of Zacatecas, “que fraternalmente ascendían, se abrazaban se confundían y se borraban en la nada” (L p. 73). Before accepting that as Azuela's judgement of the Revolution, however, one must consider his comment that just as the novelist “fija sus ideas no en documentos ni en ideas, sino en seres a los que da vida, lo mismo que en panoramas y ambientes”, the reader should likewise draw his conclusions “no de la discusión sino de los hechos vivos” (p. 1110). It is clearly Demetrio, his followers and their experiences that represent this central focus of the novel in Los de abajo; through it the Revolution is obviously judged and found to lack the necessary clarity with regard to means and objectives; through it one is also shown that, at the level of personal identity, the individual can redeem the situation, however desperate, by steadfastness of purpose and faithful compliance with obligations contracted and in so doing, like existentialist heroes avant la lettre, give meaning to the absurdity of the Revolutionary treadmill.

The significance of that message for the reader of 1915, when the novel first appeared, is obvious. It is a message, however, that retains its relevance after the dust of the Revolutionary battles has finally settled, for the essential theme of the responsibility of the individual to be true to himself is perennial.

Notes

1. Cf. inter al.: “The style and structure of Azuela's novels of the Revolution are essentially fragmentary and reflect a fragmentary, non-integrated view of the Revolution”, J. Rutherford, Mexican Society during the Revolution (Oxford, 1971), p. 124; “Tampoco en los saqueos, sitios y excesos puede verse ninguna gradación ni extensión de las hostilidades. En la segunda parte, junto con una orientación general, Azuela ha perdido el hilo de la narración artística”, A. Dessau, La novela de la Revolución mexicana (Mexico, 1972), p. 223. The notable exception is Seymour Menton, who provides a welcome and fruitful change of perspective in his article “La estructura épica de Los de abajo y un prólogo especulativo”, in Hispania 50 (1967), 1001-1011.

2. Mariano Azuela, Obras completas, Vol. III (Mexico, 1960), 431. Further page references will be given in the text.

3. E.g. F. Monterde (ed.), Mariano Azuela y la crítica mexicana (Mexico, 1973), p. 26: “Su falta estriba en que estos tipos, con su caudal realista, sólo representan en los marcos en que se mueven y actúan una parte de la realidad revolucionaria mexicana, lo que para mí es de lamentarse.”

4. Rutherford, op. cit., p. 313: “It would not be an exaggeration to say that the ineptitude of the Regular Army was the key to the whole Mexican Revolution”. In fairness, it should be mentioned that in 1910 the regular forces numbered only 18,000 troops and 2,700 Federal police, not enough to garrison effectively even the main cities. For a detailed analysis of the army's strength, see J. Meyer, La revolución mexicana (Barcelona, 1973).

5. Cf. Rutherford, pp. 253-4: “We can observe then a single pattern in the demolition by the Revolution of the old rural élite, the hacendados. … This demolition was an important achievement for it removed a barrier—both economic and cultural—to the formation of an authentic progressive bourgeoisie”. Azuela sees it rather differently: “[después de la Revolución] la explotación de la clase humilde seguía como antes y sólo los capataces habían cambiado” (p. 1093)—a view shared by the French historian Meyer, op. cit., p. 255: “El sistema de 1940 es el de 1920 … El sistema no hace más que continuar la obra del Régimen porfirista, ampliándolo y modernizándolo.” Azuela also offers a moral assessment of the process: “Se me acusa de no haber entendido la Revolución; vi los árboles, pero no vi el bosque. En efecto nunca pude glorificar pillos ni enaltecer bellaquerías. Yo envidio y admiro a los que sí vieron el bosque y no los árboles, porque esta visión es más ventajosa económicamente” (p. 1099).

6. E.g. Azuela's comments on the disastrous effect of the unexpectedly rapid collapse of porfirismo: “… el movimiento de Madero, cuyo triunfo rápido fue la causa mayor de su caída, por no haber dado tiempo a que madurara en la conciencia del pueblo” (p. 1072). And on Madero's defects as a leader: “… lo más doloroso y trágico fue la incapacidad y la impotencia del jefe de la revolución—por lo demás el gobernante más honesto y probo que el país ha tenido—para regirlo, su optimismo nefasto, su confianza en sí mismo, su fe ciega en el pueblo que lo había llevado al poder, de quien esperaba que contra viento y marea supiera sostenerlo” (p. 1071).

7. Cf. Rutherford, op. cit., p. 120: “Both the Aguascalientes Convention and the Congreso Constituyente were widely mocked for the poverty of the intellectual content of the Revolutionary thinkers: indeed, only one is convincing as such and he, consequently, appears everywhere …”

8. Meyer, op. cit., p. 52.

9. Rutherford, op, cit., p. 38.

10. All references to the text of the novel (prefixed by L) are to M. Azuela Los de abajo, Colección Popular, Fondo de Cultura Económica (Mexico, 1960).

11. The image recurs at the start of the final chapter: “Por la cima de la sierra trotaban potrillos brutos de crines alzadas y colas tensas, gallardos con la gallardía de los picachos que levantan su cabeza hasta besar las nubes …” Their travels have not led them to their goal; instead, the journey has become an end in itself, a figure of the Revolution that likewise feeds on itself: “En su alma rebulle el alma de las viejas tribus nómadas. Nada importa saber adónde van y de dónde vienen; lo necesario es caminar, caminar siempre, no estacionarse jamás” (L p. 138).

12. Dessau, op. cit., p. 229.

13. Rutherford, op. cit., pp. 72, 233 and 122. Echoes of the last suggestion are to be found in W. A. R. Richardson's introduction to his edition of Los de abajo (London, 1973): “some inner compulsion moves them to continue fighting, just as the force of gravity attracts the stone” (p. 47).

14. V. Salada Álvarez, “Las obras del Doctor Azuela”, in Monterde, op. cit., p. 23. (First published in Excelsior, February 4, 1925.)

15. Cf.: “En 1914 entré en el movimiento revolucionario, activamente, contra el gobierno de V. Huerta y perdí los ahorros adquiridos en doce años de trabajo. Tenía entonces 40 años y no me arrepentí de mi participación en la lucha civil” (p. 1275).

16. Cf. his description of General Medina, on whom Macías was partially modelled: “Era el tipo genuino del ranchero de Jalisco, valiente, ingenuo, generoso y fanfarrón. No obstante su total incultura, poseía el don de mando” (p. 1079).

17. L. Leal, Mariano Azuela (New York, 1971), p. 108.

18. Cf.: “Mi papel entonces en la Revolución fue el de Solís en mi novela” (p. 1081).