Montezuma's Daughter
by
H. Rider Haggard
NOTE
The more unpronounceable of the Aztec names are shortened in many
instances out of consideration for the patience of the reader; thus
'Popocatapetl' becomes 'Popo,' 'Huitzelcoatl' becomes 'Huitzel,'
&c. The prayer in Chapter xxvi. is freely rendered from
Jourdanet's French translation of Fray Bernardino de Sahagun's
History of New Spain, written shortly after the conquest of Mexico
(Book VI, chap. v.), to which monumental work and to Prescott's
admirable history the author of this romance is much indebted. The
portents described as heralding the fall of the Aztec Empire, and
many of the incidents and events written of in this story, such as
the annual personation of the god Tezcatlipoca by a captive
distinguished for his personal beauty, and destined to sacrifice,
are in the main historical. The noble speech of the Emperor
Guatemoc to the Prince of Tacuba uttered while they both were
suffering beneath the hands of the Spaniards is also authentic.
DEDICATION
My dear Jebb,
Strange as were the adventures and escapes of Thomas Wingfield,
once of this parish, whereof these pages tell, your own can almost
equal them in these latter days, and, since a fellow feeling makes
us kind, you at least they may move to a sigh of sympathy. Among
many a distant land you know that in which he loved and fought,
following vengeance and his fate, and by your side I saw its relics
and its peoples, its volcans and its valleys. You know even where
lies the treasure which, three centuries and more ago, he helped to
bury, the countless treasure that an evil fortune held us back from
seeking. Now the Indians have taken back their secret, and though
many may search, none will lift the graven stone that seals it, nor
shall the light of day shine again upon the golden head of
Montezuma. So be it! The wealth which Cortes wept over, and his
Spaniards sinned and died for, is for ever hidden yonder by the
shores of the bitter lake whose waters gave up to you that ancient
horror, the veritable and sleepless god of Sacrifice, of whom I
would not rob you--and, for my part, I do not regret the loss.
What cannot be lost, what to me seem of more worth than the dead
hero Guatemoc's gems and jars of gold, are the memories of true
friendship shown to us far away beneath the shadow of the
Slumbering Woman,* and it is in gratitude for these that I ask
permission to set your name within a book which were it not for you
would never have been written.
I am, my dear Jebb,
Always sincerely yours,
H. RIDER HAGGARD.
DITCHINGHAM, NORFOLK, October 5, 1892.
To J. Gladwyn Jebb, Esq.
NOTE
Worn out prematurely by a life of hardship and extraordinary
adventure, Mr. Jebb passed away on March 18, 1893, taking with him
the respect and affection of all who had the honour of his
friendship. The author has learned with pleasure that the reading
of this tale in proof and the fact of its dedication to himself
afforded him some amusement and satisfaction in the intervals of
his sufferings.
H. R. H.
March 22, 1893.
* The volcano Izticcihuatl in Mexico.
Montezuma's Daughter
CHAPTER I
WHY THOMAS WINGFIELD TELLS HIS TALE
Now glory be to God who has given us the victory! It is true, the
strength of Spain is shattered, her ships are sunk or fled, the sea
has swallowed her soldiers and her sailors by hundreds and by
thousands, and England breathes again. They came to conquer, to
bring us to the torture and the stake--to do to us free Englishmen
as Cortes did by the Indians of Anahuac. Our manhood to the slave
bench, our daughters to dishonour, our souls to the loving-kindness
of the priest, our wealth to the Emperor and the Pope! God has
answered them with his winds, Drake has answered them with his
guns. They are gone, and with them the glory of Spain.
I, Thomas Wingfield, heard the news to-day on this very Thursday in
the Bungay market-place, whither I went to gossip and to sell the
apples which these dreadful gales have left me, as they hang upon
my trees.
Before there had been rumours of this and of that, but here in
Bungay was a man named Young, of the Youngs of Yarmouth, who had
served in one of the Yarmouth ships in the fight at Gravelines, aye
and sailed north after the Spaniards till they were lost in the
Scottish seas.
Little things lead to great, men say, but here great things lead to
little, for because of these tidings it comes about that I, Thomas
Wingfield, of the Lodge and the parish of Ditchingham in the county
of Norfolk, being now of a great age and having only a short time
to live, turn to pen and ink. Ten years ago, namely, in the year
1578, it pleased her Majesty, our gracious Queen Elizabeth, who at
that date visited this county, that I should be brought before her
at Norwich. There and then, saying that the fame of it had reached
her, she commanded me to give her some particulars of the story of
my life, or rather of those twenty years, more or less, which I
spent among the Indians at that time when Cortes conquered their
country of Anahuac, which is now known as Mexico. But almost
before I could begin my tale, it was time for her to start for
Cossey to hunt the deer, and she said it was her wish that I should
write the story down that she might read it, and moreover that if
it were but half as wonderful as it promised to be, I should end my
days as Sir Thomas Wingfield. To this I answered her Majesty that
pen and ink were tools I had no skill in, yet I would bear her
command in mind. Then I made bold to give her a great emerald that
once had hung upon the breast of Montezuma's daughter, and of many
a princess before her, and at the sight of it her eyes glistened
brightly as the gem, for this Queen of ours loves such costly
playthings. Indeed, had I so desired, I think that I might then
and there have struck a bargain, and set the stone against a title;
but I, who for many years had been the prince of a great tribe, had
no wish to be a knight. So I kissed the royal hand, and so tightly
did it grip the gem within that the knuckle joints shone white, and
I went my ways, coming back home to this my house by the Waveney on
that same day.
Now the Queen's wish that I should set down the story of my life
remained in my mind, and for long I have desired to do it before
life and story end together. The labour, indeed, is great to one
unused to such tasks; but why should I fear labour who am so near
to the holiday of death? I have seen things that no other
Englishman has seen, which are worthy to be recorded; my life has
been most strange, many a time it has pleased God to preserve it
when all seemed lost, and this perchance He has done that the
lesson of it might become known to others. For there is a lesson
in it and in the things that I have seen, and it is that no wrong
can ever bring about a right, that wrong will breed wrong at last,
and be it in man or people, will fall upon the brain that thought
it and the hand that wrought it.
Look now at the fate of Cortes--that great man whom I have known
clothed with power like a god. Nearly forty years ago, so I have
heard, he died poor and disgraced in Spain; he, the conqueror--yes,
and I have learned also that his son Don Martin has been put to the
torture in that city which the father won with so great cruelties
for Spain. Malinche, she whom the Spaniards named Marina, the
chief and best beloved of all the women of this same Cortes,
foretold it to him in her anguish when after all that had been,
after she had so many times preserved him and his soldiers to look
upon the sun, at the last he deserted her, giving her in marriage
to Don Juan Xaramillo. Look again at the fate of Marina herself.
Because she loved this man Cortes, or Malinche, as the Indians
named him after her, she brought evil on her native land; for
without her aid Tenoctitlan, or Mexico, as they call it now, had
never bowed beneath the yoke of Spain--yes, she forgot her honour
in her passion. And what was her reward, what right came to her of
her wrongdoing? This was her reward at last: to be given away in
marriage to another and a lesser man when her beauty waned, as a
worn-out beast is sold to a poorer master.
Consider also the fate of those great peoples of the land of
Anahuac. They did evil that good might come. They sacrificed the
lives of thousands to their false gods, that their wealth might
increase, and peace and prosperity be theirs throughout the
generations. And now the true God has answered them. For wealth
He has given them desolation, for peace the sword of the Spaniard,
for prosperity the rack and the torment and the day of slavery.
For this it was that they did sacrifice, offering their own
children on the altars of Huitzel and of Tezcat.
And the Spaniards themselves, who in the name of mercy have wrought
cruelties greater than any that were done by the benighted Aztecs,
who in the name of Christ daily violate His law to the uttermost
extreme, say shall they prosper, shall their evil-doing bring them
welfare? I am old and cannot live to see the question answered,
though even now it is in the way of answering. Yet I know that
their wickedness shall fall upon their own heads, and I seem to see
them, the proudest of the peoples of the earth, bereft of fame and
wealth and honour, a starveling remnant happy in nothing save their
past. What Drake began at Gravelines God will finish in many
another place and time, till at last Spain is of no more account
and lies as low as the empire of Montezuma lies to-day.
Thus it is in these great instances of which all the world may
know, and thus it is even in the life of so humble a man as I,
Thomas Wingfield. Heaven indeed has been merciful to me, giving me
time to repent my sins; yet my sins have been visited on my head,
on me who took His prerogative of vengeance from the hand of the
Most High. It is just, and because it is so I wish to set out the
matter of my life's history that others may learn from it. For
many years this has been in my mind, as I have said, though to
speak truth it was her Majesty the Queen who first set the seed.
But only on this day, when I have heard for certain of the fate of
the Armada, does it begin to grow, and who can say if ever it will
come to flower? For this tidings has stirred me strangely,
bringing back my youth and the deeds of love and war and wild
adventure which I have been mingled in, fighting for my own hand
and for Guatemoc and the people of the Otomie against these same
Spaniards, as they have not been brought back for many years.
Indeed, it seems to me, and this is no rare thing with the aged, as
though there in the far past my true life lay, and all the rest
were nothing but a dream.
From the window of the room wherein I write I can see the peaceful
valley of the Waveney. Beyond its stream are the common lands
golden with gorse, the ruined castle, and the red roofs of Bungay
town gathered about the tower of St. Mary's Church. Yonder far
away are the king's forests of Stowe and the fields of Flixton
Abbey; to the right the steep bank is green with the Earsham oaks,
to the left the fast marsh lands spotted with cattle stretch on to
Beccles and Lowestoft, while behind me my gardens and orchards rise
in terraces up the turfy hill that in old days was known as the
Earl's Vineyard. All these are about me, and yet in this hour they
are as though they were not. For the valley of the Waveney I see
the vale of Tenoctitlan, for the slopes of Stowe the snowy shapes
of the volcanoes Popo and Iztac, for the spire of Earsham and the
towers of Ditchingham, of Bungay, and of Beccles, the soaring
pyramids of sacrifice gleaming with the sacred fires, and for the
cattle in the meadows the horsemen of Cortes sweeping to war.
It comes back to me; that was life, the rest is but a dream. Once
more I feel young, and, should I be spared so long, I will set down
the story of my youth before I am laid in yonder churchyard and
lost in the world of dreams. Long ago I had begun it, but it was
only on last Christmas Day that my dear wife died, and while she
lived I knew that this task was better left undone. Indeed, to be
frank, it was thus with my wife: She loved me, I believe, as few
men have the fortune to be loved, and there is much in my past that
jarred upon this love of hers, moving her to a jealousy of the dead
that was not the less deep because it was so gentle and so closely
coupled with forgiveness. For she had a secret sorrow that ate her
heart away, although she never spoke of it. But one child was born
to us, and this child died in infancy, nor for all her prayers did
it please God to give her another, and indeed remembering the words
of Otomie I did not expect that it would be so. Now she knew well
that yonder across the seas I had children whom I loved by another
wife, and though they were long dead, must always love unalterably,
and this thought wrung her heart. That I had been the husband of
another woman she could forgive, but that this woman should have
borne me children whose memory was still so dear, she could not
forget if she forgave it, she who was childless. Why it was so,
being but a man, I cannot say; for who can know all the mystery of
a loving woman's heart? But so it was. Once, indeed, we
quarrelled on the matter; it was our only quarrel.
It chanced that when we had been married but two years, and our
babe was some few days buried in the churchyard of this parish of
Ditchingham, I dreamed a very vivid dream as I slept one night at
my wife's side. I dreamed that my dead children, the four of them,
for the tallest lad bore in his arms my firstborn, that infant who
died in the great siege, came to me as they had often come when I
ruled the people of the Otomie in the City of Pines, and talked
with me, giving me flowers and kissing my hands. I looked upon
their strength and beauty, and was proud at heart, and, in my
dream, it seemed as though some great sorrow had been lifted from
my mind; as though these dear ones had been lost and now were found
again. Ah! what misery is there like to this misery of dreams,
that can thus give us back our dead in mockery, and then departing,
leave us with a keener woe?
Well, I dreamed on, talking with my children in my sleep and naming
them by their beloved names, till at length I woke to look on
emptiness, and knowing all my sorrow I sobbed aloud. Now it was
early morning, and the light of the August sun streamed through the
window, but I, deeming that my wife slept, still lay in the shadow
of my dream as it were, and groaned, murmuring the names of those
whom I might never see again. It chanced, however, that she was
awake, and had overheard those words which I spoke with the dead,
while I was yet asleep and after; and though some of this talk was
in the tongue of the Otomie, the most was English, and knowing the
names of my children she guessed the purport of it all. Suddenly
she sprang from the bed and stood over me, and there was such anger
in her eyes as I had never seen before nor have seen since, nor did
it last long then, for presently indeed it was quenched in tears.
'What is it, wife?' I asked astonished.
'It is hard,' she answered, 'that I must bear to listen to such
talk from your lips, husband. Was it not enough that, when all men
thought you dead, I wore my youth away faithful to your memory?
though how faithful you were to mine you know best. Did I ever
reproach you because you had forgotten me, and wedded a savage
woman in a distant land?'
'Never, dear wife, nor had I forgotten you as you know well; but
what I wonder at is that you should grow jealous now when all cause
is done with.'
'Cannot we be jealous of the dead? With the living we may cope,
but who can fight against the love which death has completed,
sealing it for ever and making it immortal! Still, THAT I forgive
you, for against this woman I can hold my own, seeing that you were
mine before you became hers, and are mine after it. But with the
children it is otherwise. They are hers and yours alone. I have
no part nor lot in them, and whether they be dead or living I know
well you love them always, and will love them beyond the grave if
you may find them there. Already I grow old, who waited twenty
years and more before I was your wife, and I shall give you no
other children. One I gave you, and God took it back lest I should
be too happy; yet its name was not on your lips with those strange
names. My dead babe is little to you, husband!'
Here she choked, bursting into tears; nor did I think it well to
answer her that there was this difference in the matter, that
whereas, with the exception of one infant, those sons whom I had
lost were almost adolescent, the babe she bore lived but sixty
days.
Now when the Queen first put it in my mind to write down the
history of my life, I remembered this outbreak of my beloved wife;
and seeing that I could write no true tale and leave out of it the
story of her who was also my wife, Montezuma's daughter, Otomie,
Princess of the Otomie, and of the children that she gave me, I let
the matter lie. For I knew well, that though we spoke very rarely
on the subject during all the many years we passed together, still
it was always in Lily's mind; nor did her jealousy, being of the
finer sort, abate at all with age, but rather gathered with the
gathering days. That I should execute the task without the
knowledge of my wife would not have been possible, for till the
very last she watched over my every act, and, as I verily believe,
divined the most of my thoughts.
And so we grew old together, peacefully, and side by side, speaking
seldom of that great gap in my life when we were lost to each other
and of all that then befell. At length the end came. My wife died
suddenly in her sleep in the eighty-seventh year of her age. I
buried her on the south side of the church here, with sorrow
indeed, but not with sorrow inconsolable, for I know that I must
soon rejoin her, and those others whom I have loved.
There in that wide heaven are my mother and my sister and my sons;
there are great Guatemoc my friend, last of the emperors, and many
other companions in war who have preceded me to peace; there, too,
though she doubted of it, is Otomie the beautiful and proud. In
the heaven which I trust to reach, all the sins of my youth and the
errors of my age notwithstanding, it is told us there is no
marrying and giving in marriage; and this is well, for I do not
know how my wives, Montezuma's daughter and the sweet English
gentlewoman, would agree together were it otherwise.
And now to my task.
